The purple sun didn't rise so much as it bled into the sky, turning the deep indigo of the night into a thick, hazy lavender.
Renzo sat there for what felt like an hour, his back pressed against the gargantuan tree root, watching the forest wake up. It wasn't like the morning bird-chirps in Nueva Ecija.
Here, the sounds were metallic — clicks like a stapler, long melodic whistles that sounded like a flute being played underwater, and the occasional deep thrum that made the ground beneath his sneakers vibrate.
"Phase 1: Hydration," Renzo croaked. His throat felt like he'd swallowed a handful of dry cement.
He reached into the side pocket of his North Face bag and pulled out his 1.5L Wilkens bottle. He gave it a sad little shake. Clink.
There was maybe two inches of water left —lukewarm and tasting faintly of the plastic bottle it had lived in for the last twelve hours.
"Rule of threes," he muttered, his Engineering professor's voice echoing in his head. "Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. I'm already on day zero."
He stood up, his knees popping like bubble wrap. Every muscle ached from the "Bakunawa Sprint," but the thirst was becoming a physical weight. He grabbed his bag, tightening the straps until they dug into his shoulders. If he was going to look for water, he wasn't leaving his "inventory" behind.
He began to walk, pushing aside ferns that felt like cold silk. He didn't just walk blindly; he looked for the tilt of the land. Gravity always wins, he thought. Water goes down.
After twenty minutes of trekking through bioluminescent bushes that hissed when he brushed past them, he heard it — a low, rhythmic bubbling. It wasn't the sound of a rushing river; it was deeper, like a giant breathing through a straw.
He broke through a final curtain of hanging vines and stopped dead.
The "stream" wasn't blue. It was a shimmering, iridescent silver, flowing over smooth white stones that glowed with a soft internal light. The water didn't splash; it seemed to glide, thick and heavy like mercury, but perfectly clear.
PING!
[LOCATION DISCOVERED: The Eye of the Earth.]
[Status: 100% Potable. Warning: High Mana Density may cause temporary 'Vivid Daydreams.']
Renzo ignored the screen. He knelt by the bank, staring at his reflection in the silver surface. He looked terrible — hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes, and a smudge of orange SkyFlakes dust on his cheek.
"Vivid daydreams? I'm already seeing a horse-man in my head, how much worse can it get?"
He dipped his hand in. The water was ice-cold — so cold it made his fingers ache instantly. He scooped some up and took a tiny, cautious sip. It tasted like nothing. No minerals, no chlorine, no dirt. It was the "purest" thing he had ever encountered, like drinking a melted diamond.
As the water hit his stomach, a strange warmth spread through his chest. The exhaustion in his legs seemed to evaporate, replaced by a buzzing energy that felt like he'd just downed five energy drinks at once.
"Whoa," Renzo breathed, staring at his hands. The small scratches from the briars were literally closing before his eyes. "This isn't water. This is... high-grade fuel."
He immediately began filling his Wilkens bottle. But as the silver liquid swirled inside the plastic, he noticed something in the reflection of the water.
A woman was sitting on a rock in the middle of the stream.
She wasn't there a second ago. She was beautiful in a way that felt "wrong" — her skin was the color of moonlight, and her hair floated around her head as if she were underwater, even though she was sitting in the open air. She was wearing a dress made of woven fish scales that shimmered with every breath she took.
A Sirena. Or maybe a Kataw.
Renzo froze, his hand still submerged in the freezing water. He remembered the stories. They didn't just drown you; they enchanted you until you forgot your own name.
The woman turned her head. Her eyes were entirely black — no pupils, no whites. She looked at Renzo, then at his North Face backpack, then at the plastic Wilkens bottle.
"Mortal," she whispered, her voice sounding like a thousand tiny bells. "That vessel... it is made of the Dead-Shell-That-Does-Not-Rot. Where did you find such a cursed artifact?"
Renzo blinked. He looked at his Wilkens bottle. "This? It's... it's just PET plastic, ma'am. Recyclable? Mostly?"
The Sirena leaned in, her black eyes narrowing. "It has no soul. No life. It is an abomination of the natural order." She hissed softly. "Give it to me, and I shall let you leave with your skin intact."
Renzo's grip tightened on the bottle. This was his only way to carry water. Without it, he was dead in the forest. His Engineering brain kicked into high gear, searching for a "compromise" that didn't involve him being eaten.
"I can't give you the bottle," Renzo said, his voice surprisingly steady. "But... I have something else. Something much more interesting than 'Dead-Shell'."
He reached into the small front pocket of his bag and pulled out a single, shiny metal paperclip
The Sirena gasped, her webbed fingers reaching out. To a creature of magic and nature, a piece of refined, industrial-grade steel was like a fragment of a fallen star.
"A deal?" Renzo asked, holding the paperclip up like a holy relic. "The 'Silver Bone' for my life and the water?"