RINA'S POV:
A year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of living under a stolen sky. We called them Dungeons. The name, pulled from the dregs of the fantasy novels I still secretly read, felt like a child's flimsy bandage on a gaping wound. But every morning, the lie would crumble. The memory of the day hope died is etched behind my eyes.
We were huddled around a scavenged tablet when a squadron of Philippine Air Force F-16s streaked like silver needles toward the floating leviathan over Manila. For a breathtaking moment, my heart swelled with a fierce, foolish pride. We were fighting back. Then, a flicker of blinding, sterile light from the island's jagged underbelly. The lead jet simply… vanished. No explosion, no debris, just an effortless deletion from existence. The two jets behind it crumpled into twisted balls of metal against an invisible barrier. In that crushing silence, we all understood. There would be no heroes in this story.
The first few months were a nightmare collage of shaky phone footage. Islands, hundreds of them, simply fell. They crashed into cities—Tokyo, London, Rio—vomiting forth monster hordes that washed over everything. Forty percent of humanity, the disembodied voices on the radio said.
We were lucky. An isolated pocket of the old world. Our small hut, shielded by the ceaseless, silent patrol of Lolo's chittering guardians and sustained by Lola's encyclopedic knowledge of the land, became our entire universe. Hope curdled, soured, and was eventually discarded as a forgotten luxury. And then, everything changed. People fought back. Not armies, but ordinary people who touched shimmering, impossible Items dropped by the slain monsters and became something more. The world settled on a single, unifying term: Ascendants.
Tonight, I sat on a woven mat on the floor of our hut, the familiar, calming scent of Lola Elara sorting herbs doing little to soothe the anxiety tightening my chest. Lolo Kael sat nearby, the rhythmic shing-shing-shing of him sharpening a bolo knife a counterpoint to the faint, constant hum of his insect sentinels outside. On the tablet propped against a stack of books, a news broadcast was explaining our terrifying new reality.
"...and this brings us to the globally recognized Ascendant Classification System, or ACS," a crisp, professional announcer said, her voice unnervingly smooth. "Understanding this system is key to understanding our new world."
The screen shifted, showing a silhouetted figure holding a glowing sword. "CATEGORY 1: WEAPON USERS."
"The most common type of Ascendant," she explained, "are individuals who have bonded with a specific Item-Weapon. Their strength is ranked on a Star System. A 1-Star Ascendant is roughly ten times stronger than a peak normal human…"
I glanced down at my own soft, unmarked hands, a bitter knot of shame and uselessness tightening in my stomach. These were the new protagonists of the world's story. As the announcer's voice continued, a single question echoed in my mind: If these were the heroes, then what in the world was I?
The new protagonists of the world's story were people who could fight, who could make a difference. What could I do? I could feel the coiled, warring powers within me, a constant hum beneath my skin, but it wasn't a sword or a gun. It wasn't anything that fit a tidy description. The heroes on the screen had names and ranks. I had a whisper of the wind and a hum of insects.
The graphic on the screen changed, showing a figure stepping through a shimmering portal, and my feeling of inadequacy deepened. "CATEGORY 2: TRAVELLERS."
"Far rarer and significantly more powerful..." the announcer's voice grew reverent, the professional veneer cracking to reveal genuine awe. "These individuals did not find an Item, but rather a passage. They survived a trial in another dimension and returned with innate, supernatural skills. The weakest Traveller is comparable to a 3-Star Weapon User."
My breath caught in my throat. These weren't just lucky people; they were chosen. A dark, shameful part of me was jealous of that clarity. They had earned their power. Mine was just… given to me, a painful, violating inheritance I never asked for.
"Their ranking system uses medals: Bronze, Silver, and Gold... there are only three known Gold Rank Travellers in the world… They are humanity's ultimate soldiers."
Lola Elara paused her work. "They categorize power like they are sorting grain," she murmured, her voice laced with a gentle, ancient disdain. "Power is not a medal to be worn, Rina. It is a responsibility to be carried."
The final graphic appeared, and a genuine, primal chill traced its way down my spine. "SPECIAL CATEGORY: ADMINISTRATORS."
"Finally, we have the five," the announcer's voice dropped to a near-whisper, a tone reserved for gods or demons. "The beings some have taken to calling the new gods of our age. They did not find an item or a passage. They received a 'System'—a god-like interface that guides them, granting them quests, skills, and limitless potential."
The screen showed five portraits, their faces radiating an unnerving, inhuman confidence. I saw South Korea's 'Novela,' who could pull powers from fiction; China's 'Great Sage Martial Master;' Saudi Arabia's 'Ashura,' who could literally see a monster's weakness; Thailand's 'Bud,' a mistress of all plant life . And finally… the last face. A man with features like mine, but with a foreign name.
"…Carl Libovec, the wielder of 'Blood Origin.' An Administrator with triple citizenship—Filipino, Czech, and American. His System allows him to manipulate blood and, more terrifyingly, grant a measure of his power to others, turning normal humans into blood-wielding Ascendants loyal only to him."
Blood. The word echoed in the small hut. A cold dread, slick and oily, seeped into my bones. His power came from blood. My power, the dual legacy of my grandparents, was in my blood. It felt like a dark, twisted perversion of my own heritage, and I hated it with a sudden, violent intensity. I stabbed a finger at the screen, shutting it off. The sudden silence was suffocating. A world of Stars, Medals, and literal gods who got their power from a cosmic video game. A world where everyone who mattered fit into a neat little box. And then there was me.
"Lola," my voice was a choked, desperate whisper. "Lolo. What am I?"
Lolo Kael slid his newly sharpened bolo into its wooden sheath. He exchanged a look with Lola Elara, a silent conversation passing between them in an instant.
"You are not an Ascendant, Rina," he said at last, his voice a low, resolute rumble. "You are a shaman. A true protector of this world."
"A protector? What are you talking about?" The power in me felt like a curse, a shield against my father. It had never felt like a sword for the world.
"In the time before time," he began, his gaze becoming distant, "this world was not only ours. It was invaded. Not by the beasts from the islands, but by spores that rode the star-winds, seeds of cosmic hunger that fell from a poisoned sky." He paused, his dark eyes finding mine. "The legends you think are myths? The vampire. The ghoul. Even the Aswang... they are not of this earth. They are the descendants of that first invasion."
A wave of vertigo washed over me. "Lolo... you mean... aliens?" The word felt stupid, childish.
"Yes," he affirmed. "The shamans of old—the Babaylan, the Catalonan, and their kin across the globe—blessed by the spirits of the sky, the sea, and the soil, they fought them. They contained them. They brought peace."
My throat was dry. The stories Lola used to tell me were history. "But... if that's true, why doesn't anyone know?"
"Because humanity fears what it cannot control," Lola Elara answered, her voice soft but laced with an iron sorrow. "After the war was won, people turned on their protectors. The truth was buried under fear and religion. But the earth does not forget, Rina. And with these Dungeons tearing open the sky, the old wounds have been reopened. The old enemies stir from their long sleep. It is time for shamans to rise again."
"No," the word escaped my lips, a raw, desperate plea. "No, the Ascendants—they're the heroes now! Look at them! A Gold Rank can solo a Dungeon Boss! The Administrators are like gods! They're the ones who can save us!" I gestured wildly at the blank, dark tablet. "Not... not me. I can't."
Lolo Kael shook his head, a deep and profound sadness in his eyes that hurt more than any anger could. "You do not understand, apo ko. Their power is a borrowing. It is the energy of those islands, a power foreign and toxic to this world. It is a candle flame fighting a wildfire. Yours is different."
He leaned forward, his presence seeming to suck all the air from the small hut. "Your power is the blood of this world given form. It is a direct line to the will of the earth itself. The more this world is wounded by these outsiders, the more it will cry out in pain. And you, my granddaughter," he said, and the words landed not like a revelation, but like a physical blow, a sentence being passed down. "You are the one who will hear its cry and lead the other shamans from all over the world. The gods will pour their strength into you not because you are worthy, but because you are necessary."
Necessary. The word hung in the air, cold and clinical. Not chosen. Not special. Necessary. Like a tool. The power I had been forced to accept, the agony I endured just to be safe—it was never for me. It was a leash, tying me to a fate I never asked for, a war I never knew existed. I looked at my grandparents, at the faces I loved more than anything, and for the first time, I felt a terrible, soul-deep betrayal. They had been preparing me not to fight my own monster, but to become a living weapon for their ancient, forgotten war. In that moment, I felt a fear so pure and absolute it eclipsed everything else: I was horrifyingly, completely, and utterly trapped. And it was their love that had built the cage.