On the Path of Eternal Strength.

Two years had passed.

They weren't measured in seasons or moons.

They were measured in cycles of turned soil, in silences that weighed like rocks, in the way bodies no longer responded the same.

The biome remained just as red.

But Virka no longer did.

The change was not sudden.

It was progressive, almost imperceptible… as if her human form had matured through memory, instinct, and necessity.

Now she was twelve years old.

But her body was slowly and naturally leaning toward a form that evoked fifteen.

Not through acceleration… but through direction.

Her back had straightened.

Her legs, once short and tense, had lengthened with animal symmetry and human posture.

Her arms hung firmly. The fingers no longer sought soil, but balance.

Her black hair, smoother and longer, fell down her back to her waist, with thick strands that sometimes tangled with the thorns of the environment.

She no longer had the wild look of before.

Now it was fixed, dense.

A gaze that listened before responding.

The red eyes had not lost intensity.

But they had changed into something else:

They no longer sought protection.

Now they watched.

Measured.

Thought.

Her face was more angular, more defined, with her mouth almost always closed, as if measuring each breath.

Her movements were fluid, without abruptness, but with contained power.

Every gesture seemed prepared to be an answer… never a plea.

This was not a girl.

It was a presence built to walk alongside someone…

but also alone, if she had to.

Narka watched her from a rocky ledge.

He didn't speak much, but he always looked at her.

As if waiting for her to stop changing at some point.

But that never happened.

One night, while the sky remained red and the subterranean heat felt closer than ever, Narka spoke:

—You've grown too much.

Virka didn't stop her movement. She was turning her torso over a firm leg, simulating an evasive attack that recalled her beastly form.

—I didn't know how much I needed to grow —she answered without looking at him.

—And now you know?

Virka stopped, took a deep breath, and approached.

She sat down beside him. Not with delicacy. With firmness.

As if she occupied the place that belonged to her.

—Not yet —she said—. But I no longer grow to survive. Now I grow to wait for him.

Silence.

Narka narrowed his eyes.

—Do you still feel him?

She nodded wordlessly.

—The mark does not fade —she said, touching her chest with two fingers—. Sometimes it hurts… other times it just burns. But it never goes silent.

It never breaks.

It's as if he… still spoke to me.

Not with voice.

With existence.

Narka closed his eyes. The ground trembled slightly under his feet.

—I feel it too. But mine is not connection.

It is memory.

It is the trace of what once walked this earth with will…

and has not finished doing so.

Virka leaned back, staring at the starless sky.

—Do you know what scares me most?

—That he won't return?

—No —she said—. That he returns, and we don't recognize him.

Narka did not reply.

—Two years have passed —Virka continued—. And everything here changed.

I changed.

You… even you seem slower, Narka.

The colossus didn't answer. He only laughed inwardly, as if he didn't need to defend himself.

—Do you think he will change more than us?

—He doesn't change —said Narka—.

He reveals himself.

Like a stone shedding the earth that covered it.

Virka fell silent.

Her eyes slowly closed.

Her lips tightened.

—When he returns —she said, almost in a whisper—...

I don't want him to think I waited for him.

I want him to see that I accompanied him, even without being at his side.

The day did not begin with light.

In the Blood Prairie, the only thing that changed was the weight of the air.

When the wind thickened, when the leaves bent toward the ground instead of the sky…

that was a sign the cycle restarted.

Virka noticed it before Narka.

She opened her eyes when the stalks closest to her skin barely vibrated, as if remembering something that had not yet happened.

That morning—if it could be called that—she rose without hurry.

She did not stretch her body.

She did not yawn.

She simply stood, as if there were no difference between rest and action.

They walked together without saying a word.

Narka behind.

She ahead.

Not because she led him.

But because it was her turn to walk first. They crossed a tangled area of grass that smelled of rusted iron.

Virka placed a hand on the thickest stalk and moved it aside carefully, knowing that many of those plants reacted to touch.

They were living traps.

The Prairie did not accept habit.

—It still smells of corpse in this direction —she murmured.

—Then it's not empty territory yet —Narka replied.

They continued.

They reached an uneven plain where roots protruded like twisted veins.

There, Virka began her training.

She did not imitate movements.

She did not repeat sequences.

She only reacted to the environment, as if conversing with it.

A root rose, throwing her off balance.

She did not fall. She spun on one foot, lowered her torso, and let her other leg sweep the ground.

Not as an attack.

As adaptation.

She leapt onto a cracked stone, spun in the air, and upon landing propelled herself toward a flexible stalk she used as support to launch in another direction.

It was pure movement.

Not designed.

Not memorized.

It was a body responding without asking permission.

Narka watched her, without praise or judgment.

Only presence.

—You know? —he said suddenly—. Sometimes you seem more like Sebastián than yourself.

Virka stopped.

—Is that good?

—That is inevitable —he repeated.

She lowered her gaze. Her hair fell over her face like a dark curtain.

—I don't want to be like him.

I want to be ready for him.

—And if he doesn't return as you remember him?

—Then I'll adapt.

Like this prairie.

Like blood.

Like the wind that doesn't change… but never blows the same.

Silence.

They ate little that day.

Dried meat from a creature hunted days earlier.

They didn't talk during meals.

They only chewed calmly, staring at the horizon as if waiting for signals that never came.

After eating, Narka descended to a deep pool where he often submerged himself.

Not for cleansing.

For connection with silence.

Virka remained alone.

And it was then that danger appeared.

Not as a roar.

Not as a shadow.

But as a low hum.

An unstable vibration.

A creature of the underground.

Virka did not scream.

She did not call for help.

She only stepped back three paces, lowered her stance, and placed a hand on the ground.

Not for balance.

But to feel.

The ground vibrated in circular waves.

It was big.

And it was not coming alone.

Three seconds later, the soil split open.

A segmented body, with soft plates and eyes like white bubbles, emerged like a spear.

Behind it, two more similar creatures broke through the earth.

Virka did not move.

She waited.

The first lunged.

She rolled to the side, spun on one elbow, and used her leg as a lever to break the trajectory.

She did not fight like Sebastián.

But she no longer fought like a beast either.

She fought like someone who remembers two ways of being…

and chooses an intermediate one.

She drove a thorn into the creature's base.

The body writhed.

She pushed it against the second beast with precision, blocking its advance.

The third stopped.

Not out of fear.

But because something in Virka did not smell like prey.

Narka did not intervene.

Because he knew she no longer needed protection.

The fight ended quickly.

The creatures fled.

Virka breathed.

She did not pant.

She only wiped her hands on red grass.

She sat again.

And returned her gaze to the sky.

—You know, Narka?

Sometimes I don't care if he returns different.

Sometimes I just want him to return.

He did not answer.

Not with words.

But he walked to her side.

And lay down next to her, as if together they were waiting not for a return…

but for a reconstruction. Routine had ceased to be an attempt at order.

Now it was language.

Each day began the same:

Virka woke before the subterranean pressure rose. Not because she measured time, but because her body was already aligned with the biome's hidden cycle.

She rose effortlessly.

Rotated her ankles. Then her wrists.

Stretched her arms, but not toward the sky: toward the ground.

As if trying to absorb something from the earth.

Then the path began.

Always the same.

Twelve steps west.

Cross beneath the split root.

Side turn by the broken stones.

Climb the rocky ledge where Narka waited.

Narka no longer slept.

He simply waited.

—Does it bother you that the path never changes? —Virka once asked, while sitting beside him with a piece of dried meat between her fingers.

—Does it bother you that I never tell you? —he answered.

They ate in silence.

Then drank from a slow pool, one that reflected nothing and tasted of rust.

Afterwards came the training.

But not like before.

Now Virka traced figures with her feet on the soil.

Firm strokes, curved, never the same.

She moved like a shadow of the wind: using everything the environment offered.

She jumped on one leg between low branches.

Rolled beneath hot stones.

Pushed off with one hand on thorns without bleeding.

Sometimes, Narka watched her with one eye.

And only murmured:

—You no longer imitate.

You remember.

Virka did not respond.

She only continued.

And in the middle of that exact routine, something began to change.

First came the smell.

Not of decomposition.

A… metallic one.

As if the biome were opening ancient veins that had been sealed.

Then, the pressure.

The air grew thicker, but not from heat.

It was a density that did not crush… but contained.

The stalks began to arch inward, as if responding to an attraction that came neither from sky nor earth.

From the center.

From the depths.

Narka was the first to stop.

He felt a vibration in his hind legs.

Not tremor.

Rhythm.

—Virka?

She too had halted.

—I felt it.

—When?

—In the turn. My leg caught on the ground. But not by mistake. The ground… called me.

Silence.

Both looked toward the horizon.

Nothing had changed visually.

But the biome no longer breathed the same.

The plants did not sway.

The air did not oscillate.

The heat… concentrated under their feet.

—It's early —said Narka.

—No. It's inevitable —Virka corrected.

They walked back to the clearing.

Each step they took seemed to generate a dull echo.

The crystals protruding from Narka's shell began to emit a faint hum.

Not magical.

Natural.

Virka looked at her hand again.

The veins glowed brighter.

The mark on her chest… did not hurt.

Nor burn.

Now… it pulsed.

She sat without speaking.

Narka settled nearby, partially covering her with his shadow.

—You know? —she said after a while—. This place… no longer feels hostile to me.

—No. It no longer is for you —Narka replied—. Because now you are part of the environment.

And he… will be too.

The heat did not come with fire.

It came with weight.

For weeks, the savannah had been constant. Dry air, still stones, red stalks waving in slow movements.

But that morning, everything seemed… different.

Not strange.

Not hostile.

Just fuller.

As if every corner of the world was beginning to hold something more.

Virka woke first.

She always slept in the same curve of terrain, where the soil was less porous and heat didn't accumulate.

But this time, when opening her eyes, she felt a dense humidity clinging to her back, as if the ground itself had begun to sweat.

She stood.

Not abruptly, but like someone sensing the day would not be the same.

She walked a few steps.

Placed her palm on a nearby rock.

It was hot.

—Narka —she called softly.

The tortoise did not respond with words, but his eyes opened immediately. He had been awake for a while, he had noticed.

He had only been waiting for her to feel it too.

—Is it coming out? —Virka asked.

Narka slowly turned his head.

—No. But his Qi… no longer fits in his body.

Virka frowned.

—Is that possible?

—With the kind of core he has… yes.

Virka lowered her gaze.

The ground was beginning to form microscopic cracks.

They weren't physical fractures.

They were marks of pressure.

A pressure not from outside, but from below.

As if something huge and alive were expanding through the earth itself.

—This isn't like before, is it? —she whispered.

—No. Not anymore.

The air had density. Not just heat.

Particles floated slower.

Even the insects seemed to avoid the center of the savannah.

Something in the balance was twisting.

—What exactly is happening, Narka?

The tortoise settled on the ground, his plates reflecting a faint reddish vibration.

Not from heat.

From resonance.

—What's happening… is that Sebastián has reached the Fourth Realm.

—Does that mean he woke?

—Not yet. But he is close. And his body… is beginning to release Qi on its own.

Virka tilted her head, still not fully understanding.

—Explain it to me, please.

Narka spoke slowly, not as a teacher, but as someone trying to recall something seen long ago.

—Qi is not mastered overnight. Each cultivator must pass through stages. Each represents a different way of interacting with energy.

There are ten realms… but the first four are what separate a mortal… from someone capable of affecting their environment.

He paused.

—In the first level, the body can barely feel Qi. Like a tingling, a presence. It cannot be used, only recognized as existing.

» At the second level, the cultivator can absorb Qi from the environment. They begin to draw it inside and retain it for short moments. At this point, Qi can be partially used to reinforce certain parts of the body… though briefly and with limits.

» At the third level, the cultivator is already able to store and use Qi freely within. They can strengthen muscles, organs, senses… and their body begins to change. It becomes more resistant. Faster. More aware.

» And then, comes the Fourth Realm.

Virka listened intently, unmoving.

—What changes there?

—Everything —Narka said—. Because not only can you use Qi inside yourself, you can project it by will. You can wrap your body, a weapon, even a space.

From the Fourth Realm, Qi ceases to be only a resource… and becomes an extension of you.

He turned toward her.

—And Sebastián… is at the pinnacle of that realm.

—What does that mean?

—That he has perfected the use of his Qi at that level.

He can project it and control it precisely.

Even without being fully awake, his body already exhales it.

And that's why…

He pointed to the ground.

—…the world begins to bend. Virka looked around.

The roots of some trees shrank back into the soil.

The grass darkened, as if losing pigment.

The sky, though still cloudless, now held a faint… reddish haze.

—All of that is because of him?

—Yes. Because his core doesn't just contain. It consumes.

And every time it transforms something inside him, it returns it to the world… as pure Qi.

She crouched, placed a hand on the ground.

The vibration was no longer like before.

It no longer felt like life.

It felt… like hunger.

Not a destructive hunger.

A hunger for expansion.

For overflow.

—And if I get closer?

—It will hurt.

—And if I try anyway?

Narka lowered his gaze.

—You will be lost.

Because what is leaving him… is no longer only his.

It is part of something we do not yet understand.

Virka remained silent.

The mark on her chest throbbed.

Each pulse matched an invisible exhalation born from the savannah's center.

As if something… someone… were already breathing before opening his eyes.

—Is it long yet? —she asked.

—No.

—How do you know?

—Because the world is already making space.

And then, without words, both stayed there.

One contemplating.

The other waiting.

The heat grew.

The air turned red.

The stones began to crack with fine, clean lines, as if carved from within.

And the center of the savannah… was no longer earth.

It was a vortex.

The vortex of a creature that, at last, was about to awaken.

There was no light.

Nor sound.

Only the deep hum of something spiraling… inward.

Sebastián did not open his eyes.

Because in that place, there were no eyes to open.

Only consciousness.

One floating.

Another beating.

And another, deeper… devouring all the former.

It was his body.

Or what remained of it.

It was buried.

Physically.

But his mind no longer resided in his muscles, nor his skin.

It resided in the core.

Or rather, in the crack.

Because the Inverted Origin Core was not a sphere.

Nor a lake.

Nor a network of channels, as other cultivators described.

It was a wound.

A living fracture that never closed.

A tiny abyss lodged in his center, where there should have been peace… and there was only hunger.

And yet, it did not hurt.

Because that hunger was his.

And for the first time, it did not tear him apart.

It obeyed him.

He felt the Qi spinning.

It was not bright.

Nor warm.

It was like colorless water spiraling down the inner walls of his core.

And it didn't spin from pressure.

It spun because he commanded it.

"It is mine," he thought.

His entire body… did not move.

But inside that crack, something lived.

And every time he inhaled, though he had no lungs there, more Qi merged into that inner whirlpool.

It didn't burn him.

It emptied him of origin.

Purified him with destruction.

And turned it into a neutral, white substance, adapted to his will.

A Qi that belonged to no element, no sect, no heritage.

Only to him.

"How long have I been here…?"

He received no answer.

But he didn't need one.

His consciousness could still distinguish the phases he had crossed:

—First, he learned to feel Qi.

Like a touch at the edge of his spiritual skin.

A touch he didn't understand, but couldn't ignore.

—Then, he began to absorb it.

To draw it in.

At first he retained it poorly, lost it quickly, but with each cycle… he learned to hold it.

—In time, he could use it to reinforce his body.

First the hands. Then the lungs. Then the bones.

And in that state, he knew he was no longer a guest.

Qi had accepted him as vessel.

—And now…

At the fourth level…

He could project it at will.

He could cover himself with it.

Place it on his skin.

On his fist.

On his throat, if he wished.

And all that…

Was not a miracle.

It was work.

Pain.

Endless cycles.

But now, he felt it.

The earth did not hold him.

It recognized him.

Because the Qi he exhaled, even asleep, was already enough to alter the terrain.

"I am ready," he thought.

But he did not move.

Because before leaving, he had to prove if he could inhabit his body from within.

Not as flesh.

But as core.

As intention.

He tried to move a finger.

It did not move.

He tried to push Qi to the surface of his skin.

He felt heat.

Pressure.

And a faint vibration spreading from his navel to the edges.

The rocks above his head began to crack.

The earth did not explode.

It yielded.

As if it could no longer contain him.

As if the world knew… that what was below was no longer just a boy.

It was something more.

And even so…

Sebastián did not open his eyes.

Because when he did…

The world would burn. The prairie trembled.

Not with violence.

With precision.

As if the world were not being destroyed… but molded from within.

Narka lifted his head.

Virka was already standing.

The mark on her chest burned, not with pain, but with synchronicity.

As if, deep in the savannah, a second heart beat with the same rhythm as hers.

The center of the land—that spot where for years not a single blade of grass had grown—began to bulge upward.

But not like an explosion.

Like a contained heartbeat.

An exact swelling.

Precise.

Measured.

As if every particle of earth knew it could no longer hold what it guarded.

The air tensed.

It was not heat.

It was not pressure.

It was Qi.

But it did not burn.

It had no color.

A translucent mist began seeping through the cracks the earth itself created.

Perfect cracks, curved, intertwining like branches of a dry tree.

The ground opened without breaking.

It yielded.

It withdrew to the sides…

And the center collapsed.

And from that concavity, first emerged a shape.

A silhouette wrapped in white vapor.

Not fully human.

Not fully beast.

But clearly… alive.

When the vapor dissipated, a body stood that no longer belonged to the same boy who had entered.

Sebastián.

But different.

The body had the proportions of a young warrior.

His muscles were marked, firm, defined by constant training, the pressure of Qi, and the will to survive everything.

The scars were still there.

Not as wounds.

But as writing.

As if his skin had been carved by everything he had lived.

His face was still that of a boy.

But the bones, the posture, the eyes…

They no longer belonged to someone just beginning to grow.

The Qi surrounding him was not dense, nor aggressive.

It was translucent, undulating, like a mist that had learned to obey the exact outline of his body.

It emitted no color.

No light.

It was presence.

It was confirmation.

On his right arm, wrapped around his bicep, the red bracelet was still there.

Not as an ornament.

But as a bond.

As proof that not everything left behind had broken.

Sebastián opened his eyes.

They were not hungry eyes.

Nor drowsy.

They were the eyes of someone who had already been awake for a long time…

but who only now could breathe again.

The first breath was silent.

Deep.

His chest expanded calmly, and the Qi drew back into him as if the entire world knew it had to surrender.

The particles floating in the air swirled around him.

But not from chaos.

From affinity.

As if they were leaves returning to the root.

Virka did not move.

But she felt something knotting in her chest.

It was not fear.

It was recognition.

And Narka, without lowering his gaze, nodded slowly.

—So this… is the true beginning —he said with his deep voice, without forced emotion.

Sebastián looked toward them.

His lips parted.

Not to speak.

But to release the breath he had held for two years.

And in that instant, for the first time… the world did not contain him.

It accepted him.

The wind did not blow.

It folded.

The ground did not quake.

It settled beneath his feet, as if every stone knew exactly where it should be.

None of the three spoke.

Because in that moment, nothing said could surpass the obvious:

Sebastián had returned.

But no longer as a child.

And neither as a promise.

He had returned… as someone who could choose his own path.

And make it tremble with each step.

Sebastián emerged.

The earth was left behind like a forgotten memory, and for the first time in two years, he breathed as one reborn.

But he did not speak.

He only observed.

Virka.

Narka.

The world had not changed.

They had.

And so had he.

His arms were covered with clean scars, defined like maps of war.

His torso was not broad like a savage warrior's, but compact, defined down to the smallest tendon.

The training marks looked like ritual scars…

and on his left bicep, tight, resisting growth, was the red bracelet.

His Qi floated around him like a translucent vapor, almost invisible, yet dense, with weight.

It did not radiate like fire.

It did not strike like lightning.

It simply felt inevitable.

Sebastián lowered his gaze.

And then he saw her clearly.

Virka.

For a moment, he did not know if this was the same girl who had once walked by his side.

Her body was no longer childish.

Her legs long, well proportioned.

Her face more defined.

Her posture… contained. Serene. Yet alert.

She was no longer a beast.

She was a young woman.

And in her eyes, there was no euphoria.

There was certainty.

Sebastián took a step. The ground cracked beneath his weight, not from force…

from decision.

—You look more beautiful than I remembered —he murmured. His voice was deeper.

Not from age.

From burden.

Virka did not reply with words.

She walked toward him.

Stopped just a hand's breadth away.

Looked at him.

And without warning, she kissed him.

It was not elegant.

Nor soft.

Nor proper.

It was clumsy.

Their lips collided.

They breathed poorly.

Their noses got in the way.

Sebastián did not know how to lean.

Virka closed her eyes too soon.

But they did not pull away.

They did not correct.

Because the gesture was more important than the form.

Because that kiss was the imperfect echo… of the one they had shared before parting.

A memory… sealed with a present.

Sebastián raised his arms. One wrapped around her waist. The other rested firmly on her back.

She said nothing.

Neither did he.

But the air between them was filled with something only understood by those who had returned from death.

At their side, Narka did not interrupt.

He only watched, without judgment, like one witnessing something that had to happen.

And when at last they parted, Sebastián breathed deeply… and said:

—I am here.

Virka lowered her gaze… and then raised it again.

—I know.

The tone was not joy.

It was relief contained for two years.

—You too are different —said Sebastián.

—Different enough to want to learn to be more —she replied.

—And you, Narka… still just as colossal.

The tortoise did not laugh. But a faint vibration underground marked his approval.

—I am still the one who watches.

But now… I can speak more.

—And what would you say?

—That you did not just emerge.

You were reborn.

Sebastián nodded.

—I feel… everything.

The wind. The roots. The air. You. Me.

—That is Qi —said Narka—. But it is also being alive. Entirely. Virka sat on a root.

—I want to know how it was.

Sebastián settled in front of them, as if preparing to recount an ancient dream.

—Dark.

Then red.

Then… nothing.

And in that nothing, a crack.

And in the crack… me.

—And what did you do?

—I inhabited it.

Not to fill it.

But to let it empty me.

—Does it hurt? —Virka asked.

—No.

But neither does it soothe.

It is like having a hunger that does not frighten… but never satisfies.

—Then you are ready —said Narka.

Sebastián narrowed his eyes.

—For what?

—To truly begin.

The earth still held suspended particles of dust, floating as if resisting Sebastián's return.

The sky, eternal and red, marked no hours, but at its center… calm was felt.

Virka walked at his side.

Narka, a few meters behind, with slow, heavy steps that left no trace, but left echo.

—Two years… —murmured Sebastián, without asking.

—Yes —she replied—. But they weren't silent.

The wind shook the leaves of the crimson stalks, as if the biome listened.

—What happened? —Sebastián asked without looking, but knowing every word mattered.

Virka delayed a few seconds.

—I changed. Not just because I wanted to.

My body… began seeking new forms.

I walked as human, but my bones hurt. My neck. My back.

It was as if something inside pushed me to be closer to you… without knowing why.

—And you accepted it?

—Not at first. I resisted. I wanted to remain the one you knew.

The one who growled, the one who protected you.

But then I understood… that wasn't change. It was freezing myself.

Sebastián nodded.

Not out of conformity, but out of deep understanding.

—Now… you look more like yourself.

Virka smiled.

It was a restrained smile. Human. Real.

—You too.

Sebastián stopped. Turned toward Narka.

—And you?

The old tortoise slowly raised his head.

In his eyes, it always seemed he had seen more than he said.

—I waited. Not with patience. With respect.

I watched your cycles. Counted the beats of your Qi.

Guided Virka when she wished to lose herself.

And walked. I learned the prairie. Marked paths. Observed creatures.

—Did you fight?

—Not like you. But yes. I used what I am.

Sebastián frowned slightly.

—You… use Qi?

Narka laughed. Not with sound, but with vibration.

—Not like humans. Mine is older.

I do not cultivate. I resonate.

The world vibrates. And I vibrate with it.

Sometimes that is enough. Sometimes, that kills.

—So… you can fight?

—I can exist where others die.

And sometimes, that is worse than fighting.

Sebastián fell silent.

Processing.

Each word was a thread connecting things he hadn't understood before.

—And you, Virka? —Sebastián asked then, without turning his head.

—I don't know —she answered, lowering her gaze—. I don't know if I can cultivate.

Before… it was only strength. Instinct.

But now… I feel heat when I'm near you.

I feel something moving inside.

And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I think I hear it.

—Qi?

—I don't know.

But it isn't hatred.

It isn't hunger.

It's like… as if I could breathe in another way.

Sebastián approached, took her hand.

—Maybe… that is your beginning.

—And if I never can?

—Then you will be you.

And that is enough.

Virka squeezed his fingers.

For a second, they didn't seem warriors, nor beasts, nor survivors.

They just seemed… people.

—What will you do now? —she asked, barely audible.

Sebastián raised his gaze.

The sky was still red.

The prairie still surrounded them.

But something in his body no longer stood still.

Qi spun slowly inside him, like a sleeping dragon.

—I will walk.

I will observe.

And then… seek something worthy of testing this new will.

—A trial? —Narka asked.

—No. A confirmation.

Virka stepped forward, still holding his hand.

—Then we'll go with you.

Sebastián shook his head, gently.

—Not this time.

I want to know this strength… without witnesses.

Not out of ego.

But because if I share it too soon… it will become foreign.

Virka did not protest.

But in her gaze… something weighed.

—You'll return, won't you?

—I never left.

And for the first time, Narka said nothing.

Because he knew it was true.

The silence among the three was not uncomfortable.

It was dense.

Full of everything that didn't need to be said.

Virka and Narka walked beside Sebastián.

The prairie seemed more open, as if the earth recognized something was about to close.

The ground, for the first time in two years, did not feel hostile.

The wind did not bite.

It only caressed.

And Sebastián… walked as if each step measured more than distance.

As if it measured the true weight of what he had become. Virka stopped first.

—Take this.

She handed him a small piece of cloth she had torn from a forgotten garment.

It was clean, but not new.

It bore stitched marks with an improvised needle: three lines crossed by a diagonal.

—What is it?

—My way of telling you that, wherever you are… we are three.

You are not alone.

Sebastián took the cloth and tied it around his right wrist, just below the red bracelet.

He made no promises.

He only looked at it, like one who accepts an emblem without needing to swear it.

Narka stepped forward a few paces.

—You don't need guidance.

But if ever you feel your Qi becoming too still, or too much your own…

stop.

Listen to the environment.

Let the world in, not only to destroy it.

Also to understand it.

—Is that your advice? —Sebastián asked.

—No.

It is my debt.

Sebastián breathed deeply.

Looked at them both.

Virka seemed as if she wanted to say something more… but didn't.

She only approached, hugged him from the side, and rested her forehead on his shoulder, like one who marks a place without invading it.

—Don't take too long.

—Time… does not matter to me.

—To us it does —she whispered.

Narka inclined his head, slowly.

—When you return, the world will be another.

And so will you.

Sebastián nodded.

—That is what I want.

None bowed.

None cried.

None raised their voice.

There was only a pause.

A moment without name.

A farewell without closure.

And then, without looking back, Sebastián walked.

Qi spun slowly within him.

The prairie, now calm, seemed to await his step.

It did not stop him.

It accompanied him.

It was the beginning of another search.

One not marked by necessity.

But by will.

The prairie's dry wind did not smell of peace.

It smelled of threat, of broken bark, of flesh hidden in roots.

Sebastián walked.

Alone.

Without looking back.

There were no words or farewells.

Only the need to move.

To feel.

To test.

His body—carved, hardened, marked by old and new scars—was a declaration of silent war.

The red bracelet gripped his bicep as a reminder: he was not yet complete…

but he was no longer a boy.

Qi spun inside him.

Not like a spiritual cloud, nor like mystical illumination.

It was a physical presence. Dense.

Like pressurized vapor inside each bone, as if the world touched him from within.

Each step he took left a minimal vibration in the ground.

It was not magic.

It was pressure.

Sebastián did not think of controlling his Qi.

He thought of letting it act.

To see how far he could go without exploding from within.

The first creature appeared after five hours of walking.

It was not a great monster nor a glorious adversary.

It was small, with legs like curved blades and a torso covered in retractable spines.

But its speed was fierce.

It did not hesitate.

It leapt.

Sebastián did not move.

Not yet.

He only extended his right arm…

and Qi burst forth.

Like a liquid vein of translucent light, the Qi coursed from his shoulder to his knuckles, forming a thick, crystalline layer, with a texture like vibrating liquid glass.

The creature struck.

The impact was dry.

The Qi absorbed it… and returned it with a burst of pressure.

Sebastián's arm did not move.

The beast's body did.

It flew five meters back.

Its chest collapsed.

Its ribs shattered, jutting through its back.

Sebastián said nothing.

He only lowered his arm and let the Qi dissipate like thick vapor.

But his core spun faster.

It demanded.

Because that amount of Qi released, though minimal…

did not come from nothing.

"…I need more," he murmured.

And the journey became a hunt.

Not from necessity.

From internal survival.

Each enemy encountered was devoured by the Inverted Origin Core.

Each corpse, each failed technique, each trace of residual essence absorbed.

All was ground, distilled, reconfigured.

And every time that neutral Qi returned to his body, Sebastián felt denser.

Sharper.

More prepared for the next. The second battle came that same night.

Three beasts with feline torsos and insect faces.

Coordinated.

Stalking.

Sebastián did not wait for them.

He provoked them.

He struck the ground with his foot, releasing a wave of translucent Qi that spread across the terrain like an inverted web.

The creatures leapt.

Sebastián twisted his torso, extending his left arm covered in Qi, not as a shield…

but as a sharp claw.

He pierced the first neck.

He shouted.

Not with voice.

With directed breath.

The second creature grazed him.

Sebastián spun on his heel and wrapped his right leg with Qi: dense, heavy, thick.

The kick was not fast.

It was final.

The enemy's skull split like wet stone, the Qi creating a spiral fracture from the point of impact.

The third creature retreated.

Not from fear.

From survival instinct.

But Sebastián was already upon it.

He did not run.

He slid his body like a shadow in a straight line.

His fingers closed around the enemy's neck…

and Qi concentrated in his palm as an explosive inner pressure.

Boom.

The neck did not twist.

It imploded inward.

At dawn, Sebastián bled.

Not from external wounds.

From overflow.

His body was only just beginning to tolerate Qi.

The Core did not stop spinning.

Each battle fed it…

but also put him at risk.

Because if he stopped absorbing, the core would begin to bite him from within.

And he could not stop yet.

Third battle. The next day.

Two bipedal enemies. Not beasts.

Cultivators.

Rudimentary weapons. Clumsy movement. But visible red Qi wrapping their fists.

They saw him as prey.

And they fell.

One attacked from above.

Sebastián covered his back with Qi, like a serpentine layer, thick, clinging to the skin.

The enemy's fist bounced off as if it had struck liquid steel.

Before he could land, Sebastián turned.

And used a new technique.

"Internal Collapse": a fist with Qi concentrated not to explode outward, but to lodge and then expand inward at impact.

The enemy's abdomen did not break.

It sank.

And then burst out through his back, like a grenade without sound.

The second cultivator retreated. Formed a seal with his hands.

Too late.

Sebastián advanced.

Qi now covered his entire right forearm.

It was not a strike.

It was a living scythe.

And with a single slash, he severed head and torso in a clean arc, without resistance.

Sebastián fell to his knees.

Not from weakness.

From containment.

Qi still spun.

Roared.

Vibrated.

And his body held it at bay… for now.

But he knew one thing.

This was not the end of his journey.

It was the first day of a path where, each step, each battle, each death…

would not only feed his core.

It would feed his truth:

He was not just another cultivator.

He was a walking crack.

And the world… would come to understand it. It was not enough to expand.

Nor to project.

Sebastián wanted more.

Not out of ambition.

But because his body demanded it.

Because every muscle, every tendon, every cell,

asked him for one thing only:

make this take form.

He could not simply cover himself in Qi and fight.

That was basic.

He wanted to create something.

Not a learned technique.

Not a copied form.

A truth with a name.

And so, he began.

Day after day.

Hour after hour.

Against rocks. Against trunks. Against the earth itself.

Punches.

Claws.

Palms.

Elbows.

Knees.

Grips.

Tears.

Broken movements that became exact through repetition.

And Qi… adapted.

It did not flow like water.

It did not burn like fire.

It was edge.

It was pressure.

It was weight.

In his hands, Qi did not dance.

It squeezed.

It split.

It snapped.

Each technique born had no name at first.

Only function.

A palm with Qi that compressed air and then released it as a point-blank explosion.

An ascending slash with the forearm that cut bone without breaking skin.

A hip turn that projected a sweeping wave of Qi like an invisible blade along the ground.

The body was language.

And Qi… ink.

But it was not enough to attack.

So he trained blocks.

He let rocks fall on him.

He created outer layers of Qi, not as shields…

but as mobile plates that absorbed impacts and redirected them.

One technique was born by mistake.

He tried to cover his torso with Qi before taking a charge.

But Qi didn't react in time.

The creature struck his chest.

And just as he was about to fall, his zone activated.

The projected Qi contracted in a spiral,

and absorbed the force of the impact…

only to return it with double the pressure.

The creature that had charged him went flying, never understanding why its own force turned against it.

Sebastián stopped.

Breathed.

Repeated it.

And so was born his first complete technique:

"Internal Reflection."

A momentary expansion of his zone that absorbs kinetic energy… and reverses it.

It was not defense.

It was immediate punishment.

Another technique arose from the hunt.

Against a group of fast beasts, he could not keep pace.

So he left his zone static.

He stepped out of it.

And when the creatures lunged, he reactivated the zone at a distance with a snap of Qi.

The environment thickened.

The beasts, trapped.

And he… executed them one by one from outside.

"Dead Zone."

A fixed Qi field that remains latent… and activates when the enemy enters.

It requires no contact.

Only presence.

Sebastián began marking his techniques in memory.

Not on paper.

In muscle.

In breath.

In bone.

Each was born of a need.

Of a moment.

Of a mistake he learned to correct with violence.

And when he felt Qi overflowing…

he let it erupt.

Without form.

Without technique.

Just raw power.

But even that, little by little, became another tool.

A release valve he could guide.

Not a chaotic explosion, but a concentrated heartbeat that forced the entire world back within a meter around him.

He called it:

"Crack Pulse."

Because that's what it felt like.

As if his Qi did not come from a dantian, but from a deep cut in the universe.

And in the prairie's silence, when no enemies remained nearby,

when his body was covered in dried blood and his breath tasted of iron…

Sebastián smiled.

Not from joy.

But from something closer to understanding.

He was not learning to fight.

He was sculpting who he was.

And each technique was a scar with a name. The body could still move.

The muscles were tense, ready.

The blood, hot.

The Qi, spinning.

And yet… Sebastián stopped.

Not from pain.

Not from exhaustion.

But because something inside him asked for silence.

He sat on a flat rock, atop a rise where the wind was not an enemy.

The sky remained red,

but for the first time in weeks…

he did not feel it oppressive.

There was blood on his chest.

On his hands.

On his mouth.

Not all of it his own.

But he did not try to clean it.

He only looked at the horizon.

The core spun slower.

Not from weariness.

From balance.

And then, unexpectedly,

he remembered.

Virka's hand in his.

The red eyes without words, but full of intention.

The way she rested her forehead on his shoulder.

The way she listened even when he didn't speak.

He thought also of Narka.

Of his silent presence.

Of the way he watched without judging.

Of his words, always few,

but heavy.

The wind blew.

And for an instant, he felt those memories were real.

Present.

As if he hadn't left them behind,

but as if they still walked at his side,

though in silence.

—I am moving forward —he whispered, with no need for anyone to hear.

And that was when she appeared.

Draila.

She did not walk.

Did not descend from the skies.

Did not emerge from the earth.

She was simply there.

At his side.

Sitting on another rock.

As if she had been watching him for hours.

Her body was ethereal, as before,

shaped from a reddish silhouette,

with her face veiled in a soft shroud

that barely allowed the glimpse of a broken smile.

—You've grown —she said.

Her voice held no weight.

But it had form.

Sebastián did not react with surprise.

He only looked at her.

—I didn't expect to see you so soon.

—Nor did I expect you to find yourself so quickly.

—What am I now?

Draila watched him a long while before replying.

—You are a fragment of Dao… that does not yet know its name.

Sebastián closed his eyes for a moment.

—Is that good?

—It is real.

Silence returned.

But it did not weigh.

It was comfortable.

As if both understood each other without needing to push the dialogue.

—I have created techniques —said Sebastián.

—I know. I felt them.

—And?

—They are yours.

They were not born of tradition.

Nor of a lineage.

They were born of you.

That makes them unique.

And also… dangerous.

—For me?

—For all who try to copy them without understanding you.

Sebastián turned his head toward the ground.

—Why are you here, Draila?

She sighed.

And the sigh moved the wind.

—Because you are about to understand what it really means to have a core like yours.

—Is something going to happen?

—Something always happens.

But this time…

it will not be outside you.

It will be inside.

Draila stretched out a hand.

Not to touch him.

To point at his chest.

—Your core is not a jewel.

It is not a treasure.

It is a wound.

A living crack that demands…

that claims.

—And if I don't give it what it asks?

—It will devour you.

—And if I do?

—It will turn you into what has never existed.

Silence returned.

Sebastián did not seem afraid.

But his eyes…

for the first time in days,

did not look at the world.

They looked at himself.

—So this is the beginning?

—No —Draila replied—.

This is the decision.

And with that phrase,

she vanished.

Not in a flash.

Not in smoke.

But like a presence that ceased to be necessary.

Sebastián was left alone.

But he no longer felt empty.

Nor incomplete.

Nor searching.

He only breathed.

Felt the Qi in his body.

Felt the dried blood.

The open scars.

The techniques on his skin.

And then, for the first time, he did not think of strength.

Nor of power.

He thought of something greater.

He thought of the Dao.

And he knew the time had come…

to choose where to walk,

not as beast.

Not as survivor.

But as creator of his path. The wind blew again.

The earth did not change.

The sky remained red.

But Sebastián… was no longer the same.

Not because his power had increased.

Nor because he had new techniques.

Not even for having survived.

But because, for the first time,

he knew where he wanted to go.

There was no name.

There was no map.

There was no master to guide him.

Only an instinct.

A pulse.

A direction that did not come from the world…

but from his core.

He stood.

The body hurt.

The legs, stiff.

The arms, tense.

But it was a good pain.

The kind of pain that does not wear down,

but confirms.

Every scar was a word written in his flesh.

Every technique, a syllable.

Every memory, a stroke uniting all those marks.

And the result… was him.

A cultivator.

A warrior.

A boy with a body hardened by reality.

With a steady gaze.

And a heart, finally, in motion.

Not toward the past.

Nor toward a predetermined destiny.

But toward his own construction.

Because he had understood something.

The Dao was not an external force one finds.

It was an answer that only appears

when one asks the right question

and is willing to walk with it, without any certainty.

And Sebastián… had already asked it.

What am I?

What do I want to be?

What will I leave behind when I no longer exist?

The ground cracked beneath his feet.

But it did not tremble.

Because the prairie, now, recognized him.

Not as an invader.

Nor as a guest.

But as part of its breathing.

And so, he began to walk.

Without company.

Without music.

Without the need to be seen.

Only with his shadow,

his Qi,

and his will.

And while the sun that does not exist never rose,

and the red mist began to thin,

Sebastián took one more step…

and the world did not change.

But he did.

END OF CHAPTER 12