On the Path of Eternal Strength.

The sky had not changed.

It remained red.

Not out of fury. Not out of fire. But out of habit.

As if the Blood Prairie did not remember any other way of looking at the world.

And Sebastián, standing upon that land that had shaped him, felt that nothing—except himself—was different.

He had returned to the place where his body had been carved by pain.

But now, he carried more than scars.

He carried silence.

A kind of silence that did not weigh because of the absence of sound… but because of an excess of understanding.

The dry wind brushed against his face. The crimson grass bent at his passing, as if recognizing the steps that had once burned roots into that soil.

He did not seek food.

He did not seek shelter.

He sought an enemy.

But not just any enemy.

One with ancient blood. With cursed lineage.

The creature with the essence of dragon he had felt before leaving for the rift.

A lingering echo of power.

And now, that echo was a beacon.

Sebastián closed his eyes and expanded his Qi, not as an attack nor as a defense, but as pure perception.

The air crackled around him.

The invisible particles trembled.

And the world… answered.

Not with words.

With tension.

To the south. Far away. On the border where the prairie swallows the living and spits out bones… there it was.

An ancient pressure.

A presence that did not hide.

Only waited.

Sebastián opened his eyes.

He said nothing.

He only walked.

Each step was firm, but not because of the ground that supported him—because of the decision that pushed him forward.

It was not vengeance.

It was not pride.

It was necessity.

The necessity of knowing if, now, he was capable of facing what before he could barely understand.

Not as a proof of strength.

But as a mirror of his progress.

The hours passed, but he no longer counted time as before.

Qi accompanied him like a second skin.

The Dao, like a low voice that no longer interrupted, but always whispered.

The dragon's blood.

The monster.

The creature that roared with a history not its own and an inherited hatred.

It was not his enemy.

It was his measure.

And Sebastián was going to seek it.

Not by destiny.

By decision.

The wind stopped moving.

As if it, too, waited.

In front of Sebastián, the prairie opened.

Not with violence.

With respect.

The ground trembled in soft waves. The blood of the earth, staining the roots of all that lived, seemed to recoil for an instant.

And then… he saw it.

A colossal silhouette, barely visible among the red vapors. It was not a dragon.

But neither was it a common beast.

It was something that had tasted that lineage…

and digested it.

Its skin was marked with scales that did not shine, but absorbed the light.

Its eyes were not red, nor yellow, nor white.

They were hollow.

As if it had no need to see, because the entire world already belonged to it.

Sebastián did not retreat.

Nor did he advance.

He only breathed.

And in doing so, his Qi spread in a single pulse, like a heartbeat extended over the prairie.

The impact was immediate.

It did not touch the creature.

But it felt it.

And it answered.

An invisible wave split the ground between them. Not as an attack. As an affirmation.

Sebastián lowered his head for an instant.

Level 7.

That was what his perception marked.

But the pressure did not match.

The energy did not lie.

That being… was not any ordinary level 7.

Not even an 8.

It was power condensed in flesh, sharpened by time.

A monster that, if it chose to fight like a cultivator, would be level 10—at the pinnacle.

And the most terrible thing… was that it did not hide.

The world knew.

The earth knew.

And now… Sebastián also knew.

His eyes rose.

Not with fear.

With clarity.

Because in that creature, he saw what he was not yet.

And he understood a brutal truth:

—"I am not the only monster in this story."

And the beast… smiled.

Without lips.

Only with presence.

The creature did not roar.

It did not need to.

Its entire body was a contained roar, a macabre vibration that shook the ground beneath its paws and made the dead roots under the prairie creak.

It took a single step.

And the ground split.

Not from brute strength… but from the density of its existence.

Sebastián did not wait.

His body leaned forward, Qi burst out like a translucent spear from his back, and the world trembled in accepting his intention to kill.

He leapt.

Not flying.

He shot himself like a projectile, leaving a trail of earth burned by the friction of his Qi. His right fist, wrapped in pure energy, aimed at the monster's neck.

But the creature did not dodge. It did not need to.

Its head turned with a false slowness, and with a single exhalation, released a wave of pressure that shattered the air.

The impact was not sonic. It was vital.

Sebastián barely twisted his torso, and the blow grazed his left shoulder, tearing flesh and skin as if they were paper. He fell in a spiral, striking the ground, sliding over the red grass until he stopped with a low growl.

He rose immediately.

Without looking at the wound.

His face, intact. Intact as always.

Because his fiercest defense was there.

Blood poured from his side, thick, dark.

But his eyes remained fixed.

—"It's not defense. It's dominion…"

And he moved again. This time he did not attack head-on.

His body spun in a spiral, releasing three waves of translucent Qi that tore through the air like blades.

The creature did not stop them.

It let them pass.

Two grazed it, leaving superficial marks upon its black scales.

The third struck its neck.

But it did not cut.

It barely left a crack.

The beast leaned down.

Its forked tongue emerged.

Not to taste.

To mark.

And then, it attacked.

It leapt forward with an unnatural movement, without apparent impulse.

Its body crossed the distance between them in less than a breath.

A claw descended.

It did not seek to wound.

It sought to cut him in half.

Sebastián crossed his arms.

Not to block.

To redirect.

The impact was brutal.

His bones creaked.

His feet sank to the ankles.

But he did not break.

Nor fall.

And with a sharp cry, he channeled his Qi into a technique he had created for this kind of monster.

His left palm opened, aimed directly at the creature's heart.

He did not seek to pierce it.

He sought to implode its core.

—"Tear of the Inverted Core…"

Qi grew denser, still translucent.

Not out of malice.

Out of hunger.

A spiral of devouring energy burst from his hand, and the creature, for the first time… stepped back.

It did not scream.

But its body vibrated.

The scales covering its chest began to tremble, and a line of black blood spilled from one of the bone joints of its torso.

Sebastián felt it.

A real crack.

But it was not enough.

The creature opened its jaws.

From its throat emerged a sphere of condensed blood, not as a technique, but as heritage.

An ancient fire.

A draconic poison.

It hurled it.

Sebastián did not evade.

He leapt toward it.

And in the air, he wrapped himself in all his translucent Qi, like a living armor.

The impact was immediate.

The poison exploded, covering everything in a corrosive field of boiling red liquid.

Sebastián's skin burned.

The flesh of his torso split open.

The muscles of his abdomen tore apart.

But his face… his face remained intact.

He emerged from the smoke like a specter.

Half his torso torn open.

Ribs exposed.

But standing.

And upon seeing the monster, he smiled.

Not out of pleasure.

Out of certainty.

Because his body still advanced.

Because pain did not stop him.

Because the Dao did not yield.

And because, at last, he had found an enemy that did not underestimate him.

—"Now… yes…" he whispered.

And he ran toward it.

The battle had only just begun.

There was no warning.

Only an explosion.

Sebastián vanished from the ground, his body leaving a crater where his feet had been. The creature barely had time to turn its head before a fist slammed against its jaw.

It was not a technique.

It was refined brutality.

The sound of the impact split the air like a dry thunderbolt.

The monster's skull twisted.

Several fangs fell like broken stones.

But it did not fall.

It answered.

A horizontal swipe covered in black scales crashed against Sebastián's side.

It was like being struck by a moving wall.

His Qi expanded in reaction, softening part of the impact, but the rest hurled him dozens of meters back. His body rolled, tearing through stones, dry trees, and buried roots. Dust rose in a trail of destruction.

But he returned.

He did not walk.

He did not stop to breathe.

He ran on all fours for an instant, like a beast, and then leapt with an ascending kick that split the air.

The heel struck the creature's neck.

The sound was a burst of bone against bone.

The scales cracked.

The monster's body tilted to one side.

Sebastián's Qi was not just energy.

It was a physical extension, like an invisible blade that ripped through everything it touched.

The creature stepped back and roared for the first time.

It was not a scream.

It was a living threat.

The earth shook.

The sky split into lines of blood.

And its body rose.

The beast ceased moving like an animal and began acting like a titan.

Every muscle expanded.

Every vein pulsed as if carrying liquid fire.

Its wings, small and atrophied until then, spread wide.

Not to fly.

To strike.

One of them whipped the air.

Sebastián ducked, sliding under the blast.

He leapt spinning, and with both fists joined, unleashed a technique born of solitude and fury.

—"Bone Collapse."

The direct impact upon the monster's spine was like a compressed storm.

A muffled crack was heard, and part of the creature's back deformed.

But it did not scream.

It twisted its whole torso, and with a head bathed in its own blood, it bit down.

Sebastián raised both arms and crossed Qi in the form of a translucent shield.

The bite did not crush him, but the young man's whole body was driven into the ground.

A trench opened beneath him.

The pressure was insane.

And still… he resisted.

With a single cry, he expelled Qi in all directions.

The earth was thrown like a wave.

The creature was forced back.

And Sebastián rose from the smoke, torso wrapped in bleeding cracks, but gaze intact.

Face intact.

The creature launched itself with both paws.

This time, it did not use technique.

It used its whole body as a hammer of flesh and hatred.

Sebastián tensed his muscles.

Not to block.

To intercept.

He leapt to meet it.

In the air, his elbow aligned with the beast's forehead.

The impact was absolute.

Both were hurled in opposite directions.

The sky trembled.

The trees burned without fire.

Sebastián's Qi began to expand beyond his body.

A zone.

A will.

The field changed.

The immediate space became his.

His body no longer fought alone.

His techniques moved with him, not after him.

The beast landed, leaving a trench twenty meters behind it.

Its paws trembled.

Its chest bled.

But its hollow eyes showed no fear.

Both were wounded.

Both covered in cracks, blood, sweat, and dense energy.

But there was still more.

Sebastián bent forward.

One hand on the ground.

Qi concentrated like a translucent halo that enveloped him entirely.

His back arched, and his gaze fixed upon the creature's neck.

It was the opening.

And he claimed it.

The creature roared again.

And for an instant…

The world forgot everything else.

And the two…

threw themselves at each other once more.

The final phase had begun. Everything stopped sounding.

Not because of calm.

But because of excess violence.

The air trembled.

The prairie burned without fire.

The red sky seemed to fold downward, as if it too wanted to flee from what was about to happen.

The creature with dragon's blood opened its chest.

Literally.

Its flesh split along the sternum as if it were an inverted flower.

Beneath, the black ribs vibrated with pulses of heat.

And from its throat, a scarlet glow accumulated.

It was not Qi.

It was not magic.

It was lineage.

It was inheritance.

Sebastián felt it.

Not with fear.

With alertness.

The dragon's breath.

But he did not wait for it to be unleashed.

His body rose with a single leap, propelled by an internal explosion of Qi.

Reaching the midpoint in the air, he spread both arms, and his translucent energy expanded into a perfect sphere, enclosing the immediate surroundings.

A combat zone.

Nothing entered. Nothing left. Only will.

And Sebastián… was its center.

The creature released the breath.

It was not a blaze.

It was a living spear of red plasma, fire turned to fluid, hatred boiled for generations.

The entire zone trembled.

The sky split.

The stones melted.

Sebastián raised his left arm.

—"First Form of the Soul of the Inverted Core."

Qi did not block.

It absorbed.

The energy of the breath was swallowed, torn apart, and transformed into neutral Qi inside his body.

For an instant, Sebastián vibrated.

His veins lit up.

Not from heat.

From power.

And then… he returned it.

Not the same fire.

Not the same attack.

A translucent Qi spear shot from his right palm.

Pure. Precise. Silent.

It flew straight at the creature.

It pierced the first layer of scales.

Then the second.

Then the muscle.

And the monster roared.

For the second time in the fight.

But it did not fall.

Its body thrashed like a twisted serpent.

Its paws struck the ground with rage.

And then, as if the pain fed it, the wound began to close.

Not by common healing.

But by forced regeneration.

The kind of regeneration belonging to something that had consumed a dragon's marrow and lived to tell it.

Sebastián landed.

His feet sank several centimeters into the earth.

His body was covered in dried blood.

His breathing was heavy.

But his Qi continued to flow like an invisible river.

Around him, the air was his.

The monster roared again.

And attacked.

This time, it did not leap.

It ran.

On all fours.

Like a primordial predator.

Sebastián leaned forward, shifted his weight to his left leg, and when the creature was close enough, twisted his torso and launched an elbow strike wrapped in reinforced Qi.

The impact was devastating.

The creature's frontal bone cracked.

But before Sebastián could pull back, a claw reached him.

Not fully.

It grazed his abdomen.

Qi softened the blow.

But still, blood burst forth.

Sebastián spun in the air and landed on his feet.

His face, intact.

His gaze, sharper than ever.

—"Then so be it…"

He launched a sequence of nameless movements.

Pure martial art born of instinct: knees, elbows, inverted palm, rotating fists, sweep.

Each attack reinforced with Qi channeled outside his body.

Each strike with intent to kill.

There were no tests.

Only execution.

The creature barely responded.

Not because it could not.

But because it no longer distinguished between attack and defense.

Its entire body was offense.

It was a living wall of fangs, scales, and brute force.

And it knew it.

Both clashed in the middle of the shattered field.

One blast after another.

Blood, bone, earth, dust.

The world narrowed.

The battlefield was only for the two of them.

And the end…

had not yet arrived.

But it was close.

Both were at the limit.

The creature panted.

Its body was a map of open fractures, hanging flesh, one broken wing turned into a black rag.

Its hollow eye no longer shone; it only dripped hot darkness that boiled the earth.

And yet… it did not retreat.

Sebastián was standing.

But not firm.

His Qi, though intact, began to show signs of exhaustion.

Not in volume, but in response.

He had used every technique.

He had pushed his body beyond all thresholds.

And still…

It was not enough.

The creature slowly turned its head toward him, and he understood: that monster still had bite left.

Not strength.

Not technique.

It had ancestral hatred in the form of teeth.

And Sebastián…

had a decision.

It was not a rational thought.

It was instinct.

One step. Another. Then another.

His body walked toward the wounded beast as if pain were foreign.

Qi surrounded him like a second skin, translucent, trembling, still alive.

His left shoulder hung limp.

Breathing hurt.

And his legs felt made of rusted nails.

But he advanced.

The creature felt it.

It did not move.

It waited.

And Sebastián… lowered his guard.

He bared his chest.

Raised his right arm.

That arm.

The one with the red bracelet.

The only one that still retained full mobility.

His skin was covered in cracks, his bicep hardened by pain, the red cloth pressed against raw flesh.

The bracelet did not shine.

But it was there.

Firm. Present.

Part of him.

And then…

The beast lunged.

Its jaws opened beyond the natural.

Its gums were torn, its fangs stained with its own and others' blood.

And Sebastián did not move.

He did not dodge.

He did not defend.

He offered himself.

The bite was savage.

The entire upper left of his torso disappeared into the creature's mouth.

The crunch of the scapula bone split the air.

Muscle was torn.

Ribs sank.

The spine twisted.

Sebastián screamed.

Not from pain.

From rage.

Because in that instant, with the free hand—the right, the one with the bracelet, the one that remained—he raised his arm wrapped in Qi and concentrated everything into the palm.

A single point.

A single focus.

And he thrust it at the creature's face.

Not the jaw.

The eye.

The only one it had left.

But it was not a simple strike.

Not a technique.

It was an act of rupture.

His thumb, reinforced with Qi, pierced the hollow cavity like a stake.

His whole hand sank into the soft skull, and instead of withdrawing it, he twisted.

And then… he ripped.

The eye, the tendons, the nerve base, the inner tissue… all came out like a throbbing mass, red and black, drenching Sebastián's arm, falling over the red cloth bracelet.

And that bracelet… was now red entirely.

The creature roared as never before.

It released Sebastián.

But it did not fall.

With one last breath, it raised a claw and brought it down like a divine axe.

Sebastián's Qi reacted.

But it was not enough.

The claw pierced him.

Entered through the chest.

Exited through the back.

Drove him several meters into the ground, pinning him like a lance of flesh.

And it began to press.

The world trembled.

Sebastián no longer breathed.

But his eyes were open.

His face, intact.

His right arm, still free.

His fingers… closing.

—"Now…"

—"It ends."

And with a final breath…

He exploded from within.

He did not scream.

He did not call anyone.

He only activated the Core.

The Qi compressed inside his torso burst in an inverted eruption, dragging toward itself all remaining energy, everything devoured, everything swallowed, everything broken.

And he unleashed it.

Not as a technique.

As an implosion of existence.

The creature did not resist.

Not out of weakness.

But because Sebastián's soul bit harder than its fangs.

It was hurled backward, its bones exploding one by one in the air.

It fell like a collapsing mountain.

And did not rise.

The field fell silent.

Sebastián, still impaled in the ground, barely breathed.

His right arm, trembling, clutched the only shred of sanity he had left: his victory.

He did not move.

He did not smile.

He only lived.

Because in that victory…

there was no glory.

Only flesh.

Only pain.

Only truth.

And the monster's body, defeated at his feet. The field remained silent.

Not like a place that has witnessed a battle, but like a profaned altar.

Sebastián still lay pinned to the ground, the creature's claw piercing his chest as if it were a failed offering.

His right arm rested at his side, trembling, covered in the monster's dried blood.

His face, intact, looked up at the sky.

But his eyes did not see.

Not from blindness.

But from exhaustion.

For a moment, he thought of the last time he had been like this… unmoving, broken, defeated to the marrow.

But he found no memory.

Only emptiness.

His lungs barely functioned.

His Qi, though still present, was a flame in the mist.

And his mind, beyond pain, could hold only one thought:

"I am alive."

That was all.

That… and silence.

But it did not last long.

Because the air changed.

Not from wind.

From presence.

A silhouette emerged from nothingness, not walking… appearing, as if it had always been there.

Between the shadows of blood and flesh, between the dry breath of the earth and the broken memory of roots.

Draila.

She said nothing at first.

She only observed him.

From a distance.

From judgment.

From sorrow.

Her eyes, golden like smothered embers, rested on the scene.

On the twisted corpse of the monster.

On the bracelet soaked in blood.

On the torn muscles.

On the boy who still breathed out of sheer stubbornness.

Then, she walked.

Each step left a small fissure in reality.

As if the world did not know how to hold her without breaking.

She stopped a meter from him.

Looked at him.

And at last, spoke:

—"It was not a fight… It was a conversation between two forms of existence. You… and what you could have been, had you not chosen to think."

Sebastián barely managed to move his lips.

A dry, inhuman sound escaped his throat.

—"…I won…"

Draila did not respond at first.

She only crouched at his side.

Her hand, cold as a moon without night, brushed the earth.

She did not touch him.

—"No. You survived," she whispered. "That is different."

Silence returned.

But it was a full silence.

Full of cracks.

Sebastián coughed.

Blood, black now, slipped from the corner of his mouth.

Draila watched him without pity.

—"Do you know what is most terrible about this?"

He did not answer.

He barely breathed.

She continued:

—"It was not your body that was about to break. It was your soul. And still, you did not retreat. Why?"

There was a glimmer in Sebastián's empty eyes.

Barely a spark.

And then, he murmured:

—"Because… if I don't go on… nothing remains."

Draila closed her eyes.

—"Then you already understand."

She rose again.

—"You did not win this battle to feel strong. You won to keep feeling real."

A moment more of silence.

Then she looked at the monster's corpse.

—"The blood of the dragon is a symbol of strength. But you… you are a symbol of denial. Of what does not yield. Of what does not conform. Of what does not belong."

She turned halfway.

—"Rest, Sebastián. Not for peace. But for necessity. You still have enemies that have no form yet."

And she vanished.

She did not walk.

She disappeared as smoke does in a world without wind.

Sebastián closed his eyes.

He did not sleep.

He only fell.

Inward.

Toward that place where even monsters need to hide from time to time.

Darkness.

But not of absence.

A darkness with texture, with weight, with slow pulsations.

Sebastián floated within it.

He did not fall.

He did not ascend.

He only existed there, as if his body had forgotten its name… and his soul, its direction.

The outer world was a distant echo.

But the Prairie…

The Prairie remembered him.

The land beneath him, still bathed in blood, still hot with violence, began to vibrate.

Not like a physical tremor.

But as if something—someone—were invoking it.

It was his Qi.

Not from will.

From necessity.

From deep within his chest, beyond the damaged organs, beyond the pain still asleep in his bones, his Qi began to expand slowly.

Not as an attack.

Not as defense.

As a sigh.

And the Prairie… answered.

The blood of hidden roots stirred.

The ancient energy of the land, witness to countless deaths, began to rise in invisible threads.

The crimson vegetation bent.

The air thickened.

And Sebastián… absorbed.

Not by technique.

By instinct.

The Prairie's Qi—harsh, savage, contaminated with violence—was drawn into his Core.

The inner fracture shuddered, swallowing the energy without processing it… destroying it, reducing it to its purest form, then releasing it through every living fiber of his body.

His muscles trembled.

Dead veins tensed again.

Ribs, still broken, creaked.

Skin, where only torn flesh remained, began to close at the edges.

But the claw…

was still there.

Buried.

Piercing bone.

Anchoring his body like a cursed nail.

And his consciousness… began to return.

Not all.

Only fragments.

Images mixed in his mind like smoke: the creature roaring, the red-stained bracelet, Draila's gaze.

And then… the pain.

Not as sensation.

As the memory of having felt.

His eyes opened slightly.

The sky was still red.

But he was no longer the same.

A groan escaped his throat, rougher than any word.

His right arm moved.

Slow.

Tense.

As if it weighed twice as much.

And his fingers sought the impossible:

The base of the claw.

They touched it.

It was hot.

Not from life.

From his own blood still flowing at the edges.

Sebastián did not think.

He only did.

He activated his Qi, channeling it in a spiral around the invading bone.

Not to destroy it.

Not yet.

First… to feel it.

To dominate its existence.

To force it to separate.

The process was slow.

Terrible.

The claw creaked.

The bone splintered.

The muscle tore from within.

And then, with a dry gasp, he pulled.

A single movement.

The claw slid out amid wet, broken sounds.

Blood burst forth like a freed river.

And Sebastián screamed.

This time, with voice.

A broken voice.

Human.

Alive.

He fell to one side.

The hole in his chest bled, but now… it was not an anchor.

It was a wound.

And wounds… heal.

He closed his eyes again.

Qi kept flowing.

The Prairie fed him.

And his body, guided by the fracture, by will, by the instinct not to die… began to repair itself.

Sebastián did not sleep.

He did not dream.

But in that state between flesh and void…

he smiled.

Because for the first time in days…

he did not feel the monster.

Only himself. The earth grew still.

The Prairie, as if it had exhaled after a long wait, relaxed into silence.

Not the silence of death, but of something that recognizes an ending… and respects it.

And in the midst of that rest, Sebastián began to move.

First a finger.

Then his arm.

Afterwards, his back arched while the hole in his torso finished closing.

The skin stretched over new flesh, over muscle rebuilt from within.

Not perfect.

Not clean.

But alive.

The wound no longer hurt.

Now… it belonged.

When at last he rose, he did so without trembling.

His feet touched the ground not as those of a child who had fallen, but as one who stood by choice.

His body was still marked, his skin still crossed by old lines, but there was something different in his posture.

He did not rise like one who returns.

He rose like one who no longer thinks of falling.

He looked at his chest.

Still stained with dried blood.

The scarred skin had a darker color than the rest.

The edges were not smooth.

They were like a map.

A tattooed fracture.

His right arm, where the red cloth bracelet was still tied, remained soaked… but its movement was steady.

He raised his gaze.

The monster's body lay a few meters away.

It was no ordinary corpse.

Even dead, it released power.

Fragments of bone, broken scales, crystalline veins emerged among still-hot flesh.

Each exuded a thick, ancient energy, dense as spiritual tar.

It was not Qi.

It was not soul.

It was dragon's blood refusing to die.

Sebastián approached.

Each step toward that cursed body made him remember the battle, but not as trauma.

As a lesson.

Each scar burned slightly at the contact with the nearby energy.

Not from weakness.

From resonance.

He crouched beside an open rib.

A black spike still gleamed.

But that was not what called him.

It was something deeper.

A pull.

Not from the body.

From the Core.

The fracture inside him vibrated.

And then he saw it.

Not with his eyes.

With his consciousness.

Tucked inside a collapsed bone cavity, among pieces of dried viscera and crimson plates, there was an object.

It did not beat.

But it was not dead.

A core.

Round.

Dark.

Full of cracks that did not weaken it, but made it shine from within.

Each crack expelled filaments of red, gold, and black, as if it contained a timeless heart.

Sebastián reached out his hand.

Not out of ambition.

Out of recognition.

That thing was not only energy.

It was will imprisoned.

And he… already knew what to do with such things.

The core still pulsed, hidden among the monster's collapsed ribs.

Sebastián gazed at it for a moment.

He did not touch it.

Not yet.

Because the air…

changed.

The spilled blood was not inert.

It did not flow.

It did not dry.

It moved.

As if the monster's death had released more than energy.

Ancient will.

Sebastián felt his Qi react.

Not with violence.

With hunger.

Not his hunger, but that of the inner fracture: that spiritual crack demanding transformation.

He did not need to focus.

He only breathed.

And the blood rose.

Like red vapors, in subtle threads.

Like broken veins floating toward him.

His fracture opened without pain.

It absorbed.

Reduced.

Purified.

He did not rise in level.

But his Qi became denser.

Deeper.

More lethal.

It was as if the taste of the dragon, though not his, had taught him what it means to cultivate not for power… but for permanence.

The air stilled.

Everything else… was corpse.

Sebastián stood.

His eyes scanned the remains: fragments of scales, reinforced bones, the still-warm core.

He knew he could not leave them behind.

Not out of greed.

Out of wisdom.

But then, the thought came, simple, dry, hard as a stone thrown inside his chest:

"Where… do I keep it?"

He looked at his hands.

Empty.

He looked at his surroundings.

Nothing.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

Not from exhaustion.

From true frustration.

He had won.

But he could not carry what was won.

—"Typical…" he whispered.

And as if that voice triggered something beyond the tangible…

a presence answered.

—"To doubt after victory… is also a form of maturity."

Draila's voice.

Her tone was different.

Older.

Softer.

As if speaking from within the earth.

And there she was.

She did not walk.

She did not descend.

She simply appeared.

Among scales, bones, blood… like a shadow that had decided to become visible.

In her hand, something small.

Black.

Opaque.

A ring.

—"Before being what I am now…" she said, looking at him with that mixture of cruel tenderness and impersonal judgment, "…I had a body. And a journey. And enemies. And memories that could not fit within the soul."

Sebastián watched her in silence.

—"This ring accompanied me when I could still bleed," she continued.

"It was not created by a blacksmith.

Nor by alchemy.

It was forged out of the void I left when I devoured someone I loved.

That is why it contains no space.

It contains… absence."

She extended it to him.

—"It does not keep the living.

Nor what has a soul.

But everything you consider 'yours' will follow you if you wish."

Sebastián hesitated.

Not from fear.

From respect.

He extended his right hand.

The same that had torn out the creature's eye.

The same where the red cloth bracelet still clung, soaked.

The ring fell upon his finger without weight.

It adjusted by itself.

Cold.

Silent.

A faint spiral formed on its surface.

It spun.

Not outward.

Inward.

—"Do it," said Draila.

Sebastián stepped toward the corpse.

He closed his eyes.

He acknowledged the remains.

Not as spoils.

As part of his path.

And the ring… devoured them.

Not with light.

With shadow.

The bones disappeared.

The scales collapsed into black points.

The core floated for an instant, trembling, as if resisting… and then was absorbed without sound.

The entire field was clean.

Only the ring… weighed more.

Sebastián opened his eyes.

Draila was gone.

She did not say farewell.

She did not need to.

For in her place, there remained a thought…

One that Sebastián could not help but whisper:

—"Now… it is mine."

And for the first time since the battle, the wind moved again.

As if even the Prairie… breathed in relief. The wind moved again.

But it did not bring air.

It brought closure.

Sebastián did not feel it on his skin.

He felt it within his body, as if the last strands of dragon's blood still traveled through his channels, searching for a place to die… or to be reborn.

He sat in the middle of the empty field.

His legs crossed.

His hands upon his knees.

Eyes closed.

And his fracture… awake.

It was not meditation.

It was a digestion of existence.

The blood he had absorbed began to boil inside his core, not as formless power, but as a noble poison that had to be annihilated and purified.

It was not enough to swallow it.

It had to be stripped of its history.

A history of ancient lineage, of living violence, of will imposed for centuries.

And Sebastián did it.

With silence.

With control.

With that part of himself that asked no permission and did not break when something surpassed him.

His Qi began to glow within the fracture, translucent as always, but now… thicker.

More patient.

More absolute.

It was no longer just energy.

It was an affirmation.

A denial of what the world expected.

And when the last residue of the dragon stopped roaring within him…

all his Qi breathed in unison.

It did not grow in quantity.

It grew in nature.

Now, when he invoked it, it would not be as before.

Now… it would answer as a pure echo, neutral, real.

Not a copy of others' techniques.

Not a loan from the universe.

But something created by his path.

He opened his eyes.

The field no longer needed him.

The battle was over.

The land had fed him.

The beast had died.

The Qi had evolved.

And now…

it was time to walk.

Not toward a new enemy.

Not toward a challenge.

Toward those who still waited for him.

Virka.

Narka.

He did not know how much time had passed.

But something in his body—or in his soul—told him they were not far.

He rose.

The ring on his hand did not weigh.

The red bracelet neither.

Only the memory of what had been.

And what still was.

His steps were not hurried.

But they were straight.

He did not walk by inertia.

He walked because he still had someone with whom to share the silence.

His body moved, but not with urgency.

His feet did not run.

His breath did not pant.

The surroundings did not press him.

But each step…

brought him closer.

Sebastián advanced without map, without visible route, without signs of the physical world saying "this way."

And yet, he knew where to go.

Not because the ground guided him.

But because something inside his chest burned.

The mark.

Carved right beside his heart.

A black line, twisted like lightning…

like a wound sealed by fire that had not healed with forgetting.

It was not just a scar.

It was a bond.

A pact.

A word not spoken, but etched between two bodies not born to understand one another… yet chose to.

That mark vibrated.

Not like an external call.

But like an internal response.

Sebastián closed his eyes for a moment.

And he felt it.

Not an exact direction.

But a certain one.

As if the world itself knew that, as long as that mark burned, someone on the other side felt it too.

And in his mind…

No words appeared.

Presences did.

First, her.

Virka.

Her pale figure.

Eyes red like quiet embers.

Hair black as absence.

Bare feet.

Serene face, but not passive.

A shadow with a heart.

A beast learning to be human… by choice.

She did not call him.

She did not beg him.

But she waited.

And that was stronger than any cry.

Then, another presence.

Narka.

The monster without words.

The creature that had followed him from blood, from childhood, from the first scream.

It did not show itself with a face.

It showed itself with weight.

An immense mass that did not obstruct.

That simply… was.

Silent.

Firm.

Loyal.

Both.

Virka and Narka.

Two extremes of what Sebastián had learned to call companionship.

Not family.

Not allies.

Not subjects.

Life companions.

And the mark, that one on his chest, burned stronger as he walked.

Each step was an affirmation:

"I am coming back."

The Prairie did not stop him.

The grass parted.

The air expanded.

The shadows ignored him.

Because even the world… respected the kind of journey not made by destiny, but by bond.

He did not know how many steps remained.

But it did not matter.

Because as long as the mark burned…

Sebastián was not alone.

Even while he still walked among blood. The wind did not exist.

Not in that clearing.

Not where even beasts dared not breathe without permission.

Virka was standing.

Not as before.

Not as when she barely understood what it meant to walk in human form, nor when her hands seemed foreign to her instinct.

Now, her silhouette was different.

The pale dress clung to her body as if the fabric had been born from her own skin.

Black hair, long and wavy, fell down her back like a living shadow.

Her eyes, red, intense, without pupil, seemed to gaze beyond time… though they sought only one thing.

Him.

She did not speak.

She had never been given to words.

But her straight back.

Her tense neck.

Her fingers barely clenched at her thigh.

Everything in her said what her voice did not know how to say:

"I feel it."

Because something in her chest…

burned.

A spark.

Not of danger.

Of recognition.

The mark she shared with Sebastián did not burn from pain.

It burned from proximity.

And though she did not move, her entire body prepared to walk.

Virka did not smile.

But her eyes softened, barely, as if within the red sea they contained, something remembered a shore.

Behind her, a deep sound—almost subterranean—shook the earth.

Not as threat.

As existence.

Narka.

His form had not changed.

He remained the silent titan who never asked for protagonism, but whose mere presence held the world's gravity.

His shell, black, cracked by history, with quartz spines jutting out like inert blades, trembled faintly.

Between the cracks, red veins pulsed.

Not with heat.

With waiting.

His eyes, golden and ancient, turned toward Virka.

She did not look at him.

She did not need to.

Both… knew.

The mark had ignited.

And that meant only one thing:

He was coming.

Virka took a step forward.

Only one.

The silence was total.

But suddenly, the air grew denser.

As if the world held its breath at that movement.

Narka followed her.

Not with haste.

Not with judgment.

Only with that way of his of walking through the world:

not as one who has a place, but as one who has chosen a destiny.

The connection with Sebastián was more than a bond.

It was existential thread.

Mark.

Trace.

Promise.

And now,

it had begun to pull them.

Virka closed her eyes for a moment.

And when she opened them, an image crossed her mind.

A chest with a black mark.

Hands with dragon's blood.

A gaze that, despite everything, still sought her firmly.

She did not say his name.

She said nothing.

But she walked.

And where she stepped, the earth… yielded.

Because even the world… recognized that something was about to be completed.

The mark burned.

But no longer as guide.

Now… as boundary.

Sebastián knew it the moment the air grew denser, thicker, as if the Prairie itself tried to resist what was about to happen.

His feet kept moving forward.

But they were no longer just steps.

They were decisions.

Each meter, an affirmation.

Each breath, a call.

Each silence, an echo bringing him back.

The fracture on his chest—that black mark like frozen lightning—vibrated with a constancy that was not pain, but resembled it.

As if saying:

"One more step… and you will no longer be alone."

The landscape did not change.

But the world did.

The colors remained red.

The sky remained dry.

The earth still bled.

And yet…

everything seemed to wait.

As if even the wind held its course in respect for the reunion.

Then, he felt it.

First, the pressure.

Not of combat.

Of existence.

A presence that needed no display to be recognized.

Contained danger.

Animal calm.

Instinct made flesh.

Virka.

His heart struck his chest once, with a dry force.

Not from emotion.

From truth.

And then, the ground vibrated.

Grave.

Deep.

Almost ritual.

Narka.

There was no longer doubt.

There was no longer path.

Only…

distance.

The last distance.

Then he saw her.

First, the silhouette.

Feminine.

Slender.

Still.

Firm.

A pale dress upon pale skin.

Black hair like night.

And those eyes…

red.

Without pupil.

Fixed.

Open.

Recognizing him without asking if he was still himself.

Virka did not smile.

But her gaze ceased being a weapon.

Sebastián did not smile either.

But his steps slowed.

Both stood.

Still separated by a few meters.

But no longer by time.

Nor by blood.

Nor by training.

Nor by evolution.

Nor by trials.

And then, between them, a sound that was not a word split the ground in soft waves.

It was Narka.

He emerged to one side, his immense mass vibrating with history.

He did not roar.

He did not advance.

He only was.

Witness of the inevitable.

Sebastián stopped.

Not because he wished to.

Because his body, for a moment, wanted to remember everything before continuing.

And then…

a step.

Just one.

And she… too.

The mark burned one last time.

Not for distance.

For arrival.

And when at last they were only a palm's breadth apart…

They said nothing.

They did not need to.

They had returned. The distance had disappeared.

But silence still surrounded them.

Not as barrier.

But as a veil no one dared to break… until she blinked.

Virka.

Her red eyes—intense, fixed, but without threat—locked onto Sebastián as if trying to reconstruct him from within.

And Sebastián…

looked at her.

Not as a companion.

Nor as a beast.

As a flame that had grown in darkness.

The pale dress that covered her did not hide her form.

On the contrary.

It accentuated it.

Her body, now defined by a lethal adolescence, revealed curves that did not seek to please.

Only to exist.

Firm, tense, dangerous.

Every step she had taken away from him… showed.

She did not need words to prove her change.

She embodied it.

And Sebastián felt it.

In the way his eyes could not turn away.

In how his fingers closed slightly at his side.

In how his breathing… deepened.

As if his body remembered something it had wanted to forget.

She stepped closer.

—"Changed…" she said, barely.

Her voice was low, but not trembling.

As if she were speaking for the first time in centuries.

As if she spoke only to him.

Sebastián did not answer immediately.

He looked at her face.

Her hair.

The faint glow of her skin beneath the twilight shadow.

And then, he lowered his gaze to her chest…

there, where the mark also burned.

The same as his.

Black.

Like frozen lightning.

But alive.

—"You too…" he said at last, without looking away.

"Not only changed.

Evolved."

She tilted her head, as if those words weighed more than any victory.

A faint tremor crossed her lips, but she did not smile.

Instead, she raised a hand.

She did not touch.

She only left it close to his chest.

Where the mark burned.

Sebastián did the same.

Without touching.

But so close, the heat between them felt like a contained fire.

Then, without moving, without needing any greater gesture, Virka said:

—"I felt everything."

—"So did I," he replied.

"Even when I didn't want to."

Both fell silent.

And it was Narka who filled the silence.

Not with words.

He only came closer, his imposing mass casting shadow behind them.

Not to interrupt.

But to remind them he too was there.

That he too had felt it.

That his presence was not lesser.

Nor forgotten.

It was root.

Sebastián looked at Virka one last time, and this time, without holding back the thought, he let it escape. —You're beautiful.

Virka did not respond.

But her eyes opened just a little wider.

And for an instant…

the beast behind that human figure shone in her pupils.

Not to roar.

But to claim.

Her fingers crossed the last space between them with tender violence.

She grabbed him by the nape.

And the kiss she gave him was not gentle.

It was wild.

It was possessive.

It was clumsy and beautiful like the first word of a language without an owner.

Sebastián did not resist.

Not because he couldn't.

But because he had been waiting for that since before he understood what it meant.

Her mouth tasted of nocturnal skin.

Of danger.

Of promise.

And although they spoke no more…

that was their greeting.

The night did not come.

The sky remained red.

But for the first time…

the world did not seem to burn.

At last, they were together.

Walking without hurry.

Not out of exhaustion,

but because destiny was no longer a direction:

it was a place they had arrived at.

They found a clearing.

It had no name.

It had no owner.

Just a fragment of land

where time seemed

to have stopped seeking victims.

A gray rock, cracked by ancient suns, offered them rest.

The fire was born of silent embers, which did not shine high,

but burned enough to remind them that

death had passed…

and had not taken them.

Sebastián leaned back against the stone.

His body still hurt,

not from new wounds,

but from the echoes of effort.

But he did not complain.

He only breathed.

Virka settled upon his legs.

As if every muscle of hers knew where to fit.

She lay on his chest,

and without asking,

claimed.

Her place was not beside him.

Not in front.

It was there.

On him.

Inside that space between strength and weakness

where only she could dwell without breaking him.

Narka lay down at their side.

His shell, blackened by the centuries,

rested upon the earth without breaking it.

The red veins that crossed his body now seemed fainter.

But not extinguished.

Only… at peace.

The fire burned.

And the three watched.

Without need of words.

But the words came.

Not with haste.

But like dry branches falling into the fire one by one,

feeding a flame that did not burn…

only illuminated.

The deep voice of Narka was the first.

—There were days… when I felt nothing would remain.

—Of me? —said Sebastián, without moving.

—Of you —he answered, without dramatics—. Of what we were.

Silence.

Then, Virka's low voice, barely audible beneath Sebastián's chest:

—I thought I would never speak again.

—Why? —he asked.

—Because speaking without you…

was remembering you were far away.

Sebastián narrowed his eyes.

Not from sleep.

From weight.

—I… —he said—. I forgot what it was like not to be hungry.

—For food? —she murmured.

—No —he said—. For company.

Virka shifted slightly on him, without moving away.

Her hand sought Sebastián's, and their fingers intertwined.

Not as lovers.

As survivors.

—My body changed —she said suddenly—.

I know it.

I see it in your eyes.

Sebastián did not deny it.

—And you too —she continued, without looking—.

You have scars that weren't there before.

Others… that now seem to scream from the skin.

—I killed things —said Sebastián—.

Creatures I never fully understood.

One of them… had dragon's blood.

Virka turned her face to look at him from below.

Her red eyes were liquid mirrors.

They did not cry.

But they contained something even denser than tears.

—Did it hurt you?

—Not in the body —he answered—.

In the soul, perhaps.

—It hurt me to grow —she whispered—.

But not because of the change…

but because you weren't there to see me do it. Sebastián swallowed hard.

Not from emotion.

From something more ancient.

More visceral.

Desire, guilt, recognition.

—And you, Narka? —he asked suddenly.

The monster did not respond immediately.

His golden eyes glowed in the firelight.

And then… he spoke.

—I counted the days without counting numbers.

Only the echo.

The space.

The hollow they left.

The fire crackled.

The embers moved as if they breathed.

Virka squeezed Sebastián's hand tighter.

—Your chest —she said— still beats the same.

—But stronger —he added—.

For you.

She did not respond.

She only closed her eyes…

and slid her head a little higher,

resting just below his jaw.

Sebastián lowered his chin.

Brushed her forehead with his lips.

And for an instant,

there was no world.

There was no path.

Only that small flame

and three broken beings

who did not know if they could love

but yes…

remember.

None of them dreamed.

Because the dream had arrived in the form of reunion.

And the fire…

was not warmth.

It was the bond ignited.

Because the dream had arrived in the form of reunion.

And the fire…

was not warmth.

It was the bond ignited.

But the fire was not enough.

Not when instinct began to boil beneath the skin.

Not when the body began to scream what the soul had contained too long.

Virka opened her eyes.

Her head still on Sebastián's chest.

Her breathing was uneven.

Her chest rose and fell faster.

And her pupils, when they lifted…

had changed.

They were not human.

Nor completely bestial.

They were… hers.

And Sebastián… felt it.

Not with the senses.

With his whole body.

They did not speak.

They did not ask.

They did not plan.

They only acted.

Because they did not know how to do it any other way.

They did not know if there was another way.

They had not been touched by anyone.

They did not know slow gestures nor soft rituals.

They only knew what their blood screamed at them.

Take. Claim. Fuse.

Virka mounted him suddenly, with a broken gasp that was not of pain…

but of something deeper.

Of rupture.

Of release.

As if by touching, at last, the world they held inside spilled without warning.

Their hips collided clumsily at first.

Her legs trembled, uncertain.

Sebastián held her thighs tightly, as if fearing that moment might escape.

She panted with her mouth half-open.

Teeth clenched.

Eyes wide and shining, unblinking.

Her dress slid down her hips as if the air undressed her by will.

And the contact was direct.

Raw skin against living skin.

Without guide.

Without measure.

Without preparation.

A rough sound escaped Virka's throat.

It was a mixture of roar and moan, as if her throat could not decide whether to devour or to beg.

Sebastián's body trembled.

His muscles contracted with each disordered thrust.

He did not know if he was guiding her…

or if she possessed him.

But it did not matter.

Because they were…

alone.

Broken.

Burning.

United.

Virka's hands clung to Sebastián's shoulders, nails digging in and leaving claw-like marks.

He slid his hands up her back, feeling every curve, every heartbeat, every raw moan that escaped from that mouth that did not know how to kiss…

but knew how to scream.

Not from pain.

From hunger.

Her body crashed against his again and again, in a rhythmic, desperate, brute sway.

Nothing was soft.

Nothing was correct.

But everything was necessary.

Sebastián's hips slammed hard against her, lifting her slightly, as if his instinct sought to push her deeper into him, to merge her, sink her, pierce her.

And she accepted it.

With her head thrown back.

With her breasts exposed to the crimson sky.

With her mouth open in gasps that could no longer be contained.

They did not know how long it had been since the last time.

But they knew that since they separated,

neither had touched, nor been touched.

And now,

the wait burned in every pore.

In every breath.

In every thrust.

In every trembling contraction.

Virka moved as if she wanted to devour him.

As if, by opening her legs, she could contain all of him inside.

And Sebastián let himself fall, let himself sink,

pounding into her like an animal that had been caged too long.

The fire crackled.

The earth trembled slightly.

And Narka, without saying a single word,

turned his gaze to the sky.

Because what was happening there…

was not just sex.

It was affirmation.

It was existence.

It was the savage confirmation that after everything…

they were still alive.

And they were proving it

in the only way they knew. There was no pause.

There was no logic.

Only bodies speaking

the only language that had never been taught to them,

but that they had always known.

Virka rode Sebastián with the strength of one who did not want love…

but belonging.

The ground shook with every thrust,

the rock creaked beneath his back,

and her legs seemed carved in tension.

Every movement was clumsy, disordered,

but brutal.

So brutal it became perfect.

Her thighs were marked by Sebastián's hands.

Her hips struck mercilessly against his abdomen,

leaving wet echoes and torn moans,

that were not whispers…

They were calls.

Like screams that had been silenced for years,

and now, at last, erupted without restraint.

Virka clenched her teeth.

Her nails descended across Sebastián's chest,

leaving reddish lines that burned and burned,

as if she wanted to mark him.

Not with words.

With blood.

And Sebastián not only accepted it.

He provoked it.

He grabbed her hip with both hands and lifted her,

driving his pelvis with a thrust that made her scream.

Not from pain.

From emotional rupture.

Her body arched back,

her breasts exposed, bouncing with each new clash of flesh.

Her eyes wide open,

fixed on the sky…

as if the universe had opened above her

only to watch her break.

—More… —she whispered, at last.

One word.

One order.

One plea.

And Sebastián answered with more.

More strength.

More depth.

More rhythm.

More skin.

More soul.

His thrusts grew firmer,

more rhythmic,

yet still wild,

like a war drum only their bodies could follow.

Virka lowered her torso.

Pressed against him.

And bit his neck.

Hard.

With desire.

As if her mouth did not want to kiss him…

but to seal him.

And Sebastián pulled her tightly against him,

one hand on her back,

the other on her nape,

their bodies now fused,

sweat against sweat,

pant against pant.

They were no longer two.

They were one.

A unique creature made of flesh, moans,

of rabid breath,

of accumulated solitude,

of primal desire.

There was no shame.

No softness.

Only the final dance of two beings who, at last,

had found each other stripped of the world's clothing.

The orgasm did not arrive as an ending.

It came as a jolt that broke internal bones.

Like a tremor at the center of the marrow.

Like a flare that was born in the entrails and ripped the voice from them.

Virka clung to him.

And screamed.

A sharp, wild, unrepeatable sound.

Sebastián did not scream.

But his body did.

It did so for him.

And in that moment,

when everything burned from womb to soul…

no words remained.

No thoughts.

No air.

Only them.

Two bodies…

that could no longer separate

without breaking something nameless.

There was no rest.

There was no relief.

Only a pause cut

by a breath that did not diminish…

but began to grow again.

Virka still lay on top of him.

Both soaked.

Both panting.

Both broken…

but hungrier than before.

Because it was not pleasure that had bound them.

It was something fiercer.

Deeper.

A need that did not end with a single thrust.

Virka's body still trembled.

But not from weakness.

From more.

And Sebastián noticed.

His shaft still inside her,

still tense,

still hard,

as if climax had been only a warning.

Not the end.

She did not separate.

She did not move.

She only lowered her forehead to his neck…

and licked him.

Slowly.

Like a beast savoring its prey.

Sebastián closed his eyes.

Not from tenderness.

From overload.

But his body did not refuse.

The blood burned.

The breath roared.

The pulse pounded against flesh.

—Virka…? —he whispered, with a hoarse voice.

But he received no answer.

Only a slow movement of hips…

deep.

Solid.

Sharp.

And the body reacted.

His.

Hers.

Both.

As if a new spark were lit

that did not know fatigue.

Only territory. Virka rose again over him.

Her hair stuck to her face.

Her chest taut.

Her pupils dilated.

Her dress already torn into rags.

And without warning,

she began to move again.

But this time,

slower.

Heavier.

Deeper.

As if every inch were a claim.

A declaration.

A war without weapons…

but with bodies.

The moans were not the same.

They were lower.

Rougher.

More charged.

Sebastián took her by the waist.

Helped her.

Returned each thrust.

Each friction.

Each spasm.

With strength.

With control.

With measured brutality.

His thrusts were now different.

Darker.

More dominant.

More his.

As if, after so long without having her,

he could not leave a single part of her unclaimed.

Virka accepted everything.

The fingers dug into her flesh.

The thrusts that lifted her from the ground.

The muffled growls between his teeth.

The teeth against her neck.

And then…

she bit too.

Sebastián bled.

But he did not stop.

Because pain was part of the rite.

Of what they were.

Of what they were creating.

A second round…

that was not a continuation.

It was a rebirth.

And when the rhythm grew faster,

wilder,

louder,

there was no red sky,

nor embers,

nor earth capable of containing them.

They were two storms.

Two fires.

Two beasts in a single body.

And what they did…

was not sex.

It was rebirth by force.

Again and again.

Until neither could remember

where one ended…

and the other began.

The second time did not calm them.

It burned them more.

And the body no longer responded to desire.

It responded to command.

Sebastián rose.

Not with tenderness.

But with force.

He took Virka by the back and lifted her into the air as if she weighed nothing.

She clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, nails buried in his nape.

She no longer moaned.

She growled.

And he did not kiss.

He bit.

Their mouths crashed without rhythm, with saliva and panting as language.

Their tongues did not caress:

they fought.

Sebastián pushed her against the rock.

The blow was dull.

She did not complain.

She only lifted her hips and arched her back.

Her body open.

Her belly wet.

Her entrance marked and ready.

He entered without warning.

In a single stroke.

Deep.

Violent.

And he did not stop.

Not for a second.

Not for a breath.

The blows of his pelvis against her were dry, wet, savage.

The sound echoed against the stones: wet flesh colliding, moaning, colliding again.

Virka's buttocks absorbed each thrust with force, rebounding to the rhythm.

Her exposed breasts, marked by ragged breathing, shook uncontrollably with each drive.

There were no elegant positions.

Only possession.

Sebastián turned her onto her back.

He grabbed her by the waist and pushed her to the ground.

Her legs open.

Her face against the earth.

And he entered again.

Hard.

Rough.

Inhuman.

Each movement was a hammering into her insides.

Each roar of his, a discharge against her spine.

Each thrust, a declaration:

"You are mine."

The pounding continued without pause.

They did not count the time.

They did not look at the sky.

Because there was no longer a world.

Only the animal sway,

the mingled sweat,

the spilled semen,

the marks on the skin,

the bites on the shoulders,

the scratches that tore flesh…

and the trembling in both their legs.

They did not sleep.

They did not eat.

They did not speak.

And they did not stop.

The third round became a fourth.

And then a fifth.

And then one that no longer had a number.

Positions changed without order.

On their knees.

Standing.

On the rock.

Against Narka's shell, who did not look at them but did not move away either.

In the mud.

In the roots.

With legs spread.

With backs arched.

With eyes closed.

With lips bitten.

Sebastián ejaculated more times than he could count.

And each time he hardened again.

From rage.

From hunger.

From madness.

Virka bled from her back from the scratches.

Her lips were swollen.

Her legs marked.

But she never said enough.

Never asked.

Only demanded more.

As if the years of separation could be erased only with sex.

And the only way not to forget…

was to devour each other. The night passed.

And they did not finish.

Dawn found Sebastián still inside her,

moving his hips slowly,

with hoarse gasps,

their skin covered in dry sweat, semen, blood, and saliva.

The scene was not erotic.

It was savage.

Primal.

Impossible to look at without trembling.

Because it was not sex.

It was a fusion of two beasts

that no longer knew how to be anything else.

Morning did not bring light.

Only smoke.

The fire still burned beneath the embers,

but the heat did not come from there.

It came from their bodies.

From the skin pressed together.

From the dry sweat.

From the mingled fluids.

Virka lay on Sebastián.

Her naked body, curved like a beast asleep over her prey.

Her back marked.

Her legs open, still trembling.

Her neck bitten.

Her skin stained.

He did not speak.

But his hand, still at her nape,

had not let go.

They breathed slowly.

Together.

As if their lungs no longer knew how to function separately.

The world was silent.

But it was not peace.

It was animal exhaustion.

It was the body screaming that nothing was left to give…

and still not regretting.

Narka was nearby.

With his back turned.

Still.

Present.

An unwilling witness…

but part of the moment.

Time did not move.

None of them wanted to move.

The red sun began to filter through the grass.

And the air smelled of iron, of ash, of sex.

Sebastián opened his eyes.

Looked at the sky.

Said nothing for a long time.

Only thought.

Thought that he had never been so exhausted.

Nor so whole.

Virka felt it.

She lifted her face just a little.

Her eyes glowed red.

Broken.

Empty of defense.

And then she spoke.

A single word.

—Mine.

It was not sweet.

It was not a question.

It was a decree.

A commandment.

And Sebastián smiled, barely.

Not from tenderness.

But because… he felt it too.

His hand slid up her back,

tracing every mark,

every line he himself had left.

And he answered.

—Yours.

Virka closed her eyes.

Sighed.

Not from sleep.

From surrender.

And let herself fall onto his chest,

where she had always belonged.

Neither knew how long they would remain that way.

But in that moment,

the body no longer asked.

It only remembered.

Remembered what they were.

What they shared.

What they had done.

And knew that after that…

there was no return.

The sky remained red.

As if it had never changed.

As if time could not advance in a world where everything had already bled.

The skin no longer hurt.

It only weighed.

Virka still slept upon his chest,

but her breathing was calmer.

Deeper.

As if her entire being had exhaled for the first time in years.

Sebastián caressed her once more.

Then, carefully, he rose.

His body creaked.

It was covered.

With dry sweat, old blood, semen, ash.

There was no water.

Not in the Blood Prairie.

But there was Qi.

He concentrated it in his palms.

Subtle.

Not to attack.

Not to defend.

But to purify.

He ran it across his skin,

evaporating the filth.

Carrying warmth to every pore.

Shedding what no longer belonged.

Virka, still asleep, shuddered.

Sebastián smiled.

And extended a small flow toward her as well.

Cleansing her.

As if the gesture

were also a caress.

When he finished,

the silence returned.

But it was not empty.

It was post-light.

Narka watched him.

Said nothing.

Sebastián sat beside his companion's shell.

Looked at Virka.

And thought.

"Can this… give life?" It was not a moral doubt.

It was logic.

He was not completely human.

She… even less.

And yet,

what they had done was not simple.

It was savage.

Absolute.

Irreversible.

—Draila —he said softly, without needing to raise his voice.

The figure did not take long to appear.

Shadow, light, mist, will.

—Can you answer me something?

Draila looked at him, without judgment.

—Ask.

Sebastián lowered his gaze for a second.

His voice was not insecure.

Only… contained.

—Can I… have children with her?

Draila did not respond immediately.

She approached.

Looked at Virka.

Then at him.

Then at the sky.

That red sky that never changed.

That sky that had witnessed everything.

—After what you did last night…

you are not asking about biology.

Sebastián said nothing.

—You are asking if something new can be born…

from what you two are.

The silence lingered.

But it did not weigh.

—Yes —said Draila, at last.

—Yes…?

—Yes.

But they will not be children as you understand them.

They will not be mixture.

They will be legacy.

Sebastián frowned.

—That means…?

—That you are not creating a life.

You are sowing a will.

If she conceives,

something will be born that is not yours,

nor hers,

but of both…

fused.

And that…

Draila looked at him.

—That is rarer than any race.

Sebastián nodded.

He did not smile.

He did not answer.

He only looked at Virka again.

And in his mind, for the first time,

the idea of "future"

did not hurt.

Virka awoke without opening her eyes.

Her body still hurt.

Not from damage.

From memory.

From the rawness of what they had been.

She was clean,

but still smelled of him.

Of fire.

Of skin.

Sebastián was sitting nearby.

He did not speak.

He watched her.

As if waiting for her breathing to complete the morning.

She sat up.

Slowly.

Her red eyes opened without surprise.

Only with… acceptance.

Narka had not moved.

He was still there.

Like a living shadow.

Like a patient mountain.

Virka sat beside Sebastián.

She said nothing.

Nor did he.

Only after some seconds,

he spoke.

—Draila says… it's possible.

She did not ask what.

She only looked at him.

And waited.

—That you and I…

could have a child.

Virka did not blink.

Did not shudder.

But her back tensed.

Her fingers, still on her thigh, curled.

Not in defense.

In doubt.

—Do you… want that? —she whispered.

Her voice was low.

Grave.

Almost inhuman from its restraint.

Sebastián did not respond immediately.

—I don't know.

But I thought of the possibility.

And it did not frighten me.

The silence returned.

It was not comfortable.

It was dense.

Virka lowered her gaze.

Her lips barely moved.

—I was created to kill.

Not to give life.

The phrase was not sad.

Nor guilty.

It was a fact.

—I was born of roars.

Of fangs.

Of blood.

Of orders.

—Never…

never thought my body could serve for anything but destruction.

Narka opened one eye.

He did not speak.

But his shell cracked faintly, as if he felt it.

Sebastián looked at her.

Not with pity.

With certainty.

—That is part of you too.

But not all.

Virka clenched her teeth.

—And if something is born from us?

Will it be a beast… or a life?

Sebastián touched her.

Just a finger,

brushing her wrist.

The one where once there had been blood, chains… and now only warmth.

—It will be what it decides to be.

Like you.

Like me.

She looked at him, finally.

With her eyes aflame.

With fear disguised as rage.

—I won't know how to protect it.

—Neither will I.

—Then… —Virka lowered her face—. What will we do?

Sebastián leaned closer.

Placed his forehead against hers.

—The same thing we've always done.

Survive.

And…

protect.

At any cost.

Virka closed her eyes.

And for the first time in her entire existence,

a tear,

minimal,

acid,

slid down her cheek.

Not from weakness.

But because,

in the deepest part of her flesh…

she wanted to believe him. The night had returned.

Not with freshness.

But with the same red, denser, thicker.

As if the Blood Prairie knew that something was about to be born…

even though it did not yet exist.

Virka did not sleep.

She sat beside the fire,

knees pulled against her chest,

her back tense,

her eyes open.

She did not look at Sebastián.

Nor at Narka.

Nor at the embers.

She looked inward.

To that place where she had never wanted to enter.

Where everything that was not lay.

Sebastián observed her from a distance,

not like a man who waits…

but like one who accompanies.

Narka did not move.

But his shadow covered them both.

Silent.

Dense.

Grave.

Virka spoke without raising her voice.

—When I was created…

they did not ask me if I wanted to feel.

Not warmth.

Not hunger.

Not attachment.

And yet…

now I feel everything.

—And it hurts —she added, clenching her fingers against her legs—.

It hurts more than any combat.

Sebastián did not respond.

He only listened.

—How…?

—her voice broke for an instant—.

How do you live knowing you can create something…

but also destroy it with just an impulse?

Then Draila appeared.

She did not walk.

She did not descend.

She simply was.

As if the answer to that question had summoned her.

—There are ways of seeing. —she said—

But they only serve if one wishes to look.

Virka lifted her eyes.

Draila extended her hand.

—It is not a destiny.

It is a possibility.

A visualization.

A wound still closed or not yet opened.

You decide.

She touched her.

Only a finger, on her forehead.

And Virka…

saw.

A warm cave,

a small body wrapped in blood and earth.

A cry that was not of death… but of beginning.

She saw her own hand,

with retracted claws,

holding something so fragile it seemed unreal.

She saw Sebastián…

holding her,

as if she were the one who had just been born.

But she also saw the other.

A field covered in flames.

A small body among ashes.

And her own mouth open…

roaring madly

because she had not known how to protect.

Because her instinct killed before caring.

Virka trembled.

The images dissolved.

The Prairie returned.

Draila's voice was a whisper without defined form.

—Any life born of you two will not be normal.

Nor will it be simple.

But neither is it condemned.

—It will only… need a guide

that does not destroy itself out of fear.

Virka lowered her gaze.

The fire did not give warmth.

It only marked.

Sebastián approached.

Sat beside her.

Did not touch her.

—You don't have to decide today —he said.

She looked at him.

At last.

Her red eyes no longer burned.

They shone in another way.

As if they wanted to believe.

—And if I fail?

Sebastián did not hesitate.

—I will fail too.

But you won't do it alone.

Narka turned slightly.

Only a faint creak of his shell.

As if he too

were saying:

"I am here."

Virka sighed.

And for the first time…

it was not a sigh of rage.

But of possibility. —You cannot leave as you are —said Draila, her voice heavier than the night. Not because of her tone. Because of the time accumulated.

Virka lifted her face, her eyes like wet embers.

—What is missing?

Draila did not answer immediately. She turned toward Sebastián with slowness, as if even her movements obeyed ancient laws. The bandages that covered her face floated with a life without wind, like tongues of cloth whispering truths before words.

—Him —she said, finally.

Sebastián did not move. But his eyes—red, spiraled, perpetual—seemed to gaze not at the present… but at what had not yet happened.

—You have done much —Draila continued—. You have crossed flesh. You have torn the soul. You have defeated monsters and survived yourself.

But you have not yet fulfilled what you came here to be.

—And what did I come to be? —asked Sebastián, his voice grave, without irony.

Draila walked a few steps, until the altar emerged behind her like a broken fang, born of stone. Around it, the air smelled of rusted metal and dormant embers. Not from fire, but from memory.

—You did not come to this world by mistake —she said—. You were called. Not by me. Nor by divine will. You were brought by a wound.

Draila is not a world. It is a scar.

And every scar seeks to close.

Virka narrowed her eyes.

—And what does that have to do with him?

—Everything —whispered Draila, not with softness, but with echo—. Sebastián… you are not the son of Draila.

You are its mirror.

You were created elsewhere, yes. But every one of your steps, every one of your decisions, resonated with this place.

You understood it without knowing it.

You traversed it without maps.

And in doing so, you became more than a guest.

You became the only way Draila has to speak to the rest of the world.

—Speak… how? —asked Narka, his voice like cracked rock.

Draila raised a hand.

—Draila has been silent for centuries. Tortured. Sealed. Used. Her creatures turned into instruments, into echoes, into remnants.

She does not want vengeance.

She does not want redemption.

She wants to be remembered.

And for that… she needs a symbol.

One that has no throne, but has presence.

One that has no crown, but has burden.

She turned to Sebastián.

—You do not come to reign over Draila.

You come to carry her with you.

In your body. In your Qi. In your history.

—And that is achieved…?

—By kneeling —said Draila, but her voice was not an order. It was a pact.

—Why kneel?

—Because Draila is not conquered. She is honored.

Because only what has bled can be witness.

And because if you wish to leave alive, first you must be carved into her marrow.

Sebastián lowered his head.

—What will happen to me?

—You will relive every wound.

Every mistake.

Every death you caused.

Every pain you hid.

Your Qi will be broken and rebuilt.

Your soul, inverted.

And if you survive…

You will be the scar that walks.

Silence.

Virka looked at Sebastián with pressed lips.

She knew he had already made the decision.

Narka, beside him, did not speak. But he stepped back. Not from fear. From respect.

Sebastián stepped forward.

—Then guide me. Not as a warrior. Nor as the child who entered this world.

Guide me as what I am:

the one who carries the weight,

the one who chose to stay,

the one who chose to take this world with him… without burdening it again.

Draila nodded.

And the altar began to beat.

Not like stone.

Like living memory.

The altar was not stone.

It was an open wound waiting for flesh that could understand it.

Sebastián advanced in silence.

Each step cracked as if the earth recognized the echo of his footprints.

The air thickened.

Not from heat, nor from magic.

But because the inevitable… was already happening.

Draila awaited him standing, her bandages stirring like old roots exposed to the wind.

—Kneel —she said, without raising her voice.

And Sebastián did so.

Not as a subject.

Nor as a penitent.

But as one who surrenders not out of faith, but out of comprehension. —Before we begin —whispered Draila—, you must know what you are going to receive.

This is not a baptism of light.

It is not rebirth.

It is condemnation… made flesh.

Draila's sky, ever red, began to spin.

Not like clouds.

Like spirals of ancient judgment.

—Your Qi will cease to be transparent —she continued—. It will be stained with truth.

Not for power.

For burden.

The red will not be a symbol of fire.

It will be war.

It will be everything this world has swallowed:

mutilated children, broken beasts, faceless mothers.

It will be the roar of every creature used as a tool.

It will be the blood that was never washed.

It will be the voices that had no throat.

A drop descended from above.

It was not rain.

It was liquid history.

And it touched the center of Sebastián's back.

The first heartbeat.

His scars began to burn.

Not only the physical ones.

The others.

The ones no one had ever seen.

—Your body will be invaded by Draila —Draila went on—. Not as a host.

But as marrow.

She will break you.

Mark you from nerves to shadow.

Each vertebra will receive a war.

Each muscle, a scream.

Each organ, a tomb.

Sebastián clenched his teeth. He did not speak.

And then, the sky descended completely.

A spiral of black, red, and purple clouds fell like the finger of a forgotten goddess.

It was not energy.

It was Draila's very soul… seeking a body.

When it touched Sebastián's back, he did not scream.

But his Qi… did.

The energy that had been his—clean, neutral, invisible—

shattered.

Like a nameless crystal, it exploded from within.

And from his pores,

crimson ink gushed.

It was not blood.

It was what came before blood.

It was what crawled across fields of death before bodies ever existed.

His Qi was dyed.

Not like a change of color.

As if the very will of the world were marking him.

As if it said: "You did not merely pass through Draila. You… are Draila."

Draila raised her arms.

The altar vibrated like a heart trapped in stone.

—Let fall what was silenced!

Let awaken what was denied!

From the heights, the spiral opened.

And from the sky… came down a scream.

Not a sound.

An echo carved into existence.

And as it touched Sebastián, his soul tore.

It did not break.

It inverted.

As if everything he had been—every emotion, every memory, every fear—

turned over to show its reverse.

His soul was now another.

It was still his.

But it was no longer made of hope.

It was made of truth.

And in the center of his chest…

a crown ignited.

Not a jewel.

A symbol.

A circlet of dark, slow fire, suspended over his head,

as if war itself had granted him its cursed blessing.

It did not make him king.

It made him irreversible.

Sebastián leaned forward.

The skin of his back split open by itself,

as if every old scar needed to bleed anew.

But he did not fall.

His body trembled,

but did not retreat.

Because he had understood.

This was not punishment.

It was the price of memory.

And his Qi—now completely crimson—

beat like a drum of contained war.

Draila descended until she was level with him.

Placed a hand on his shoulder.

—Now you may leave.

Because you will not leave empty.

You will carry Draila with you.

Sebastián did not answer.

His red eyes—now turned into living spirals—

looked forward.

The rift that had once been a mere passage between worlds

now seemed to revere him.

Not as a hero.

But as a survivor who accepted not to forget.

And then… he rose.

Alone.

Silent.

Sealed by a world that never asked for love.

Only remembrance. Before the rift, Draila watched them in silence.

Her bandaged figure seemed older, calmer… emptier.

As if, in passing on her legacy, she no longer needed to remain.

—You will never return to this place.

—We know —said Sebastián, with a deeper voice, graver, more his own—.

But now… we carry this place with us.

And then they crossed.

One by one.

With slow steps.

Like those who bury a world… and carry its tomb upon their back.

The night before the crossing was a contained fire.

But containment lasts only until the skin burns hotter than judgment.

The camp was silent.

Narka slept, enormous, unmoving like an ancestral rock.

The fire barely crackled, more like a timid witness than a protagonist.

Virka lay on her side, half-asleep, hair tangled across her back, her body barely covered by a thin cloth.

Her human form—already firm, developed, dangerous—glowed under the reddish light of the perpetual sky.

The outline of her legs, the soft curve of her hips, the taut tension in her flat stomach… everything about her seemed designed to tempt war.

And Sebastián…

was no longer just Sebastián.

He was the Crimson Emperor of Draila.

His Qi burned beneath his skin, and the crown floated above his head like a living ring.

He no longer had age. Nor form.

Only decision.

He rose, crossed the distance between them with silent steps.

He leaned down, studied her closely, as if her face could explain to him why his mind no longer sufficed.

—Virka —he murmured, his voice rasped by the fire within.

She opened her eyes. Smiled faintly. But not with sweetness.

With fangs.

—Again? Wasn't the Baptism enough torture?

Sebastián did not answer. He lowered his gaze to her chest, her abdomen, her legs.

His Qi vibrated.

The crown above his head flickered like an unstable ember.

—I can't pretend anymore —he said—. If I don't have you tonight, I will break.

She stretched, uncovering her whole body.

Her hair slid like black ink across her thighs.

And with a hoarse voice of desire, she whispered:

—Then break me yourself.

He needed no more.

He kissed her. With fury. With hunger. With pain.

And she returned every thrust with nails, with teeth, with wild gasps.

They merged on the ground, careless of the cold or the dust.

Virka's moans shattered like mute thunder.

Her voice turned rough, guttural.

—Oh, my emperor… —she moaned between gulps of air— Didn't I tell you… to control yourself?

But she did not want control either.

She arched against him, her legs wrapped like living chains, her eyes open like a beast beneath the red moon.

Her nails marked his back like claws.

Sebastián held her by the waist as if she were his only anchor to the world.

The crown of red Qi burned above him.

And every thrust was like a blow of war.

They were gasps, sweat, ragged breath.

They were two creatures colliding without language.

They were Sebastián and Virka, alone, without Draila, without world. Only flesh.

At the end, lying one over the other, their bodies still trembling within, she whispered with a broken voice:

—If we keep going like this… that child will come before we even have a roof.

He laughed, exhausted.

—Then let it be born with flames in its veins.

She licked his cheek like a satisfied beast.

—Or like a storm that walks.

And so, among sweat, gasps, and embers, they spent their last night in Draila.

Not as fugitives.

But as fire. The fire had already reduced to embers when the murmur of the wind changed.

Narka opened his single eye slowly. Blinked, heavy, as if the mountain had awakened within him.

He turned, snorting, and then… saw them.

Sebastián and Virka were still entwined.

The crown of red Qi flickered softly above his head like a residue of recent pleasure.

Her hair was tangled across his chest, and one leg still rested upon his hip.

Narka said nothing at first.

He only observed them as one looks at a pair of cubs that played too close to the fire.

—Have you finished burning what little dignity you had left? —he growled, his voice hoarse.

Sebastián opened one eye. His expression tried to remain neutral… without success.

—Good morning, Narka.

—Good morning, emperor in heat.

Virka let out a rough laugh, without moving from her place.

—Don't be so old, turtle. If you hadn't been snoring like a volcano, you would have joined the concert.

—By the inverted skies… —muttered Narka, turning his massive body—. Just what I needed. To die at the crossing with your pheromones still in the air.

It was then that Draila emerged from the shadow, as if she had been watching them from the rift itself.

Without words, she extended two garments to them. They were not just clothes. They were symbols.

For Virka, a dress dark as absolute night.

Fitted to the body with the softness of living silk, but with the edge of an omen.

From neckline to hem, the fabric seemed woven with liquid shadow and ancient memory.

Every fold marked her femininity, her strength, and that animal beauty that could not be hidden.

The shoes—black as pitch, sleek, without heel—looked designed to walk upon the edge of war.

For Sebastián, an outfit of dark tone, modern, martial.

A black trench coat with a high collar that fell to the knee, as if the wind had sewn it to the edge of the abyss.

Beneath it, a black combat shirt, of flexible, resistant fabric, embracing his torso with silent elegance.

Tactical mobility trousers, reinforced for real combat and cut clean.

And dark military boots, with dense soles and sharp finish, ready for any biome, any terrain, any war.

Virka rose then, unhurried. She walked to the cloth that covered her new clothing and began dressing as if the world could not see her anyway.

—Next time we'll cover your ears with rocks —she said, while adjusting the dress with a mix of mastery and savage sensuality.

—Do it, please —snorted Narka, still lying down.

Sebastián, already on his feet, stood with his back to the fire.

His trench coat spread like a shadow of authority, moving with every pulse of his red Qi.

He adjusted the belt calmly.

The shirt seemed fused to his hardened torso.

The boots resounded like a promise against the stone.

And for an instant, he was not a boy, nor a fugitive, nor a scarred body.

He was will made flesh.

The bearer of the echo.

—Ready? —he asked, looking at them both.

—For what? —Narka replied—. To go to a world that will hate us without knowing us? To be strangers once again?

—No —Sebastián answered—.

To walk together… as the monsters we decided not to hide anymore.

Virka smiled at him.

Narka let out a resigned growl.

And so, among embers, black cloth, and a joke old as stone,

they took their first steps toward the rift.

Not as fugitives.

Not as gods.

As themselves.

________________________________________

END OF CHAPTER 16