On the Path of Eternal Strength.

The capsule exhaled an icy sigh, as if in surrender it admitted that death had not finished its work. A faint glimmer ran through the metallic joints, and the hatch began to open slowly, releasing cold vapor, with the sound of something waking without knowing if it still deserved to.

Sebastián did not look away.

He was alone with her.

Alone with Virka, at his side, and Narka on his shoulder.

There were no external witnesses.

There were no commanding voices.

Only the three of them and the echo of what remained of a mother's heart.

The face of Elena Solís emerged from the mist, pale, whole, with the halted serenity of a long and cruel dream. The light brown skin seemed to have fallen asleep the very day Sebastián saw her die. The dark hair fell like a solemn veil, framing the oval of a face where death had remained silent. Her hands rested crossed over her abdomen, still, protective, as if they still waited to embrace him.

Sebastián took a step forward.

He did not tremble.

But something in his throat hardened, like a burnt stone.

He took out the notebook with worn covers —the one he had kept against his chest since he picked it up from the apartment—, and placed it carefully upon Elena's cold chest, arranging her hands around the book like a final prayer, a mute plea.

—This book is yours —he whispered—. So that you may dream with it… if you can dream where you are.

He breathed deeply. And lifted her in his arms.

It was not an act of superhuman strength.

It was an act of a son.

A broken son, who had learned to carry death and to bring destruction in order to create something new, but who still remembered how to hold the woman who gave him his name.

—She entered here alone —he said, with a firm voice—. She will not leave that way.

Virka, at his side, remained motionless, red eyes fixed, protective to the marrow.

Narka on his shoulder exhaled a deep growl, like a stone guardian.

When Sebastián crossed the door of the preservation chamber, the lights detected his departure and flickered.

It didn't take long for two archive employees and a pair of guards to appear, surprised by the scene. One of them raised his voice: —Sir! You cannot remove her this way, protocol requires a signed release and proper medical transfer!

Sebastián looked at them.

There was no anger in his expression.

Only an incandescent gleam in his spiraled gaze, an abyss that did not accept chains.

—I don't intend to leave her here —he said, without raising his tone—. Nor allow her to be a number, nor a sealed shelf, nor a dead archive.

She is my mother.

And she leaves with me.

The guards swallowed hard. They felt—without knowing how to explain why—that this man, with his crown of power suppressed and those impossible eyes, could turn them into dust with a single decision.

They did not dare move.

They only stepped back, giving him passage.

Sebastián adjusted the weight against his chest, making sure not to bend her, not to fracture his mother's dignity for even a second.

Virka, firm at his side, walked in step.

Narka on his shoulder let out a low growl, as if warning that this was no time to try and seize anything.

Then Sebastián, holding her with reverence, looked at the door that led to the outside world and spoke slowly, like a steady echo:

—Today I take you back.

Today you walk with me again.

And he took the step.

Not with rage.

Not with pride.

With a love so hard and so pure that death itself seemed to step aside.

The automatic exit opened, and the cold air of the free world brushed Elena's skin.

It was a simple and sacred moment.

A son, a mother, and two impossible companions.

A fragment of family that refused to rot on the shelves of a system.

And so, with the woman who taught him to name the world, Sebastián stepped out onto the morning asphalt, to show her that even the dead… could be saved.

The automatic gate of the archive closed behind them with a muted hum, as if it did not dare to bid farewell to someone who no longer fit its sterile silence.

The outside air received them like a harsh heartbeat. Cars, voices, footsteps. A world far too ordinary to understand what Sebastián carried in his arms. He would not expose her to that crowd.

He would not surrender her to a parade of hollow gazes.

He drew a deep breath.

His Qi rose like the murmur of a contained storm. It was not an outburst; it was a dense caress, enveloping, that descended from his core and covered his mother's body with the delicacy of a mantle of living silk. Every filament of energy adapted to her form, shielding her from the elements, from the dust, from the indifference of the world.

The street understood nothing.

But Sebastián did.

The Qi pulsed once more, spreading like a veil, and the world began to transform.

The sky cracked with a dry, impossible sound, as if the celestial vault were crystal shattering.

From the fissures gushed a spectral light, pale, unnameable, floating among broken hues that seemed to seize every color and devour it.

In a single heartbeat, the human figures vanished.

The streets, the buildings remained… and the emptiness.

Only the three of them, as if a strange god had swept humanity away from the scene.

Sebastián looked around.

At his side, Virka observed him with a wild gleam in her eyes, as if she understood that this was an improvised sanctuary, a temple without stones.

Narka, on his shoulder, also lifted his gaze, and Sebastián spoke to him without softness, but with profound respect:

—This world… no longer holds you, Narka. You don't need to remain shrunken. Here —he pointed at the broken sky, the spectral light, the sundered reality— here you can be yourself.

Narka let out a deep, resonant growl, and his body began to grow.

The shell, once reduced, expanded with creaks that sounded like mountains breaking; his legs extended, living columns of rock and mineral, until the creature regained its true dimension, impossible, colossal, worthy of legend.

His golden eyes, so ancient, shone with the gravity of centuries.

And there he was.

Narka, as he was meant to be.

As a guardian, not as an ornament.

Virka stepped forward, brushed Sebastián's arm softly.

—The normal world could never understand this —she told him, her voice firm, almost fierce—.

But I can.

And I will remain at your side… so that you do not forget who you are.

Sebastián looked at her with mute gratitude.

He pressed more firmly the cold body of his mother, safeguarded in the mantle of Qi that pulsed like a second heart. There was no doubt in his expression.

Only resolve.

—I will not carry her —he said at last— among eyes that never knew her.

She does not deserve to be merchandise, nor spectacle, nor statistic.

She deserves to return home… with me.

He adjusted the weight more carefully, making sure that the worn-covered notebook remained on Elena's chest, like a final prayer.

Then he lifted his gaze, with the certainty of someone who knows he walks among ruins but also upon a path built with his own breath.

—Let's go —he murmured, and his voice seemed to crack the very solitude.

Virka walked at his left flank, her steps fluid, almost dance-like, the stance of a protective huntress.

Narka, now in his true size, advanced behind them, as heavy and as steady as a fragment of the world's end.

Together they formed a small impossible procession:

a son, a beloved beast, an ancestral guardian, and a mother asleep beneath a mantle of Qi.

The empty streets of the veil unfolded before them like a map without inhabitants.

There was no wind, no foreign sounds.

Only the echo of their footsteps and the murmur of Sebastián's own heart, beating slow, determined.

They crossed entire avenues, old corners that still kept the shadow of the park where Elena had taught him to play.

They passed beneath bridges forgotten by time.

And each step, each meter, became a ritual:

a promise of return, a hymn without music.

In the distance, the silhouette of the building appeared where his childhood had been interrupted.

Home.

That place that had seen him depart.

And that now would receive his mother, one last time.

Sebastián inhaled.

The air in the veil carried no scent, but within him he still remembered his mother's perfume.

He let it in.

He let it burn.

—Soon —he told her, without expecting an answer—.

Soon you will rest where no one calls you archive.

Soon you will be only mother… not record. And he advanced.

Firm.

Dark.

With death in his arms, and hope beating in his chest like a fire.

The veil stretched out like a dream without heartbeats.

Streets without people, buildings sunk in a spectral glow, lampposts flickering like blind eyes. Everything was still, almost reverent, as if the world itself held its breath so as not to offend the mother who slept in her son's arms.

Sebastián moved forward without hesitation.

Elena's body remained shielded in its mantle of Qi, the notebook resting on her chest like a talisman.

Virka walked at his flank, gaze fixed, wild and tender at once, while Narka, in his full colossal span, seemed a guardian risen from the earth itself.

There was no noise.

There was no wind.

Until something… moved.

A shadow emerged from a crossing of streets, enormous, too fluid to be flesh and too tangible to be a specter. Its form writhed as if carved from smoke and steel at once: six legs, two pairs of gleaming eyes, and a body covered in plates etched with runes that lit with each breath.

The magical beast of the veil.

A guardian.

A living curiosity that belonged neither to gods, nor to demons, nor to any man.

Sebastián did not stop.

He only watched it with his spiral red gaze, his breathing contained yet steady.

He did not fear it.

He did not flee it.

The creature bowed its head, dragging a deep sound that resembled a broken bell, and sniffed the air heavy with Qi.

Its pupils traced the figure of Elena, motionless and sacred in Sebastián's embrace.

The beast seemed to hesitate.

It stepped forward once.

The edges of its form crackled with living magic, like fire without flame.

Virka tensed her stance.

So did Narka.

But Sebastián raised his voice slightly, so calm it froze the air: ChatGPT dijo:

—She is not your prey.

Nor your curiosity.

Nor your offering.

The creature looked at him.

Its four eyes narrowed, and a glimmer—almost of respect—passed across its body made of floating symbols.

Then it lowered its head, as if paying tribute, and stepped back, vanishing into the cracked concrete of the veil.

There was no battle.

There was no roar.

Only the acceptance that, in that instant, the broken son walked beyond any hierarchy the veil could impose.

They continued on their way, in silence, breathing that dense air that did not know whether it was alive or dead.

The building appeared in the distance, dark, silent, waiting.

The apartment that had seen Sebastián laugh when he was barely a human pup.

The same that had let him go.

Sebastián felt a pulse in his own blood, as if his whole life had coiled itself to bite him at that moment.

He held his mother's body more firmly, making sure that nothing—neither magic, nor indifference, nor time—could take her from him again.

Virka brushed his shoulder, softly, and Narka let out a deep breath that seemed to drag the voice of the mountain itself.

—We're almost there —murmured Sebastián, almost to himself.

Not as a promise.

Not as comfort.

As truth.

They climbed the steps of the entrance, and when they crossed the door of the apartment block, the veil faded with a whisper, like a curtain falling after the last scene of a tragic play.

They returned to the normal world.

But nothing was normal anymore.

The walls had new cracks.

The paint smelled of the past.

But for Sebastián, that too was home.

He stopped in front of the door of his old apartment.

He breathed.

He rested his forehead for a moment on the frame, remembering his mother's hands. When they pushed him out to play, when they fixed his hair, when they tucked him in against nightmares.

—We're home —he whispered to her.

And he pushed the door, carrying her inside, so that death could find one last place to sleep.

Sebastián moved through the hallway of his old apartment, the door yielding with a faint groan that seemed to tear apart the stillness of the veil. The air was heavy with old dust and suspended memories. There were no voices there. No foreign breaths. Only the spectral light filtering through the cracks of the broken sky, like a contained sob.

Virka walked at his side, silent, her black dress flowing like an obedient shadow. Narka, colossal, barely tilted his shell so as not to shatter the doorframe, his presence as solemn as that of a guardian from another world.

Everything remained suspended in the veil. No noises, no foreign steps, no gaze from the world.

Sebastián laid his mother's body down carefully, upon the same child's carpet where he had once played at building wooden fortresses. Nothing had moved. Everything was covered by a patina of arrested memories.

He looked at his mother, still, sustained by the mantle of Qi that protected her from the cold, from death without dignity. He felt the weight of the walls, of each corner, of every forgotten toy.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and his Qi expanded.

It was not a strike of power, but a serene pulse, steady, almost religious.

The Level 6 he had mastered allowed him to project multiple structures, weaving an altar of living light around Elena's body. It was like building a temple made of breaths, of red threads and transparent pulses.

He raised her, gently, so that she floated in the air, as if the world itself refused to touch her.

Sebastián opened the worn-covered notebook with a tremor that climbed from his fingers to his throat.

There were Gabriel Reyes' letters, his father's, written in firm handwriting, simple words filled with love.

They spoke of the joy of a son, of the fear of being lost, of the certainty of loving Elena with every piece of his life.

He also found the photograph, wrinkled by time, of Gabriel embracing a pregnant Elena, both laughing, as if the world could not harm them.

More notes from Elena, handwritten, with strikethroughs and stains of tears: the loneliness of raising a child alone, the terror of not knowing if she would be enough, the promise of never abandoning him.

Among the last pages, he read a short poem, almost improvised, in his mother's handwriting:

"If the world breaks, I will lend you my arms to hold it."

And finally, at the edge of the last page, the phrase that pierced his soul:

"No matter how far you go, you will always be my little boy." He closed the notebook, feeling it beat against his chest like a foreign heart.

He looked at his mother, floating, intact, and memory dragged him without permission to the swings in the park, to the afternoon where he played while she read, to the song she hummed so fear would not overcome him.

He remembered the glass of milk with honey, the teddy bear.

He remembered the laughter.

He remembered the last moment in the car, when the storm took everything except her voice.

He opened his eyes.

His Qi tightened, raising the altar even higher, and slowly he began to unravel Elena's body into particles of light, with a pulse so gentle it felt like a whisper from the soul.

It was not death.

It was release.

Every cell became a shining point, like stardust returning to its sky.

Virka stared, unblinking, with respect, her burning eyes trembling.

Narka lowered his head, nearly grazing the floor, as if offering the greatest of reverences.

Sebastián held his breath.

He felt the tremor of the song in his throat, and let it escape.

At first low, broken, like the voice of a child:

— With you… I will always stay…

Virka joined in, wild, her dark tone attempting to embrace the melody.

Narka let out a deep rumble, almost like the echo of a living mountain.

It was a prayer without a god.

A prayer born from monsters and humans, to honor what once meant home.

The particles of light rose, dancing slowly, and Sebastián felt—or wanted to feel—a hand brushing his cheek, like when he was a child and his mother called him to sleep.

He heard in his memory the phrase written:

"No matter how far you go, you will always be my little boy."

His knees gave way.

He pressed the notebook against his chest, and the altar of Qi closed softly, as if sealing his mother's last breath.

No corpse remained.

No grave remained.

Only the memory transformed into light, and the certainty that no archive, no record, could ever confine her again.

Virka knelt at his side, in silence, and rested her forehead on his shoulder.

Narka remained firm behind them, guarding the entrance of that dimension, like a sentinel who does not forget. Sebastián drew in a deep breath.

He let the last particle fade away.

And he whispered, without fear, without breaking:

—Mom… you can fly now.

He stood up, feeling the weight of the notebook, and knew that book would be his only true inheritance.

He turned to Virka and Narka, with a tremor that was not weakness, but gratitude, and took the first step to leave.

The apartment sank once more into shadow, but he, upon leaving, carried with him the only flame that truly mattered:

the memory of a love so strong that not even death could confine it.

And so, with his new family at his side, Sebastián walked through the veil, leaving behind the most honorable tomb he could build:

an altar of light, woven with the music of his childhood, and the promise of never, never being lost entirely again.

The apartment, in the end, looked like a coffin of memories.

Not because it held death, but because its walls could no longer contain the truth of what Sebastián was now.

The furniture, the sweet scent of old wood, the peeling paint… all spoke of a child who had existed there, of a mother who had loved there, of a life that would never, ever be repeated.

Sebastián breathed deeply.

The altar of Qi had vanished, and only stillness remained.

A good stillness.

A complete stillness.

He looked around, letting every crack, every stain, every speck of dust engrave itself in his mind like an eternal tattoo.

There was no escape.

There was no rejection.

Only acceptance.

Because his Dao—the path of eternal strength—could not depend on a static space.

What had been would not be lost.

But neither could he allow it to hold him back.

He bent down to pick up the worn-covered notebook, the only true inheritance of his mother and father.

He held it carefully, as if it contained the heartbeat of the entire world, and tucked it into his coat, close to his heart.

Then he turned to Virka, who looked at him with those red eyes so full of hunger and restrained tenderness.

Narka, still colossal, remained with his head bowed, waiting for his decision. —This place… —Sebastián began, his voice deep but without tremor— cannot sustain what I am now.

Not because I fear these walls, nor because their memories wound me.

But because my path cannot remain trapped here.

The Dao I seek—my eternal strength—cannot be built upon dead dust.

But neither do I forget anything.

Not a laugh.

Not a tear.

Not a kiss.

He touched his chest, where he kept the notebook, and continued:

—I will carry this with me, so that every step remembers where I came from.

So that, when I become a monster or a myth, I do not lose the root of my blood.

So that she —he allowed a spark of tenderness— walks by my side even though she no longer has a body.

Virka tilted her head slightly, her black hair falling like a living veil, her voice rough, wild:

—Did you think you would walk alone?

No.

I am your shadow, Sebastián.

And your beast.

I will not release your step, no matter what the path may be.

Narka, with that deep rumble that dragged centuries, allowed himself a faint exhale that sounded almost like irony:

—You were a child in this place…

But you will not be one again.

And yet, I will remain with you.

As the guardian you never knew, but whom you chose.

A faint, fractured smile crossed Sebastián's face.

It was not joy.

It was peace.

He suppressed his Qi with a single deep breath, letting the crimson energy gather back into his core, invisible, silent.

The atmosphere eased with it, as if the air itself could breathe again.

Then he laid his hand upon Narka, with the softness of one who caresses a colossus, and murmured:

—Return to your small form, brother.

This world cannot yet bear the magnitude of what we are.

Narka nodded, and his gigantic body began to contract, subtle creaks running across his mineral plates, until he became once again the shoulder turtle the world could accept.

Virka settled at Sebastián's right flank, a little closer, almost brushing against him, as if wordlessly claiming her place. Sebastián walked toward the door, pausing for an instant to look at the threshold, the peeling frame, the crayon stain on the wall from his childhood.

He sighed.

—Thank you —he said to the air, not to anyone in particular—.

For holding me when I was so small.

And for not rejecting me when I returned so broken.

He opened the door.

He left the apartment behind, without locking it, because tombs are not closed.

And he went out, with Virka at his side, Narka on his shoulder, the notebook against his chest like a new heart.

—Let's go —he told them—.

To find a place where we can be ourselves.

Where the world doesn't decide what home is… but we do.

Virka smiled, her fangs just barely showing.

—What you break, we will rebuild.

And if not, we will dance among the ruins.

Narka snorted, grave and amused.

—We expected nothing less.

Together they descended the stairs of the building, crossing the still-lingering veil, a deformed world that trembled at their steps.

There was no one left to watch them.

Only an open horizon, twisted, and the murmur of a city that could not suspect that an emperor, a beast, and a guardian had just awakened within it.

Sebastián did not look back.

Because he had finally understood that moving forward does not mean losing.

It means remembering.

And in remembering, even the monster could keep walking with his head held high, knowing that his strength is not born from fear…

but from never forgetting where he began.

They walked through the city without fear, without haste, without concealment.

People looked at them, of course.

Because it was impossible not to.

Sebastián advanced with steady steps, his mother's notebook pressed to his chest like a living talisman, his spiral red eyes contained yet inhuman, and a bearing so serene it seemed to defy gravity itself.

His presence felt fleeting, as if he barely belonged to this world.

At his side, Virka walked with the unsettling beauty of an eclipse: dark, imposing, with a raw sensuality bordering on the savage, impossible to classify. Her black hair floated gently around her shoulders, her fair skin gleamed under the artificial light, and her red eyes were so intense they hurt to look at.

People watched her with a fearful fascination, like those who stand at the edge of a deep ocean, unsure whether to dive in or flee.

On Sebastián's shoulder, Narka remained small, a mineral creature with a fractured shell, veined with glowing cracks.

He looked like nothing more than a strange turtle, but in truth he was the silent guard of a forgotten world.

None of the three flinched at the stares or the whispers.

Sebastián walked with the certainty that nothing needed to be hidden.

There was no guilt in his steps.

No disguise in his gestures.

Only memory and the conviction to move forward.

As he stopped at a crosswalk, Virka brushed his hand without shame, with a gesture laden with restrained desire, more seductive than wild.

Sebastián held it for a moment, with the same naturalness as breathing.

Narka exhaled softly, like a resigned sage, resting on his shoulder with the calm of a patient guardian.

When the traffic cleared, Sebastián murmured:

—I'm hungry.

Virka looked at him in surprise.

—Hungry?

—Yes —he said—. For normal food.

—Normal…? —she repeated, as if the concept were a foreign language.

Narka gave a low grunt, heavy with humor.

—Could be worse —he remarked—. At least he's not making us chew beast bones today.

That drew a short, sincere laugh from Sebastián.

He scanned the street until he spotted a small, simple restaurant, with wide glass windows and soft lights, offering straightforward dishes: pasta, meats, vegetables.

No banners, no strange names—just food.

—There —he pointed.

Virka nodded, a curious gleam in her eyes.

—I want to try it.

Narka did not protest, though his shell vibrated faintly, as if testing his patience.

Upon entering, people quickly averted their gaze, uneasy before that impossible little troop.

The waitress, a young woman in a light uniform, greeted them with a tremor she barely concealed.

"G-good afternoon…"

Sebastián nodded respectfully, calming the tension:

"Good afternoon."

"Table for… three?"

He nodded again. —Yes.

The young woman led them to a corner, speaking softly, without raising her voice.

Virka sat with the elegance of someone who never knew how to be simple, her dress settling like a second skin, her posture upright and sensual, secure in every gesture.

Sebastián placed Narka gently on the table, who let out a low, deep sound, tolerating the height with the dignity of an old emperor.

Around them, conversation at other tables dwindled, almost instinctively.

The menu arrived.

Virka took it carefully, her glowing eyes passing over the images of pasta, stews, steamed vegetables.

—Is this… nourishment? —she asked, almost fascinated.

—Yes —Sebastián replied—. No blood. No roars.

Narka rolled his eyes with soft irony.

—No entrails?

—No entrails —Sebastián repeated, holding back a laugh.

They chose simple dishes: a beef stew with vegetables and warm bread.

Sebastián pulled out the bank card and stared at it for a moment, as if holding some arcane amulet.

—This… pays —he explained awkwardly, handing it to the waitress when she returned.

The young woman nodded and left, still visibly nervous.

While they waited, Sebastián looked through the wide window.

The afternoon was beginning to turn golden, casting reflections on the glass, and the murmur of the city surrounded them like an endless river.

There, in that ordinary restaurant, three impossible beings tried to share a simple moment—and that was almost a miracle.

—I want to keep this memory —he said softly—.

Not to chain myself… but so as not to forget that, sometimes, being human also means stopping to feel.

Virka smiled, and that gesture lit her lips in such a natural way it seemed dangerous.

—Where you go —she whispered—, I will go.

Because your steps are mine.

Sebastián looked at her, feeling the warmth of that phrase carve itself beneath his skin.

—Thank you —he answered, simple and deep.

Narka let out a discreet rumble.

—As long as there is space upon your shoulder, Sebastián, I will remain.

And when there isn't… I will make space.

A small laugh bound them together.

It was an imperfect sound, broken, but authentic.

Shortly after, the food arrived. The steaming stew, the bread, the aroma of spices and meat.

Virka leaned in, inhaling the dish with an intensity that almost seemed dangerous, but she restrained herself.

She took a piece of meat, tasted it clumsily, and her pupils widened.

—This… tastes like the world —she said, surprised.

Narka, skeptical, took a piece of bread with his reduced claws, chewed it slowly, and muttered:

—Not bad.

It's… warm.

Useless, but warm.

Sebastián tore off a piece of bread, brought it to his mouth, and closed his eyes.

The flavor was simple, real, deep.

For a moment, he was just a young man eating on an ordinary afternoon, remembering that life could also be gentle, even if he was a monster.

He lifted the bowl as if in a toast.

—To us.

And to what we want to build.

Virka imitated him, awkwardly, but with all the strength of her newfound humanity.

Narka tilted his head, resigned, and softly tapped the rim of his own plate.

They toasted.

And they ate.

And though the stares did not cease, though the world marked them with fear and fascination, they did not feel part of any showcase.

They only felt together.

The afternoon fell, staining the sky with a broken amber. The city lingered behind them like a barely tolerated memory, while the road stretched out toward the horizon like a path with no return. At their side, the overlook rose above a brutal cliff, its railing corroded and the asphalt cracked: an edge of the world, where a single misstep would mean certain death.

There was no traffic. No witnesses. Only the whisper of wind dragging dry dust and withered leaves.

Sebastián walked slowly, senses sharpened, perceiving the living pulse of energy that throbbed beneath that ground, so concentrated that his own core seemed to vibrate in response.

That place, abandoned and fierce, was perfect.

Perfect for cultivation.

Perfect for measuring the soul.

Virka looked upon the cliff with a smile heavy with danger, as if it spoke to her in a secret language. Her gaze turned to him, glowing with a hungry spark.

—I want to test you —she said, deep, almost hoarse—. My body cannot digest calm.

Narka, perched upon Sebastián's shoulder, let out a snort that rumbled like… …beat, like a small drum.

—You should know her better by now —he joked.

Sebastián nodded, unsurprised.

—Here, then.

Virka didn't wait any longer.

He released a minimal pulse of Qi, just enough to fold the veil around them. The afternoon light shattered, transforming the world into a spectral stage, where only the cliff, the overlook, and the broken asphalt remained.

The rusted railing creaked like the bones of the dead, and the precipice waited silently for its possible sacrifice.

Virka stepped forward barefoot, her dress swirling like a specter around her thighs, every movement taut and perfect. Her body coiled with the deadly beauty of one born to kill, and her eyes gleamed with the intensity of an open abyss.

—No Qi —she reminded him, smiling.

Sebastián lowered his chin, breathing slowly, his musculature marked by living scars, prepared only with his raw strength.

Virka's first strike came like a whip, a hook straight to his side, so precise it seemed choreographed by a cruel god. Sebastián blocked it with his forearm, the impact reverberating through his bones like thunder. She spun swiftly, launching a high kick with the grace of a predator.

He ducked, dodged, and advanced with a punch that sliced the air, slamming against her forearm with the force of a hammer.

Virka barely staggered, the overlook's ground trembling beneath her foot, and she drove a knee toward Sebastián's stomach. The blow shook him, nearly lifting him off the ground.

He did not allow himself to retreat.

He answered with an elbow to her chin that made her tilt her head, but not fall.

She laughed, a short and brutal sound, and lunged again.

Her arms moved like coiled springs, her hands cutting like blades. Every strike was as lethal as it was beautiful, pure—the perfect embodiment of violence with purpose.

Sebastián matched her, measuring his blows with the precision of one who had faced the bearer of dragon's blood and survived.

Every punch released five tons of pressure. Every kick tore through the air like a steel whip.

But there was no rage, no thirst for death.

Only respect.

Only love wrapped in flesh and bone.

They moved so fast the sound lagged behind, as if reality itself could not keep their pace.

Virka unleashed a flurry of diagonal strikes, aimed at his throat, his chest, his stomach. Sebastián blocked them all, his stone guard vibrating with each impact, until he found an opening and shoved her with his shoulder.

She rolled back, skidding across the asphalt, stopping at the very edge of the abyss, barely a hand's span from the deadly drop.

The wind whipped her hair like a dark banner.

She smiled, defiant, and charged again.

He met her with a sweeping kick that nearly sent her flying, but Virka planted her foot and used the momentum to leap, twist in the air, and drive her knee into Sebastián's shoulder with a force that shattered the concrete beneath him.

Sebastián growled, feeling the burn under his skin, and caught her with one arm, hurling her toward the rusted railing.

Virka caught herself with one hand, spun with elegance, and launched herself again like a projectile.

They crashed once more in the center of the overlook, the cracks in the ground spreading beneath their feet, the iron vibrating like the strings of a cursed instrument.

Both were gasping for breath, but neither stopped.

Not for a single second.

It was like a dance—deadly, exquisite—where the edge of love brushed against the edge of violence without distinction.

Sebastián unleashed a hook straight to Virka's stomach, making her cough air, and she answered with an elbow to his jaw that stole his breath.

He grinned, his teeth stained with blood.

Virka licked her split lip, laughing darkly in a way that chilled the skin.

—This… makes me feel alive —she panted.

Sebastián nodded, striking his knuckles against the ground.

—Me too.

The next exchange was so fast it seemed like lightning: fists, knees, elbows, shoulders, all colliding with the lethal precision of two beasts who understood each other in every millimeter of violence.

The entire overlook trembled beneath them, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

Finally, Virka stopped, her breathing a harsh roar.

Her body bled from small cuts, but her stance was firm, dignified, powerful.

Sebastián was marked as well, his shoulder bruised and a thread of blood running down his brow.

Neither looked afraid.

Neither felt defeated.

Virka stepped forward slowly, ran a finger along his split jaw, wiping the blood with savage tenderness.

—Thank you —she said, her voice so low it was almost a whisper—.

For not treating me as something fragile.

Sebastián held her hand, his pulse still raging beneath his skin.

—You are my companion.

Not a flower.

Never a flower Narka, witness to it all, snorted from the railing.

—If you'll allow me, I'd prefer not to collect your bones tonight.

Virka laughed, a sound ripped from a satisfied animal.

Sebastián suppressed his Qi, leaving the veil latent, and breathed in the night air beginning to seep through the cracks of the sky.

Darkness settled, deep and cold, wrapping them like a new beginning.

—Here we will begin —Sebastián said, gazing at the endless ravine—.

Here we will make our power grow.

Because this place… this edge… belongs to us.

Virka nodded, resting her forehead against his chest.

Narka climbed down from his shoulder and settled at his side, heavy and solemn.

Night fell upon them, hungry, perfect.

And the world, far away, could barely sense that three monsters had just sworn loyalty to each other through blood, blows, and a love that would ask no one for permission.

The sun had fully set when Sebastián sat at the edge of the overlook, his back straight, his gaze lost in the horizon that was now nothing more than a mantle of dying lights and shadows licking the cracked asphalt.

The Qi of the place vibrated, dense and harsh, like stagnant water that had learned to survive. Sebastián inhaled deeply. His Inverted Origin Core pulsed faintly, ready to devour that raw energy and transform it into something of his own, pure, eternal.

Virka settled beside him, silent, sitting with the same wild elegance that had always followed her. She pulled her legs against her chest, her red eyes fixed on the first stars, with a melancholic, almost dreamlike gleam she rarely allowed the world to see.

Narka descended from Sebastián's shoulder and rested on the ground a meter away, heavy as a living mountain. He looked at the edge of the abyss without fear, as if he understood that nothing there could swallow a being who had already endured eras.

The silence was so perfect it felt like a sacred dome.

Sebastián closed his eyes and began to cultivate.

He felt the energy pass through his throat, his chest, sink into his marrow, dissolving the human tremor that still remained and replacing it with that unique vibration, red and dark, that defined his path.

Then, the stillness broke.

A figure appeared, emerging from the mist that dusk carried down from the road.

A woman.

Older.

A long, elegant coat flowed around her thin, almost fragile body, and the the wrinkles on her face did not speak only of age, but of having held up worlds that no longer held her.

She walked alone.

She looked at no one.

She only advanced, straight to the edge, where the rusted iron marked the end.

There she stopped.

Sebastián opened one eye, just barely, without leaving his trance, and observed.

The woman leaned over the void, with a sigh that seemed to drag centuries.

She had not seen them.

Sebastián turned his face slightly, his voice calm, like the edge of a polished stone:

—What do you gain by dying?

The woman shuddered, turned, and when she saw him, rage lit her pupils.

—Who are you to speak to me?

—No one —Sebastián answered.

—Then shut up.

—I only ask because I don't understand —he pressed, without emotion.

—Understand what?

—Why someone who can still walk… chooses not to.

The woman scoffed, her voice broken:

—Because there's no reason anymore. I'm sick. Alone. Used. I'm no longer useful. Everything I built is now loot for others.

—And if you die?

—They take it.

—And if you live?

She blinked, as if she couldn't grasp the question.

Sebastián lowered his gaze to the abyss.

—I too was dead. Inside. Outside. For years.

And yet, here I am.

Not because I deserve it.

But because no one came to kill me.

The woman swallowed hard, her tears refusing to fall.

Her knees trembled, but she did not step back.

—And then what? Are you going to save me?

—No.

Sometimes it's enough just not to jump.

She looked at him, emptiness wet in her eyes.

—And what do I gain from that?

—Nothing —Sebastián replied—.

But you don't lose either.

And sometimes, that balance… is already more than many ever have. The woman lowered her gaze to the ground.

Slowly, like someone who finds no other way, she let herself sink down to sit beside the broken railing.

She breathed deeply.

She looked at the sky.

—I had never seen one like this —she whispered.

—Neither had I —said Sebastián, barely parting his lips.

And then, their eyes met.

The woman saw Sebastián's eyes: the red spiral turning in his iris, slow, inhuman, and at its center an absolute black, deep, reflecting nothing.

It was not darkness.

It was consumption.

—Your eyes… —she murmured—. What are you?

Sebastián kept his gaze steady.

He held it on the edge of the night, without tremors.

—I am what remains when the world rips everything from you… and you decide to go on anyway.

The woman turned her eyes away.

And for the first time, she did not cry.

She only breathed.

A heavy, sincere silence fell upon them, almost welcoming.

Virka, still seated at his side, laid her hand on Sebastián's knee, with a firm gesture of absolute loyalty.

Narka growled very low from the ground, his voice rasping like gravel:

—You are still a shepherd of shadows, even if you don't admit it.

Sebastián did not reply.

He closed his eyes again, resuming the flow of Qi, deepening the strange pulse running through his spine.

His core devoured the dense breath of that place and turned it into a red ember, alive, silent.

The woman, with trembling hands, remained still.

She did not jump.

She did not leave.

She only existed.

Beside monsters who, without meaning to, had given her back the minimal dignity of not being ignored.

And the overlook, so lethal, so high, became for an instant an altar where death and life could sit together…

and learn, at least for that night, to breathe the same calm.

The night remained still, as if the world had decided to keep silent only to hear the breathing of those present.

Sebastián remained seated, calm etched into every heartbeat, while the lethal overlook quivered faintly under the weight of its own history.

It was then, from the edge of the pavement, that he sensed her.

A young woman, barely in her twenties, emerged from the shadows with the serenity of one who allows no mistakes. Jet-black hair, tied into a high ponytail that tolerated no disorder. A white shirt, ironed with surgical precision, clung to her frame with restrained elegance, and the black skirt, immaculate, barely wrinkled as she moved.

Her heels made no sound. Her steps were so measured they seemed part of a ritual.

Her gray, metallic eyes pierced everything: Sebastián, Virka, Narka, the old woman.

She evaluated.

Classified.

Without visible emotion.

Without unnecessary mercy.

The dim light of the place sharpened her perfect features, her smooth skin, lips shaped without arrogance, and an air of authority born not of strength, but of control.

She did not speak.

She did not introduce herself.

She did not ask permission.

She simply was.

The old woman, who had been holding Sebastián's words as if they were a talisman, felt her nearness and blinked again.

She swallowed hard.

She rose just slightly, as if the very air cost her.

—My name… —she said, with a thread of voice that had forgotten courage— is Helena.

Helena Caelis.

Sebastián nodded, looked at her calmly, without adornment.

—Sebastián.

—And they… —Helena shifted her gaze toward the other figures—

—Virka —he introduced her with a simple tilt of his head.

The red-eyed girl inclined her chin slightly, without softening the fierceness of her stare.

—Narka —Sebastián continued, and the enormous shell resting like a guardian gave a low, grave growl, almost respectful.

Helena swallowed again.

—Thank you —she murmured—. I would not dare thank you more… not yet.

The young woman with the high ponytail stepped closer, without breaking composure. Her gray eyes, clinical, fixed as blades, swept over Sebastián again, evaluating him as one evaluates a lion after the bars of its cage have broken.

She did not smile.

She did not change expression.

She only let fall a few words, dry, almost formal:

—My responsibility… was to accompany her.

Her voice was clean, sharp, with the cadence of someone who wastes no words.

Sebastián held her gaze, measuring without rancor, without threat.

—You do it well —he answered simply.

Virka, at his side, blinked with almost feline curiosity, measuring the young woman, but said nothing.

Narka, heavier still, tilted his massive head, evaluating the resolve of this stranger like one sniffing a new metal.

Helena, between them, sighed.

—I want to live —she said, louder now, as if tearing the syllables from the abyss.

—Then —Sebastián replied, without moving a muscle— start by staying on your feet.

Helena steadied herself, trembling, and the young woman with the high ponytail—who did not speak her name, yet whose bearing spoke of fierce discipline—placed a hand on her shoulder, firm, without tenderness, but without harshness either.

A practical gesture.

Protective.

Helena swallowed, trying to straighten her back, and Sebastián perceived in that small motion all the dignity she was reclaiming.

The moon filtered through the broken clouds, bathing the group in an almost spectral glow.

It was not beauty.

It was acceptance.

It was proof that sometimes the simple act of staying, of continuing to breathe, was enough to defy death.

The wind stirred again, and Virka, with a silent yawn, let her hair fall like a dark veil, resting her head against Sebastián's leg, calm, claiming her place.

Narka closed his single visible eye, almost in a gesture of assent.

The young woman with the high ponytail kept her gaze fixed on Sebastián, measuring the red spiral of his irises, the abyssal black of his pupil, and she understood—without a word—that this man was not human in the traditional sense, but neither was he a monster she could fear without nuance.

She recorded it.

And for someone like her, that was enough. Helena, still standing, breathed for the first time without crying, gazing at the stars as if remembering her own name.

Sebastián gave her one last phrase, soft as a nail that never forgives:

—No one forces you to keep walking.

But if you choose to…

do it with your feet, not with fear.

Helena nodded.

And at last, the night seemed to let her exist without breaking her.

The night did not protest when Helena stepped back, moving away from the edge of the abyss. The moon, fractured in shreds of clouds, trembled for an instant, as if afraid to lose her.

Selena waited at her side, silent, without intruding, without pity, holding her dignity with nothing more than the weight of her presence.

Together they walked slowly toward the car, a black sedan, discreet, its body seeming to swallow the dying light of the overlook. The asphalt creaked beneath their steps, reminding them they were still alive.

Before getting in, Helena turned. From there, at the edge of the precipice, she could still make out the figure of Sebastián, unmoving, like a gravestone of flesh and breath. Beside him, Virka was a dark and burning reflection, the raw beauty of a predator without a cage. Behind them, Narka seemed to drag the voice of the mountain itself, so heavy the whole world had to bow to his steps.

Helena's heart beat with a new fear. Not the fear of being devoured, but of not being worthy of their mercy.

She opened the door and let herself sink into the seat, exhausted. Selena took her place at the wheel, perfect in her serenity, like a sharpened silver fang.

Inside the car, the stillness hurt. It hurt because she was no longer surrounded by death. It hurt because the warmth of the engine, steady and constant, forced her to recognize herself as alive.

Helena drew a deep breath, her voice a whisper that nearly bled:

—Thank you, Selena.

The young woman turned her face just slightly, her gray, metallic eyes refusing to yield to a tremor.

—You don't have to thank me for anything.

Helena gave a broken laugh, steeped in a weariness that smelled of ruin:

—You were the only one who didn't see me as spoils. The only one who didn't count me among my enterprises.

She inhaled deeply.

—You saw me as family.

Selena kept her eyes on the road ahead, but a slight blink betrayed her.

—Because you allowed me to grow —she said with clean frankness, almost brutal—. Because you entrusted me with your life, not only your legacy. The engine roared beneath their feet, and the car began to pull away from the overlook, swallowing the wounded road under its headlights.

The silence was both a balm and a punishment.

Helena closed her eyes, and Sebastián's echo still thundered in her memory: the spiral gaze, red, infinite, the black well at its center.

—Selena… did you see what I saw?

The young woman gave the slightest nod.

—Yes.

Helena swallowed.

—That man… is not a man.

—No —Selena agreed—. He isn't.

There was a second of emptiness, where the word monster wanted to surface. But Helena smothered it, remembering the gentleness with which Sebastián had carried his mother's body, the reverence with which he freed her from her flesh.

—What is he, then?

Selena tightened her grip on the wheel.

—A frontier —she said at last—. A boundary where humanity bends over itself… and chooses to be reborn or to rot.

Helena nodded, feeling a tremor that was almost beautiful.

—And she… —she said, evoking Virka, the wild young woman with blood-red eyes—, what do you think of her?

Selena exhaled, weighing Virka's image:

—She is contained tempest. I saw her fight, move. She is not just a beast, she is the embodiment of a hunger that learned to respect the world… so she can devour it when she decides.

Helena swallowed a knot.

—And the way she looked at him…

—It was not submission —Selena cut in, certain—. It was loyalty.

A shadow crossed her gray eyes.

—A fierce loyalty. The kind that breaks bones and tears out throats if need be.

The car moved on, and the hum of the engine gave them the illusion that nothing outside could reach them.

Helena did not lift her gaze from the rearview mirror, as if afraid of losing sight of that impossible trio's silhouette.

—And the creature —she continued—, the turtle…

—Narka.

—Yes, Narka —she repeated the name with trembling respect—. What did you see in him? Selena hesitated for an instant, almost imperceptibly.

—The earth itself —she answered—. The slowness that crushes, that waits. A mineral patience that does not break.

She furrowed her brow slightly.

—He is a guardian, Helena. One so ancient he does not care for human morality. Only loyalty.

Helena leaned back against the seat, a clean tear crossing her face.

—I don't know if I should have thanked them —she confessed.

—Why?

—Because I feel so small before them. Like an insect they simply chose not to crush.

Selena braked softly at a dead traffic light, its glow flickering like an exhausted eye.

—Perhaps —she said quietly— it isn't that simple.

Helena looked at her, questioning.

—They didn't save you —Selena continued— because you were small. They saved you because they saw you as human.

She allowed herself a fleeting moment of tenderness:

—And sometimes that's enough.

The city unfolded before them like a sleeping organism. Buildings, antennas, dirty neon. Nothing seemed capable of understanding that death had been defeated at a forgotten overlook.

Helena wiped away her tear, trembling:

—They gave me back a reason. Even if they didn't give me answers.

Selena nodded, her lips pressed only slightly:

—Life is not an equation, Helena. Sometimes it's enough just not to jump.

A tiny, broken laugh crossed the older woman's face.

—You spoke to me the way he did.

—I learned to speak that way… from you.

A second of silence weighed in their throats.

The engine gathered strength again, and the road opened like a heartbeat.

Helena looked out the window, watching the pale lights of the city, and murmured:

—Selena…

—Yes.

—If one day… I break again…

—I will hold you —Selena said, without hesitation, firm as a wall—. The way you taught me to hold the world. Helena closed her eyes, and for the first time she felt she could sleep without fear.

Somewhere, Sebastián and his own still walked, carrying an impossible flame, as brutal as it was sacred.

She did not know what fate awaited them.

She did not know if they would be saviors or executioners.

But in her chest, in the most broken part of her being, burned the certainty that the world needed creatures like them.

Capable of bleeding.

Capable of loving.

Capable of not forgetting.

The dying traffic light flickered green, and Selena pressed the accelerator softly.

The lampposts receded, the night split before them.

In Helena's mind, the image of Virka, with her eyes of contained hunger, and of Narka, with the stillness of stone, and of Sebastián, holding death like a lost child, etched itself like a tattoo.

And she understood, between the sound of the engine and the beat of her blood, that she was not yet ready to die.

The moon shattered behind them, and the car continued its path, devouring distance, while the world beyond—

The moon, fractured into blades of withered light, watched in silence as the black car swallowed the road, carrying Helena far away… and the woman with the high ponytail, the one who seemed so whole she could not be broken even by the edge of night.

Sebastián did not move. His breath, contained, was a tempered rhythm, measuring the distance between the present and the ashes of the past. The wind scarcely dared to brush his hardened skin.

Virka, at his side, kept her gaze fixed on the red lights fading around the curve, with the glow of possession burning in her crimson eyes. Her lips tightened, and her voice came out ragged, like a claw that refused to retract:

—The one who went with Helena…

She paused, heavy, dark.

—She is too whole. Too sure of herself.

The soft venom of a jealousy she did not know how to disguise vibrated in her throat.

Sebastián turned his gaze just slightly, the spiral in his iris turning slowly, and answered with the serenity of one who had already borne too many storms:

—My shadow cannot be replaced —he told her, grave but without harshness—.

Others may come,

but you…

you will remain where my side beats. Virka breathed, her jaw tense, holding back a fierce relief, mingled with the ancient distrust of beasts.

—I will not yield him —she murmured, almost like a threat.

Sebastián allowed the shadow of a half-smile to break his expression, brief, sincere:

—You won't have to —he replied—.

Whoever comes after…

will not know where to bite my soul like you.

Narka, from his shoulder, let out a deep rumble, a vibration of old stone:

—New flowers may bloom —he pronounced, his voice rough—,

but the tree does not forget its roots.

Virka nodded with a low growl, lowering her gaze to the cracked asphalt, her hair falling like a dark veil that barely contained the tremor in her neck.

—That's enough for me —she said—.

And I will bite whoever forgets.

Sebastián did not reply. His breathing returned to its usual steady rhythm, as he watched the jagged edge of the lookout. The lights of the city flickered in the distance, indifferent, incapable of grasping the magnitude of what had been sealed there.

He inhaled deeply. The heavy air, saturated with raw energy, coiled around his chest like a living mantle. He could feel it: rough, wild, shapeless, ready to be transformed into his own qi.

He sat down, calmly crossing his legs, resting his knuckles on his knees, and let stillness wrap around him. Virka settled at his left flank, almost pressed against him, her gaze fixed, the spark of jealousy still refusing to fade.

Narka descended, the weight of his shell cracking the asphalt a little more, and placed himself to the right, patient, eternal, vigilant like a mineral beacon.

The night fell upon them with respectful silence, as if the world understood that a sanctuary had been born.

Sebastián closed his eyes. His core, throbbing, began to devour that filthy energy and convert it into his own qi, molded, pure. Every trace of his body, every line of his muscles and bones, absorbed that current like a second breath, replacing impurities with something that answered only to his will.

Virka watched him, her heart rearing, and leaned slightly, whispering to him with almost tragic fervor:

—Do not forget that I was the first to drink your shadow.

That I am the only one who knows your emptiness.

Sebastián half-opened an eye, red, profound, the dark pupil slowly revolving, and answered with the sincerity of one who needs to disguise nothing: ChatGPT dijo:

—And you will always be the first to remember me…

even if others come.

Virka lowered her gaze, her fangs exposed in a broken smile, and let her shoulder brush against his, soft as an animal claiming space.

Narka, with a deep, almost amused snort, shook the dust from his shell:

—The world still does not understand whom it protects —he said, with the weight of a monolith—.

And it is better that it does not understand.

The moon, still, fractured, let its light seep over them like a voiceless witness.

And so, among cracks, silence, and the latent murmur of a city that ignored their presence, Sebastián began to transform the very energy of the place, strengthening step by step, without haste, without mercy.

It was not redemption.

It was not vengeance.

It was the simple and brutal decision to live.

With Virka guarding his flank, and Narka watching over the world's edge, the blade of the overlook ceased to be a ruin and became his first altar of rebirth. The moon, shattered like a painful memory, still kept watch over the overlook. Virka settled closer, breathing the same harsh calm of the night, while Narka remained motionless, heavy and patient, upon the living crack of the asphalt.

Sebastián did not break his posture. His breathing deepened like a grave heartbeat, the core throbbing beneath his chest with the certainty of an ancient engine. The energy of the place, still impure and coarse, slid through his veins with the roughness of a wild river, waiting to be devoured.

He closed his eyes.

And there, in the penumbra of his consciousness, he began to feel it.

A murmur.

A call.

It was not voice nor word, but a dull pressure at the base of his spine, dragging echoes from the earth itself.

His qi, once an indifferent flame, began to show him cracks. Cracks spreading like veins over crystal, and through those fractures, Sebastián perceived a faint, fierce, almost painful glow.

He did not fully understand, but he knew that it was his.

A reflection of his own existence.

Within his mind, the structures of qi —which until now had manifested as hard, simple, defensive walls— began to tremble, to crack in a way Controlled. And from the fissures surged heartbeats, pulses, small red currents that burned like flame-less embers, hinting at a possible future.

For an instant, he saw a wall of qi beating in rhythm with his breath, hardening not through mere strength, but through the will to never break.

A spear of qi that, instead of only cutting, seemed to grow alive, like a bone extended from his very body, claiming space.

A prison of energy that was no longer cold nor neutral, but emitted a dense, crushing silence, like a monument to the concept of eternity.

They were only visions.

Blurred.

Incomplete.

But enough to tear an inner shiver from him.

His dao, the path he had chosen —that eternal force not as a simple weapon, but as a way of being— was slowly seeping into every drop of his qi. And although his level did not yet ascend, he understood that soon he would cease building generic barriers.

His qi structures would mutate, reflecting what he was:

a creature that refused to disappear,

a heartbeat that could survive any end.

That understanding did not bring jubilation.

It did not bring peace.

Only a deeper pulse, the certainty that his path would continue to be brutal, and that each advance would hurt as if breaking his bones from within.

In his mind, the echo of a future technique barely shone:

the qi walls encasing his body could become as unbreakable as his will,

his strikes as relentless as his hatred of defeat,

and his defenses as alive as his decision to never die.

Sebastián opened one eye slowly.

The night had not changed.

Virka remained at his side, her gaze alight, guarding him with a possession that burned.

Narka waited, impassive, his mineral head slightly inclined.

Outside, nothing had happened.

Inside, instead, a world had trembled.

He expelled the air in a dense sigh.

It was not the time to attempt climbing to the next level.

First he had to learn to endure the weight of his own eternity. He closed his eyes again.

He resumed the steady pulse, transforming the coarse energy of the place into his unique qi,

and let that intuition —that outline of the next step— nest in his memory like a dagger kept for the future.

There was no haste.

There was no mercy.

Only the brutal certainty of continuing to walk.

The moon, sleepless witness, held its vigil over the overlook,

and Sebastián continued cultivating, breathing slowly,

engraving in his flesh the first crack of a dao

that would know no death.

The moon, defeated by its own broken light, kept floating above the overlook like a blind, watchful eye. The silence remained thick, so tense that every crack in the asphalt seemed to hold its breath.

Sebastián held his posture. His body was a pillar, his veins a river of contained fire. The earlier vision —that spark that had shown him a fragment of the next level— still burned in his memory, demanding to be reached.

He inhaled, deep.

He felt the flow of raw energy coursing through him. He tried to give it shape, twist it, force it to mutate as he had seen: to turn it into a reflection of his own essence, to make his walls of qi vibrate with the same will of eternity that ruled his soul.

But the energy resisted.

It did not flow.

It broke.

A tremor ran down his back. The filaments of qi scattered without obeying, returning to their rigid, neutral, dead state.

Sebastián opened his eyes, without anger.

Only with the brutal serenity of one who accepts that he is not yet ready.

Virka, at his side, looked at him with the restrained fierceness of a she-wolf who cannot understand why her companion insists on devouring a horizon that does not yet belong to them.

—You can't? —she asked with a trace of harsh surprise, as if she could not believe he might fail at something.

Sebastián lowered his chin just slightly, his red iris crossed by the black pupil, firm.

—Not yet —he admitted without trembling—.

Not because I lack hunger…

but because I do not fully understand what the eternal strength I seek truly means.

Virka furrowed her brow, almost pained.

—But strength is strength —she retorted—. Why complicate it?

Before Sebastián could answer, Narka let out a deep growl, heavy as stone rolling beneath the ground. His voice, dense, dragged with it the patience of centuries: —Not all cultivation paths are the same —he explained, with the solemn slowness of a master—.

Some drink from fire. Others from earth, ice, blood. They understand their element, they wear it, they breathe it.

But you, Sebastián…

Your dao does not come from anything the world understands.

Your eternal strength is not an element.

It is a declaration.

Sebastián listened without moving, feeling how each word weighed heavy in his marrow.

Narka continued, unyielding:

—What you saw —those living structures that pulsed—

is only the bark of your future.

When you come to understand your own eternity,

then your walls of qi will not only endure,

they will be part of you.

They will burn, bleed, breathe with you.

And no storm will ever break them.

Virka kept silent. Her chest rose and fell in a nervous, frustrated tremor, and finally she released the question that had tormented her for days:

—And me?

Why can't I cultivate like you?

Why can I only fight, bite, tear?

Narka turned his great mineral head, looking at her with the gravity of an old father:

—Because you are not the same, Virka.

Your essence does not bend to qi.

Your path is not construction, nor transformation.

Your path is the roar.

The living blade.

The death that dances.

Virka clenched her teeth, feeling for a second small, almost broken.

—Does that make me less? —she spat harshly.

—No —Narka replied, without hesitation—.

That makes you necessary.

Because the world does not fear those who raise walls…

it fears those who can break through them.

And you were born for that.

A silence trembled between the three.

The moon once again slid its spectral light over their skins, marking them as living statues of a tragedy yet to be written. Sebastián lowered his gaze to the cracked ground.

He tried once more to feel the pulse of the energy, to settle it in his core, to carve it with the idea of eternal strength.

But the flow did not fit.

His earlier vision —those throbbing, living defenses, reflection of his own spirit— crumbled like dust between his fingers.

It was not time.

Not yet.

He did not feel frustration.

Only the brutal serenity of the warrior who knows how to wait.

—My dao will not be built in a day —he said finally, almost to himself—.

First I must understand what sustains that eternity.

My body?

My mind?

My blood?

Virka tilted her head, with an almost animal respect, nodding in a brief, fierce gesture.

Narka drew a deep breath, and the sound seemed to shake the very stones of the overlook.

—You still lack much —he told him with a voice like low thunder—.

You still must discover

what price

you are willing to pay

to exist forever.

Sebastián closed his eyes, engraving those words into the living flesh of his memory.

He felt a shiver.

Eternity was not a gift.

It was a sentence.

And his dao, to be real, would have to embrace every crack of pain and transform it into a pillar.

He inhaled.

Exhaled.

Let the energy of the place flow again through his body, not trying to tame it this time, only listening to it.

Learning.

Waiting.

Virka allowed herself to sit closer, brushing his arm, calm, as if she understood that even beasts need someone to protect.

Narka lowered his shell a little more, adopting the solemn posture of a satisfied guardian. And so, in the stillness of dawn, while the city forgot his name,

Sebastián meditated.

Not to ascend.

Not to destroy.

But to dare to glimpse

of what matter was made

the eternal strength he intended to call home.

The night, at last, settled over them with a harsh calm. The broken moon, like an ownerless eye, hid behind a veil of clouds, leaving the overlook in the clean penumbra of an extinguished altar.

Sebastián exhaled the last thread of energy with a calm gesture, releasing the faint tremor that still pulsed in his arms. He knew he would reach no further, not that night. His qi structures would remain neutral, imperfect, until his mind found the way to seal eternity as living flesh.

—For today it is enough —he murmured, his voice deep, grave, charged with that brutal serenity only he knew how to sustain—.

I do not need to force anything.

Not yet.

Virka watched him in silence. Her red pupils, like embers in wait, flickered with a dangerous tenderness only he knew. Every line of her body seemed chiseled by impossible hands, with a savage, untouchable beauty: the firm bust (86), the sharpened waist (56), the hunter's hips (87), all wrapped in smooth skin that shone like polished abyss.

Sebastián called her with barely a gesture, no words, only with the authority of one who does not need to explain himself.

And she came.

Virka settled onto his legs with a feline, agile movement, letting the black dress gather at the height of her thighs, revealing just enough of the tension of living flesh, the promise of an instinct still contained. Her breath grazed Sebastián's skin, and for a second the world stopped, unable to endure the intensity of that closeness.

—Come —he whispered, his voice softer than the breeze but with an unbreakable edge—.

You are mine.

Not as a prize.

Not as a possession.

But as the only beast that can follow me

to the end.

Virka lowered her eyelids, and a shiver ran through her entirely. Only he could touch her that way, without awakening her roar, without igniting her instinct for death. Only he could brush her shoulders, slide his hand along the firm contour of her back, without drawing a claw. Sebastián held her firmly, one hand anchored to her waist, the other rising to tangle around her neck. His gaze was the same that had crushed armies, the same that had stared at death without blinking, but now it softened for her, becoming a silent fire, laden with desire, laden with raw love.

Virka exhaled only a faint sigh, trembling, and rested her forehead against his chest.

—Only with you —she said, her voice so low it almost broke—.

Only you can bite me… without me defending myself.

A minimal smile —broken, dark, sincere— appeared on Sebastián's lips.

—And only you can break me —he replied— without destroying me.

Then he kissed her.

Not with the sweetness of a common lover, but with the voracity of a being that devours. His lips pressed against hers, deep, relentless, seeking to tear away all the fear, all the doubt, all the trembling of the world. Virka responded with the same hunger, clinging to his nape, letting herself be kissed, letting herself be consumed, surrendering without shame.

The touch of their bodies was a clash of beasts, of scars, of memories.

It was the confession of two creatures that did not know how to be human, but together could pretend for an instant.

Narka, a few meters away, settled on the ground like a shrunken mountain, his cracked shell glowing with reddish veins. He observed the scene without judging it, with the silent gravity of a guardian who understands the value of a moment of peace. He did not intervene. He was not in the way. He simply remained.

Virka shifted slightly, bolder, straddling Sebastián, letting her black hair brush against his forehead, his nose, his mouth. Her eyes burned, fixed on him, possessive, almost feral.

—You belong to me too —she reminded him, her voice hoarse, deep—.

Do not forget that.

He held her with a firm grip at the waist, letting his thumbs caress the ribs marked by battle, and nodded with serenity.

—I know.

—Your shadow is mine —Virka insisted—.

Your pain as well.

—And you —murmured Sebastián— are my refuge.

Virka let out a sound between a moan and a sigh, pressing herself tighter against his chest, letting her tense thighs seek his contact like a living anchor. He contemplated her with a controlled hunger, savoring the warmth of her body, the ferocity of her scent, and kissed her neck with brutal care, tracing her as if marking territory. There would be no sex that night.

It was not needed.

The mere touch was enough, the union of two wounded souls finding their own salvation in a shared silence.

Narka, reclining, closed his visible eye with a deep snort, almost satisfied, as if he approved of that intimate truce.

The wind, tired of pushing dust, paused to watch them.

The dying lampposts surrendered to the gloom.

And the entire overlook was submerged in a reverent stillness, accepting that, though the world might fear them,

there,

in that moment,

there existed only a man

and his lethal companion,

holding each other

as if death itself could not interrupt them.

Sebastián pressed his forehead against Virka's, his voice so low that not even the universe heard it:

—Don't let me go.

—Never —she answered, letting her own breath burn against his mouth.

Thus, the night sealed their promise,

and the chapter closed not with blood,

but with a love so dark and so pure

that no god, no demon,

would dare profane it.

________________________________

END OF CHAPTER 18