On the Path of Eternal Strength.

The last drop of tea evaporated between his fingers.

But the weight of what had been shared…

did not disappear.

Kael placed the cup on the stone without a sound.

He rose with the calm of one who had lived centuries in each step.

—There are quarters prepared —he said, as if it were an invitation to rest, not to protocol—.

Each one has their space.

The temple does not watch. It only shelters.

Narka, without rising, barely lifted his gaze.

—I will stay here —he murmured—.

The night still breathes…

and this place knows how to keep silences that no longer exist in the world.

Kael nodded.

Not out of courtesy.

But because the decision was already valid before being spoken.

Virka was the first to rise.

The movement was dry, precise, without dramatization.

The robe adjusted to her body as if it remembered her shape.

But her eyes… did not separate from Sebastián.

Kael turned to them.

—North floor, east corridor.

Third door.

The stone smells of ancient fire…

you will like it.

There were no farewells.

Only footsteps.

Kael went toward the opposite wing of the temple,

crossing thresholds that no one else was allowed to touch.

Not as a guardian.

But as the living memory of the place.

Sebastián stood without urgency.

Virka slid to his side without a word.

They walked together.

And the silence between them was no longer tension.

It was prelude.

The corridor received them without resistance.

The torches did not burn: they vibrated, as if recognizing who was passing.

And when they reached the room…

the door opened without being touched.

Not because the temple obeyed them.

But because it did not dare to tell them no.

The interior held no luxury.

Only polished stone.

An uncarved bed.

A lit brazier.

And the dense sensation… of being in a place where no one could interrupt them.

Sebastián entered first.

Virka closed the door with a soft movement.

But not like one who cares for the sound.

Rather like one who locks the world outside.

The door had not fully closed.

Virka was already pushing him against the wall.

Not like a woman who seduces.

But like a beast that had smelled her home, her prey, her everything…

and no longer intended to yield.

Sebastián did not step back.

He did not have to.

The wall trembled behind his bare back,

but it was the only thing that offered resistance.

Virka devoured him with her eyes.

And then, with her mouth.

The first kiss was not sensual.

It was a threat sealed with tongue.

Her hand slid up his chest,

tracing the tense relief of muscles that do not exist to be admired,

but to destroy or to sustain.

The bandages on her own fists unraveled as she tore through the robe.

The dojo robe.

The one that had been a symbol of restraint, of training, of legacy.

Now it was nothing but an obstacle.

And it was torn apart.

Not with rage.

With hunger.

Virka was left naked,

but not exposed.

Claimed.

The faint light of the brazier lit her in profile.

White skin.

Subtle muscles, marked without excess.

Curves as perfect as a blade.

And those red, pupil-less eyes…

looking at him as if the world no longer deserved to exist outside that room.

Sebastián growled.

It was not a human sound.

It was the inner roar of someone who could no longer contain himself.

His hands —calloused, hardened, precise—

went straight to the only obstacle between him and her.

Her trousers.

He did not lower them.

He tore them off.

The seams gave way with the scream of fabric.

And when they fell to the floor,

all that was skin met.

She on top.

He beneath.

But there was no dominance.

Only will collapsing upon itself.

The bed was not a witness.

It was an impact field.

The futon creaked.

But not from weight.

From the tension that builds when two bodies do not want to merge,

but to break in order to belong.

Their mouths sought each other with desperation.

Tongues that did not caress,

they attacked.

Teeth that did not bite for play,

but for impulse.

Virka's thighs clung to Sebastián's hips as if they were a part of him.

And her nails, as they sank into his back,

did not ask if it hurt.

Sebastián responded by pushing with the strength of one who had trained every cell of his body to resist…

and now chose not to.

The air between them grew dense.

Not from temperature.

But from charge.

Because what they were doing was not sex.

It was confirmation.

That they belonged to each other.

That they could destroy one another.

And still, keep desiring everything.

The movements were erratic.

Brutal.

Nothing repeated.

No rhythm held.

Only the constant strike of mutual desire,

advancing like a technique without a name,

like a wild Dao written in bodies instead of words.

Virka arched.

Not to show herself.

But because her own body demanded more.

Sebastián took her by the hips.

Not with tenderness.

With precision.

With force.

And when their heartbeats could no longer be told apart,

when sweat mixed with the traces of blood from her nails,

when the spiritual mark on their chests burned as if something greater had been awakened…

Then they stopped.

Only for a second.

Only for a breath.

And they looked at each other.

Face against face.

Eye against eye.

They did not speak.

Because everything had already been said.

Everything that had been pain,

emptiness,

contained strength,

technique,

memory,

had exploded between them.

And now…

only crossed bodies remained.

Satiated souls.

And a bond that no longer needed to beat…

because it was alive in the flesh.

They did not separate.

Sweat still ran across their interlaced bodies,

but neither retreated.

Virka's breath crashed against Sebastián's clavicle,

panting, disordered, voracious.

Her thighs, still tense, trembled…

not from exhaustion.

But from hunger.

And he…

was still there.

Whole.

Burning.

His hands traced her back with the precision of a hunter who knows every vertebra,

every curve of muscle hardened by combat.

But this time…

he did not hold her.

He claimed her.

His fingers locked around her waist with brutal strength.

And without words, without warning, without pause…

he took her again.

Virka arched her body as if the world were shattering beneath her spine.

Her nails, already marked with blood, sought his shoulders to sink again,

while her mouth opened in a scream that never came forth.

Because everything was contained.

She was contained.

Contained the beast.

Contained the woman who no longer separates from instinct.

Sebastián was not tender.

His movements were exact, dry, direct.

A charge of will

turned into a clash of flesh.

Virka accepted it all.

Every new thrust of body.

Every pull of hair.

Every clash of hip.

As if instead of hurting her… it awakened her.

Her hips rose to meet him,

again and again,

deeper,

wilder,

further from anything human.

They did not scream.

They did not speak.

They only moved.

And in that movement…

they recognized each other.

Sebastián growled,

lower this time,

as if what he felt could not escape through his throat,

only through his body.

Virka leaned back,

placing her hands on the cold stone of the futon,

leaving her chest exposed,

her thighs open,

her soul… defenseless.

And still, she asked for nothing.

She only held him with her eyes.

And challenged him to go on.

Sebastián obeyed.

Not an order.

An impulse.

A need to sink deeper.

Further in.

Deeper down.

More real.

The world ceased to exist.

There was no dojo.

Neither brazier.

Nor stone.

Only skin.

Tension.

And the constant strike of two forces that could no longer let go.

Virka clung to him as if life escaped her with every jolt.

And at the same time, as if in every thrust…

she found herself again.

And then,

when everything seemed to burn beyond the limit…

Their spiritual marks shone.

Not as a sign.

But as a warning.

The connection vibrated in their chests in unison.

And for an instant,

they were not two.

They were one.

Not body over body.

But impulse against impulse.

Dao against Dao.

Darkness against Darkness.

And neither retreated.

Because this was not pleasure.

Nor climax.

It was belonging.

Pure.

Animal.

Non-negotiable.

And the world…

if it still existed outside,

did not matter.

The heat did not fall.

It rose.

But not in the skin.

Nor in the muscles.

It was in the mark.

The spiritual bond between them,

that shared burn in the chest,

burst as if something deeper had been awakened.

Virka tensed.

Not from pain.

From response.

Her pupils dilated —though she had none—

and her breathing, already ragged,

broke into a moan that was not human.

It was more animal than before.

More woman than beast.

And more beast than any human female could endure.

Her body trembled.

Not from weakness,

but because something inside her was beginning.

—Sebastián… —she whispered between broken gasps—

Something… is…

The phrase died.

Not from doubt.

But because her body was already screaming it.

Her hips moved on their own.

Stronger.

Deeper.

More urgent.

Sebastián felt the change.

He needed no words.

The mark on his chest burned like sealed lava.

Virka looked at him with eyes that no longer begged.

They claimed.

—I want your child —she gasped, with a torn voice—.

Not later.

Now.

Her nails bled against his back.

Her womb sought him as if the need to conceive

were a technique,

a weapon,

a part of her very essence.

—Look at me —she said, almost growling—.

I am not a woman asking for love.

I am a beast in heat for you.

I want you to mark me from within.

For your child to begin tonight.

For this union to transcend us.

Sebastián held her tighter.

He flipped her without warning.

Her body crashed against the futon with perfect brutality.

He did not say yes.

He smiled.

A dark curve.

Savage.

The kind that holds no tenderness,

only the acceptance that desire is so strong

that not even the body will be able to contain it.

His hands traced her back with brutal devotion.

Not like one who caresses,

but like one preparing to leave memory in the flesh.

—Then you will have it —he whispered in her ear,

with a broken,

hoarse voice,

more beast than human.

—But not for love.

Not for ritual.

But because my blood needs to live in you.

And yours in me.

Virka moaned.

Not from pleasure.

But because that phrase was like being invaded from within.

The mark shone again.

This time deeper,

redder,

as if its center had descended into her womb.

And their bodies began to move again.

More savage.

More violent.

But not without meaning.

Each thrust was a seal.

Each gasp, a decision.

Each spasm, a brutal promise that needed no words.

What they were doing was no longer sex.

It was the beginning of something history will not know how to tell.

But the world…

will feel.

Dawn did not find them asleep.

It found them still moving.

Still burning.

Still claiming each other.

The stone beneath the futon had warmed from friction.

Not from fire.

From bodies.

From desire turned necessity.

From instinct unleashed without interruption.

Virka no longer panted.

She roared in silence.

Each climax left her emptier,

more open,

hungrier for him.

And Sebastián,

with sweat mixed with the dried blood on their backs,

remained inside her,

as if that night were not an event…

but a ritual.

Sex ceased to be physical.

It became reverence without shame.

She received him with her body open,

her legs trembling,

her neck stretched as if offering her life without surrender.

He took her with arms tense,

eyes bloodshot with desire,

teeth clenched…

struggling not to break her.

And yet, brushing that edge.

And the mark —that damned shared mark—

kept burning between them.

Not as an ornament.

But as an activator.

Each time it shone,

Virka's body convulsed as if something in her womb

forced her to cry out,

to scream at him,

to beg him in the midst of ragged gasps:

—Give it to me!

Make it real!

I want it to live in me.

And Sebastián answered without words.

Only with movement.

More brutal.

Deeper.

More resolute.

When the sun began to slip through the cracks of the dojo,

neither was exhausted.

They were transformed.

Their bodies collapsed together.

He above.

She beneath.

But both equal.

Both determined.

Their hearts still pounded.

Not from exhaustion.

But because the soul…

had not yet surrendered.

And when the sweat cooled,

when the tension ceased to scream,

they spoke.

She was the first.

Still with skin marked.

Still with legs trembling.

Still with her face pressed against his chest,

as if that place were hers even after the end.

—If it is to come —she whispered—

I want it not to be born in darkness.

Sebastián lowered his gaze.

His face was not tender.

It was…

still.

Serene.

Firm.

—Draila was death.

Pain.

Need.

—I know.

—But if here… —he said, brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers—

if here something more than strength can be born…

Virka lifted her gaze.

—Then let it come.

But not to be a weapon.

Nor an excuse.

Only to prove that even beasts

can choose to create.

He nodded.

Only once.

But it was enough.

And in that silent room,

where the stone still smelled of living flesh,

there was no shame left.

No modesty left.

Only two bodies fused,

two stories sealed,

and a possibility beating in the depth of the womb…

like a promise

that at last

does not smell of blood.

The air of the room had changed.

It did not smell of sex.

Not even of sweat.

It smelled of decision.

Virka rose without a word,

her skin still glistening with traces of residual energy,

but her eyes…

were already fixed on the world awaiting them outside.

Sebastián remained seated,

his body leaning forward,

forearms on his thighs, as if he were still measuring

how much of himself he had given.

She stretched her arms upward.

Every muscle stood out.

Every curve tensed as if her body were demanding another battle,

but this time… without violence.

—Do you have something to cover me? —she asked without shame.

—Or I'll go out like this —she added, with a broken smile,

loaded with provocation.

Instinctive.

Lethal.

Sebastián did not answer with words.

He stood.

The moment he rose,

the dormant aura beneath his skin seemed to awaken again.

Not with violence.

With gravity.

He searched within his dimensional ring.

And there it was.

The black combat shirt.

The long, reinforced trench coat from Draila.

His hands did not tremble as he offered it to her.

But his eyes did measure her.

From head to toe.

As if calculating how much fabric was enough

so the world would not see what belonged only to him.

—Put it on —he said at last—.

Not for modesty.

But because I don't want anyone else to see what is mine.

Virka looked at him.

First with surprise.

Then with fire.

She took the shirt.

Smelled it before putting it on.

Not as a fetish.

But as one who memorizes territory.

She put it on without hurry.

The long sleeves covered her down to the hands.

The hem reached mid-thigh, like an improvised dress,

but the fabric hung with the shape of one that had embraced a body hardened by war.

Then, the trench coat.

Heavy. Dark. Silent.

Virka wrapped herself in it with a single movement.

The cloth fell down her back like a river of shadow.

And when she lifted her gaze,

the smile on her lips was no longer seduction.

It was shared possession.

—Now yes —she said, in a low tone—.

This way I can go out without killing anyone who looks at me wrong.

Sebastián raised a brow.

He said nothing.

But the gesture on his face was clear:

"We would both do it."

He put on his trousers —still stained, still tight.

Fastened his boots.

He did not seek to cover his torso.

He had nothing to hide.

The room's door opened without being touched.

Not because it obeyed.

But because the temple felt the night had ended.

The corridor was silent.

But a different silence.

It was not restraint.

It was respect.

The shadows let them pass.

The stone did not creak.

And when they stepped into the central courtyard,

Narka was already waiting for them.

Seated at the edge of the pond,

with golden eyes gazing at the reflection of the sky.

He did not ask.

He did not greet.

He only recognized them.

Virka walked at his side.

The trench coat swayed without wind.

Her steps were soft,

yet each one sounded as if the ground accepted her.

Sebastián followed behind.

Not as a shadow.

But as a living wall.

And for the first time since Draila…

the world did not hurt.

There was body.

There was mark.

There was path.

And though the child did not yet exist,

the will to create it was already sealed.

Not as destiny.

Nor as accident.

As decision.

The sun barely touched the edge of the dojo's tiles.

It was a dawn without urgency.

Without glory.

Only existence stretched over ancient stone.

Narka lifted his gaze.

His shell breathed as if it contained mountains.

Golden eyes sought Sebastián,

like one who does not call… yet is always heard.

Kael appeared soon after.

Silent.

His steps made no sound, yet the dry petals beneath them

stilled.

As if even nature granted him a pause.

He looked at Virka with a calm graver than judgment.

—Come —he said.

And she followed without question.

Sebastián needed no words.

He only walked beside Narka,

as if the rhythm of both

was already part of something older than language.

They walked along the edges of the temple.

There where the stone cracked with roots,

and the moss reminded that even ruins

outlive men.

Narka did not speak at once.

He only let the silence do its part.

Sebastián, his torso still bare,

walked as if each step tightened the world beneath his feet.

Not from pride.

But because his body could no longer lie.

—Your strength is growing too quickly —Narka said at last.

—And that, in this world, is not a gift.

It is a warning.

Sebastián looked at him, without lowering his head.

—For whom?

—For you.

The young man did not reply.

—The Dao of Force is not brutality without measure —the ancient one continued—.

But when it reaches the second level,

the world begins to see you as a threat.

Even when you do nothing.

—I did not come to please the world.

Narka nodded.

—And that is why you must be more careful than anyone.

Because if your body screams power,

the world will scream defense.

And if your Void cannot contain that…

you will become the weapon you never wanted to be.

Sebastián clenched his fists,

but not from anger.

From understanding.

—And what is the next step?

Narka halted his steps.

The air around him weighed like the smoke of centuries.

—Stop cultivating strength as if it were a collection.

And start using it as if every strike

were the last choice of your life.

—Technique?

—No.

Awareness.

Silence returned.

But this time…

it did not weigh.

It guided.

In the inner hall, the aroma of tea still floated though it had not yet boiled.

Kael lit the small flame with a single gesture.

The stone responded.

The water began to speak.

Virka sat before him.

Not with respect,

but with presence.

Sebastián's trench coat still covered her.

But her energy was bare.

—You have mastered an Art that accepts no disciples —Kael said—.

And yet, he accepted you.

That is not common.

—I am not common either —Virka replied, without arrogance.

Kael barely smiled.

—I know.

That is why I will not train you as I did the others.

Virka looked at him in silence.

—From now on —he continued— your training will not be to master more.

But so that you can decide when not to destroy.

The tea bubbled.

And that soft sound

accentuated the weight of his words.

—Do you want me to hold back?

—No.

I want you not to be ruled by the hunger of your power.

That Art… was created to kill.

But you used it to live.

And that changes everything.

Virka remained still.

Then she nodded,

but without lowering her gaze.

—And what do I do in the meantime?

Kael poured the tea into a small cup.

The liquid was dark, thick, without aroma.

—Drink.

And listen.

Because what comes cannot be defeated with claws.

It is defeated with identity.

Both masters finished their part.

But neither gave instructions.

Only pauses.

In the center of the temple, the day breathed.

And four figures stretched in opposite directions:

not as separate pieces.

But as lines of the same decision.

A beast learning to think.

A force learning to stop.

A master who trains without imposing.

A guardian who teaches without confining.

Because sometimes,

the longest war…

is the one fought before everything begins.

The conversations dissolved in the air.

As if what had been spoken could no longer rest upon the day.

As if now, what mattered,

could only be spoken from within.

Kael rose to his feet.

His hands gave no command.

But his presence changed.

From master… to guide.

—Virka —he said, without raising his voice—.

It is time.

She did not ask.

She only walked at his side.

Each step seemed quieter than the last,

as if the stone of the temple recognized that this path

was not for just anyone.

They crossed corridors that no longer smelled of incense or tea.

But of rust.

Of broken seals.

Of buried decisions.

And it was then that they saw them.

Sebastián and Narka waited beside the arch that led to the deepest level of the temple.

Not out of protocol.

Out of instinct.

Kael stopped when he saw them.

But he was not surprised.

—Are you going to follow us? —he asked.

Not as a challenge.

Nor as permission.

But as one who knows that certain things

are not meant to be done alone.

Narka nodded.

Without words.

As always.

Sebastián did as well.

But his gaze fell on Virka.

Not to stop her.

Nor to judge her.

Only to remind her who she was…

even when she might forget it down below.

The group descended.

The staircase was of living stone,

and each step seemed to breathe.

The walls were marked with symbols that no longer glowed,

but still hurt to look at.

That place…

was not for teaching.

It was for unearthing.

When they reached the end,

the air was colder.

But it was not the climate.

It was the ancient silence waiting behind the door.

Kael stopped.

Before them stood a gate of black stone,

without lock,

without handle.

Only a threshold that demanded presence to open.

—Only she and I will enter —Kael said.

—This place responds to the soul…

and it could break those who are not clear on who they are.

Narka did not object.

He already knew.

Neither did Sebastián.

But he did not step back.

Virka turned to him.

Her gaze was no longer provocative.

Nor savage.

Nor fierce.

It was his.

—Don't take long —he murmured.

She stepped closer.

Without saying a word.

And kissed him.

Not as farewell.

Nor as fragment.

She kissed him as one who leaves a promise tattooed in another's flesh.

As one who says:

"I will return.

But if I do not… let at least this kiss keep walking for me."

Sebastián did not hold her.

Did not stop her.

He only accepted her.

Kael placed a hand upon the stone.

The door opened without a creak.

It only exhaled.

And both, master and disciple, crossed the threshold.

Darkness swallowed them.

But not with hunger.

With memory.

And then the gate closed.

Slow.

Without judgment.

Without sound.

Sebastián watched it a few seconds longer.

Narka drew closer.

—This kind of training… has no form.

Only truth.

The young man nodded.

But he did not move.

Because even if he could no longer see her…

he still felt the mark burning in his chest.

And that was enough.

For now.

The door shut.

And with it, the weight of the decision was no longer shared.

It was hers.

Sebastián did not move at first.

His eyes remained fixed on the stone that now showed nothing.

But his senses, his mark, his flesh…

still felt.

Virka had not vanished.

She had only descended to a place

where no one else could follow her.

And that…

was something he understood all too well.

At his side, Narka rested upon his shoulder.

Small in size.

Immense in presence.

His golden eyes watched the threshold as if remembering

how many times the world had been split by similar choices.

Sebastián turned away.

His steps were firm, but not harsh.

They were not those of one leaving out of pain.

Nor of one fleeing out of pride.

They were the steps of one who had understood… that waiting is not standing still.

But not stopping.

He crossed the stone corridor that no longer held him back.

The temple, still heavy with stories,

did not cling to him.

Did not try to envelop him.

It let him go.

Because it knew that he… would return.

Outside, the sky still breathed with the last sighs of dawn.

But Sebastián did not lift his gaze.

He did not seek omens in the clouds,

nor comfort in the sun.

Only direction.

He did not need to change.

Nor adjust.

Nor pretend.

The scarred body, still marked by the remnants of intimate combat,

moved like a declaration:

"I am still the same.

But I am no longer in the same place."

The fabric hung loose.

The boots were the same.

His back… straighter.

Narka said no word.

But his silence was an affirmation:

—Do not stray.

But do not stop.

Sebastián left the temple behind without looking back.

Not because he did not care for what he left…

but because there was nothing to doubt.

Virka would grow down there.

And he too.

Only in another direction.

But for the same reason.

The mansion was still under construction.

The pillars stood bare.

The walls, half sealed.

But that did not matter.

Because he was not going to live there as a noble.

But to raise it with his story.

And Helena…

Selena…

would be waiting.

Not as friends.

Not as tools.

But as fragments of that world

that was also learning not to obey.

The sound of boots on dirt and loose stone announced his arrival before the structure appeared before his eyes.

The mansion was further along than the last time.

New pillars rose like fresh bones,

and the incomplete walls revealed the skeleton of a future that had yet to breathe.

There were no decorations, no banners, no symbols.

Only a raw shape, awaiting the will that would finish it.

Narka remained silent upon his shoulder,

watching with the calm of one who had seen thousands of constructions rise…

and fall.

Sebastián crossed the improvised gate, formed of poorly aligned planks.

His eyes swept the inner courtyard, searching for familiar figures.

Nothing.

Neither Helena's shadow,

nor Selena's distant perfume.

He kept walking.

The scaffolds creaked in the distance with the wind.

A hammer forgotten on the ground.

Traces of dried cement in abandoned buckets.

Everything seemed frozen, as if the work had inhaled… and chosen to hold its breath.

He reached the center of the construction.

There, upon a block of unplaced stone,

lay an object that did not belong to that place.

Too polished to be part of the work.

Too cold to have been born here.

It was rectangular, smooth, of a deep black that absorbed the light.

No visible markings.

No texture.

It smelled neither of metal nor of stone.

Nor of wood.

It did not breathe.

It did not vibrate.

It had no weight… and at the same time, it seemed heavier than his hands admitted.

Sebastián held it for a moment, turning it over.

He could not name it.

He had no memory of anything like it.

It was not a weapon, nor a tool.

But there was something…

a primitive certainty:

this was here for him.

Narka tilted his head, his golden eyes fixed on the object.

He said nothing,

but Sebastián felt that gaze was an echo of what he himself thought:

it is no coincidence.

He did not understand it.

Did not know what it did, nor what it was for.

But in his chest, the mark that bound him to Virka remained calm,

and instead, another sensation grew:

the same one he had felt before,

when Helena and Selena had watched him in silence,

as if they had already calculated his next step.

He stored the object in his belt,

hiding it beneath the loose fabric of his trousers.

Not because he wished to conceal it from others,

but because he knew he was not ready to show it.

He lifted his gaze.

The wind stirred the dust of the construction,

and for a moment, he thought he heard an echo of laughter.

They were not mocking.

Nor near.

Just… distant.

As if Helena and Selena were somewhere,

watching how he found what they had left behind.

Sebastián drew a deep breath.

There was no haste.

But there was purpose.

And that… was enough to remain.

For now.

There were no signs of Helena.

Nor of Selena.

Only the hollow echo of the construction.

Sebastián did not stay to guess where they might be.

He knew the temporary offices they used were not far.

He had seen them before,

and if he had learned anything,

it was that a trail is not followed… it is shortened.

He left the central courtyard and took the dirt road leading to the highway.

The cold morning air struck against his skin,

but he did not slow his pace.

Narka, always on his shoulder,

watched the horizon without a word,

as if he already knew what was going to happen.

The asphalt appeared before him,

long, straight, and as empty as a freshly sharpened blade.

He did not need to go far to see it:

a dark vehicle moving in his direction.

He knew that shape.

That metallic gleam.

That controlled roar of the engine.

It was Selena's.

He did not smile.

He did not signal.

He only walked to the center of the highway…

and stopped there.

The distance closed quickly.

The vehicle did not slow at once.

The headlights lit his figure,

but Sebastián did not move.

There was no threat in his posture,

but there was an absolute decision:

"you will stop."

A few meters away, the tires screeched.

The smell of burnt rubber cut through the air.

The vehicle stopped just in front of him,

its engine vibrating like a restrained beast.

The tinted window descended with a brief hum.

And there she was.

Selena looked at him from the driver's seat,

her expression cold, measured,

but with that dangerous spark that always seemed one step from igniting.

—If you wanted my attention… —she said, in a tone as soft as the edge of a needle—

you've already got it.

Sebastián tilted his head slightly.

He did not ask permission to approach.

He did not explain himself.

He simply walked to the passenger door and opened it,

as if the vehicle belonged to him.

Narka did not move from his shoulder,

his golden eyes shifting between them both,

measuring the tension as if it were actual weight.

Selena arched a brow,

but said nothing.

She only let him sit,

then shifted the gear.

The vehicle started again,

and in the silence that followed,

the world seemed reduced to three things:

the road,

the engine,

and the certainty that neither of them had planned to meet like this…

but both knew it was bound to happen.

The engine purred beneath the silence.

The highway stretched like an endless line of gray and dust.

Inside, the air was heavy,

but not from tension…

from something denser:

that sense that neither of them was in a hurry to break the silence.

It was Selena who spoke first.

—You weren't at the mansion.

You weren't on any of the routes I watch.

And now… —her gaze did not release him, not even when the wheel turned slightly to avoid a pothole—

…now you seem different.

Sebastián kept his eyes on the road.

He did not seek her gaze.

He did not need to.

—I left.

To sharpen what I am.

To discard what does not serve.

Selena's brow furrowed, barely.

—And did you find something that does?

—Myself —he replied, without pause—.

Cleaner.

Sharper.

On my own path… as always.

There was no immediate answer.

Only the sound of the engine and the slight shift of gears.

But Selena's eyes, still on the road ahead,

used the reflection of the glass to glance at him from the side.

The loose fabric covered little of his torso.

The dark skin, scarred and stretched over muscles without adornment,

was a map that spoke without asking permission.

It was not the body of a man who had lived in peace.

It was that of one who had fought every hour of his life

and was still standing.

In her mind, Selena registered every line,

every shadow on the skin,

every mark history had left.

Not as a fantasy,

but as one studies the edge of a blade:

recognizing its sharpness,

its weight,

and the price of keeping it.

She showed nothing on her face.

She did not change the tone of her voice.

When she spoke, it was as if she had seen nothing.

—Helena is at the mansion.

She'll want to know what you've "evolved" into.

The last word carried a slight inflection,

as if she wished to test him.

—I didn't come to prove anything —Sebastián said—.

I came to continue.

With what is mine… and with what matters to me.

Selena turned her gaze back to the road.

But the image of that body,

of that look that sought no permission,

was already stored.

Not as weakness…

but as data.

And in her world,

data like that is never wasted.

The engine kept marking the pulse of the journey,

when Sebastián broke the invisible thread that held the silence.

—At the construction site… I found something.

I don't know what it is.

His fingers moved to the waistband of his trousers,

and from there he drew out the dark object,

the one that did not breathe,

that had no weight… and at the same time carried all of it.

Selena barely lowered her gaze.

She didn't need to touch it to recognize it.

—A cellphone.

The word had no echo in Sebastián.

He held it for a moment, as if trying to find its meaning through touch alone.

—It's used to speak with whoever gave you their number —she added—.

Not with just anyone. Only with those who count.

—Number? —he asked, not with ignorance,

but as one who wants to know the name of the blade just handed to him.

Selena gave the slightest nod,

and as the highway stretched ahead of them,

she began releasing instructions as though sharpening a blade:

—Press here to turn it on.

Slide your finger to open it.

You write or you call… and if the other side answers, you listen.

If not, you wait.

But don't wait too long.

She said it like a warning, not a courtesy.

Sebastián turned the object in his hands,

his red eyes fixed on the dark screen,

as if measuring its worth beyond the surface.

—And if I don't want others to find me?

—Turn it off —she answered without pause—.

But if you turn it off, don't expect me or Helena to follow you.

On his shoulder, Narka said nothing.

His golden eyes fixed on the device as if seeing it for the first time,

though his silence suggested he understood more than he showed.

The explanation continued, brief and precise,

while the highway landscape slid by on either side.

Every word from Selena was measured;

there were no unnecessary gestures,

no warmth in her voice.

Only instructions.

But deep down, Sebastián could feel it:

she was giving him a tool that was not handed to just anyone.

He put it back into his belt,

covered by the fabric of his trousers.

—I'll use it if necessary.

Nothing more.

—I hope so —she said,

and her hands gripped the wheel firmly again,

as if that were the final word on the matter.

But in her mind,

the image of him holding the device,

with those hands marked by years of combat,

was added to an invisible list of details Selena never forgot.

The rest of the road slid by in silence.

The engine's roar dwindled,

and the highway gave way to a narrower path,

flanked by stone walls and old trees.

The air here smelled different:

less of asphalt, more of territory claimed.

The mansion appeared at the end of the path,

rising like a sentence.

It was not a place that opened to the visitor:

it was an immobile body that judged you before allowing you to cross.

Selena slowed and stopped the vehicle before the main stairs.

She said nothing.

Simply cut the engine and stepped out,

her footsteps firm upon the gravel.

Sebastián got out from the other side.

Narka, unmoving on his shoulder,

studied the tall windows and the dark gate with silent interest.

It was not the first time he had seen a place like this,

but it was the first he had done so in this context.

The front door opened before they could ring the bell.

Helena was there.

Her figure, as always,

projected a calm that did not come from softness,

but from absolute control.

Her eyes moved first to Selena,

then to Sebastián,

and in that instant the hall seemed to fill with something heavier than air.

—So you've returned —she said, without a shade of surprise.

It was a statement, not a question.

Sebastián held her gaze.

There was no need to explain anything.

Nor did she expect it.

Selena passed by his side without breaking the lock of eyes between them.

—We need to talk —she said, as if that phrase alone were enough to summon what was coming.

Helena stepped aside from the threshold.

Her gesture was minimal,

but enough to invite them in.

The light inside revealed a space that did not intend to be welcoming:

dark wood, polished metal,

and a silence that seemed to listen to every step.

Inside, the figures settled almost by instinct.

Selena leaned against the back of a chair,

Helena remained standing near the central table,

Sebastián took a seat with Narka still on his shoulder.

For a moment, no one spoke.

But it was not discomfort:

it was the inevitable prelude to a conversation

where nothing would be trivial.

Four gazes.

Four different stories.

And a point of convergence that was not in the walls,

but in what each had chosen to bring within.

The dim light of the hall seemed denser than air.

Helena did not sit; she remained standing,

like one who knows authority needs no throne to impose itself.

Her fingers touched a discreet control on the table,

and a projection rose into the air:

graphs, maps, lines climbing like peaks of a terrain growing where it should not.

—The cleansing advances —she said, her voice so firm it split the silence without shattering it—.

With Selena, we've reduced by thirty percent the networks that controlled the assigned sectors.

The numbers are not perfect… but they are better than anyone would have expected.

Selena made no comment.

She only crossed her arms,

her gaze fixed on the data floating between them,

as if confirming that every figure stood there by her will.

Helena continued.

—But it isn't enough.

What comes next is dirtier… and more dangerous.

With a gesture, she changed the projection.

Now, photographs of capsules, vials, and bottles filled the space.

The colors were bright, almost youthful,

but the dark background of the images betrayed their origin.

—Physical enhancement drugs —she said, without embellishment—.

They aren't simple stimulants.

They're formulas that force the body beyond its limits.

They're circulating in schools, institutes, even in sports academies.

They aren't designed to last… —her eyes hardened—

they're designed to break.

The images shifted:

youths collapsed,

others convulsing,

some with torn muscles and internal bleeding.

Nothing shown was indirect.

Every frame smelled of urgency.

—This is the next step of the cleansing —Helena went on—.

Not eliminating criminal cells…

but the root they're planting in the next generations.

She turned to Sebastián.

—You have a choice:

continue along the same line you've carried until now…

or take this front.

Helena's gaze was not a challenge.

It was a scale.

Weighing what he was now

against what he could become if he took that path.

Narka, on Sebastián's shoulder, spoke for the first time.

—This isn't a hunt like the others.

This is… pulling poisoned seeds from a field where deep roots already grow.

And doing it without breaking the soil.

Selena added, without softening the thought:

—If you take this, there will be no truce.

There is no way to cleanse something like this without the poison trying to touch you.

Sebastián listened to it all in silence.

His face did not move, but in his eyes —in that red tornado that never stopped—

something was calculating the span of the ground laid before him.

Helena did not press.

She simply let the images hang for a moment longer

before shutting them off.

—Decide before dawn.

If you are going to enter this phase, we cannot wait.

The room returned to shadow.

And in that silence,

each of them knew the choice ahead

was not only of strategy…

but of what kind of scars the next war would leave.

Sebastián did not answer at once.

His eyes remained closed,

as if Helena's words had lit an echo buried far away.

In that inner dimness,

there was no blood on his hands,

no weight of scars on his skin.

Only an uneven field,

a worn ball,

and laughter that now reached him as a murmur through years and dust.

He vaguely remembered small faces,

names he could no longer pronounce with certainty.

But what he remembered most…

was the feeling of not running from anything.

A single instant was enough for a shadow of a smile

to cross his hardened face.

Helena and Selena noticed.

They said nothing.

Perhaps because they knew certain gestures

cannot be interrupted without destroying what provokes them.

Sebastián opened his eyes.

The tornado in his irises spun again.

—If I accept —he said without detours—,

will I have to return to a school?

—Yes —Helena replied, without softening the word—.

A high-level school.

That is where most of these drugs circulate,

and where those who distribute them infiltrate.

You would not go as an ordinary student…

but your façade would have to be believable.

Sebastián held her gaze.

There was no displeasure in his features,

only calculation.

—I accept.

But with one condition.

Selena arched a brow.

—Say it.

—Virka comes with me.

Not because I need her to fight at my side…

but because I want her to see something different.

I want to show her that there are things beyond blood and death.

Things that… though not pure,

can open her eyes to another way of walking.

His voice carried no trace of sentimentality,

but the weight of his decision fell like iron upon the table.

—I don't want her to change —he added—.

I want her to remember who she is.

But also to know what was denied to me.

I want her to experience it… even if only once.

Helena studied him in silence.

Her gaze measured not only the viability of the proposal,

but the strength that lay behind that condition.

—If Virka enters, the dynamic will be different —she warned—.

We will not only operate on the objective…

we will also have to manage her presence.

Selena spoke next, slow, weighing every word:

—We can do it.

But it won't be a favor for you.

It will be because her presence could serve us…

and because, I admit, it is better that she be where you can see her

and not elsewhere where we cannot calculate her movements.

Sebastián nodded once.

The pact was marked,

not with ink,

but with the invisible weight of a promise he did not intend to break.

Helena was the first to speak after the agreement.

—It will not be now. —Her voice sought no negotiation—.

We are in November 2027.

The operation will begin when the new enrollments open.

By mid-January 2028… you will enter as one more.

And from within, we will dismantle the mechanism piece by piece.

Selena laced her fingers over the table.

—That gives us two months.

Enough to build your cover…

but not enough for the information we have to cool.

You'll have to be ready to move the moment we cross that door.

Sebastián gave the slightest nod.

—I'll go.

But not alone.

Virka will be with me.

Not to watch over me…

but to see something different from what the world has shown her.

I don't want her to change,

I want her to remember who she is.

But also to experience what was denied to me.

Even if only once.

Helena held his gaze, weighing the weight of that condition.

—Her role will be limited.

She cannot draw attention.

This is undercover.

There will be no room for impulses.

—She'll know when to move —Sebastián replied—.

And if she does,

it will be because I decide it.

No unnecessary noise.

No corpses that aren't required.

Selena was direct:

—We can integrate her.

Her presence could serve us…

and it's better to have her where you can see her

than loose on another front.

But remember… two months.

When January comes,

every step you take will have to be exact.

There will be no second chances.

Noon filtered through the tall windows,

painting the walls with a golden edge.

The meeting had not been long,

but it had left on the table more than anyone would speak aloud.

Sebastián rose first.

—There's nothing more to discuss —he said,

his voice dry, as if he had already closed the matter within himself—.

I'll return to the dojo.

I want to see how Virka progresses.

He took a step toward the door,

but Selena stopped him with a simple phrase:

—You're not planning to leave like that, are you?

Only then did he realize he was still bare-chested,

his scars exposed to the light like an indecent reading for anyone who did not know what they meant.

Helena, without moving from her place, spoke:

—Wait.

She left through a side hall and returned with a folded garment.

Black, of firm fabric,

his exact size.

—You'll always have something ready here —she said, handing it to him without ceremony—.

You never know when you'll have to appear… presentable.

Sebastián took the shirt without replying.

Narka descended from his shoulder,

landing with the measured weight of one who knows every movement.

He watched, still, as Sebastián dressed.

The fabric fitted across his torso,

covering the marks without erasing them.

When he finished buttoning,

Narka climbed back onto his shoulder,

as if that were the only place he belonged.

—Now then —Sebastián said,

crossing the door without looking back.

The sound of it closing was like a definitive seal.

The echo dissolved into the breadth of the hall, leaving a void Helena did not take long to fill with words.

—Now, with him gone, we can speak without the weight of his shadow on the table. —Her fingers traced over a document, but her eyes were fixed on Selena—.

We have the time window.

The human framework is already prepared to integrate them.

All that remains is to coordinate the entry into the school.

Sebastián… and Virka.

Selena crossed her legs, her gaze cold as if measuring an equation.

—Virka is not reliable.

Not for something that requires precision.

If she decides to act, she won't do it following a plan… and I have no interest in cleaning up the mess of such a creature.

Helena did not look away.

—Even so, she will go.

Because the strongest card we have… is him.

And he is not going to leave her behind.

If we want Sebastián, we accept Virka.

—Accepting her is one thing —Selena countered—.

Placing her in a controlled environment is another.

I haven't forgotten that, from the beginning, her only intention has been to protect him from us.

Especially from me.

Helena allowed a faint grimace, almost a smile without warmth.

—That's obvious.

It's jealousy, Selena.

Not because he belongs to her… but because you represent a threat.

You're the kind of woman any man with blood in his veins would notice, even without you trying.

Rich, dangerous, beautiful…

enough for a beast like her to measure you as an enemy.

Selena shifted her gaze for an instant, as if she wanted to push the conversation aside.

—I don't seek love.

I don't seek anyone.

Only my objectives.

Helena studied her as though she wanted to pierce her with words.

—For now.

But don't forget something…

Don't make my mistake.

Don't end up alone.

Solitude doesn't make you stronger,

it only leaves you with no one when the blade finally reaches you.

Selena did not reply.

Her silence was neither acceptance nor rejection.

It was the silence of someone who files the information away…

and decides later whether it's worth opening again.

The silence left after Helena's last words slid through the hall like a thread of black water.

Selena remained still, her fingers still resting on the folder, her eyes fixed on a point she did not need to see to know was there.

Inside, the phrase echoed.

Not like a bell… but like a dry echo, trapped in a sealed vault.

Don't end up alone.

It was absurd. Unnecessary.

And yet, the image clung to a corner of her mind like a shard of glass she could not pull from her skin. She did not show it.

Not an extra blink.

Not a change in the rhythm of her breathing.

But inside, the perfect order of her thoughts had felt a vibration, small… persistent.

—The logistics for enrollment are ready —she continued, her voice so steady it seemed as though nothing had happened—.

What remains is coordinating their simultaneous entry without drawing attention.

We'll use the transfer profile through internal recommendation.

Everything else is already covered.

Helena nodded, crossing one leg over the other.

—Perfect.

Remember the margin is weeks.

January will open the doors, and we must already be inside before anyone even suspects.

Selena turned a page, not letting the ink of the earlier words seep further into her memory.

It was what she always did:

bury the disturbance beneath layers of action.

It didn't show.

It couldn't show.

And yet, in some deep place, the crack remained there…

thin, invisible…

but alive.

__________________________________

END OF CHAPTER 29