Chapter 3: The Amihan Coastal Village of Sarimanook
I slumped into the chair by the fire, every limb shaking. The note sat on the table—a single sheet of paper that somehow carried the full weight of my Lola's terrifying foresight.
First rule of magical survival: never trust free snacks.
The adrenaline drained out of me like a tide going out, leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion that clung like wet clothes. The fire crackled—a warm, rhythmic pulse in the silence. For a while, I just sat there, listening to the hearth and the aftershocks of my own heartbeat slowly decelerating.
This cottage—Apo's First Stop—wasn't just a checkpoint. It was a message. A lighthouse tucked in the woods, a whisper of comfort in a land that had already tried to chew me up.
Eventually, curiosity nudged me up. I shuffled around the small, sturdy room. The air smelled of cedarwood and dried bay leaves. Simple woven baskets hung on the walls, each holding something useful: dried fish, a packet of salt, a bundle of mountain garlic. No enchanted fridge—but I didn't need one. In the corner, a clay pot of clean water. A tin pail of rice. A jar of preserved tuyo, its oil glimmering like it knew it was precious.
It was the most beautiful pantry I'd ever seen.
On the cot, a thick blanket lay folded. I recognized the pattern—geometric, earthy, lovingly mended. Lola had sewn this.
Of course she knew I'd make it here.
Of course she left a piece of home to meet me halfway.
Dinner was humble: rice, dried fish, and whatever seasoning came from my tears of relief. Then the cot claimed me like a gravity spell, and I passed out, face first, with the kind of sleep that buries dreams under stone.
---
I woke up to sunlight.
Crisp mountain air and a sky so clear it felt hand-painted. I rolled over and stared at the rafters, letting that clean feeling soak in.
No monster trees whispering. No freaky tarsier illusions. No death snacks.
Just a boy in a stranger's world, trying to figure out his Lola's game plan.
The phone screen flared to life. I was still a glowing dot on the map, smack in the middle of Apo's First Stop. But far beyond the mist... a coastal town flickered faintly on the edge of the digital map.
The name shimmered into view: Sarimanook.
The quest was back on.
I scanned the remaining food into the tampipi app—never underestimate the power of tech that can turn a rice sack into cloud storage—and stepped outside.
---
Just past the clearing, the trees framed a narrow trail sloping down the mountainside. After a few minutes of walking, I reached a kind of threshold.
An archway stood between two old balete trees, woven from driftwood, vines, and seashells that caught the light like stained glass.
SARAMANOOK WELCOMES YOU, it read in sun-faded, looping script.
Beneath that:
Peace to the traveler, wisdom to the stranger.
Magic hummed under the surface—not flashy, not loud. Just there. Watching.
I stepped through.
And suddenly, the forest changed.
The air no longer buzzed with menace. It just... watched. Like I'd passed some kind of test.
Along the winding path, I caught glimpses of people—oddly memorable people.
A blond man practiced sword swings by a grove, moving like the wind was his sparring partner. Calm. Focused. Lethal without trying.
Nearby, a girl sat beneath a tree, a scroll glowing in her lap. Her hood half-covered pointed ears, but not the intense intellect behind her eyes. Crystals floated lazily around her, like obedient satellites.
A bald man in cleric robes guided a group of kids through some kind of stacking-prayer game near a well. His arms were boulders. His voice, honey.
And under a fruit stall awning, a demi-human girl with silver wolf ears chomped on grilled meat like she was on lunch break from slaying monsters. Her grin? Mischief. Her eyes? Secrets.
I didn't know them yet.
But something deep in my bones said I would.
---
Then I saw it.
Sarimanook.
White-stone cottages clung to terraced hills like barnacles. Shell-tiled roofs caught the light like polished memories. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys. The streets meandered downward, flowing like rivers toward a bay full of bobbing boats.
It looked like someone had sketched Batanes from memory and whispered enchantments into the margins.
I stumbled forward, heart pounding.
As I drew closer, life hit me in the face like a full sensory spell.
Soy sauce. Charcoal. Pork. The air was a buffet. And weaving through it all—Tagalog, spoken fast and local, instantly translated by the bracelet on my wrist.
Kids chased indigo chickens with the ferocity of tax collectors. Goats the size of mopeds lounged like smug landlords. A vendor flipped a blinking skewer while arguing about the price of manggang hilaw.
Life. Blessed, chaotic, human life.
And then I smelled heaven.
---
Under a mango tree stood a food stall so glorious I almost proposed to the grill.
The vendor? Built like a carabao-wrestler turned chef. Hairnet. Battle-worn apron. Tongs that moved like magic wands.
Isaw. Betamax. Something labeled "Night Moss Deer."
Either poetic or highly illegal.
I held up coins, praying to the economic gods. My pitaka pulsed. My pesos shimmered, glitched, and transformed into local coinage.
Outsider tax: ten tanso.
Worth every coin.
Six sticks of isaw later, I was ready to fistfight a volcano.
Even better, my pesos weren't trash here—they were data, converted by the pitaka into something valuable.
Still chewing, I wandered deeper into the market square.
A dwarf in dented armor grumbled about taxes. A witch tested herbs with a floating teacup. A centaur argued with a talking umbrella.
And then I flatlined.
Cat ears.
A girl with actual cat ears and a twitching tail walked past, nibbling a fishball with majestic dignity.
I looked down at myself—hoodie, hiking shorts, old anime tee.
Great. I looked like a sentient meme from 2016.
Someone giggled. A child pointed.
The village clown had arrived.
---
"Okay," I muttered. "If I want to blend in, I need new clothes—"
"Excuse me."
I turned.
She was ten, maybe. Smudged face. Sunburnt cheeks. A braid of red hair like burning thread. Threadbare dress, but she stood like a queen.
One eye green. The other, a cloudy violet.
She held out a basket of seashells. Some shaped like stars. Others like frozen waves. All of them glowed faintly, like they still remembered the moon.
"Would you like to buy some shells?" she asked.
I blinked. "...Me?"
"Shells," she repeated, fiercer this time.
There was something behind it. Not a pitch. A test. An opening.
The bracelet on my wrist pulsed—not a warning. A recognition. A heartbeat synced with something ancient.
And then I heard her voice again.
> "You'll be fine, apo. Just pay attention.
The world pays back in strange ways."
I looked at the girl. The wind tousled her braid. She smelled of salt and stories.
This wasn't random.
This was a doorway.
I reached into my pocket, fingers brushing against fate.
"Yeah," I said, smiling for the first time in forever.
"Let's see what you've got."