On the Path of Eternal Strength.

The crossing ended without thunder or divine omens.

One step.

And then another.

And the ground stopped breathing like Draila.

The smell changed first.

Not to blood, not to ash.

To wet earth. To pine. To wind.

The sky…

was no longer red.

Blue.

Deeply blue.

With that worn-out shade of days when no one looks upward.

Sebastián frowned.

Not from nostalgia.

But from recognition.

His boots stepped on the dust like one stepping on an old wound.

His eyes turned slowly, skimming the landscape.

And then, he knew.

—Here it was —he said, without adornment, without tremors—.

Here… I saw my mother for the last time.

Virka stopped, her head just slightly tilted.

Narka did not speak.

The wind did. With that irregular murmur that only appears in places where pain never fully left.

—It is not just any memory.

It is the exact place —Sebastián continued—.

The car ended there, among those trees. I crawled out through the glass. She… didn't.

And as he spoke, he did not cry.

But his gaze was a silent battlefield.

He took a few more steps. The grass was taller. Time had tried to cover the scars. But it couldn't.

He crouched. Rested his hand on the ground.

He wasn't looking for remains.

He was looking for that instant.

And then he remembered.

The smell of hot metal.

The dry sound of the impact.

The interrupted song of his mother.

The brutal force that threw him out of the car.

His little body crashing into the mud.

The glass shards like splinters of the moon.

The half-open door.

The unmoving body.

—I held her —he murmured—. She was cold. Her blood mixed with the rain.

I sang to her. A silly song that was no use at all.

But it was the only way I knew to stop the silence.

Virka knelt beside him. She didn't touch him. She was just there, like the shadow of a memory that decided not to flee.

—Why return here? —she whispered.

—Because I never came back. Never.

I left as a child… and I have returned as what this world never wanted to see grow.

Sebastián lifted some earth with his fingers, let it fall slowly through his hands.

There was mud, yes.

But also history.

His.

The one that did not begin in a world of Qi nor with beasts nor with swords.

—This was the true beginning.

Not Draila.

Not the Valley.

This place. This damned piece of earth where I learned the world does not ask if you are ready.

And for the first time in a long while, his eyes clouded.

Not from weakness.

But because memory also burns, even if it doesn't bleed.

—The shadow dragged me from here —he continued—. When I screamed her name and clung to the car door as if my fingers could bring her back.

I was pulled by something I didn't understand.

And now… I have returned.

Narka looked at him. His shell creaked like a mountain stretching after centuries of stillness.

—And what do you seek now?

—Nothing.

I want the world to know.

That I didn't run.

That I wasn't saved.

I was forged. From this exact point.

Virka turned her gaze toward the trees.

—Will we be hunted again?

—Yes —Sebastián replied—. But now… whoever hunts us must do so knowing we returned to where we died.

And then he did the only thing he had not done before.

He lay down on the ground.

On his back.

With his arms open.

Not in submission.

But in defiance.

The blue sky covered him.

But his eyes still saw red.

Virka lay down beside him.

Narka stayed close, with that presence of his that needed no words.

And thus, just like that, the place of the accident became an altar.

An altar not to mourn.

But to announce.

That Sebastián had returned.

Not as a child.

Not as a victim.

But as everything death could not swallow.

The wind changed.

It no longer smelled of death.

Only of decision.

Sebastián rose slowly, brushing off the dirt as if closing a ritual.

—We must go —he said without looking back—. Not to Draila. To the city. To the place where everything… went on without me. Virka stood up with a fluid movement, her black dress waving like elegant smoke. She asked nothing. She needed nothing.

Narka, on the other hand, was still there, immense. His shell of rough minerals gleamed with traces of real sunlight, not of the crimson sky left behind.

Sebastián turned to him.

—Narka… I don't think it wise to walk around here with a monument to antiquity at my back.

The turtle slowly arched his neck, without changing the ancestral gesture of his face.

—Are you ashamed of my size?

—I am ashamed of a world where they could not see you without fear —Sebastián answered, with grave sincerity—. Here there are no beings like you. If they see you… they will think the end of the world walks on legs of stone.

Narka let out a low growl. Almost a laugh.

—I can shrink. Not because you ask it. But because I too want to see this world… from your height.

—You can do that?

—I am older than the spells that deny the impossible.

A faint glow ran through the red veins of his shell. The plates began to fold back, the mineral rock compacting onto itself, as if all his mass obeyed a secret rhythm. In less than a minute, Narka was the size of a land tortoise… large, yes, but not impossible. Calmly, he climbed onto Sebastián's shoulder and settled there as if he had always done so.

And it was in that moment, with the familiar weight of his friend on his shoulder, that Sebastián stopped.

Not from nostalgia.

But from caution.

He looked at the reflection of his silhouette in a nearby puddle.

The crimson crown —symbol of his bond with Draila— still floated above his head. It burned slowly like a conscious ember. It was not gold. Not a metaphor. It was energy, identity, danger.

And his eyes…

Were no longer human.

The red spiral devoured everything.

From the iris to the pupil, his eyes were living whirlwinds, abysses in constant rotation.

There was no visible white.

Only a bottomless center spinning… as if something else stared from within.

—I cannot show this —he murmured.

His Qi reacted to the order. The crown flickered and then dissolved into invisible smoke, retreating inside his body, as if swallowed by the marrow itself.

But the eyes…

Those could not change.

Not now.

—I will hide them as I can —he said—. As long as the fire does not betray me.

—You are no longer part of this world —Narka whispered from his shoulder—. But perhaps because of that… you may touch it without breaking it.

Virka walked a few steps ahead, in silence. She seemed to scent the path as if she recognized it from intuition.

But it was Sebastián who marked the direction.

—When we went on trips, we took this road —he said, pointing to a stretch covered with grass, nearly swallowed by weeds—. We went to the center. I don't remember the exact city, but the landscape… the road… yes. I don't forget paths. Only names.

And then they advanced.

At a slow pace at first.

Like those who tread not on foreign land, but on sleeping memories.

The sun covered them with flickers of warm light.

Leaves crunched under their boots.

And the world —that world— still seemed intact.

Ignorant.

It did not know that the three approaching walkers were no longer part of its logic.

And as they walked along the half-erased path of time, Sebastián thought of something he did not say aloud:

"I have returned.

But not to fit in.

But to cross this place…

as I break it under my steps."

The earth did not tremble.

It opened.

Sebastián did not run.

He advanced with fury wrapped in human form.

His steps were a succession of subtle impacts, too fast for the average eye to distinguish. At his side, the trees bent under the pressure he left in his wake. The wind did not push him: it fled from him.

He carried Virka in his arms. Not out of weakness.

But because the world was not yet ready to see her walk.

Her black dress waved like a tongue of shadow.

Her red eyes, half closed, looked without looking. Like a satisfied beast.

Narka was on his shoulder, reduced, silent, imposing even in miniature.

400 kilometers per hour.

And he did not seem in a hurry.

In the distance, a road snaked alongside the valley.

The cars moved like metallic ants: slow, orderly, ignorant.

A gray sedan passed to his right. Inside, a boy stared out the window, bored, until something —a blur of black and red— crossed the edge of his vision.

The boy blinked.

—Mom… I saw a ghost.

The woman did not answer.

The real world did not believe in specters with spiral eyes nor in emperors without thrones.

But the real world… did not know they were coming.

Sebastián slowed only for a second. Not from fatigue.

Only to let his Qi run through him like an inner breeze.

And in that instant, he realized.

The crown.

The red energy, suspended over his head, had not fully disappeared.

It no longer burned like a violent flame…

but its presence pulsed like a living wound.

A symbol that could not be hidden.

—It bothers —said Virka, without looking at him—. Here they do not understand what it means.

—I know —Sebastián murmured—. But this… is not something I can take off.

He clenched his jaw. Then closed his eyes.

He circulated his Qi with surgical precision.

The crown faded slowly, like an ember smothered in ash.

Not destroyed.

Only… contained.

But his eyes could not be hidden.

Not even from himself.

The red spiral was still there, carved from iris to pupil, as if an abyss spun within him.

—How do you see it? —he asked.

—As it must be —Narka answered from his shoulder—. No one can look at the abyss… without the abyss leaving a mark.

Sebastián said nothing more.

He only sped up.

The city was near.

The memory of streets, poles, signs, and human silhouettes emerged like a distant echo in his mind.

But he was no longer a child crawling among shards.

He was a force walking the same ground…

with the ability to shatter it effortlessly. As they drew closer, the cars seemed to stop.

Not because they really did.

But because Sebastián's speed turned everything into slow motion.

Crossing a tunnel was like passing through a sigh.

He jumped over a metal fence without leaving a trace.

And upon landing, the ground barely creaked.

The buildings were already in sight.

Tall, cold, arrogant.

—There it is —said Sebastián.

—The city? —asked Virka.

—No. The stage —he answered, eyes burning—.

And we…

are the play no one asked for,

but no one will be able to ignore.

And then, without pause…

they stepped into the threshold of what had once been his world.

Outside, the world kept turning.

But for Sebastián, time seemed to crawl as if he were still walking among scars.

He closed the apartment door behind him. The air, cooler, brushed his face.

Virka was waiting, leaning against a metal railing, her black hair falling like a tangled cascade over the dark dress Draila had given her. Her red eyes, soft yet tense, sought him without words.

Narka, lower down, seated like a small living sculpture, slowly turned his head.

—And now what? —asked Virka.

Sebastián stopped at her side. Looked at the cloudless sky. The sun barely pierced through the buildings.

—I don't know —he admitted—. I lost everything here. But also… everything started here.

He turned to them, firm.

—We're going down. Maybe the world remembers something I don't.

At the building's entrance, just as they crossed toward the street, a man's voice, somewhat hoarse, stopped them.

—Excuse me… are you looking for someone?

A man around sixty, with a kind face and wrinkles marked by the sun, was watching Sebastián closely. He wore an overall stained with paint, and carried a toolbox. His cap was tilted, as if always about to fall off.

Sebastián looked at him for a second. Then lowered his gaze, thought, and answered calmly:

—I lived here. Long ago. This was my home.

The man frowned.

—Which apartment?

—Second floor. Last door of the east wing.

There was silence. The man let out a sigh.

—That place has been empty for years. No one wanted it after the accident… You say you lived there?

Sebastián nodded. His eyes were a still abyss.

—Do you know where someone could go who… needs to understand what to do when coming back after being lost for a long time?

The man stared at him for a while, then pointed toward an avenue in the distance.

—On that street there's a Citizen Registry office. Not the biggest, but the one that handles this zone. You can start there. They'll ask for papers… but if your name still exists in the records, they'll help you.

—Thank you —said Sebastián.

The man looked at all three. At Virka, unreal in appearance. At Narka, still on Sebastián's shoulder. He wanted to say something, but couldn't. He only muttered:

—Welcome back… I suppose.

And he left.

As they walked, Sebastián murmured without looking back:

—We don't have to stay.

—I know —answered Virka, beside him—. But if we are to build something… it must be here or upon its ruins.

Narka gave a low growl, like a hoarse echo from his shoulder.

—Every seed needs soil. Even if poisoned.

And so, without glory or applause, Sebastián began to reclaim his place in the world.

Not as a missing child.

But as something new.

Something this world did not yet understand.

The city was not burning. It only watched.

Long streets, poles twisted by time, and concrete cracked as if routine had slowly gnawed it away.

Sebastián walked with silent steps.

Behind him, Virka advanced wordless, wrapped in her black dress like the night, the one that clung to her skin as if war itself had dressed her.

Narka, tiny but heavy as an unspoken truth, rested on his right shoulder, watching everything with that eye that did not blink even in dreams.

—Where are we going now? —asked Virka, not looking at anyone.

—To a place where the people of this world confirm that one exists —Sebastián replied—. At least, I think so.

—You don't know? —Narka growled, with an ancient whisper.

—I was five years old when I disappeared.

I knew how to sing with my mother. How to play in the parks.

But not how to live here.

The path was a mix of memories and ruins.

They passed a closed kiosk. Sebastián remembered they used to buy candy there.

Then they turned onto an avenue he once thought endless… and now it barely took seconds to cross.

They walked among familiar streets, but deformed by years.

The world had gone on without him.

And yet, now he walked upon it with a quietness that intimidated.

Virka watched attentively. The screens, the traffic lights, the signs with incomprehensible offers.

—Does all this… serve for something?

—I don't know —Sebastián answered—. But if I want to move among them… I must appear to be one of them.

Then, turning a corner, he saw it.

The Citizen Registry building was not imposing.

But for Sebastián, it rose like a relic of another world.

Of a world that was never his… though he had been born in it.

The walls were gray, clean, unmarked.

The state logo was engraved in old metal, letters worn down by time:

"National Identification Department – Satellite Office 3B."

Automatic doors opened with a buzz each time someone entered.

Sebastián stopped at the threshold.

Virka looked at the place with distrust. She frowned.

—This… is important?

—It is —he said—. I think. This is where people prove that… they exist.

Narka, from his shoulder, muttered with a rasping voice:

—And you believe that existence can be written on a paper?

Sebastián lowered his gaze.

—No. But if I want to move in this world… I need to play under its rules. Even if I don't believe in them. They entered.

The air was cold. Not from climate, but from atmosphere.

A couple of guards stared at screens at the reception. A woman spoke with someone behind reinforced glass.

The place smelled of cheap disinfectant and bureaucracy.

—What is this? —insisted Virka, in a low voice, as they walked among the waiting chairs.

—An office —Sebastián answered, without turning his face—. But I don't know how it works. I left before learning these things.

They approached a touch screen. A message blinked:

"Reason for your visit?"

Sebastián stared at it as if it were a ritual object.

—Identity… —he murmured—. That's what I came to seek.

Virka looked at him, but not with tenderness. With a mixture of doubt and pride.

As if she saw the wolf trying to dress in civilization, but without hiding his fangs.

He touched the option: "Missing citizen / Return registration."

The machine printed a ticket: A102.

A number that meant nothing… but now carried the weight of being named again.

They took a seat in a corner of the hall.

Around them, mothers with children, old people arguing over forms, youths glued to their phones.

Sebastián did not fit in.

His presence, though silent, made some lift their eyes without knowing why.

The Qi within him, his body carved in war, his crown now suppressed… all spoke of something else.

But he remained still.

As if in the middle of that normality… he could still pretend he had once been one of them.

Narka said nothing. He only looked at the ceiling cables as if they were modern cobwebs.

Virka crossed her arms.

—This world… is stranger than I thought.

Sebastián did not answer.

Because at that moment, he heard something he didn't expect:

—Turn A102. Window 3.

He stood up. His steps made no sound.

But the whole room, for a second, felt that something had happened.

As if a wild animal had crossed an invisible border… without releasing its claws.

The buzz of Window 3 activated with a mechanical click. Sebastián approached, flanked by Virka and with Narka still on his shoulder, reduced, but no less imposing.

The woman on the other side of the glass was older, with thick glasses and a tired expression. She moved her fingers over an old keyboard without lifting her gaze.

—Full name —she said without emotion.

—Sebastián.

—Surname…

—I don't remember —he replied, calm.

The woman raised her gaze. She looked at him. And for a second… she froze.

It wasn't his tone.

Nor his clothes.

It was his gaze.

Sebastián's eyes, with the red spiral iris that extended into a black abyss-like pupil, were not human. Not entirely. They seemed to look beyond the glass, beyond time. They were eyes that had not only seen death… but had lived with it.

—You say you are… disappeared? —the woman murmured, doubtful.

—Yes. I disappeared when I was five years old. I have just returned.

—And why now?

Sebastián took a second. His fingers rested on the window edge, without tension, but firm.

—Because now I need to exist —he said—. To move here. To seek what remains for me. I did not come to ask for anything… only to declare that I returned.

The woman blinked. Took a breath. Tried to regain control of the moment.

—Very well. Procedure for "reincorporation after prolonged disappearance." We will need biometric proof. Can you provide it?

—What kind of proof?

—Fingerprint and blood sample. It will be compared with archived records from your childhood. If they match, your legal identity will be reactivated.

Sebastián nodded.

—Fingerprints… I have them. Blood… too. Anything else?

The woman hesitated. Her eyes moved from Sebastián to Virka —who watched him with feline intensity— then to Narka, whose golden eye seemed to absorb everything without judgment.

—Any responsible adult…?

—She died —Sebastián interrupted—. Here, in this world. I must move without her. That is why I need this.

The woman lowered her gaze. Typed on her keyboard.

—We will proceed with validation. Go to cubicle 4. They will take the samples. If all matches, your citizen status will be reactivated in the next 24 to 48 hours.

—Thank you —said Sebastián.

—And, young man… —she added, just as he was leaving—. Your eyes…

Sebastián stopped. He did not reply.

—They are not common.

—Neither is what I lived through —he answered, without turning—. But I am not here to fit in. Only to cross.

And he left. Sebastián crossed the white-tiled hallway without looking back. The door closed behind him with a hermetic sound. Neither Virka nor Narka could accompany him.

—Biometric validation room —said a male voice, emotionless.

The man was tall, thin, with a gray lab coat and rectangular glasses. His eyes were those of someone who had repeated this protocol a thousand times… until today.

The room was spotless. Too much so. It smelled of disinfectant alcohol and burnt paper. In the center, a metallic table. On one side, a fingerprint scanner. On the other, a tray with sealed syringes.

—We'll start with the fingerprint —the technician indicated.

Sebastián approached. The scanner had a small blinking blue light.

—Place your right thumb. Don't press. Just rest it.

Sebastián obeyed.

The scanner's glass vibrated faintly at the touch. A second later, a spiral image appeared on the screen: the pattern of his fingerprint.

The technician blinked.

—Curious. It's intact. Despite everything… your childhood print is still there. Only more… dense. As if the skin remembered everything it has endured.

Sebastián did not respond.

—Now we'll move on to the blood sample.

The technician took one of the syringes, removed the cap from the needle, and stepped closer.

—This will hurt a little. Just breathe—

Crack.

The sound was sharp. The needle bent upon touching Sebastián's skin.

The man recoiled, astonished.

—What the hell…?

—It's not going to work —said Sebastián, without raising his voice—. That needle cannot pierce me.

The technician looked at him as if he had just seen a rock breathe.

—Then… how…?

Sebastián extended his arm. With his other hand, he used his own thumb —still stained with the scanner ink— and pressed against the visible vein on his forearm. The skin resisted… but not completely. With exact pressure, as if he knew the threshold of his own pain, he made it open into a crimson fissure. Thin. Precise. Just enough.

The blood flowed out.

It wasn't red.

It was a dense, vibrant mixture, almost ethereal. A dark tone, with inner glimmers like extinguished embers. The Qi inside him was still contained… but his body spoke for itself.

—Take the sample. Before it seals —said Sebastián.

The technician, still wide-eyed, placed the tube against the wound. The blood flowed as if obeying an ancient pact. Once filled, the wound began to close by itself. Without scab. Without mark.

Silence.

—I've never seen anything like this —the technician murmured.

—And you won't see it again —said Sebastián, without aggression. Only truth.

The technician swallowed hard.

—That's all… for now. In 24 to 48 hours, your identity will be validated. If the samples match the records from 10 years ago… you will exist again for this world.

Sebastián turned toward the door. But before leaving, he stopped.

—Thank you for not asking the wrong questions —he said.

—And what would be the wrong ones?

Sebastián looked at him. And for a second, the spiral in his iris gleamed like a latent abyss.

—The ones that seek to understand what was never made to be understood.

And he left.

Outside, Virka was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, her black dress embracing her silhouette like a veil of war. Narka remained on his shoulder, unmoving.

—And? —she asked.

—I have left my blood. My fingerprint. My shadow.

—And now?

Sebastián took a deep breath.

—Now… we wait.

They left the building without looking back.

The sky was still blue. But for Sebastián, that blue had no soul. It was a color without history. A lifeless ceiling.

Virka walked at his side, holding his hand as if she would never let go again. Her black dress swayed softly to the rhythm of her steps, marking a cadence between the human and the savage. Every thread seemed fused with her skin, as if it were a second living layer, made to embrace her form and announce it without shame.

Narka, shrunken, rested on Sebastián's right shoulder. Like a small sleeping god. His golden eyes barely opened, but did not need to in order to perceive everything. It was not size that defined his presence… but his history.

—Where do we go now? —asked Virka, breaking the silence with a deep, calm voice, loaded with a primitive curiosity.

—To look at the world —Sebastián replied, without stopping—. From above. They chose not to follow crowded paths. They climbed rusty stairs, crossed terraces, slipped through old accesses until they reached the top of a ruined building, still standing among modern constructions. A forgotten place. A roof without a name.

There, in that fragment of height, they sat.

The wind surrounded them like an ancient sigh.

From there, the city lights flickered with indifference. Cars sliding like swift insects. Human voices mixed with artificial sounds. And yet… what Sebastián felt was not that.

He felt something else.

A faint tremor. A subtle pull in his chest, as if his Inverted Origin Core recognized something… not the same, but similar.

It wasn't Qi.

It was something rougher. More violent. Fragmented.

He closed his eyes.

And he felt it clearly: two currents of energy colliding in the distance. One was like a heavy, hard pressure that expanded with rage and form —Aura, perhaps—. The other, more fluid, more ethereal, closer to the concept of will or magic —Mana, he supposed—.

They were not subtle. They were not delicate.

They attacked like beasts.

A clash of powers… hidden from the eyes of the weak. Invisible to those who did not know how to feel.

And his Core absorbed it all like an echo. Not out of hunger. But by instinct.

—Do you feel it? —asked Virka, still with her fingers interlaced with his.

—Yes —murmured Sebastián—. This world also roars… but it doesn't know in which direction.

—Will we have to kill them too? —she whispered, without drama. As if it were a logical question.

Sebastián did not answer immediately.

He rose a little, his hair waving in the wind, his gaze fixed on the horizon where those energies struck relentlessly. Aura against Aura. Or Aura against Mana. It didn't matter.

They were children with knives… before him.

—Not yet —he finally said—. But when the time comes… they won't understand what tore them apart inside.

Narka said nothing.

But the slight adjustment of his body on the shoulder, the way he closed his eyes, was enough.

He accepted that truth.

Sebastián turned.

And Virka was there. Watching him.

As if she could read everything his face kept silent. As if she knew that distant violence did not disturb him, but did trouble him. Because for the first time… this world showed its teeth.

She leaned closer.

Her fingers released his… only to tangle in his hair and pull him toward her.

And then, without warning, she kissed him.

Not with tenderness.

With claws.

Their mouths clashed like territories colliding.

As if after so much waiting, so much struggle, so much fire… there was no need for words.

The kiss was instinct. Fury. Mark. Tongue against tongue. Breath against breath.

A clash of fangs disguised as tenderness.

Narka, on his shoulder, sighed without sarcasm.

It was not a time for words.

Nor for judgment.

It was the beginning of fire… on foreign land.

And for the first time since he had returned…

Sebastián did not feel like he was walking among ruins.

He felt that he was the ruin itself.

The one that would move.

The one that would breathe.

The one that, sooner or later… would leave its mark on this new world.

The abandoned building offered no comfort.

Only height. Only silence. Only a place where the sky was not hidden by artificial ceilings.

There they remained.

At the top, on a rooftop cracked by time, among rusted beams and unpainted walls, they found refuge. Not physical. Spiritual.

The city blurred into distant lights. In the distance, motors, laughter, alarms could be heard. But above, the world seemed frozen.

Virka sat on Sebastián's lap.

Not as a casual gesture.

But as if that place —that exact corner of his body— had belonged to her before having form. Her black dress clung like a second skin, and her bare back brushed Sebastián's torso with a mixture of softness and instinct.

She rested her head on his chest.

Sebastián said nothing. He only passed his fingers through her hair, again and again, caressing her with the same intensity one caresses a beloved weapon or an eternal wound.

There was no sex.

But desire was there.

Vibrating like a tense thread between their bodies, beating like a slow drum deep in their bellies. He sank into her scent, into the warmth of her breath. He felt the heat of her thighs, the pressure of her curves, the way she fit against him as if the universe had carved them together.

Narka was still on his shoulder.

Colossal. Motionless.

As if he weighed nothing.

He did not speak. He did not interrupt. But his presence was part of the balance. He did not look with judgment, but with the understanding of one who has seen so many eras that intimacy no longer surprises him. As if his role were simply to be… to witness.

The sky advanced unhurriedly. Hours passed. Night swallowed what remained of day.

And then, Sebastián felt it.

It was not a sound. Not a vision. It was… a fracture in logic.

The air changed.

The sky no longer had stars.

Where once there were points of light, now there were… cracks. Cracks in a dark dome, as if the celestial vault were cracked glass. From those fissures seeped a pale light, without fixed color, like a specter trapped between realities.

Virka rose slightly. Her body still on his, but now tense.

—What… is this?

Sebastián did not answer.

Because he did not fully understand. He only knew that something… had noticed them.

The city at their feet had disappeared. It was not ruin. Not smoke. It was… absence.

Everything that belonged to the human plane had vanished.

Only the three of them remained.

Virka pressed against Sebastián, seeking more than contact. Seeking meaning.

He wrapped her in both arms, covering her with his warmth.

Narka, for the first time in a long while, lowered his face.

As if he understood that that which is not named… can be more dangerous than any god.

And then, as if the world breathed, an intangible presence slipped into Sebastián's marrow.

No words. No vision. Only a pressure.

A certainty.

They were being watched.

Not with eyes. With judgment.

His Inverted Origin Core spun inside his body with a muffled agitation, as if recognizing that force not as an enemy… but as a guardian.

He did not know how much time passed.

Perhaps seconds. Perhaps an eternity.

But when he blinked, the stars had returned. The city was still there. The wind too.

Only something had broken.

Or been revealed.

Virka raised her face. Looked at him.

—Did you feel it…?

—Yes —Sebastián said, with no doubt in his voice—. We are no longer alone.

Narka said nothing. But the crackling of his shell was enough.

The night went on. Quiet. Broken.

And dawn… did not wait.

For the next day would bring answers.

But this night… had already marked them forever. When they returned to the Registry, the sun was only just beginning to warm the concrete, but for Sebastián, it didn't matter.

The building was the same. Gray. Harmless. And yet, the only place where his name could be sealed once again.

He entered first. Virka stayed at his side, holding his hand. Narka, as always, on his shoulder. Watching.

The clerk was already waiting for him. Her face was professional, but not indifferent. Sebastián's case had been marked in the system with a special label: "state interest subject – anomaly observed."

—Come in —she said, without roundabout words—. We already have the results.

He crossed the hallway alone. His footsteps were silent, but each step weighed as if he carried an untranslated language. Upon reaching the counter, the woman slid a digital sheet on the screen. She did not seem to know where to begin.

—Your fingerprints… match those of the child registered ten years ago. But there are morphological differences… outside the expected margin.

Sebastián did not respond.

—The DNA is a 97% match. Enough for genetic validation. But the rest…

She paused.

—Your blood shows unknown structures. No cancer cells, no toxins, but there is… something. Something that does not behave like human blood.

Sebastián held her gaze without blinking.

—Also —she added—, your thermal scan showed residual energetic activity. A form of unidentified energy. It's not electricity nor radiation. And… your eyes. The system recorded undocumented ocular anomalies. The iris… moves.

The silence was dense.

—So… what am I to your system?

The woman swallowed.

—Sebastián Solís. Registered citizen. But…

She tapped a command. A red line appeared:

"Restricted profile – active confidential file."

—You are now part of a special category. No charges. No blocks. But you will be… observed.

Sebastián nodded. He did not argue. He did not defend himself. He only accepted it.

—What happened to my mother's things? —he asked, shifting the focus as if all the rest hadn't mattered.

The woman consulted the system again.

—Elena Solís. Deceased in a traffic accident ten years ago. The pension accumulated during your absence was safeguarded. The account is still active. You may access the balance when you activate a user key.

Sebastián listened as one hears a foreign tongue.

—I don't know what a key is. I don't know how to use that.

She did not mock him. She only explained calmly.

—You must approach a public terminal. Insert this card —she handed him a plastic with his name engraved—. The system will guide you to create an access code. From there you can view your account, move money, or withdraw cash. If you don't know how to use it, you may ask for help at an assisted point.

He held the card as if it were a sheet written in fire.

—And the place where we lived?

—The apartment was sealed due to lack of heirs. No one claimed it. But as direct son, with your identity validated, it is now yours. You may request official access whenever you wish.

—And… my father?

The woman checked the file. Several seconds passed.

—There is no registered information. The field appears… empty.

Sebastián said nothing. But his face —so marked, so mature, so distant from the age his body suggested— hardened a little more.

He stored the card.

—Thank you —he said without emotion.

—Do you want… to know something else?

Sebastián shook his head.

—She left things for me —he said, as a final note—. Even without knowing if I would return.

He left the office. Virka was waiting for him. Her hand rejoined his without asking. Narka said nothing, but his claws gripped more firmly on Sebastián's shoulder, as if he had just witnessed another kind of war.

And though the world went on… Sebastián now had more than strength.

He had a name. He had a legacy.

He had a place to return to.

The door closed behind him.

The world was still there. Virka looked at him in silence. Narka blinked slowly, perched on his shoulder like an ancient witness.

But Sebastián did not move.

Not yet.

He turned. Reentered the building.

The clerk raised her gaze, surprised. The system showed no active requests. Everything had already been validated.

—Did you forget something?

—Yes —he said, voice firm, without harshness.

He approached the counter again.

—Earlier you said: "Do you want to know something else?"

She nodded, confused.

—I thought you didn't want to know anything else.

He held her gaze. There was no fury, no rage. But there was a different gravity. As if each word were a fragment of something deeper than blood.

—I don't want to know anything else about what she left me.

—Then… what are you looking for?

Sebastián lowered his voice. But not its intensity.

—I want to know what happened to her.

Silence fell between them like a slab.

—My mother. Elena Solís. Where is her body?

The clerk blinked, as if that question were not often asked. She searched the system, typed a line of query. The monitor flickered a few times.

—Her death was recorded in the database… but there is no record of a funeral transfer.

—So?

—The report says her body was found inside the vehicle, but… —she paused—. Information was omitted. Here it only says: "Transferred to external facilities." No detail.

—What kind of facilities?

—That… —she typed again, her fingers trembling slightly—. That is under a sealed file category. Classification D-Res.

—D-Res?

—Departments of Special Safekeeping. Remains… or unidentified entities.

Sebastián did not blink.

—My mother was considered… an entity?

—I don't know. Maybe due to the state of the accident. Maybe… because of what they found with her.

—And you can't tell me more?

—Not from here.

For a moment, the woman hesitated. Then she pulled out a small white paper with a reference number.

—With this code you may request access to the Sealed Archive, at a Central Office. But… it will be difficult. Those kinds of requests… are investigated.

Sebastián took the paper. Put it in his pocket. He did not say thank you.

It wasn't needed.

He returned to Virka and Narka. He explained nothing. He didn't need to.

Because there was something in his way of walking, in the tension of his jaw, in the faint crumpling of the paper in his fingers…

that said everything necessary.

He had returned for his name.

But now… he would return for his dead. The paper was still in his pocket, wrinkled by his fingers. Not from nerves. From weight.

It was not paper. It was a crack.

They left the building without hurry, but without pause. The automatic doors opened with a metallic whisper, as if they too wished they had not heard what had been said inside.

Virka took his hand, without words. The pressure of her fingers was light, but firm. Like a promise without date. Her black dress swayed in the urban wind, mixing shadow and elegance, while her eyes observed the buildings with the distrust of one who has lived among beasts… and now fears humans.

—Are we going back to the place we slept last night? —she asked, without looking at him.

Sebastián shook his head softly.

—No. We're going home.

—Your mother's?

—Mine —he corrected—. Even if it doesn't seem so… there is still something there that belongs to me.

Narka, from his shoulder, exhaled a deep sound. Not mockery. Ancient resignation.

—And if you don't find it… will you keep walking with an empty chest?

—I am not emptying myself —Sebastián answered—. I am shaping myself.

They walked in silence through the gray streets of a world that was no longer theirs, but not anyone else's either.

Vehicles passed without stopping, ignoring the storm of presences that crossed among them. No one looked at Virka too long, because her eyes returned an animal edge that instinct recognized and avoided. Narka, shrunken on Sebastián's shoulder, seemed only a strange tortoise… until he breathed.

The building appeared before them like a materialized memory. The concrete had aged, but had not surrendered. The stairs still creaked the same, though slower. The railings were still cold. The air smelled of confinement without mourning.

They climbed without speaking.

Each step on the stairway was another note in the broken song of his childhood.

When they reached the apartment, Sebastián opened it with the key he had recovered. He was not surprised to feel the dampness, the dust, the echo of a life paused by ten years of waiting.

—Virka, stay by the door —he said—. Narka, watch from the window. I don't want interruptions.

Both nodded without protest.

Sebastián walked down the hallway with noiseless steps. He entered first into his old room. The place where he had found the remains of himself.

He touched the doorframe.

—Here I stopped being a child.

Then he turned right, toward his mother's room.

The door did not creak. It was ajar. As if still waiting for visitors.

The smell was different. Less dust. More… memory.

Elena Solís had lived there. She had cried, laughed, and above all… she had loved.

On the nightstand, covered with an old cloth, was the notebook.

The same one.

The one with worn covers.

The one she read in the park. The one she held the day of the accident. The one that contained the letters of her dead husband. Sebastián's father.

He took it with both hands. Not like one opens a book. But like one holds a heart.

He opened only one page.

"Take care of him as if you were the whole world. Because to him, that is what you are."

Sebastián closed the notebook slowly.

Not from fear. From respect.

—This… I will read it with her —he said softly—. Not before. Not without her body.

He kept the notebook in his coat, against his chest.

As if thus, at least for now, he could keep them united.

He returned to the living room.

Virka was still by the door. She looked at him with a dry but attentive expression.

—Did you find something?

He nodded.

—Yes. Fragments. But each fragment has direction.

—And now?

—Now… I join them.

He returned again to his mother's room. This time, he opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand.

Inside, a metal box.

He opened it carefully.

Documents. A copy of his birth certificate. Some folded papers. And at the bottom… the card his mother always carried with her. The same one she used to pay in the stores. The same one she sometimes left on the table, next to her notebook.

—At least part of you… is still here —he whispered, reading the engraved name: Elena Solís.

It was not an object. It was a voice without sound.

He kept the card along with the notebook.

Then left the room.

Narka was already waiting on the windowsill.

—And?

—Tomorrow I will go to the Central Archive.

—To look for what? —asked Narka, climbing down to the floor.

—To look for my mother's body.

Virka said nothing. But her eyes followed him with the force of one who, without understanding everything, understood everything.

And in that flowerless silence, Sebastián Solís returned home.

Not as a child.

Not as a monster.

But as the son of an incomplete promise. Dawn was breaking.

The apartment no longer smelled of confinement, but of stirred memory.

Sebastián rose without making a sound. Virka slept at his side, wrapped in a sheet that barely covered her back. Her breathing was serene, and her face… human. More than he felt himself capable of being.

Narka was awake. Watching through the window, as if he did not trust that the blue sky was not hiding something.

—Will you go? —asked the old shell without turning.

Sebastián nodded.

—Today I want to know… what they did with her.

Virka awoke at his words. She said nothing, only dressed in silence. And walked beside him, never letting go of his hand.

The neighborhood had changed.

The same stalls were no longer there. The park had different playgrounds. And the people… the people no longer looked the same. Now they saw him as a stranger.

Sebastián stopped before a small store. Inside, a middle-aged woman was arranging drink cans on a shelf.

He entered.

The little bell above the door rang timidly.

The woman looked up and her eyes met his. She blinked at the sight of his black pupils encircled by red spirals, but said nothing.

—Excuse me —said Sebastián, without embellishment—. Where is the Central Office of Records and Archives?

She looked at him cautiously, as if unsure whether she faced a madman or someone who simply knew nothing.

—Do you mean the government building, where they keep the files of deceased people?

He nodded.

—That one.

—It's fifteen minutes walking, north. Two avenues, then turn right. It has a blue dome. You can't miss it. Are you all right?

—Now I am —he replied.

And he left.

The building rose like a living tomb. Straight, cold, of grayish cement. Above the entrance, an old sign read:

"Central Office of National Registry and Conservation – Level 4A."

There were guards, but they asked nothing when they saw him. Or perhaps they did not dare.

Inside, the air was dense. There was silence… but not the comfortable kind. It was the silence of places where the past has not yet been fully archived.

He approached the main desk.

A clerk, different from the previous one, greeted him in a monotonous voice:

—Reason for visit?

—My mother —he said—. Her body. I want to know where it is.

She blinked.

Typed something.

—Full name of the deceased.

—Elena Solís.

There was a moment of stillness. Then the typing grew faster.

—Relationship?

—Son.

—Do you have a state identification number?

He handed her his new card. She scanned it.

—Sebastián Solís… confirmed. Registry updated 48 hours ago.

The silence returned.

—What happened to her? —he asked.

The woman swallowed.

—I wasn't expecting more questions from you. According to the file, you rejected state benefits.

—I rejected their system. Not my mother.

The clerk diverted her gaze to the screen.

—Her body was preserved during the first years. It was kept in the Special Conservation Sector by direct order of the family protection department. Later… it was transferred to state storage.

—Is it still there?

—Yes. In cryopreservation. Underground level 2.

—I want to take her with me.

She frowned. Not with annoyance. With astonishment.

—Do you have legal authorization or a judicial order?

—I am her son. And now… I have a name again.

The woman hesitated. Then lowered her voice.

—It's not common. No one comes to claim bodies after so much time.

Sebastián held her gaze without blinking.

—I didn't come to fit into your statistics.

The clerk said nothing else.

She printed a sheet.

—Present it at the side door. They'll give you access to the underground level. I cannot guarantee the body's condition… but it's intact. Frozen. Still identifiable.

—That's enough.

He took the sheet.

Virka, who had waited silently at his side, looked at him.

—Are you ready?

—No.

—Then… we go anyway.

And they descended.

One, two, three.

Until the cold of the underground became more real than that of the refrigerators.

Until the dead… ceased to be only names.

The hallway was long, straight, frozen.

White light. White silence. White walls.

But the memory… black.

Sebastián walked at the front, without haste. The paper in his hand was a key. But not one that opened doors. One that opened cracks.

Virka followed at his side. She had not let go of his hand since they left the elevator. Narka stayed on his shoulder, eyes half-shut, as if he disliked breathing the air of that place.

Finally, they arrived.

A rectangular room. Cold like a metallic womb. Inside, several capsules aligned. All the same. All faceless.

Capsule 7 still glowed.

Sebastián did not approach.

He stopped a few steps before.

His breath formed a faint mist. Not from fear. Not from doubt.

But because even he… needed time.

Virka said nothing at first. But her fingers pressed his. Not with force, but with belonging.

—Do you feel… strange? —she asked.

He did not answer immediately. Only lowered his gaze, as if the floor knew more than the walls.

—I have torn apart bodies of monsters that screamed like men —he murmured finally—. I have opened torsos with my bare hands. I have drunk blood, eaten flesh… bathed in boiling entrails.

—And yet… —Narka whispered from his shoulder— today you tremble.

—I don't tremble —Sebastián replied, with a drier tone—. I just… don't know if she will still look like the last time.

—And how was the last time? —Virka asked.

He closed his eyes.

—Motionless over the steering wheel. Hair over her face. A red thread falling from her forehead. Lips open… but without song.

None of them said anything.

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable.

It was necessary.

—I do not fear the dead —Sebastián continued—. Nor ghosts. But that image… of her lifeless… was the last thing I saw before the world tore me away.

—And now —said Narka, gravely— you come to reclaim her. Even if only a body.

—Yes.

Virka stepped closer. Her red eyes, without spirals, looked at him with a mix of tenderness and fierceness.

—Do you know what you will feel when you see her?

—No —he answered, sincere.

—Do you expect to feel something?

Sebastián took his time to reply.

—I want to feel that I did not forget her.

Narka snorted.

—You don't forget. You just swallow it all… until one day it rots inside.

Virka caressed his arm, slowly.

—She gave you your first name. This world stole it. Draila gave you another. But what you are about to do… belongs to no world. It is yours.

—And what does that mean?

—That what you decide here… will mark more than your blood.

Silence.

The capsule glowed. Still closed. Still intact.

—When I open it —Sebastián said—, I will not be an emperor. I will not be a monster. I will only be… a son returning late.

—Then —Virka whispered, resting her forehead on his shoulder— return with dignity.

—And with truth —added Narka—. For the dead are not lied to. And least of all, those who still inhabit you.

Sebastián inhaled.

The air entered his lungs as if it cost more than before.

—I am ready —he said, without drama—. Not because I feel strong. But because she deserves me to be here, even if she no longer breathes.

And he took a step forward.

Just one.

The next… would open the cold.

And the past.

The capsule gave a subtle hiss, like a sigh held back for a decade. The doors began to separate slowly, releasing a whitish mist that smelled of clean metal, of contained chemicals, of interrupted time.

Sebastián did not blink. He stood before it, firm… but not cold.

At his side, Virka held his hand with silent strength. Not from fear. But from respect.

On his shoulder, Narka remained motionless, like a living statue, his eyes glowing with a faint gleam that cast no judgment. Only presence.

The vapor dissipated. And there she was.

The body of Elena Solís.

Light brown skin, like the soft reflection of a dawn that never aged. Her dark hair, still delicately combed, lay on her shoulders as if she had been prepared for a farewell that never came. The eyes —closed, serene— did not allow the view of the warm tone they once held: light brown, the kind that seemed to invite conversation even when everything hurt.

She measured about 1.70 meters. Her body, preserved by advanced state methods, showed no signs of the final trauma. It had been treated, restored as much as possible. But Sebastián knew what had happened.

He remembered.

He remembered the waxen face under the rain.

He remembered the thread of blood on her forehead.

He remembered the parted lips… with no song.

He took a step forward. He did not tremble. But something in his chest tightened, as if each rib became a ring of fire.

—Hello, Mom…

His words fell like soft stones. Not the voice of a child. The voice of someone who had survived himself.

—I was looking for you. For so long.

He looked at her hands, her face, her stillness.

—I didn't come back sooner. Not because I didn't want to… but because I couldn't.

He leaned a little. Rested his forehead on the capsule, right over her motionless chest.

—I walked through biomes of blood and hunger. I slept among ruins. I fought creatures without names. I drank things that should not exist. I ate flesh no god would have allowed. I saw horrors… and became one.

He raised his gaze.

—In one of those places… I saw you. It wasn't you. But it was your image. Your form. Your tenderness. A spectral figure that rose from the mud. I approached… and passed through it. And my eyes… my eyes no longer had human tears. I cried blood. I screamed like a child… but with the broken voice of a creature without solace.

And then, he turned slightly.

—I'm not alone now.

Virka stepped closer. She did not let go of his hand. She stood at his side as one who presents themselves before an altar. Her black dress waved in the soft air of the ventilation system. She was fierce and beautiful. A human figure that had been beast… and now seemed to protect the one who once devoured the world.

—She is Virka. She is mine —said Sebastián, with a firmness that was not arrogance. It was emotional belonging.

Then he pointed to his shoulder, where Narka blinked heavily.

—And he is Narka. My shield. My judgment. Not always small… but now yes. Because this world would not tolerate his true form.

Narka made a deep sound, like a muffled snore.

—I hope you're not jealous, mother —he growled calmly—. But we are family. Strange. Broken. Strong.

Virka tilted her head slightly. Looked at Elena's motionless face, then at Sebastián. Then she spoke, her voice deep, unadorned.

—I did not inherit your blood. But I share his core. If you ever dream… dream of me guarding him.

Silence filled the room again. But it was not empty. It was reverence.

Sebastián leaned closer. He did not cry. He did not need to.

—The notebook… I will read it with you. When we are together one last time. When you no longer have cold, nor waiting, nor distance.

He straightened.

The capsule was still open, but he closed it slowly. Not to hide her.

But so she could rest.

And as the glass sealed again, Virka stepped behind him, hugged him at the waist, and rested her head on his back.

—She would be proud —she said—. Not for what you've done. But for having returned.

Narka said nothing.

But the silence, in that cold room, became home for an instant.

END OF CHAPTER 17