On the Path of Eternal Strength.

The flesh still made sounds.

Not like flesh, but like hot mud torn apart with hunger. The Profane had not moved away. He was still there, less than two meters away, devouring what remained of the man who once called her daughter. He chewed without hurry, as if each bone were a syllable and each muscle a stanza of some dark hymn. Valentina did not look at him. She knew. She felt it. Every crack, every gulp, every bloody bubbling that dripped from that dislocated jaw… was another chain on her invisible neck.

The bag closed around her like a second skin of waste. She breathed through her mouth, barely, swallowing the putrid air mixed with fermented urine, dried vomit, and things she never wanted to imagine. The worms crawled along her leg. One reached her armpit. She did not move. If the worms took her for dead, maybe the monster would do the same.

The Profane raised his head.

Not towards her. Towards nothing.

As if something had called him.

A distant murmur. An aroma. An echo.

Then he lowered his face again. He tore the corpse's torso with a strength that was not brutal, but methodical. He separated ribs. Broke the clavicle. Sank his tongue into the soft organs. And when he stopped, it was only to crunch with delight the femur of the man who once swore to protect her.

Valentina wet herself.

It was not a decision.

It was the body accepting it was no longer a body.

The warm liquid mixed with the remains of trash on which she lay. And still she did not cry. Not out of bravery. Because she no longer knew how. To cry was to ask for something, and she no longer asked. She had no one. No reason.

A minute.

Ten.

Forty.

Time did not exist. Only the wet sound of the irreparable.

And then… silence.

The Profane was gone.

She did not hear his steps. She did not know when. But the air changed. It no longer smelled of fresh blood, but of a rotten city without intruders. She dared to move her fingers. Not to get out. To check they were still there. Then she moved her wrist. The elbow. Everything hurt. Everything was cold. Everything was dirty. But she was still alive.

Alive?

A ridiculous word.

She did not live. She only remained.

Like the bags no one picks up. Like the rags that stick to poles. Like the names no one pronounces.

She stayed there. In silence. In her womb of plastic and flies. Outside, the city kept moaning like an old animal that could no longer birth itself. No one screamed. No one asked. No one noticed the fresh blood among the dry garbage. No one stopped.

And Valentina understood something that had no words.

That she had never been a child.

Only flesh the world had not yet eaten.

The garbage bag was not shelter. It was tomb. It was cradle. It was all Valentina had to not be devoured.

From there, the world smelled of warm rot. Not only that of physical waste, but of an existence that had already surrendered without ever having fought. The air was thick, saturated with the stench of fermented feces, decomposing food, and human refuse that did not know if it had been sweat, vomit, or tears. Valentina did not breathe. She inhaled fear. Every particle of that suffocating silence entered her lungs as if to remind her that her only superpower was not to exist.

Outside, the sound of her father's body being torn apart became routine. Wet chewing. Flesh ripped. Fluid falling onto concrete with the cadence of a leak no one would bother to fix. She no longer looked at it. She did not even want to remember that he had once been more than a belt, more than a noise, more than a fury that smelled of cheap liquor and frustration. There were no tears. Not because it did not hurt. But because that pain was not new. It only had another form.

Valentina did not know how much time passed. If it was minutes or an eternity. The only thing she felt was that, at some point, the sound ceased. As if the Profane had finished his dinner. As if the world had stopped chewing her too.

Then she came out.

Not suddenly. Not with decision. With the slowness of someone who fears each movement could be the last. She first peeked out her fingers, then her bare feet, covered by a mixture of pus, dried blood, and pieces of plastic wrappers stuck to her skin like grotesque scales. Her tangled hair was matted with sweat and filth. Her white strands—once from trauma, now from neglect—hung heavy, as if they too were afraid.

She did not look at her father's corpse.

Not because she did not know where it was. But because she already carried it inside.

She walked.

The alley swallowed her with indifference. No one stopped her. No one asked. Not even the other human refuse that inhabited the rottener corners of the district deigned to see her. Because the smell Valentina carried was no longer just that of garbage… it was that of surrender.

The city did not want her. But neither did it notice her. And that, perhaps, was better.

She walked hunched over. Not from fatigue. But because her soul weighed more than her bones. Her knees trembled, but not from weakness, rather because fear had not yet released her spine. She moved among dead rats, puddles of stale urine, dried vomit cracking with each step, and open bags that revealed fragments of everyday hell. She was part of the landscape. A low, thin shadow, with no clear form or destined path. Like a withered leaf no one would sweep away.

And still, she walked.

She crossed streets without looking. Passed in front of a patrol that would never stop. In front of a closed shop that would never sell anything. In front of a graffitied mural that spoke of freedom in rotten letters. Each step was a mute confession: I am alive… still.

The place she called "home" was at the back of an abandoned structure. It had no door. Only a curtain made of bags tied together. She entered without a sound. The floor was damp. The mattress… if it could be called that, was a slab of cloth and cardboard covered by a sheet that was once white and now more gray than the sky.

She let herself fall there. Not as one who rests, but as one who surrenders.

Only then did she think of them.

Of the three she saw.

The red-eyed woman who stopped her without violence, with a palm that knew more of borders than any wall.

The silent-eyed man who did not look at her… but who saw.

And the creature that did not speak, but carried the weight of something she could not understand even in a thousand years.

She did not know who they were. Nor why she remembered them at that moment.

Perhaps because they were different.

Perhaps because they were impossible.

Or perhaps because, in the midst of the horror… they were the only crack in the darkness that did not try to crush her.

And though she did not understand their names, though she did not know if she would ever see them again, Valentina thought of them as one thinks of a fire that does not burn, but neither warms.

Like a distant promise.

Like something that could be.

And then she closed her eyes.

The dried vomit, the urine, the filth… all of it covered her as if they were invisible blankets.

And she slept.

Not because it was safe.

But because she could not go on.

The night opened like a wound that never closed, and the rotten city was its pus. Narrow streets, walls gnawed by humidity, thick puddles that reflected nothing. There walked Sebastián and Virka, as if the stench itself moved aside in their path. On Sebastián's right shoulder rested Narka in his reduced form, heavy not by body, but by history: golden, ancient eyes that seemed to judge every shadow, as if everything were an echo he had already seen die before.

Sebastián advanced with the presence of contained steel. He wore the same clothes he had carried since entering that rot: a black shirt clinging to a torso carved by the Path of the Indomitable Body, black pants that fit him like a war uniform, and military-style boots that struck the pavement with the dry sound of a funeral drum. His dark skin, marked by invisible scars beneath the fabric, seemed to absorb the faint glow of the sickly moon.

Virka walked at his side, dressed in Sebastián's trench coat that she did not bother to close, as if that coat belonged to her without the need to claim it. Beneath, the same black shirt fitted to her body, revealing curves that anywhere else might have been desire, but here were threat. Her beauty was inhuman, unreal, like a fragment of another world that should not exist among the garbage and the soot. Her red eyes were embers that did not extinguish, burning with the coldness of a freshly forged blade. Each step she took was not walking: it was a reminder that even rot had to surrender to her presence.

Narka, on Sebastián's shoulder, remained motionless, but not silent. His golden eyes, still and melancholic, seemed to pierce walls and sewers. He was the ancient observer; he did not walk, but his gaze did: it traversed layers of time and shadow, accompanying them effortlessly, as if his mere existence added gravity to every street they stepped upon.

The air cracked. Sebastián raised his hand, and his body tensed like a bow drawn taut. The senses of the Path of the Indomitable Body pierced the distance, and then he spoke in a low, grave voice:

—Two men. They fight. They bleed out over a substance. It is not simple… it increases strength.

Virka looked at him sideways, her brow arched with incredulity.

—And what need is there? —she asked, her voice cold, sharp as glass—. Let them kill each other. This place is already dead.

Sebastián's lips tightened barely. There was no doubt, but memory.

—There is an agreement with Helena and Selena. About the cleansing. That drug the students use to break their limits… this is the same, or nearly. —His eyes narrowed, as if measuring more than a simple quarrel—. We cannot ignore it.

Virka turned her gaze away, the shadow of disdain in her lips.

—We could. The world devours itself. We do not need to gather its bones.

Then Narka spoke, his voice grave as stone worn by centuries.

—Corruption always repeats. Today they are addicts, tomorrow they will be armies. Ignoring what germinates in the darkness rarely ends cheaply.

The silence weighed like smoke. Sebastián held that pause as one holds a blade in the palm. Then he turned his face slightly, with that firmness that did not ask for permission.

—Let's go.

Virka released an icy breath, more surrender than assent. She advanced by his side, her eyes still glowing like embers in the blackness. Narka remained on Sebastián's shoulder, watching, heavy and lucid, as if the world were a repetition only he remembered.

And the city swallowed them again. Among crushed rats, walls graffitied with dead slogans, and puddles that smelled of an open grave, the three went deeper toward the sound of that fight. And in the shadows, the being that stalked them did not avert its gaze.

The fight was nothing more than a miserable echo in the midst of the rotten city. Among puddles of dried blood and shattered bottles, two bodies tore at each other with animal fury. They were not beasts, but neither men: their muscles swollen by the substance made their muscles gleam under the yellowish light of a dying lamppost, veins bulging like black roots beneath the skin, eyes wide, reddened with madness. One bit, the other clawed, both sunk into the broken promise of a drug that offered strength and collected humanity. The ground was carpeted with empty syringes, wrappers stained with powder, and stenches mingling with vomit and urine.

Sebastián, Virka, and Narka watched them in silence. None of the three seemed part of that world, yet the world itself trembled with their presence. Virka, wrapped in Sebastián's open trench coat, revealed the black shirt that clung to her figure as if to emphasize that even rot must bow before her inhuman beauty. Her jet-black hair fell like a living curtain, and her red eyes were embers that lit decay with contempt.

Sebastián stood firm, his torso defined beneath the fitted black shirt, dark pants, and military boots that echoed like funeral drums when he moved. On his shoulder rested Narka, with golden, solemn eyes, observing the scene like an ancient judge who had condemned the same thing a thousand times before.

The addicts, at first, did not notice them. Their blows were voiceless screams, their struggle a reflection of hunger and rage. But the silence around Sebastián was too heavy. When one of them looked up, he froze: he understood he was being watched, and paranoia gave him a clear enemy. The second imitated him. Both, deformed by the substance, stopped beating each other and hurled themselves at the newcomers, thinking they wanted to steal the drug.

They did not get far.

Sebastián did not hesitate.

He advanced a single step and his fist rose like a sentence. The strength accumulated in his indomitable muscles exploded forward.

The impact was absolute.

The first one's head split like a ripe fruit under a hammer. Skull, flesh, fluids, and teeth exploded in a single instant, spraying the wall with a grotesque mural of blood and fragments. The neck was left a broken stump, trembling briefly before collapsing shapeless. The strike was so swift and so brutal that the air itself vibrated with the dry snap of pulverized bone.

The second addict froze in place. Fear pierced his swollen muscles and left him hollow. His eyes stared at what was left of his companion, and every delusion vanished. He fell to his knees, trembling, as if he had seen not a man, but a force that did not belong to human flesh.

Sebastián leaned down, his red eyes swirling in that perpetual tornado that devoured the will of anyone.

—Where did you get the drug? —his voice was grave, unhurried, as if there were no other option but to answer.

The man stammered, dry lips, teeth trembling.

—Tra… traffickers… behind the old bridge… there… there they give it… —he swallowed with a viscous sound—. It… it doesn't cost much… but… they… they have more…

Sebastián held him with his gaze, implacable.

—You will take us. If you hesitate, if you keep silent… you will end the same as him.

The addict did not reply with words, but with the desperate trembling of someone who has felt death too close. He nodded clumsily, dragging his hands along the ground, ready to guide like a dog leashed by fear.

They moved behind him. The city opened into narrow passages, walls eaten away by mold and trash, rats darting among split bags. Virka followed without hiding her disdain, her lips curved in a cold sneer.

—A waste —she murmured, her tone icy—. To use strength on something so low.

Sebastián did not look at her. His steps weighed more than words.

—It is not strength that matters here —he answered with dark calm—. It is confirmation. I did it with my body, nothing more. There was no technique. There was no aura.

Narka spoke from his shoulder, his voice grave, deep, like an echo of bygone eras.

—Then the Watcher did not intervene. Kill with your hands, and the world stays silent. But if you call upon the power beyond… that is when its judgment awakens.

Silence reigned again between them as they walked behind the trembling addict. The air smelled of rusted metal and rotten promises. The man stumbled forward, knowing he led three shadows that could erase him at any moment.

And above, in the cracks of the night, the being that watched them did not avert its invisible eyes.

The man stumbled forward, knowing he led three shadows that could erase him at any moment. His steps were clumsy, dragging, and every meter he put between himself and his companion's corpse sank him deeper into the certainty that he was alive only by whim. Behind him, Sebastián walked in silence, with the calm of one who does not need to hurry because death always arrives on time. On his shoulder, Narka watched everything with golden eyes that seemed to illuminate invisible cracks in the night. Virka followed at his side, her open trench coat billowing in the dirty breeze, revealing the black shirt that clung to her figure and made her all the more impossible in that rotten landscape.

The city unfolded like a labyrinth of ruin and stench. Narrow streets, broken lampposts flickering with sickly light, walls that seemed to bleed moisture. The addict led through alleys where rats blended with human lumps and the puddles reeked of old urine and oil. Sebastián never looked away, neither from him nor from the surroundings. His senses of the Path of the Indomitable Body pierced the darkness like blades, alert to any movement. And even there, in that silent passage, the weight of the invisible gaze could be felt. The being that watched them did not intervene. It had witnessed the explosion of a skull under a single human blow, and remained quiet. Sebastián thought of it in silence: perhaps the limits of that observer were not in blood, but in the use of what surpassed the physical.

The addict stopped at last. Before them, a warehouse corroded by rust rose like an open coffin. The metal doors had been forced, and the concrete cracked beneath black stains. From inside came a smell of damp mixed with sour smoke and fermented sweat.

—H… here… —the man stammered, his voice broken.

The warehouse had no signs or markings. It looked like an abandoned corpse, a dead structure that, nevertheless, breathed. Sebastián stepped forward, and the darkness within opened like a filthy throat. Among rotten boxes and remnants of rusted machinery moved human shadows: some sprawled on the ground, convulsing under the effect of the drug; others trading syringes and plastic bags of powder; others counting damp bills.

The air inside was dense, heavy, as if each breath swallowed rust. Virka wrinkled her nose with disdain.

—This is not strength. It is carrion playing at being power.

Narka, without moving his body upon Sebastián's shoulder, spoke in a grave voice.

—Flesh always seeks shortcuts. And shortcuts always break.

A trafficker noticed them. He lifted his gaze with feverish eyes and the metal of a rusted weapon in his hand.

—Hey! Who the hell are you? Get the fuck out of here!

Another stepped forward with trembling fury, convinced they had come to steal the little they had.

Sebastián did not wait. His arm moved like a guillotine. The blow shattered the first man's skull, scattering bone and brains against the boxes. The crack of the impact resounded like dry thunder, and the body fell like a broken puppet.

Silence was immediate. The other traffickers froze, staring at the blood running like a fresh river among the filth. The corpse spoke better than any threat.

From the back, a hoarse voice emerged from the shadows:

—What the fuck is going on here?

The boss appeared. A man bloated by cheap alcohol, with eyes reddened by ambition and fear. He tried to stand upright, but sweat betrayed him.

Sebastián looked at him calmly. His red eyes, spinning like perpetual tornadoes, allowed no excuses.

—Speak. Where does the drug come from? Who brings it here?

The boss faltered, his throat dry, staring at the pool of blood still spreading beneath the corpse.

Virka crossed her arms, with icy disdain.

—Do not waste time, Sebastián. This is not worth it.

Narka lowered his eyelids, and his voice dragged centuries.

—Even in garbage, roots grow that poison entire fields. Better to tear them out now.

The air grew heavy with fear. The boss understood he could not stay silent. He was facing something no trafficker was prepared to confront.

And then, with a broken voice, he began to speak.

And then, with a broken voice, he began to speak.

—I… I don't know… everything is anonymous… no one says names… I only receive what they bring… —the boss stammered, sweat running down his forehead in thick drops. His eyes darted like trapped rats, searching for an exit that did not exist.

Sebastián held him with an unyielding stare. His red eyes, spinning like perpetual tornadoes, read every tremor of the throat, every tic in the swollen hands, every blink that betrayed a lie. His silence was a sentence. And then he crouched down, placing his hands on the man's knees.

A single movement.

The crack was dry, brutal, like rotten wood breaking under the weight of a fallen tree. The legs bent at impossible angles, splintered bones tearing through skin and flesh. The boss screamed with a voice that was not human, a squeal like a slaughtered pig that echoed in the warehouse.

Sebastián did not flinch.

—If you keep lying, you will end worse than him —he said, nodding slightly toward the corpse with the exploded skull beside the boxes.

The fat man wept, with snot and saliva mixing with his gasps. He finally understood that what he faced was not a man with whom he could negotiate. It was a force, a sentence.

Virka watched him with her arms crossed, her red eyes shining with coldness. A minimal, icy smile tensed her lips.

—Pathetic. He thought he could hide behind excuses.

Narka, on Sebastián's shoulder, tilted his head slightly.

—Pain tears out the truth faster than any oath. It has always been so.

The boss trembled, trying to speak between sobs.

—Alright… alright… the ones who bring the drug… they come from the south… I don't know their names… but… they call themselves "The Blacksmiths"… always hooded… they pay anyone to distribute… no one confronts them because… because those who ask disappear…

Sebastián listened in silence. His face was a mask without compassion. Then he raised a hand and placed it on the worm-eaten wooden table at his side. The wood split under the pressure of his fingers as if it were dry clay. The boss saw it, and knew that same fate awaited his skull if he tried lying again.

—Where do I find them? —asked Sebastián, his voice grave, each word like burning iron.

The man cried harder, and between sobs he let out:

—A warehouse… in the sewers… beneath the old station… there they distribute… there they store… that's all I know, I swear!

Sebastián held his gaze for a few seconds more, measuring each spasm of fear, each frantic beat in his neck. Finally, he removed his hand from the broken table and straightened.

Virka turned her eyes away, as if the spectacle had lost its interest.

—In the end they all talk. Always.

Narka closed his eyes, and his voice fell like an ancient lament.

—Because fear is the only tongue never forgotten.

The boss remained crying on the floor, his legs broken at impossible angles and his breathing shattered, reduced to a heap of useless flesh. And while the echo of his sobs filled the warehouse, Sebastián had already made his decision: they would go to the sewers, where the "Blacksmiths" kept the origin of the corruption.

The being that watched them remained silent.

It had not intervened in the blood, nor in the broken bones, nor in the screams.

It was still waiting.

The silence after the confession weighed like a shroud over the warehouse. The fat boss wept on the floor, his legs already broken into impossible angles. The addict who had served as their guide observed the scene trembling, his eyes wide, as if still searching for hope in the filth around him.

Sebastián looked at him briefly.

—You've fulfilled your purpose.

The blow was so swift that there was barely room for fear. His skull split against the wall like an empty pumpkin, sliding down in silence until it became an unrecognizable heap on the floor. No one in the warehouse dared breathe.

The boss let out a moan that blurred between crying and pleading. He believed he had already reached the limit of his torment. He was wrong. Sebastián leaned toward him, and without a word, seized his shattered leg at the thigh. His fingers sank into the soft flesh like claws tearing through lard. Then he pulled.

The scream was inhuman.

The leg tore off completely, bone and tendons ripping in a wet explosion. Blood spurted like an uncontrolled jet, painting the floor bright red. The man shrieked like a slaughtered beast, his useless arms clawing at the air, trying to escape a pain that had already consumed him.

Sebastián did not stop. He turned to the other leg, the one still attached though fractured. With the same calm, he pressed his hand and crushed it until it burst into fragments. The bone collapsed inward, piercing flesh and skin, until the limb was reduced to a shapeless stump that could not bear even the weight of air.

The boss whimpered, cried, begged incoherent words. Virka watched with arms crossed, lips tightened in a cold half-smile.

—Why keep this trash alive? —her voice was the edge of shattered glass—. Kill him already.

Narka spoke from Sebastián's shoulder, his voice slow, grave, like a funeral chant.

—Not every death is useful. Sometimes a body that remembers fear is more valuable than another corpse in the ground.

Sebastián nodded slightly. He pressed his hands against the bleeding stump, closing it by sheer force. His fingers sank into flesh and bone, sealing the hemorrhage in grotesque fashion. The stench of hot iron filled the air, while the boss's screams turned into sharp howls that reverberated in every corner of the warehouse.

—I need him alive —Sebastián said, without looking away from his work.

—For what? —Virka pressed, her red eyes glowing with disdain.

—For future actions. To remind what happens to those who lie. So that, when they see him again, they understand that flesh always obeys strength.

The boss tried to keep pleading, but pain stole his words. His eyes rolled back, and after a few seconds he fainted, overwhelmed by blood loss and suffering.

It was then that the silence broke. The other underlings in the warehouse, who had remained petrified by fear, tried to back away. They were rats

human, petty traffickers, bodies poisoned by the very drug they helped produce.

Virka stepped forward. Her footsteps resounded like inevitable judgment. In her hands there were no weapons, because she herself was the blade. The first who tried to flee fell with his neck opened by a movement so swift no one saw it coming. The second was pierced through the chest, his body folding like a leaf in the wind. Blood began to fill the floor with a viscous calm, while the others screamed and ran without direction.

—They're yours —murmured Sebastián, without even looking at her.

Virka slaughtered with inhuman coldness, slitting throats, breaking ribs, letting each death serve as a reminder that there was no salvation there. It was not a fight. It was cleansing. Each body fell like one more scrap in the broken machinery of the warehouse.

While she spilled blood, Sebastián went deeper into the shadows of the storehouse. He passed tables covered with white powder, boxes of rusted syringes, records stained with bile and sweat. He found bundles of money, wrinkled and damp, stashed in old cans. And among dirty papers he found what he sought: rough notes, partial names, delivery routes to the warehouse. They were not clear answers, but they were seeds. The name of the "Blacksmiths" repeated like an echo through the documents, tied to distribution points, faceless contacts, and delivery schedules.

Narka observed everything with the same eternal stillness.

—Fear and blood are ancient keys. With them, doors open that even iron cannot force.

Sebastián kept what was necessary, letting the remaining rot burn into his memory. Virka returned to his side with boots stained in blood, her breathing calm, as if nothing had happened.

The fat boss still lay on the floor, unconscious, reduced to a wreck that breathed only by misfortune. The entire warehouse reeked of death.

—This is over —Sebastián said at last, with a calm heavier than any scream.

And so, while the fresh blood mixed with dust, the three understood that the path would inevitably lead them into the sewers, where the "Blacksmiths" awaited with their secrets.

The being that watched them still did not move.

It observed.

It waited.

The air of the warehouse was still heavy with an unbearable stench: iron, sour sweat, and rancid chemicals. The silence after the massacre was so thick it was broken only by the crunch of glass beneath Sebastián's boots. He moved through shattered tables, rusted shelves, and boxes stacked against damp walls. Each step was methodical: pulling aside rotten planks, ripping out drawers that resisted, opening hidden compartments the traffickers had improvised in cracks of concrete.

This time he was not searching for money, nor names written with trembling hands; he had already found those. Now he lifted packets of powder bound in greasy tape, jars with murky liquids, new syringes gleaming like diseased needles, and envelopes containing pills misshapen by humidity. Everything was proof, everything a sign of the cancer being brewed there.

Each discovery vanished into the storage ring. A faint flash, a gesture of his fingers, and the matter dissolved like smoke swallowed by an abyss. The ring kept without trace, and the ground was left bare, as if it had never held anything.

In that moment, he felt it. Not a sound, not a tangible shadow, but a pressure more intense. The Watcher. Its invisible gaze grew denser, as if pressed against his nape, as if observing each movement of the ring with silent judgment. Narka tilted his head slightly from Sebastián's shoulder, his golden eyes lit with deep gravity.

—It watches closer —he whispered—. Perceives, but does not act.

Sebastián closed his hand, sealing the ring. His voice was a low blade:

—It confirms our theory. It is not the artifact. Not the strength. It is the breach of what transcends the human. As long as we do not invoke Qi, as long as we do not touch Aura, it will keep watching in silence.

Virka, still stained with the fresh blood of the underlings she had massacred, arched a brow, her sneer tinged with sarcasm.

—And do you intend to walk forever measuring its rules? One day, one of us will test the limit.

Sebastián did not answer. He continued pulling aside boxes, storing the last of the evidence: a notebook with crude symbols repeating the word Blacksmiths, small poorly drawn maps, scraps of paper with numbers scrawled by hand. It was not complete information, but it was enough to trace a path. Selena and Helena would know what to do with it.

When all was stored, he returned to the center of the warehouse. The fat boss still lay on the floor, unconscious, his body a trembling heap of mutilated flesh. His stumps still dripped dried blood, the stench of his pain soaking the walls. Sebastián stood over him for a moment, watching as one evaluates whether a broken tool is still of use. Then he seized him by the collar and dragged him with a single arm, as if he were nothing more than a sack of waste.

The body scraped against the floor, leaving a trail of blood that mixed with dust and puddles of urine. Virka followed, her red eyes glowing with an icy gleam.

—Will you really carry this wreck? —she asked in a cold voice, more mockery than doubt.

Sebastián did not look at her.

—It is no burden. It is memory. And perhaps… a tool.

Narka then spoke, with that cadence of centuries that made his voice more sentence than counsel.

—A living witness weighs more than a thousand corpses. Mutilated flesh screams louder than the grave.

Virka clicked her tongue with disdain, but did not reply. She walked at his side, her boots sinking into reddish puddles without her bearing faltering.

Crossing the threshold of the warehouse, the air changed. Outside, the rotten city awaited them with its silence of an open corpse: peeling walls, stagnant smoke, dying lampposts flickering like feverish eyes. Sebastián dragged the unconscious boss behind him, the trail of blood stretching like a signature across the pavement.

And high above, in the faceless blackness, the presence of the Watcher was still there. Not visible, not audible, but latent. Denser. Closer. And still not intervening.

Sebastián did not smile, but in his silence a certainty was drawn.

The game had only just begun.

The damp pavement crunched beneath Sebastián's boots. The trail of blood left by the dragged boss mingled with puddles of rotten water and ash, marking a path no one dared follow. Half-broken windows, half-open doors, and alleys full of shadows were mute witnesses. There were hidden gazes: eyes peeking for a second and withdrawing at once, unable to withstand the sight of that group advancing calmly among ruins. No one screamed, no one asked for help. The city was an open cemetery that had already learned to remain silent.

It was Sebastián who broke the silence. His voice low, dry, carrying the same firmness with which he had pulverized bones minutes earlier.

—I must call Selena. She has to know what we obtained.

Virka turned her face toward him, her red eyes burning with a spark of mockery.

—Really? Is it necessary to speak with that woman? —the word "that" fell like venom, wrapped in sarcasm.

Sebastián did not stop his steps. The black shirt clung to his torso moved with the cadence of each steady breath.

—Yes. It is essential to move forward. From his pocket he drew the cellphone Helena and Selena had given him. A black, sturdy device, insignificant in his hands, yet whose faint glow when it lit was like a strange spark in the rotten night. He held it for a moment, its pale screen illuminating the bloodied face of the boss he dragged. The contrast was grotesque: modern technology in a world that smelled of rust and dead flesh.

He dialed. The tone rang only once before Selena's voice answered, cold, metallic, without adornment.

—Speak.

Sebastián wasted no time.

—We have money, processed drugs, records, and incomplete names. The term Blacksmiths appears repeatedly. There are delivery routes in sewers and old stations. I stored everything.

A brief, calculated silence, as if Selena processed each word. Then her reply came with the precision of a scalpel.

—That information fits with what we've already tracked. It's part of the network. Good. Use it to follow the trail in the field. Helena and I will do the same in our sector. Leave no loose ends.

Sebastián's voice was grave, firm.

—There will be none.

—Perfect. Keep in contact. The cleansing must be absolute.

The tone cut. The call was over. The screen fell back into darkness, and with it the alley regained its corpse-like silence. The only sound was the harsh dragging of the boss, his unconscious body scraping against the damp ground.

Virka scoffed with disdain.

—Always so cold. Not a word more than needed.

Narka spoke from Sebastián's shoulder, his golden eyes lit with a heavy gleam.

—She needs no more words. Only results.

Sebastián put the phone away. His gaze did not stray from the path.

—That is what she will get.

They walked a few more meters, the air thick with smoke and humidity, until Narka spoke again, his voice grave like the echo of a cavern.

—The Watcher. You felt it. When you used the ring, its gaze was more intense.

Sebastián nodded slightly.

—Yes. It was closer, as if breathing at my nape. But it did not act. There was no judgment.

Virka tilted her head, a spark of defiance in her red eyes.

—So we will always play under its rules? Trusting it won't suddenly change its mind?

—They are not its rules —Sebastián corrected, his voice low like restrained thunder—. They are the world's. As long as we do not invoke Qi, as long as we do not unleash Aura, its gaze will remain only that: a witness.

Narka closed his eyes for a moment, and his words weighed like stones.

—Then we will walk in the flesh. Until the spirit is necessary.

Silence returned, dense, relentless. The city did not stop them. There were no guards, no authority, no force capable of intervening. The dragged boss was a trail of fresh blood in a world accustomed to rot. No one would come out to ask, no one would dare follow.

Sebastián paused for a moment, watching the trace left behind. His breathing was calm, but in his red eyes burned the same resolve that had brought him this far.

—We have what we need. The next step will be one of the delivery routes.

Virka smiled, icy, her voice a sharp whisper.

—Then let's go after them.

The night swallowed them once again. The boss's body dragged behind, leaving a path of flesh and silence. High above, the Watcher was still there. Invisible. Quiet. Ever closer. And still not intervening.

The rotten city faded behind them, until only the damp ruins and the distant echo of their own steps remained. They moved like shadows, and the fat boss's body scraped behind Sebastián with the harsh sound of a sack of wet flesh. His blood left a thin trail, as if marking a path no one would dare follow. The air smelled of old smoke and sewer, thick with the stench of human refuse fermented in every corner.

The delivery point marked in the papers was no different from the rest: a ruined building, half warehouse, half rat's nest. Boarded-up windows, walls covered in faded graffiti, rusted doors. There the exchange was supposed to happen. And yet, upon arrival, all they found was silence. No voices, no movement. Only emptiness and a pool of black water reflecting the sick flicker of a leaning lamppost.

Sebastián dropped the boss as if discarding a worthless wreck. The body rolled until it stopped in a murky puddle, sinking into its own misery. No one would come to look for him, no one would claim him. The city's silence was witness enough.

—We'll wait —murmured Sebastián, his voice grave, needing no more.

Virka leaned against a damp wall, the trench coat open, revealing the black shirt clinging to her figure. The dim glow of the lamppost caressed her face with a sheen

impossible, as if her beauty could not be sullied even when surrounded by dried blood and garbage. Her red eyes fixed on the horizon with a patience that seemed as dangerous as it was lethal.

Narka remained on Sebastián's shoulder, silent, his golden eyes open like cracks in the darkness. He did not need to move: he watched with the gravity of one who had seen this same theater repeat across centuries.

Minutes passed. The night seemed to swallow time, making it heavy, slow. And then they arrived. Five hooded figures, each carrying sacks and boxes that creaked with the recognizable sound of glass and metal. Their movements were nervous, quick, like rats that knew something was stalking them. They approached the building, opened a side entrance, and began unloading in silence, letting the smell of chemical powder leak out through the cracks.

Sebastián waited until the last of them set his load on the ground. Only then did he advance. His boots struck the pavement with a dry sound, and the hooded ones froze at once, tense, like animals caught in their burrow.

The first barely had time to turn. Sebastián was already before him, and his fist pierced his chest with an impact that cracked bone and flesh. The body bent backward, expelling blood from its mouth before collapsing voiceless.

Virka moved like a gust of wind. Her steps were deadly dances, her arms clean blades. The second hooded one barely raised a knife before his throat opened in an arc of red, falling over the crates with eyes still open. The third tried to flee; Virka caught him with a spin, smashing his face against the wall until the skull split with a wet crack.

The fourth hurled himself desperately at Sebastián, screaming something muffled under the fabric of his hood. Sebastián's fist struck his face. The head exploded backward, a burst of bone and brain spraying the ground with a grotesque noise. The body fell to its knees before collapsing forward, faceless.

Only one remained.

The fifth hooded figure trembled, the sacks still hanging from his shoulders. He fell to his knees, raising his hands as if he could stop the inevitable. His fingers were stained with white powder; his breathing was short, broken.

Sebastián seized him by the neck and dragged him to the center of the alley, where the dim lamppost light fell upon him like judgment. He threw him to the ground and leaned over him, his red eyes spinning with that perpetual tornado that left no room for lies.

—Tell me what you know.

The hooded man stammered, babbled nonsense, trying to find escape in the air. Sebastián stared at him in silence, then took his hand. The first finger cracked

with a dry snap. The scream filled the alley, ragged, sharp, a plea tangled with the night's echo.

—Tell me what you know.

—I… I don't… don't know… —the hooded man sobbed.

The second finger bent backward until it broke. The man screamed again, saliva and tears running beneath his hood.

—Tell me what you know.

The third was torn out at the root, a jet of blood staining the ground. The hooded man convulsed in pain, trying to pull away, but Sebastián held him with implacable calm.

—Tell me what you know.

Finally, between screams and sobs, the voice broke out like a collapse.

—We are many! Many! But we don't know the leaders… they never show their faces… never say names… They only give us routes… points… deliveries… Nothing else!

Sebastián pressed his chest with one hand, forcing him to hold his gaze.

—Where?

—There are bases… small ones… in other cities… depots… empty houses… but not here… here we only deliver… only distribute… there is no center… nothing else… that's all!

The man wept with the desperation of one who no longer hopes for salvation. His mutilated fingers hung useless, and his body trembled under the weight of every word.

Sebastián released him, letting him fall like a broken sack. Virka watched from the side, blood still fresh on her boots, her red eyes burning with a coldness almost amused.

—They break so easily. As if they never had bones.

Narka spoke at last, his voice grave like an iron bell.

—They hide names to protect chains. The links know they are replaceable. That is why they never look upward: they only deliver and obey.

Silence returned to the alley. Only the prisoner's broken panting remained, and the stench of blood soaking the air. Sebastián stored in memory every word, every clue, every shadow that could lead them to a greater nest.

The fat boss still lay unconscious in the puddle, unaware of the slaughter, yet dragged by the same inevitable current. And high above, invisible, the Watcher kept observing. It had not intervened. There was no judgment. Only a denser presence, ever closer, measuring how far flesh would go before invoking spirit.

The alley still stank of opened entrails and chemical dust. The mutilated courier sobbed, his breathing broken, his hands turned to bloody stumps by Sebastián's torture. He still tried to crawl, as if life had any way out for him. Sebastián watched in silence, with the calm of one weighing whether a broken object still had value. Then he lowered his hand and, with a single movement, seized the man's head and twisted it violently. The dry crack of the neck breaking filled the space like the strike of a hammer. The body convulsed faintly, and then lay still, abandoned like one more scrap in the darkness.

Virka tilted her head, her red eyes burning with a sardonic gleam.

—We already have one. Why keep another useless sack? —she said in a tone between mockery and certainty.

Sebastián did not answer. His gaze remained fixed on the corpse as if it were nothing more than trash. The fat boss, on the other hand, still lay unconscious in the puddle, breathing with difficulty. His mutilated body was still a tool, a living message that could be used later. Sebastián seized him again by the collar and dragged him effortlessly, leaving a damp trail behind on the ground.

—This one will serve —he said at last, without raising his voice.

Virka raised a brow, an icy smile tensing her lips.

—A heavy tool. We'll see if it's truly worth it.

Silence was broken by Narka's grave voice, deep as the vibration of a buried bell.

—Better one witness who remembers fear than a thousand corpses without tongues.

They moved a few more steps through the rotten city, crossing narrow passages where the air reeked of old smoke and fermented food. Hidden eyes peeked for a second from broken windows, then pulled back like rats when they saw them. No one wanted to meet their gaze. No one wanted to remember what they had seen.

It was Sebastián who spoke first, breaking the silence like a blade slicing fabric.

—We must decide what to do with the Blacksmiths. Killing them one by one will not be enough.

Virka scoffed with sarcasm, leaning a shoulder against the damp wall of a cracked building.

—Then let's go straight to the roots. Break every point, every throat, until nothing remains.

Sebastián stopped for a moment. His red eyes spun with that perpetual tornado that seemed to devour the shadows.

—No. This is not just massacre. It is strategy. We will advance alongside Helena and Selena.

The mention of Selena's name twisted Virka's expression with disdain.

—Her again? Do we need her approval to breathe?

Sebastián's voice remained firm, implacable.

—It is not approval. It is coordination. This cleansing is not ours alone. Information multiplies if we share it. If we advance alone, we waste the opportunity.

The air thickened with tension. Virka stepped closer, her red eyes glowing with the icy fury that always accompanied her.

—And if they only slow us down? If the blood grows cold while they decide what to do?

Narka intervened, his grave voice like an echo carrying centuries of erosion.

—Not all destruction has meaning if it is not guided. A blade without purpose is only noise. And you, Virka, still have debts pending in your master's dojo. Debts not paid with corpses in alleys.

The remark made her clench her jaw, though she did not reply. The mention of her robes, of her new place as disciple, floated like a shadow. Sebastián did not look at her, but he understood the weight of those words.

—The purpose does not change —he said in a low voice—. But the path must be drawn with measured steps.

He then pulled out the black phone Helena and Selena had given him. The screen glowed faintly, a strange radiance in the midst of decay. He held it for a moment, and in that reflection appeared his own red eyes, burning, perpetual. He dialed.

The line opened with the same coldness as always.

—Speak —Selena answered, without adornment, like a direct knife.

—We already have information —said Sebastián—. The Blacksmiths show no faces, no names. Only routes, delivery points. There are no centers here. Only shipments. We killed their couriers, left one alive to extract what we knew. It is done.

A brief, cutting silence preceded Selena's calculating voice.

—That matches what we have. Advancing alone would not be wise. We will maintain a low profile at the school. No one must suspect what we are doing. Helena and I will continue working from our side. You remain in motion, but do not burn all the pieces.

Virka, listening close, arched her brow with irony. She murmured under her breath:

—Always so cold.

Sebastián continued, ignoring the remark.

—We will keep it this way. There is no need to rush. The city offers nothing but trash. The next step will be elsewhere.

—Good —Selena said, dry—. Then we'll see each other soon. The cleansing continues.

The line cut. The screen went dark again, and the phone slipped back into Sebastián's pocket.

For a few seconds the only sound was the harsh dragging of the fat boss across the pavement. The air smelled of dried blood and smoke. Virka stepped forward, her red eyes gleaming with defiance.

—In the end it will always be our strength that decides. Not a phone.

Narka tilted his head, his voice like an ancient echo.

—Strength without direction is only a blind beast. And you know where blind beasts lead.

Sebastián said nothing. His boots struck the ground with calm rhythm, and the boss's body dragged behind like an inevitable burden.

The rotten city swallowed them once more. No one stopped them. No one asked. And high above, invisible, the Watcher kept observing. Closer. Heavier. And still not intervening.

The dragging of the fat boss's body was a constant rasping murmur, as if the entire city listened to the sound of his flesh scraping against the damp pavement. No one came out of houses. No one opened doors. There were only hidden eyes behind broken windows, held breaths behind peeling walls. The rotten city watched them pass as if watching specters that should never have been born.

The air was dense, thick with old soot and moisture. Sebastián walked at the front, pulling the wreck with the same calm with which he had torn bones minutes earlier. Virka followed at his side, her dark hair falling like a river into the gloom, the trench coat stained at the edges with blood that had not yet dried. On Sebastián's shoulder, Narka observed in silence, his golden eyes open like ancient fissures, as if reading the invisible that hid within the night.

Several minutes passed without words. The only dialogue was the dragging of the body and the dripping of blood. It was Sebastián who finally broke the silence, his grave voice cutting through the night like a blade.

—The girl… —he said without turning his face—. White hair. Brown strands. The one who tried to follow us.

Virka glanced at him from the corner of her eye, her lips tightening faintly. Sebastián continued, each word heavy, measured.

—You did not just look at her. You stopped her with your hand. You never do that. You never touch anyone who means nothing. Why her?

The silence that followed was different. It was not emptiness: it was contained tension. Virka turned her gaze toward the dark street, her expression hardened like stone.

—I don't know —she replied first, in a cold, evasive tone. But her red eyes carried a strange gleam, a tremor almost imperceptible.

Sebastián did not press with words. His steady gaze was enough. Virka drew a deep breath, and her voice, though firm, bore a deeper hue, a crack she rarely allowed to show.

—That girl… she reminded me of something I don't want to forget, nor accept.

Sebastián waited. Virka lowered her eyes for a moment, as if the puddled ground reflected back something she did not wish to see.

—The last time we were together —she said in an icy murmur—, my mark reacted. I felt it. As if something could awaken inside me. But afterwards… nothing. No life. Only emptiness.

The wind dragged dust and ash, and her voice seemed to float with it.

—And when I saw that girl… it was like seeing an echo of what could be our child. A shadow. A small body condemned to pain from the beginning.

Sebastián stopped in his tracks. The fat boss lay on the ground like a dead sack. His red eyes, swirling with that perpetual tornado, fixed on Virka with an intensity that sought not judgment, but truth.

—A child between us would be a miracle against logic —he said gravely—. My indomitable body. Your bestial blood. Everything we are defies nature. A birth would be the whim of fate, not a certainty.

Virka held his gaze, her eyes burning like embers in the gloom.

—And then? Must I resign myself to emptying every time I try? To having nothing?

Sebastián lowered his eyes slightly, not in surrender, but in recognition.

—Perhaps we don't need to wait for a miracle.

Virka narrowed her eyes, her voice a sharp whisper.

—You speak of her.

Sebastián nodded.

—Of that girl. We do not know her name. Only that she survives where no one should. She could be our daughter if we chose to make her so. Not of flesh, but of the blood we decide to give her.

There was a moment of silence. Virka turned her gaze away, biting her lip with a gesture she rarely allowed to escape.

—To give her our blood… to make her truly our daughter. Not as a substitute, but as creation.

Narka spoke at last. His voice was grave, deep, dragging centuries in every word.

—Blood does not make children. The weight shared does.

Virka looked at him with a flash of irritation, but Narka continued, unyielding.

—A child must not be an echo of the destruction that begot it. If you take that girl, it cannot be only to fill a void. It must be purpose.

Silence fell again, heavy as lead. Sebastián resumed dragging the fat boss, and the harsh sound of the body scraping against the ground accompanied the words that still lingered between them. Virka walked at his side, no longer speaking, but her eyes bore a different gleam, deeper, more human.

Narka closed his own, as if listening to something neither of the two could hear.

—Even among carrion, some lives insist on clinging. Perhaps that girl is one of them. Perhaps you are too.

The city did not respond. It only watched. And high above, invisible and dense, the Watcher was still there. Near. Implacable. And still silent.

The dead street stretched before them, a corridor of damp concrete and bricks that seemed to weep mold. The fat boss's body still dragged behind Sebastián, his flesh scraping against stones and puddles, leaving a filthy trail that blended with the city's dried blood. The silence was so absolute that each thud of the body against the pavement sounded like a funeral drum.

No one came out to look. No one asked. And yet Sebastián knew the eyes were there: behind broken glass, in the cracks of half-closed doors, in the gloom of the alleys. Gazes that saw and at the same time pretended not to have seen. It was the law of that rotten city: whoever observes too much, dies too soon.

They advanced several meters without speaking. Sebastián's breathing was steady, measured, and at his side Virka walked upright, her inhuman beauty standing out amid so much ruin. Her dark hair fell heavy over her shoulders, and her burning red eyes did not stray from the path. Narka, on Sebastián's shoulder, remained still, his golden gaze sunk into the invisible, as if reading the hidden folds of the night.

It was Sebastián who, without altering his stride, spoke in the same grave voice he used to dictate destiny.

—I want you to understand this well, Virka. I do not reject the idea of a child with you. I desire it. But not now.

The words were not gentle; they were heavy, like iron. Virka turned her face slightly, her eyes gleaming with an icy spark, but her silence urged him to continue.

—We have too many things open, too much noise around us. A child of ours… —he drew a deep breath, his red eyes spinning like a perpetual whirlpool— would be a miracle against the logic of what we are. And that miracle deserves better than the carrion we walk through now.

Virka kept her gaze fixed forward. Her stride did not falter, but her lips pressed together as if holding back a tremor.

—So… it's only a matter of waiting? —she said at last, her voice low, almost a sharpened whisper.

Sebastián nodded firmly.

—Yes. And in the meantime… I will not deny what we saw in that girl. The possibility is still alive. She may not be of our flesh, but she can be of our blood if we choose it.

A different silence opened between them. Not the hostile void of the city, but a pause charged with something they rarely shared: vulnerability. Virka tilted her head, and her red eyes glimmered with an ambiguous light, a mixture of desire and melancholy.

—If that moment comes… —she murmured— I want it to be real. Not an echo to soothe me. Not a shadow to replace what I could not give. I want it to be ours.

Narka then intervened, his grave voice breaking the calm like an inevitable judgment.

—A child is not born of flesh, nor of miracle. It is born of the weight one decides to carry. If you take her, it will be a new path, a thread that will change the others. And there will be no return.

Virka frowned at him, as if she wanted to silence him, but she did not. She knew there was truth in those words. Sebastián, on the other hand, inclined his head slightly, accepting what was said.

—Then we will walk with that purpose in mind. But not now. First, what we have pending.

He drew from his pocket the black phone Helena and Selena had given him. The faint glow of the screen lit his features for a moment, showing the brutal contrast between the modern and the misery of the surroundings. His fingers lingered on the device, not yet dialing, and his voice sounded lower, but with intact strength.

—We will ask them for information about the girl. They have eyes and sources we do not. That way we'll know where she is, what has become of her. It is not weakness, it is strategy.

Virka exhaled with a gesture between annoyance and acceptance.

—I don't like it. But if it's what ensures having her… I will accept it.

It was the first time she yielded so when mentioning Selena. Sebastián noticed, though he said nothing. Narka did comment, his voice falling slow like an echo into stone.

—Even jealousy can serve as foundation. What matters is the purpose that hides beneath.

The group kept moving. The dragging of the fat boss's body continued, leaving its signature of blood and rot. The city, meanwhile, kept watching from the shadows, mute and afraid.

And above, invisible, the Watcher's presence remained. Heavy. Immutable. Close as a breath. Still not intervening. But watching with the patience of one who knows that, sooner or later, flesh must face spirit.

The streets opened before them like a corridor without air, with blackened walls exhaling dampness and soot. The fat boss's body kept leaving an irregular trail on the ground, as if his flesh were carving scars into the cracked stones. There were no voices, only the dry scrape of that dragging and the crunch of scattered glass beneath Sebastián's boots.

The city seemed to devour itself. Doors without owners, darkened windows, crooked balconies trembling in the wind. There were eyes, yes, but they vanished as soon as they appeared: eyelids shutting before being discovered, gazes dissolving into dust. No one wanted to exist too close to them.

Sebastián walked steadily, without looking back. His free hand pulled out the black phone he had kept all this time, and the brief glow of the screen lit him like a crack in the night. Virka tilted her head at the sight of him dialing, her lips curving into a barely perceptible smile, made more of iron than tenderness.

Selena's voice came quickly, as sharp as ever.

—What do you need?

Sebastián did not delay.

—I want information. About a girl. White hair. With brown strands.

A silence opened on the other end, not incredulous, but calculating. The answer came without inflection.

—That is not part of the cleansing.

—I know —Sebastián replied, his tone firm—. Just record it. I want nothing more for now.

Selena's voice slid dry, like a blade across glass.

—I will put it in my notes, but do not confuse this matter with the board we are playing on.

—I don't confuse it. I only secure the piece —he closed.

The click of disconnection was as cold as the conversation itself. The screen went dark in his hand, and Sebastián put the device away without another word.

Virka scoffed, not with open rage, but with that twisted grimace that, in her, weighed more than any protest. Her shoulder tensed, as if she wanted to shake off an invisible burden. She said nothing, but the edge of her silence was enough for anyone to hear it.

Narka, from Sebastián's shoulder, spoke then. His voice was grave, drawn out, as if speaking from a depth with no end.

—A single life can bend the course of a river, even if it is born on the dirtiest shore. If that girl crosses your path again, she will no longer be a specter: she will be a current. And every current drags.

The dragging of the boss continued, harsh, drawing its path toward nothingness. The city behind them fell silent, as if at last emptied. And ahead, the night stretched without promises, yet heavy with decisions they had not yet spoken.

The blackened towers of the Dark City remained behind like ruins of an empire that never deserved to exist. The air, laden with soot and rancid smoke, grew thinner as they neared the edge: rusted factories, twisted chimneys, walls sweating dampness and dried blood. It was as if the city, being abandoned, shrank into itself, trying to devour itself before letting its executioners escape.

Sebastián stopped in a clearing of rubble, dropped the dragging weight, and looked at the fat boss's body. The puddle beneath him spread, soaking the stones with a stench that recalled boiled flesh. The boy did not hesitate. He lifted him with a single hand, slung him over his right shoulder like a sack of flour, and straightened again effortlessly. The naturalness with which he bore him was more insulting than the strength itself. On the other shoulder, Narka remained firm, golden and grave, balancing the tableau with a presence that needed no weight.

Virka crossed her arms for a moment, watching him, and her mouth curved into a barely perceptible smirk.

—That makes more sense —she said, with that irony of hers that always seemed like a blade—. Dragging him like trash already reeked of farce.

Sebastián did not answer. He bent his knees and, in a dry movement, leapt. His body crossed the distance and landed on the roof of a medium house, with a thud that resounded but did not shatter the tiles. His strength was contained in the discipline of his indomitable body. Virka followed with savage grace: a light jump, a precise arc, her jet-black hair floating for an instant before she landed beside him.

Below, the "normal" city unfolded. Neon lights flickered over half-open shops; cars rolled down wet streets, leaving trails of gray smoke; groups of people spoke quickly, with hollow laughter that sounded more like mechanisms than joy. No one looked up. No one wondered what shadow passed across their roofs. The human world had learned not to raise its gaze, to pretend the unknown did not exist.

Sebastián began advancing with measured leaps, roof to roof, carrying the boss as if he were a forgotten trophy. Virka moved at his rhythm, the flight of her body showing an elegance that had no right to exist amid so much rotting concrete. Narka, motionless on the opposite shoulder, seemed like a statue of obsidian and gold observing from another dimension.

—Look at them —murmured Sebastián as they crossed a block of low buildings—. Here they don't scream, like in the Dark. Here they smile, even though they know they're sinking.

Virka smiled, her fangs barely visible.

—Normal is always the worst disguise. In the other city, horror was naked. Here, they dress it as routine.

A leap carried them onto a wide rooftop, where rusted antennas swayed in the wind. From there, the view was clearer. At their feet, the city looked like an organism pretending to be alive: lit avenues, patrols circling, families locked inside brick boxes. Nothing seemed broken at first glance, but the rot lay beneath, breathing between the walls.

Narka spoke then, his voice dragging centuries of dust.

—An exposed corpse and one with makeup are still the same. The difference lies in how many deceive themselves into believing it still breathes.

The trio kept moving. They leapt over a bridge, then over low roofs, then over a complex of shadowed buildings. Below, people saw them only as blurs crossing swiftly, as if they were flashes of a storm no one wanted to acknowledge. The policemen smoking on corners did not look up: eyes trained to ignore always survived longer.

At last, they reached a high point, an abandoned office building at the city's edge. There, on the rooftop, they stopped. The fat boss hung limp over Sebastián's shoulder, barely breathing, unconscious. The wind blew freer here, without the concentrated stench of the Dark, without the perfumed rot of the normal city.

Before them the horizon opened. The road stretched like a cracked black tongue, sinking into the gloom. On either side rose barren hills, and beyond, a forest emerged in dark silhouettes: deformed trees, branches twisted like claws, a mantle of shadow covering miles. Nature was no relief: it was another mouth, open and waiting.

Sebastián did not look away.

—Here the mask ends.

Virka walked to the edge of the building, her red eyes reflecting the forest.

—And silence begins.

Narka closed his eyelids for a moment, as if listening to something they could not yet hear.

—Silence is more dangerous than screams. That is where spirit lurks.

The wind lashed the rooftop. The fat boss, limp, dripped blood onto the concrete. And the three, standing on the city's last frontier, looked at the open territory as one gazes at an inevitable abyss.

_____________________________________________________________________

END OF CHAPTER 32

The path continues…

New chapters are revealed every

Sunday, and also between Wednesday or Thursday,

when the will of the tale so decides.

Each one leaves another scar on Sebastián's journey.

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Thank you for walking by my side.

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