On the Path of Eternal Strength.

The light did not enter.

It was activated.

A white luminescence, warm but artificial, began to spread from the edges of the ceiling.

Its intensity was calibrated to the breathing rhythm of the sleeper.

It did not turn on by time.

It turned on when Selena opened her eyes.

And this time…

it took longer than usual.

The system did not fail.

The environment adjusted as it should:

the temperature at 22.4 degrees,

the humidity at 40%,

the neutral scent of light wood activated by microvapor.

The mattress yielded with exactness under the torsion of her back.

Everything was perfect.

Everything… except her.

Selena did not get up immediately.

Not because she was tired.

Her body never woke up tired.

It was her mind…

the one still processing the inadmissible.

The gray eyes —sharp, pure, unbreakable— remained fixed on the ceiling.

The stars projected last night still spun, as if the system had not detected the end of the dream.

Or as if it did not want to turn off what it did not understand.

She did not dream.

That was a rule.

A function erased by training.

But this time… she could not be sure.

There was something in her chest.

Not weight.

Not anxiety.

An echo.

An image without edge.

A name she had not pronounced…

but that persisted like an error impossible to correct.

She sat up with a single movement.

The black silk of her nightgown fell over her body like a leaf cut with precision.

Cold.

Exact.

Her hair, still loose, slid down her shoulders like a sleeping snake.

And her legs, as they lowered from the bed, touched the floor without a sound.

The floor recognized her footprint and activated the projection of the day.

But she did not look at it.

Not the geopolitical summary.

Not the financial movements.

Not the reports without sender.

She only remained seated…

with her fingers interlaced,

her back straight,

and her gaze… lost in something that was not in that room.

Sebastián.

She did not say it.

But her silence was no longer neutral.

It was resistance.

She stood up.

She walked toward the wardrobe.

This time… she hesitated.

Just one second.

The clothes were aligned as always:

white, gray, black shirts.

High-cut skirts.

Combat suits camouflaged in silk.

Boots. Heels. Glasses. Hidden weapons.

But she chose something softer.

A smoky gray blouse.

Almost imperceptible in texture.

And a black skirt with a broader fall than usual.

Not inefficient.

Just…

less precise.

She put it on without looking in the mirror.

But the reflection… found her all the same.

The woman who observed it was not different.

It was herself.

Only… with a fragment of thought stuck to her temple.

As she fastened the last buttons,

a line crossed her mind without permission:

"What if it never stops being there?"

And the worst part was not thinking it.

The worst part was that it did not seem like a threat.

Only a certainty.

She took her field tablet.

She deactivated the day's notifications.

She activated only one line:

"Location: No change. No signal." She looked at it for five seconds.

Five. Exact.

And then she closed the screen.

The day could advance.

The cleaning could continue.

But deep in her internal algorithm…

there was a point that could not be erased.

And for the first time in years,

Selena did not know if she wanted to do it.

Selena's apartment sealed itself behind her without emitting a sound.

Not by protocol…

but because no sound had permission to mark her departure.

The thermal sensors of the hallway recognized her presence instantly.

But they did not react.

The only signal they emitted was internal, archived and sealed as "authorized presence – absolute level."

Selena advanced with surgical precision.

Her figure, still dressed in the smoky gray blouse and the black skirt with a broad fall, seemed cut out of space,

as if nothing in the environment could stick to her silhouette.

The tower where she lived was not luxurious.

It was invulnerable.

And that, for her, was the only thing relevant.

Each step was measured.

Not in length.

But in time.

Selena did not arrive late.

But not early either.

Every second had to obey her.

Upon reaching level -9, her vehicle was already waiting.

Not a car.

A specter of mobility.

Body without brand.

Windows that did not exist.

Adaptive seats.

And a driving system that did not use GPS…

but a parallel network available only to eight people in the entire continent.

She sat down.

The door closed without contact.

The engine activated without vibration.

Fourteen minutes.

That was the estimated time to Helena's residence.

Fourteen minutes where Selena should review last night's reports, the data crossovers, the financial movements, the human errors…

But she did not.

Or rather:

she did it on automatic.

Because her mind, still against her will,

returned to the blind spot.

To that name she did not want to archive.

Sebastián.

She thought it without emotion.

But also without success in erasing it.

As if that image had embedded itself in a part of the code not under her control.

And without knowing why,

she adjusted her blouse.

A minimal gesture.

Unnecessary.

But inevitable.

She sighed once.

And she hated herself for it.

The car made no noise when braking.

Helena's house was already rising before her.

The façade of the residence was not opulent.

It was perfect.

Black columns. White marble.

Classical design. Divine proportion.

Like a soap opera mansion,

too beautiful to seem dangerous.

But Selena knew that, behind those walls…

extinctions were designed.

The gate opened without her touching it.

The security system detected her from the moment she stepped out of the vehicle.

But not by facial recognition.

By the way she walked.

—Punctual —said Helena from the matte marble corridor.

—Always —replied Selena.

They advanced in silence.

Only the faint echo of their heels broke the void,

but not even that was natural:

the sound was modulated to be audible… only if they wished it.

In the kitchen, the coffee was already served.

Black. Without sugar.

As both preferred it.

—Results? —asked Helena, without changing tone.

Selena handed her the tablet.

—Eight nodes destroyed in the night.

Five internal fractures induced by lateral pressure.

Three alliances collapsed by paranoia.

—External responses?

—Two groups are already blaming each other.

Another has initiated an internal purge over false suspicions.

Helena took the coffee. Drank without pause.

—Perfect —she murmured—. The cleansing continues its course.

Selena nodded.

But her eyes were not still.

They scanned the operations map.

The lines of influence.

The supply routes.

And what was not yet in red… but should be.

—I want to expand —she said finally.

—To what level?

—Offensive technology.

Autonomous hunting drones.

Adaptive ballistics.

Quantum surveillance systems.

Infrastructure interference without satellite detection.

Helena turned slightly.

—Do you have contacts?

—Three anonymously contracted laboratories.

A testing base in the south.

And a clandestine network in Asia that can produce whatever we ask for without leaving a trace.

—Costs?

—Almost irrelevant.

—Legality?

—Buried.

Helena smiled.

But not like an ally.

Rather like someone who recognizes that the chessboard has advanced one more piece.

—And the other variable?

Selena looked at her for a second.

Only one.

—There are no other variables.

It was not a lie.

But neither a complete truth.

Because even though everything seemed under control,

even though every target was marked,

even though the continent was beginning to tremble without knowing why…

Selena knew there was an element outside the system.

A name.

A face.

A silence.

And even if she did not say it,

even if she did not think it with tenderness…

she felt it like a fissure.

Sebastián.

He was not yet a threat.

Not yet a target.

But neither was he a ghost.

He was a crack.

And cracks…

if not controlled,

reconfigure the structure.

The mansion still held its aesthetic silence.

The curtains fell as if placed by artificial gravity.

The columns pretended weight, but were hollow inside.

And the paintings… represented no one.

Only shapes that seemed like art to eyes that did not know what they were seeing.

Selena was already there.

Not as a guest.

As an inevitable variable.

Helena descended the inner stairs, still tying the last knots of her black blouse. Her damp hair gathered in a tense bun, her face without makeup, yet just as immune to fragility.

—How long have you been here? —she asked without surprise.

—Long enough.

They did not need more dialogue.

An automated assistant announced that the vehicle was ready.

They did not leave like cover figures.

Nor like executives heading to a meeting.

They left as what they were:

War strategists in a world that still did not know it had been invaded.

The vehicle descended through a private road connected to the back exit of the property.

No one saw them.

Because no one could see them.

As they advanced, the urban landscape began to change:

from gardens curated by artificial intelligence,

to streets where cracks had not yet been covered.

From perfect silence…

to the distant hum of a city that pretended to remain innocent.

They arrived at the unmarked building.

The façade read "Institute of Urban Archives."

But beneath it…

twelve floors of invisible operations awaited orders.

Once inside, access was silent.

No credentials.

No visible protocols.

Only the reading of biometric signals, mental ones… and something closer to contained intent.

They descended without words.

Because words, here, were only necessary when the machines failed.

The main floor greeted them with a status update:

57 cells dissolved in the last 24 hours.

3 financial networks collapsed.

17 figures of social power neutralized.

It was the kind of cleansing that left no traces.

No bodies.

Only empty spaces that no one dared to ask why they were empty.

But in the midst of that precision, something broke the pattern.

—What is that? —asked Helena, noticing the new set of alerts on the secondary screen.

Selena was already reviewing it.

—Sequence of reports in the student health system. Distributed. Apparently random. But all… with the same core.

—What core?

—Muscle damage, spikes of strength, neuronal collapses. In teenagers. In schools.

From lower zones, middle ones… and some elite.

Helena barely furrowed her brows.

—Drugs?

—Yes. But not one of the known ones. This one does not seek pleasure.

It seeks performance.

It destroys, but first… it activates.

And that is why it is more dangerous.

She projected a body.

A fourteen-year-old boy.

Dead in an alley after a middle-school fight.

The bones had fractured from the inside.

Helena exhaled slowly.

—Who distributes it?

—That's the interesting part —Selena replied—. No one.

There is no structure.

No network.

It's viral. Digital.

The recipe changes. The form too.

But the effect… is always the same.

A silence heavier than before settled.

—And the name?

—It doesn't have a real one.

Only nicknames: "halo," "boost," "red inertia."

—I don't care about the street name —Helena cut in—. I want to know who created it.

Selena shook her head.

—Most likely generative intelligence applied to the black market. It evolves.

It adapts.

And since it's not sold… it can't be tracked.

Helena walked slowly through the room.

Each step resounded like a timed heartbeat.

—The schools with the most cases?

—They coincide with the ones we were recommended weeks ago.

For the reactivation of the insertion program.

She did not say the name.

But Helena stopped.

Just for an instant.

Because sometimes…

an omission is more precise than a fact.

—Make sure no child linked to our operations is exposed to this —she ordered without changing tone.

Selena only nodded.

But the tension in her neck betrayed her.

Both knew what that meant.

And though neither of them named it…

he was there.

Not as an emotional figure.

But as an unpredictable variable.

Like an algorithm without a line of code.

Helena turned back to the screen.

—Activate an independent cell.

Let them analyze it.

Let them stop it.

Without raising dust.

—With what priority?

—Class A.

Silent.

Total.

And it was then, only then, that a minimal alert appeared.

In a corner of the console.

A ping barely visible.

Not from the system.

From the subconscious.

Because even though everything was under control…

a part of Selena still thought:

How do you fight something that was never planted?

The command room had emptied,

but not of bodies.

Only of noise.

The assistants were still there,

behind screens, data, algorithms.

But their voices did not matter.

Because in this room, now, only two presences spoke:

Helena,

and Selena.

One was standing,

the other seated.

Both perfectly straight.

As if even fatigue were a luxury they no longer allowed themselves.

The country's map still floated suspended in the air.

Each city marked.

Each red point was not a place.

It was a possibility of ruin.

—If we continue with the classic protocol, we won't make it in time —said Helena, without emotion.

—I know —replied Selena.

A silence denser than any argument followed.

Because both knew that what they were about to suggest…

did not fit within their own frameworks.

—We need something that can move between systems without being registered —said Helena.

—And that is not linked to us in any network —completed Selena.

They had not named him yet.

But he… was already there.

—He doesn't accept orders —Selena warned.

—Nor does he reject them, if he considers them necessary.

Selena turned toward her.

—And do you think this… secondary cleansing falls into what he considers necessary?

The question did not seek an answer.

But Helena gave one.

—No.

He accepted the original Project.

This new strain… goes beyond.

—Then we won't use him —Selena said.

But that word —"use"—

did not fit with reality.

Because he was never a weapon.

He was a crack.

An open wound in the system.

One they still did not know if it bled… or released something worse.

Helena walked toward the main console.

The screen projected fragmented images:

movements of teenagers, imperceptible transactions, encrypted messages disguised as school memes.

Everything was ridiculous.

And everything was real.

—We could use Virka —Selena proposed.

—She only moves if he allows it.

—Then it will be a double problem.

—Yes.

Both knew the line between strategy and betrayal was thin.

And neither intended to cross it.

But neither could stop.

—What if we just… show him the situation? —Helena said at last.

—What if he interprets it as manipulation?

—Then we'll face that when it comes.

Selena did not speak.

Because she did not like that phrase.

Because she knew that, if there was a crack that could not be sealed…

it was that of someone who had survived the world without owing it anything.

Helena projected a new diagram:

a possible intervention network based on untraceable figures.

At the center, without direct connection,

there was a nameless node.

Faceless.

Selena looked at it.

—If he enters, he will move in his own way.

He will not answer reports.

He will not give results.

—I know.

—And if he decides this isn't worth it…

—Then we'll be left alone.

But the attempt will have been real.

Both knew that was the only thing they could allow themselves.

Doubt.

Not error.

Attempt.

Not mandate.

And in the middle of that room full of screens and broken futures…

both remained in silence.

Because sometimes the greatest risk is not failure.

But trying to convince someone who has already decided never to obey.

The air in the dojo did not smell of incense nor of ancient wood.

It smelled of controlled earth.

Of restrained stone.

Of will hardened through generations.

The slabs covering the floor did not creak.

They kept quiet.

As everything in the Temple of the Thousand Sealed Promises,

silence was not the absence of sound.

It was a technique.

There she was.

Virka.

Not as a lurking shadow, nor as an unleashed beast.

But as a presence impossible to contain.

Her body —pure, wild, perfect—

now covered by a dojo tunic, adapted to her figure as if the garment had feared her before touching her.

The white of war wrapped her firm chest,

the sealed gray curved over her waist in an inhuman way,

and the deep blue embedded itself into the seams like marks destined for others…

but now

hers.

She wore nothing beneath.

Not out of provocation,

but because no fabric was worthy of touching her skin.

More than that

trained to contain power.

The silver threads drew ancient seals along her back and sides,

but none sealed her essence.

They only warned of it.

Kael Ardom, a few steps away,

did not speak.

He observed her.

His eyes —deep blue, the same as the edges of the tunic—

did not desire her.

They analyzed her.

As one analyzes a storm.

—You are holding back —he said at last, without harshness or judgment.

—I have not lost myself yet —Virka replied.

Her voice did not tremble.

But her breathing… was beginning to.

The Martial Art of the Beast of Destruction (Forbidden)

was not learned.

It was survived.

And she,

though born for destruction,

was still too aware.

—To destroy without cause is not strength —Kael said, without moving—.

It is hunger.

—I do not destroy out of hunger —Virka murmured—.

I destroy by design.

Her fingers, wrapped in ancient bandages,

closed with violence.

A ring of energy crackled in the air, neither aura nor qi.

It was only the tension of her flesh on the verge of becoming something else.

Then she felt it.

A heartbeat.

Not hers.

Nor Kael's.

Sebastián's.

The mark on her chest,

that fragment shared with him,

burned as if it were part of a greater core.

It emitted no sound.

It did not bleed.

But it rose within her like an unspoken command.

Kael noticed.

—Do you feel pressure?

—I feel advance.

—Yours?

—No…

—his.

Kael did not ask further.

Because he knew what that meant.

Sebastián was approaching.

Not physically.

Not with words.

But with the kind of presence that reconfigures those not yet ready to reach it.

—Then master yourself —Kael said.

Virka closed her eyes.

The dojo disappeared.

The floor.

The tunic.

Even the master's voice.

Only she remained…

and the wound she shared with someone who refused to be sealed by the world.

Her back arched,

not from pain,

but from acceptance.

A contained roar crossed her throat, without leaving.

And in that instant,

the forbidden technique began to take real form.

Not as an explosion.

Not as madness.

But as truth.

Because if Sebastián's life was a path of strength without rest,

hers would be a dark promise:

to destroy only when nothing else could be saved.

Kael understood it.

And he said nothing.

Because that moment,

with all its weight,

did not need a master.

Only a witness.

There was no sound.

No wind.

No weight.

Only darkness. One that did not come from outside, but from within.

One not to be feared… but remembered.

Virka did not move a muscle.

Seated upon the sacred stone of the Temple of the Thousand Sealed Promises,

the dojo tunic —white of war, sealed gray, deep blue— wrapped her figure as if it did not belong to the physical world.

Her eyes were closed.

Her body, still.

But within her…

everything trembled.

It was not meditation.

It was not contemplation.

It was descent.

The Martial Art of the Beast of Destruction was not learned:

it was accepted.

Each technique was a sealed cage.

Each beast, a shaped condemnation.

And she, who was already a monster before knowing these names,

began to open the doors.

First came the fang.

She did not see it.

She felt it pierce her chest from within, as if her own heart tried to tear itself out in a claw.

There was no blood.

But there was memory of the rending.

Then, the stride.

The ground shattered in her mind.

Not from the weight of her body…

but from the memory of all the steps she had once crushed into flesh and bone.

The next was an embrace.

But not of love.

Of claw.

The technique of rending did not show her the beast.

It showed her herself, when she tore lives apart with bare hands, not knowing why she did it.

One after another, the techniques did not present themselves as instructions.

They revealed themselves as memories.

As if she had already used them before.

As if this forbidden art was not a teaching…

but an echo reawakening within her flesh.

And in the midst of it all,

when the pressure of the broken neck made her own nape crack without moving it,

when the inner jaws suffocated her from within,

when the empty core exploded inside her abdomen as if Sebastián were calling her without words…

…Virka did not scream.

She did not cry.

She did not ask for help.

She only endured.

Not out of pride.

Nor out of strength.

But because she knew this was part of her.

Born without past, without mother, without true name.

Made of instinct, hunger, and protection.

Everything the forbidden art tried to teach her…

she already was.

Only now she had to order it,

direct it,

tame it without denying it.

The last beasts manifested without warning.

A living column that strangled her from the back.

A mouthless silhouette that stepped on her soul into silence.

A final roar that did not sound, but tore apart the deepest fibers of her consciousness.

And when the Howler of the Abyss emerged from her chest…

Virka did not fall.

Nor did she rise.

She only opened her eyes.

And in that red gaze, without pupil,

there was no rage,

no fear,

no confusion.

Only acceptance.

Kael Ardom watched her from afar.

Standing. Arms crossed. Sacred silence.

Narka, at his side, spoke no word.

But his golden eyes —ancient as the beginning of the world— recognized her.

The beast no longer overflowed.

It was her.

And that… was the most terrifying thing of all.

Because now she could use it.

Not as a monster.

But as will.

And the world…

was still not ready for that decision.

The void has no color,

no sound,

no form.

It only remains.

There, where time does not run and flesh has no weight,

Virka floated —without floating—

absorbed in a no-place where each technique had been embodied,

where each beast had been herself.

Not imitated.

Not copied.

But absorbed into a single will…

hers.

The mental training had lasted hours outside,

but within her consciousness,

it was a frayed eternity.

And then, without a command, without a clear end…

She awoke.

ChatGPT dijo:

She did not open her eyes.

She let them return.

First came touch: the tempered floor of the dojo.

Then scent: incense of black stone,

mixed with ancient dust and living wood.

Then sound:

a silence that was no longer emptiness,

but containment.

Kael Ardom stood before her.

Upright.

Unmoving.

His tunic swayed without wind,

as if his aura still spoke while his mouth did not.

—I saw you in all the beasts —he said, without emotion—.

But none devoured you.

And that is more important than mastering them.

Virka did not answer yet.

The world was still rebuilding inside her,

and it was fragile still.

—I do not want you to feel stronger —Kael added—.

I want you to feel more weight.

He stepped closer.

Each step measured, serene.

Not as one who imposes,

but as one who supports.

—Because this technique… —he continued, stopping a meter away—

was not made to protect, nor even to liberate.

It was made by a man who loved so much…

that he could no longer contain his hate.

Virka lifted her face.

Her red eyes still burned.

Not with fury.

But with clarity.

—If you use it…

use it without vengeance.

Without pride.

Without guilt.

—Then what for? —she asked.

Her voice did not tremble.

It did not need to.

Kael lowered his gaze, barely.

—To exist… without denying yourself.

That is what this art demands.

The rest… is ornament.

A heavy shadow moved behind.

Narka.

The floor cracked with his step, but he did not interrupt.

Only when the tension grew lighter,

he spoke:

—The problem of a beast…

is not that it destroys.

It is that it does not know when it is no longer necessary to do so.

His voice was not grave.

It was deep.

As if it came from the bone of the world.

Virka nodded slowly.

She did not need to understand every word.

Only absorb them.

And then…

she felt it.

In her chest.

Exact.

Alive.

The mark.

The connection with Sebastián pulsed.

Not like a call.

Not like a scream.

But like a shared heartbeat.

Sebastián was far away.

Enclosed.

Silent.

But he was not absent.

Virka lowered her gaze to her own body:

the ceremonial tunics of the dojo fell over her like solid water.

Beneath them, her skin did not hide her form.

But it no longer defined her.

Because now…

her body was a tool.

And her will, the only law she respected.

She stood.

The aura did not envelop her.

She did not need it.

Narka stopped at her left.

Kael, at her right.

And she…

looked south.

Toward where she knew Sebastián cultivated.

Alone.

In darkness.

In his own way.

She did not smile.

She did not sigh.

But for the first time,

she did not feel that something was missing.

Because the distance between them

was no longer measured in steps…

but in purpose.

And hers…

had just been defined.

Darkness.

But not just any.

Not that of sleep.

Not that of night.

It was the inner darkness.

The one that appears when the body no longer hurts, because it has ceased to be relevant.

When the mind no longer fears, because it has been emptied down to the root.

That darkness.

There was Sebastián.

Sitting with his back straight, legs crossed, torso bare, breath contained.

His skin glowed in subtle intervals, as if the Qi lit and extinguished within him with a will of its own.

But it was not will.

It was Force.

The second level of the Dao that defined him was beginning to manifest.

Impositive Force.

Not like a shout.

But like a presence that, even in absolute silence, compelled the world to notice it.

Each inhalation did not fill his lungs:

it filled his muscles.

Each exhalation did not release tension:

it fractured the space centimeters from his skin, leaving invisible fissures that vibrated like crystals about to shatter.

The blows had not yet been thrown,

but the world was already recoiling.

The ground beneath him bore marks that did not come from movements…

but from contained intention.

The will of impact.

The promise that if he raised his fist, something —or someone— would cease to exist.

And yet, that was not all.

In his chest, it was not absolute red that glowed.

But a darker tone… like coagulated blood under obsidian.

It was the Void.

Not devouring.

Not wounding.

But reconstructing.

Reconstructive Void.

Around him floated fragments. Not physical.

Echoes of ancient techniques, memories of fire, of wind, of poison.

Everything he had received in combat, in suffering, in death…

now swirled around his spiritual core, as if waiting to be returned to the world in new forms.

He did not imitate.

He decomposed.

He rewrote.

He did it without pride. Without name. Without affirmation.

Only out of necessity. His soul was broken in places no one would ever see.

But the Void does not heal with tenderness.

It restructures with harshness.

With precision.

With power.

And in the midst of it all…

his body trembled.

Not from weakness.

But because the mark on his chest, the one that bound him to Virka, activated.

It was not a voice.

It was not a thought.

Only a pressure… as if his soul knew that she felt him, that she burned, that she advanced.

And then he understood.

She did not need him to become stronger.

And yet, he did not feel alone.

The mark pulsed.

As if in that exact moment… their inner steps coincided.

Without speaking.

Without touching.

Without even seeking each other.

The connection remained.

Purer.

More brutal.

Like two beasts separated by physical distance…

but united by the same internal roar.

Sebastián did not open his eyes.

Not yet.

It was close.

The second level of Force already recognized him.

The Void was beginning to shape what he once was.

And when both reached balance…

The door would open.

And the world… would tremble again.

But the world… did feel it.

From the outside, the cave was nothing more than a fracture between rocks hardened by centuries of wind. No animal approached. No breeze slipped through.

It was as if even nature itself had agreed not to disturb the one who slept within.

But he no longer slept.

Sebastián opened his eyes.

It was not a blink.

It was a clean cut through the darkness.

The air did not change, but the pressure in the surroundings warped.

As if the very mountains were holding their breath.

His torso remained bare, covered with lines of sweat that did not smell of exhaustion, but of determination boiled down to the last fiber.

His muscles were not swollen. They were defined by function.

Not as ornament. But as language.

And every fiber spoke a single word:

Dominion.

The second level of the Dao of Force was not a technique.

It was an irreversible decision.

Impositive Force.

The world did not yet look at him, but it already knew he was there.

Around him, the marks on stone had not been carved.

They were spontaneous fractures: the consequence of having contained too much.

Each breath of Sebastián had been a latent threat.

Each exhalation, proof that it was not yet time to break everything.

Until now.

He used no technique.

No Qi.

No Void.

He simply stood.

And with that, the silence broke.

The rocks that sealed the entrance gave way without being touched.

They did not fly.

They did not shatter.

They simply… obeyed.

The pure physical force of Sebastián, in synchrony with his Dao, no longer needed to move to manifest itself.

Mere existence was enough for the environment to understand that he decided the rules. He took a step.

And the night… bent.

The sky did not clear.

But the clouds retreated slightly, as if the very air feared to eclipse his presence.

He stepped into the world.

His hair, longer now, fell disordered over his shoulders.

His gaze, unshakable, did not search for enemies.

It searched for direction.

And he found it.

Because in his chest, right where the mark shared with Virka burned…

something pulsed.

It was not a signal.

Nor a call.

Only the reflection of another living will.

Virka.

She too had awakened.

She too had finished her trial.

And he felt it.

Without emotion.

Without tenderness.

But with something more powerful: recognition.

Then he breathed deeply.

Not out of need.

But because the world needed to hear him breathe.

And with that inhalation…

the Qi within him reconfigured.

The inner energy, once stable, ascended in a spiral.

Not like fire.

But like an invisible crown forming over his Inverted Origin Core, Level 7 — Superior Channeler. Mid stage. Achieved.

The energy of his core was not stable.

It was violent, adaptable, injected with memories of combat, of death, of victory.

And at the same time, it was… at peace.

Because the Reconstructive Void was still there.

No longer as a wound.

But as an inner structure that organized chaos. The balance was achieved.

Force that imposes.

Void that reconstructs.

Qi that rises.

He did not need to celebrate.

Only to advance.

He turned his face south.

He knew where she was.

Not by sight.

Nor by map.

But because the mark on his chest…

beat in rhythm with another.

Virka.

Narka.

They did not call him.

But he was already on his way.

Without farewells.

Without sealing the cave.

Without speaking a single word.

Because what is mastered in silence…

is proven with steps.

And every step he would take from this night onward…

would no longer be of one who seeks his strength.

But of one who already possesses it… and decides what to do with it.

The night did not stop him.

Because he was no longer part of the world that feared the darkness.

He had been born of a deeper one.

Sebastián moved.

But not like one who runs.

Nor even one who escapes.

He advanced like a weight that needs no momentum.

With every step, the ground behind him was marked by pressures that did not break, but warned.

As if his very existence left a signature the planet could not ignore. His speed was brutal.

Not explosive.

Sustained.

Between 500 and 550 km/h, depending on the terrain, the wind… or his inner decision.

Because nothing outside him set the rhythm.

The mountains passed at his side as if retreating.

The trees did not sway: they were pushed aside without being touched.

The night insects ceased their sounds after his passing.

And yet… he did not seem to run.

His torso remained bare, hardened by training.

Every muscle tense, but not uncontrolled.

His feet —calloused, unprotected, unwavering— struck stone, earth, mud…

as if the whole world were his dojo.

There was no doubt in his gaze.

Only direction.

Because the bond in his chest did not guide with words, nor routes, nor spiritual signs.

It pulsed.

Each time the mark burned a little more, he corrected his trajectory.

He did not think.

He responded.

Virka.

She was not calling him.

She did not need him.

But that was what moved him.

Because for the first time…

his strength was not only for himself.

The northern mountains seemed to retreat.

The cliffs did not block him.

The cracks, the branches, the uneven ground…

none of it mattered.

He did not evade.

He simply passed through.

The body that now commanded the second level of the Dao of Force required no precaution.

Because his will was his balance,

and his instinct, the only compass he accepted. The shadows stretched.

Not because the world turned,

but because something deeper was approaching.

A presence that no longer hid.

That did not need to be seen.

Only recognized.

The clothing he still wore —only dark trousers, reinforced at the seams by his training— swayed faintly,

not from the wind,

but from the friction his bodily energy left behind with each movement.

He did not use Qi.

He did not release aura.

He did not call upon the Void.

Yet both followed him.

As if they were tamed beasts.

The Reconstructive Void emitted no sound.

But it reshaped the environment in his wake: small details, fragments of energy vibrating in the air behind him,

as if reality itself doubted its own structure after containing him.

And Impositive Force…

did not need to manifest.

His existence alone was enough for everything around him to know it should not stand in his way.

Then, he saw it.

The Temple.

Not from afar.

But from the soul.

Because the Temple of the Thousand Sealed Promises

is not seen with the eyes.

It is perceived when one has become part of a promise impossible to break.

He reduced his speed.

Not out of respect.

But because the Temple does not demand swiftness.

It demands awareness.

Each step he took upon the outer slabs echoed in the bones of the earth. He did not activate sensors.

He did not announce his arrival.

But Kael already knew.

Narka already felt it.

And Virka… was already waiting.

Sebastián did not raise his voice.

Nor did his eyes, darker still beneath the moonless sky, search for anyone.

He only stopped at the center of the sacred courtyard, where training leaves no marks on the ground…

but on the memory of the space.

The bond in his chest burned.

Not with pain.

With truth.

Because now, at last…

both —he and Virka—

were ready.

Not for reunion.

Not for comfort.

But for the next step.

One that could only be taken…

when two independent forces

no longer needed to speak to understand they stood on the same side of the abyss.

They did not announce themselves.

There were no words.

No ritual.

No greeting.

Only a gaze.

Sebastián and Virka.

Face to face.

At last.

She was no longer shadow.

Nor promise.

Nor contained weapon.

She was a storm tamed by herself.

And he…

was no longer the boy of the broken world.

Nor the emperor of Draila.

Nor the body in formation. He was the fist that did not need to close to be feared.

The bond in their chests pulsed.

Not as guidance.

As response.

And in that instant…

the whole world could have ceased to exist.

Sebastián did not hesitate.

Did not ask.

Did not restrain.

He advanced.

Virka did not wait.

Because it was no longer waiting.

It was decision.

And when their bodies met,

when their chests brushed with the burning mark between them…

the kiss was not tender.

It was devastating.

Their mouths sought each other with the urgency of those who have contained too much.

Not like lovers in banal tales.

But like beasts who finally recognize each other after surviving the world.

Their lips clashed as if pain were part of desire.

Virka's hands dug into Sebastián's scarred back,

and his wrapped around her waist with brutal strength,

as if every muscle wanted to memorize her form without soft touch.

There was no moan.

No promises.

Only the wet, raw sound of two existences that no longer denied each other.

In the distance, in sacred silence:

Narka watched.

His gaze —golden, ancient, as deep as primordial stone— did not blink.

Did not judge.

Only bore witness.

Because he knew that beasts, even the purest,

need to find each other without human rules. Kael Ardom remained at their side.

Unmoving.

Serene.

His tunic swaying without wind.

He did not interrupt.

Nor did he smile.

He only understood.

Because though the Art of the Guardian teaches to protect,

and not to unleash passions…

Kael knew that some passions… also protect.

When the kiss ended,

there were no words.

Only a final pressure of forehead against forehead.

A shared breath.

A silent decision.

Sebastián spoke first.

—I am ready.

Virka did not answer with voice.

Her gaze —red, pupil-less— confirmed it.

Both knew what it meant:

the next abyss could already be opened.

Kael turned.

—Inside —he ordered, without harshness—.

The words that must be born… will rise from the stone.

Narka walked.

His steps made the ground crack,

not from force,

but from accumulated history.

And the group entered.

Not as a team.

Nor as a family.

But as witnesses to the weight of what was about to come.

The Temple needed no announcement.

The doors opened without touch.

The slabs vibrated in recognition.

And the inner shadows…

did not withdraw.

Because they knew that now,

at last,

entered those who could walk among them without fear.

The dojo did not speak.

But it listened.

The inner hall had no adornments.

Only stone, black wood, and emptiness.

A silence that was not discomfort,

but refuge.

Kael served the tea with steady hands.

The teapot was ancient, without symbols, without colors.

Only contained warmth.

Like him.

Sebastián looked at him for the first time with clarity.

Not as an enemy,

nor as a master.

But as someone who held a will…

without needing to prove it.

Kael extended a cup without speaking.

Sebastián accepted it.

His fingers, hardened by a thousand battles,

did not tremble at the contact with the hot ceramic.

Then, the master spoke.

—Kael Ardom.

Master of the Temple. Guardian of the First Oath.

His voice was firm, not heavy.

Serene. Immune to doubt.

Sebastián did not lower his head.

Nor did he raise it.

—Sebastián.

Born in another world. Forged in the abyss.

Follower of Force… and of Void.

Kael did not smile.

But his eyes recognized him.

—I saw you coming.

Before you arrived.

—I know —Sebastián replied—.

The world bends when someone like that waits…

And does not fear.

They did not shake hands.

They did not need to.

Virka, in silence, had already settled.

Seated across Sebastián's legs,

her back against his chest,

as if that place were hers by nature.

Not as possession.

But as instinct.

He did not hold her.

But neither did he push her away.

His arm encircled her waist with brutal softness,

and his hand rested on her thigh,

not with desire,

but with the certainty of one who no longer needs to ask permission.

Kael did not avert his gaze.

It was not modesty.

It was understanding.

Narka, a few meters away, drank his tea slowly.

Not for flavor.

But because each sip was a memory he chose to relive.

The conversation began without transition.

—The Art broke me —Virka said at last.

—And now? —Kael asked.

She leaned her head against Sebastián's neck.

—Now I rebuild myself… with my own claws.

Narka spoke, his voice like an echo of damp stone:

—True beasts are not born of rage.

But of pain… that learned not to beg.

Sebastián drank.

The tea burned.

But not more than his veins.

—I did not become strong by choice —he said—.

But because everything I loved died.

And afterward… I did not die.

Kael observed him.

—The Force that asks no permission.

And the Void that needs no forgiveness.

—Yes —Sebastián replied—.

Both dwell within me.

But they do not control me.

Virka looked up at him.

Her red eyes, steady, serene.

—Before, I wanted to protect you.

Now… I only want to walk at your side.

—Do not follow me —Sebastián said—.

Because I do not want to lead you either.

Only… that we be where the other falls.

Kael closed his eyes for a moment.

As if that phrase had carried him to another time.

—That… is harder than any promise.

And that is why… it is more true.

Narka nodded.

—The promise not to protect.

But to endure together.

The tea was ending.

But the silence that remained…

was the true sustenance.

In that hall, where oaths had been forged and forbidden arts sealed,

four figures shared a moment the world would never understand.

A moment without strategy.

Without threat.

Without duty.

Only shared existence.

As if, at last,

pain, destruction, strength, and wisdom…

could sit to drink tea.

______________________________________

END OF CHAPTER 28