On the Path of Eternal Strength.

The silence was not empty.

It was dense. Ancient.

A well of compressed pressure, where time itself seemed to forget to move forward.

And at the center…

Him.

Sebastián.

Not meditating. Not cultivating like the others.

But… dismantling himself.

His naked body, motionless in appearance, was covered by an invisible layer of primitive Qi that did not flow… but pushed inward, as if his flesh had to collapse first in order to truly rebuild.

Every muscle trembled, though the skin did not move.

The veins glowed beneath the surface, not with light… but with a pulsing darkness.

It was like watching a heart beating from outside the body.

But that heartbeat was not human. Not completely.

The earth beneath him cracked without making a sound.

There was no heat.

There was no cold.

Only a pressure that crushed even the particles of the air.

The small stones floated for an instant… then were crushed without having touched anything.

There was no murderous intent.

There was no anger.

Only an inevitable transformation.

On his back, the old scars burned with a life of their own, as if they were trying to scream.

His hair, soaked with a sweat that did not smell of flesh, but of burnt iron, hung over his face. And his eyes, closed… blinked within.

He saw something. He felt something.

But it was not this world.

It was a current beyond pain.

Beyond Qi.

Beyond everything a cultivator should contain.

A form of strength that did not ask for permission.

And in some hidden corner of that chamber, the Inverted Origin Core throbbed in silence, imitating its master…

As if something more than his body was trying to break.

But it was not yet the time.

Yet not everything in him was flesh.

Beneath every visible layer —skin, bone, fiber— there was something else beginning to fracture. Not violently, but as if the soul itself were yielding to make way for a new structure.

The Qi compressed inward was not natural. It was not cultivated with intent. It was… absorbed by a force older than his will. As if the body itself had understood that the only way forward was not resisting… but surrendering.

Sebastián did not move a single finger.

But within him, a thousand battles erupted at once.

His Inverted Origin Core, hidden in the deepest part of his plexus, vibrated like a creature trapped between chains and galaxies. The inner lines of his body —meridians, routes of energy, circulation points— were… being rewritten. Not with new energy, but with the necessity of being destroyed in order to sustain what was coming.

The particles of air around his body ceased to behave like air.

They began to spin in impossible patterns, as if gravity itself doubted its own logic.

His internal organs —liver, lungs, heart— trembled as if receiving orders from another existence. There was no clear Qi flow… but a contained implosion.

The heartbeat in his chest did not mark seconds.

It marked cycles.

As if he were synchronizing with a force beyond the physical plane.

And on his back… the scars of ancient battles, those no balm had ever erased, shone like cracks heavy with history, not like wounds. They were lines of sealed memory now activating one by one, allowing fragments of his past to become foundations for what was to come.

A whisper —that was not voice, nor sound, nor thought— slid through his mind.

"There is no strength without death.

There is no new body without forgetting the former."

But Sebastián did not respond.

It was not the moment to speak.

Only… to endure.

The stone walls around him began to moisten, not with water… but with the condensation of pure energy.

Tiny droplets floated, vibrating with the same rhythm as his core.

And some… burst without reason.

This was not a common advance.

It was the gestation of something that should not exist.

An evolution without permission.

And meanwhile, deep within his consciousness,

where neither will nor thought could reach,

a familiar voice —ancient, distant, almost forgotten— seemed to repeat…

"You are not the heir of the void.

You are its witness."

But Sebastián did not remember that phrase.

Not yet.

The only thing he knew was that his body, his soul, and his path were…

reforming from within.

And when his eyes —still closed— truly blinked…

The world around would have to decide

if it was worthy of continuing to exist.

The Veil did not yield easily.

No matter how firm the step.

It always demanded something in return.

And Virka, even with determination carved into her red eyes, felt that price in every inch of the air. The world surrounding her —silent, diffuse, yet plagued with latent presences— seemed to observe her. Not with hostility. But with expectation.

Narka advanced at her side. His steps were not heavy, yet the ground trembled faintly with each one. Not because of his mass, but because of the time he carried. Around him, the Veil seemed to bend, allowing him passage as if it remembered him. As if it respected him.

Virka did not speak.

Not because she lacked thoughts… but because there was too much within her.

Her chest remained tense, not with fear, but with purpose.

A part of her burned, asking for claws.

Another, quieter, asked for form.

The forest where they walked had changed.

It was no longer just trees among mist.

It was a terrain cleaner, but heavier.

The earth bore ancient marks.

Battle trenches that time had not erased.

And further ahead…

There it was.

A structure without unnecessary adornments.

Of wood white as bone, with pillars wrapped in symbols carved with precision.

No sacred domes nor divine statues.

Only a door.

Large.

Sealed.

With the exact shape of a promise.

Virka observed it for long seconds.

She said nothing.

She only let the air strike her face.

And something within her… vibrated.

—Here it is —said Narka, breaking the silence with his grave voice—. Not because you must enter. But because you have already arrived.

She did not reply.

She simply advanced.

Her steps were light.

But the Veil opened before her with respect.

And then the door of the dojo slid open slowly. Without sound. Without force. As if it already knew they were meant to pass.

From within emerged Kael Ardom.

Not as a figure of power.

But as a guardian who had never needed ostentation.

He wore his robes of sacred white and sealed gray. The deep blue edges were the only witnesses that this man had touched limits others fear to behold. His black hair, tied back, seemed static in the wind. And his eyes… blue, like the memory of a frozen lake after a battle, rested on Virka without judgment. Only presence.

—You have arrived —he said with a firm voice, but without rigidity.

Virka observed him.

She did not recognize him.

But something within her, something beyond logic, told her that this man… was not an enemy.

Nor an ally.

He was… structure.

A wall that had endured.

A promise that had not yet broken.

Kael looked at Narka, and nodded with respect.

The ancient spirit did not return the gesture, but neither did he avoid it.

—My name is Kael Ardom —he said, giving no further titles—. And this dojo has no doors for beasts. It only has a path. If you want it.

Virka narrowed her eyes.

—And if I do not want it?

Kael smiled, faintly.

—Then I will watch you leave without stopping you. But if you stay… I will not force your form. I will only teach you to give it an edge.

She clenched her fists.

Narka stepped forward.

—There is no need to decide today.

Essence does not break by waiting.

And Sebastián… does not need you faster.

He needs you whole.

Virka lowered her head for an instant. Not in submission. But in reflection.

Then she lifted her gaze, and without hesitation, stepped inside the dojo.

Kael did not smile.

He simply stepped aside.

And when the door closed behind them…

the Veil seemed to hold its breath.

Because even the mist knew…

that something was about to begin.

The door closed.

And the sound it did not make… weighed more than a thousand blows.

Virka did not take more steps than necessary. Barely two inside the threshold, and already the air changed. It was not different in smell, nor in temperature. But it had… memory. Each particle vibrated with the sensation of having witnessed something that should not be told. It was not a temple. It was a trial upheld by pillars.

The silence here was not natural.

It was woven.

The walls —of white wood, hardened by generations of time— bore no adornments or symbols. And yet, every beam seemed marked by invisible movements. As if the echoes of past strikes had been embedded in the very matter. There were no chairs. No decorative corridors. Only space… and gravity.

Narka remained at the entrance, without crossing.

Kael walked a few steps ahead, without looking back.

—This place does not teach with words —he said without raising his voice—. Here one remembers. And if there is nothing to remember… there is nothing to forge.

Virka did not reply.

But her chest tightened.

Not because of the words… but because of what her body was beginning to feel.

Something beneath her skin —asleep for years— was beginning to stir. Not her power. Not her intent. But… the essence of her form. The beast. The original form. The one that only emerged when everything else failed. Yet it did not roar. It did not threaten. It only… watched, from within.

Kael stopped before a central platform. It was circular, without steps. Not elevated… but neither completely firm. The floor around it creaked imperceptibly, as if it sensed the pressure that was approaching.

—Here, power is not unleashed —Kael said—. Here, it is revealed.

Virka frowned.

—And what happens if there is nothing to reveal?

Kael looked at her again. His eyes did not shine. They were not stern. They were… constant.

—Then you would not be feeling that burning in your bones.

She clenched her teeth. She would not admit it. But he was right. Since she had crossed that door, her body had begun to weigh differently. As if every muscle were being dragged by invisible chains… and every memory of violence were beginning to surface without permission.

But they were not memories of war.

They were decisions.

Mistakes.

Glances she had avoided. Paths she chose knowing there was no return. Promises made in fragments.

Kael sat at the edge of the circle. Not in the posture of a master. But as someone who had no need to impose himself.

—You are not here to erase the beast. Nor to deny it.

You are here to discover if you can sustain it… without breaking.

Virka swallowed hard.

And then… the dojo spoke.

Not with voice. Not with vision.

But with pressure.

The floor beneath her feet trembled, faintly. Not from an earthquake. But because the circle where Kael sat… began to radiate pure memory. Not energy, not intent. But past. Not the place's past. Hers.

Before her eyes… no illusion appeared.

But a figure.

The figure of herself.

But not as she is now.

As she was… before awakening her strength.

Before the mark.

Before the claws.

She was a child.

Without voice. Without a clear gaze. Without defense.

And suddenly, all the weight of that image fell upon her chest like a rusted spear driving into a wound long closed.

—What is this? —she spat.

—A mirror you cannot break —answered Kael, without a tone of judgment—. You are not here to crush her.

You are here to remember her… and not run.

The girl before her said nothing. She did not move. She was simply there. With the same expression she wore the night everything changed. When her true form was released. When her humanity was nothing more than a broken pause.

And yet… there was no blood. No screams.

Only… guilt.

But it did not come from the past.

It came from now.

Because Virka, for the first time in years, felt… shame.

Not for what she had been.

But for having forgotten her.

Kael lowered his gaze, without harshness.

—Here we do not train to destroy.

We train to endure without losing.

And no one can endure the world… if they cannot embrace what they left behind.

Virka lowered her eyes. Her fists trembled. But it was not fury.

It was… the weight of recognizing herself incomplete.

And on her back, for the first time, something broke. Not bone. Not muscle.

An invisible armor.

The one she had always worn to avoid remembering.

And then she understood: there was no entrance. There was no exit.

There was only her…

And what she refused to let die.

And in the air —silent, heavy, without judgment—

the dojo received her.

Not as a beast.

But as a promise yet to be sealed.

The figure did not fade.

The girl remained there.

Standing, in the torn clothes of a nameless time.

ChatGPT dijo:

Without weapons. Without claws.

Only with the quiet trembling of one who once begged… to be saved.

But no one came then.

And Virka knew it.

That was why she burned.

Not because of the past.

But because of the way her body —her soul— still recognized her.

And that… hurt more than any scar.

Kael did not move. Nor did he speak.

There was no sermon.

There was no instruction.

Because this was one of the few truths no one could ever explain aloud.

Virka narrowed her eyes.

Not from fury.

But from fear.

Not of the memory.

But of what that girl meant:

A part of herself she never killed.

Only hid.

Because it was easier to become claws than to accept that once… she begged.

The figure of the girl did not cry.

But her bare feet stained the sacred floor.

Not with blood.

But with weight.

A weight Virka could no longer ignore.

And for an instant —a single one— she wished to scream.

Not at Kael.

Not at the world.

At herself.

"Why are you still alive inside me… if I am no longer you?"

ut the answer did not come.

Because there was no answer.

Only understanding.

That girl… was not something to be recovered.

Nor was she something to be trampled.

She was the part of her judgment that must never be forgotten.

The part that trembled.

The one that suffered.

The one that recognized the pain of others without arrogance.

And if that part were to die completely…

then the Beast of Destruction would cease to be judgment.

And it would become ruin.

Kael lifted his gaze. He said nothing.

But his eyes… saw.

They saw that Virka did not break.

Nor did she harden.

She only… felt.

And that was enough.

Because the dojo does not ask you to protect the world.

It asks that you do not forget what once needed to be protected within you.

The figure of the girl blinked once.

And then, like mist dragged by memory… she dissolved.

Not erased.

But sealed.

Within her.

Virka closed her eyes for a moment.

Her body did not move.

But on her back, a new mark —invisible, spiritual, ancient— ignited.

It was not a tattoo.

It was a pact.

The beast within her trembled.

Not from hunger.

But from respect.

Because now it understood:

It was no longer a creature of rage.

It was judgment incarnate.

And every strike she delivered… would have to be worth what that girl had never received.

Kael rose to his feet.

—The path is open —he said, not as permission… but as recognition—.

Not because you are worthy.

But because you did not flee.

Virka did not nod.

She did not smile.

She did not cry.

She only took a step.

And in that step, the dojo vibrated.

Because within her, the forbidden art was beginning to respond.

Not as a technique…

But as a will that had finally found a bearer capable of not destroying herself.

The Veil drew back.

Not with light.

Not with roars.

Only with a sudden change in the density of the air.

As if reality had held its breath too long… and at last, released it.

Virka emerged standing.

But not the same.

Nor entirely different.

Only… denser.

As if something within her no longer needed to be presented, yet could no longer be ignored.

Her eyes, though calm, burned.

Not with fury.

But with structure.

A dark structure, born not of control… but of pact.

Narka was at her side. In his reduced form, perched on a smooth stone of the temple, his gaze fixed on Kael.

He said nothing.

But his silence was… grave.

Kael waited a few steps from the dojo. Standing.

Without urgency.

Without a smile.

He dressed the same as before. But his expression… was different.

Not judgment.

Recognition.

—You have emerged —he said.

Not as a question.

As a verdict.

Virka did not reply.

But something in her breathing suggested that words were no longer enough to explain what she carried.

Kael stepped closer.

And the ground, which before had not reacted… creaked.

Not because of her.

Because of what now accompanied her.

Not a spirit.

Not an aura.

But a technique.

One that should not be alive.

Kael felt it.

And for the first time in a long while, he lowered his gaze.

—Now I understand —he murmured—. Why the seal began to tremble weeks ago.

Virka lifted her face slightly.

—What seal?

Narka slowly turned his head, his golden eyes fixed on Kael.

Kael exhaled a sigh. Then he spoke.

Not as a master.

But as a witness to a story they had tried to forget.

—The Martial Art of the Beast of Destruction.

—…

—It was created by the Master of the Sixth Generation —he continued—. A man who dedicated his life to defense. Who believed he could save everyone. Until he watched his own die… even after giving everything.

His voice was not solemn.

It was… heavy.

—That day, he understood that to protect is sometimes not enough.

That some threats… must not be contained.

They must be eradicated.

Virka did not avert her gaze.

But something in her shoulders… tensed.

—And then?

Kael lowered his eyes.

—Then he created the forbidden technique. An art not to endure, but to devour. Based on forms of deformed beasts, made to crush cores, tear flesh, annul will.

A single use… ended a continental threat.

He paused.

—But it also left a crater… where life has yet to bloom.

Narka slowly closed his eyes.

As if recalling that echo in the earth.

Kael continued:

—It was the Master of the Seventh Generation who stopped him.

He wielded both arts —the Guardian's, and the Beast's— at the same time.

He triumphed… but died standing.

His body could not withstand holding two paths so opposed.

Then he lifted his gaze, straight to Virka.

—Since then, the technique was buried.

In the Basement of the Broken Promise.

Sealed among black roots, beneath the altar of the temple.

—Then… —Virka finally said, her voice deeper than usual— why is it here?

Kael did not hesitate.

—Because you did not learn it.

You called it.

The technique… responded to what you are. To what you have seen. To what you decided.

And now it lives again… within you.

The silence that followed… was not confusion.

It was deep understanding.

Virka was not chosen.

She was adequate.

Because she carried within her the exact structure that technique demanded.

And for the first time, Kael stepped back.

Not out of fear.

Out of respect.

—That technique will not make you strong —he warned—.

It will only make more lethal what you already are.

If you forget the girl you saw in the Veil… you will consume yourself, as others did.

Virka said nothing.

But her eyes burned, and her voice held firm:

—I will not forget her.

Kael nodded.

—Then the technique… will not devour you.

It will only demand… that you use it only when no one else remains to do so.

Narka opened his eyes.

And for a moment —only one—

in his golden pupil

a silhouette of black jaws

seemed to dance…

The crater has yet to bloom.

But perhaps… someone will know when to prevent it from repeating.

Kael walked slowly.

Not toward her.

Toward the center of the dojo.

There, the floor was marked with concentric circles, invisible to the naked eye, but perceptible to those who could feel the flow of aura through the wood.

Virka followed him without words.

Narka —in his reduced form— leapt onto a flat stone and remained still, as if he knew that what was coming should not be interrupted.

Kael stopped at the edge of the circle.

He turned toward her.

—Before I speak to you of what you have awakened… you need to understand what we have protected.

He raised his right hand.

The air vibrated.

But not with force.

With purpose.

An aura figure began to form behind him:

a guardian with a cracked shield.

And from that crack, a spear emerged.

—This is the first movement of the Martial Art of the Guardian of Life: The Gate of the Last Guard.

It does not strike from hatred.

It does not move for glory.

Its purpose is clear: to block harm…

and return it only if it threatens what deserves to go on breathing.

Kael lowered his hand. The aura dispersed like mist that respects the spoken word.

—This art is composed of twelve techniques. Six are born of the arm. Six, of the leg.

Each has a form, an intention, a judgment.

None are executed by impulse.

Each one aligns with a vow.

Virka did not speak.

But her body was beginning to tense.

Because within her, something else was responding.

Kael continued.

—Every strike of the Guardian does not destroy by instinct.

It does so because every other option has been exhausted.

And then… he raised his left hand.

This time there was no silence.

There were cracks.

Noise.

Weight.

The figure that emerged was not armor.

Not a spear.

It was a beast.

Deformed.

With fused skulls, splintered claws, and a split eye.

—Fang of Total Rupture —Kael said without changing his tone—.

The first technique of the Martial Art of the Beast of Destruction.

A strike that does not seek to open…

but to empty.

The figure vanished.

—While the Guardian stands firm to resist…

the Beast advances without waiting for a second strike.

Its stances are exact.

Its rhythm, lethal.

Each technique does not wound. It annihilates.

It rends cores. Crushes skulls.

Silences the soul.

Narka slowly opened his eyes.

The ground beneath his paws cracked slightly.

Not because of Kael.

Because of what Virka was beginning to remember.

—Your body already responds to that structure —said the master—.

Your soul as well.

He stepped closer.

—But I will warn you of what no one warned him.

The Master of the Sixth Generation created this technique because he no longer believed in anyone.

He perfected it not to protect…

but to ensure he would never have to again.

Kael crouched, touched the ground, and activated an engraved seal.

A series of auras rose, spiraling:

A silhouette with a cloak, advancing with fist forward: Onslaught of the Armored Heart.

A spear piercing without light: Pure Devotion.

A descending kick that spun like a clean blade: Guillotine of the Guardian Soul.

And then, the air trembled again…

A claw fused with bone: Claw of Internal Rending.

A skull charging with a spiral horn: Onslaught of the Broken Neck.

An amorphous beast roaring from its chest: Roar of the Imminent End.

Both arts superimposed.

Both incompatible.

And in the middle…

Virka.

Kael spoke without raising his tone.

—The difference is not in the strike.

Nor in the energy.

It is in the reason why you deliver them.

He stepped back.

—If you choose the path of the Beast, then you must never strike from pain.

Only from judgment.

Narka lowered his gaze.

Virka remained upright.

—Because if you forget why you strike… —Kael continued—

then you will not be executioner.

You will be plague.

Silence.

And in that silence… something within her aligned.

She did not ask for forgiveness.

She did not ask for approval.

She only closed her eyes, and said:

—The beast within me… no longer wishes to roar.

Only to decide when.

Kael did not smile.

He only nodded.

—Then let the entire dojo prepare…

to contain what is to come.

The world did not turn.

It only… curved inward.

As if the silence surrounding Virka slid through an invisible fissure, descending to a deeper, denser plane, where time did not fall… but stopped to listen.

There.

Still in the center of the sealed stone chamber…

Sebastián did not move.

But he no longer seemed human.

His body —naked, motionless— was covered by threads of condensed red Qi, not like visible lines… but like living fibers, interwoven into his muscles as if they sought to devour him from within.

Each breath… was not breath.

It was compression.

The air did not enter.

It yielded.

And the world around was beginning to understand that this being was not cultivating to become strong…

He was forcing Strength itself to remember its place.

His fingers seemed of stone.

His back, a shelf of tensions where scars burned without light.

And within him…

something advanced without permission.

The Dao of Force had answered.

No longer as exterior pressure.

But as an internal law.

An imposing force, one that did not ask.

It simply settled.

His muscles… began to vibrate.

Not from fatigue.

But because the will behind the Qi was embedding itself into every fiber.

It was no longer enough to move in order to break.

Now, to move meant to leave fissures of will imprinted in space.

And so it happened.

Without technique.

Without gesture.

Merely by existing in that state…

a red fissure opened at his left.

Small. Thin.

But it burned as if it contained the weight of everything that had not been spoken.

Sebastián did not open his eyes.

But his forehead… began to bleed.

Not from a wound.

From pressure.

The stone chamber that until now had contained him began to strain.

The walls trembled.

The joints between blocks cracked.

Some stones floated for a few seconds…

others were swallowed by the floor.

It was not gravity.

It was the presence of something that still did not know if it should be born…

but was already demanding space.

And in the midst of it…

the Dao of Void —already at its second level— began to act.

Not as defense.

But as a silent repairer.

Where Force left fissures…

the Void absorbed the edges.

Where muscle overloaded…

the Void rebuilt with energy devoured from the surroundings.

But this was not balance.

It was compensation.

And Sebastián, in some deep corner of his consciousness,

was beginning to understand:

He cannot advance if one of his paths drags the other.

He cannot rebuild if he does not learn to sustain.

And then… the pressure changed.

It did not lessen.

It inverted.

Force stopped pushing outward.

It began pressing inward.

And his body —still motionless— began to creak from the bones.

His red Qi condensed in the lungs.

In the shoulders.

In the spine.

As if his body were the statue where a law was being carved.

A zone of pressure began to form around him.

It was not visible.

But there, the air ceased to obey.

The particles spun in a slow spiral.

And any creature with a soul… would have collapsed in that radius.

Because there, one could no longer breathe.

Nor think.

Nor move.

Space obeyed Sebastián.

His will.

His Force.

But it was not yet complete.

Because in his chest…

something still resisted.

It was not weakness.

It was another part of him.

One that had yet to accept that to be Force in truth…

it must first be Weight.

And sustain itself without destroying itself.

And then, without opening his eyes,

Sebastián spoke.

Only one word.

—I understand…

And the Dao, which has no face,

bowed for an instant.

The pressure did not dissipate.

But it changed form.

The red Qi that covered his body ceased to shake like an inner storm…

and began to settle.

Slow. Dense.

Like molten metal beginning to solidify its will.

The surroundings still creaked.

The stone chamber still trembled.

But the chaos now had edges.

And that was new.

Sebastián did not move.

But his skin began to regain a firmer texture.

The veins no longer burned.

They only pulsed.

Within his chest, the Inverted Origin Core spun without pause.

But its impulses were no longer violent.

They were circular.

As if the core were finally accepting that the Dao of Force was no longer an intruder.

It was a guest beginning to build its own home.

The zone of pressure around him persisted.

The air remained dense.

The particles floated.

And anyone who might have crossed that chamber…

would have fallen to their knees, their thoughts shattered.

Because that space no longer belonged to the world.

It was a fragment of will.

An incomplete manifestation, yes…

but real.

Sebastián opened his eyes.

And for the first time in hours —or perhaps days—

he saw.

Not with clarity.

But with structure.

Not everything he felt had a name.

Not all that force responded to him completely.

But it no longer opposed him.

It no longer tore him apart.

And in that precarious balance…

the Dao of Void manifested.

Not as power.

But as echo.

As foundation.

Filling with emptiness the fractures that force did not yet know how to seal.

And then he understood.

Not with words.

Nor with spiritual enlightenment.

Only as a sensation in the center of his chest:

"This… is not yet mastery.

It is only stabilization.

I sustain what I have only begun to deserve."

He breathed.

And his breath no longer unleashed violent waves.

Only a firm exhalation…

that split a rock at the far end of the chamber.

Not with brutality.

But with a pressure so exact that the cut was clean.

The walls ceased trembling.

The ground no longer split open.

The red Qi clung to his back like an invisible cloak.

It did not move.

It vibrated.

Sebastián closed his eyes again.

Not from exhaustion.

From respect.

He had managed to sustain the second level of his Dao of Force.

But he did not yet master it.

Not yet.

The balance with the Void was already drawn.

The path could now be walked without collapse.

But what came after…

would be forging a will capable of wielding that force without being defined by it.

Because to master a Dao…

is not to resist it.

It is to decide when to let it act.

And Sebastián…

had yet to learn to impose himself… without breaking.

The day was clear, but not light.

The city breathed under control. Not because of peace. But because the bodies that once contaminated it… were no longer there.

No speeches remained. Only clean zones.

And at the center of it all, them.

Helena, standing before the main window, was not observing the landscape.

She observed the void left when everything was executed according to plan.

Her posture was straight. Precise.

Like the line that divides command from judgment.

Behind her, Selena slid between floating screens.

She was not searching for something.

She was eliminating the unnecessary.

—Zone twenty-seven… cleared —she reported in a neutral voice—.

Five communication nodes silenced.

Two cell leaders disappeared.

No camera captured the operation. As you requested.

Helena nodded without turning.

—The trail must be erased before anyone tries to look for it.

Selena continued the analysis.

Her gaze was surgical.

And at the center of one of the screens, a surveillance point flickered once. Then it went dark.

—Location: Veil.

No record.

No thermal reading.

No transmission signals.

—Time since the last solid signal?

—Six days. Exact.

Helena turned slowly. Not out of surprise. Out of confirmation.

—And there is no way to project his state?

Selena shook her head lightly.

—Only interference.

Every tracking attempt ends in fragmentation.

The satellites cannot stabilize an image.

Not even the residual spectrums give us anything useful.

Only… voids on the map.

Helena stepped closer. She observed the screen without issuing judgment.

—Does that bother you?

Selena tightened her jaw slightly.

—It intrigues me.

Not knowing where a subject like him is… is not just a void.

It is an anomaly I cannot tolerate.

Helena slid the screen with a gesture.

The map changed.

A new image emerged: the construction in progress.

Assigned terrain.

Reinforced zones.

Structure already standing.

—The mansion?

—Progressing.

Lower floor complete.

Intermediate level in the process of isolation.

The structure is adapting without the need for redesign.

But…

—But?

—The subsoil.

There is living rock.

It resists shaping.

The engineers said something in that ground "rejects intent."

Helena did not respond immediately.

Then, she simply said:

—Then do not try to force it.

Build around it.

Selena turned toward her.

—And if that affects his stay?

—It is not a house. It is a bastion.

And he does not need comfort.

He needs resistance.

A pause.

—How many hidden cameras does the perimeter have?

—None.

—And sensors?

—Forty-eight. But all deactivated. By design.

Helena nodded.

—As he requested.

Selena crossed her arms.

—And if he doesn't return?

—He will return.

—Are you sure?

—Yes.

Silence.

A clean one.

Not emotional.

Only structural.

Selena looked at the map again.

The red point that was supposed to be Sebastián no longer flickered.

It simply…

was not there.

—Do you think he's alright?

—I don't know.

And I don't need to.

The only thing that matters… is that whatever comes out of that place has a purpose.

And if it doesn't…

we will decide it.

Selena smiled faintly. Not with affection.

With cold understanding.

—That does sound like you.

And while the city kept breathing under control,

and the enemies fell without leaving a shadow,

two figures held the balance without faith…

only with intention.

Not for Sebastián.

But for what his absence was building.

And if he returned different…

the world would have to adapt.

Or break.

The day went on.

But not for everyone.

On the surface, the city maintained its anesthetized routine:

work cycles, opaque screens, schedules dictated by artificial intelligence, and coffees served by soulless automatons.

But beneath —on a level only a few knew how to see—

order was beginning to creak.

And at the summit of that invisible design… them.

Helena remained still.

Not from stillness, but from calculation.

Every minute without moving was a reading pattern impossible to track.

A pause that destabilized the surveillance algorithms.

And that was useful.

Selena was reading.

Not the reports.

But the absences.

She knew that what mattered was not what the enemies said, but what they had stopped asking.

—The minister changed his route this morning —she murmured—.

And he didn't inform his escort.

—Instinct?

—Fear.

Helena did not respond.

Not because she had nothing to say, but because silence was more eloquent.

And in this moment, silence was the most effective weapon of the project.

—The families of district 8 reinforced their private dome —Selena added, shifting the data—.

They have doubled personnel in their basements.

And they've begun moving resources abroad.

Helena slowly turned toward the main console.

The holograms floated like the reliefs of a still-warm corpse.

—They are reacting.

But they don't know to what.

Selena allowed herself a brief smile. Almost imperceptible.

—Nor will they.

They still believe it's an internal purge of the government.

A control adjustment.

Or a war among themselves.

—Perfect.

A file opened without warning.

Not by error.

But because someone, somewhere, tried to access an already dead database.

—Hack?

—No.

A blind man touching a tomb.

He will find nothing.

Only the echo of his own condemnation.

Helena closed the file with a gesture.

And for the first time in hours, she spoke with more than a single word.

—The next three sectors must fall without surface impact.

If the flow of civilian life is altered, media pressure will increase.

And that attracts noise.

Selena nodded.

—I have already identified the next nodes.

Two are flagless cells.

The third… is a lodge.

Ancient.

It believes it still has the right to manipulate the energy market.

—Do they have contracts with the Council?

—Yes.

—Then we will eliminate the contracts as well.

Pause.

Selena switched the screen.

A network of points unfolded over the city.

Links between mafias, private elites, paramilitary groups, and fallen temples.

Everything that pretended not to exist.

—The dark presences have already begun to act —she said—.

They still don't know what is killing them.

But they understand it is not coincidence.

—Who suspects?

—No one.

They all believe it is the other.

—Excellent.

A silent notification vibrated on the table.

—The government?

—Yes.

They requested an urgent meeting with the high security council.

They claim to have "information about an unregistered force that is sweeping through urban cores without leaving physical evidence."

Helena tilted her head.

—And they still don't associate it with us.

Selena shook her head calmly.

—We are invisible to them.

They don't even have our name in their simulations.

—Let them remain that way.

A pause.

A line of tension floated between them.

Not of doubt.

Of affirmation.

Because they knew their plan was not about vengeance.

Nor about power.

It was cleansing.

A silent excision of everything that had once been allowed to contaminate.

And in the midst of that process —which could no longer be stopped—

the world kept functioning.

Society lived.

Paid.

Consumed.

Slept.

Unaware.

But the upper layers…

those that operated from secrecy, greed, ritual violence…

were beginning to look over their shoulders.

And they still did not know that what was hunting them…

was already inside their walls.

Selena closed the last file.

—Tomorrow three more nests will fall.

One of them believes it is protected by a sealed demon.

Another, by blood pacts.

The last… by its surname.

Helena walked toward the window.

The city stretched out before her.

Clean.

False.

—Then tomorrow… they will have something real to fear.

She did not smile.

She did not blink.

She only observed.

And the world, without knowing it, shrank a little more. The world shrank a little more.

And not because something had fallen.

But because they already knew what was about to rise.

Selena slid open a new panel, without breaking the silence.

The room kept breathing to the rhythm of their will.

Nothing creaked. Nothing sounded.

Because nothing moved without authorization.

—The network has expanded —she said, as if continuing the same thought—.

It is no longer limited to our sector.

The reactions are crossing borders.

Helena did not turn her gaze from the window.

Her eyes remained fixed on the city that pulsed without knowing what strangled it.

—Where?

—Northern coast. Central highlands. Southern region.

Three key zones in the continental network.

Helena turned slightly.

The air around her seemed denser.

As if even the oxygen knew that in that room… things were being decided that could not be named.

—Responses?

—Incorrect.

They believe it is among themselves.

They are accusing, betraying, spying on one another…

And that accelerates the collapse without us needing to intervene.

A pause.

Selena expanded the map.

It was not just the country.

It was the entire continent.

And every red point was not an enemy.

It was a system about to devour itself.

—One of the regional governments requested foreign military assistance.

Another carried out an internal purge.

And a third… vanished without leaving transmission.

Helena stepped closer to the center of the room.

The screens adjusted themselves.

They already knew her exact field of vision.

—Resources?

—Ready.

We can deploy any package in less than three hours.

Maritime, air, or land.

From six different nodes.

None identified.

—And the operators?

—None know us.

But all obey.

And they do so with gratitude, not obligation.

Because for them… we are only correcting what the governments allowed.

Helena nodded.

—Then we are not force.

We are necessity.

Selena dimmed the floating lights.

The room grew even more silent.

—The high spheres are looking at each other as if they were threats.

The old alliances no longer trust their own arms.

And the lodges, temples, and mafias…

have begun to ask for help from beings that should not awaken.

Helena did not react.

But her words were clearer than ever.

—That too is part of the cleansing.

Selena projected one last panel.

They were not images.

They were voids.

Spaces where once there had been control, and now there was only uncertainty.

Internal fractures.

Errors provoked by pressure.

—No one knows who is moving the pieces.

—That is how it must be.

A final line appeared at the base of the map.

A high-level encrypted message between two leaders who no longer knew whether to trust.

"And if it is not one of us?"

Selena read it. She did not comment.

Helena had already read it before it appeared.

And at the top of that tower that exists on no map,

the continent kept bleeding from within.

Not from bombs.

Not from strikes.

But from a perfect surgery

executed by two presences who did not seek power.

Only order.

And when the last face turned toward the darkness searching for explanation…

there would be no one left to blame.

Only the echo of what they had decided must disappear.

The day did not end when the sun descended.

It ended when Helena allowed it.

The final report was sealed without words.

The final name crossed out without ceremony.

And the city below kept breathing… without knowing it no longer belonged to itself.

Selena closed her terminal without looking back.

She asked for no farewell.

She expected no comment.

—Tomorrow another sector will tremble —Helena said without raising her voice.

—And they will not know if it was their fault… or their punishment —Selena answered, already standing, already on her way.

Her heels barely resonated in the room.

Because not even sound dared follow her without command.

The elevator did not vibrate.

The tower bid her farewell with the discretion only soulless systems can offer.

And then…

Selena left.

Her apartment was not in the same building.

It shared no code with any other access.

It was a cell suspended over the city, invisible from below, without external windows.

A box of precision, without excess.

Everything inside it was where it needed to be.

Because she had decided so.

The door sealed behind her with a faint sigh of digital pressure.

No one awaited her.

No one would follow.

Only the echo of what she refused to think.

She removed her shoes without haste.

The executive skirt slid down her legs like silk that dared not touch her too much.

The white shirt, still perfect, was folded with precision.

There was no staff.

No company.

Only the exactness of what was functional… and the weight of silence.

She entered the bathroom without turning on all the lights.

The partial illumination outlined her silhouette like a secret.

And then, before the mirror, she undressed.

Not with provocation.

Not with shame.

With logic.

Her body —the one she had used to sentence structures, to manipulate governments, to read alliances without error—

was now there.

Perfect.

Irrefutable.

Unreal.

White skin, without shadows.

Measured, exact curves.

Firm breasts, defined waist, hips that did not ask for attention…

but held it, like contained gravity.

It was not beauty offered.

It was sharpened beauty.

The kind that does not seduce.

The kind that warns.

She immersed herself in the tub with the same control with which she would sign an execution.

The warm water was not for relaxation.

It was to avoid rust.

But even so…

the body responded.

Tense muscles.

Neck lifted.

Back firm, even beneath the liquid.

And then, she thought of him.

Not as a presence.

Not as an idea.

But as a rupture in the pattern.

Sebastián.

She did not see him.

She did not hear him.

She did not understand him.

And yet… he was there.

Grafted into a corner of her inner structure she had not authorized.

—It has no logic —she murmured.

There was no one to hear her.

And yet, she said it.

As if by naming the anomaly, she could exorcise it.

But the name was not enough.

Because every time she thought of him,

it was not his strength she remembered.

Nor his decisions.

Nor his steps.

It was the unbearable fact that he was not afraid.

Not of her.

Not of the world.

Not of losing himself.

And that…

irritated.

Because everyone fears.

Everyone bends before something.

Except him.

The water vibrated around her body.

Not from movement.

From tension.

Her chest rose and fell.

Controlled.

But not empty.

—It is not possible —she whispered, resting her head against the edge of black marble.

And for a second —a single one—

her gray eyes closed.

But not in peace.

In search.

Because what she felt had no form.

No name.

And that was the worst.

She could control structures.

Eliminate networks.

Bend governments.

But she could not understand why that damned name would not leave her mind.

And while the water kept embracing her perfect body,

without witnesses,

without intention,

without permission…

Selena remembered his gaze.

Not the one he gave her.

But the one he did not.

The one that did not beg.

The one that did not need her.

And that…

burned.

Not with desire.

But with a very different kind of hunger.

One that did not yet dare to be born.

The steam still floated in the bathroom.

Not from heat.

But because the body that stepped out of it… had released no tension at all.

Selena took the towel with the same precision with which one neutralizes a threat.

She did not rub.

She slid.

Every movement was exact.

Every fold of fabric obeyed the curve it was meant to cover.

Her back —long, smooth, sculpted by control— revealed itself for seconds before disappearing beneath the fall of the cloth.

There was no fragility.

Nor ostentation.

There was structure made flesh.

The water slid down in drops perfectly aligned by the symmetry of her body.

And the reflection in the mirror did not show desire.

It showed a silhouette that did not ask for validation.

Selena did not need to be admired.

She was.

With or without witnesses.

She passed before the window concealed by dark filters.

No one could see her.

No one could reach her.

The wardrobe opened with a gesture.

Inside, the clothing was not varied.

Only exact.

She chose a set of black silk:

a fitted camisole, with fine straps, that outlined her bust with mathematical naturalness,

and a lower garment so light it could not be noticed when walking, but on her body… it seemed drawn by lines of divine calculation.

It was not lingerie to be seen.

It was armor for rest.

Precision asleep.

She sat on the edge of the bed.

Her hair —black, tied up until a moment ago— fell down her back like a weightless shadow.

Letting her ponytail loose was the only human gesture she allowed herself that night.

And even then…

she was not alone.

Because he was still there.

In a fissure of her mind she could not close.

Sebastián.

She had not spoken his name.

She would not repeat it.

But every thought she tried to push out of her head… returned with greater force.

Was it curiosity?

Was it interference?

Or simply proof that not all algorithms work when one of them breathes like an animal instead of a machine?

Selena lay back with precision.

Her body barely sank into the adaptive design mattress.

Not even in sleep did she yield ground.

The light turned off without her asking.

It was already programmed.

The ceiling projected a faint image: a sequence of stars in rotation, selected at random each night.

A silent beauty, without narrative.

But not even that distracted her.

Because he was still there.

Not in her skin.

Not in her mouth.

In the structure.

In the part of her that still could not accept that not everything can be classified.

And as her eyes began to close,

as the silk brushed lightly against her thighs,

and her hair slipped across the pillow like a river of darkness…

One last image crossed her mind.

Him.

Walking.

Alone.

Steady.

Without asking to be seen.

And that… hurt.

Not from romanticism.

But from defiance.

"Why can't I erase you?"

She did not say it.

But the thought accompanied her until sleep… deceived her.

Because her body slept.

But her judgment did not.

And in the midst of that breathless night,

Selena dreamed without wanting to.

Not of a kiss.

Not of a caress.

But of an answer.

One that does not yet exist.

But that has already begun to take shape.

And that,

though she does not know it…

is the beginning of something she will not be able to control.

___________________________________________

END OF CHAPTER 27