Chapter 1 Richie
Ten years ago, in 2015, I was sitting cross-legged on the cold floor of our living room, my eyes locked on the television like it held the secrets to the universe. The screen flickered with the unmistakable logos of ABS-CBN, GMA, and CNN, all of them reporting the same absurd headline: "Non-Human Life Confirmed. Goblins in the Mountains of Mindoro." At first, I laughed. Who wouldn't? It sounded like a hoax, or a bad joke meant to stir the internet into a frenzy. Then came the footage, blurry, shaky, but unmistakable. Green-skinned creatures, crouched low, yellow eyes glinting in the dark, armed with crude weapons, tearing through a rural village like something out of a B-movie horror flick. I remember my heart skipping a beat, not from fear, but from something like… wonder.
The next day, the news got worse, or better, depending on how deep into fantasy fiction you were. A real-life mermaid… yes, fins and all… emerged from the depths of Manila Bay. Her scales shimmered like broken glass in the sunlight, too beautiful and terrifying all at once. She sang in a tongue no one could translate. Then the fish people came, dozens of them. They swam to shore, and before anyone could welcome them or scream for help, they started slaughtering bystanders as if the baywalk was their hunting ground. Blood mixed with seawater. People ran. Others froze. Some recorded everything on their phones, probably thinking they'd go viral or something.
I was fourteen back then. I remembered screaming at my mom, voice cracking from excitement and panic. "The world's turning into a freaking manhwa!" I had read hundreds of them, from dungeon raiders to regressor power fantasies. My brain instantly filled in the blanks: hunters, dungeon associations, world rankings, mystical loot drops, fast-paced battles, and the whole shabang. I imagined myself awakening some broken skill, striking a pose while reporters swarmed me, asking for interviews. Maybe I'd defeat a sea monster, save the president's daughter, and retire by seventeen. Yeah, sue me. I was a dumb kid with big dreams and a bigger imagination.
But now? Ten years later? I stood on cracked concrete in front of San Roque Parish, a pile of second-hand dungeon wares laid out on a tarp that reeked of mildew. I wasn't a hunter. I wasn't even remotely special. I was just a guy hawking used mana lamps, chipped mana stones, and half-melted elemental gear that nobody wanted unless they were desperate or stupid. Business was slow, as always. People passed by with their heads down, either too busy or too jaded to care.
"So, how much for this broken heater?" an old man asked, squinting at a rusted piece of fire-type equipment. The kind that barely warmed a closet these days.
I gave him a once-over. His clothes were patched in more places than they were whole, but he clutched his purse like it held gold bars. "Two hundred," I said, already bracing for the counteroffer.
He frowned. "One-fifty."
"It barely works," I said, forcing a grin. "But it still works."
"Fine. One-seventy. And throw in a mana core shard, for the love of God. Winter's getting worse every year."
"Deal," I muttered, slipping a shard into his calloused hand. I watched him limp away, and for a brief second, I wondered if he had a family waiting at home. Then I shook the thought off. I couldn't afford sympathy.
There were no hunters. No shiny-ass associations. No flashy S-rankers battling dragons above Metro Manila. What we had were government agencies too bureaucratic to react quickly, "super people" who were more interested in product endorsements than saving lives, and the rest of us… self-employed scavengers, sellers, and desperate folk trying to squeeze a living out of the new world order.
And me? I was somewhere at the bottom. Dreaming had stopped being useful a long time ago.
"Man, I wish I am rich… Maybe I'll hit the lotto tomorrow…"
I sighed, the sound lost to the low hum of the evening crowd, as I stared at the giant billboard looming above the broken façade of what used to be a three-story electronics store. Laura "Silvers" Kato smiled down at the city with that same bright, practiced charm, holding a bottle of mana-infused mineral water that probably cost more than my entire haul for the week. Her hair was a cascade of dark silk, her eyes the kind of sharp that could slice through camera lenses, and that small tilt of her chin? That was pure celebrity engineering. But it wasn't the product or the lights that caught my attention. It was her.
Yeah, I knew her. Once. Not the polished icon plastered fifty feet above traffic, but the girl who used to sit beside me during basic enchantment classes back when the Department of Magical Affairs still offered free training to the "mana-adjacent poor." She had always been brighter than the rest of us. Not in power… that came later… but in attitude. She smiled when others grimaced, helped when no one asked. For a time, we were close. I remembered her laugh, loud and unfiltered. I remembered... well, I remembered enough. But like most things in my life, she slipped away. Fame did that to people. And me? I didn't exactly rise with her.
The truth is, I didn't hate most of the powered celebrities. I hated what they represented. The lie we were all sold. That with enough grit, enough talent, enough freak mutation, you could rise above the rot. But Laura… Laura was different. Or maybe I just liked pretending she was.
I tore my gaze away from the billboard as rain began to mist down, soft at first, barely enough to notice. My eyes scanned the crowd. Manila at night was always half-asleep, always pretending to be safe. And like always, people pretended not to see each other unless absolutely necessary.
"Man, I remember teasing her eyes back then… I regret being so childish back then…"
The thing about bloodlines here in the Philippines is that no one really gave a damn unless you gave them a reason to. We were a soup of heritage—Malay, Chinese, Spanish, American, Japanese—you name it. Centuries of foreign occupation will do that. Sure, schoolyard bullies still teased kids for being too dark, too light, too curly, and too flat-nosed. But it was never quite the same beast as the racism you'd read about in foreign news. It was more about kids not knowing how much hurt they were carrying in their mouths.
Adults, on the other hand, didn't have time for that crap. As long as you spoke the language, shared the pain of long commutes, rising prices, and brownouts at the worst possible time, you were kin enough. Didn't mean discrimination didn't exist… it did. Just in a different, meaner form.
Poverty. That was the great equalizer, and the great divider.
The screech of tires tore through my musings. From around the corner of Mabini Street, a matte black van skidded to a halt. It was too slick to be private, and too noisy to be official. The doors slammed open, and out poured five men like bad omens. No uniforms. No badges. Just heavy boots, raincoats too clean for local wear, and guns… lots of them. One even had a longsword slung across his back like he thought he was in a medieval cosplay event gone rogue.
"Fuck," I muttered, my throat tightening as I dropped to my knees and started packing my wares. The tarp was already soaked. Mana cores rolled toward the curb, and I scrambled after them like they were loose teeth. The last thing I needed was to get caught in whatever mess these guys were bringing.
Then, as if the universe decided to add insult to injury, the drizzle turned into a downpour. My ratty blazer, two sizes too big and already threadbare at the cuffs, sucked up water like a sponge. Visibility dropped. People scattered.
And that's when I ran. I shoved what I could into my bag, didn't even bother zipping it shut, and bolted toward the alley behind the church. I must've taken five steps before I collided with someone, hard.
I hit the pavement, my ass making painful contact with the slick concrete. My bag burst open, its contents skittering across the ground like panicked rats. I looked up… and froze.
Standing above me, drenched in rain and shadow, was Marco.
He hadn't changed much. Same wiry frame wrapped in synthetic leather. Same smug tilt of his head. But it was the sword that caught my eye first… the same blade I'd seen once slice through a mutated carabao like it was made of tofu. He didn't say a word. Just gripped the hilt and rested it gently against my throat.
"Hey there," he said, his voice too calm, too casual. "Still selling junk?"
I swallowed, trying to force down the panic clawing at my chest. My hands stayed on the wet ground, fingers twitching slightly as I debated whether to bolt or beg. Neither option looked promising.
"How much do you still owe me?"
Marco's voice was casual, like he was asking about the weather, but his eyes glinted like he already knew the answer and just wanted to see me squirm. I clenched my jaw, forced myself to tremble a little, lowered my gaze like some kicked mutt trying to look pitiful.
"F-four hundred thousand," I stuttered. My voice cracked just enough to sell the role. Let him think I was weak. Pathetic. Easy meat. Guys like Marco loved that kind of performance… they mistook fear for respect and pity for submission. If I was lucky, he'd feel merciful. If not, well… at least I'd make it out alive.
Marco smirked, satisfied. Then he turned his head and called out behind me, "Big bro, this is the guy I told you about. He owes the gang a huge amount, so I think he'll willingly become our courier."
"What the fuck?" I muttered, more to myself than anyone else, as a sick feeling churned in my gut. I didn't know what I expected, but definitely not this. Courier? That was gangster speak for "disposable errand boy." The kind that ran loot or messages through dangerous territory, and if something went wrong… well, no one missed the courier.
The other five from the van had already caught up to us, forming a loose semicircle. They didn't say anything, just stared. Not threatening, but watching. Measuring. Like they were deciding whether I was useful or just another liability to bury in an alley.
Then one of them stepped forward, the so-called big bro.
"The name's Clark," he said, extending a hand I didn't dare refuse. I let him pull me up, his grip firm and practiced. His smile was polite, pleasant even. Too pleasant. His teeth were so white I felt like they should glow in the dark.
Clark looked like someone who belonged in a magazine ad for combat gear. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with that movie-star ruggedness that made you instinctively distrust him. His jacket was reinforced leather, lined with mana-thread stitching, and his boots looked like they had kicked in more than just doors. Compared to Marco's cheap bravado, Clark was terrifying in how casual he made everything look.
He clapped a hand on my shoulder, warm and heavy. "You don't mind acting as our courier, don't you?" he asked, tone friendly enough that it almost didn't register as a threat. "Our last courier… unfortunately didn't make it."
I swallowed hard. "I… I really don't have a choice, do I?"
I tried to glance around, looking for any exit, any sign of someone watching, maybe a cop or a nosy vendor, but the street was practically empty now. The rain kept people indoors. Smart people. Unlike me.
I turned to his crew again. They looked like they'd come out of some post-apocalyptic documentary. Worn faces, hollow eyes, and wiry frames that had seen too many hungry nights. Their gear was patchwork, barely holding together, the kind scavengers wore when they couldn't afford to die but also couldn't afford to live properly. One of them coughed violently into a gloved hand and sniffed hard, as if his lungs were trying to give up.
"Just which street corner did this guy pick them up from?: I wondered. But maybe that was the point. They were desperate. Like me.
Suddenly, Clark slapped me lightly on the face. Once. Twice. Nothing hard… just enough to jar me back to the moment. "Hey, hey," he said, his grin widening. "Are you listening? What do you say? This might just be the night you become rich. Maybe pay off all of your debts. Who knows? Maybe even make something out of yourself."
I didn't realize I was trembling until I heard my own voice.
"Y-yes."
Clark's smile turned genuine, or maybe it was just better rehearsed. "Good man," he said. "What's your name?"
"Richard."
He raised an eyebrow. "Can I call you Richie?"
I nodded, barely trusting my voice to come out again.
"Let's go, Richie." He turned around, gesturing for the others to follow. "There's a dungeon that needs some delving."
And just like that, I was part of their little group, walking into the rain with my cheap bag slung over one shoulder and fear settling deep in my bones. I didn't know what was waiting for me in that dungeon. Riches? Death? Another goddamn unpaid job?
What I did know was this: I had just taken the first step into a world I thought I wanted a decade ago.
Now I wasn't so sure.