On the Path of Eternal Strength.

The path to the dojo was not long.

But that day, every step seemed to drag an echo that did not belong to him.

Sebastián walked without haste, with Narka resting on his shoulder, as always… though nothing in his mind was still.

They did not speak at first; the silence between them was as solid as stone.

But Narka knew that rhythm in Sebastián's breathing. It was the beat before a decision that cannot be undone.

—So then… —Narka's deep, calm voice broke the haze—. You have chosen.

—Yes.

—For her or for you?

—For both.

—She did not ask to return to a place like that.

—No. But I did not ask for a childhood either… —Sebastián let the phrase hang, with no need to finish it—. I want her to see something different. To see that the world is not always death… even if it is not pure.

Narka closed his eyes for a moment, as if chewing on the words.

—If it is what you believe is right, so be it. But remember, Sebastián… even the experiences that seem "new" can have hidden claws.

The boy did not answer, but clenched his fists inside the pockets of his pants.

He knew he could not promise Virka a paradise. He could only promise her that, as long as he breathed, he would not leave her alone in hell.

In the distance, the silhouette of the dojo began to cut itself against the sky.

And for a second, while the cold November light caressed the stone of the place, Sebastián thought that this decision —sending Virka to a high-level school, and accompanying her in that mission— was not just another mission.

It was an experiment.

One that could save something… or destroy the little that remained intact.

Narka, sensing the tension in his shoulders, spoke one last time before they arrived:

—If you want her to learn, let her fall. But if you want her to survive… prepare to bleed beside her.

Sebastián did not smile.

He just kept walking.

Because for him, those two things… had always been the same.

The path to the dojo opened like a silent corridor among the trees, broken only by the crunch of the leaves under his boots. Narka rested on his shoulder, with the grave calm of one who knows the next instant may turn into a blade. Sebastián did not walk in haste, but neither in pause: he advanced like someone who had already decided, in silence, what to do and what to destroy.

The black wooden doors of the dojo were open. Inside, two unfamiliar figures broke the usual harmony of the place. They were not disciples, nor common visitors. Skin too smooth, an insane gleam in their eyes, stillness that was not calm… everything about them screamed a word Sebastián knew well: profane.

He entered without asking permission.

—This place is not for beings like you —his voice was not a shout, nor a warning, but a sentence.

The two men turned, studying him from head to toe, as if measuring something they could not fully see.

—We only want to speak with the master of this place —replied one, with a tone that tried to sound respectful, but carried the edge of arrogance.

Sebastián took another step, shortening the distance.

—Then you'd better leave. Beings like you are a nuisance here.

A heavy silence spilled over the hall. The surprise on their faces was not an act; they truly did not expect him to know what they were.

—How…? —murmured the second, with a trace of tension in his shoulders.

Sebastián tilted his head slightly, like someone looking at a dead animal that does not yet know it is dead.

—I've already killed others like you. And I can always recognize your presence. No matter where you try to hide… you smell the same.

Narka, on his shoulder, opened his golden eyes, fixed on the intruders, without uttering a word. The atmosphere tightened, as if the very air began to doubt who would leave that place alive. The silence of the dojo became a tangible pressure, as if every crack in the wood and every particle of dust were holding its breath. Sebastián did not move a muscle, but his very presence began to tilt the atmosphere toward an invisible blade.

The two profane stepped back, barely perceptible, as if instinct —that which precedes thought— had already understood they were facing something they should not confront in this world. Narka, motionless on his shoulder, slowly opened his golden eyes, watching in silence, as if already counting the heartbeats left before everything broke.

Sebastián exhaled… and the air changed. It was not a visible change at first, but the entire dojo seemed to lean toward him. From his skin, like a contained blaze, Qi began to spill forth: pure, intense, red, like an ocean of blood in boiling frenzy.

The Veil answered.

The world shattered without a single sound. The walls curved, the ceiling fractured like glass, and the light turned into a sickly clarity that did not come from any physical source. Outside, there was no longer a forest: only an impossible horizon, filled with twisted shadows walking over slanted planes, figures that did not belong to human logic. Every color turned colder, except for the red of Sebastián's Qi, which burned like a miniature sun.

The profane, aware of where they had been dragged, assumed combat stances. Their fingers traced ancient gestures, gathering energy in desperation, like men trying to assemble a weapon before the executioner entered the cell. But Sebastián was not going to allow them even a breath.

His left foot struck the wood with a force that made the entire plane vibrate. The echo was not sound, but a pulse that pierced through the Veil itself. His right arm began to tense, and every muscle fiber, every scar, every tendon burned under the pressure. The red Qi concentrated in his fist, first as a searing mist, then as a compact current, until it became a core of pure destruction.

The Veil trembled. Within the crimson blaze, a beast took form: a complete dragon, its scales made of condensed pressure, with incandescent eyes spinning in furious spirals. The creature was no illusion, but a physical extension of Sebastián's fist, a spirit of pure violence summoned for one single purpose.

—Absolute Dragon Fist —he said, and his voice was so grave and certain that even the Veil seemed to bow before those words.

He advanced. He did not run: each step was a command that forced space itself to shorten. The dragon roared and projected forward, tearing through the air with a claw of burning wind. The profane barely managed to interlace their defenses; a wall of pale energy rose before them, trembling, fragile.

The impact came like the end of a world. The dragon pierced the barrier and disintegrated it without slowing, striking both men in the chest with a force that deformed the ground beneath them. The roar of the blow resounded beyond the dojo, as if the entire Veil remembered it.

Their bodies flew backward, spinning like leaves in the middle of a gale, until they crashed against an invisible wall of that distorted plane. The reflected wood and stone of the dojo shuddered with the impact. Both collapsed to their knees, coughing up thick blood, ribs crushed and breath shattered. Not dead… but broken to their very core.

Sebastián kept his fist extended for a moment longer, the dragon dissolving into shreds of red light that faded upon contact with the air of the Veil. In his eyes there was no compassion nor rage: only the certainty that, if they stood again, he would strike them down without hesitation.

Narka tilted his head slightly, his grave voice emerging like an inevitable echo:

—Here… there are no second chances.

The Veil continued throbbing around them, as if it were waiting for Sebastián's final word to decide whether that place would become a battlefield or a tomb. ChatGPT said:

The Veil kept pulsing, like a sick heart that did not know whether to stop or to overflow. The air smelled of iron and damp earth, though there was neither spilled blood nor real ground there. The two profane, kneeling and gasping, tried to gather strength, but their bodies trembled as if every bone wished to surrender before they did.

Sebastián watched them in silence. The red Qi still burned across his skin, crawling in threads and pulses, illuminating each of his scars. He did not see standing enemies… he saw mistakes that still breathed. And that, to him, was unacceptable.

Narka did not speak. He did not need to. His weight upon Sebastián's shoulder was barely a shadow, and even so, he was witness that the decision had already been made.

The boy raised his right hand, fingers just slightly open, and the Qi expanded like a controlled blaze. There was no shout, no seal, no ceremonial word: only the silent command that obeyed his absolute will. In front of the profane, the air began to vibrate, distorting like boiling water.

In the span of a heartbeat, two pillars of solid Qi emerged from nothing, each as thick as a human torso, rising from the distorted ground of the Veil. Their surfaces were smooth, but they ended in sharp points like war lances, formed by energy so dense the air around them fractured into crimson sparks.

The profane looked up too late. Sebastián closed his fingers… and the pillars shot forward.

The impact was not an explosion, but a sound both wet and dry: flesh and bone giving way without resistance. The points pierced their chests with surgical precision, entering through the front and emerging from the back in a single movement.

But Sebastián did not intend only to pierce.

The Qi that formed the pillars began to overflow inward, branching like a twisted tree. Red filaments sprouted from the tips and spread through every vein, every nerve, every corner of their bodies. It was as if incandescent roots were growing inside them, breaking organs, disintegrating muscle, consuming bone.

The profane tried to scream, but the Qi stole their breath before any sound could escape. In less than a second, the branches had occupied their entire insides, and in the next… they exploded outward. Not in fire, not in blood: in a dark, fine dust that the Veil absorbed without leaving a trace.

There, where once there had been two bodies, only the distorted echo of their last postures remained, fading like smoke under an invisible wind.

Sebastián withdrew his hand. The Qi pillars dissolved, falling into fragments of red light that vanished before touching the ground. Without changing his expression, he inhaled deeply and allowed his energy to retreat until it disappeared completely.

The Veil, deprived of its anchor, began to disperse. The walls and ceiling of the dojo returned to what they were; the light regained its natural color; the impossible horizon disintegrated, revealing once more the forest and the deceitful calm of the normal world.

There was no blood. No bodies. No proof at all that anything had happened.

Only Sebastián, with Narka on his shoulder, crossing the doors of the dojo as if nothing at all had taken place. The air of the dojo, freshly returned to its apparent calm, still carried an invisible trace of the Veil: a vibration barely perceptible, like an echo resisting death. The wood seemed colder, the shadows a little denser, and though reality had folded back on itself, Sebastián knew that those who knew how to look would see the seams.

The sound of firm footsteps broke that suspended silence. They were neither hurried nor cautious: they were the walk of someone who did not need to announce himself, because his mere presence was enough to fill the space.

Kael Ardom appeared in the threshold, wearing the white and gray tunic that seemed to absorb the light, the belt of his rank fastened with almost ritual precision. His eyes, blue like a sky before the storm, fixed first on Sebastián… and then on Narka, who remained still on his shoulder. He did not ask immediately.

—The Veil opened here —he said at last, his voice deep yet controlled, as if each word were weighed before being spoken—. Why?

Sebastián held his gaze without moving a single step. There was no fear in his gestures, only the coldness of one who knows that the truth, spoken or not, weighs the same.

—Two profane crossed this door —he answered—. They did not come to learn, nor to honor this place. They carried rot with them.

Kael studied him in silence. He did not seem to doubt the word "profane"; his brow did not furrow with disbelief, but for something else: the evaluation of how far his disciple's decision had gone.

—And the Veil? —he finally asked.

—It was the only place where they could vanish without leaving traces —Sebastián did not raise his voice, but in his tone there was a dry edge—. There was no reason to let them live.

Narka turned his head slightly toward Kael, golden eyes narrowed, as if he too were evaluating the master's reaction.

Kael showed neither surprise nor reproach. His hands remained hidden beneath his sleeves, but his shoulders shifted just enough for the light to cast a deeper shadow across his face.

—Every time the Veil opens inside this dojo —he said slowly—, this place breathes differently for days. It does not matter that there are no witnesses… the dojo remembers.

Sebastián did not reply. The silence that followed was dense, yet not hostile. It was mutual recognition: Kael understood that his disciple had acted with intention, and Sebastián knew that his master would accept the explanation… though not fully approve it.

The master stepped forward, crossing the threshold, and his voice changed direction:

—And Virka? —asked Sebastián, his tone dropping slightly, almost imperceptible to anyone who did not know the weight that name carried in his throat.

For an instant, Kael's eyes lost their sharpness and grew measured, as if he were carefully choosing his words.

—She is well —he finally replied—. Her progress in the Martial Art of the Beast of Destruction is steady, but what matters most to me… is that she is beginning to understand her own place within it. She no longer merely repeats what I teach her: she adapts, interprets… questions.

A barely visible spark crossed Sebastián's eyes. Not full relief, but confirmation that the risk had been worth it, at least for now.

—See that she does not lose that —he said—. Adaptation is the only thing that keeps a blade alive.

Kael observed him a moment longer, as if he wished to add something, but instead of words, he inclined his head slightly in a gesture that was both approval and warning.

The three remained in the empty hall for a moment, the air heavy with that silence that does not need to be broken. Outside, the wind stirred the forest branches faintly, and though the Veil had dispersed, there lingered in the atmosphere a sense that something —in this world or the other— was still watching.

The hallway leading to the basement was shrouded in a gloom that was not mere absence of light. The walls, made of old stone and dark wood, absorbed the sound of footsteps, as if wishing to conceal the arrival of whoever descended there. The air was saturated with a cold dampness, the kind that clings to the skin like a reminder that down there, time moved differently.

Sebastián walked beside Kael Ardom, with Narka perched on his shoulder like a living statue. The master advanced with the same serenity as a guardian moving through his own sanctuary, but his blue eyes remained alert, scanning every corner as if seeking to confirm that nothing had changed… or perhaps to make sure that something indeed had.

—You will find her in a deep state —Kael murmured, as they descended the last stretch of stairs—. When she enters like this, no word or sound can pierce her consciousness. The body responds, but the mind is elsewhere.

Sebastián did not reply. His red eyes, with the perpetual tornado spinning in each iris, remained fixed on the dark end of the corridor, as if he could see through the stone. Narka, however, did speak, his deep voice resonating softly:

—That is good… as long as she can return.

Kael nodded, without looking —That is the risk of her current training. The Martial Art of the Beast of Destruction is not indulgent. It is a path that does not teach how to tame force, but how to become it. And for anyone not born with claws and fangs… that path devours the soul.

His words hung in the air, heavy, as they turned down a narrow passage. The floor here was covered by reinforced planks, worn by years but still firm, and in each wall lanterns were set, sealed with crystals that filtered a yellowish glow, just enough to reveal the dark veins of the stone.

—But Virka… —Kael continued, in a tone that grew more reflective— she is not a common disciple. She is beast before she is human. For her, that martial art is not an enemy to subdue, but a reflection she can comprehend without losing herself. The difficulty is not in her learning it… but in deciding not to remain in that state forever.

Sebastián stayed silent, but the tension in his shoulders shifted subtly: less rigid, more expectant.

They reached a heavy door, reinforced with metal plates at the corners. Kael pushed it with one hand, and it opened without creaking, as if it knew it had to keep silent before what it concealed.

The basement revealed itself as a wide, low-ceilinged chamber, lit only by torches set into the walls. The air was denser here, charged with a strange heat, as if the very stone held a latent pulse.

At the center, seated on the floor with her legs crossed and her back straight, was Virka. She wore nothing but Sebastián's black trench coat, draped over her shoulders like a shadow, and the black shirt he usually wore, its folds fitting to the tense curves of her body. The fabric, worn and unadorned, seemed part of her, a faint veil over her pale skin.

Her jet-black hair fell forward, partly obscuring her face. Her eyes remained closed, and her breathing was so imperceptible that any observer might have thought she was not alive. Yet around her air rippled with a subtle vibration, as if her very existence altered the space.

Kael stopped several steps away, inclining his head slightly.

—She is in the phase of sensory fusion —he explained—. The moment when her bestial instinct and her human consciousness cease to clash and begin to overlap. If she were human, that fusion could destroy her. But in her… it is as if both parts were remembering that they were once the same.

Narka watched intently, his gaze fixed on the faint tremor running through Virka's hands, barely visible beneath the long sleeves of the shirt.

—She seems stable —he remarked—. But that calm is not… human.

—No —Kael confirmed—. It is the kind of calm that precedes the storm. If she were to awaken now, she would likely not distinguish between training and real combat.

Sebastián did not take his eyes off her. His expression showed neither unease nor relief, but his fists tightened inside his pockets. It was not worry for her ability… but for what that path meant.

Silence claimed the basement. Only the distant drip of water in some crack could be heard, and the irregular pulse of the energy Virka concentrated within herself.

Kael took a step back, without disturbing the balance of the scene.

—She still has much to walk… but there is no retreat in what she has gained —he said, his deep voice echoing against the stone walls—. She is closer to understanding this art than any before her. And if she manages to take it completely without being devoured… there will be no living creature able to look her in the eyes and not turn away.

Sebastián lowered his chin slightly, in a gesture that was neither assent nor doubt, but a silent promise. Narka, on his shoulder, remained motionless, his golden gaze fixed on Virka's still figure, as if trying to read the hidden pulse of her soul.

There, in the basement, with the invisible heat of training saturating the air, words ceased to be necessary. What was being forged in that place was not merely technique… it was something that, once awakened, could never fall asleep again.

The basement was left behind, and the group climbed in silence the stairs that returned them to the lighter, less dense air than that which surrounded Virka in her meditation. The echo of their steps resounded against the walls, accompanied by the soft brush of Kael's tunic as he moved.

Once outside, the cold light of the corridor mingled with the silence, and it was then that Sebastián spoke.

—The two profane who entered… you said they wanted to speak with you —his voice carried no curiosity, only the same dryness with which a knife is sharpened—. What exactly did they want?

Kael walked a few more steps before responding, as if weighing each word before releasing it. —They wanted to recruit me for their forces —he said at last, in a tone that was neither mocking nor indignant, but measured—. They offered to make me one of them… to become "more powerful."

Narka tilted his head slightly, the gold of his eyes glowing with a subtle intensity.

—And what would they need a dojo master for? —he asked, though his voice sounded more like confirmation than doubt.

—For their cause —Kael replied.

Sebastián frowned.

—What cause? What do you know of them?

The master stopped and turned toward them both. The corridor's light cast deep shadows across his features, marking the blue of his eyes like a contained threat.

—Of the profane I've encountered, all share the same objective: to fulfill their own destiny in this world… a world that, according to them, "has no master." And that destiny is to lead their race to total supremacy.

—Supremacy? —Sebastián repeated, the word heavy on his tongue.

—To dominate this world without a master —Kael affirmed—. For that, they need strong beings. Not only of their race… but from outside as well. Though to them humans are food, they recognize we have the potential to grow to levels that could serve them.

Narka let out a faint, dry snort.

—And you are one of those cases…

Kael inclined his head.

—That is what they said. But I already made it clear I am not interested. As master of this dojo, my task and mission is to protect the weak. No power or promise could make me betray that.

A brief silence followed, broken only by the creak of the floor beneath their boots. Then Sebastián spoke again.

—You've said "profane" as if they were… something different. What exactly are they?

Kael looked at him once more, and this time his voice carried a graver tone.

—They are beings that violate the very nature of existence. They are not spirits, nor monsters, nor humans. They are a unique thing… born from the death of those very beings.

Sebastián narrowed his eyes.

—There's something that stayed with me… You said this is a "world without a master." How can that be? Every world has to have a master, doesn't it? Kael shook his head, though his expression did not show certainty.

—I don't know. Nor have the profane I've encountered ever specified it. They may be lying, or they may be telling the truth and we simply never knew.

Sebastián did not avert his gaze, as if searching for cracks in his master's words.

—How many of them have you encountered?

—At least twenty —Kael answered without hesitation—. But there are many more. Their structure as a civilization is more complex than it seems. I know they have hierarchies, that not all possess the same abilities, and that some… are far worse than others. But beyond that, I know little.

Silence returned, heavier than before. Kael resumed walking, and Sebastián followed, with Narka unmoving upon his shoulder. There was nothing more to say for now, but the unanswered words seemed to follow them like shadows that did not need light to exist. The corridor filled once again with footsteps, though this time carrying less weight. Kael stopped when they reached the crossing that led back to the upper halls.

—I will continue with my duties in the dojo —he said, without fully turning—. If anything else appears, you will know.

There was no formal farewell. The master simply departed, his steps fading into the distant murmur of the place's activity. Sebastián watched until the figure disappeared into the interplay of shadows and light.

With a slow turn, he descended once more toward the basement. The air shifted the moment he crossed the door: denser, more still, as if every stone of the place knew how to keep secrets. Narka remained on his shoulder, voiceless, but with that golden gaze that seemed to measure even the cracks of silence.

Virka was still there, motionless in her meditation, wrapped in the black trench coat that draped over her like a mantle of shadow. Her breathing was an invisible murmur, and the energy around her pulsed with a rhythm that did not belong to this world. Sebastián did not interrupt. He stayed at a certain distance, leaning his back against a column, with Narka still upright by his neck.

—At least what Kael said about the profane… —he broke the silence, his tone low and controlled— is the same as what we know.

Narka gave the slightest nod.

—He did not lie. Though what he added… about the supremacy of their race… that we had not heard.

—Exactly —Sebastián shifted his gaze toward a point on the ground, where the light of a torch died into shadows—. And that changes something. They are not just filthy monsters walking without reason. They have a purpose. —Most beings do —Narka replied, his deep voice resonating like a stone striking water—. Even those we believe guided only by instinct fulfill a role… though we may not always understand it.

Sebastián turned his face toward him, his red eyes with their dark tornado spinning in slow spirals.

—Are you asking if I'm going to hunt them now?

—Yes.

A brief pause, without tension, yet dense.

—No —Sebastián said at last—. I will continue as before. As long as they do not cross my path, I have no interest in them.

Narka observed him intently, though not with judgment.

—And if they do…

—If they do, and they stand in my way, I will destroy them. But for now… —Sebastián tilted his head, turning his gaze back to Virka— this information is useful. Not to go after them… but not to be blind if one day they appear before me.

Silence settled once more. Narka closed his eyes for an instant, as if accepting the decision without further word. A few meters away, Virka remained unaware of it all, lost in a sea of concentration so deep that nothing spoken could touch her.

Sebastián crossed his arms, letting the strange heat of the basement and the pulse of energy radiating from Virka set the rhythm of waiting. Outside, the world continued moving… but down here, in this sanctuary of stone and shadow, everything was contained.

A place where decisions, even if not spoken aloud, were sealed as oaths. The invisible pulse enveloping Virka began to unravel like smoke dispersing under a slow wind. The vibrations in the air, that tension that seemed to come from her very breath, gradually yielded until the density of the basement became more breathable.

Her jet-black hair shifted slightly, revealing the deep glow of her red eyes, fixed on a point not entirely in this world. Her breathing, once imperceptible, returned in a calm, controlled rhythm, as if carrying back everything she had seen and felt within her mind.

Sebastián did not change his posture, but the usual hardness in his gaze softened slightly. It was not an open smile, it never would be… but in that minimal gesture there was an unmistakable trace of satisfaction. Virka was still growing, and she did so without ceasing to be herself. That, for him, was enough.

Narka, from his shoulder, inclined his head faintly, watching as if he were evaluating the freshly forged edge of a weapon. In his golden eyes there was a silent recognition: Virka had not retreated a single step. She parted her lips, and her voice, deep and precise, broke the silence:

—What happened? —her gaze sharpened, studying Sebastián with intensity—. You smell of blood… and of recent death.

—I killed something that crossed my path —Sebastián replied naturally, as if describing a task completed without weight.

Virka looked at him a moment longer, as though measuring the truth behind those words, and then let her attention drift slightly. Sebastián seized that moment to speak, his tone just as firm but carrying a more intentional edge:

—I'm going back to school.

She arched a brow, as if the word itself felt strange.

—What is that?

—A place where people learn more —Sebastián said, searching among his memories for the scattered images of what that experience was—. At least… that's how I remember it. You can come if you want. You could experience new things.

Virka's red eyes narrowed slightly.

—Will that place really give me new experiences?

—Yes. It will.

The silence that followed lasted only a heartbeat, until Virka tilted her head slightly and her words fell like a blade wrapped in velvet:

—Was this a suggestion from those women? —there was a clear emphasis on "those," and in the glint of her eyes it was obvious whom she meant—. Helena and Selena.

Sebastián did not dodge the question.

—Yes. It's to continue with the cleansing of the previous arrangement… but in a new version.

Virka did not avert her gaze, and a tense line formed on her lips.

—I still don't trust those women.

It was Narka who intervened, with the grave calm he always carried.

—It is good that he keeps experiencing things. Each experience will make him grow more.

Virka did not reply immediately. She knew Narka rarely spoke without reason, and that when he did, his words were never hollow.

Sebastián watched her a moment longer before adding:

—Even if you don't trust them, it doesn't mean you should stop because of it. It's an opportunity for us to experience new things together.

Virka's silence finally broke, but her voice retained that fierce weight that defined her:

—Fine. I accept… but only because I want to experience more things with you. Sebastián did not answer. He did not need to. Neither did Narka. Between the three of them, that exchange carried more weight than any formal promise.

In the basement, the flickering light of the torches still cast long shadows on the walls, as if even the stone wished to retain that decision. Outside, the world could remain the same… but in that instant, within that place, something had already changed.

Virka opened her eyes fully, still bearing the residue of meditation in her gaze.

—I want to test my new power —she said bluntly, rising with the same calm a predator shows when it stretches before the hunt—. Now I am an aura user… level ten. Initiate.

Her feet touched the ground with a silence that did not match the pressure her presence began to exert. She took a step toward Sebastián.

—I want to do it with someone I don't need to know.

Sebastián held her gaze, not inclining his head even a fraction.

—I accept. —His voice was flat, without added weight—. I will also use only my martial art.

—And your technique? —she asked.

—One. The Absolute Dragon Fist. Nothing else.

The corner of Virka's lips curved slightly. It was neither mockery nor satisfaction: it was a response that carried challenge.

—Perfect.

They decided not to leave the basement. Its breadth was enough, and the stone walls, along with the columns, would serve as silent witnesses. Narka, on Sebastián's shoulder, said nothing; his golden eyes shifted between them as if already measuring the battle that had yet to begin.

Virka closed her eyes for a moment, and then her aura was born. From the center of her chest, an absolute black spread like a liquid heartbeat, enveloping her silhouette. It was neither smoke nor flame: it was a living presence, an invisible beast that breathed with her. The air around her grew heavier, and for a moment, the basement seemed to darken without the light changing.

Sebastián responded from within. From his core, the Core of the Inverted Origin, crimson Qi surged in an ascending pulse, coursing through his veins as though each muscle were a blazing forge. It was no flare: it was pure, compacted pressure, clinging to every line of his body.

The clash of both energies made the Veil respond. Not with a roar, but with an invisible whisper: reality bent, and in a blink, the basement ceased to be only stone and shadow. Everything became larger, emptier, and more hostile, a distorted reflection of the same place. Here, the air moved as if it were water, and the shadows seemed to have weight.

They looked at each other. Neither spoke. Virka moved first: a swift, feline advance, without warning. Sebastián twisted his torso just enough, evading the initial trajectory, his rear foot sliding back to brace for the counterattack. The air between them cracked under the sudden shift in pressure.

He did not unleash his fist yet. He waited. He studied the mechanics of her opening move, the way her black aura stretched like invisible tendrils. Virka, in turn, measured the pulse of the crimson Qi inside his muscles, as if searching for the precise instant to invade his space.

One step.

Her shadow grew across the distorted floor.

His dragon still slept within his arm.

The battle had begun. The silence of the Veil was not emptiness—it was a contained heartbeat, as if the air itself waited for the first true strike to dictate the rhythm of combat.

Virka inclined her chin slightly. Her feet slid noiselessly across the ground, her weight always forward, ready to break the distance in a heartbeat. The black aura poured from her heart like an inverted river, rising in unseen columns, wrapping her shoulders and arms. Behind her, the hazy projection of a two-headed lupine beast breathed in rhythm with her chest, baring its fangs as if its next exhalation would tear flesh.

Sebastián held firm, grounding his stance. His right foot rooted itself into the distorted floor while his left retreated half a step. The crimson Qi gathered in his right arm, tightening every fiber until his shoulder and elbow seemed to carry an invisible weight. The dragon had yet to form, but the air around his fist was already hotter.

Virka struck.

Her first step cut diagonally, closing the blind angle to Sebastián's left side. Her right arm stretched into the posture of Fang of Total Rupture, the claw aiming straight at his chest. The spectral beast fused with her silhouette, its jaws lunging forward with the strike.

Sebastián twisted, drawing his right shoulder back and letting the claw skim past by mere centimeters. The brush of her aura lashed a line of heat across his ribs, but he yielded no ground. Using the motion, he drove a short hook with his left hand, aimed at Virka's flank.

She intercepted it with her knee, absorbing the impact without breaking rhythm. The collision rang like a muffled drum, and from the friction burst a flash of black aura that scattered into the air.

There was no pause. Virka pivoted on her supporting foot and brought her leg down in a vertical stomp —Stride of the Foundation Breaker— aimed at Sebastián's instep Sebastián. The projected Earthly Goliath emerged, its massive torso aligned with her body, every spine along its legs resonating as they struck.

Sebastián stepped back half a pace—just enough for the black heel to smash against the floor without trapping him. The explosion of aura lifted invisible shards of reality beneath them, and the impact rattled the foundation of his stance.

He answered without waiting: his right foot drove forward, his arm on the same side dropping in a sweeping arc. It was not yet his final technique, but the movement carried the same lethal biomechanics of the Art of the End of the Body. The strike grazed Virka's shoulder, and the shockwave split a crack into the floor of the Veil.

She smiled, but did not halt.

Her left hand opened in the posture of Claw of Internal Rending and lunged toward Sebastián's abdomen. He dropped his elbow to intercept, and when their limbs met, the black aura crawled up his forearm as if trying to bite into him.

The contact lasted only a second. Enough for both to understand that neither would hold back.

Sebastián inhaled, his crimson Qi climbing his right arm until it engulfed the shoulder. The dragon was beginning to take shape within his fist, but he did not release it yet. Virka, seeing this, lifted her chin and let her aura surge into both hands, projecting around her the intertwined silhouettes of three distinct beasts: the Devourer Mantis, the Abyssal Rhinocéphalos, and the Two-Headed Wolf of Judgment.

The Veil quivered. The next clash would not be a mere exchange: it would decide who set the rhythm of the entire battle. The Veil pulsed.

Every breath they took echoed across the invisible walls, and the space between them was no longer just a stretch of ground—it was a taut bridge about to snap.

Sebastián advanced his right foot, bending his knee slightly, while crimson Qi surged in his arm like a compressed river on the verge of breaking a dam. The dragon was now complete in its form: scales of pure pressure, jaws wide open, eyes fixed on its prey.

Virka, before him, raised her hands. Her black aura gushed upward in a thick tide from her heart, coursing along her arms and erupting through the three projected beasts: the Devourer Mantis, with bladed legs and claws poised to seize; the Abyssal Rhinocéphalos, its spiral horn aimed straight at Sebastián's chest; and the Two-Headed Wolf of Judgment, both maws opening to bite from either side.

The ground of the Veil arched beneath them. It was no tremor—it was reality itself distorting, trying to pull away from what was about to unfold. A heartbeat.

Then, the clash.

Virka moved first, her stride leaving a black trail in the air. The Devourer Mantis slashed with its claws at Sebastián's left flank, the Two-Headed Wolf snapped its jaws at his shoulder, and the Rhinocéphalos charged head-on.

Sebastián twisted his torso, deflecting the mantis's claw with his left forearm. The impact bit into his skin with pain, but did not slow him. His right shoulder dipped just enough to slip past the wolf's bite.

And then he released the fist.

—Absolute Dragon Fist.

The crimson dragon surged forward with him, not as an ornament, but as a living extension of his arm. The released pressure bent the air outward, and the roar it carried did not come from his throat, but from the sheer weight of unleashed energy.

The Rhinocéphalos's charge met the dragon head-on. The collision was brutal: the scales of pressure shredded the spiral horn in an explosion of red and black fragments. The impact did not stop there—it tore through the projection and drove straight toward Virka's chest.

She refused to be swept away.

The wolf spun on its axis, sinking its fangs into the dragon's flank, while the mantis clamped its forelegs into Sebastián's arm, straining to bend its path.

The sound was a constant detonation: the dragon's roar, the snapping jaws, the dull crash of Sebastián's body driving forward with all its weight. The ground beneath them split, veins of energy racing across the Veil like glowing arteries.

Sebastián took a second step, reinforcing his advance. Virka slid back half a meter, but her aura compressed tighter, wrapping her torso like a living cuirass. The dragon's pressure began to fracture it, and that was when she arched her back, unleashing a roar of her own that dragged all three projections forward.

The mantis's claws clamped around the dragon's forearm. The two-headed wolf bit in perfect sync, and the shattered Rhinocéphalos rammed with what strength it had left. Black and red pressure entwined in a vortex, and the air detonated between them in a shockwave that split the ground in four directions.

Both were torn apart by the force of the impact, each dragged back, carving trenches across the Veil's floor.

Sebastián's breathing was heavy—not from exhaustion, but from the true effort required to sustain such pressure without breaking his own body.

Virka, for her part on her feet, her hair loose across her face, the trench coat fallen from her shoulders with the movement, and on her lips still lingered the shadow of a smile.

Silence returned, but it was not the same as before.

Now, everything in that place knew the battle could no longer be taken back. The roar of the crimson dragon and the black beasts had erupted together, but the sound that remained afterward was that of something breaking beyond repair.

Sebastián's advance, powered by the Absolute Dragon Fist, crashed through Virka's final defense like a wave demolishing walls of stone.

The Devourer Mantis's claws shattered into fragments of shadow.

The Two-Headed Wolf dissolved into a dark tide before it could bite again.

The Rhinocéphalos was gone: its horn erased in the weight of the impact.

The strike drove her back three steps, each one marking a tremor through the Veil's floor. Her black aura collapsed around her, flowing back into her body like smoke refusing to extinguish, and she stood with her hair falling over her eyes, breathing slowly so as not to show the effort.

Sebastián lowered his right arm, letting the dragon unravel into crimson shreds. His breathing was deep as well, but his stance betrayed no cracks.

—You've grown —he said, without dramatics, but with the certainty that his words were true.

Virka lifted her head, her red eyes glowing beneath strands of hair. The smile was faint, but enough to show she did not take it as defeat, but as a point of departure.

—And I will challenge you again.

—I look forward to it.

The Veil began to dissolve, the distorted walls of the basement returning to their normal form. The strange heat of the parallel plane faded, leaving only the heavy, cold air of stone and torches.

It was then that Kael, who had witnessed the final part from the entrance, stepped forward. His gaze passed first to Virka, and the blue of his eyes softened with something he rarely displayed: pride.

—Your progress is clear. You've adapted this forbidden art without letting it consume you. —He turned toward Sebastián—. And you… I don't know what your true power is, but what I just saw… is destructive and, at the same time, balanced. Something rarely seen.

Sebastián did not respond immediately. Not out of modesty, but because he knew Kael's remark was no simple praise—it was a weighted observation.

Narka, upon his shoulder, spoke then, his voice deep as stone striking stone:

—On your path, each battle like this sharpens more than muscle. You are mastering what you chose to be… and that is the only thing that matters. Sebastián listened without changing his expression, but the silence he left afterward was an unspoken acceptance.

Virka, at his side, ran a hand through her hair, still holding her composure, though deep in her eyes burned a fierce gleam. It was not the gleam of one who had lost… but of one already planning the next assault.

Kael, hands clasped behind his back, spoke one last time, his voice low yet steady:

—This exchange I will remember. As a master, I am glad for your progress, Virka. And as an observer… Sebastián, I am intrigued by what you have yet to reveal.

Narka let out only a faint murmur, meant more for Sebastián than for the others:

—Do not change your course. Not yet.

The echo of those words lingered in the basement, even as all fell silent.

There was no final victory or defeat there. Only a marked point on the path of them both… and the certainty that the next crossing would be even more intense.

Their steps resounded on the stone stairway, one after another, until the light of the upper corridor received them. The air was cleaner than in the basement, yet it carried the weight of what had just transpired. Kael walked in front, unhurried, with his hands hidden beneath the sleeves of his tunic. Sebastián followed, Narka perched on his shoulder, and Virka—still in the black trench coat and Sebastián's shirt—closed the formation with a steady gaze, as if each step were a reminder of the decision she had taken.

They did not stop until they entered one of the inner chambers of the dojo: a broad hall, low-ceilinged, with dark wooden columns and the scent of ancient incense. There, Kael turned toward them.

—Virka —his voice carried not the edge of instruction, but the weight of a truth that had to be spoken—. The path you are walking… is no ordinary martial art. It was forbidden because it consumes those who practice it. Its nature admits no half-measures.

Virka's gaze did not waver.

—And yet, it has not consumed me.

Kael nodded.

—Exactly. That is why you can do more than survive it: you can transform it. Turn it into something beyond a weapon of destruction. Carry it farther than I or any other master could foresee.

A brief but heavy silence filled the hall.

—I want you to follow your own path, apart from that of the dojo. Not as an outsider, but as a student of the twelfth generation. Virka held the master's gaze and, with a slight movement of her head, accepted.

—Thank you… for this new path.

—Before you walk it further —Kael continued—, you must understand well what you are now. The level you've reached is level ten… but it also has a name: Blood Commander.

Virka tilted her head slightly.

—Explain.

—Your aura is now a living martial identity. You can summon complete representations of master techniques, symbolic beasts, legendary weapons, or any icon that embodies your path. It is the culmination of your martial legacy: an autonomous projection of your perfected style.

Kael's voice grew firmer, as though he were imparting a lesson meant to be carved in fire.

—That means supreme defense and offense, without loss of intent, and the ability to maintain multiple legendary techniques active at the same time. What you project are fully defined figures—turtles, dragons, tigers… each fighting as an avatar of your will. Your aura is an extension of your martial lineage.

Virka absorbed every word, her eyes fixed on Kael.

—And to reach the peak of this level?

—There is only one path: to deepen your mastery in battle and accumulate experiences that embody it. Training alone is not enough… you must live it, test it, and let your aura absorb those experiences.

Virka inclined her head in a brief gesture of acceptance.

—I will.

Sebastián and Narka remained silent. This was Virka's moment, her own stretch of the path, and they knew it. Sebastián watched her with that impenetrable calm that was not indifference, but recognition. Narka, unmoving, kept his golden eyes on her, as if weighing the direction she had just taken.

—In a few days you may return —Kael added—. I will present you with your uniform as a ceremony to inherit the teachings, and I will officially recognize you as a disciple of the twelfth generation. It will be designed for your own martial art.

Virka let a faint, almost imperceptible smile touch her lips.

—Then I will come. It will be the first time I have roots in a place… not because others forced them on me, but because I chose them.

Kael nodded, satisfied.

—That is what will make it yours.

The conversation dissolved into a comfortable silence. Outside, the sound of the wind brushed against the wooden walls of the dojo, while inside, the torches cast shadows long across the floor. Virka was still dressed in Sebastián's trench coat and shirt, a reminder of where this stretch of her path had begun… and of who had been there when she chose it.

The sound of footsteps filled the dojo's halls again, this time with a lighter echo. There was no tension in the air, but the calm that follows an important decision. Kael accompanied them to the main gate, but there he stopped.

—Continue on your way —he said, his voice deep yet steady—. What we've spoken of today does not end here.

Sebastián looked at him one last time before nodding. Virka passed by the master without lowering her gaze, though the subtle tilt of her head was a silent acknowledgment. Narka, perched on Sebastián's shoulder, observed him with a brief glint in his golden eyes, like a greeting that required no words.

Kael remained in the threshold, the outer light outlining his figure, while they crossed into the open courtyard beyond the dojo. The afternoon wind was cold, carrying the scent of earth and the wood of the forests surrounding the place.

They advanced along the path, the ground crunching beneath Sebastián's boots and Virka's steps gliding almost without sound. The black trench coat trailed behind her like a long shadow, and her hair stirred with each gust.

—Where will we go now? —asked Narka, though there was no haste in his tone.

—To the mansion —Sebastián replied—. I want to see how the construction is progressing… and rest there for a while.

The route led them along sloping paths, where roots jutted from the earth like ancient hands. The sun filtered through the canopy, scattering patches of light that drifted across the ground. Virka, walking a few steps behind, let her gaze wander to the sides, as if measuring every corner of that territory.

At the end of the trail, the forest opened to reveal a wide, partially cleared expanse. There, upon a base of worked stone, rose the skeletal structures of the mansion: walls half-built, bare beams pointing skyward, wooden scaffolds, and piles of cut stone ready to be set.

It was still an incomplete place, but it already breathed purpose.

Sebastián stopped at the edge of the site, letting his gaze sweep across each section.

—It's moving faster than I expected —he murmured.

Virka watched him in silence, but there was a curious gleam in her eyes. Not for the construction itself, but for what it represented: a place not marked by death or battle, but by creation. Narka, from his perch, inclined his head with a brief gesture.

—It is a good place. It does not matter if it is unfinished. A warrior also needs a site that remains still while he changes.

They walked among the roofless columns and rooms open to the sky. The scent of freshly cut wood and damp stone filled the air. With each step, the creak of planks mingled with the distant song of birds that had not yet fled the work site.

They reached a broad hall, its walls already raised but with no doors or windows, where the wind entered freely. Sebastián set down the bag he carried on a block of stone and leaned against it.

—We will rest here for now —he said, his voice echoing against the bare walls.

Virka sat on a fallen beam, crossing one leg over the other, gazing at the gaps in the ceiling as if measuring how much was left to finish. Narka remained still, his gaze fixed on the horizon visible between the walls, as if already calculating how much time they would have before moving again.

For the first time in days, there was no urgency. Only the quiet weight of a place that, though still in construction, already began to belong to them.

Night had fallen over the site like a heavy blanket. With no roof to shut out the sky, the stars were a silent multitude watching from above. The air carried the cold scent of wood and stone, mixed with the dampness of freshly turned earth.

Sebastián sat on a smooth block of stone, his back resting against a half-finished column. Narka rested on his shoulder as always, golden eyes open, watching the grounds with that attentive stillness that seemed to need no blink. Virka sat across from him on a fallen beam, one leg dangling, the other bent, her dark hair falling like a curtain over part of her face.

—It's strange… —she said, breaking the silence— to have a place not marked by blood or by orders from others.

Sebastián lifted his gaze from the phone in his hand. The faint glow of the screen lit his face, highlighting the perpetual tornado in his red eyes.

—Yes. But it is still a place where we can prepare for what comes. A place that is ours.

Virka looked at the half-built walls, the gaps where someday there would be windows.

—Ours… —she repeated, as if testing the word—. I never thought of having something like this.

Sebastián turned the phone in his hand, switching it back on. The simple interface reflected in his irises like a crimson gleam.

—Helena and Selena gave me this. —The phrase was direct, without emphasis—. I don't use it much, but… it works.

She tilted her head.

—And what does it do?

Sebastián extended his arm, offering it to her.

—Come, I'll show you.

Virka leaned closer, resting a hand on the stone beside him to look at the screen. Her hair brushed lightly against his shoulder. Sebastián slid a finger over the glass, showing her how to unlock it, how to open the gallery, how to navigate through the basic menus.

—You touch here… and you see what's stored —he explained, opening some unimportant images—. Here, you write and search for whatever you want to know.

Virka watched each gesture, more interested in how it worked than in the content.

—It's… like a mirror that obeys, but also keeps memories.

—Something like that —Sebastián replied.

Narka intervened, his deep voice floating in the dimness.

—It is no different from how memory works. What you keep, you can bring back. But it can also fill with useless things if you don't choose well.

Virka looked at Narka for a moment before turning her gaze back to the screen.

—Then I'll be careful with what I keep.

Sebastián locked the phone and slipped it back into his pocket.

—The important thing isn't the device. It's that you learn new things, even if they're not part of your world. That way, this place… and everything we do, will truly be ours.

She held his gaze for a second longer, then nodded.

—Then teach me more… tomorrow.

Silence returned, but it was not empty. It was a silence full of stars, of unfinished walls, and of the strange—yet good—feeling of being in a place that, little by little, was beginning to belong to them.

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END OF CHAPTER 30