The morning fog clung to the mountains like a blanket as Blake drove toward the municipal bank in La Trinidad. The sky was a muted gray, the kind that promised rain later in the afternoon. Pine trees lined the road, their silhouettes softened by the mist.
Blake's fingers tapped the steering wheel.
Today mattered.
Today was the first real test of whether he could change the future.
He parked in front of the bank, took a deep breath, and stepped out. The air was cold, crisp, and familiar—Cordillera air, the kind he grew up breathing. The kind that reminded him of early mornings in the mountains, of walking to school with his siblings, of his father's voice telling him:
> "No matter where you go, anak, always keep your feet steady.
> The land teaches patience. The mountains teach humility."
He carried those words with him now.
Inside the bank, the air-conditioning was too cold, the fluorescent lights too bright. A receptionist greeted him politely.
"Good morning, sir. Do you have an appointment?"
"Yes," Blake said. "With Mr. Reyes from Reyes Realty, and the bank's property officer."
"Ah, yes, sir. They're expecting you. Please proceed to Meeting Room 2."
Blake nodded and walked down the hallway.
His heartbeat was steady.
His mind was clear.
His purpose was sharp.
He needed this land.
He reached the meeting room and knocked lightly.
"Come in," a voice called.
Blake entered.
Two people stood to greet him:
- A man in his late 40s, wearing a neat polo and slacks — Mr. Reyes, the real estate agent.
- A woman in her early 50s, wearing a bank ID and glasses — Ms. Dela Cruz, the municipal bank's property officer.
"Sir Blake," Mr. Reyes said warmly, extending a hand. "Good to finally meet you in person."
"Likewise," Blake replied, shaking his hand firmly.
Ms. Dela Cruz nodded politely. "Good morning, Architect Ong."
Blake returned the nod. "Good morning, ma'am."
They sat around a small conference table. A folder lay in front of Ms. Dela Cruz, thick with documents.
"Before we begin," she said, "I want to thank you for your interest in the Itogon property. It has been foreclosed for some time, and the bank is eager to liquidate it."
Blake nodded. "I understand."
Mr. Reyes leaned forward. "We visited the site yesterday, sir. The terrain is excellent. Stable soil, good drainage, and the location is private but accessible. Perfect for a long-term project."
Blake kept his expression neutral.
He already knew all of that.
He had walked the land.
He had felt the soil.
He had seen the future buried beneath it.
Ms. Dela Cruz opened the folder.
"Let's begin with the basics," she said. "The property is listed at ₱3,800,000. This price is based on the bank's appraisal and the outstanding balance of the previous owner."
Blake nodded slowly.
He had expected this.
But hearing the number spoken aloud made it feel heavier.
Ms. Dela Cruz continued, "The bank is open to negotiation, but only within reasonable limits. We cannot go below the remaining loan balance unless there are exceptional circumstances."
Blake leaned forward slightly.
"May I ask," he said calmly, "what the remaining balance is?"
Ms. Dela Cruz adjusted her glasses. "₱3,200,000."
Blake's heartbeat quickened.
That was the number he needed.
He kept his voice steady. "So the bank's minimum is ₱3.2 million?"
"In theory," she said. "But we also consider administrative costs, legal fees, and the time the property has been on our books."
Blake nodded.
He understood.
Banks were not emotional.
Banks were not flexible.
Banks were not sentimental.
Banks were numbers.
And numbers were cold.
Mr. Reyes cleared his throat. "Sir Blake, if I may ask—what is your intended use for the land?"
Blake paused.
He couldn't tell them the truth.
He couldn't say, "I'm building a bunker to survive the apocalypse."
He chose the safest version of the truth.
"A long-term family project," he said. "Something private. Something secure. A place we can develop slowly."
Mr. Reyes nodded approvingly. "That makes sense. The location is ideal for privacy."
Ms. Dela Cruz tapped her pen. "Architect Ong, may I ask—how soon are you prepared to move forward?"
Blake inhaled.
This was the moment.
"I'm prepared to move quickly," he said. "But I need the price to reflect the property's condition."
Ms. Dela Cruz raised an eyebrow. "Condition?"
Blake opened his own folder.
He had prepared for this.
He laid out several documents:
- Soil stability reports from the municipal office
- Old mining activity maps
- Aerial photos showing minor erosion
- A structural risk assessment he had quietly conducted years ago
He pointed to the maps.
"This area," he said, "has minor subsidence risk due to old mining tunnels. Nothing severe, but enough to affect long-term development."
Ms. Dela Cruz leaned forward, studying the documents.
Blake continued, "The access road also needs reinforcement. The drainage system is outdated. And the retaining wall on the west side is deteriorating."
Mr. Reyes frowned. "Sir Blake, are you saying the land is unsafe?"
"No," Blake said calmly. "I'm saying it requires investment. Significant investment."
He met their eyes.
"I'm willing to take on that burden. But the price must reflect the reality."
Silence filled the room.
Ms. Dela Cruz tapped her pen again, slower this time.
"Architect Ong," she said carefully, "what price are you proposing?"
Blake exhaled.
This was the moment that would decide everything.
He looked her in the eye.
"₱3,200,000," he said. "Cash. Within 30 days."
Mr. Reyes blinked.
Ms. Dela Cruz's expression tightened.
"That is the minimum," she said. "The absolute minimum."
Blake nodded. "I know."
She leaned back in her chair.
"Architect Ong," she said slowly, "you drive a hard bargain."
Blake didn't smile.
He didn't need to.
He simply said:
"I'm an Igorot. We don't bargain to win. We bargain to be fair."
The room fell silent again.
This time, the silence felt different.
Respectful.
Measured.
Heavy.
Ms. Dela Cruz closed the folder.
"I will bring your offer to the board," she said. "But I cannot promise anything."
Blake nodded. "I understand."
She stood.
"Expect a response within three to five business days."
Blake stood as well.
"Thank you for your time."
They shook hands.
Firm.
Professional.
Equal.
Blake left the room with steady steps.
But inside, his heart was pounding.
He had made his move.
Now he had to wait.
---
The drive back to Baguio felt longer than usual. The fog had thickened, swallowing the road in a pale gray haze. Blake kept both hands on the steering wheel, his jaw tight, his thoughts heavy.
He had made his offer.
Now he had to wait.
Waiting was always the hardest part.
In the old timeline, waiting meant death.
Waiting meant losing people.
Waiting meant watching the world collapse while he stood helpless.
But this time, waiting meant something else.
It meant hope.
It meant possibility.
It meant a chance to change everything.
Still, the uncertainty gnawed at him.
Three to five business days.
That was a lifetime in a countdown of ninety-seven.
---
The Weight of the Offer
When Blake reached his office, he didn't go inside. He sat in the car for a long moment, staring at the dashboard.
₱3,200,000.
He had offered the bank the minimum.
He had shown them soil reports, erosion risks, drainage issues.
He had argued like an architect.
He had negotiated like an Igorot—calm, firm, respectful.
But he knew banks.
They didn't care about sincerity.
They cared about numbers.
He exhaled slowly.
He had ₱1.2 million in liquid funds.
He needed another ₱2 million.
He rubbed his temples.
He could take a loan.
But loans took time.
And time was the one thing he didn't have.
He could sell equipment.
But he needed equipment to build the shelter.
He could take more projects.
But projects took months.
He needed something faster.
Something immediate.
Something bold.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Marco:
"Sir Blake, I talked to my crew. If you need manpower, we're ready anytime."
Blake stared at the message.
He hadn't even explained the project.
He hadn't given details.
He hadn't promised anything.
But Marco had offered help anyway.
That was family.
That was Filipino culture.
That was Igorot loyalty.
You didn't need explanations.
You didn't need reasons.
You just showed up.
Blake typed back:
"Thank you. I'll update you soon."
He put the phone down and leaned back.
He needed to move.
---
The Financial Scramble
The next morning, Blake sat at his drafting table, staring at spreadsheets and bank statements. Rain tapped softly against the window, a steady rhythm that matched the pounding in his chest.
He listed everything he had:
- ₱1.2M liquid
- ₱600k in receivables from ongoing projects
- ₱400k in equipment he could sell
- ₱300k emergency fund
- ₱200k in savings he and Marie kept for the kids
Total: ₱2.7M
Still short.
He clenched his jaw.
He could borrow from family.
But his parents were in California.
His siblings were in the US.
They had their own lives, their own bills, their own children.
And he couldn't tell them the truth.
Not yet.
He needed to protect them without alarming them.
He needed to act normal.
He needed to be the eldest son—the one who carried the weight quietly.
He rubbed his face with both hands.
He needed ₱500,000 more.
His phone buzzed again.
This time, it was Marie.
"Love, are you coming home for lunch? Mom cooked pinuneg."
Blake closed his eyes.
Pinuneg.
Blood sausage.
A delicacy.
A comfort food.
A reminder of home.
He typed back:
"Yes. I'll be there."
He needed the warmth.
He needed the grounding.
He needed the reminder of why he was fighting.
---
Lunch at Marie's Parents' House
The house smelled of garlic, onions, and simmering broth when Blake arrived. Marie's mother greeted him with a smile.
"Anak, you're just in time. Sit, sit."
Marie placed a plate in front of him. "You look tired."
Blake forced a smile. "Just work."
Marie's father sat across from him. "You're thinking too much again."
Blake didn't deny it.
He couldn't.
He ate quietly, savoring the flavors—rich, earthy, familiar. The kind of food that reminded him of childhood, of family gatherings, of simpler times.
Marie watched him carefully.
"You're not telling me something," she said softly.
Blake froze.
She always saw through him.
Always.
He set his spoon down.
"I'm trying to buy land," he said. "For a long-term project."
Marie's eyes softened. "A project for the family?"
Blake nodded.
Marie reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
"Then we'll make it work."
Her voice was steady.
Certain.
Unwavering.
Blake swallowed hard.
He didn't deserve her.
He didn't deserve this family.
But he would protect them with everything he had.
---
The Call from the Bank
Three days passed.
Three long days.
Three days of teaching at SLU, pretending everything was normal.
Three days of running his construction company, pretending he wasn't terrified.
Three days of checking his phone every hour.
Three days of waiting for the bank's decision.
On the fourth morning, his phone rang.
Unknown number.
Blake's heart stopped.
He answered. "Hello?"
"Good morning, Architect Ong," a familiar voice said. "This is Ms. Dela Cruz from the municipal bank."
Blake stood slowly from his chair.
"Yes, ma'am. Good morning."
"We reviewed your offer," she said. "The board discussed it extensively."
Blake held his breath.
"The property has been on our books for a long time," she continued. "Your documentation was thorough. Your assessment was accurate. And your offer is reasonable."
Blake's pulse hammered in his ears.
"So," she said, "the bank has decided to accept your offer of ₱3,200,000."
Blake closed his eyes.
Relief washed over him like a wave.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said quietly. "Thank you."
"You have thirty days to complete the payment," she said. "We'll send the contract this afternoon."
"Yes, ma'am. I'll prepare everything."
"Congratulations, Architect Ong."
The call ended.
Blake sank into his chair.
He had done it.
He had secured the land.
He had taken the first real step toward saving everyone he loved.
But the relief was short-lived.
Because now he had to find the money.
All of it.
In thirty days.
He exhaled slowly.
The system pulsed softly in his mind.
---
[Objective Complete: Acquire Land]
[New Objective: Secure Funding]
[Time Remaining: 93 Days]
---
Blake opened his eyes.
The countdown continued.
And the real work was only beginning.