On the Path of Eternal Strength.

The forest in the Veil was not silent.

It only knew when to be quiet.

Its trees were deformed copies of those in the real world, with cracked trunks that bled thick sap, and leaves so dark they stole light without reflecting it.

There were roots that whispered at the touch… and branches that creaked before the weight arrived.

There, Virka trained.

Not with technique.

But with hunger.

Her black aura crawled along the ground like an animal without skin.

It was not perfect.

It still trembled at the edges, still stopped before invisible barriers, still recoiled when the pain of use was greater than the will.

But it was learning.

Every step she took left a mark.

Not on the earth.

In the air.

An invisible pressure that deformed the wind, that extinguished the buzzing of the insects of the Veil, that made the dry leaves crack before she touched them.

And when she extended the aura, it slid over the trees, climbing the trunks, surrounding her body like a trembling mantle.

It was not mastery yet… but she already knew it could become so.

Narka observed her.

Meters away from her, his shell shining within, dark without, was reflected in the small pools the forest exhaled in the humidity.

He did not speak.

He did not move.

Only when the silence was enough, his voice arose like hot mist from deep within the earth.

—The pressure you exert is no longer passive.

Now it bites.

But it bites with fear.

Virka did not respond.

She stopped before a clearing.

On the other side, two beasts of the Veil stared at her.

One had the form of a deer without a face, its neck twisted in a spiral, its chest covered in closed eyes.

The other was quadrupedal, covered in spines, its skin cracked by the energy that leaked out like sickly vapor.

Both tensed upon feeling the black aura.

But they did not retreat.

Not yet.

Virka closed her eyes.

Not to concentrate.

But to feel her own mistake.

The aura was vast… but unstable.

When she forced it too much, it shattered.

When she hesitated, it withdrew.

When rage commanded, it expanded without direction.

Not like this.

She inhaled.

Her chest tightened.

The mist in the clearing vibrated.

And then she did it again.

The aura emerged not from her back, nor from her feet, but from her center.

A halo that pulsed with the cadence of her heart.

Beat.

Expansion.

Beat.

Control.

The battlefield changed.

The air grew heavy.

The highest branches creaked.

The weapons that floated beside the spined creature—sharp magical projections—began to vibrate with instability.

The faceless deer made a misstep.

The aura was already taking effect.

And Virka… felt the change.

For the first time, the aura responded to her will, not only to her instinct.

And that enraged her.

Because now it was not enough to devour.

She had to decide.

She ran.

Not with animal speed.

But as a shadow among roots.

And when she reached the first enemy, the aura wrapped her arm like a whip, spreading over the deer's flesh like ink on canvas.

The creature screamed without a mouth.

And fell.

The core vibrated beneath its skin.

She felt it, sought it, tore it out.

And ate it.

Standing.

Staring at the second enemy.

With hot blood dripping down her chin.

Narka spoke.

—Your field no longer only imposes itself.

It is beginning to have intention.

Virka raised her gaze.

Her red eyes shone.

Not with fury.

With hunger.

Not with power.

With certainty.

The second enemy roared.

It tried to move.

But the aura expanded suddenly.

This time, with a sharpened will.

The branches cracked.

The pressure increased.

The monster stumbled before taking the first step.

And Virka was already upon it.

The aura became a blade, pushing her technique into the beast, weakening the enemy's reflexes, breaking its defense before real contact.

A single strike.

With her fist.

But filled with territory.

And the enemy split in two.

Second core.

Second tide.

Virka breathed deeply.

And this time… the aura did not tremble.

She adapted.

They climbed the trees.

Surrounded the corpse.

And for the first time, the air did not resist her command.

She was ceasing to use aura.

And beginning to be it.

Narka said no more.

Because it was not needed.

Because what was happening no longer required explanation.

Only witness.

And the forest of the Veil —that reflection of the world—

began to bow…

to a new will.

Not that of a predator.

Nor that of a queen.

But that of a presence that no longer needed to wait for anyone.

Not even him.

The blood still dampened the root where she had sat.

Virka did not wipe her mouth.

She let the blood dry on its own, sink into the corner of her lips as a reminder.

Her aura, still dense, still alive, did not withdraw completely.

It lingered, hovering, covering the clearing like a second atmosphere… one that breathed for her.

Narka, a few meters away, kept his body motionless.

The vapors of the forest slid over his shell like ancient fingers, without altering it.

Only his eyes… remained fixed on her.

—It no longer suffocates me. —said Virka at last, her voice like freshly tempered metal—. Before it was a wild animal… now it is part of me.

The aura vibrated slightly at those words, as if in approval.

It did not roar.

It did not demand.

It only awaited new orders.

—I do not fully master it. —she added, lowering her gaze to her hand—. But I can guide it. And that… is enough for now.

Narka did not respond immediately.

Words, for him, were not reaction.

ChatGPT dijo:

They were consequence.

Like rocks that fall only when the mountain decides.

—It is not that it now belongs to you.

It is that you have stopped fighting what you are.

Virka closed her eyes for a moment.

Not in peace.

But in evaluation.

—I am not like him. —she whispered—. He does not raise his voice. He does not need to.

He does not impose with rage.

He does it with existence.

With presence.

Narka nodded.

—And that is why his silence weighs more than the noise of others.

A deeper silence settled among the trees.

As if the forest listened more attentively than before.

Virka stood.

The aura drew back slightly, like a dark veil embracing her back.

—But sometimes I wonder… —she said— How will he return, Narka?

She did not pronounce the name.

But both knew whom she meant.

Sebastián.

—He is far.

Imprisoned.

Isolated in his own cultivation…

and no one has seen him since.

We do not know what fragments he is breaking.

What layers he is flaying from himself.

Her fingers brushed the charred trunk of an old tree.

—And if when he returns…

there is nothing left of what he once was?

Narka breathed.

Not out of need.

But because some answers are built from within.

—There is no change without loss. —he murmured—. But not every loss is destruction.

Virka looked at him.

Direct.

Firm.

—Do you think he is changing?

Narka lifted his head slightly.

His golden eyes seemed to see beyond the forest.

—He is not changing…

He is recognizing.

—Recognizing what?

—The weight of his own power.

And the true place of his path.

Virka pressed her lips slightly.

Not in displeasure.

But in deep thought.

—And if that path no longer has a place for us?

Narka did not lower his gaze.

—He does not walk to move away.

He walks because at last he sees clearly what lies ahead.

And if you see it too…

you will not be left behind.

Virka let the air escape through her nose.

Steady.

Slow.

—I only hope the world is ready… when he returns.

Because if I already struggle to breathe with my aura…

I do not want to imagine what his will do when it awakens.

Narka lowered his gaze for an instant.

—He will not be the same.

But not because he has lost something.

But because at last he is ceasing to deny what he always was.

The forest creaked again.

A creature hid among the branches.

It did not dare to approach.

Virka sat down again.

Her aura trembled slightly, as if breathing with her.

And for the first time in that perpetual night of the Veil…

she did not think of reaching him.

She thought of holding herself.

She thought of not faltering when she saw him.

She thought of herself.

And because of that… she thought of him with greater strength.

The Veil creaked.

Not from fragility…

but because the world it concealed was beginning to reveal its deepest layers.

Narka walked as though he carried centuries.

His steps did not fear the ground, but neither did they trust it.

Everything they stepped on could be something else.

Everything they saw… could be waiting to be seen.

Virka moved a few meters ahead.

The aura no longer came out of her.

It surrounded her.

As if the forest, the stones, and the air itself had decided to become part of her will.

She was reaching mastery.

Not in theory.

Not in the words others used.

But in what the aura truly was:

An extension of her instinct.

An affirmation of existence.

The ground opened with a muffled hum.

As if water trembled beneath the earth.

And then…

the air changed.

It did not grow heavy.

Nor dense.

Nor dark.

Only… anomalous.

Incorrect.

Virka lifted her gaze.

Narka stopped without her having to say anything.

The river that had once lain dormant to her left began to stir.

The leaves spun in spirals without wind.

And from the cracks in the water… something emerged that had no name.

A human figure.

Or so it seemed at first.

A thin torso, skin damp and pale.

Eyes without whites.

And behind its back… something breathed.

Like membranes.

Like manta ray wings shattered by thunder.

Its flesh quivered with electric pulses.

And at times… its silhouette seemed to swell, as if within it dwelled an abyss waiting to explode.

It did not speak.

It did not growl.

It only looked at her.

And its gaze…

did not say: "Who are you?"

It said: "I am going to devour you."

Narka did not move.

But his shell vibrated with a mineral whisper.

—I recognize it. —he said—. Not by name… but by silence.

That is no beast.

No man.

Nor spirit.

It is something that should never have been born.

Virka did not avert her gaze.

The aura was unleashed.

Black.

Polished.

Lethal.

And the forest drew back.

Not from fear…

but from respect.

—Do not intervene. —she ordered, without looking at him—.

This… is mine.

The profane being raised its arms.

From the water behind it, fragments of lightning surged like liquid whips.

Its shadow split in two.

And in its chest, where a heart should have been…

something opened and closed like a mouth.

Virka's aura covered the ground.

It climbed the trees.

It brushed against Narka without harming him.

And it settled firmly before the enemy.

As if the night itself had offered to defend her.

Neither of them moved yet.

But they were already fighting.

With gaze.

With tension.

With will.

The battle had not yet begun…

but the Veil had already chosen its stage.

The first move was Virka's.

She did not shout.

She announced nothing.

She only raised her hand… and her arm deformed into the silhouette of a black claw, where the fingers seemed like blades born from the very aura.

She leapt.

A straight line between her body and the profane's face.

She aimed for the eye.

Not for symbolism.

But because everything that sees… can be torn out.

But the creature was not slow.

It twisted its torso with an unnatural snap, as if its bones were tempered mud.

It dodged by mere centimeters.

And as it did, its tail burst forth from its back, with the strength and elasticity of a deranged manta ray.

The stinger, thick as a human arm, launched straight toward Virka's chest.

The strike was clean.

Lethal.

Meant to pierce her like a living spear.

But Virka did not retreat.

She activated her aura.

And not only extended it.

She densified it over her torso, like an invisible armor fitted to her flesh.

The impact came.

CRACK

A dry crash, like bone striking against obsidian.

The stinger did not manage to pierce her.

It was stopped…

but not without damage.

Virka was hurled backward by the inertia.

She rolled twice across the ground, her aura still vibrating around her chest.

She halted with one knee on the earth.

She breathed heavily, but not from exhaustion.

Her body was responding.

Calculating.

Reading.

The profane did not smile.

It did not speak.

But its tail rippled as if it knew that… would not be enough.

Virka rose.

The black aura still covered her torso like a second skin.

—You did not pierce me. —she said—

You will not.

She closed her fist.

Her claw was still active.

But now… blood dripped from her knuckles.

The next attack would come.

And this time, it would not aim for the eye.

It would break its jaw.

Or tear out its tongue, if it had one.

The battle was only just beginning.

And neither of them intended to lose.

The Veil rumbled.

Virka propelled herself with animal force.

There was no longer any doubt: she was fighting as what she truly was.

Not a woman.

Not a sorceress.

But a conscious beast, a living force that had learned to shape its instinct with will.

She leapt with fingers elongated into clawed form.

But this time, as she advanced…

the ground began to stain black.

Her aura was unleashed in totality.

Level 9 – Peak.

It covered everything.

The forest.

The stones.

The air.

And the profane.

It was not just energy.

It was a domain.

A field of dark pressure that pierced reality.

The profane's body, still standing firm, began to show signs of weakness.

The skin lost resistance, as if its natural defense were eroding.

Its movements, for a second, were no longer so fluid: something slowed them, hindered them.

And its focus—that wild will that had once seemed intact—began to falter.

As if the simple act of being there, within Virka's reach, was an unbearable pressure.

And at the same time, that same aura crawled like living roots, climbing the natural walls, brushing against Narka's body without harming him…

and strengthening Virka like a second skeleton.

Each of her legs, her arms, her chest, glowed from within with vibrant black energy.

It did not adorn.

It did not intimidate.

It struck.

She reached her prey.

The claw was aimed not at the face… but at the left side, where the creature still seemed vulnerable.

She struck.

THUMP

The profane was hurled against a trunk.

The aura pinned itself behind him, following the momentum.

For an instant… it seemed he would be crushed.

But then…

He screamed.

For the first time.

And his mana broke.

It was not black.

It was not pure.

It was a triple combustion:

Blue vapor poured from its back: water mana.

Yellow sparks crackled across its cracked skin: spiritual electricity.

And between the beats of its flesh… fissures opened that did not bleed, but spasmed with filthy bursts of power.

The electric impact expanded from its body like a circular wave.

Virka's aura vibrated.

It did not shatter, but it was forced to withdraw slightly.

And then it attacked.

The profane was no longer human.

Its mouth split into four.

Two more limbs sprouted from its back.

One made of solid water.

Another of liquid lightning.

It advanced.

First, it hurled a thunder spear, aimed at the stomach.

Virka slipped aside, sliding over her own aura.

Then came a water whip, striking with seismic force.

She caught it with her forearm… reinforced by her domain.

It hurt.

But she did not yield.

Her body spun like a hunting beast.

She lifted her knee and landed a direct blow to the enemy's chin.

The profane staggered back a step.

Only one.

But enough.

Virka had no intention of giving up a single meter.

She used both hands, channeling her aura into her claws.

And she began to strike with all the weight of her savage style:

rotating blows, low leaps, simulated bites,

slashes that left black trails.

The domain of aura now pulsed.

Alive.

Active.

Pure will.

The profane blocked.

Endured.

Its electric attacks carved cuts into the trees.

Its body regenerated slowly where it took damage.

But Virka did not seem to stop.

Not for blood.

Not for pain.

Not for fear.

Because she did not fight to prove something.

She fought because that battle was part of her path.

And in her world…

no one waits.

No one holds back.

No one survives without killing.

The next strike would be decisive.

But it had not yet come.

And so the Veil remained in tension.

The air vibrated.

Virka and the profane were no longer just two bodies fighting.

They were two presences crossing.

Two domains colliding.

Two wills sharpened on the edge of instinct.

The profane struck first.

From its arms surged veins of pressurized water, forming a liquid spear that curved midway through its trajectory.

The lightning followed behind.

A serpentine thunder hidden within the water.

Virka did not retreat.

Her body spun, and with her leg reinforced by aura, she struck the spear from below, forcing its form apart.

The electric sparks burst across her thigh…

but her dark aura absorbed most of the impact.

The profane was already upon her.

Its four arms drove forward like a ravenous amphibian creature.

Its body warped as it advanced, as if it no longer had bones, only liquid will.

Virka lowered her head.

And advanced as well.

Her right arm, black up to the elbow with aura reinforcement, became a savage projectile.

It was not technique.

It was hunger for victory.

She drove it straight into the enemy's chest, with a contained scream.

The impact sounded like a drum of shattered stone.

But it did not pierce through.

A rotating layer of water wrapped the profane's torso.

Its secret defense.

A spiral armor forged of pressure.

Virka barely touched the ground before the counter came.

An electric whip struck into her abdomen, forcing her back two steps.

The world creaked.

But she did not scream.

She did not fall.

—It's fast… —she murmured through her teeth, while her aura regrouped like a loyal swarm.

The profane raised both arms.

Its limbs opened like carnivorous flowers.

And from within…

it released its final technique.

A spinning vortex of water and lightning.

A compressed typhoon in the air.

A living storm with hunger for flesh.

—Triple combustion… perfect… —Narka spat, barely audible.

But he did not intervene.

He must not.

Virka knew it.

And she did not want him to.

She spread her arms.

Her aura rose like black pillars.

Covered her body.

Hardened her torso.

Refined her claws.

And when the storm fell,

she did not defend.

She attacked.

She crossed the vortex with all her weight, as if she despised it.

Her legs burned, her chest cracked, her skin vibrated with electricity.

But her core did not tremble.

Her will did not yield.

And in the very heart of that technique…

Virka drove her left arm straight into the profane's throat.

This time there was no armor.

No defense.

Only torn flesh.

The claw pierced through.

And ripped.

The profane roared without a mouth.

Its form thrashed, convulsed, collapsed.

The body, already without balance, fell like a sack of softened bones.

Virka stepped back once, breathing.

Her aura compressed again.

But not from exhaustion.

From respect.

From caution.

Because the fallen body was not… dead.

From the center of the corpse…

a figure emerged.

Small.

Floating.

Round.

A fish.

A globe.

A spirit.

Its skin was translucent, as if made of infected tears.

Its eyes were fixed.

Black.

Lifeless.

But full of hatred.

One of the three pieces of the Profane still survived:

the original malignant spirit.

And it did not intend to flee.

The spirit emerged from the dead flesh.

Round.

Tense.

Vibrant like a tumor made of ancient hate.

It floated.

Not by magic.

But by that repulsive quality errors have—of existing without permission.

The eyes of the spiritual pufferfish opened.

They were two black points… that did not look.

They suffocated.

Virka tensed.

The air was no longer physical pressure.

It was incomprehensible vibration.

It was not an aura that could be cut.

It was a bodiless intention that sought to devour all that still breathed.

And then…

Narka moved.

No crack beneath his steps.

No roar.

No warning.

Only a step.

Silent.

But the entire forest seemed to bow in respect.

He opened his left eye.

A golden gleam that was not light…

it was judgment.

From the center of his forehead—between two mineral plates split by time—

a ray burst forth.

Not of fire.

Not of aura.

But of an impossible mixture of condensed Qi and spiritual essence.

A fine, precise line,

without heat,

yet it seemed to make the leaves tremble,

the memories,

and the very soul of the place.

The spirit of the profane did not scream.

It did not flee.

It simply exploded from within.

The round form unraveled into blackened threads,

as if it had been torn from the soul into the world.

And in less than a blink,

nothing remained.

No smoke.

No essence.

No hatred.

Only the space where once had existed an error that should never have been born.

Virka did not turn immediately.

She only breathed.

Hard.

With her chest still throbbing with her dark aura.

Then she spoke.

Serious.

Direct.

True to her essence.

—I told you… not to intervene.

Narka did not answer with urgency.

Nor with remorse.

He only shifted his gaze slightly.

—That was not a body —he said, his voice cavernous—.

It was a spirit born of distortion.

An aberration of the soul.

Virka did not blink.

—And?

—Your aura cannot yet touch what does not walk the ground.

There was a second of silence.

But it was not tension.

It was understanding.

Virka lowered her gaze.

Her claws still trembled a little, not from fear…

but because something within her burned.

Not for having been saved.

But because it still was not enough.

And Narka… knew it.

That was why he said no more.

He only turned.

And walked again as if the world had never changed.

But the air behind him…

still remembered the ray.

The forest returned to silence.

Not a peaceful one.

But dense.

The silence that remains when something is erased that should never have existed.

Virka walked a few steps without looking at Narka.

The blood of the fallen creatures still dampened the soil of the Veil,

but she no longer thought of that.

Not of flesh.

Not of bones.

Not even of the battle.

She thought of what she had not been able to touch.

What she had not been able to break.

A floating creature.

Without weight.

Without flesh.

And yet… dangerous.

She clenched her fists.

Not from impotence.

But from that ancestral tension felt by those who already understand the path…

but have not yet reached it.

—…It had no body —she murmured at last, without looking back—.

No weak point.

It did not bleed.

It did not breathe.

Narka, several meters behind, kept walking.

The leaves did not crunch under his step.

The world seemed to avoid making a sound when he spoke.

—Because it was not born to die by physical means —he said, without quickening his pace—.

It was not made of muscle…

but of twisted history.

Virka tilted her face.

Her red eyes gleamed, not with rage,

but with something finer:

discontent.

—Then… my strength is useless.

Narka stopped.

—It does work.

There was a second.

The wind stood still.

—But it is not yet complete.

Virka frowned slightly.

Not from offense.

But from focus.

—Aura —Narka continued— does not come from the soul.

Nor from mana.

Nor from the heavens.

His voice was not dry.

Nor condescending.

It was only weight wrapped in words.

—It is born from the heart —he said—. From every blow received…

from every battle endured.

From every time you did not die,

when you should have.

Silence returned.

But this time, it was not dense.

It was clear.

—Then… —Virka whispered— can my aura touch what has no body?

Narka turned his head just slightly.

An ancient golden eye looked at her with the gravity of a mountain that has seen empires fall.

—It can.

There was no poetry.

No metaphor.

Only a truth spoken like iron in the throat.

—Aura grows with your path —he continued—.

And you do not fight for technique.

You fight for instinct.

For blood.

For him.

Virka did not shudder.

But her chest did vibrate within.

—If you keep going…

—said Narka, without raising his voice—

…the moment will come when your aura will not only crush flesh.

But also will.

And soul.

The girl did not respond.

But her claws loosened.

And for the first time,

in that dark forest mirrored by the Veil,

she smiled.

Not from hope…

but from certainty.

The air in the Veil was still charged,

but not from an enemy's presence.

It was her own aura that had yet to dissolve.

Virka walked into a clearing.

A dry one, silent, without corpses or broken branches.

A place without battle.

And there…

she stopped.

Not to rest.

But because something burned within.

A doubt.

A question.

A crack.

—…And now what comes next?

The question was not for the forest.

Nor for the sky.

It was for the one who always walked behind her.

Narka, who had remained in the shadow of the foliage,

halted his step.

His ancient eyes lifted, and the earth beneath him seemed to nod.

—Are you speaking of your aura?

Virka nodded.

Not like one who seeks approval.

But like one who has already touched her ceiling.

—It reaches far.

Crushes.

Protects.

But… it is not enough.

I felt it.

Against that spirit.

Against myself.

Narka lowered his gaze for a second.

And when he spoke, he did so without pretense.

—I do not know the complete path of aura…

not as I know that of Qi.

But…

He stepped forward.

His legs, the size of sacred stones, made barely a sound as they pressed the ground.

His eyes shone without light.

—…but I have seen things.

Virka stood firm.

—What things?

Narka stopped before her.

As imposing as a mountain.

As silent as a tomb.

—Aura…

when it matures,

does not only surround.

Does not only reinforce.

His words were heavy.

Not from volume.

But because they came from an age without name.

—There comes a point…

when it amplifies every martial technique.

Takes it to the extreme.

Virka did not move.

But her gaze…

wavered.

Martial technique.

It was not ignorance.

It was something worse:

strangeness.

She did not have that.

She did not know stances.

Nor sequences.

Nor names in extinct tongues.

She only knew how to fight.

Like a beast.

Like an instinct that bleeds.

Like something that bites before it understands.

—I do not know what a martial technique is —she said at last, without shame,

but with a kind of buried frustration.

Narka did not mock her.

Nor did he deny.

—You do not need to know it as a master of human arts does.

But your body… already has form.

Your claws have rhythm.

Your style exists… even if it has no name.

Virka looked at him.

Fixed.

As if her gaze wanted to crack his shell open and read the centuries it guarded within.

—Then… can I advance… being as I am?

Narka slowly turned his head.

—No.

Not as you are now.

Virka did not flinch.

—Must I change?

—You must recognize what you are —he answered—.

Name it.

Refine it.

Make it your own.

The wind returned to the clearing.

Slow.

As if it too were waiting.

—A beast can bite —Narka said at last—.

But when it knows its bite…

it turns it into art.

Virka closed her eyes.

And for the first time,

on that day when her instinct had led her to cross the threshold of what she thought she knew…

she did not think of advancing.

She thought of understanding.

The wind had not gone.

Nor had the heat of battle.

But the silence now carried another weight.

Denser, more expectant.

Virka remained standing.

In the same place.

Arms hanging, gaze fixed on the earthy ground.

She did not think.

She did not speak.

She only listened to something that did not come from outside.

Something within.

Her breathing changed.

Not softer.

Deeper.

As if every inhalation remembered a wound.

As if every exhalation confessed a battle.

And then, she moved.

Not as she did in combat.

Not as an unchained beast.

But as one who tries to understand herself through her body.

She drew a half turn with her left foot.

The claw of her right hand cut the air diagonally,

but without intent to kill.

Only to feel.

The invisible impact of her aura left a mark in the wind.

And Narka… saw it.

He said nothing.

But he took a step forward.

Only one.

Virka did not look at him.

She moved again.

This time with more precision.

Her leg swept in a wider arc,

her torso lowered slightly,

her back tensed like a beast in ambush.

The movement had no name.

But it had history.

History written in torn muscles.

In broken bones.

In victories won by bites and claws,

not by elegance.

And yet…

…there was art in it.

Narka exhaled, barely.

—You are not copying —he said.

It was not a question.

Nor a judgment.

Only a statement.

Virka stopped.

—There is nothing to copy —she replied, without arrogance.

—This is what I am.

Narka nodded slowly.

—Then give it form.

Name it.

Make every gesture have direction.

She looked at him at last.

Her red eyes, still lit by battle, showed no doubt.

Only controlled fire.

—I do not seek beauty.

Nor honor.

Only that every strike be inevitable.

Narka raised a brow.

For an instant, he seemed to smile…

…though his lips never moved.

—That too… is a form of art.

Virka turned again.

The air around her body began to burn in darkness.

It was not fire.

It was not shadow.

It was aura.

Her aura.

It flowed like dense smoke, but with direction.

It surrounded her body in subtle spirals,

as if for the first time, the beast knew it could choose where to sink its fangs.

Her movements became more fluid, more lethal,

but also more precise.

She was no longer fighting an enemy.

She was fighting her own chaos.

And she was winning.

Step by step.

Claw after claw.

Instinct into form.

And the clearing…

was no longer a field of rest.

It was her first dojo without walls.

Her first sanctuary of war.

The forest had changed.

Not by the passing of seasons—

not in the Veil, where time was not a line but a mist that obeyed the intensity of those who inhabited it.

It changed because Virka had gone farther.

Beyond the clearing of battles, beyond the echo of broken flesh and spirit confronted.

Now the trees grew with bent trunks,

as if some invisible force pushed them to bow toward the ground.

The roots, twisted, at times seemed like buried bodies still trying to rise.

Light did not exist.

Only the presence of her aura, which had become so dense it emitted a subtle black radiance, was what allowed her to keep walking without being completely lost.

Five days. Or something like five.

She had not counted them.

She only knew that each night was quieter.

And each creature that appeared… easier to destroy.

But that was not the goal.

Virka was not hunting.

She was listening.

Not with her ears.

With her muscles. With her bones. With the movements her body had begun to repeat without thought.

A sequence.

A gesture.

A primitive pattern.

Sometimes it was a backward leap with a twist of the hips, to pivot the foot with the heel first.

Sometimes it was a claw tracing an arc that crossed the line of the neck and returned to the abdomen like a tide.

And other times, only a stance held… because it felt right.

Her instinct spoke to her.

And for the first time, she obeyed it not to survive, but to give it form.

Narka said nothing.

He remained at a distance, though always visible.

His enormous body was not a threat.

It was a reminder of the ancient.

Of what exists without needing to be explained.

And in his silence, Virka found structure.

In one of those trainings, while her arms still trembled from the channeled force, she noticed how her aura did not spill over…

…but aligned.

As if the black aura began to draw upon the air the very shape her body executed.

As if the shadows of her movements were etched into the world, repeating the battle, even though it was already over.

It was not a technique.

Not yet.

It was a physical memory.

A trace.

The lesser enemies that appeared—Veil beasts in the form of deer with open skulls, or wolves with external ribs—fell with a single strike.

But what mattered was not that they died.

It was how they died.

Each time with less waste.

With more precision.

With less wasted violence.

And with an aura that no longer drowned the field, but controlled it.

Every step she took was not just progress.

It was a test.

Every mistake, a note.

Every success, a symbol.

And without knowing it, without yet wanting it… Virka was creating her own martial art.

Not one with names.

Nor with titles.

Nor with aesthetic stances.

But one born of hunger.

Of pain.

Of instinct that was never tamed, but that now… learned to sharpen its fangs with rhythm.

The forest knew it.

The Veil felt it.

Narka watched it.

And somewhere, beyond the next crossing of trees, where silence was denser than air,

…someone waited.

Not to hunt her.

Not to save her.

But to say:

"Now you are ready to learn… without renouncing what you are."

But that was not today.

Today… only striking the void remained,

until the void began to answer her.

In the silence of the Veil, where the trees did not creak and the earth did not answer to footsteps, Narka separated from Virka's shadow.

He said nothing.

Made no sound.

He simply stepped away, as if his decision had been born not from thought… but from the balance that protects what has not yet broken.

He had watched her. Day after day. Hour after hour.

Virka forged her style not with theory or form, but with fangs and memory.

Like a beast drawing philosophy into the flesh of the world.

But something—someone—was also watching her from farther away.

Not as a hunter.

Not as an enemy.

But as one who recognized the forgotten reflection of an ancient promise.

Narka entered deeper into the thicket of the Veil's forest.

He did not walk: he advanced as if the very world parted before his existence.

The roots did not tangle.

The The stones did not touch him. Because he had lived so long, even nature itself recognized him… and let him pass.

And then he saw him.

There he was, seated beneath a leaning willow, among leaves that did not fall and wind that did not touch. His white robe bore no stains. The gray of its sealed patterns seemed woven from arrested mist. The deep blue edges seemed to carry the weight of what had once been sworn… and never broken.

—I was waiting for you —said the man without moving, without looking—. I did not know when you would arrive, but I knew you would come.

Narka stopped. He contemplated him. He did not speak.

—Kael Ardom —continued the master, now lifting his gaze—. Twelfth guardian of the Temple of the Thousand Sealed Promises. Though that does not matter here. I did not come as a master… but as a witness.

Narka did not answer immediately. His voice, when it emerged, was grave and deliberate. As if refusing to cut the silence unnecessarily.

—You observe Virka.

Kael nodded once. His deep blue eyes did not shine. But they looked as though they pierced through time.

—I saw her fight. Not with technique. Not with school. I saw her endure. Every strike she throws seems born from a memory that refuses to die. Every step… a declaration. She does not ask permission from her power. She forces it to serve her.

—And that interests you?

Kael did not smile. But there was softness in his gaze.

—She reminds me of the First Promised. Before he was so. Before sealing his strength. When he was only a boy who wished to protect… and did not know how.

Narka did not move, but his tone lowered further.

—She is not your disciple. Not yet.

—I know. But neither am I her master. Not yet.

The wind changed. It did not blow: it breathed. As if the Veil itself were listening to that conversation.

—Will you train her? —Narka asked, without judgment.

—Not if she does not choose it. Not if she is not ready to sharpen what is already a blade. I only made sure she would not walk into her own destruction without knowing there was another path… if ever she wishes to take it.

Kael lowered his gaze. Between his fingers, a dry willow leaf turned to ash without fire.

—I do not come to recruit. I come to wait. As one waits for the storm that, before it devastates, learns to rain.

Narka spoke no more. It was not needed.

Both understood that certain decisions are not born of destiny, nor of power, nor of urgency… but of the exact instant when the spirit decides to advance.

And Virka, without yet knowing it, was drawing close to that instant.

The silence between them was not uncomfortable.

It was the kind of silence that only dwells among the ancient.

Where every word is an echo weighed before it is born.

Kael Ardom did not move.

His crossed arms were neither defense nor judgment.

Only waiting.

He watched Virka from a distance, not with the eyes of a judge… but with the patient calm of one who has seen too many try to be born from themselves and fail in the process.

—She does not try to seem human —Kael murmured, more to himself than to Narka.

The elder did not respond immediately. His golden eyes remained fixed on the figure of the girl, who turned with restrained violence, tracing movements that belonged to no style… but that were born from the body as if already known.

—Because she is not —Narka said at last, his voice grave, dragged by ages—. And because she does not desire to be. What she seeks… has no name. Not yet.

Kael nodded, barely.

—She is building an art without foundations. Every gesture, every strike, is born of necessity, not of form. But the form will come… if she survives herself.

The master tilted his head slightly.

—I have seen martial artists break their bones to achieve a perfect stance. I have seen disciples devour themselves in search of a style that redeems them. She does not seek redemption. She only wants to be capable.

—And that makes her dangerous —Narka added—. She follows no tradition. Respects no limits. She only obeys her instinct… and sharpens it like a spear.

The Veil, dense, seemed to listen.

In the distance, Virka's silhouette rose through the mist, dancing without music. Every movement of her body left a trace in the earth, as if the world itself were forced to remember her.

—How do you train a beast that does not wish to be tamed? —Kael asked, more curious than skeptical.

—You do not train her —said Narka, with certainty—. You accompany her. And when she bites into something she cannot swallow… then she will understand the value of refining her fangs.

Kael smiled with gravity.

—A warrior without technique… and yet, every movement of hers answers to the need to protect. There is truth in that. Not the truth I teach… but truth, nonetheless.

—That will save her. Or destroy her —Narka murmured.

And then they fell silent.

Because they knew beasts do not heed counsel.

They only heed the roar of what comes for them.

And Virka…

…had already begun to roar.

The wind ceased.

Not because the Veil had calmed… but because she had decided it.

Virka opened her eyes.

It was not an abrupt awakening, nor a gasp of exhaustion.

Only the slow return of consciousness to a body that had been moving on pure instinct.

The marks in the earth, the broken trunks, the air thick with dark pressure… all were the imprint of her trance.

But it was not yet an art.

Not yet form.

It was rage channeled.

It was hunger turned into direction.

A failed attempt… but not a useless one.

Then she felt it.

A presence that belonged neither to the forest nor the Veil.

A man, small in stature, great in gravity. Standing, only a few meters away, With a white robe bordered in sealed gray.

His deep blue eyes were like lakes where words drowned.

—Who are you? —Virka asked, without softness, without courtesy.

Kael Ardom did not answer immediately. Not from disdain. But because he measured words like one who does not waste the edge of a blade.

—Someone who does not come to teach you —he said at last—. Only to see if you deserve to be taught anything.

The tension in the air did not rise.

It only changed direction.

Narka advanced slowly, stopping at the girl's side, without touching her. Without speaking yet. His eyeless gaze fixed on Kael's.

—Master Kael Ardom —he said at last, his voice like ancient stone—. Her name is Virka. And what she is attempting… resembles nothing.

—I know —Kael replied, without moving a muscle—. That is why I am here.

Virka did not avert her eyes. She did not feel intimidated. She only analyzed.

Her instinct did not mark him as a threat… but as a trial.

—So then? —she asked, her voice little more than a low growl—. What do you want?

Kael narrowed his eyes, as though he saw beyond her flesh.

—I want to see if a beast can create an art without ceasing to be one.

Narka shifted his gaze slightly. Not from doubt. But from respect.

—Then watch —Virka said.

And in that moment, there was no disciple, no candidate, no promise.

Only a nascent force.

Raw. Imperfect.

But alive.

Silence settled again like thick fog, but this time it was not Virka's trance that summoned it. It was the tension born of the unspoken. Of what was about to be defined.

Kael watched her. Not as a master watches a student… but as a wall contemplates the sea: with firmness, without judgment, waiting to see if the tide would dare to strike it.

—I can stay —he said, finally—. Observe your attempt. Your path.

But before that, I need to know one thing. Virka tilted her face slightly, her red eyes like embers without oxygen.

—Why do you do this? —Kael continued, without raising his voice—. Why create an art from yourself, instead of taking one already proven? What are you seeking… exactly?

The young woman did not answer immediately. Her straight back, the shadow of her aura still vibrating on the earth, and the marks on her skin like wounds that did not bleed, spoke more for her than any word.

—You don't need to know —she said at last, without aggression, without closeness. Only certainty.

Kael did not take offense. His lips curved slightly, not in mockery, but in acceptance.

—That is fine —he said in a neutral tone—. But if you decide you want to forge something more than fury and reflex… I have a dojo. Five hundred kilometers west. In the hidden forest of the First Continent.

There, promises are not imposed. They are discovered.

Narka then, for the first time, moved with a faint crack of earth. His golden eyes did not rise in judgment, but with the gravity of one who has seen too many decisions made in haste.

—It would be better… to wait for her answer —he said, firm yet calm. Then he turned his gaze to Virka—. You don't need to rush anything.

She did not look at him directly, but her breathing slowed. As if what she was about to say mattered less… than what she understood.

—He will not change just because you take longer —Narka continued—. Sebastián chose his path. He is not waiting for you to follow him… nor to catch him.

He simply walks.

As you should with yours.

Virka lowered her gaze, not from weakness. But to look at her own hands.

They did not tremble.

They did not bleed.

They were only empty… ready to be filled by something real. Something that still had no name.

Kael, for his part, did not press. He stepped back, like a witness who knows when the time has not yet come.

—I will be nearby for a few days —he said simply—. But I will not seek you. If you decide to speak… you will find me.

And he left. Like a promise without a date. The wind moved again. But this time, not against Virka.

With her.

Silence returned… but this time it was not brought by the surroundings.

Virka did not answer. She did not walk. She did not unsheathe claws or awaken her aura. She only remained there, among split roots and old leaves, while the shadow of the master disappeared among the trees and Narka returned to his distant stillness.

Around her, the Veil remained a reflection of the forest: twisted branches, moisture on stone, mist suspended like the breath of something that had not breathed for centuries.

But within her…

…everything burned.

It was not rage. It was not pain. It was that strange, sharpened tension of a beast that does not know whether to roar or hold its breath.

She sat.

For the first time that day, she sat.

Legs crossed. Hands on her knees. Back straight. As if she recalled, without meaning to, that posture from when she imitated Sebastián. When he meditated with closed eyes and a body still taut within, as though the world could not touch him.

She closed her eyes. Not to seek answers… but to allow the question to breathe:

"What exactly am I creating?"

She had believed that forging something of her own was the only path. That building from nothing would give her something no one could ever take away.

But now…

…the doubt slid like an invisible claw down her neck.

To create from nothing meant sometimes losing oneself. Crashing against walls she did not even know existed. Falling into bottomless pits that were not part of any map. And she did not fear the darkness… but she did fear waste.

What if there was another way?

Not an easier one. Not surrender. But to take a path already forged… and tear it apart with her fangs, turn it into her own flesh, rebuild it from within. To make it hers not by obeying it, but by defying it and conquering it. To tame it as one tames a storm.

The art of another… could be only a seed.

She was fertile soil.

Wild.

Pure.

Dangerous.

She could make it grow differently.

Uniquely.

Devour the form… and mold its essence.

She opened her eyes.

She had decided nothing yet. But she no longer walked blind.

And in the Veil, that ancient forest that forgave neither lies nor excuses, that small certainty was a weapon sharper than any claw.

The air was still, but not dead.

The Veil did not sleep… it only listened.

Virka had not moved since she opened her eyes. Her red pupils glowed like embers held in place. Not for lack of fire, but by choice.

At her side, without announcing himself, Narka had settled.

Not in small form. Not as a creature that disguised itself to avoid discomfort.

But as he was: vast, mineral, wise.

A presence that did not demand space, but in being… contained everything.

Virka spoke without looking at him.

—Narka… —her voice was low, deep, almost hoarse from so much silence—. If you… had wanted to stay by someone's side…

If the only thing you wanted was never to let them go…

Would you have waited?

Narka did not answer at once. His golden eyes, as ancient as the world's first roots, blinked only once.

—I do not know —he said at last—. Because I never did.

Virka tilted her head slightly.

It was rare for him to confess something like that.

—But if you had… would you have changed everything about yourself to reach them?

Even if that meant… no longer being you? Narka sighed. But his breath was like a whisper in stone. The wind did not carry it away. It remained there.

—There is something beasts, humans, and spirits forget —he murmured—:

That there is no correct path.

Only one that does not weigh heavy on you when the end of the journey arrives.

Virka closed her eyes. She understood, but she did not fully accept it. Not yet.

—And if I'm wrong? —she whispered—. And if when I arrive… he is no longer there?

Narka slowly turned his head toward her.

—Then let him not find you empty.

Let what is within you… not be only waiting.

But a life that burned for him… and for you.

—That is why you must not wait as one who stays.

Wait… as one who advances.

Virka swallowed.

Not because it hurt.

But because his words, at last, had direction.

And that knot in her chest… was no longer anguish. It was momentum.

—I will follow him —she murmured—. But not from afar.

I will walk toward myself…

To reach him with all that I am.

And in Narka's eyes… there was something that might have been pride.

But he said nothing.

He only remained there, at her side, as always.

Because his guidance was not an order.

It was… a shared choice.

There were no words of farewell.

Only the crunch of the ground beneath their feet.

Virka rose, her back straight, her gaze fixed, as if the weight of her decision were not a burden… but a beacon lit in the midst of the Veil.

Narka did not ask.

He only turned, accompanying her.

His heavy step did not break the silence: it sealed it behind them, like a promise that needed no repetition.

—I will go with Kael —she said, more to herself than to anyone—.

Not because I want to copy his path…

But because I am ready to turn his structure… into my own way of roaring.

Around her, the Veil seemed to sway.

The forest reflected in this alternate reality was no longer confusing: it was a steady echo, Dark, ancestral.

Every curved branch, every cracked root, every shadow in the trees showed the distorted reflection of the physical world…

But for her it was no longer a prison.

It was a mirror in which to build the new.

—I will not stop being myself.

—Her voice was low, firm, torn within, as if speaking with more than words—.

What I learned fighting without form… I will not lose by learning another.

What I gained battling as a beast… will not be erased by clothing myself in art.

Narka walked at her side.

He did not need to nod.

She already knew he followed because he chose to. Not because he had to.

And that… was more valuable than any oath.

The journey was not long in distance… but in weight.

Every step was a renunciation of passive waiting.

Every branch broken beneath her feet was an old thought that no longer defined her.

There was no light to guide.

No voice to mark the path.

Only the direction felt in her chest…

And a name: Kael Ardom.

The Living Wall of the First Oath.

The master who promised not glory, but purpose.

The man who guarded the Temple of the Thousand Sealed Promises.

The dojo appeared ahead.

Not with lights, nor with signs…

But as a presence that already knew they would arrive.

Virka stopped at the entrance without yet crossing.

She drew in a deep breath.

Once.

Twice.

And then she advanced.

Not as one asking for permission.

But as one who had decided to become part…

To rebuild with her claws what the soul… had already claimed as its own.

___________________________________________

END OF CHAPTER 26