Alex stared again at his reflection in the mirror. His brown eyes were sharper now, less weary, as though someone had taken a fine chisel and carved precision into them. His jawline, once hidden beneath layers of stress and poor posture, had become defined and strong. His posture itself had transformed—no longer hunched or hesitant, but upright and confident. It was the stance of someone who had been forged anew.
Even his skin had changed. It didn't shimmer like gold, but there was a vitality to it—a soft glow, as though his very cells radiated with life. He raised a hand and traced his jaw with tentative fingers, as if confirming he was real.
If someone who knew him from just a month ago saw him now, they might have mistaken him for someone else entirely. In fact, he barely recognized himself.
"This could be a problem," he muttered.
His voice carried a note of caution, not awe. "If anyone from my old life sees me now, it's not just that I'm no longer disabled… I look like an entirely different person."
The thought lingered in the silence. He clenched his jaw, a flicker of tension cutting across his temple.
"I need to be careful. I can't let anyone see me… not yet."
It wasn't just about secrecy—it was survival. The world, already on edge, was not ready to understand what he had become. He wouldn't become a pawn on anyone's board. Not the government, not the military, not even the sentient voice that had gifted him this power like a poisoned fruit. The weight of that thought pressed on him as he paced the room. Floorboards creaked beneath each step, as if protesting the changes in him too.
The Sentient had explained some of the mechanics, but it still felt like grasping at the edges of a dream. There were no quest markers, no experience bars, and no comforting signs of progress. This wasn't a game. This was life—raw, volatile, and utterly unpredictable.
Yet even with this powerhouse of a build, Alex wanted more—something practical, something useful. Something that could, at the very least, pay the bills.
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the mess of his room: books half-read, clothes unwashed, and even his prized rice cooker looked at him with something like judgment.
"Can I use my skills to earn money? " he grumbled.
"Healing? Too risky." He scoffed, imagining himself being livestreamed mid-miracle. "The last thing I need is to end up on TikTok as the miracle guy from Pasay."
Still, he had elemental control now. That had to be worth something practical, right?
He ticked off ideas on his fingers.
Earth: Could he build roads? Start a construction company?
Water: Bottled water business?
Fire: Uh, no. That's an arson charge waiting to happen.
Air: Balloon-making? Lame.
Wood: Gardening? Bonsai trees with supernatural charm?
He leaned back on the mattress with a groan, burying his face in a pillow.
"What is this? Avatar: The Business Tycoon?"
He rolled onto his side, staring out the window. The Manila skyline pulsed with restless light—each flicker a reminder of rent due in a week, a job he had no intention of returning to, and a bank account barely clinging to life.
Just as the claws of despair began to tighten, the Sentient's voice returned, calm and resonant, like a ripple across still water.
"There is a place in southern Luzon, Quezon Province. It needs cleansing."
Alex frowned. "Cleansing? You want me to be a janitor now?"
"No. Cleansing of dark energies. Creatures of malevolence. Spirits. Monsters. Those referred to in your local lore as aswang."
He sat up straight. His heart skipped a beat.
"You mean… ghost stories? They're real?"
"Terminology differs, but they exist, and they are active."
He ran a hand through his hair, mind racing. Tiyanaks. Kapres. Tikbalangs. Shadows whispered of these monsters from every corner of Filipino childhood—myths spoken in fear and jest, warnings murmured under breath. But to be told they were real? That they were active?
A chill ran down his spine. But it wasn't fear. It was a thrill. The same feeling he had when reading forbidden stories as a kid under a blanket with a flashlight—the sensation of brushing against forbidden truths.
"And what's in it for me?" he asked warily. "Aside from dying in the woods?"
"Skill progression. Mastery. Unlocking hidden talents. Preparation for the Cataclysm in 300 days."
Ah yes—the Cataclysm. The great unseen hammer dangling above the world. He'd nearly forgotten about it, caught in the novelty of powers and self-discovery.
"Well," he said, stretching his shoulders until they popped, "that sounds productive."
"Coordinates identified. Initial threat location: Tiaong, Quezon."
A glowing map flickered in his mind's eye—topographic, glowing faint blue. Red pins marked areas of concern. One of them blinked urgently in southern Luzon.
Alex opened his battered laptop and began typing furiously. Tiaong was rural, remote—exactly what he needed. The kind of place where people still believed in stories... and sometimes feared them. Perfect place to test his mettle.
There was a resort on the outskirts—a little-known hotel with decent reviews, privacy, and proximity to the nearby forests. Quiet. Affordable. Secluded.
A few clicks later, the reservation was made.
Alex stood and surveyed his room. It had been his cave, his sanctuary, his chrysalis. It had also been his cage. Books lined the shelves—manuals on biology, fantasy novels, and half-torn history magazines. A single painting hung crooked near the door: an abstract sunset he once bought for 200 pesos from a street artist.
He packed swiftly, with efficiency born from urgency. Clothes, toiletries, phone and chargers, protein bars—whatever wouldn't slow him down. His eyes paused on the kamagong sticks leaning against the bookshelf. Heavy, polished, worn by time.
Gifts from college. Back when he studied arnis, when he could still walk straight and fight.
His black belt had long since gathered dust. But muscle memory was funny that way—it never really left. And now, with his new strength and stats, he could probably duel a jeepney and win.
He slipped the sticks into his pack, letting his fingers linger over the smooth wood one last time.
Then, with a deep breath, he scribbled a note on a scrap of paper and taped it to the door.
Kuya Tony, thank you for everything. I had to go back to the province. Something came up. Please keep the deposit. Take care. —Alex
He zipped his bag, slung it over one shoulder, and took a final look around the room.
Everything in this place reminded him of who he used to be—his pain, his fear, his limitations. He owed it gratitude. But he owed himself a future.
The clock struck midnight. Outside, Manila pulsed with life—jeepneys rumbling like mechanical beasts, neon signs blinking in tired rhythm, and the distant thrum of karaoke bleeding from an open window.
Alex turned the knob, stepped out, and closed the door behind him.
He didn't look back.
"Time to clean the road," he whispered, and disappeared into the night.