On the Path of Eternal Strength.

Inside the Veil, there is no wind. Only pressure.

There is no gravity. Only will.

There are no rules. Only hunger.

Space had mutated.

The invisible walls of the Veil vibrated with the echo of a transformation that had broken the limit of the human.

The creature before Sebastián was no longer a man.

The profaned body grew with every second, muscle over muscle, skin torn, hair blackened by a mixture between beast and aberration.

On its upper part: a feline torso, fierce, sculpted with violence, with extended claws that shone like wet blades.

On the lower part: deer legs, heavy, agile, anchored to the very distortion of the terrain.

And on the head… a wild tiger's head without any human expression, deformed by two black antlers that rotated slightly, carrying fire and wind within their spirals.

And then it roared.

But not with the voice.

It roared with mana.

The antlers ignited.

A vortex of heat and blades of air gathered in spiral, spinning upon itself, dragging fragments of the Veil, twisting reality.

When the Profaned released the attack, a storm in the shape of a spinning spear fell upon Sebastián as if the sky itself were breaking.

But Sebastián did not retreat.

He extended his arm.

His Qi, dense, red, surged like a heavy mist and expanded across the terrain in a radius of several meters.

Zone activated.

The environment became his extension.

Walls sprouted from the ethereal earth, solid as stone, rough as bone.

Barriers rose.

Defensive pillars that channeled the impact.

The spiral of fire and wind collided with the walls, and the explosion that followed was a hell of pressure and light.

But not everything was destruction.

Sebastián's Qi absorbed part of that energy.

Channeled.

Shaped.

And counterattacked.

From the ground, three pillars as thick as temple columns emerged, pointing with spear tips directly at the enemy's chest.

The Profaned turned.

He dodged the first with an animal twist.

The second he intercepted with his forearm, and the impact tore off a piece of flesh.

The third grazed his flank.

It did not bleed.

Only an opening formed, and from there a reddish vapor gushed out.

The monster growled with its broken throat.

And it lunged.

Sebastián barely had a second.

He shifted his body to the left, lowered his center of gravity, and sent a straight punch to the side of the Profaned, aiming at the liver.

The impact landed.

But the enemy had already lifted his elbow.

The sound was dry, bony.

Sebastián felt the crack, but he did not retreat.

He spun on his axis, raised his leg, and launched a kick with all his mass at the enemy's chest.

The Profaned absorbed the impact like a mountain.

And then, it struck.

A claw tore through the air.

Sebastián raised his forearm to shield himself.

The defense was effective, but not perfect.

The Profaned's nail cut the skin.

Dark blood welled out.

The Qi sealed over the wound instantly.

Dao of the Void.

Sebastián's body adapted to the damage.

It did not heal by recovery…

but by negation.

It denied the pain.

It denied the fracture.

It denied the end.

The Profaned stepped back once.

Sebastián did not pursue.

He only breathed.

The Qi around him fluctuated, charged, compressed.

It was his shield.

His sword.

His only frontier before annihilation.

—You won't last long… —murmured the monster, with a voice that should not exist.

Sebastián did not respond.

He only raised both hands.

And advanced again.

The battle was only beginning. The Veil breathed like a sleeping monster.

And its breath was fire.

The antlers of the Profaned rotated with an irregular hum, as if carving the air.

Inside them, a tempest gathered: fire and wind, torn mana, compressed, without control or consciousness.

The next attack was immediate.

From above, the Profaned lowered its head forward, and the spirals of its mana were unleashed with an inhuman shriek.

The fire spun like burning whips, wrapped in blades of wind.

A cyclonic spear fell upon Sebastián, not like a technique… but like a cataclysm.

He did not move backward.

He activated his Qi.

Red. Alive. Dense as lead.

He spread it across the terrain in a zone of several meters, and from that base he raised a wall of living energy, rough, cracked.

The impact was infernal.

The Profaned's mana collapsed against the wall, and a wave of heat and pressure enveloped everything.

The barrier creaked.

It fragmented.

But it endured.

Because it was not stone.

It was Qi.

It was will shaped.

Sebastián narrowed his eyes.

The pressure seared his skin, but he did not stop.

He twisted his torso.

Sent a pillar of Qi in the shape of a spear from his rear, straight toward the enemy's right flank.

The Profaned felt it.

It twisted its body unnaturally, allowing the spear to pierce through its side.

It did not scream.

It did not bleed.

It only expelled black vapor from the wound.

And it smiled.

Sebastián charged.

Right fist to the jaw.

The creature leaned back.

Counterattack with its left claw, aiming at the chest.

Sebastián lowered his arm, blocked with his forearm hardened by his Qi, and felt the flesh tear.

He ignored the pain.

Twisted his body.

Raised his leg.

Knee strike to the beast's stomach.

This time, the impact was direct.

The Profaned stepped back three times, panting.

Its antlers lit up again.

A new spiral of mana began to roar.

Sebastián clenched his teeth.

He raised two defensive pillars to his left and right.

Created a curved roof of Qi.

And just as the explosion came…

He shielded himself.

Fire and wind tore through the first wall.

The second endured.

The roof shattered.

But he was still standing.

Wrapped in his Qi.

At his limit.

The Profaned looked at him with soulless eyes.

—Your flesh is strong…

—But even bones have an end.

Sebastián spat blood.

His breathing was low.

His left arm hung, useless for the moment.

But his feet remained anchored.

And his eyes… never looked down.

He twisted his right wrist.

A new pillar rose.

This time, it aimed at the enemy's face.

The fight was not fair.

But neither was death.

And Sebastián had not yet fallen.

The Profaned opened both arms.

Its antlers creaked.

And the Veil… stirred.

The air began to spin.

Not like wind.

But like invisible blades ignited by an ancient bonfire.

From the curved tips, a double spiral of mana emerged.

A brutal mixture of fire and wind, so dense, so sharp, that the world around began to bend.

The ground split into irregular lines.

The shadows vibrated.

And sound was extinguished, swallowed by the roar of the impossible.

Sebastián did not think.

He acted.

His Qi rose like a dome.

The red expanded around him in a radius of ten meters.

But it would not be enough.

Not this time.

—...

His eyes closed for a second.

His chest tightened.

And the aura of the Void emerged.

A shapeless shadow, without color, but with hunger.

The Devouring Void does not strike.

Does not burn.

Does not scream.

It devours.

When the Profaned's mana touched it, something happened.

As if the universe hesitated.

The spiral fractured at its edge.

The flames went out upon contact with the void.

The wind broke.

But not everything was swallowed.

The explosion still reached.

The impact struck him from the front and dragged him five meters across the deformed ground.

Sebastián used his right arm as an anchor.

His flesh tore against the earth.

His back scraped stone and bone.

But he did not fall.

When he rose, his face was bleeding.

His breathing was uneven.

And his fist was already clenched.

It was not a time for resistance.

It was a time for rupture.

He tensed his arm.

Every fiber, every muscle, every bone responded.

The Qi withdrew to his back.

The Void closed.

And only the body remained.

His knuckles split.

The skin of his forearm opened.

But he did not stop the movement.

And the air trembled.

From his arm was born a pressure so brutal that it took form.

A dragon —dark red, dense, without shine— rose above his shoulder, spinning alongside his fist.

Shūkarada Ryū – Fist of the Absolute Dragon.

The art that asked no permission from magic.

Nor from Qi.

Nor from the heavens.

It only answered to will.

To flesh carried to the end.

When his fist launched forward, the dragon roared in silence.

And space… collapsed.

The Profaned leaned to evade it.

But the impact was already happening.

The dragon rammed into him from the flank, breaking his defense, tearing away part of his left shoulder and one of his antlers.

The creature roared.

For the first time… it roared.

The ground was torn apart in a perfect line.

And the blood —thick and dark— began to fall.

Sebastián stepped back once.

His arm hung ruined.

But his eyes never lowered.

And though his body trembled…

The battle was not over.

The Profaned trembled.

Not from fear.

But from the venom of wounded pride.

An arm hung halfway, tendons exposed and flesh blackened.

Its left antler, broken.

Its chest, marked by the residual shape of the dragon that had pierced it.

And even so… it laughed.

—You should not have —it said with a torn voice—. You should not have touched my blood…

From its back, the shattered antlers began to boil.

They did not regenerate.

They opened like hollow mouths.

And from them, the impossible: mana spilled like tornadic magma.

A double spiral, vaster, faster.

Fire ceased to be flame.

Wind ceased to be air.

They fused into something else: a lance of collapse, a vortex that did not spin around the world, but against it.

The Veil screamed.

The environment began to distort:

Subterranean walls bent like wet paper.

Chains vibrating.

Metal structures floating before being devoured by the burning core of the attack.

And still… Sebastián did not retreat.

His right arm hung useless.

His torso bore burns.

His Qi was worn, as if the very earth weighed upon him.

But in his eyes, something remained unmoving.

Like a stone sunk deep in the river.

He extended his Qi zone once more, not with power, but with precision.

Encircled his feet, his flanks, his back.

And when the attack came, he leapt.

The impact ravaged the ground.

An entire wall of the underground gave way, and space collapsed upon itself, as if the world could endure no more.

It was then that the battle changed.

They were no longer in combat of forms.

Nor of art.

Not even of technique.

Now only two monsters remained.

Tired.

Wounded.

But unyielding.

The Profaned lunged, its only complete antler shining with burning runes.

Sebastián met it with his shoulder, ramming it like a bull without horns.

Both bodies crashed against the stairs.

They climbed, fighting.

Fists.

Knee strikes.

Teeth.

Every blow opened another crack.

Every gasp made the walls tremble.

The Veil opened with them.

Each level surpassed was deformed.

The factory —that hell where death was spectacle— fractured in its double reflection.

And then, it happened.

Upon breaking through the last wall,

the surface of the Veil revealed itself.

An alternate city, distorted.

Wine-colored skies.

Deformed lines stretched like diseased flesh.

The factory roof was now a platform open to the abyss.

From there, the world could see them.

But no one would.

Because in the Veil…

only the condemned remain.

The earth did not stop trembling. Even though the factory had already been swallowed by the Veil, even though the sky seemed inverted by a cruel hand, the echo of the battle still pulsed in the veins of the world.

And from a rise eroded by the wind, covered with dry brush and forgotten ruins, two hooded figures watched in silence. Five hundred kilometers away, perhaps more, but close enough to feel it in the marrow.

He was tall, frame forged by discipline, arms crossed over his chest and the retracted scythe resting on his back like a latent oath. She, shorter, almost an adolescent, covered her face with a simple mask and a cloak that wrapped her like a timid shadow.

The sky of the Veil vibrated like a cracked mirror. There, among fractures of inverted light, the fight unfolded like a choreography of destruction. Whirlwinds of fire and wind burst forth like silent roars from the Profaned's antlers. Invisible barriers exploded in waves. The combatants' forms were only sharp silhouettes, but enough to convey the horror of what was taking place.

She was the first to break the silence.

—That… that's the one who killed the Profaned at the mall, right?

ChatGPT dijo:

Her voice was faint, but not weak. It had that kind of tone used to name storms before they arrive.

The man barely nodded, without looking at her.

—Yes. Him.

—He shouldn't be alive —she added—. No one should, after something like that.

—And yet… he is.

She frowned beneath the mask. Took a step forward, as if she wanted to cross the distance with her eyes alone.

—What is he?

—I don't know —the man replied with a calm that was not indifference, but naked logic—. He is not a mana user. There are no summons. No runes. And his energy… it is not aura. Not one I recognize.

—But his body… —she murmured—. Every time he moves, it looks like… it hurts him. And still, he goes on.

The man tilted his head slightly, following Sebastián's movement when he launched another attack. A spear of pure energy —neither magical nor auric— pierced the air like a sentence. The Profaned deflected it with a burning wave, and the explosion lit the Veil like a contained hell.

—That body is built on suffering —he finally said—. As if it had been forced to withstand the impossible… and survived out of habit, not purpose.

—Then what is he? An experiment? A monster?

—Or both.

The two fell silent.

The waves of the battle reached them like gusts of spiritual pressure, even if they did not understand their exact nature. But their instinct —that of trained predators— told them that what was happening there was not a duel.

It was a clash of abysses.

The young woman watched as the structure of the Veil above the factory began to distort even further. It no longer just vibrated: it broke apart in fragments. Reality seemed to reject that battle, trying to spit it out of the world.

And in that instant, Sebastián barely turned his face.

Just a millimeter.

Just a second.

But enough for the man to notice.

—He has sensed us —he said.

—And he does nothing?

—He can't. He's fighting not to die. We… don't matter.

The girl lowered her gaze, for the first time all day.

—And if he survives?

—Then someone will have to decide… if we let him walk among us.

Because even from the distance… Sebastián did not look like a human.

He looked like something humanity had lost on its path toward weakness.

And that now wanted to return.

The impact of the last clash still trembled in the broken structures of the Veil. Sebastián rose upon the Qi pillar he himself had forged, a spear of red energy that cut through the air like a monument to his will. He used his own creation as leverage: stepped on the edge of that spear, spun his body in the air, and descended with his right fist wrapped in the echo of his flesh and his Dao.

But the Profaned moved.

It intercepted him with an open palm, cracked by lines of fire and wind. The antlers trembled, releasing a burst of burning energy that tore a gash in the air. Sebastián struck against the enemy's arm and was thrown back, crashing onto a wall of Qi that he barely managed to hold with a thought.

He coughed blood. Not from within: from without.

He had begun to break.

His Qi was red, bright, with black motes swirling like void around him. A field surrounded him —a warzone where he was the center—, but his legs no longer responded with the same precision. The barriers he created fell apart before their time. His body, though still brutal, had lost the sharpness of its pressure.

—Come on… —he murmured—. Just a little more…

The Profaned roared. Not with a throat: with its entire body. Fire and wind spun like a whirlwind from its antlers, and a gigantic spiral was shot from its forehead. A serpent of searing air with claws of flame.

Sebastián raised both arms and his Dao responded: the Void opened like a circular hole before him. It swallowed the energy. Deformed it. But it did not devour it all.

A part broke through his defense, burning his skin, tearing pieces from his left arm, pushing him back like a feather in a storm.

And still, he attacked.

He advanced with the rage of the exhausted. Stepped on shattered ground, launched another spear of Qi, leapt with a torn body and struck the Profaned in the face with his elbow wrapped in blood. The enemy staggered back, but did not fall. Its left eye bled… and then, it smiled.

It was in that instant that Sebastián knew he could not win.

Not in that state. Not against that monster.

The Profaned raised both arms and the antlers began to shine again.

And it was then… that another strike split the air.

A beam of dark energy pierced the Profaned's shoulder from afar, throwing it off balance. Another impact fell to the ground between the two combatants, and a figure descended as if gravity did not exist.

A man in black. Silent. Burly. Scythe retracted on his back. Face covered in shadows.

—Tch… you almost had it —he murmured, without emotion.

At his side, another figure landed: smaller, slender, cloaked in travel gear. Her mask hid her eyes, but her voice split the air.

—You're fucked up! —she shouted at Sebastián with a youthful voice.

Sebastián did not respond. But he looked at them. For an instant. He recognized power. Technique. Intention. And then he turned his gaze back to the Profaned.

—Don't come closer —he said. It wasn't an order. It was a fact.

The Profaned no longer seemed interested only in him. Its gaze shifted toward the new enemies.

But the sky of the Veil changed.

A second roar. Another body, even more distorted, crossed from the alternate sky: another Profaned, this time with six limbs, a crown of bone, and white eyes without pupils.

—More? —the hooded man said calmly, turning his head.

The young woman did not joke this time. Her voice was a whisper.

—We withdraw. It is not the moment.

The first one nodded. Took a step back.

Sebastián, on the other hand, did not move.

His body bled from more than twelve wounds. His Qi flickered. The Dao of the Void barely sustained his zone. And his breath was cold fire.

But his feet were still there.

And before him, two Profaned.

Silence was the last thing to fall.

Silence, like a cloak that does not warm, stretched one second more… until it broke.

—Not anymore —said the hooded man.

His voice was not loud, but it carried an edge impossible to ignore. The young woman beside him understood at once. She moved toward Sebastián, swift, like a blur of black cloth and hidden metal. But she did not touch him.

—Let's go —she told him—. It's enough.

Sebastián did not respond. He did not look at her. His eyes were fixed on the six-limbed Profaned, the new monster that rose like a hollow being, breathing death through every pore of its torn flesh.

But his body… his body no longer responded as it should.

His legs were an echo of what they had been. His back throbbed as if an invisible knife were breathing on it. The Qi in his combat zone was a broken river, and the Dao of the Void… had narrowed to a whisper. It still devoured, but no longer roared.

Then he breathed.

Only once.

And said:

—It's fine.

The young woman blinked.

—What?

—To survive —Sebastián repeated, without emotion—. It's harder than winning.

And in that instant, he let himself fall to his knees. Not out of defeat. Not out of surrender. But because it was time.

The hooded man raised an arm, his scythe still retracted. It was not threat: it was opening. A signal.

A distortion opened behind Sebastián, a circle made of thin lines and blackened light. The Veil responded to that rift, as if it recognized a permission. The passage swallowed the air around it, and in a second, the young woman covered Sebastián with her body, dragging him toward that exit with an agility that did not match her size.

The two disappeared.

And the hooded man followed them without looking back.

But the Profaned did not react.

Because one of them —the first, the beast with the body of a tiger and the legs of a deer— roared with a fury that no longer knew language. Its blood burned with mana of fire and wind, dripping from its broken antlers.

It wanted to hunt. It wanted to kill. It wanted to break the one who had wounded it.

It stepped forward…

And a hand stopped it.

The hand of the second Profaned —larger, older, with the crown of bone and the empty eyes.

It did not speak to it. It did not argue. It did not ask anything.

It only held it by the neck.

And the first, no matter how furious it was, did not resist. Could not.

Both turned around. The ground of the Veil opened beneath them, and they descended in a spiral, as if the distorted plane itself absorbed them, reclaiming what was its own.

The place was left in ruins.

The sky of the Veil flickered. The broken structures of the alternate factory still smoked. The ground was covered with blood, bone, and fragments of red Qi fading away.

No one remained.

Only the echo of a will that chose to live… to return another day.

The sky of the Veil no longer roared.

It was neither blue nor gray. It was a nameless dome, split into layers that trembled like a broken reflection in a pond filled with blood. The air, once vibrant with violence, had stilled as if death itself had closed the eyelids of the world.

Sebastián awoke there.

His back touched the broken earth. He did not remember when he had closed his eyes. He only knew that his flesh was still whole —broken, but whole— and that his heart still beat inside his chest with a heavy cadence. Painful. Real.

His Qi no longer pulsed in the form of a spear. It had contracted, reduced to an imperceptible line of defense, just enough to keep him conscious.

Then he saw them.

A few meters away, the two hooded figures watched him in silence.

The man —tall, firm, face veiled by shadows— remained motionless like a statue. The retracted scythe still hung from his back, but it emitted no threat: it was the natural extension of his body. His presence was not hostile… but neither was it passive. It was like a formula kept in silence, waiting for the exact moment to be applied.

The young woman at his side, smaller, covered by a cloak and an expressionless mask, paced back and forth with restless steps. Her body spoke more than her voice, though her voice was the first to break the veil of stillness.

—I didn't think anyone could endure so much —she said in a tone charged with restrained emotion—. Fuck… that was brutal.

The man said nothing. He only stepped closer twice, observing Sebastián with something akin to analysis. Not compassion. Not admiration. Only calculation.

—You're awake —he confirmed with a neutral, deep voice.

—I'm alive —Sebastián replied with a hoarse tone.

—You barely made it —the young woman added, now leaning slightly to see his face.

Sebastián sat up slowly, showing no weakness, though his body creaked inside like a poorly sealed coffin. His gaze fixed on them.

—Who are you?

The hooded man did not answer immediately. He moved his head just slightly. Then spoke with the tone of one who has no need to embellish words.

—Hunters.

—Of Profaned? —Sebastián inquired, without looking away.

—Yes —the man replied—. But not because they are our enemies.

—Then… why?

A second of silence.

—Because they cross our path.

Sebastián tilted his head. He understood the logic. No morality. No vengeance. Only function. Like cutting a rotten branch to keep walking.

—And you? —the young woman asked with curious voice—. What are you? You don't smell of aura. Nor of mana. Your energy… is different. Strange.

The man also frowned slightly beneath his shadow.

—You are not a sorcerer. Nor a common warrior. You don't seem to use any known source.

—You don't need to know —Sebastián answered without raising his voice.

—No —the man nodded—. But we'll find out anyway.

The young woman smiled under the mask, as if that hidden promise excited her.

—What matters —Sebastián intervened in a firmer tone— is that the Profaned is not dead.

—Not yet —the hooded man accepted—. But it's not far.

—And you? What will you do?

—What we always do —the man replied—. What must be done.

The young woman nodded energetically. Then, as if remembering something, she turned toward him.

—You… what's your name?

Sebastián did not answer.

He only stood.

Painfully. Firmly.

—My name doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm still here.

The young woman let out a light, genuine laugh.

—I like you, stranger.

And then, without more words, the man looked to the distorted horizon of the Veil.

—The second Profaned is still inside. This zone is not clean.

—Then it's not over yet —said Sebastián, and his eyes lit again with the inner fire that sustained him.

But for now, he did not advance.

Because blood still soaked his torso, and the echoes of battle still struck his soul. The air remained wounded.

The scars of combat still floated over the broken earth of the Veil: Qi pillars crumbling slowly like shattered memories, ashes suspended in a silence that no longer belonged to anyone. Sebastián remained standing, though not completely. He was more will than flesh. More silence than presence. His breath was thin, dragged, as if even oxygen feared to enter his chest again.

A few meters away, the two hooded figures had not yet left.

The man, unmoving, kept his arms crossed. His retracted scythe slept on his back like a loyal dog. He observed Sebastián with the coldness of an unfinished calculation, without hostility, but without sympathy either. His posture spoke of logic, strategy, and an unresolved question.

The young woman, on the other hand, broke the stillness with a long sigh. She took a few steps among the remains of spiritual structures, softly kicking a rock deformed by the residual Qi. Her voice was the first to shatter the weight of the air.

—Hey… —she said, without looking at him directly—. You were good. Not perfect. But… you held out like a damn beast.

Sebastián did not answer. He only raised his gaze just enough for his eyes to meet hers through the mask. A thread of blood ran down his cheek, but he did not bother to wipe it away.

—I don't fight to impress.

—Yeah, you already said that before —she replied, crossing her arms—. But I didn't mean it for ego. I said it because… well, you'd have to be an idiot to fight one of those alone.

Silence. The young woman turned her head toward her companion, as if asking permission without words. The man nodded slightly, without changing his expression.

Then she turned fully toward Sebastián, pulling from within her cloak a small, wrinkled white piece of paper.

—Look, I don't know what kind of creature you are. Neither does he. But if we're going to keep killing Profaned, maybe you shouldn't do it alone —she raised the paper—. This is my number. In case you ever decide to hunt with us.

Sebastián did not take it at first. He blinked, confused by the gesture.

—Number?

—Your cell phone. Mobile. Calls. Messages. Basic technology. Come on, don't tell me you don't have one.

He narrowed his eyes. And, with a neutral tone, like someone stating an obvious but forgotten truth, he replied:

—I don't use those things. I've never needed them.

The man raised an eyebrow. Not in mockery, but in genuine surprise.

—That's strange. In this age… everyone has something. Even those who live outside the system.

The young woman scoffed.

—Seriously? Nothing? Not even an old one? Not even just to turn on the flashlight?

—No.

—…Well. What the hell —she said, with resignation and a half-amused tone—. Then keep the paper, in case you ever bother to buy one.

She held it out. Sebastián took it with a hand still bleeding. The paper absorbed a drop, as if sealing an ancient pact.

—I'm not interested in alliances —he said, but his tone lacked harshness. It was a statement, not an absolute denial.

The young woman shrugged.

—Suit yourself. But if another one of those monsters shows up… better to have someone covering your back.

With that, she stepped back. The man also turned. Both began to walk toward the distant distortion of the Veil, leaving footprints that dissolved as soon as they were made.

Sebastián watched them until they vanished into the spiritual mist.

And then, at last, he sat down.

He crossed his legs among the scorched remnants of the battlefield. Closed his eyes. His Qi, like an extinguished red fire, began to gather inward. He did not cultivate it like the others. He digested it. Deformed it. Turned it into flesh.

Every breath was a hammer against his own limit.

Every second, a slow reconstruction.

There was no peace. Only the need to continue.

Because he did not seek glory.

He sought eternity.

Silence returned.

Not like peace.

But like a bottomless pit.

The last footsteps of the hooded ones vanished among the distorted ruins, swallowed by the spiritual mist of the Veil. Sebastián was left alone. Alone with his torn body. Alone with his diminished Qi. Alone with the absolute weight of his existence pounding from the very center of his soul.

His legs trembled. His chest burned. Every muscle vibrated with the memory of battle. And yet, nothing was as urgent as what was growing inside. Not in the stomach. Not in the lungs. In the deepest place. Where the core resided. Where error and creation met.

The Inverted Core of Origin.

He already felt it moving. Twisting like a starving animal. It did not obey the soul. It did not obey Qi. It obeyed imbalance.

One more step in the wrong direction… and it would begin to devour him from within.

Sebastián fell to his knees, exhaling with the ragged voice of a man who has no time to die. He pressed his palms against the fractured ground and began to breathe. Deep. Measured. Raw.

—Not now… —he murmured—. Not here.

The Veil vibrated around him. There were no trees, no real sky, no solid earth. Only ruined structures, echoes of devoured cities, temples without faith. But there was energy. Like a sick river that still flowed, slow, dark.

He extended his zone. Barely a meter. Then two. The red Qi spilled like evaporated blood, and his body began to absorb.

The energy of the Veil was not pure. Not like the outer world. Here everything was reflection: distorted, wounded. And that was why it served. Because it was like him.

Each inhalation was a thread entangled with the core.

Each exhalation was a denial of collapse.

His back curved. His hands steady. His soul, like a torch lit beneath the ocean. And in the midst of it, the core screamed. Not with sound. With pressure. A pulse of chaos seeking to break him from within.

He remembered. Not past battles. Not others' words.

He remembered hunger. The cold. The chains.

He remembered when his body learned that if it did not resist, it would die. Not from enemies. But from abandonment.

That was his first step onto the Path of the Indomitable Body.

Now, in that abyss, he walked it once more.

His skin burned. His sweat was blood. The red Qi spun around him like a storm held back by clenched teeth. And still, he kept breathing.

Once more.

And again.

Each instant was a decision. Each second, a wall he raised against his own collapse.

And then, at last, the core stopped screaming.

It did not calm. It did not fade. It only withdrew.

Like a beast that recognizes its prey has not yet fallen.

Sebastián opened his eyes.

And the darkness of the Veil, for an instant, seemed to respect him.

The silence, at last, was absolute.

There were no more roars. No footsteps. No wind.

Only the imperceptible sound of Qi sliding along the edges of the Veil, like an inverted river searching for a throat to drown in.

Sebastián remained seated with his legs crossed, still covered in the dry blood of battle. His body was a statue made of ash and nerve. The muscles trembled, not from fear, but from accumulated brutality. His half-closed eyes did not look outward: they sank inward, as if watching himself were the only defense against what dwelled in his core.

His Qi —that deep red with hollow edges— spun slowly. It was not an expansive aura nor an invasive pressure. It was a contained spiral. Unstable. Like a well sealed with splintered wood.

He was feeding the Inverted Core of Origin.

And not by choice.

Because if he did not, that core would devour him from within.

It had already begun.

The pain was not physical, not even energetic. It was a collapse of logic: a hole where once there had been order. As if his soul twisted in the opposite direction of the

universe. Every time he tried to ignore it, another stab called him from his center: a pull, an echo, a hunger.

That was why he swallowed energy.

He absorbed the Veil.

The altered world responded. The air, laden with magical residue, malformed emotions, and remnants of will, began to crack like an overripe fruit exuding poisonous sap. Sebastián opened his body to that current, and what others would call madness, for him was survival.

The Qi entered. Spun. Deformed.

And in the crucible of the core —that impossible organ that lived like a parasite within him— it became something his own.

Red. Dense. Sharp.

With every breath that entered, another piece of his balance returned. The pounding in his chest slowed. The internal pressure steadied. And the core stopped whispering with so much hatred.

A little more.

Just a little more.

His fingers closed. Not from tension, but from control. They no longer trembled. His breathing grew deeper. Each cell began to remember it was not dead.

And then he knew: he had endured.

He opened his eyes.

The world of the Veil remained broken, distorted, silent. But it was no longer an immediate threat. It was only a tired reflection of what had passed.

Sebastián stood. It was not a glorious ascent. It was a physical act, deliberate, without strength or drama. Every fiber ached. But he no longer collapsed. The core, for now, slept satisfied.

He raised his right hand, extended two fingers toward the air, and tore through the fabric of the Veil.

A vertical rift opened. White light. A bridge of exit.

Without looking back, he crossed the threshold.

And when the Veil closed behind him, it did so without sound.

Because Sebastián did not leave doors open.

He walked without stopping, straight toward the office of Helena and Selena. The half-destroyed factories he had left behind were no longer his responsibility. Only one step remained.

To report.

Because even in the war against the Profane, someone has to give the final account.

The doors of the building opened without drama. Sebastián walked in, dragging his shadow behind him, crossing the lobby like a living wound. He asked for no permission. He only spoke:

—Sebastián. I came to report.

The receptionist, upon seeing his state —clothes torn to rags, dried blood on his dark skin, eyes burning with a fire that was not human— asked no questions. He only nodded, pressed a button, and the elevator opened.

The ride was brief. Silent. A reflection of the void still pulsing in his body.

When the doors opened, Helena and Selena were already waiting for him. Not by notification, but by instinct. Both looked at him with a mixture of surprise and calculation: their hair still damp from the recent rain, their elegant clothes dimmed by the scene before them.

—What happened to you? —Helena asked coldly, though in her pupils a spark of concern burned.

—Your appearance… —Selena added in a lower tone—. What happened down there?

Sebastián took a few more steps. His gait was that of someone who no longer felt pain, not because it did not exist, but because he had learned to silence it.

He stopped before the desk. The air smelled of expensive perfume… and of ashes he carried from another reality.

—The Cradle was cleansed. But it was not just a nest of vermin… —he said—. What I found there was something worse. Something that should never have been so close to the human world.

Helena frowned.

—What do you mean?

—A rift —Sebastián continued—. A point of fracture between this world… and another.

—Another? You mean… another dimension?

—An alternate reality. Distorted. I call it the Veil. It is not visible to everyone. It can only be accessed when there is enough death… or spiritual corruption. And within it dwell things that should not exist.

Silence.

—I found one of those things —he continued—. I call it Profaned. It is not a demon. Not a spirit. It is a creature torn from the natural cycle of the soul. It has form… but no logic. It uses mana, but its energy is disfigured. And, worse, it evolves as it fights.

Selena watched him without blinking.

—You're saying these creatures live inside that other reality… and can cross?

—They can seep through —Sebastián corrected—. And when they do, they hide, they feed… and they wait. If we don't hunt them in time, their presence deforms the environment. It turns normal places into hubs of madness, violence, or accelerated death.

Helena crossed her arms.

—And how do you know all that?

—Because I fought one. And I barely made it out alive. —His voice cracked slightly—. And because it wasn't the only one.

An even deeper silence.

—There was another? —Selena asked.

—It appeared at the end. More deformed. Stronger. But it did not fight. It stopped the first and took it away… —Sebastián closed his eyes, as if recalling the exact instant—. They're still inside the Veil. Waiting.

—You can go in and out of that place?

—Yes. I can open the rift. But every time I do… I leave something behind. My Qi, my body, my will. It's not a portal. It's a wound.

Helena looked at Selena. Then both turned their eyes to him.

—Then this world is more fractured than we believed.

—It is —Sebastián said—. And it's going to get worse.

And with that, the night once again weighed on the air like a truth no one wanted to pronounce.

The office remained in half-light, barely illuminated by the dim glow of the suspended screens behind Helena. The smoke of incense floated, invisible, but it filled the air with the scent of damp wood and ancient resin.

Helena set her pen down on the desk. Her fingers interlaced, her gaze fixed on Sebastián.

—So then… —she murmured— that was what happened in the Cradle.

Sebastián nodded. His clothes were in tatters, his hands stained with dried blood, and cracks lined his skin as if his very soul had fractured.

Selena, standing by the window, did not turn right away. She only spoke in a low voice:

—And that… other reality. You said it's called the Veil?

—Yes —Sebastián answered—. It's a layer superimposed on the real world. An alternate dimension that reflects our world… but deformed. And within it dwell those beings. The Profaned.

Both women exchanged a brief, silent glance.

—We had never heard of them —Helena said.

—Because I didn't know of them either until recently —Sebastián added, his voice rough—. But they're real. And strong. Strong enough to shatter the structure of a city from the shadows. What happened in that factory wasn't the worst. It was only a sign.

Selena turned now. Her arms crossed, her expression hard.

—And you were able to face them… alone?

—Barely —Sebastián admitted—. And I didn't come out unscathed. If other people hadn't intervened, I probably wouldn't be here.

Silence thickened.

—Then —Helena said, with that coldness that smelled of logic—, there's no point in continuing with the cleansing of lesser nests. If what you say is true, this threat surpasses all others.

—Exactly —Sebastián confirmed—. It's better to focus all resources on hunting these Profaned. They are not simple monsters. Some are intelligent. One of them fled when it was forced to.

Selena narrowed her eyes.

—Forced?

—Two others intervened. They weren't Profaned. Nor part of their side. A pair: a man with a scythe and a masked young woman. They helped me… but not for my sake. According to them, they also hunt Profaned, though they don't see them as enemies. They only eliminate what crosses their path.

Helena raised an eyebrow.

—Allies?

—I don't know. I don't trust them, but they didn't show hostility either. They gave me a contact number, in case we cross paths again hunting Profaned… but…

—But what? —Selena asked.

Sebastián lifted his gaze slightly, as if it were obvious.

—I don't have a cell phone.

Helena let out a short, incredulous laugh.

—What do you mean you don't have a cell phone?

—I never needed one —Sebastián said, unbothered—. Until now.

Selena sighed in exasperation.

—In this age that's absurd. A cell phone isn't just for talking. You can track, search, record, locate yourself. You need one. Now.

—So it seems —Sebastián replied calmly.

Helena had already taken up a tablet and was typing something.

—We'll get you one. One that can't be tampered with. If you're going to face those beings, you need communication. Fast. Secure.

—Thank you —Sebastián answered.

Then, as if closing the matter, his gaze hardened a little more.

—And one last thing…

—Yes? —Selena asked.

—Are you also going to pay me for this?

The silence broke with a dry laugh from Helena.

—Even though you didn't finish the job?

—I survived something you didn't even know existed. And I gave you information to protect your organization from a threat worse than drugs, traffickers, and mafias.

Helena looked at him for a second. Then nodded.

—You're right. Consider this part of your payment. And a long-term investment.

—Perfect —Sebastián said.

No one smiled. No one needed to.

The world had changed. They knew it. And the Veil was no longer an invisible rumor. It was an open rift.

And Sebastián… stood at its center.

The click of the door closing was just another whisper inside the void Sebastián left behind as he exited. It was not only the silence of a visitor departing: it was the resonance of a crack in logic, a fracture in control.

Helena remained standing, arms crossed, staring without focus at the space where the boy had vanished. Selena, still seated, drummed her fingers on the black marble surface of the desk, as if searching for an answer in the echoes.

Neither spoke at first. The air felt heavier, as if the Veil had left an invisible mist lingering in the room.

—Profaned… —Helena murmured at last—. I'd never heard that word before. Never imagined something like this.

—Not even in our worst predictions —Selena said. Her voice sounded sharp, like paper tearing—. What we saw wasn't just a flaw in the system. It was a door opened to something else. To another kind of horror.

There was a moment where the ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to mark an invisible sentence. Tick. Tock. Time no longer weighed the same.

—And what if this isn't an isolated phenomenon? —Helena asked, lowering her gaze toward the folder where the reports of the failed Cradle operation still lay—. What if that thing, that Veil, is spread through other sectors… other cities?

Selena did not answer right away. She stood. Walked to the shadowed window. Beyond it, the city slept, unaware that in its basements reality could split like a dirty mirror.

—We are not going to continue with the general cleansing —she declared, without turning—. It would be like sending flesh into a grinder. Sebastián was right. We are not prepared for that threat.

—Then… we focus only on the Profaned? —Helena asked.

—We focus on surviving —Selena corrected—. And on turning this into an advantage. If we are the first to recognize this threat, we can control it. We can offer solutions. Tools. Protection. And if that boy is capable of facing one of those monsters… he will be a key part of the equation.

Helena nodded, slowly. Her face did not show fear, but calculation. The vision of a woman who, before the abyss, does not flee… she negotiates.

—We must investigate everything he told us. The Veil. None of it sounds familiar, but we need to understand it, even from the outside. Even if it's only through him.

—And there's more —Selena added—. Those hooded ones who intervened… if they're interested in hunting those creatures, maybe we can contact them at some point. Use them. Ally with them. But not now. For now, Sebastián is our only path.

Silence returned, heavier this time. Like a shroud falling over a chessboard where the pieces had begun to tremble on their own.

—Everything we knew is beginning to crack —Helena murmured.

—No —Selena corrected, finally turning with an icy smile—. Everything we knew is beginning to reveal itself.

The office still held the echo of silence after Sebastián's departure. Neither the wind nor the city could pierce the thickness left behind by his words.

Helena interlaced her fingers over the desk, as if each joint hid a decision yet to be made. Selena stood by the window, the shadow of the night casting a veil of geometry across her polished face.

—He has no cell phone —Selena said at last, without turning—. In this age… without any kind of device. How has he lived like that?

—Perhaps he hasn't lived. He has only persisted —Helena replied in a flat voice.

Selena pressed her lips, a barely perceptible crease marking her left brow. There was something about that man's figure that weighed on them even after his departure. A weight not physical, but structural. As if his very existence fractured what they thought they understood of the world.

—We should give him one. One of ours, encoded, with limited access but reinforced security —Helena continued—. If those creatures… the Profaned… are real, and if he is going to face them, we at least need to be able to locate him.

—And if he doesn't want it?

—He'll do what suits him. He's not loyal to anyone, but he understands the value of functional ties.

Selena nodded slowly. Her gaze then fell on the still-lit screen, where the district map displayed the points marked for the suspended cleansing. Her index finger slid across one of the red points.

—And what about the other two? —she asked—. The silent woman. The other, who looks like a beast in disguise. Can they face those things too?

—If they're with him, then they're dangerous. But that doesn't guarantee obedience.

—Nor cooperation.

There was a moment when neither spoke. The air seemed to hang from the overhead lamp, still, as if time itself breathed in fear.

—Vyrka and Narka —Helena murmured, as if testing the names on her tongue—. We have no precise information. No records, no origin. They are shadows walking under Sebastián's protection. If he disappears, what will they do?

—Perhaps return to where they came from. Or perhaps go mad. We can't know.

—But if they could control themselves… —Helena's voice lowered a degree—. If they could… channel that darkness they carry. They could help us contain what's coming.

Selena turned toward her sister. The light reflected a glimmer of calculation in her eyes.

—And if they don't want to?

—Then we won't force them. But we won't let them roam free either. Passive surveillance. Proximity. Subtle opportunities.

A sigh slipped like mist from Selena's lips.

—All this… arose from a simple operation. A cleansing.

—It was never simple. We just didn't know.

Both fell silent. Outside, the city remained alive, ignorant of what was brewing on its margins.

Helena rose. She walked slowly to the side cabinet, drew out a small metal box, and set it on the table. When she opened it, it revealed a compact black cell phone, without any visible logo. Durable, designed for agents.

—He doesn't know how much he can use this. But he'll find out. And if he doesn't… he'll adapt it in his own way.

—Do you think he'll agree to work with us longer?

—I don't know. But he needs us as much as we need him. Perhaps that's enough.

The box remained there, closed again, like a mute pact awaiting its moment. And the night advanced, like an enemy not yet revealed.

The noise of the city was not the same after the Veil.

Sebastián walked among streets that did not yet know the abyss had brushed their bones. His steps were slow, firm, but each carried a foreign echo, as if fragments of a battle reality itself refused to remember still resonated. The streetlights shone with a broken timidity, and the concrete looked grayer, more fragile. As if the world, too, had felt the Profaned.

ChatGPT dijo:

The sky, though it had regained its normal form, carried a strange thinness. As if an invisible fabric had been forcibly mended. Sebastián looked at it once. Not out of nostalgia. But out of certainty. What he had faced was not the end. Merely the beginning of something that had yet to take shape. And deep within his inverted core, he knew: the balance he had regained was temporary. The void does not sleep. It only waits.

Turning a corner, he left the main avenues behind and moved up into climbing paths. There, among zones still under construction, rose the structure that slowly began to resemble a mansion. A building of marble and steel, new, fresh, far too elegant for one who had slept between mud and blood for years. And yet, his.

The scaffolding was still visible on the east wing. Some workers, upon seeing him pass, lowered their eyes. Not out of respect. Out of instinct. Something in the way Sebastián moved —as if gravity did not fully apply to him— marked the difference between a human and a survivor.

The automated gate opened without him saying a word. It recognized his presence. His genetic code had been registered by Helena and Selena days before. Advanced security technology. But what truly protected him… was what walked beside him, though invisible.

The shadow of what he had done.

He crossed the inner yard. Still unfinished. Stones scattered, soil unsettled, roots unburied. And in the midst of the chaos, two presences.

Virka stood beside an uncoated column. Her hair black as the darkness of the place, as if light itself had chosen her as its last refuge. Her eyes saw him arrive before he spoke a word. In her posture there was stillness. But not calm.

Narka, seated on a slab of concrete, toyed with a sharp blade as if it were a natural extension of his fingers. On seeing him, he did not smile. He only inclined his head. It was not coldness. It was recognition.

—You returned —Virka said.

—I returned —Sebastián answered.

And in that simple exchange, without drama, without ornament, an invisible bridge was woven. He did not need to tell what he had lived. They did not need to ask. They felt it in the air around him. In the faint scent of mystical burns. In the way his clothes hung in tatters and his skin still bore unhealed cracks.

Sebastián stopped a few meters from them both.

—We need to talk.

Neither moved. But both listened.

And the weight of the Veil, though absent, still pulsed in his voice.

The half-raised walls of the mansion let the wind enter without asking permission. The echo of the world still slipped through the roofless halls, as if that place —still raw, still unfinished— knew that what was about to be discussed could not be spoken beneath a completed ceiling.

There they were, the three of them.

Narka seated on a slab of unpolished concrete, his gaze lowered.

Virka standing a few meters away, arms behind her back, as if carrying something invisible across her shoulder blades.

And Sebastián… at the center.

He said nothing at first. Only walked to the core of the nameless room, between bare wooden beams and suspended dust.

His eyes lifted toward them, without harshness… but with weight. Not of rage. Not even of fatigue.

It was something else.

It was emptiness.

But an emptiness that hurt.

—It's not enough —he said at last, his voice steady and low—.

And I don't just mean what I did out there.

Narka raised his eyes.

Virka did not move.

—I could cut.

I could resist.

I could survive.

But when I breathed afterward… I felt something missing. Something that shouldn't be missing at this point.

—What? —Narka asked, without judgment.

—Everything.

The silence grew heavy.

—My strength —Sebastián continued—. It isn't tempered. It's only agitated.

My mind… still doesn't fall silent when it should.

And my cultivation… my cultivation still drags shadows I don't control, and others I don't even understand.

Even my Dao of the Void… it's incomplete. Not broken, no, but… it vibrates as if something within doesn't fully fit.

—Your power has overflowed —Virka said at last—. But it hasn't been refined. Only accumulated.

—Exactly —Sebastián nodded.

He stepped closer to one of the unfinished walls and rested a hand on the wood.

—I thought I was already ready. That everything I achieved out there was enough.

But… I don't want to fight halfway.

I don't want to face what's coming without knowing if I am what I must be.

Narka nodded slowly, but said nothing.

—So I'll shut myself away —Sebastián continued—. Behind closed doors.

A place where no one can see me.

Where I don't have to hold up a mask, or a name, or a duty.

Only me.

My strength.

My void.

And the time it takes.

—For how long? —Narka asked.

—As long as I need. No less. Never less.

—Where? —Virka asked.

—Not here. But near. I know a place. Silent. Cold. Cruel enough to break me if I don't endure… and perfect if I want to be reborn.

Virka stepped closer. The light struck her pale skin with a faint contrast, as if the world knew that for a moment she was meant to shine without saying anything.

—And if you don't come back? —she asked, without emotion, but without harshness.

—Then I didn't deserve to.

For a moment no one breathed.

—This is not a retreat —Sebastián said—. It's a rewriting.

And after that, he walked to one of the unfinished columns, and there he stopped.

—Don't look for me.

Don't interrupt me.

If something happens… and it is truly urgent, you'll know how to find me.

But if not… let me fight this battle alone.

Virka lowered her face, closing her eyes.

Narka did not argue.

They knew they could not stop him.

And more than that: they knew he was right.

Because sometimes, even the strongest bodies need to fall silent.

And the most awakened souls… need to sink, before they can fly.

The silence was not broken by words.

Nor by sighs.

Not even by sudden movements.

Only the breeze, slipping through the unfinished walls, seemed to have permission to touch the three.

Sebastián had not moved yet.

Virka remained at his side.

And Narka —in his reduced form— watched from his right shoulder, as if stone itself held both memory and judgment.

—I will say no more —Sebastián murmured, barely audible—.

If what I am now is not enough… then I must break further.

There was no immediate reply.

Only then, Virka walked.

Not quickly. Not gently.

Her steps were like the sound of cooling metal: tense, calculated, irreversible.

And without a word, she stood before Sebastián.

Her red eyes, intense and without pupil, looked at him with a false calm.

She did not touch him.

She did not wrap him in her arms.

She did not ask to stay.

But she lowered her face slightly, letting her black hair fall over part of it.

An act that, for her, was more intimate than any embrace.

Sebastián did not try to console her.

He knew he must not.

He only leaned forward slightly, until their foreheads nearly brushed.

—I will return stronger —he promised—.

Clearer.

More my own.

Virka did not answer.

But her dark aura thickened for a second.

And in that moment, the latent silhouette of her original bestial form —that living, savage mass only Sebastián has seen clearly— shivered around her.

Only for an instant.

Only as a restrained reflection.

As if her instinct wished to awaken… but her choice to remain human kept it pressed down.

And yet… she did not attack.

She did not transform.

She only stood there, a reminder that he must not take too long.

Narka spoke next.

—You will not return the same —he said from the shoulder, his voice deep as a landslide that does not crush, but shakes—.

And that is as it should be.

Sebastián turned his head slightly toward him.

Narka's golden eyes showed no doubt. No comfort. No sorrow.

—The things that weigh you down will fall.

The things you lack will come.

And you will decide whether you bleed… or are born again.

Sebastián closed his eyes for a moment.

—Thank you —he replied—. For not stopping me.

—I couldn't, even if I wanted to —Narka answered—. You are too much yourself.

Then, the boy stepped back.

Just once.

And that was enough to mark the separation.

—The place I've chosen is far, but not invisible —Sebastián said, without turning—.

Do not follow me.

Do not watch me.

Do not wait for me…

—…but we will not forget you —Narka completed, his tone lower, almost secret.

Virka said nothing.

She only remained there. Motionless.

And her shadow, for a second, seemed to extend toward him. As if it hesitated. As if it wanted to reach him. As if…

But it did not.

Because she knew she must not.

Sebastián left.

He did not run.

He did not walk slow.

He only advanced.

As do those who know they must go, in order not to break what they love.

And when his figure vanished into the haze of dust and unfinished structures, the mansion was left in a silence denser than before.

Virka did not move.

Narka lowered his gaze.

And the world kept turning…

…but not for everyone.

The dust lingered in the air.

But Sebastián no longer did.

His figure slowly faded into the dirty mist of the unfinished worksite.

Step by step, he moved away without turning his face.

As if looking back would make him less firm.

As if that weight were his… and his alone.

Virka did not follow.

Not with her feet.

Not with her voice.

Only with her eyes.

Red. Still. Sharp as a wound that does not bleed.

The wind lifted her dark dress for a second, and her silhouette was outlined between columns and shadows.

She did not move. But it was not because she did not want to.

It was because something inside her fought.

An invisible vibration, barely perceptible…

…as if her instinct —that beast still roaring in her entrails— screamed to burst free, to run, to not leave him alone.

But she held herself in her human form.

The form she chose.

The form that still hurts.

—He left again —Narka murmured from her shoulder. His voice was low, ancient—. Like that time in Draila.

—I don't want it to always be like this —Virka answered, her gaze still fixed on the place where Sebastián's figure had vanished—.

I don't want to only… wait for him.

Narka remained silent for a few seconds. The dust settled slowly over his mineral shell.

—Then what do you want?

Virka clenched her fingers. Her nails barely scratched her own palm, without spilling a single drop of blood.

—I want to walk with him.

Not when he comes back.

But when he moves forward.

I want to fight.

Not to protect him…

But to be his equal.

Narka nodded, very slowly. The weight of his movement made the air creak.

—That is evolution.

Not just becoming stronger…

But becoming more sincere.

Virka looked at him for a moment. Her red eyes did not waver.

—Do you think I can?

Narka did not answer right away.

He climbed down from her shoulder with a slowness that was almost ritual, and walked just far enough to stand beside her, not above her.

—You chose to feel.

That makes you more human than many.

But do not forget what you are.

The beast.

The living creation.

The darkness that walks.

The one that was never weak… but chose not to devour.

—If you want to walk with him —Narka continued—, do not kill the beast.

Make it walk with you.

Virka closed her eyes for a second.

Inside her, a deep vibration ignited.

Like a hidden heart.

Like a roar contained in the marrow.

It was not only desire.

It was promise.

—I won't stay behind again —she said, more to herself than to Narka—.

I don't want only to feel…

I want to be.

And for the first time in a long while, Narka smiled.

A minimal curve on his face hardened by time.

—Then… you've already begun.

Both looked toward the horizon.

Sebastián was no longer visible.

But his trace still burned in the air.

And this time, as silence once again embraced the unfinished mansion,

it was not the silence of waiting…

but of decision.

The mansion grew still.

As empty as the space Sebastián had left behind in his walk.

Virka had not moved since he vanished.

Her eyes remained fixed on the horizon, as if she could still feel the vibration of his steps fading away.

But what burned in her chest was not farewell.

It was something else.

A word she did not know well…

but that pulsed in her throat: insufficiency.

At her side, Narka remained silent.

Not out of ignorance, but because he had learned —long before language existed— that there are battles which can only be named once they begin.

Virka lowered her head.

—This time… I don't want to stay here.

Her voice carried no volume.

But in that unfinished space of stone and dust, it was a brutal echo.

—I don't want only to protect him when he comes back wounded.

I don't want to be only the one who waits.

I don't want to be the one who clenches her fists and holds back the beast.

Narka watched her.

His golden, ancient eyes showed no emotion.

But they shone with understanding.

—Then go —he said, with the gravity of a mountain—.

Where power is not form… but decision.

Virka closed her eyes.

The dark dress that wrapped her body stirred with a breeze that did not come from this world.

—The Veil —she said.

—Where there are no faces… only reflections.

Narka walked toward the center of the roofless hall.

His feet, though small in this reduced form, carried the weight of history.

—It will not be kind —he said.

—Not to you… nor to me.

—But it will be truth.

Virka followed.

At the exact point where Sebastián had taken his leave, where the dust had not yet fully settled, Narka stopped his body and drove one of his feet hard into the ground.

A vibration spread.

Not visible.

Not audible.

But real.

As if something invisible had split.

The air began to deform.

No portal opened.

There was no light.

Only a silent curve in space, as if the world itself were yielding to something older than it.

The Veil.

Not as a place.

But as a boundary.

Virka stepped forward.

Her aura wavered.

The beast within her stirred.

But she did not step back.

—This time I don't follow him.

—This time I follow myself.

And she crossed.

Narka, behind, followed without a word.

Because some decisions are not celebrated…

only respected.

And when space closed again,

the mansion was truly alone.

But out there, beyond the physical planes…

two shadows walked toward the judgment that transforms.

The place was a barren mountain, forgotten.

Without name.

Without history.

Sebastián stood before the thickest rock at its base.

He did not meditate.

He did not seek signs.

He only raised his fist.

And struck.

The stone trembled.

Not by technique.

Not for show.

By real strength. By decision.

A fissure ran vertically, like a clean cut carved with silent rage.

He did not stop.

He clenched his fingers.

And with the next strike, he opened a full-body rift.

Pure darkness awaited inside.

But he did not look at it.

He entered without speaking.

Without looking back.

Only him. His body. His Qi. His void.

Once inside, he turned on himself.

And then, he closed the rift from within.

He placed both palms against the split stone.

Channeled his Qi.

And with a dry, brutal roar, he forced the mountain to collapse against him.

The stone sealed.

Not by the world's will… but by his own.

And not a crack remained.

Not a breath.

Only absolute confinement.

Darkness.

Pressure.

Silence.

And the brutal certainty that no one would come.

There, at the heart of that self-imposed prison, Sebastián sat.

Not to find peace.

But to find the fragments of what he was not yet.

The air grew dense.

Qi would not flow.

His body creaked.

And his mind began to empty from within, layer by layer.

It was the beginning.

Not of training.

But of a demolition.

The stone had sealed.

There was no light.

There was no entrance.

There was no world.

Inside, the air was so thick that breathing was memory, not act.

Sebastián sat.

Not on a base.

Not on earth.

He simply floated.

His body —hardened, tensed by years of struggle, marked by scars that no longer hurt— began to yield.

The muscles loosened.

The veins ceased to pulse with pressure.

The Qi stopped flowing outward.

Everything began to fall inward.

And then…

he was suspended.

As if hung in the void without cords.

No above.

No below.

Only absolute stillness.

Total.

And it was there that he separated.

He did not abandon his body.

But he ceased to be within it.

His consciousness, that living fragment of thought, intention, memory,

descended into the core of his being.

And what he found…

was not power.

Not clarity.

It was darkness.

But not as shadow.

Not as evil.

But as depth without end.

An abyss without surface.

A vastness without edge.

His void.

It was not something that surrounded him.

It was something that had always been part of him.

Every time he did not understand his emotions.

Every time he fought without knowing why living hurt more than dying.

Every time he felt his body was a cage and not a home…

There was the void.

Waiting.

Silent.

Watching him.

Sebastián descended further.

He did not walk.

He did not fly.

He did not think.

He was only drawn.

By himself.

By that formless core that had been beneath everything he believed he was.

And at the center of that abyss…

there was a tremor.

Not an earthquake.

Not an explosion.

But a memory.

An echo.

A whisper of something he did not understand, but that hurt.

His mother's voice.

A fragment of blood.

A promise made under breath.

A question he never dared to answer:

—Why am I still alive?

The void did not answer.

It only held him.

And in that moment, he understood:

His void was not his weakness.

It was what had saved him.

It was what had pushed him.

It was the space within him where Strength did not yet have a name… but already had a presence.

It was not Qi.

It was not technique.

It was not killing intent.

It was something else:

Will in its purest state.

Memory that endures.

The desire to exist… even if the world breaks.

And Sebastián knew he was in the right place.

Not because he could emerge stronger.

But because at last he was willing to disappear first.

Because no one walks the Dao of Strength unless they are capable of destroying themselves…

to find what part remains standing when everything else is gone.

In the absolute blackness, Sebastián's body did not move.

He did not breathe as before.

He did not think as before.

He only existed, suspended between the beat of his soul and the silent pulse of the world.

His consciousness floated within himself, spinning like a weightless leaf,

descending to levels where memories no longer had names…

only taste.

Only scar.

And in that instant —where not even time could reach him—

something inside him vibrated.

It was not a technique.

It was not a message.

It was a bond.

A muted whisper, barely perceptible,

as if the void into which he sank…

also remembered that he was not alone.

On another plane.

Another silence.

Another kind of darkness.

The Veil.

Virka opened her eyes.

Not the ones of the body.

But those of the soul.

Her human form remained intact, standing in that directionless space.

But now… something had changed.

Something had brushed against her.

Like a deep vibration that did not come from here,

but from him.

Sebastián.

Not a voice.

Not a thought.

Only a presence that reminded her that he too was at war… with himself.

And in that reflection, Virka understood:

this was not a time to wait.

Not a time to watch from afar.

It was a time to shatter her own mirror.

The beast stood before her.

Her original form.

Black. Dense. Nameless.

Red eyes without pupil.

Living musculature like a scream held in.

It did not attack.

It only breathed.

—I will no longer deny you —Virka said.

Her voice was low, but firm.

—But I will not surrender either.

The creature did not respond.

It did not need to.

Because it was not an enemy.

It was the fragment Virka had locked away all this time.

Out of fear.

Out of instinct.

Out of misunderstood love.

But no longer.

—I am not only this.

Nor only what he sees in me.

I am strength.

I am decision.

I am a bond that does not need to hide in shadow.

She clenched her fists.

The dark aura around her trembled,

and so did the beast.

It was as if they were already connected,

as if the simple act of speaking it…

had begun the process.

—I will no longer separate from you —she said—.

I will absorb you.

Transform you.

Make you part of me.

And when I walk with him…

I will do it as an equal.

As a presence.

Not as a shadow.

From a few steps behind, Narka watched.

He said nothing.

But his gaze —golden, ancient, engraved with centuries— seemed to silently affirm what was happening.

Because he was not a guide.

He was a witness.

And a witness was all Virka needed.

—If I fail —she whispered—, then you will consume me.

She stepped forward.

And the beast roared.

Not in rage.

But in acceptance.

Because for the first time,

Virka had not come to seal it.

She had come to claim it.

And while Sebastián sank into his own core,

she began her brutal ascent,

not as the one who guards from behind…

but as the one who fights at his side.

The Veil trembled.

But not for what entered…

for what was being released.

Virka did not retreat.

Her bare feet anchored into the groundless plane,

as if defying the very concept of void.

Before her, the beast roared.

Not from rage.

But from doubt.

At last… the doubt was mutual.

The creature —her original form— breathed slowly.

Its chest expanded with that dense mist made of instinct, of pure fury,

of what she had feared.

And also of what she had loved.

Because yes:

she had loved protecting Sebastián.

She had loved being the shadow that leapt before he could bleed.

She had loved waiting, without him ever noticing.

But no longer.

Now…

she wanted to be at his side,

not as a reflection,

but as a part.

—I will no longer silence you —Virka said.

The beast stepped forward.

Its claws scored the plane of the Veil like blades slicing through ideas.

—I will not cage you.

I do not want a perfect prison.

I want a living form.

I want to be you… without ceasing to be me.

And then, she took the first step.

Not toward the enemy.

But toward herself.

The roar that burst shook everything.

The plane cracked.

The void answered.

And the beast charged.

But this time, Virka did not defend.

She did not transform.

She opened her arms.

And received the strike of herself.

It was like being torn out of her own body.

As if every bone fought to remain whole.

As if her mind screamed: "You cannot contain this."

But her heart…

did not scream.

It struck.

Once,

and again,

and again.

Dull blows. Internal.

A perfect rhythm.

Pure will.

And then, the Aura awakened.

Not as light.

Not as fire.

But as a living pressure that burst from her chest into every muscle,

as if every wound, every wait, every moment she had held the beast back…

now demanded its place.

Her hair whipped as though the world itself blew from within.

Her dress clung to her skin as if the power claimed it as armor.

And her eyes…

were no longer just red.

They were a focus.

The beast shuddered.

And for the first time, it trembled.

Not from fear.

But because it was being absorbed.

Virka screamed.

But not in pain.

In acceptance.

And with that scream, the beast split into hundreds of dark fragments,

that did not vanish…

but entered her.

No crack remained.

No shadow remained.

Only one presence:

Virka,

standing,

with her aura blazing like an invisible pressure,

with her breath steady,

and her body tempered like a freshly forged blade.

She was no longer a beast trying to feel.

Nor a child trying to protect.

Now she was a living warrior.

A combatant's heart.

A strength born of resisting and returning.

—When he awakens… —she whispered—,

he will no longer see me as a shadow.

He will see me as one who can walk beside him.

The Veil stabilized.

Virka was no longer just a form.

Nor just a presence.

Now she was manifest will.

A heart that struck with invisible pressure.

An aura born not from the soul… but from the history tattooed into her muscles.

She remained standing,

with her eyes alight,

her breathing measured,

and her entire body resonating like a muffled drum,

yet laden with echoes.

And Narka…

watched.

Not from above.

Nor from behind.

From that place where only true witnesses remain:

beside, but without interfering.

His golden eyes showed no shine.

Nor shadow.

Only that weight with which mountains regard the passing of fire.

And within him,

something stirred.

Not out of emotion.

Not out of surprise.

But out of recognition.

—So you did it —he murmured, voice low and grave—.

Without guidance.

Without method.

Without permission.

Virka did not answer.

She did not need to.

The silence spoke for her.

Her presence was now a new language.

—You did not rip power away.

You remembered it —he said, his gaze fixed on her—.

You claimed it as part of yourself.

And that…

that is not common strength.

He fell silent for a moment.

The words lingered there with their own weight,

as if each phrase were a stone fragment falling into endless void.

—Not everyone can do that without breaking.

Narka lowered his head slightly.

It was not reverence.

It was understanding.

It was that faint gesture the earth makes when it accepts that something has grown within it.

And then he kept silent.

Not because he had nothing more to say.

But because he had already said everything.

Because true rock…

does not teach.

It only recognizes.

The pressure was still there.

Not as a burden.

But as a new presence.

Virka did not tremble.

But every muscle in her body seemed different.

Not stronger…

but more real.

She clenched her fists, and the air around her vibrated faintly.

Not like wind.

But like something invisible pushing from within.

—This… feels like nothing else —she whispered.

Her voice carried a new resonance.

As if it spoke from deeper than her throat.

—It is not energy.

Not fire.

Not Qi.

Not rage.

She closed her eyes.

And placed a hand upon her chest.

—It is my body… screaming what it has already survived.

The black aura pulsed.

Dense.

Muted.

Like a second heart, beating outward with every breath.

—I didn't have to learn it —she said, almost surprised—.

I didn't meditate it.

I didn't train it.

And when she opened her eyes, there was something new within them.

—I just… remembered who I was.

Narka, still unmoving, allowed the silence to last.

Only after did he speak.

—Aura is not taught.

It only awakens.

And every time it does… it recalls everything you had to silence to reach this point.

He stepped closer, slowly.

The Veil did not resist.

There was no judgment left between them.

Only mutual witnessing.

—What you carry in your chest…

is everything that did not kill you, demanding space.

Virka listened without moving.

But her eyes were fixed.

They did not shine.

They weighed.

—I feel… as if my whole body knows how to fight, even without thought —she said.

She raised a hand.

She did no technique.

She only left it open.

The black aura floated around her fingers,

like a pressure that wanted to be born…

but would not without a reason.

—This doesn't unleash with intention.

It unleashes with… necessity.

With truth.

With decision.

Narka nodded.

—Aura is what remains when you can no longer lie to your body.

Nor to your history.

Nor to your rage.

—Nor to your love —Virka added, in a low voice.

There was silence.

A different one.

Because it was no longer pause…

it was certainty.

The beast no longer roared.

The Veil no longer closed.

And the world…

at last felt her complete.

Virka remained silent.

The black aura kept pulsing from her chest outward.

It was not fire.

It was not mist.

It was pure pressure.

As if every fiber of her body had begun to speak in a new language… and everything around was forced to listen.

She extended an arm.

And the environment of the Veil —that reflection of the physical world— reacted.

The ground trembled faintly beneath her feet.

The nearby rocks vibrated, as if something invisible were pressing them inward.

The trees —tall, ancient, twisted— began to bend… before she even touched them.

Not by wind.

Not by will.

But by presence.

Narka did not move.

He only observed.

And within his golden gaze, something lit:

ancient comprehension.

—She is not striking yet —he thought—.

But everything is already yielding.

Virka advanced.

A single step.

And the air tightened.

The leaves shrank.

The roots recoiled.

The smaller stones cracked at the touch of the invisible pressure spreading from her stride.

With each movement,

the aura seemed to sweep across the ground, crawl along the soil, climb up the trunks,

and claim space.

—This is not just strength —Narka thought—.

It is a field.

A presence so dense…

that what exists within its reach must adapt or break.

Virka raised her hand, and this time… she struck.

A nearby tree —gnarled, massive, strong— was touched by her palm wrapped in black.

It did not fly apart.

It collapsed from within.

As if its structure had unraveled before the true impact landed.

It fell in silence.

No branches snapping.

No leaves scattering.

Only immediate surrender.

Narka narrowed his eyes.

—Aura does not only attack.

It constricts.

It loosens the certainties of the world.

It breaks without touching.

And if it chooses… it protects.

Virka breathed with control.

But the air around her did not obey.

It bent.

It wavered.

The environment of the Veil —though illusory— was retreating.

Responding to something real.

—This is not a technique —Narka thought—.

It is will made body.

And in that moment, he understood everything:

Virka did not need to shine.

She did not need to shout.

She did not need to transform.

Her aura already did everything for her.

And in that silence without words,

the world —though simulated—

bowed before the one who had stopped fearing her roar…

to become terrain that walks.

The tree fell.

The rock yielded.

The air tightened.

And Virka breathed.

Not with pride.

Nor with euphoria.

Only with unsatisfied curiosity.

—I want more —she said.

—I need to know if this is real… or if only silence obeys me.

Narka lifted his head,

his golden eyes crossing with hers without words.

Virka stepped forward, without looking back.

—Leave me alone —she said—.

Not because you are of no use.

But because I need to be alone.

Narka did not object.

He did not ask.

He only nodded.

Because he understood.

Because he had seen, many times, that moment when a creature no longer wished to test its strength against still things…

but against something that could answer back.

The environment of the Veil shifted.

Not with a smooth transition,

but with a grimace of tension…

as if the plane itself sensed something important was about to occur.

And then it appeared.

A beast.

Twisted.

Forged of overlapping planes.

With skin of scales and bone laid bare.

With eyes that spun in impossible directions.

It was a creature of the Veil…

born from the mana of the plane,

from the fear stored in its deepest layers.

But it was real.

It was an enemy.

And it roared.

Not out of hunger.

But out of nature.

Virka did not step back.

She did not raise a guard.

She did not activate a technique.

She only walked toward it,

cloaked in that mantle of black aura that surrounded her even when she did not force it.

The air curved again.

The ground began to tremble.

The creature tensed.

And struck.

The first clash was brutal.

The beast lunged with claws and jaws gaping,

fast, like a dagger of living flesh.

Virka evaded.

Not with grace…

with decision.

She spun on herself.

Stomped down hard.

And unleashed an upward strike with her right palm.

The pressure of the aura burst free.

It was not visible.

But the impact was devastating.

The creature was hurled in a straight line,

its torso cracking before it hit the ground,

as if something within had already collapsed before the fall.

But it did not die.

It roared with greater violence.

And the air of the Veil grew dense, hostile.

It launched spines from its back.

It leapt like a blade.

It opened mouths it did not have.

And Virka answered.

Not with rage.

Not with frenzy.

With clarity.

She evaded.

Cut the air with one arm.

The aura erupted in a circular field that halted the projectiles mid-flight.

The spines quivered.

And shattered before reaching her.

Narka, watching from afar, observed.

And thought:

—She is not using aura to attack…

she is fighting with her body,

and the aura is simply there,

obeying without command.

—That is the true manifestation —he reflected—.

When power no longer needs activation.

When the body itself is the technique.

Virka slid beneath a leaping strike from the enemy.

She pivoted on her left foot.

And with her right, kicked the creature's jaw upward.

The beast cracked.

Its neck gave way.

The air broke.

And with one final strike,

a palm driven straight into its chest,

the beast was hurled backward…

smashed through three trees of the Veil,

and ended buried in stone,

trembling.

Convulsing.

Unable to rise again.

Virka did not shout.

She did not celebrate.

She only lowered her arm…

and let the aura settle on its own.

Narka walked toward her.

—Did you feel it? —he asked.

Virka did not look at him.

But she answered.

—I felt that everything in my body knew what to do…

before I even thought it.

—That is aura —Narka said—.

It does not answer to your mind.

It answers to your history.

Virka closed her eyes.

And for the first time…

she smiled.

The magical beast's body still smoked in the distance.

It did not bleed.

It unraveled slowly, like all things not fully real within the Veil.

But the impact, the violence, the victory… that was real.

Virka was not wounded. Not even winded.

But she felt the weight inside.

Not as exhaustion, but as a kind of tremor that was not weakness.

It was awareness.

She walked toward a broad stone, one of those not placed by anyone yet shaped as if meant to hold someone.

She sat without ceremony.

Her aura no longer pulsed around her, but it was there, ready to expand again if her body decided.

Narka joined her without a sound.

He did not need to announce himself.

His presence was already part of what she accepted.

—I never felt anything like this before —Virka said, without looking—.

Qi is something else. You handle it. You channel it. You think it.

This… no.

She pressed her fingers against her legs.

Not with tension.

With intention.

—This moves when I move. But not from muscle. From what I was. From what I am. As if every blow I took, every step I walked, every moment I waited in silence… were now striking with me.

Narka nodded once, very slowly.

—That's right. And what you struck now… was only the beginning. What you felt… can grow. Not as power. As presence. As a field.

Virka glanced at him from the side.

—Are there levels too?

—Not like the others. Not like Qi, which is measured by quantity or refinement. Aura is not learned. It is survived. It evolves with you, if you remain true.

Virka lowered her gaze.

—That's what I want.

—To evolve?

—No. Not only. I want to keep changing. Not remain "the one who guards." Not stay here, always waiting for him to return wounded. I want to fight at his side. I want to reach the same place… by my own path.

Narka did not answer at once. He walked a few steps until he stood before her, without blocking her. His golden eyes fixed on the invisible aura still cloaking Virka's body like something unwilling to extinguish.

—Then keep bleeding. Keep striking. Keep resisting. Your aura will keep growing. Until one day, you not only stand beside him… but he also finds strength in what you are.

Virka did not reply. But her hands loosened. Her back straightened. And her eyes, steady, remained open. In silence, she accepted that she had not stopped. That this was not a finished transformation. That her path was only beginning.

Narka watched her a moment longer, then settled beside her again. Not as master. Not as guide. Only as one who knows there are steps that cannot be interrupted. Only accompanied.

And the Veil, for a moment, seemed to breathe slower. As if even it understood that sometimes combat is not movement, but decision. And that Virka had already made hers.

Sebastián's body remained still, suspended within the sealed entrails of the mountain. His figure looked dead, yet his consciousness… burned like a living abyss.

There was no air.

No sound.

Only darkness.

A darkness that did not suffocate, but pulsed with a deep rhythm, as if the world itself were breathing from its entrails.

There, in that chosen tomb, the Void was not a concept…

It was a throbbing reality.

Sebastián did not think.

He did not dream.

He dissolved.

His soul expanded beyond his flesh, and his core —that rift that swallows all— still devoured in silence. But it no longer fed only on elemental Qi or stray techniques. Now it began to rebuild.

Inside, Sebastián felt how the energies devoured long ago had not vanished completely. They were formless memories. Echoes. Remnants still vibrating.

A fire technique, shattered in his hands.

A sound technique, absorbed by his core.

An enemy's will that once roared before it fell.

Everything was there. Sleeping.

And a spark… awoke them.

Like threads of shadow intertwining with veins of white light, the Dao of the Void began to weave. It was not a copy. It was a decomposition that understood. An instinctive knowledge, as if every energy swallowed could be read from within. As if Sebastián, by devouring, learned the secret tongue of every force.

The devoured fire was rewritten.

It no longer burned.

Now it pulsed like heat contained beneath his skin.

A heat that needed no flames… only will.

This was the Reconstructing Void.

It did not imitate.

It redefined.

And in the midst of that process of reconstruction, something else awoke.

It was not cold.

It was weight.

A brutal weight.

Familiar.

Primordial.

From the very center of his chest, Strength began to surge.

Not external energy.

Not technique.

It was pure will.

A dense sensation, as if every fiber of his being remembered why it had endured. Every wound. Every fall. Every instant in which he chose to remain standing, even when nothing was left.

The Void taught him to absorb.

But Strength… taught him to exist.

His red Qi, until then contained, began to beat. Not like a river, but like a hammer.

Like a war drum.

First, he felt the waves of pressure gathering in his limbs.

They were not visible.

But the mountain trembled, imperceptibly, as if his inert body weighed more than the stone surrounding him.

Then, he sensed how the illusory barriers that still lingered in his mind —remnants of old fears, ancient failures, broken promises— began to crack.

"I am here."

That was what his Strength said.

"I do not retreat. I do not erase."

In that instant, he understood that his Dao of Strength was not a mere amplification of power.

It was the brutal affirmation of his existence.

The Void made him infinite in absorption.

Strength made him impossible to deny.

The two did not oppose each other.

They needed each other.

Void to swallow the world.

Strength so the world would recognize him.

From the outside, nothing could be seen.

But inside that living tomb, a young man who had once fallen, died again…

Only to be born anew.

Not as what he had been.

But as what he was destined to be:

the one who devours the cosmos, but also breaks it.

And though his body remained motionless, his consciousness burned.

A white maelstrom devoured the world.

A red drum affirmed it.

Sebastián had taken another step.

Not toward enlightenment.

But toward definition.

In the deepest part of the sealed mountain, where light could not arrives, and the world falls silent,

Sebastián did not move.

He could not.

His body remained suspended within the stone, like a forgotten corpse.

But his consciousness floated.

It burned.

The Void within him swirled in spirals, swallowing everything and nothing.

It was an abyss with hunger. A core no longer merely his, but part of what he was.

He understood.

The Void was devouring.

It was law.

But the more he grasped it, the more he felt it grow…

The more he noticed something.

An imbalance.

The will that composed it, the very center of his existence, was beginning to tilt.

It absorbed everything.

It reconstructed everything.

And yet… where was his affirmation?

To absorb is not to exist.

To transform is not to remain.

It was then that he understood, with more clarity than ever.

Strength was not the complement of the Void.

It was its equal.

It was the second pillar.

He could no longer be only an abyss that swallows.

He must also be the wall that does not yield,

the fist that affirms its place in the universe,

the gaze that does not vanish even when the world unravels.

Thus was born reflection.

Not the kind that thinks, but the kind engraved in flesh.

—"If all my being is a Void that devours… who remains after?" —he thought.

The answer did not come in words.

It came in weight.

From his chest, from his bones, from every muscle rebuilt by years of war, Strength began to murmur its truth.

It was no longer a latent pressure.

It was an echo.

A constant hammering in his blood.

Every victory.

Every wound.

Every time he chose to walk when there was no path.

All of that was Strength.

And he had lived too much to ignore it.

What the Void silenced,

Strength shouted.

"I am here."

"I will not fall."

"I will not be swallowed."

The mountain trembled again, not because something was unleashed… but because something was affirmed.

Sebastián then saw his two Daos as figures.

Not opposed.

But dancing.

The Void devoured to be reborn.

Strength resisted to remain.

And if one grew more than the other…

if one dominated without balance…

the path toward Eternal Strength would shatter before it could even be born.

Eternity cannot be built on a single foundation.

He had to level them.

He had to advance his Dao of Strength to the second level.

Not out of ambition.

But out of the need for existence.

Because if the Void was the cosmos swallowed,

Strength was him.

The one who walked without a name.

The one who fell and rose again.

The one who was never chosen… but chose to endure.

And there, within that tension, within the gravity of his own soul, Sebastián understood:

balance is not peace.

It is a constant struggle between devouring…

and holding.

Void and Strength.

To devour and to affirm.

To fall and to endure.

They were his Daos.

And soon, they would be his domains.

But first… he had to ignite Strength in its fullness.

He had to match it to the Void.

Not with knowledge.

With pure will.

With strikes against the invisible.

Against himself.

And then, yes…

take the next step.

___________________________________________

END OF CHAPTER 24