The bell's cracked toll still hummed in Elias's bones as they staggered through Manila's corpse-gray dawn. His bloodstained hand throbbed with each heartbeat, the gold-flecked veins pulsing like tiny lightning strikes beneath his skin.

Lira kept one hand on her knife and the other clamped over her bleeding collarbone. "We need to move faster," she muttered. "That bastard's already spreading the call."

Elias didn't ask how she knew. The proof coiled through the streets—pale flowers blooming from cracks in the pavement, their petals edged in black mold. The same flowers that had grown around the Hollow King's throne in his vision.

Father Mateo limped behind them, clutching a rusted iron crucifix. "The safehouse near Binondo Church," he wheezed. "We have supplies there. Wards."

A child's laughter echoed from an alleyway.

All three froze. The sound was wrong—too deep, too layered, like multiple voices stacked together. A shadow detached itself from the wall, resolving into a small girl in a tattered yellow dress. Her eyes were pure white, her smile stretching ear to ear.

"Kuya Elias," she crooned in that impossible voice. "The King wants to play."

Lira's knife flashed—

—and passed clean through the girl's throat without resistance. The child giggled as her form dissolved into smoke, reforming three paces away.

"No knives for guests!" She clapped her hands, and the streetlights shattered in sequence toward the horizon like a chain of firecrackers.

Elias's box gave a violent jerk against his back. The lid remained sealed, but the wood burned against his spine—not with heat, but with a terrible, gnawing hunger.

Father Mateo made the sign of the cross. "Illusion. She's a Finger—a piece of the Hollow King's will given form."

The girl pouted. "Rude! I'm the Ringfinger! Most important one!" She twirled, her dress flaring to reveal a mouth stitched across her stomach. "Pinky's coming too. And Middle... oh, Middle's very hungry."

Windows slammed shut along the street. Somewhere distant, a dog howled—then cut off with a wet gurgle.

Lira wiped blood from her brow. "We can't outrun this."

"I know." Elias reached into his pocket and pulled out the rusted nail Lira had given him weeks ago—the one she'd called an anchor charm. Now he understood its true purpose.

He drove it into his black-veined palm.

The pain was exquisite, a white-hot brand searing through the corruption. His blood sizzled where it hit the pavement, each drop etching a tiny warding sigil into the concrete.

The Ringfinger girl shrieked. "CHEATER!"

The buildings around them groaned as the street folded—walls bending like paper to reveal a hidden alley slick with algae and old blood. At its end flickered a neon sign: *Santo Niño Chapel - 24hr Adoration*.

Father Mateo gasped. "The nail—it's a key to the old spirit roads!"

They ran as reality stitched itself shut behind them, the Ringfinger's enraged screams muffling with each step. The chapel door swung open before they reached it, revealing a candlelit interior where a dozen armed figures waited—not church militia, but men and women in patched tactical gear, their weapons carved with baybayin script.

At their head stood a woman with a scarred lip and a revolver made of dark wood. "Took you long enough," she said, kicking a duffel bag forward. Inside gleamed vials of mercury, bundles of anting-anting charms, and a single bone-white mask.

Lira exhaled sharply. "Ate Rosario."

The woman's grin was all teeth. "Welcome to the real war, anak. The Hollow King just declared open season—and you're the prize."

Outside, something massive scraped against the chapel walls. The candles guttered.

Elias's box whispered:

"Too late. They're already inside the city."