Ash on the Morning Road
The first light of dawn slid quietly over Solsona's blackened rooftops. Smoke still hung low in the air, a ghostly veil that made the town seem half-dream, half-graveyard. Marko stood at the edge of the main road, his pack resting against his leg, the amulet warm against his chest beneath his shirt.
He had buried Lolo Dario just hours before. The grave was shallow—there hadn't been time for more—and marked with nothing but a simple wooden cross Uncle Tomas had carved. Aunt Mayang had pressed her forehead to Marko's and whispered a blessing. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were rimmed with red.
Now, the town's survivors were already busy, clearing rubble, tending to the wounded, and salvaging what little was left. Nobody told him to stay. Nobody told him to go. But every glance toward him carried the same quiet weight: You must keep moving.
Marko tightened the straps of his pack and stepped forward. His boots crunched over fragments of glass and charred wood. The wind was cold and sharp, smelling of ash and wet soil, but beyond the destruction, there was a faint promise of warmth from the rising sun.
The road south stretched out in front of him, cracked and littered with debris, but clear enough to walk. With every step, Solsona faded behind him, and the silence grew heavier.
The Empty Fields
Hours passed in a slow, steady rhythm. The farmlands that flanked the road should have been green and buzzing with life. Instead, the paddies were drained and cracked, their surfaces webbed with fissures like sunbaked clay. Rows of withered palay stood frozen mid-growth, their stalks yellowed and brittle. No birds sang.
Marko paused to drink from his canteen, the water warm from the morning sun. His throat felt raw, but it wasn't thirst alone—it was the quiet. Too quiet. No birds sang. No frogs croaked. Even the wind seemed to avoid this place.
He thought of Lolo Dario's voice, low and warm, telling him stories by the fire. Stories of the Prime Flame and the heroes who once bore it. Back then, it had felt like just that—stories.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. Far out in the field, something stood. It was too far to see clearly, but the shape was wrong for a man—taller, limbs too thin, unmoving.
Marko gripped the strap of his pack and forced himself to keep walking. The shape didn't follow. Still, he kept glancing back until it disappeared into the haze.
Guns and Warnings
By late morning, the road narrowed and bent toward a bridge over a shallow river. At the far end, a makeshift barricade of sandbags and overturned vehicles blocked the way. Two men in mismatched military gear stood guard, rifles slung over their shoulders.
Marko raised a hand in greeting as he approached.
"Hold it there," one of them called. His voice was wary but not hostile.
"I'm just passing through," Marko said, stopping a few paces away.
The second guard, older and with a bandage around his arm, stepped forward. "Where are you headed?"
"South. Toward the Visayas."
The men exchanged a look. The younger one shook his head. "Not smart. Roads are crawling with things. The big gate in Sarrat might be closed, but there are smaller ones popping up everywhere. And some of the creatures... they don't leave when the Gate shuts."
Marko swallowed. "I can't turn back."
The older man studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "San Nicolas is your best detour. Fewer attacks there, for now. But keep moving. And if you see smoke—don't go near it."
They let him pass. He walked across the bridge, the sound of water beneath him strangely loud in the empty air.
Ghost Towns
The first village he passed looked abandoned at first glance, but the faint sound of a baby crying told him otherwise. He didn't stop—he knew better than to bring trouble to people barely holding on.
The second barangay was worse. Doors hung open on their hinges. Laundry stiffened on abandoned lines. In one house, through an open window, he glimpsed plates still set on a table—half-eaten meals frozen in time, flies buzzing lazily above.
He began to notice a pattern: the farther he traveled, the fewer signs of life he saw. It was as though a wave had rolled through and stripped away not just people, but the feeling of people.
The Gaunt Child-Shape Creature
By midafternoon, he reached the outskirts of a small town. The buildings were mostly intact but silent, windows gaping like empty eyes. In the middle of the road, he saw something. At first, he thought it was a child—thin, barefoot, standing with its back to him. Relief bloomed for half a second before the figure turned.
Its face was wrong. Eyes too far apart, skin pale as wax, lips pulled back from sharp, irregular teeth.
It moved with terrifying speed. Marko swung his spear instinctively, the point grazing its side. It shrieked—a sound that seemed to scrape against the inside of his skull. It clawed at his leg, nearly toppling him, but a surge of that now-familiar warmth pulsed from his chest to his arms, steadying him. He shoved, twisting the spear free, and the creature stumbled backward into the ditch.
He didn't wait to see if it would get up.
The Wolves
Near dusk, he skirted the edge of a dried creek bed. That's when he saw the eyes—three pairs, low to the ground, reflecting the last scraps of sunlight.
Wolf-like creatures emerged from the brush, their fur patchy, their ribs visible beneath their skin. They moved with unnerving coordination, fanning out to encircle him.
Marko kept the spear up, moving slowly backward. The wolves paced with him, claws scraping against the cracked earth.
The first lunged. He caught it in the chest, and as the spear drove in, a faint curl of smoke rose from the wound. The other two froze, noses twitching. They seemed to recognize something.
Marko's heartbeat roared in his ears. The air around him felt warmer, heavier. He shifted his stance, spear sweeping in a wide arc. The wolves backed away, ears flat, before melting into the shadows.
Cut Off
When he finally stopped to rest by the roadside, the sky was fully dark. Fireflies blinked in the grass, and the cicadas sang in waves.
Marko pulled out his phone, thinking to check the map. But the signal bar was gone. No 3G, no text icon—nothing.
He walked a little farther, holding the phone high. Still nothing.
It wasn't just the remoteness. This felt different, like the air itself was blocking the signal. He remembered the time of chaos in his town, and his stomach tightened. If the Gates could reach through into the world, maybe they could choke off more than just light and sound.
He turned it off to save the battery and kept walking. The silence around him felt heavier now, the shadows stretching longer.
Rumors of the Awakeners
That night, he found a small roadside shelter with a tin roof and half-collapsed walls. A campfire flickered nearby, surrounded by three weary travelers—a man, a woman, and a boy no older than twelve.
They welcomed him to share the fire. They chatted together and exchanged information about what they've been through over a meal of canned beans and rice; they spoke in low voices about people who have strange abilities they heard about while travelling.
"They say there are others," the woman said. "People who can fight them. Awakeners."
The man nodded. "Some with blades that cut through anything. Some with strength like a giant's. And one... one who can burn the darkness itself."
Marko said nothing, his hand resting lightly over the amulet beneath his shirt.
When they slept, he stayed awake, watching the flames. Somewhere out there, more like him might exist. But so did more Gates. More monsters.
And the road south was still long.