Alex stepped out of the airport in his usual silent, observant way, the kind that made people glance once and then forget him entirely. He adjusted the strap of his rugged canvas sling bag, squinting behind his dark sunglasses. To the world, he looked like just another traveler—perhaps a low-budget backpacker, maybe a freelancer, maybe someone with too many secrets.
The heat pressed against his skin like a thick curtain, but he didn't mind. After weeks of hunting through forests, sleeping on rocks, and getting nearly flattened by monsters, city heat was a luxury.
He flagged down a taxi, gave the name of a small mid-tier hotel downtown, and leaned back in the seat, watching the city blur past—jeepneys painted like comic books, motorbikes weaving in and out of traffic, and the occasional trio of school kids waving at passing foreigners.
An hour later, Alex checked into the hotel under a name so generic it practically screamed "not suspicious at all": Jonathan. No last name. Just Jonathan.
The front desk clerk, a sleepy-eyed woman chewing gum, barely glanced at his passport. "Room 307, sir. The elevator's to the left."
"Thanks," Alex replied in the flattest voice he could muster.
Once inside the room, he stripped off his travel gear and took a long, cold shower. As the water pounded down his back, he let his thoughts wander. He was in Davao for a reason. The rumors of supernatural activity weren't just folk tales anymore.
After drying off and a wardrobe change into something breathable—but tactical—Alex slipped on a pair of sturdy boots with casual jeans and a shirt and walked out into the hot afternoon to survey the city.
He wandered through the crowded city center, with its heady blend of jeepney horns, durian stands, and the occasional Christian radio blasting from speakers tied to lamp posts. He struck up conversations with locals—a trick he'd learned from both games and real-world experience. If you want information, ask the ones who aren't trying to sell you something.
He stopped at a street food stall and bought grilled isaw with vinegar. It burned his mouth just the right amount.
He asked questions here and there, keeping it casual. "Any wild stories lately?" or "Heard anything weird up in the mountains?" Most people just laughed or shrugged. Some said something about rebels, others mentioned spirits. No one had a straight answer.
Until he met Mang Roger—broad shoulders, sun-darkened skin, and a bolo knife in hand that had seen more coconuts than a fiesta table. His stall sat under a tree beside the bus terminal, where smoke from nearby food carts lingered in the air like perfume.
Alex paid for a coconut and struck up a chat, slipping in questions between sips.
"You see that mountain range over there?" Mang Roger said, wiping his forehead with a rag and pointing toward the distant green line on the horizon.
Alex followed the gesture. The mountains loomed like sleeping giants under the heat haze.
"That's where they say strange creatures roam," the old man continued. "Not the usual rebels or wild boar. Real monsters. Whole villages hear them screaming at night. Not animal screams. Human-sounding. Like someone being eaten alive."
Alex raised an eyebrow. "And no one's gone to check?"
Mang Roger snorted. "Ay, the military came once or twice. Helicopters, soldiers with big guns. After one mission, they stopped going. Said they couldn't find anything." He leaned in. "But the locals—they know. They've seen things. Heard things."
Alex's mind was already mapping the area. If the government had poked around and pulled out quietly, that was worth investigating. It meant either there was something real... or something really dangerous.
"Anything happen recently?" Alex asked, casually finishing off the coconut.
Mang Roger's eyes darkened just a bit. "A few days ago, they say there was shooting in the forest. A lot of noise. Locals say it wasn't rebels this time. Something worse. Then this foreigner—some hunter or adventurer—disappeared. They say he was looking for monsters."
Alex's grip tightened slightly on the coconut shell.
"Which village is nearest to that area?" he asked.
"Barangay San Isidro," said Mang Roger, slicing open another coconut with a practiced flick of the blade. "But if you value your life, sir—don't go. Only the mad or the desperate go there."
Alex grinned faintly, pulling a few folded bills from his wallet and dropping them onto the table.
"Then it's a good thing I'm both," he said.
Mang Roger chuckled but didn't look convinced. "You tourist, always looking for something dangerous."
Alex gave him a friendly nod and turned to leave.
After talking with the locals on the bustling streets of Davao, Alex decided it was time to dig deeper—literally and figuratively. The city was vibrant, but the true stories, the whispered legends, and the old fears—they lived in the shadows of the forest, tucked away in the hearts of rural villages.
With his ever-reliable smartphone in hand, Alex boarded a jeepney and headed toward a nearby rural town. He played the role of a cheerful travel blogger.
He started his investigation light, asking people about tourist spots and local delicacies, taking photos of mountains, kids playing in the street, and even a sari-sari store painted bright pink. But eventually, the questions turned to other topics.
"Sir, have you noticed anything… strange happening in the area?" Alex asked, pretending to type something into his phone.
The farmer chuckled, scratching his chin. "Strange? Oh, plenty! Last week, my carabao started singing at midnight."
Alex blinked. "Singing?"
"Well," the farmer grinned, revealing three good teeth, "more like moaning. But it sounded like one of those K-pop songs my granddaughter plays."
Then he talked to a fisherman mending his net beside a small lake.
"Strange creatures?" the fisherman said, furrowing his brow. "Weird stuff happens all the time. Just last month, my cousin swore he saw a mermaid."
"A mermaid?" Alex repeated.
"Yup. She had long hair, sharp teeth, and asked for GCash before vanishing under the water."
Alex chuckled. "A digitally savvy mermaid. Impressive."
Later, he found himself chatting with a public school teacher taking a break under the shade of a mango tree.
"Sometimes the students say they see shadows moving in the woods," the teacher said thoughtfully. "They're probably just scaring each other. Still, I always tell them, 'Never answer when something calls your name from the trees, even if it sounds like your mother.'"
"A good rule," Alex said, nodding.
Finally, a jeepney driver with a sleeveless shirt, mismatched socks, and a sarcastic grin gave him a mouthful of local wisdom.
"Sir, if you see a woman in white by the road at midnight, don't pick her up."
"Even if she looks like she needs help?"
"Especially if she looks like she needs help," the driver said, eyes wide. "That's when she eats your soul."
It was late afternoon when Alex decided to head back to the city. He was just about to call a ride when a loud explosion cracked through the air.
BOOM!
The ground trembled. A cloud of smoke rose near the police station down the road. Panic erupted. People screamed, running in all directions.
Alex turned his head sharply. A group of armed rebels had thrown a grenade—missing their target, the small police station—and instead struck a nearby electric post. Sparks flew, the transformer burst, and the metal pole collapsed onto a small community hospital beside it.
Electricity arced in wild flashes, and within seconds, a tarpaulin banner above the hospital ignited. The fire spread fast, crawling up the building like a monster reborn.
Screams filled the air. Gunfire echoed as police and rebels exchanged shots. Chaos ruled the street.
A bullet zipped through the air toward an old woman frozen in fear. Alex's eyes locked on her. He vanished in a blur, appearing beside her just in time to snatch her from death's grip. The bullet passed harmlessly behind him.
He laid the old woman gently behind a tricycle, checking her for injuries before pulling up the hood of his jacket and turning away. He didn't want to be recognized.
The rebels scattered, vanishing as quickly as they came.
But the real danger remained—the fire was raging. Smoke poured from the upper floors. People were shouting for help. A nurse burst out of the front entrance, coughing and screaming.
"There are children on the third floor! We can't reach them! They're trapped!"
Alex's heart skipped. He focused his enhanced perception and felt them—three small heartbeats faint with panic and smoke, their tiny lungs choking.
He didn't hesitate.
Instead of charging through the front, he slipped around the back of the hospital. The rear walls were steep, but with his strength and agility, he scaled them with ease, leaping from windowsill to pipe until he reached the third floor.
He summoned his courage—and a little wind magic—and shattered a rear window with a quick punch.
The sudden blast of air and broken glass triggered a backdraft. Flames licked toward him like wild tongues, but Alex braced himself. His body could handle it. He was built for more than heat.
Focusing, he reached out with his elemental control over fire. The flame resisted, snarled, and flickered—but it listened. It bent. It retreated. The blaze dimmed in the third-floor hallway just long enough for Alex to dash inside.
He spotted the three children collapsed in the corridor. One boy, maybe six. A girl, a toddler. And a baby wrapped in a blanket.
Alex scooped them up—two on his shoulders, the baby cradled close. He took a breath. Then he ran.
Back to the shattered window, back toward the open sky, and with all his might, he leaped. Down one level to the lower roof, landing with a crunch, the children held tight. Then another leap, straight to the ground.
People screamed again—but this time, in awe.
He laid the children down gently in front of the nurses. Their small bodies coughed and stirred—alive.
The nurse who'd shouted before dropped to her knees, tears streaming. "Who—who are you?"
Alex, his hood low, gave a simple nod, then disappeared into the smoke and the screaming crowd, vanishing like a shadow in the blaze.