The air in the clearing turned frigid, the kind of unnatural chill that ignored the tropical sun. Leon looked up, and for a heartbeat, his rational, first-responder brain simply refused to process the sight.
It was a woman—or at least, the upper half of one. Her torso ended abruptly at the waist, trailing a grisly, swaying fringe of glistening intestines that dripped a dark, caustic fluid onto the leaves below. Her wings were not feathered like a bird's; they were vast, leathery membranes of mottled grey skin, spanning nearly ten feet.
[ ALERT: HIGH-THREAT ENTITY DETECTED ][ ENEMY: MANANANGGAL (NIGHT-STALKER CLASS) ][ LEVEL: 8 ][ WARNING: CURRENT LEVEL INSUFFICIENT FOR DIRECT CONFRONTATION. ]
"Hide..." Maya whispered again, her voice cracking as she tried to pull the silk banner over them.
Leon didn't hide. He couldn't. The logic of the triage was simple: you don't leave a patient in the line of fire. He grabbed the hilt of the Ancestral Bolo, his knuckles turning white. The rust on the blade seemed to pulse in sync with the monster's heartbeat.
The Manananggal shrieked—a sound like metal grinding on bone. She banked sharply, her long, oily black hair whipping behind her. Her face was a mask of pale, beautiful features twisted into a permanent snarl, her tongue flicking out like a thin, prehensile needle.
"You smell of... salt and old storms," the creature hissed, her voice overlapping itself in a haunting echo. She hovered twenty feet above, her wings kicking up a gale of dust and dried leaves. "A fresh soul. Untainted by this world's rot. I will enjoy peeling the skin from your 'Dangal'."
"Stay behind the cart, Maya," Leon commanded, stepping out into the open. He held the Bolo low, his feet apart, just as he had been taught to stand when bracing against a flood.
"Leon, no!" Maya cried out, clutching the wooden box to her chest. "You are not ready! Your Agimat is dormant!"
The Manananggal laughed, a dry, rattling sound. She folded her wings and plummeted.
Leon swung. He didn't wait for her to land. He used the momentum of her descent, aiming a horizontal slash at the trailing entrails. But the creature was faster than the Sigbin. With a flick of her wings, she pivoted in mid-air, her taloned fingers raking across Leon's chest.
[ HP: 42 / 120 ][ WARNING: BLEEDING STATUS EFFECT APPLIED. ]
Leon stumbled back, gasping as four red lines bloomed across his tunic. The pain was white-hot, like a brand. He felt the "System" flickering, the blue screen turning a frantic, warning red.
"Is that all the Last Anito can do?" the monster mocked, landing lightly on a thick Balete root. She began to crawl toward him, her hands moving with the skittering precision of a spider. "To think, the Weaver sent a mere boy to stop the Red Moon."
Leon spat blood onto the dirt. He felt the familiar surge of frustration—the same feeling he got when a rescue went south, when the water rose too fast, when the equipment failed. But beneath the frustration was the spark. The Bayanihan spirit wasn't just about helping; it was about the refusal to let the dark win.
"I'm a first responder," Leon growled, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "We don't go down until the job is done."
Suddenly, the wooden box in Maya's lap began to glow. A scent of crushed calamansi and burnt incense filled the air.
"The Salt!" Maya screamed, throwing the box toward Leon. "The Asin of the High Altars! Use it on her lower half!"
Leon's eyes darted around. He saw it then—hidden in the hollow of a nearby tree, half-covered by ferns, was the lower half of the woman. A pair of legs, standing perfectly still, severed at the waist and waiting for its owner to return.
The Manananggal's expression shifted from predatory glee to pure, unadulterated terror.
"No!" she shrieked, launching herself at Leon.
Leon didn't swing his sword. He caught the box in mid-air, his fingers fumbling with the latch. He had one chance. One rescue.