Over the next few days, Miguel's body slowly healed. Mang Dante was patient and gentle, tending to his wounds with homemade salves and medicinal teas. But Miguel noticed strange things—how the farmer moved silently through the forest, how animals seemed to follow his commands, how his eyes sometimes glowed with a faint silver light.
"Mang Dante," Miguel said one evening as they sat outside watching the sunset. "You're not just a farmer, are you?"
The older man smiled, nodding slowly. "No, anak. I'm Aswang too—though I haven't practiced cultivation in many years. I chose the life of a farmer to escape the fighting, to live in peace with the land."
He gestured to the fields around them. "My kind are called Mangungulam—we focus on cultivation that connects to plants and animals. Not like the warriors you've been training with, or the evil ones who attacked your village."
Miguel pulled out the Kristal ng Potensyal, and it glowed softly in his hand. "My village is gone. Everyone I knew… they sacrificed themselves so I could escape."
Mang Dante's face grew serious as he looked at the crystal. "The ancient crystal… I thought it was lost. You must be the one the prophecies speak of."
"Does that even matter anymore?" Miguel asked bitterly. "I was supposed to be the hope, but I couldn't save anyone."
"Hope isn't about saving everyone all at once," Mang Dante said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "It's about surviving so you can keep fighting for what's right. And you won't be alone for long—there are others nearby. Different kinds of Aswang, each with their own cultivation paths."