The air cracked like shattering glass as Mateo stepped through the gateway. For a heartbeat, time folded around him—echoes of prayers, fragments of broken stars, and whispers of ancient myths colliding with the hum of circuitry. Then the light thinned, and silence fell.
He stood in a city unlike any he had ever known.
The skyline was a skeleton: towers of steel and neon collapsed into jagged husks, their shattered windows catching the dull glow of eternal twilight. Vines of living metal coiled through the ruins, pulsing with faint blue energy, as though nature and machine had forged a reluctant covenant. Holographic billboards flickered aimlessly in the haze, stuttering between prayers, forgotten slogans, and the empty faces of those who had once walked these streets.
And in the shadows, the myths had awoken.
A tikbalang strode across the avenue, its equine face half-fused with bronze plating, eyes glowing with cybernetic fire. Aswangs slithered in the alleys, wings of nanotech fibers twitching as hunger guided them. Far above, diwata drifted on currents of fractured light, their stained-glass wings whispering grace and warning to the broken world below.
Mateo's steps carried him into what had once been a market district. The air smelled of spice and ash, memory clinging stubbornly to ruin. Shredded awnings clung to rusted drones, their cracked lenses still glowing faintly. Saints' statues stood toppled in the square, stone faces fractured, yet their digital halos still looped in glitching defiance.
From the corner of his vision, an engkanto lingered—pale, tall, its skin etched with circuit-lines glowing like molten silver. It did not move to strike, only watched, as if weighing him against the tide of ruin.
The city's underbelly whispered from below. Mateo paused at the mouth of a tunnel, where neon graffiti shimmered across cracked walls—living scripture, names of God scrawled beside sigils of rebellion. Metallic chains dragged somewhere in the dark. Children cried faintly. And laughter echoed—laughter of things that had once been human.
Above, the fractured sky pressed heavy on his spirit. Constellations no longer held their place. Some shone steady as anchors of faith. Others bled red across the dome like open wounds—scars of the Rupture itself carved into heaven's skin.
Seeking perspective, Mateo climbed the stairwell of a broken tower. From its upper floors, he beheld the sprawl in every direction: districts shimmering with divine circuitry beside zones drowned in smoke and sorcery. Bridges of steel and light flickered in and out of reality, unstable veins breathing across the city.
This was no ruin abandoned. It lived—hungry, waiting.
At last, Mateo descended to a cracked courtyard where once a fountain had sung with water. Now it spewed sparks, its basin scorched. Yet signs of persistence lingered. Shrines of scavenged tech and candle stubs circled the fountain, their small flames trembling against the dark. Someone still prayed here.
Mateo pressed his palm against the ancient device at his belt. The myths had awakened, but so had faith. Somewhere within these ruins, allies waited. Somewhere, the future might begin to heal.
The silence broke.
A metallic shriek tore across the square. From the undercity's wound, a beast emerged: a tiyanak, no longer a spirit-child of mourning but a warped hybrid. Its small frame clattered with steel plates, eyes burning crimson. Cables writhed from its spine, sparking against stone as it crawled closer.
Shadows stirred behind it. Aswangs emerged, wings of nanofiber spreading wide, mouths yawning with hunger. The myths had gathered—drawn by the pulse of the ancient device.
Mateo's grip tightened on the chronometer. He pressed it to his chest and whispered a prayer. Light rippled outward, forming a fragile shield. The creatures recoiled, hissing, but only briefly.
The tiyanak lunged first, cables striking like whips. Mateo rolled aside, radiant energy blasting from his device into its skull. The creature screeched, cracking apart in sparks and flesh. But more descended. An aswang landed on the fountain's rim, jaws unhinging as it leapt. Mateo unleashed another surge of light, shattering it into smoke and static.
The shield faltered. His breath grew heavy. Alone, he would not last.
Then—boots on rubble. Not claws. Not wings. A human cadence.
From the shadows came a muttered voice, sharp with irritation but alive:
"Tsk. Always the wrong place, wrong time…"
Mateo steadied his stance, the light in his hand dimming. Help—or threat—had arrived. The future city was about to reveal its first companion.