Alex stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his plush hotel room in Alabang, one hand in his pocket and the other cradling a mug of overpriced instant coffee. Outside, the skyline shimmered beneath the midday sun, its gleaming towers oblivious to the fact that somewhere in this city, a man who'd recently crawled out of a cave with ancient swords and half a jewelry store's worth of diamonds was quietly plotting his next move.
He'd spent the last of his bank account to rent the hotel room before the transaction—a reckless splurge, perhaps, but entirely necessary. It was safer here.
On the nearby king-sized bed, bags, carton boxes, and weapons lay like loot from a boss raid.
"Fifteen million pesos richer," Alex muttered to himself with a smirk. "And I still feel like I'm one bad haircut away from looking homeless."
The transaction yesterday had gone surprisingly well. His broker—an oily yet sharply dressed gentleman named Mr. Duran—had counted ten of the diamonds like they were holy relics, then tried (and failed) to lowball him.
Alex, of course, played his part brilliantly. Half-lie, half-truth.
"I lost a lot of money in the casino," he'd said, slouching just enough to look defeated. "I owe someone dangerous. I need cash—fast."
Duran's eyes had narrowed. "And how many of these 'heirloom' stones did you say you have?"
"Fifty," Alex lied. He had more than ten times that. But showing his whole hand on the first round wasn't just unwise—it was suicidal.
A few polite threats disguised as business jargon later, the man handed over a check worth ₱10 million, plus ₱5 million in crisp cash tucked neatly inside a brown envelope that smelled faintly of cologne and paranoia.
"It's not like we can really enjoy this much wealth considering what's to come," Duran had muttered, pressing the envelope into his hands. "But who knows? We might survive the coming doomsday. Let's just do what we can to live a normal life, right?"
Normal. Alex almost laughed at the word.
Back in the hotel room, he stretched, then turned to admire the rest of his shopping spree like a kid on Christmas morning.
There were black tactical pants with knee padding that made him look like he moonlighted as a stuntman, military-grade boots that could probably kick through a cement wall, and gloves made of something that claimed to be both flame-resistant and shock-absorbent. The mall staff had eyed him suspiciously, especially when he bought three jungle knives, two brass knuckles, and a pair of steel batons from a military surplus shop whose owner clearly thought he was either a prepper or a serial killer.
"Going camping?" the shopkeeper had asked dryly.
Alex grinned. "Something like that."
Of course, he knew very well that most of these weapons were overkill. His Druid skills alone could level a building if he got creative enough. But it never hurt to have a Plan B—especially when your Plan A involved fireballs and vines that could choke a werewolf to death.
The air conditioner hummed above, but his full attention was on the items spread out before him on the bed: a small black wooden box and two weapons that didn't belong in this era—or maybe even this world.
He gently picked up the katana first. The blade shimmered in the dim room light with a metallic hue unlike anything he'd ever seen—neither silver nor steel, but something darker, denser, and almost... alive. Its edge gleamed wickedly, and the moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, he felt a subtle vibration run through his hand, like the weapon was acknowledging him.
"Okay... Definitely not your average antique store find," he muttered.
And according to the sentient whispering in his head, the alloy used in them was not from this era. Possibly not even from this world.
"The metal is pre-Iron Age," the sentient had said. "Forged by civilizations before memory, the sword itself is about 500 years old, but the core—much older."
Next was the dagger. Shorter, but just as menacing. The metal was the same with the sword, perfectly smooth, impossibly durable. No rust, no blemish, not even a scratch despite having been buried for who knows how long. He could almost hear it whispering—like a tool meant not just for killing, but for something ceremonial… ancient.
He wasn't a swordmaster. But the dagger felt good in his grip. He'd trained in Kali, the Filipino martial art that treated blades like dance partners. Short, fast, vicious. The dagger was perfect for that.
Both weapons looked pristine, untouched by time, and far too sophisticated to have been made by anyone ordinary. Which made the mystery even stranger—because according to the old, yellowed journal left behind by the Japanese soldier, he hadn't forged them… he'd found them. In the same cave. Along with a small black wooden box.
"That means these weapons were already buried there before World War II," Alex said aloud, thinking. "Maybe centuries before. Maybe longer."
He stared at the katana again, fingers drumming lightly against the blade. "So who made you, huh? Because I've got a feeling you're not from the neighborhood."
The journal had offered a few cryptic pages of writing—rough English scribbled alongside kanji, describing the soldier's arrival, how he was separated from his unit, and how he'd found the cave while hiding from American troops. But it had been his tone of reverence, even awe, that stood out. He'd called the weapons "gifts from the underworld" and "tools of gods" and even referred to the wooden box as "forbidden."
That box now sat directly in front of Alex, as unassuming as it was ominous.
Made of black wood—smooth as glass and cool to the touch—it had no visible hinges, seams, or keyholes. It wasn't heavy, but it radiated energy that prickled against his skin, like static electricity with a temper. Alex had tried opening it in every way he could think of. He'd pushed, pulled, twisted, whispered passwords, and even tried tapping in Morse code. Nothing worked. It refused to open. Worse, it refused to explain itself.
Alex sighed and picked it up again, cradling it in both hands as if holding a sleeping dragon. "You don't even rattle. No click, no creak, no giveaway."
He tilted it against the light. The box didn't reflect like polished wood. It seemed to drink the light instead.
"You know," he said to it with a chuckle, "I thought you'd be the easy part of this treasure haul. A bunch of diamonds, a badass sword, a dagger that could probably cut through a truck—and then you. No instructions, no buttons. Just vibes."
For a moment, he considered using power tools. There was a construction shop down the street. A chainsaw? Sledgehammer? Blowtorch?
He shook his head. "Yeah, no. Bad idea. You're way too calm for something not dangerous. You've got 'booby trap' written all over you."
The journal had warned him, subtly but clearly: "The box must remain sealed. Only the rightful heir will unveil its truth." It had sounded poetic at first, like wartime superstition. Now? Now it felt like prophecy.
What's stranger is the sentient refuses to say anything about the damn box.
"Okay, buddy," Alex muttered, placing the box gently on the bedside table like a sleeping baby. "You win for now, but I'm not giving up. One day, I'm going to crack you open like a birthday present."
He sat back on the bed, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling fan.
A katana and a dagger made from unbreakable, unidentifiable metal. A box that refused to be opened. A journal, written by a Japanese soldier who might've found something that wasn't meant for this world.
"This was not your regular Saturday night hike," he said with a grin.
But even as he tried to relax, his mind kept circling back to one thing: who buried these treasures?
If the soldier had stumbled upon them, someone else had placed them there long before. Someone with knowledge of things humans had long forgotten. Survivors of the old world, maybe?
"Could they be the same beings that I killed in that cave?" he wondered aloud.
Alex reached again for the katana, this time gripping it tightly, holding it up to the light like some noble warrior from a forgotten past.
"Well, I don't know who made you, or why you ended up with a thousand diamonds and a cursed box," he whispered. "But I have a feeling you're not just decoration. You're meant for something."
"Guess solving this mystery is going to be part of my hobby now."
Alex clicked open his laptop on the table and reviewed his next destination. The sentient had pointed him—via pulsing energy and a map overlay—toward Mindanao. A mountainous region, lush and dangerous. The place, according to the sentient, was crawling with dark entities—creatures warped by the energy ripples following the dome's collapse.
"You're not going there to hunt," the sentient had told him. "You're going there to evolve."
Lovely.
"Mindanao," he murmured aloud, scrolling past articles warning travelers about armed rebels and insurgents. "Home of monsters, mayhem, and men with very big guns."
He booked a room near Davao and a flight two days from now. If all went well, he'd land, suit up, sneak into the wilderness, and power-level like a man possessed. If not, he'd end up as a cautionary tale in a provincial newspaper.
Alex sat down on the edge of the bed, eyes drifting over to the duffel bag stuffed with untouched diamonds.
He wasn't here to get rich. Not anymore. The world was changing—fast. And no amount of money would save anyone from what was coming. But the funds? They'd buy him time. Mobility. Freedom.