The air cracked like shattering glass as Mateo stepped through the gateway. For a moment, 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 faded, and he stood in a city unlike any he had ever known.
The skyline was a skeleton of itself: towers of steel and neon collapsed into jagged husks, their shattered windows reflecting the dull glow of an eternal twilight. Vines of living metal wound through the ruins, pulsing with faint blue energy, as if nature and machine had fused under some forgotten covenant. Holographic billboards flickered aimlessly in the haze, cycling between prayers, corporate slogans, and ghostly faces that no longer remembered who they were.
And in the streets, the myths had awoken. A tikbalang strode past, its equine face half-fused with bronze plating, eyes glowing with cybernetic fire. Aswangs with wings of nanotech fibers stalked the shadows, their hunger amplified by machinery grafted onto flesh. Far above, diwata drifted on currents of light, their wings shimmering like fragments of stained glass, guiding survivors with whispers that mingled grace and warning.
Mateo moved cautiously into what had once been a market district. The remnants of stalls still clung to the broken streets, their awnings shredded and tangled with rusted drones that buzzed faintly with dying batteries. Here, the air smelled of spice and ash, as if old memories of food still lingered in the wind. Statues of saints stood toppled in the square, their stone faces cracked, but digital halos still hovered above them—glitching, looping, sparks dancing in the air like errant fireflies. The faithful had once gathered here, but now it was only a crossroads for scavengers and half-feral creatures searching for scraps.
From the corner of his eye, Mateo saw an engkanto, tall and pale, its skin etched with circuit-lines that pulsed faintly like veins of molten silver. It did not attack, only watched, its presence a reminder that this city was neither fully dead nor fully alive.
He turned down a narrow street that plunged into darkness, lit only by the faint glow of neon prayers scrawled across the walls. The graffiti shimmered like living scripture, names of God inscribed beside sigils of defiance. Below, the tunnels of the undercity opened like wounds.
From their depths came the sound of metallic chains dragging, the cries of unseen children, and the faint laughter of things that remembered being human but no longer were.
Here the hybrids roamed freely. Mateo glimpsed a manananggal perched on a ruined balcony, her lower body fused with steel supports, cables writhing in place of entrails. Her wings unfurled with a sound like tearing cloth, each feather glimmering with fractured light. She vanished before his gaze could hold her, melting into shadow.
The ruins whispered of hunger. This was no sanctuary—it was a hunting ground.
Seeking higher ground, Mateo climbed the broken stair of a half-collapsed tower. From its upper floors he saw the city stretch in every direction, a sprawl of contradictions. One district shimmered faintly with protective wards, its crumbling chapels glowing with divine circuits like living stained glass. Another lay blackened with smoke, overrun by rogue machines and the dark aura of corrupted sorcery. Between them, bridges of steel and light flickered in and out of reality, unstable pathways that seemed to breathe like living veins.
Above, the sky was no sky at all but a shifting dome of fractured constellations. Some stars shone true, anchors of faith. Others bled across the horizon like open wounds, red scars in the heavens marking where the Rupture had torn open eternity.
At last, Mateo descended into a courtyard where water once flowed. Now the fountain gushed only sparks, its stone basin cracked and scorched. But scattered around it lay signs of survival—makeshift shrines of scavenged tech and candle stubs burning stubbornly in the wind. Someone still believed here. Someone still prayed.
Mateo set his hand against the ancient device at his belt. The city was broken, haunted, alive with myths, yet within its ruins faith persisted. Somewhere in this fractured place, allies awaited him. Somewhere, the future would begin to heal—or be consumed forever.
The myths had awakened. And they had been waiting for him.
The silence did not last.
A sudden metallic shriek tore through the streets, followed by the heavy thud of claws against concrete. Mateo turned sharply, his eyes locking onto a beast crawling out from the undercity tunnels—a monstrous tiyanak, no longer the helpless spirit-child of folklore but a warped hybrid. Its small body was sheathed in plates of living steel, eyes glowing red with mechanical fire. Dozens of cables spilled from its spine, writhing like serpents, sparking against the broken walls as it dragged itself closer.
The courtyard seemed to darken around it. Behind the beast, more shadows stirred. Mateo glimpsed aswangs slinking into view, their wings of nanofiber spreading wide as their mouths gaped with hunger. The myths had gathered—drawn to the pulse of the ancient device he carried.
Mateo's breath steadied. He drew the chronometer from his pack, the device humming with divine frequency as etched runes glowed faintly across its surface. He pressed it against his chest, whispering a prayer, and light rippled outward, forming a brief shield. The hybrids recoiled, hissing, but only for a moment.
The tiyanak lunged first. Its small frame struck with the weight of a predator, cables lashing at him like whips. Mateo rolled aside, sparks skidding across the stone floor. He swung the analyzer at its head, a burst of radiant energy blasting into its steel shell. The creature screeched, its body cracking, half-flesh, half-metal twisting violently.
But more came. The aswangs descended, their wings slicing through the air with mechanical precision. One landed on the fountain's edge, jaws snapping as it leapt toward him. Mateo raised the ancient device, and with a desperate surge of faith, unleashed another wave of light. The aswang dissolved into smoke and circuitry, its scream fading into static.
The shield faltered. Mateo felt the strain in his chest, his breath growing heavier. He could not keep this up—not alone.
From the shadows, the sound of movement reached him. Not claws, not wings—boots against rubble, the clatter of metal parts shifting in a scavenger's pack. A voice muttered in irritation, young, human, alive:
"Tsk. Always the wrong place, wrong time…"
Mateo's grip tightened. He had held back the myths for now, but help—or another threat—was close. The city was about to reveal its first companion.