BREW

Upon arrival at the location, the entire platoon of the Maharlika Vanguard froze in disbelief.

A whole neighborhood, one that shouldn't exist, had suddenly manifested from thin air.

Maharlika Vanguard Diliman Branch (MVD) conducted weekly patrols across every known sector—tracking even the slightest object out of place.

But this wasn't a single object.

This was a fully-formed community.

Concrete houses. Electrical poles. Rusted fences. All of it.

Even the captains—trained to face nightmare entities—felt a chill run down their spines.

They made their way toward the territory once claimed by the Child Swing, the Level 1 nightmare previously documented by Maharlika Vanguard Lakson Branch (MVL T).

Only an old rusted swing and a tree were supposed to exist here.

But now… an entire public playground stood in its place—slides, monkey bars, cracked seesaws—all drenched in unnatural stillness.

Despite their fear, the vanguard pressed on. Their orders were clear:

Assess the area. Look for fissures. Contain what can be contained. Any door, mirror, drawer, or opening that might connect to reality had to be identified.

They carefully avoided forcing anything open—because every fissure shared one trait:

It opens on its own.

The air reeked of something unnerving—the thick, bitter scent of burnt coffee.

It clung to their uniforms, soaked into the soil, and seemed to pulse like something living.

Three teams were assigned to secure the Child Swing anomaly, while the remaining four scouted the surrounding area.

While sweeping one of the alleys, a team stumbled upon another cursed item.

A makeup kit—its casing cracked and rusted, yet humming with malevolence.

The moment they saw it, a team member stepped back instinctively, weapon half-raised.

"This energy... it's wrong," one whispered, trembling. "It's worse than the swing."

They immediately called for backup.

After verifying there were no fissures nearby, both cursed objects were sealed.

The swing was wrapped in special binding sheets and buried in a container of sand.

The makeup kit was encased in a reinforced metal box, also packed with sand—to suppress any spiritual feedback.

"Field Commander, all items are sealed. All teams ready for retreat," one of the captains reported via walkie-talkie.

"Begin extraction. Stick to the assigned route. Do not attract anything," Alex, the acting commander, replied grimly.

Engines rumbled to life.

But just as the last vehicle began to move, something stirred.

From the exact spot where the makeup kit had been recovered, a corpse-pale hand emerged from the cracked ground.

Its fingers were long and thin, like sharpened bone under rotten skin.

It moved slowly, deliberately, scraping at the soil.

There—scattered among the dirt—were what looked like small stones.

But if you looked closer...

They were coffee beans.

The hand collected every one.

And then, it vanished—without a trace.

Inside the lead vehicle, Alex was reviewing the report in silence.

"As expected… a stronger entity consumed the Child Swing."

Every nightmare entity left behind a source of its malice when destroyed.

A cursed item.

For the Child Swing, it was the swing.

For the unknown entity that had been devoured… the makeup kit.

"Cursed items follow their nightmares. They carry their essence wherever they go," Alex muttered, still uneasy.

But something was different this time.

"A whole neighborhood... created out of nothing. That's beyond anything we've faced."

The worst case Alex had ever studied was the Cursed Street of India—a sudden stretch of road that appeared overnight.

Everything within kilometers—man, beast, or nightmare—vanished if they got too close.

That street had become a Level 6 threat but not a disaster level because it hadn't moved since it manifested.

This new phenomenon?

It might have killing patterns. Some nightmares don't ruthlessly attack, it follows some rules instead.

"This place doesn't just exist…

It watches."

Assessment Report:

Energy Level: Unknown

Danger Level: Under Observation

Killing Pattern: Unknown

Current Protocol: Treat as Level 5

No casualties were reported.

But everyone in that platoon knew the truth:

This was just the beginning.

And whatever built this neighborhood...

Was still out there. Watching.