Dumaguete transformed into a fortress.
Not obvious fortifications—subtle ones. Wards woven by engkanto. Traps set by duwende. Defensive positions chosen by kapres who'd fought battles centuries ago.
"I haven't done this since the revolution," Lakay Ambo muttered, checking his assigned post.
"This is different," Glad said. "We're not fighting humans. We're fighting our own kind."
"Sometimes that's harder."
She knew he was right.
The twelve young Manananggals Marikit had turned weren't evil. They were confused, manipulated, desperate for belonging. Killing them wasn't the answer.
"We need to capture, not kill," she instructed. "Subdue, not destroy. Those kids are victims too."
"And if they don't give us a choice?" Ariel asked quietly.
"Then we do what we must. But we try everything else first."
Maya worked tirelessly, providing insights into Marikit's tactics and the young Manananggals' likely abilities. "They're not fully trained," she explained. "The turning was rushed. They'll have basic powers—flight, separation, some strength—but not control. Not experience."
"That's something."
Amihan contributed ancient knowledge—battle tactics from centuries past, when creatures fought openly. "Marikit will expect traditional warfare. Direct assault. Let's surprise her."
The plan took shape.
Not just defense.
Counter-attack.