On the Path of Eternal Strength.

Dawn did not arrive with softness, but with a slow slash that split the sky. The blackness of the night cracked into gray streaks, and between them sprouted red threads that looked like poorly closed wounds. From the rooftop where they had stopped, the last frontier of the city lay behind like a consumed echo, and what stretched ahead was not rot nor neon lights, but the naked vastness of a land that breathed in another way.

Sebastián lowered the weight on his shoulders for a moment, only to adjust the position of the unconscious fat man. He carried him like a poorly tied sack, with a brutal naturalness that made it clear that, to him, there was no difference between a broken man and a lump of earth. Narka remained still on the other shoulder, golden and grave, with that serenity that seemed to belong to another time. Virka watched him from the corner of her eye while the dawn wind stirred her open trench coat; the fabric beat against her legs as if it too demanded movement.

The jump from the rooftop to the road was silent. Sebastián's muscles contracted with measured discipline and they landed on the cracked asphalt with the precision of a hammer that knows exactly where to strike. Virka followed effortlessly: her body curved in the air like a fragment of shadow, and her feet touched the ground with a lightness that contrasted with the brutality hidden beneath her skin.

The road stretched straight, endless. There was no traffic nor crowds, only a line of asphalt splitting the open land into two halves. On either side rose old fences, light poles aligned like tired soldiers, low grass bending to the passage of the wind. The silence was not that of the city that screams nor the one that lies: it was a wide, dilated silence, as if the world itself held its breath before what was about to walk through it.

The trio advanced. In the distance, barely perceptible in the dawn's half-light, scattered houses hinted themselves: tin roofs, walls of worn wood, light smoke escaping from some chimney. They were signs of minimal life, flashes of humanity that seemed too fragile to matter. None of the three slowed their pace; those signs were merely scars on a larger body.

A dog barked from a hill, skinny, chained, with a growl that quickly died out. From the door of one of the houses, a human silhouette barely showed a face, saw the young man carrying a body as if it were nothing and the red-eyed woman who accompanied him, and withdrew without a word. Doors closed by themselves, as if the air carried warnings no one dared to pronounce.

Sebastián did not avert his gaze for a single instant.

—Here there are no screams —he finally said, with a voice that dragged the dawn—. Only mute resistance.

Virka smiled, barely showing her fangs.

—Resistance is not life. They are insects stuck to the bark. The first strong wind rips them away.

Narka opened his eyelids a little wider, his golden gaze fixed on the horizon.

—The breadth of silence weighs more than any rot. Here there are no walls to contain the nothingness. The nothingness is everywhere.

They walked further. The road rose in a stretch and granted them a wider view: the fields stretched out like broken mantles, dotted with rusty fences, a stopped windmill, solitary trees that looked like bones emerging from the earth. Further ahead, barely perceptible under the first light, a small village hinted itself: five, six houses in a row, no streets, no noise. There was nothing more than that, and nothing else was needed.

Sebastián adjusted again the human sack he carried on his shoulder. The fat man's body bled little, only enough to leave a trace. That trace was no concern: in a vast country, blood on the earth disappears before anyone dares to ask where it came from.

Virka lifted her gaze toward the distant hills, where the dark line of the forest looked like a border painted by cruel hands.

—The country stretches, but it always ends in the same mouth —she murmured—. Every road leads to something that devours.

Sebastián nodded. His breathing was steady, his step firm, his red eyes glowing with that impossible calm that only precedes violence.

—And we will go to that mouth.

Narka closed his eyelids again, as if listening to voices they could not hear.

—The road is not wide out of generosity. It is wide because it wants them to forget how much remains.

The sun finished peeking out through low clouds, and the gray of dawn turned into a dirty yellow over the road. The shadows of the three stretched forward, extending like spears seeking to pierce the horizon. The city no longer existed behind them. Ahead, there was only vast land, scattered houses afraid to look, and a dark horizon that promised silence and hunger.

And they walked, without pause, carrying not only the broken man on the shoulder, but the entire weight of a country that seemed immense only to remind them that the immense also rots.

Dawn had finished opening, and the sky, though clearer, was still a sick canvas: yellow streaks and low clouds that looked like scabs on a wound too old. The road still stretched straight, bitten by sparse weeds and accompanied by fences that leaned with the resignation of those who no longer expect anyone to repair them. They had advanced far enough for the horizon to reveal another silhouette: not an immediate forest nor empty hills, but a cluster of reddish roofs rising together, as if the earth itself had pressed the houses so they would not fall apart. A village.

Sebastián walked in front, still carrying the mutilated body on his right shoulder. The fat man breathed weakly, but he breathed, his dried blood forming crusts on the cloth that held him. Narka, on the other shoulder, kept his gaze fixed, golden eyes that were not distracted by the landscape nor the blood: they watched what was beyond, as

Always. Virka, at his side, moved forward in silence. The cold morning air stirred her black strands, and the open fabric of the trench coat swelled with every gust as if she herself were made of wind.

When the village appeared clearer, Sebastián stopped. His red eyes turned like two dark whirlwinds as he measured the distance. There was a side path to the right, barely a dirt trail that sank into tall grasses and ended in a small puddle. It was not deep, just a stagnant pool from the rains, surrounded by mud and dry reeds. But it was enough.

With a sharp movement, Sebastián lowered the fat man from his shoulder and hurled him onto the path. The body fell heavily, rolled a few meters, and sank into the puddle with a thick noise. The water on the surface was stained with reddish blotches that soon dissolved into the muddy ground. There he remained, motionless, like a wounded animal swallowed by nature itself.

—He will not move —Sebastián said calmly. His voice was not a warning, but a sentence—. Without legs there are no roads. And this pool guards him better than we do.

Virka leaned slightly, her gaze fixed on the body sunken up to the waist. A faint smile crossed her face, but it was not mockery: it was cruel acceptance.

—Buried alive. A better fate than he deserved.

Narka narrowed his eyes, his grave voice dragging like ancient dust.

—Swamps are good guardians. What they hide never returns the same.

Sebastián adjusted the fabric on his shoulder, breathed deeply, and turned forward. The village was a kilometer away, perhaps less. The roofs became more visible, and the sunlight was already falling on the whitewashed walls and tiled roofs. Unlike the dark city, here there was color, even if it was a faded color. Unlike the normal city, here people did not run nor pretend with neon: here they resisted with the slowness of the countryside.

—Let's go —Sebastián ordered.

They advanced along the road until the cobblestones began to mark beneath their feet. On either side appeared scattered houses, first isolated and then closer together, as if the village received them in layers. Some had open windows; in others, fleeting faces peeked out only to vanish as soon as they recognized the strange figures approaching. Dogs barked from doorways, tense, and chickens scurried beneath worm-eaten wooden fences.

When they reached the heart of the village, the scene was different. A rectangular square, surrounded by low houses, a church at the back with bells that had rung not long ago, and several improvised stalls where people rose early to sell bread, fruit, dried meat. The colors were muted, nothing shone too brightly, but there was movement, there were voices.

Silence spread like a wave when Sebastián and his companions entered the square. People glanced at them from the corner of their eyes: at the tall young man, with red eyes that looked like contained storms; at the woman with jet-black hair, whose beauty had no human comparison; at the A strange being that rested on his shoulder like a fragment of another era. No one approached. No one spoke. Some parents took their children by the hand and pulled them aside, others lowered their eyes and continued pretending normality.

Virka breathed deeply and let out a low laugh, almost inaudible, that only Sebastián managed to notice.

—Look at how they cling to their routine. Bread, milk, bells… all as if that habit could save them.

Sebastián did not smile.

—Habit is their only wall.

Narka spoke from the shoulder, in a tone heavier than the air of the square.

—But a wall of habit collapses with the first real blow. And then they remember they were never safe.

They continued walking among the people. No one stopped them, no one asked anything. The entire market seemed to hold its breath as they crossed. Sebastián perceived the mixture of fear and curiosity in every evasive glance, and though he did not seek to impose himself, he knew that his mere presence was enough to twist the calm of that place.

They crossed the square, went down a side street of stone, and the village was left behind like a muffled murmur. Virka walked a little closer to Sebastián, her red eyes fixed on everything they had seen.

—In the end, they are no different from the cities —she said, almost with disdain—. They only disguise themselves as simple to avoid accepting the rot.

Sebastián did not respond. The silence of the countryside wrapped them again as they left through the other end, and the road, once more solitary, opened before them like a straight wound leading toward the hills and the dark stain of the forest still awaiting them.

The village did not awaken, it dragged itself. The bells had rung a while ago, but the sound still floated in the air as a reminder that even stones must obey an invisible schedule. Sebastián, Virka, and Narka advanced without haste, and though no one approached, the square itself seemed to open a path for them among the stalls and the murmurs.

The market was alive, but it was not noisy: it was a constant murmur, like the rustle of dry leaves. Freshly baked bread, ripe fruits, meat hanging from rusty hooks, cloths spread across improvised tables. Everything was laid out with the routine of centuries: calloused hands weighing measures, women folding cloths, children carrying buckets of water. And yet, every gesture stopped the moment they passed. As if what was normally habit suddenly became ritual under their eyes.

Sebastián observed the stalls as one who sees a language written in words he never learned. He touched a piece of bread, pressed it between his hardened fingers, and returned it without buying, as if he only wanted to confirm it was not stone. The vendor said nothing: she lowered her eyes, gathered her goods, and covered them with a cloth.

Virka, on the other hand, stopped in front of a table where faded-colored fabrics hung. Her long, tense fingers ran across the surface as if caressing something forbidden. The cloth clung to her skin as though it recognized in her a warmth it had not felt in years. She smiled, faintly, and then released the fabric as if she did not deserve to keep it.

—Even the simple seems strange —she murmured.

Narka spoke from Sebastián's shoulder, his tone dragging the weight of centuries.

—Markets are not places of abundance. They are altars of hunger. People do not buy, they offer. Each coin they leave is a piece of themselves given to a nameless god.

Sebastián's red eyes turned toward him, not in disagreement, but as one who confirms the obvious.

—And that god is never sated.

The silence around them grew denser. Some people began to cross themselves awkwardly, not with crosses, but by tracing circles over their chests, a gesture that seemed older. Others stepped back, as if those words had contaminated the air.

A sound then cut through the murmur: the tolling of a smaller bell, coming from the temple at the back of the square. It was neither a call to market nor a warning of danger; it was the reminder that faith still lingered there, claiming its space.

Sebastián turned his head. The temple was simple, but it rose with dignity: worn white walls, a small belfry of splintered wood, modest stained glass windows spilling fractured light in shades of red and blue. Upon the main altar, visible from outside, there was no cross, but a great dark sphere encrusted with tiny shining fragments, like stars trapped in stone. The form was imperfect, almost organic, yet it exuded a solemnity that commanded silence.

—I want to see —said Sebastián. It was not an order nor a curiosity, but an inevitable statement.

Virka looked at him with a raised brow, the red of her eyes burning like embers.

—See what? Another altar of promises that are never kept?

Sebastián held her gaze.

—Lie or not, it sustains this place. I want to know what chains bind them.

Narka closed his eyelids, and his voice came out like a sigh of stone.

—Temples are not refuges. They are cages that people build to lock in their fears and then call them gods.

And still, they walked. They crossed the rest of the square to the temple's entrance. No one stopped them. On the contrary: people stepped aside, some with eyes wide in fear, others bowing their heads as if the mere presence of those three had transformed the place into something older, more fearsome.

Inside, the gloom was thick. Lit candles illuminated the altar and the great sphere with its glittering inlays. The tiny lights seemed to throb faintly, as if

They seemed to breathe. The cross was not there; in its place, that cosmic form dominated the space with a silence that weighed heavily. A priest murmured litanies while a few faithful knelt on wooden benches. The air smelled of wax, of cheap incense, and of trapped dampness.

Sebastián walked to one of the front pews and remained standing, without kneeling. His red eyes fixed on the sphere as if he wanted to pierce through it.

—Is that their god? —he asked, without raising his voice.

The priest paused for a moment. His hands trembled over the missal, but he continued reading as if he had not heard.

Virka laughed dryly.

—A stone adorned with lights. If that is their god, no wonder it never answers.

An old woman kneeling nearby bent lower, murmuring frantic prayers. Then, something subtle occurred: the candles flickered all at once, as if an invisible draft had swept across the temple. The wooden roof creaked with a deep sound, and for an instant, the sphere on the altar seemed to shine a little stronger.

Narka, without opening his eyes, let his words fall like stones into a well.

—It does not matter the name of the god nor the shape of the altar. Prayers are always chains. The difference lies in how thick the iron is.

The priest closed the book and approached, with trembling steps. His eyes searched in Sebastián for something he did not wish to find.

—This place is sacred —he said, barely in a thread of voice.

Sebastián inclined his head slightly, without turning his eyes from the sphere.

—Every place is sacred if someone kneels long enough. And every place is profane if someone dares to look straight at it.

At that instant, the air grew heavier. The murmur of the faithful stopped. It was as if the sphere were breathing. No one moved. No one spoke.

Finally, Sebastián turned, and the three of them left the temple without anyone following. Outside, the daylight was clearer, but not warmer. The square returned to its murmur, though lower, as if the bells had been replaced by the held breath of the entire village.

Virka walked closer to him, her gaze fixed on the street opening toward the exit.

—Did your sphere of stars convince you? —she asked with sarcasm.

Sebastián did not reply. His red eyes looked forward, where the road resumed its course toward the wide horizon.

Narka, on the other hand, spoke with a firm voice, like a sentence:

—There are no gods here. Only twisted reflections of fear.

As they left the temple, the air of the village felt different. Not lighter, but denser, as if the sphere with stars had left an echo in the skin of those who had seen it. It was not

A physical weight: that kind of sensation that cannot be shaken off, like invisible dust that slips into the lungs and lingers in every breath.

They walked through narrower streets, moving away from the central square. Here the houses were lower, with damp tiled roofs, rotting wooden fences enclosing small gardens, and chickens pecking at the dry earth without looking at anyone. Life seemed normal in appearance, but beneath that normality was an expectant silence, as if everything seen in the temple still followed them.

Narka spoke first, his grave voice cutting through the stillness.

—It was not just a decorated stone. The sphere contained something.

Sebastián turned his face slightly. His red eyes still burned like restrained embers.

—Something?

—Energy. Interference. Not human. Not earthly. —Narka's words seemed to drag ancient dust—. It does not feed on candles or chants. It feeds on the faith surrounding it.

Virka let out a short laugh, though without joy.

—Then they were right to call it a god. Even if it is only a parasite in disguise.

Narka did not smile.

—Gods do not exist because of their goodness. They exist because of their hunger.

They walked in silence a few more meters. The cobblestones grew uneven; some houses had open windows, but no one peeked out. Dawn had advanced, lighting the streets with a dull glow that could not erase the shadows. Sebastián lowered his gaze to the ground for a moment, as if Narka's words had given shape to what he himself had felt, though without naming it.

—It does not matter if it is god or hunger —he said at last—. What matters is that it was there. And that it was watching us.

The last words lingered, and though none of the three repeated them, all knew they were true.

The village continued to show itself as simple: clothes hanging on lines, smoke escaping from chimneys, dogs lying at the doors. But then the noise came. First low, almost imperceptible. A cut-off lament. Then clearer: a muffled moan, a harsh struggle, the sound of something striking against a wall.

Virka stopped immediately, her red eyes spinning like blades.

—Did you hear it?

Sebastián tilted his head. Yes, now he perceived it: coarse voices, muffled laughter, and among them, the moan of a woman resisting.

Narka opened his golden eyes, and in them there was no surprise, only confirmation.

—Evil does not need temples. It lives in every shadow where someone believes no one sees.

The sound came from two or three houses ahead, down a side street. It was a narrow alley, where the walls seemed to lean toward each other, creating an artificial gloom even beneath the morning sun. There, behind a poorly closed door, the struggle was clearer: the ragged breathing of men, the muffled sobs of a woman.

Sebastián advanced, his steps echoing on the cobblestones like hammers. He did not run, but each step carried the firmness of one who had already decided. Virka followed close, her lips curved in a grimace that was neither smile nor mockery: it was contained fury, the kind that rarely found an excuse to be unleashed. Narka, from his shoulder, remained unmoving, but his voice fell over them both like a sentence.

—Even in the countryside, where they claim everything is simple, poison finds roots.

Sebastián stopped before the door. The sounds were clear: a muffled scream, the thud of a body against the ground, the panting of men who believed themselves untouchable. He closed his eyes for a moment, drew in a deep breath, and when he opened them, his pupils burned like holes of glowing coal.

Virka tilted her head, and in her voice vibrated an edge of iron.

—See? They also pray here, only their god is another: the power of the strongest.

The silence in the street was sepulchral. No neighbor came out. No window opened. Everyone knew what was happening, and everyone kept quiet, as if the entire village were accustomed to looking away.

Sebastián pressed his hand against the wooden door. The struggle continued inside, men laughing, the woman weeping between gasps. The wood trembled beneath his palm.

—Evil always speaks the same language —Sebastián said, in a tone so low it seemed like a contained growl.

And the air in the alley grew heavier, as if even the sphere from the temple, from afar, had stretched its shadow to reach them there.

The alley was dead with noise. Outside, the village seemed to hold itself in a complicit silence, one that weighed as much as the prayers still echoing from the temple. No one came out, no one asked, no one dared. The narrow street sank into shadow, with houses leaning inward as if to hide what was happening inside one of them. Sebastián stepped forward a few paces, and Virka followed with her gaze alight, her lips taut in a grimace that was neither smile nor threat.

The struggle inside the house was evident: coarse laughter, the sound of a body striking the floor, and the broken voice of a woman barely managing to resist. The stench of cheap wine seeped through the cracks of the door, mingled with sweat and the old dampness of the wood. Sebastián raised his hand, closing his fist slowly. Virka and Narka understood: absolute silence.

And then the words emerged, shameless, unmasked:

—Let her learn what happens when you don't pay the casino.

—Coins get lost, but flesh always pays.

The phrases cut through the air like rusted knives. Virka clenched her fists, the crack of her knuckles echoing like bones breaking. Sebastián turned his eyes slightly toward her: his red pupils swirled with calm, but within that calm burned a sentence. Narka, from his shoulder, opened his golden eyelids. His voice was a fissure in stone:

—This is not an isolated crime. It is the root of something greater. Where there are wagers, there are chains. And where there are chains, there is always a throne.

Sebastián drew a deep breath, as if the old one's words had given form to what he already sensed. He lowered his gaze for an instant, then lifted his head.

—If there is a casino, there are owners. And if there are owners, there is a throne.

Virka did not wait any longer.

—And I want to see it crumble.

Sebastián pressed his hand against the wood. The door trembled under his palm as if it knew what was about to happen. The screams inside continued, the men's laughter mingling with the woman's sobs, and every sound was another nail in the coffin of their fate.

The door yielded to a blow. It was not a crash, but a dry roar, as if the very foundations had agreed to open. The inside greeted them with a nauseating scene: four men, sweating, their skin reddened by alcohol, surrounding a woman whose clothes were half torn. The floor was stained with wine and vomit, the walls thick with rancid smoke. For an instant, time stopped: the laughter froze, the hands hung in the air, the eyes opened with animal surprise.

Virka did not wait for an order. Her body hurled forward like a fragment of burning shadow. The first of the men barely managed to raise his arm: her claws tore through him from chest to back, rending flesh and bone in a single motion. The heart was trapped in her hand, beating once before being ripped out violently. Blood sprayed in a dark arc, striking the wall and staining the wood with a crimson gleam.

The second tried to retreat, stumbling against a table. Virka reached him in an instant: one claw in the stomach, another in the chest, and she lifted him into the air like a broken doll. His scream cracked in his throat before the heart was torn from his body. He fell to the floor with his eyes open, still unable to comprehend what had happened.

The third hurled an improvised knife, but Virka turned with lethal elegance. The weapon bounced off the wall. She lunged at him, seized him by the jaw, and pinned him against the table. Her claws pierced the side of his chest with surgical precision. When she pulled, she tore the heart free with such force that blood drenched her face. She did not flinch. She let it fall to the floor as one throws away a rotten fruit.

In seconds, three bodies lay dead, their chests torn open, entrails scattered. Virka rose in the middle of the room, drenched in blood, her eyes blazing with contained fury. She was a beast and a queen at the same time, lethal and beautiful in her brutality.

Sebastián had not moved until then. The fourth man still held the woman, trying to use her as a shield. His hands trembled, but not from compassion: from fear. His eyes searched for an exit that did not exist. Sebastián advanced, and each step was a sentence.

The man retreated, dragging the woman with him, but the young man was faster. He struck with the back of his hand, a movement as simple as it was devastating. The attacker's body flew against the wall, the woman was freed and collapsed to the floor, crawling into a corner. Sebastián seized him by the neck and crushed him against the wood.

The woman, curled up, watched with wide, terrified eyes. She thought she had seen monsters in the men who had attacked her. Now she saw something worse: a monster that did not ask, did not beg, did not justify itself. It only imposed.

Sebastián fixed his gaze on the prisoner.

—Speak. Where is your boss? Where is the casino?

The man spat blood, but no words. Sebastián did not frown. He only raised his hand, seized one of his fingers, and with a sharp pull, tore the nail out completely. The scream was harrowing, reverberating against the walls.

—Where is your boss? —Sebastián repeated, with the calm of an executioner.

The man shook his head, gasping. Sebastián tore out another nail. Blood spurted, the screams filled the room.

Virka watched in silence, her eyes burning, but without intervening. She had killed, with the fury of the beast. Sebastián tortured with calm, with the coldness of one who knows each pain is a coin of information.

Narka spoke from the shoulder, his deep voice resonating amidst the screams.

—Every lie deserves its price. And every truth as well. The difference is who can endure the payment.

The woman covered her mouth with both hands, trying not to scream, but her eyes followed everything, unable to close. Terror paralyzed her. She thought she had been saved, but salvation had the face of horror.

Sebastián tore out another nail. The man wept, begged, tried to speak, but the words were incoherent. With one last pull, Sebastián ripped out the fourth nail and forced him to talk.

—Casino! —the man whimpered, spitting blood—. Outside… in the hills… a basement… they take the money there… the bosses never show themselves!

Sebastián watched him in silence. Every word confirmed what he had imagined: this was not an isolated act, but part of something greater, a hidden network beneath the skin of the country.

The man whimpered, gasping, hanging against the wall like a broken puppet. Sebastián released him, and he collapsed to the floor, writhing.

The woman remained in the corner, curled up, her tears mixed with sweat. Her eyes said everything: gratitude and terror at the same time. She had been saved, but the price of that salvation was to witness what no human should ever see.

Virka wiped the blood from her hands, smearing it across her own clothes without care. Her voice was a frozen blade:

—Now you know what lies behind the laughter.

Narka closed his eyes, as if listening to a distant echo.

—An echo begins here. And it does not fade easily.

Sebastián leaned over the dying man, his voice low, like a final sentence.

—Then we will go to the casino. And we will see who sits on that throne.

Silence returned to the house. Three bodies without hearts lay on the floor. The fourth breathed with difficulty, mutilated and broken. The woman still trembled in the corner. And the air was saturated with blood, sweat, and fear, as if the world itself had witnessed the birth of something that could no longer be stopped.

The man's scream had become a broken gasp, a hollow sound with no strength left for words. Each torn nail had been a piece of life escaping in shrieks, until he hung like a sodden puppet, barely held together by Sebastián's grip. His eyes rolled in search of mercy, but in the young man's red eyes there was no room for such a language. He had said everything. He had confessed. And still, in that calm that seemed more cruel than any fury, Sebastián knew there was still a closure pending.

He released the man for an instant, only to change the angle. Then he seized him by the neck with both hands. His fingers sank into the soft flesh like claws of iron. The tortured man managed a final moan, half plea, half delirium. And then, with a sharp, devastating pull, the neck gave way. The crack of splitting vertebrae echoed like branches snapping in a dead forest. The head came free with inhuman ease, and as it did, the spine followed, still wet, glistening with the viscosity of exposed marrow.

Blood burst in an immediate jet, striking the wall, drenching the floor, soaking Sebastián's feet. The head remained held in his hand, the eyes still wide, frozen in a mask of terror. The body collapsed with no strength, hitting the ground with a dull thud, like an empty sack of flesh.

Sebastián held the head a few seconds longer, gazing at the face that no longer breathed. There was no anger in his expression, no satisfaction, no relief. Only calm. Like one who tears out a Like a weed torn out and cast aside without ceremony. He released the head, and it rolled until it stopped at the knees of the decapitated corpse, as if fate itself wished them to recognize one another in their end.

The woman in the corner could barely breathe. Her knees were pulled against her chest, her trembling hands covering her mouth. Tears streamed down her face, but it was not weeping from pain: it was the weeping that bursts when the body can no longer bear what the eyes behold. She had been a victim, nearly destroyed, and had hoped salvation would take the form of relief. But what she saw was another kind of monster, one that did not hide, that needed no disguise. Sebastián and Virka were saviors and executioners, flesh and steel at once. Gratitude and terror coexisted in her like mixed poisons.

Virka stepped into the center of the room. Her breathing was calm, though blood still dripped from her claws. She ran her tongue across one of her fingers, tasting the metallic flavor, and let out a dry laugh.

—Fear smells better when it's fresh —she said, without looking at anyone in particular.

Narka, from Sebastián's shoulder, opened his golden eyelids. His voice dragged the gravity of centuries.

—Every echo needs an end. And this one has had it.

Sebastián did not answer. He turned and walked toward the door. Virka followed, leaving a trail of red footprints on the floor. The woman did not move. She did not even try to speak. She remained in her corner, turned into a living statue, a useless witness to a truth she would never know how to tell.

The street was in absolute silence. The entire village seemed to hold its breath. No doors or windows opened. No one peered out. The people knew what had happened, sensed it, felt it in the air, and yet refused to acknowledge it. Silence was their only defense, the only mask they could raise against the monsters who had walked their streets.

Sebastián and Virka advanced without hurry, but not with slowness either. They did not hide, they did not lower their heads. They walked as what they were: presences that needed no disguise. The air around them felt heavier, burdened with a respect born not of honor, but of fear.

They continued until they left the alley behind. The village faded little by little, its murmurs drowned by the echo of their steps. The road opened again before them like a long, straight wound. And there, to one side, waited the muddy path where they had left the fat boss hidden.

The mutilated body was just as they had abandoned it, sunken in the puddle, the water stained in a dark circle around him. He barely breathed, but he breathed. Pale skin, swollen flesh, a face disfigured by pain. He was a living husk, a reminder that not all punishments kill at once.

Sebastián lifted him with a single hand, slinging him once more over his shoulder as if he were a sack of flour. The fat man whimpered weakly, but the sound was muffled by the movement.

Virka stepped a few paces ahead, watching the road. Her red eyes burned, not with the fury from before, but with that animal alertness that never left her.

—The village will keep breathing as if nothing happened —she said, with icy sarcasm—. They'll keep selling bread, milking cows, praying before their sphere of stars. And they'll pretend they never saw us.

Narka answered, his voice like an echo:

—That is their strength and their damnation. Fear is the cement of their world.

Sebastián adjusted the weight on his shoulder.

—It doesn't matter what they think. What matters is what comes next.

The sun had already risen higher on the horizon. The light bathed the fields, but it was a sickly light, washed-out, incapable of warmth. The road toward the hills stretched ahead, and in that horizon awaited what the prisoner had confessed: a hidden basement, a clandestine casino where money, violence, and power were intertwined.

The air changed with that single thought. It was not just another place to tear apart. It was new territory: a step into a hidden world that lived parallel to the cities and villages. A world of wagers, of invisible masters, of unwritten hierarchies. A world that, for the first time, was not only an enemy: it was an opportunity.

Virka walked at his side, still stained with blood, her trench coat open to the wind. Her lips curved into a crooked half-smile.

—Casino, bosses, throne… sounds like a good game.

Sebastián did not look at her, but his voice was a stone cast into the void:

—It is not a game. It is the beginning.

Narka closed his eyes, as if listening to a distant echo the others could not perceive.

—Every kingdom is born in silence. But when it breathes, the world feels it.

The road stayed open. They left behind the village, the temple's sphere, the market's murmurs, the torn-out hearts. They left it all as an echo that no longer belonged to them. And they advanced toward the hills, carrying with them a sack of mutilated flesh, a name that would soon resound with fear, and a destiny already beginning to be written under another title: the Crimson Emperor of the underworld.

The path to the hills announced itself with no signs, no markers. It was a trail opening between dry shrubs and hard soil, as if the ground itself knew it was not meant to be walked by just anyone. The sun had already climbed to a high point, but its light remained diseased, unable to warm. Everything seemed painted with a coarse brush, one that knew only grays, browns, and dull ochres.

Sebastián walked first, the fat boss dangling from his shoulder like a burden without redemption. The man whimpered now and then, but his breathing quickly drowned in short gasps, as if every inhalation were a loan the world was about to deny him. Narka stayed perched on the other shoulder, heavy as an ancient bell, while his golden eyes slid over the landscape with a calm that was not indifference: it was judgment. Virka walked to the side, light-footed, her trench coat open and her dark hair falling over her black shirt, the dried blood still clinging to her hands like a second skin.

—The world believes the hills keep silence —said Virka, with a crooked smile—. But silence is only another disguise.

—Every disguise has a cost —Sebastián replied.

Narka inclined his head, and his voice came like stone dragged by water.

—What we seek here is not a disguise. It is the place where people let chance decide how it devours them. A basement full of willing slaves.

The wind carried them the smell of old dampness, of rotten wood, of extinguished tobacco. These were not the scents of the countryside, but traces of a hidden place, where the very air had been storing secrets for centuries.

The path opened into a clearing where an abandoned barn rose. There were no cows, no wheat, no tools hanging on the wall. Only aged wood and a silence that knew too much. On the façade there were no signs, no marks, no symbols: that was its greatest seal. Absence was its announcement.

From the shadows emerged the first men. Hoods low, faces barely visible, hidden weapons that did not need to be shown. They did not raise alarms nor point knives. They only watched, like dogs who immediately recognize the hierarchy of another predator.

Their eyes fixed on the burden Sebastián carried. The fat man whimpered, his dangling flesh shaking like a poorly stitched sack. None of the guards were surprised. One of them smiled with irony, showing stained teeth.

—There are always codes here —he said in a deep voice—. The dress code demands entering clean. The code of tribute tolerates blood. It's all the same.

Virka raised an eyebrow, sarcasm lit in her gaze.

—Then we've brought the right clothes.

The men did not reply. The one who seemed to lead gave a brief nod. The barn's side door opened on its own, pushed from within. A staircase descended into darkness, exhaling air damper than the one outside.

Sebastián did not stop. He entered calmly, his steps firm on the wood that no longer creaked, because it had grown accustomed to bearing worse weights. Virka followed close, her silhouette fitted among shadows, and Narka on his shoulder kept his eyes closed, like one listening to resonances the others could not perceive.

The staircase led them to the underground. There the world shed its skin. The light was yellow, fractured, hanging from low lamps that did not so much illuminate as carve out shapes. The air was thick with tobacco smoke, cheap perfume mixed with expensive sweat, with coins and bills that had passed through too many hands. The sound was a strange music: chips clattering against each other, cards folding like useless prayers, dice rolling like happy rats.

The clandestine casino opened into several connected rooms. Circular, rectangular, and oval tables, each surrounded by men and women who played more with their eyes than with their hands. The suits were cheap, the dresses hastily cut, but all of them sat with the solemnity of miniature kings. Smoke wrapped the low ceilings like an artificial sky.

And still, no one flinched at seeing them arrive. No one was shocked by the living corpse Sebastián carried on his shoulder. From the corner of their eyes, some looked at him with the indifference of those already accustomed. Others barely shifted chairs with the tip of a shoe, not out of courtesy, but to let the blood trace its path in peace if it happened to drip.

A thin man, in a dark suit with a poorly knotted tie, approached with a smile too rehearsed. His skin smelled of tobacco, his voice of counted coins. He did not say "welcome," nor "what are you doing here." He said what was fitting.

—If you bring flesh, it is also a wager. The house understands.

Sebastián let the fat man's weight fall at his feet. The mutilated man whimpered, barely conscious, and his blood marked a small circle on the floor. Sebastián did not look at him again. He was not a person: he was tribute, a pass.

—We bring reason —Sebastián said, dry.

The host smiled again, but that smile never reached his eyes.

—Then come in. Here no one asks why something drips. Blood is neutral if it knows where to fall.

Virka laughed silently, her lips barely curved.

—I like this place's etiquette.

Narka opened his eyes, his golden pupils gleaming under the nearest lamp.

—Every etiquette is a chain. And every chain ends up serving someone. The question is who.

Sebastián did not reply. His red eyes turned slowly, observing the tables, the faces, the gestures of those players. And in that silence it became clear they did not enter as strangers: they entered as those who already belonged. The casino swallowed them without resistance, as if it had been waiting for them all along.

Smoke was the true master of the basement. It did not move fast, nor stir like in the taverns of the village; here it floated slowly, like a veil that knew it had to conceal and reveal at once. The yellow lamps hung low, each one marking a circle of murky light over the tables, while the rest remained sunken in shadow. The air was dense: it smelled of cheap tobacco mixed with more expensive perfumes, of the sweat of those who had not slept in days, and of the rusted metal of coins that had changed hands too many times.

The trio moved through the hall as if they had inhabited it for centuries. Sebastián still carried the weight of invisible chips he was already thinking of claiming; Virka followed with her gaze alight, indifferent to the filth staining the floor; Narka on his shoulder looked more like a statue than a living being, but his golden eyes absorbed every detail.

The tables were altars. Some showed dice rolling with an oily gleam; others, cards marked with symbols impossible to read without dark training; in certain corners they wagered not with coins but with pieces of metal etched with signs of debt. One table, set apart, had chips moved with great care: each color meant something different, and the players spoke little, but their silence said everything.

—This place is not chance —murmured Narka, with a voice like a deep echo—. It is a factory of chains. And every chain demands its neck.

A thin man, in a dark suit and crooked tie, approached them. His face was worn with the look of one who had seen too many attempts at deceit. His smile was not kind, it was protocol. He observed them as if he already knew who they were, but he did not ask.

—I have not seen you before at our tables —he said, with measured voice—. Have you played already?

—No —Sebastián answered calmly.

—Never —added Virka, with a half-smile that carried more venom than sincerity.

The host inclined his head slightly.

—Then the house is obliged to teach you how blood moves here.

He pointed to one of the tables with chips. In the center lay a metal bowl, the pieces stacked in small towers. Each color had a different weight:

—White —said the man, brushing one with his fingertip—. Basic units.

—Red —he continued, taking another—. Blood: it is paid with wounds, cuts, an immediate physical price.

—Gold —he lifted another—. Organs, lifetime, favors of weight. What cannot be recovered.

—Black —lastly, he held it without showing it too much—. Absolute debts. When you fall here, you don't wager what you have, you wager what you are.

He placed the chips back into the bowl, and his smile tightened.

—The house never loses. If you cannot pay in units, you will pay in flesh, memories, children, dreams. Whatever weighs enough. That is the law that keeps this place standing.

Sebastián listened in silence. His face did not change, but his red eyes turned slowly, attentive to every word. Virka let out a soft laugh.

—I like it. They don't pretend here.

The host observed them again, weighing them.

—To begin, you need chips. The minimum entry is a tribute: you must show you understand what it costs to sit.

Sebastián raised his hand. He slipped his fingers into his pocket with a calm, almost careless gesture. In truth, it was a calculated move: the ring on his finger glimmered faintly, invisible to common eyes, and from within it appeared what he needed. When he withdrew his hand, he carried a thick bundle of bills wrapped in leather bands. Units.

The man arched an eyebrow. Money was not rare, but seeing it appear with such ease was. Sebastián extended the bundle.

—One hundred thousand units.

The host took the money with both hands, almost with respect. He placed it on a metal tray, and within seconds stacks of chips appeared before them: white towers, some red, and a pair of golden ones. A physical reminder of what they had already put at stake.

—Do not forget —the man said—. Each color is a promise. And every promise here bleeds.

Sebastián picked up the chips and held them for a moment. They sounded like small bones clattering together. Virka looked at them with delight, as if they were poisoned candies.

—And the etiquette —the host added, scanning them from head to toe—. You cannot play dressed like this. The house demands presence. Common clothing does not enter the high tables.

Virka arched her brows.

—You want us to dress up?

—It is not disguise. It is respect. The house sells and rents proper attire. The cost is part of the tribute.

Sebastián did not argue. He drew his hand from his pocket again. Another bundle of units fell onto the tray, as if it had always been there. The host nodded and led them into a side room.

It was a long chamber, with mirrors multiplying their silhouettes, and racks hanging suits and dresses as if they were hunted trophies. The attendants moved silently, offering the garments without need for words.

Sebastián chose a black tuxedo with a light blue shirt that made the perpetual red of his eyes stand out. The suit did not soften his presence: it sharpened it. Virka took a red dress, tight, covered in golden sequins that reflected the yellow light like burning embers. She wore it with the calm of one who dons another weapon.

Narka did not change: his form needed no clothing. His gaze alone was enough to make even the attendants avoid meeting his eyes.

Once dressed, Sebastián collected their previous clothes: the black shirt, Virka's trench coat, the boots dusted with the ruined city. With a barely perceptible gesture, he stored them inside his storage ring. No one understood what he had done, but the host knew better than to ask.

They returned to the hall. The noise was the same: dice, cards, chips, restrained laughter. But something had changed: now they walked dressed like predators newly admitted into the pack. Some players lifted their gaze; not to judge, but to recognize.

The host smiled one last time.

—Remember: here no one plays to win. Here they play to see how much they can lose before disappearing.

Sebastián made the chips clatter in his hand. They sounded like tiny skulls knocking together. Virka smiled, lips alight. Narka closed his eyes and murmured, as one dictating a sentence:

—Every echo has a price.

And the casino swallowed them whole, as if they had always belonged to its underworld.

The smoke still weighed like a low ceiling as Sebastián and Virka delved deeper into the hall. The invisible music of the chips marked an irregular rhythm, and each table seemed a different altar: dice like rats running in circles, cards marked with symbols that looked like scars, wheels spinning like hungry mouths. But it was another table that caught their steps: rectangular, covered in dark green, where the sound of cards slicing the air carried a particular edge.

The dealer shuffled with the skill of one who dealt not only games, but destinies. His thin hands seemed to float, folding the cards effortlessly, and the players watched him with the faith of prisoners before a kind jailer. The board did not lie: it was Blackjack, the game of twenty-one, the minimal dance between chance and calculation.

Sebastián stopped before the table. His red eyes turned slowly, evaluating every detail. Virka, at his side, leaned forward slightly, the red fabric of her dress gleaming under the yellow light as if it breathed fire. The dealer lifted his gaze; his smile was neither welcome nor threat: it was custom.

—Do you wish to play? —he asked, in a soft voice that did not hide fatigue.

—Yes —answered Sebastián, with cold calm.

—Of course —added Virka, her lips curved in a grimace mixing amusement and challenge.

The dealer nodded, but his eyes drifted toward their empty hands.

—Every bet requires chips. With what do you wish to play?

Sebastián did not hesitate. He shifted his shoulder slightly, letting the still-living body of the fat boss fall to the floor. The man whimpered, a broken sound like shards of glass in his throat. Sebastián pointed at him without dramatics, as if indicating just another object in the room.

—With him. Everything he's worth.

The dealer was not surprised. He only raised an eyebrow, and with a subtle gesture summoned two men waiting in the shadows. They wore black jackets, unadorned; their faces were

Tired masks. They carried with them metal boxes, glass tubes, and a scale that looked more like an altar than an instrument.

They knelt beside the fat man and began the process of appraisal. One opened the neck with a small tool, collecting blood into transparent flasks that glimmered under the lamp. The other palpated organs, taking quick measurements with rusted instruments. The fat man screamed, but no one in the hall flinched: screams were just another sound of the casino.

The dealer spoke with the same naturalness as a schoolteacher.

—Here every body is calculation. Blood is weighed into red chips, organs into golden chips. There can be no mistake; the house knows the worth of every fragment.

The men worked without wasting time. Within minutes, they presented the result on the table: eighteen red chips lined in a low tower, and ten golden chips stacked like a small dark sun. The dealer observed them, and his voice was final.

—Total: twenty-eight chips. Eighteen red, equivalent to nine thousand units. Ten golden, equivalent to fifty thousand units. Fifty-nine thousand in total.

The chips gleamed under the light as if they had a life of their own. Sebastián took them and let them fall onto the cloth with a hollow sound. Then, without needing to discuss it, he divided them into two equal piles. He pushed one toward Virka.

—Fourteen for you. Fourteen for me.

Virka slid hers toward her space with a dangerous smile.

—Just what I needed.

The dealer, satisfied with the exchange, inclined his head slightly.

—Now then, shall I deal?

Sebastián looked him in the eyes.

—I want you to teach me first. I don't know the rules.

There was a murmur among the nearby players, but the dealer did not mock. On the contrary, his smile widened, like that of a priest welcoming a new convert.

—Blackjack is simple. Each card has a value: from two to ten, their number. The face cards are worth ten. The Ace can be worth one or eleven. Two cards are dealt to each player. The goal is to get close to twenty-one without going over. If you exceed it, you lose automatically. If you are closer than the dealer, you win. You may ask for extra cards or stand. And one detail: if you receive an Ace and a face card on the first hand, it's Blackjack. That pays double.

Virka laughed softly, leaning toward Sebastián.

—A game of adding bones. Perfect for you.

—And for you —he replied, without taking his eyes from the table.

The dealer pointed to two empty seats in front of him.

—I have space for two. Do you wish to sit?

—Yes —said Sebastián, his voice firm.

—Of course —added Virka, almost like a challenge.

They settled into their seats, Virka's dress gleaming like a dagger wrapped in silk, Sebastián's tuxedo fitted like a second predator's skin. They placed their chips before them. The small towers of red and gold looked like hearts beating on the table.

The dealer shuffled again, his hands dancing over the deck with hypnotic fluency.

—Ready to begin?

—Yes —they both said, almost in unison, though their tones were different: Sebastián, cold as iron; Virka, with playful hunger.

The dealer cut the deck.

—Then let twenty-one speak.

The cards began to slide across the felt, and with them, the echo of a new game broke through the casino's penumbra.

The air of the casino vibrated with a new murmur as Sebastián and Virka took their seats before the dealer. The stacked chips before them were stone hearts, pulsing under the yellow light. The green felt looked like a different battlefield, not stained with blood but with numbers and decisions.

The other players were already set: seven in total, men and women with worn gazes, each holding their small towers of hope disguised as chips.

—Bets on the table —the dealer ordered, shuffling with hands that seemed made of smoke.

Sebastián took one golden chip and two red ones, sliding them forward with calm. Value: five thousand units. Virka mirrored him, her long fingers brushing the felt as if caressing a new weapon. Five thousand as well. Around them, the other players placed their stacks: some wagered little, barely enough whites not to be excluded; others risked reds, trusting in a faceless luck.

The dealer dealt the cards with smooth movements, like an executioner who lingers the blade so the condemned might believe there is beauty in his death. One to each player, one to himself. Another round after. The cards lay on the felt like open wounds.

Sebastián lifted his: a ten. A five. Total: fifteen.

Virka looked at hers: a queen and a ten. Total: twenty.

The dealer left his first card visible: a four. The other lay face down, pure silence.

The murmur dimmed a little as the round of decisions began.

The first player, a thin man with the gaze of a starving dog, had sixteen. He asked for a card. He received an eight. Twenty-four. He went over. He struck the table in anger and pulled his hands back.

The second, a woman with tight lips, had nineteen. She stood. Her eyes gleamed with fragile faith.

The third had twelve. He asked. They gave him a nine. Twenty-one exactly. He smiled like a freshly painted corpse.

The fourth, an old man with trembling fingers, had thirteen. He asked. He was given a ten. Twenty-three. Over. He leaned back, resigned.

The fifth had twenty. He stood, confident, as if he could already smell victory.

Then came Sebastián's turn. He looked at his fifteen with the calm of one staring at an enemy that has not yet bled.

—Card —he said.

The dealer slid a ten in front of him. Twenty-five. Too much. Sebastián did not blink. He only withdrew his hand, accepting the loss like one letting a knife fall into a well.

After, Virka. Her twenty was a fortress. The dealer looked at her.

—Do you stand?

She smiled, her lips alight under the lamp.

—I need nothing more.

The dealer nodded.

The cards went back to the others. The seventh player had seventeen. He hesitated, asked. Received a five. Twenty-two. Lost. He cursed in silence.

At last, the dealer revealed his hidden card. It was a six. His total: ten. He asked for another. He received an eight. Eighteen. Not enough.

The table tensed. The winner was clear.

The player with exact twenty-one smiled and collected his payout, satisfied like a thief who managed one coin more than expected. But the true gaze of the room fell upon Virka. Her solid twenty had beaten the dealer. The red and golden chips slid toward her, clinking like bells of victory.

The other players looked at her in surprise. She was the newcomer, the woman dressed in red and gold who seemed made to set the place ablaze. That she won should not have been so rare, but it was. And that the man beside her, with red eyes and a face of stone, had lost, was even more unsettling.

Virka gathered her winnings with calm, stacking the chips before her. She did not caress them nor flaunt them; she simply let them gleam under the light as if they were witnesses to a secret. Then she looked at Sebastián, with that proud spark that was not mockery, but affirmation.

—This time —she said in a low voice, almost purring— the victory is mine.

Sebastián held her gaze. There was no anger in his eyes, only a cold gleam, a calm that could be mistaken for tenderness but was pure competitiveness. He smiled faintly, a smile that was not whole, but a curved blade.

—Enjoy it —he murmured—. Next time I won't lose.

He leaned toward her and kissed her, brief but firm, like one sealing a blood pact. The gesture was not intimate in the human sense: it was a shared challenge, a way of promising war in the future. Virka returned it with a spark of fire in her eyes, taking the kiss as though storing another victory upon her skin.

Narka, from the shoulder, did not speak aloud. His thought filtered into both of them, deep and ancient, like an echo born of the abyss:

—Even chance demands its tribute.

The murmur returned to the table. Some turned their eyes away, uncomfortable at that mixture of sensuality and threat. Others watched more closely, recognizing they were not mere players: they were predators disguised as guests.

The cards were gathered. The deck was shuffled again. The dealer showed no emotion, only asked, as if nothing had happened:

—Do you wish another hand?

And so, between the taste of triumph and the sting of defeat, the true game began to breathe.

The murmur of the casino still floated in waves when the dealer shuffled again, but something changed in the air before the cards touched the felt. The crowd around the tables parted slightly, as if an invisible wind moved among them. And then he appeared.

The man walked calmly, without looking to the sides, as if he knew he needed no announcement. His pace was neither quick nor slow: it was the pace of someone who knew himself master of time. The dark suit he wore did not shine, but it did not look worn either; his face bore wrinkles that were not of age, but of experience accumulated through nights identical to this one. Some players turned their eyes away; others looked at him with a mix of respect and resentment. His name was not spoken, but it was written in their reactions: he was an old inhabitant of the casino, a recurring predator.

He approached the Blackjack table where Sebastián and Virka had just finished their first hand. The dealer inclined his head slightly, a silent sign of recognition. The man took the empty seat before them and let fall a small stack of chips—not too many, but enough to mark that his entry was no whim. It was the underworld's way of saying: here is someone who knows how to play, and knows how to lose if he decides to.

Sebastián watched him in silence, his red eyes swirling like slow whirlpools. He did not need to ask who he was: it was enough to see how the atmosphere itself recognized him. Virka tilted her head and let a smile ignite on her lips; it was neither welcome nor challenge, simply enjoyment of the tension that had just arrived.

—Bets on the table —said the dealer, shuffling with the same hands of smoke.

Sebastián gathered a new pile of chips, red and gold mixed. He placed a strong wager before him: five thousand units, the same amount he had lost earlier. He did it not with aggression, but with the cold calm of one who wagers a life and does not tremble. Virka mirrored him, savoring the symmetry. Five thousand as well. The seasoned player slid his chips forward without a word. The table was set: the second hand was already burning before it began.

The cards began to fall. One round, then another. The figures spread like blades.

Sebastián received first a ten. Then a king. Total: twenty.

Virka, a queen and an ace. Total: twenty-one. Blackjack.

The experienced player revealed a nine and a ten. Total: nineteen—solid, but still in play.

The rest drew mediocre combinations: some twelve, others fourteen, a pair with sixteen. No one smiled.

Sebastián leaned back slightly, observing. Not the cards, but the faces. Every breath was a map; every blink, a crack. The man on his left trembled slightly as he moved his chips: pure insecurity. Another held his lower lip with his teeth: anxious. The woman with sixteen kept her back straight, but her index finger tapped the felt three times: nerves. All of them were open, transparent as shattered glass.

Sebastián sharpened the senses of his indomitable body. He heard the acceleration of hearts, the flow of blood beneath skin, the small muscular spasms. It was like reading a book written in pulses. Each of those players was condemned by their own body.

But two were different. Virka, across from him, let no shift in breath betray her. She had learned too well in their years together how to hide from his gaze. And the newcomer… that man was a wall. His pulse steady, his movements controlled, his gaze so opaque it seemed carved from stone. There were no cracks to read. Only silence.

—Card —asked the trembling man to Sebastián's left.

He received an eight. Twenty-four. Lost.

The next, with fourteen, asked. A six. Twenty. He smiled with hope.

The woman with sixteen asked. She received a nine. Twenty-five. Lost.

The one with twelve asked. A ten. Twenty-two. Lost.

Sebastián watched all with surgical precision. His twenty was strong, but he calculated that if he asked for more, he would risk too much. He stood with the barest gesture, certain that most would fall.

Virka did not even hesitate. Her twenty-one was absolute.

—I stand —she said, her voice sounding like a clean thrust of steel.

The seasoned player lifted his eyes to the dealer, his expression just as impenetrable.

—I stand —he declared, leaving the air dense around him.

The others followed suit, resigned or clinging to their broken luck.

The dealer revealed his hidden card: a seven. He had eleven. He drew another. A five. Sixteen. Another. A four. Twenty. The table held its breath.

The dealer stood at twenty.

Eyes swept across the table. The losers lowered their shoulders, their chips dragged like small corpses toward the bank. The winners were few, and the order was set: Sebastián, with his twenty, held ground. The seasoned player too. But the queen of the table was Virka, with her unbeatable twenty-one.

The chips slid toward her, stacking onto her tower like fresh embers on a bonfire. She smiled, not with mockery, but with fierce pride. She turned to Sebastián, and the spark in her eyes was the same she had shown in past battles, when she had fallen beneath his blows. Now, at this table, it was she who surpassed him.

—I won again —she said, almost in a whisper that burned more than a shout.

Sebastián held her gaze. There was no anger in him, only the cold gleam of an accepted challenge. His lips curved into that sinful half-smile that promised more than words.

—Enjoy it. It won't happen again.

The kiss he gave her was slower than the last, a touch that tasted of both threat and promise. Virka received it like another trophy, leaning in slightly, with the fire of victory on her lips.

The seasoned player watched them from his seat. He said nothing, but the silence with which he gathered his own chips was a reminder: at that table they were no longer playing against mere strangers. Now there were three predators measuring territories.

Narka opened his golden eyes from Sebastián's shoulder, and his voice did not cut through the air but entered the minds of the two.

—Chance is a mask. What follows will not be luck, but will.

The deck was shuffled again. The invisible dice of fate no longer sounded like play, but like war. The table had been reduced to three: Sebastián, Virka, and the player the casino already knew. The true duel was only just beginning.

The silence before the third hand was not the same as before. It was not simple expectation: it was a thick air, heavy with the weight of the inevitable. The dealer shuffled as if his deck were an invisible knife, and each turn of the cards seemed to carve a furrow in the air.

There were no laughs left, no murmurs around; the onlookers had learned to hold respect before the three who remained seated. The table was no longer a game: it was an altar.

Sebastián pushed all his chips forward. The clash of red and gold against the felt was more brutal than a gunshot. Twenty-four thousand five hundred units. Everything. An all-in that was not merely a bet, but a declaration.

—All of it.

Virka glanced at him, and her smile was as dangerous as it was sensual. She pressed her fingers against her own chips and placed a generous stack forward, smaller than his but just as solid: fifteen thousand units.

—I won't stay behind.

The seasoned player said nothing. He did not need to. He simply dragged his own tower forward, matching Sebastián's all-in: twenty-four thousand five hundred units. The felt now bore three mountains, red and gold, like bloodied offerings to a nameless god.

The dealer began to deal. One card for each. Another round. The sound of cardboard slicing the air was a repeated guillotine.

Virka looked at her cards calmly: a ten and a queen. Twenty. Her lips curved, proud. It was a strong hand, nearly perfect, enough to crush most opponents. She decided to stand without hesitation, her gaze fixed on Sebastián as if already proclaiming herself the victor.

The seasoned player turned his without dramatics. An ace and a king. Natural twenty-one. He did not celebrate, he did not smile. He simply left the cards on the felt, clean, perfect, as if they had been waiting for him before the hand had even begun. Murmurs rose among the few who watched. That man did not play with luck: he was luck.

Sebastián lifted his cards. A six and a five. Eleven. Too low to compete. His red eyes swirled with calm, and he asked for another. The dealer slid the card. A seven. Eighteen. Still not enough. Sebastián asked again. The dealer placed the fourth card. A three. Twenty-one.

The murmur of the crowd broke into a unanimous gasp. Sebastián had reached the edge, walking on the blade of defeat, and on the last card he grasped the summit. It was not luck, it was cold calculation, risk accepted with the serenity of one walking a precipice without ever looking down.

The dealer revealed his own hand. A nine and an eight: seventeen. Forced to draw. Another card: a five. Twenty-two. Busted. The house fell.

The result was as clear as an executioner's axe falling.

Sebastián 21 with four cards - normal victory.

Virka 20 - defeated by a single point.

The seasoned player: natural 21 - victory with double payout.

The chips began to slide across the table, dragged like rivers of blood and gold.

Sebastián had wagered 24,500. He won the same amount, reclaiming his own. Now 49,000 units gleamed before him. His tower was a mixture: red chips like liters of still-warm blood, golden chips like freshly torn organs. The pile stood firm, not enormous, but enough to mark his return.

Virka clenched her jaw as her 15,000 crumbled into the bank. She was left with 29,500 units, a living reminder that luck can betray even the one who caresses it with fire. Her chips still formed a worthy mound, but lower, thinner, like a heart beating with contained rage.

The seasoned player extended his hand and gathered his winnings without emotion. He had wagered 24,500. His natural Blackjack paid double: 49,000 plus his 24,500 returned. Total: 73,500 units. His tower rose higher than the others, bright in gold, solid in red, like a totem impossible to ignore. He did not celebrate. He only let it stand, a silent threat.

The table was defined. Three towers. Three destinies.

Sebastián: 49,000, red and gold mixed, the tower of one who refuses to fall.

Virka: 29,500, a lower beacon, but still alive, still burning with wounded pride.

The seasoned player: 73,500, a golden and red wall dominating the felt like a sentence.

The dealer shuffled again, his hands dancing with the same calm as always, but no one needed more cards. The game was decided. Chance had spoken, and what it left were not simple chips: they were organs and blood converted into symbols of power.

Sebastián looked at his tower. A half-smile curved his lips. He had promised he would not lose again, and he had kept it. Virka looked at him with burning frustration, but also with a fierce glimmer in her eyes: pride disguised as rage. The kiss from before still burned in her memory, now stained with defeat.

The seasoned player did not look away from Sebastián. His silence was heavier than any word. There was no hatred nor admiration, only recognition: the acceptance that at that table he had found an equal.

From Sebastián's shoulder, Narka opened his golden eyes. His voice did not pierce the air, but the interior of those who heard him.

—Blood and organs always return to the same river. Chance only chooses who drowns first.

The casino, with its smoke and its penumbra, breathed deep. The table was marked. Three predators had played, and none walked away unscathed.

The dealer shuffled again, but no one watched him anymore. The game was over; the altar of the green felt was empty of future. What remained were the towers: red and gold heaps that gleamed like embers and ingots ripped from absent bodies.

Sebastián gathered his pile with calm, his fingers passing over each chip as though counting scars. Forty-nine thousand units. It was not fortune: it was proof he had kept his word, that he would not lose again. The red chips seemed to throb between his hands, as if each carried the echo of the fat boss's blood. The golden ones glimmered like organs freshly pulled from an invisible furnace.

Virka stacked hers with a metallic snap. Twenty-nine thousand five hundred units. Not little, but less than before, and that "less" was the thorn lodged between her teeth. Her lips formed a fine line, pride intact even in defeat. Her reddish dress reflected the hall's lights like embers burning in water. Every chip she stored seemed a witness to her contained rage, to the hunger to impose herself next time.

The seasoned player showed no emotion as he gathered his tower. Seventy-three thousand five hundred units. The tallest stack. His hands did not tremble, his breath did not change. The others watched him with the same respect given to a predator that has yet to decide if it is hungry. He took the chips and placed them neatly into a black pouch, without ostentation. Then he lifted his eyes toward Sebastián.

—We will meet again —he said, in a voice that was neither promise nor threat, but certainty.

His eyes did not gleam, but they weighed heavy. The phrase lingered like smoke in the hall, more enduring than any shout.

Sebastián did not respond. He only held the gaze, accepting the challenge without the need for words. Virka tilted her head, her red eyes flashing for an instant, as if she had savored the spark of intrigue.

The man rose, the chair creaking like a broken bone. He walked into the penumbra without looking back. His shadow devoured the noise of the casino, and soon nothing of him remained but the certainty that this story was not finished.

Sebastián, Virka, and Narka rose as well. The boy's shoulder bore the small golden-eyed sage, who kept silent like a judge. The three walked among the tables, carrying their towers of red and gold. Each step drew glances. Some turned away, others whispered under their breath, others drowned in envy. They did not stop.

The corridor toward the cashier was smothered in thick smoke and weary lamps. Behind a reinforced counter, a woman with ashen skin waited, black gloves on her hands and a smile that was no smile, but a deformity. Before her, rows of metal trays received the chips as if they were viscera destined for dissection.

—Exchange —said Sebastián, dropping his tower. The sound of the falling chips was like bones being stacked.

The woman began the count, separating reds from golds. Each chip that passed through her hands was examined like a diamond. The red gleam turned into figures. The gold into cold numbers. At the end, she spoke with a hollow voice, as if reciting an epitaph:

—Forty-nine thousand units.

The empty trays were returned, and the number was written into a ledger with black letters.

Virka placed her tower next. The chips jingled like broken necklaces. The woman counted again, unhurried, with ritual precision.

—Twenty-nine thousand five hundred units.

The figure rang less than the first, but it stayed etched in the air. Virka collected the receipt as one might hold a short dagger.

Lastly, the seasoned player approached. He let his tower fall with a crash that sounded like a sentence. The woman took longer to count; the pile was tall, heavy, laden with gold and blood.

—Seventy-three thousand five hundred units.

The number fell on the hall like a blunt strike. The man gathered his papers and walked away without looking back. Not another word.

Sebastián tucked his into the inner pocket of his tuxedo. Virka did the same, the fabric of her dress pressing the paper against her skin like a sharp reminder. Narka closed his eyes, but his voice filtered into both of them, grave, ancient, without sound.

—They call it money, but it is bodies turned into numbers. Here they do not trade in gold. Here they trade in lives.

They left the casino through a side corridor, the door creaking like a cursed secret. Outside, the night smelled of iron and stalled rain. They carried more than chips converted into units. They carried a new weight on their shoulders: the certainty that they had already been seen, recognized, marked by that underworld of blood and organs.

The echo of the seasoned player's voice was still there, invisible, as if the game had not yet ended.

Sebastián, Virka, and Narka crossed the casino's side corridor, the damp penumbra clinging to their backs like a shroud. Outside, the night awaited—but they never reached it.

Two men in black suits stepped forward from the shadows, blocking the exit with the naturalness of those who did not ask permission, only executed orders. They did not have the vulgar air of common thugs; their faces were stern, their hands still, discipline marked in the very way they breathed.

—The branch boss wants to see you —one said, without raising his voice.

It was no question. It was no threat. It was a fact.

Sebastián did not stop immediately. His red eyes swirled, measuring the silence, and after a moment he nodded. Virka looked at him with disdain, but did not protest. She knew what he knew: this was no time to evade, but to drive the knife deeper.

The escorts led them down a corridor different from the one common patrons used. The air there smelled of stale dust, of rusted metal, of secrets. Each lamp they passed sputtered, as if unsure whether to keep burning. Narka settled on Sebastián's shoulder, his golden eyes half-closed.

They reached a set of double doors of dark wood. One of the escorts knocked twice, and from the other side a hoarse voice responded. The bolt turned. The office received them.

Inside, the scene was different. The dense smoke hung in gray clouds beneath a dangling lamp. A heavy mahogany desk dominated the room, strewn with stained papers and half-empty glasses. Behind it, the branch boss waited: a corpulent man, skin weathered, muscles taut beneath his shirt, eyes hardened by years of surviving in a world of knives.

The man's gaze fixed on Sebastián. It traveled up and down, pausing at the young face, at shoulders still too straight for the age he seemed to be. He frowned.

—So… this is the prodigy everyone talks about. —His voice carried the weight of smoke and iron—. They tell me you won too much. And too fast. —He leaned forward, elbows pressing into the desk—. But what I see is just a boy.

Silence fell.

Sebastián did not answer at once. His eternal red eyes measured him calmly, and when he spoke, it was in a low, cutting voice:

—We are no children.

The boss let out a rough laugh, full of smoke.

—Sure, sure. Do you know how many have come to tell me the same? They all end the same: bled out in an alley. —His lips twisted into a crooked sneer—. Tell me, boy: what organization backs you? Who sends you? No one wins in my casino without a name behind them.

Virka laughed coldly, crossing her arms. The light struck sparks of red from her dress, from her inhuman skin.

—Do you really think we need a name? A banner? Names are chains. We wear no chains.

The boss looked at her with mockery and a glint of poisoned desire.

—Doll, in this world everyone wears chains. Those who say otherwise end up with a bullet in the head.

Narka opened his golden eyes and spoke from Sebastián's shoulder, his voice crawling like centuries along the walls:

—The bullet does not kill the one who does not fear death. It only strips bare the one who hides behind his weapon.

The boss frowned, and without another word opened a drawer. Metal gleamed. A Magnum rested in his hand. He raised it and aimed straight at Sebastián.

—See this? —he said with a crooked smile—. No matter what tricks you use, boy. A bullet to the head, and even monsters bleed.

Virka leaned forward and let out a cruel laugh.

—That? —her red eyes burned like embers—. That is a toy.

Sebastián lowered his gaze to the weapon, then fixed it back on the boss, emotionless.

—A toy easy to dodge.

The guards around them drew their weapons too. The air filled with metallic clicks and dark barrels aimed their way.

The boss pulled the trigger. The blast of gunpowder was swallowed by the void. Sebastián vanished. The bullet struck only air. In a blink, he was in front of the desk. His hand closed around the boss's wrist, and the bone shattered like glass. The Magnum fell to the floor along with the entire hand, torn clean off. Blood gushed like a dark spring, soaking the papers, splattering the lamp.

The boss's scream had only begun when Virka was already moving. Her claws tore through the throat of the first guard, ripped the heart from the second, shredded the third into two halves that collapsed onto the carpet. It was a savage dance, an orgy of blood: flesh opening like pages, bones splintering like dry branches, viscera falling to the floor with the weight of forbidden fruit.

Gunshots thundered, but never found flesh. Virka dodged with inhuman grace, and every evasion ended in a slash, a tear, a death. The entire office became a crimson altar.

Sebastián lifted the Magnum from the floor, held it a moment, then let it fall again onto the bloodstained desk. His red eyes sank into the boss's, who trembled against the wall, wrist absent, spewing blood like a broken fountain.

—The Crimson Emperor does not negotiate —Sebastián said, voice like a sentence—. The Crimson Emperor takes.

He advanced. Drove his hand into the man's chest and tore out the still-beating heart. The boss died watching his own life throb in another's grasp. The organ dropped onto the papers, fading in a warm pool.

The few survivors—clerks, assistants, those who had not drawn weapons—knelt at once. Not from loyalty, but from instinct. Because to resist was to die.

Virka wiped her claws on a corpse's clothes. Narka spoke again, his voice drifting in the silence like an omen.

—Today the name is born. Blood writes it. Fear pronounces it. Time will remember it.

Sebastián looked at the kneeling ones.

—Raise your voices in every corner. From today, this casino and its branches have an owner. The Crimson Emperor rules.

No one doubted. No one breathed without trembling. Outside, the noise of the casino still lived, ignorant that beneath its roof a new reign had been sealed, written in blood and flesh.

The boss still breathed. The stump throbbed like an exposed heart, staining the carpet with a red that never seemed to dry. His face was a mask of sweat and panic, teeth chattering with every spasm that racked his body. He was alive—too alive to forget who held him suspended between agony and terror.

Sebastián looked at him as though evaluating an object on the verge of breaking. His eyes, spinning in crimson spirals, knew neither compassion nor haste.

—Summon them —he said, each syllable carrying the weight of a hammer—. All of them. Guards. Dealers. Accountants. Prostitutes. Cooks. No one is left out. Gather them here.

The boss tried to respond, but only a whimper came out. Sebastián leaned closer, his face near the man's, and repeated in a lower tone that sounded worse than a shout:

—Now.

In his delirium of fear and pain, the boss signaled to an assistant who had survived by hiding in a corner. The man bolted out as if death itself shoved him from behind. The order spread like an infection through the casino's corridors. The murmur of the gaming tables slowly died until the entire building became a heart holding its breath.

Virka, seated atop the desk smeared with viscera, stretched with the grace of a satisfied predator. Her legs crossed with cruel elegance, the reddish dress gleaming under the yellow light of the lamp that refused to go out.

—Why do it this way? —she asked, resting an elbow on the bloodstained wood—. You could have killed them all without noise, in silence. What need is there to summon every rat in this den?

Sebastián looked at her from the corner of his eye.

—Because if I want this place, it won't be with whispers. I want them to understand. I want them to obey without doubt. And for that, first they must see.

Virka's smile widened, sharp as her claws. She leaned toward him, her red eyes blazing with an untamable light.

—Then make them see, Sebastián. Make them tremble until they learn their master is you. If you are the Crimson Emperor… —she straightened with a dominant pose, the dress clinging to her curves like fire— …then I will be your queen. Blood does not matter. Fear does not matter. I will always be with you.

Narka slowly opened his golden eyelids from Sebastián's shoulder. His voice, old as an echo that knows no calendars, spread through the room:

—Every empire needs roots. And roots are born in the blood of the first who see and stay silent.

The silence was broken by footsteps. Dozens. The echo of shoes mixed with nervous whispers. The door opened, and the staff entered like a river held back too long: accountants with trembling hands, waiters with aprons still damp, prostitutes with smeared makeup, dealers who seemed to hold the air like invisible chips. The guards closed the march, their weapons still hidden under jackets, but ready to be drawn.

The vision stopped them cold. The mutilated boss stood only by another's command, the black bandage dripping blood. The adolescent with spiral eyes stood tall like a king among corpses, and on the desk, the woman of impossible beauty reigned with a gesture that was both dominion and promise. And on the boy's shoulder, the golden creature observed as a judge from forgotten ages.

The murmur rose.

—What is this?

—Why is the boss…?

—Who are they…?

The guards were the first to react. Hands darted toward weapons. Metal brushed holsters. The air tightened.

Then Sebastián released his killing intent.

It was not an aura that could be seen. It was a certainty that bit into everyone's flesh. The air grew heavy, as though the ground were dragging them toward an open grave. Lungs burned; stomachs knotted in fear. The guards' fingers trembled before even touching their triggers. Some dropped their weapons. Others backed away until colliding with the wall. Even the mutilated boss whimpered, sinking deeper into himself, feeling the pain of his stump was a refuge compared to that invisible pressure.

Sebastián spoke. He did not shout. He did not need to.

—From this moment, this casino and every business tied to it belongs to the Crimson Emperor.

The silence was so absolute that the hanging lamp seemed to sway louder than his words.

—That means all of you serve me. And that anyone who refuses… —he raised his hand toward the mutilated boss— …ends like him.

The boss tried to lift his head, as if to oppose, as if dignity could be stitched back with blood. It was his last act.

Sebastián gripped his hair with a firm hand. In a single motion, the head tore free from the body. Blood gushed like a dark spring, splattering those in the front row. Sebastián lifted the bloodied head, held it for a few seconds as if as if it were a standard, and then hurled it to the floor before them. The thud was a war drum.

No one breathed. No one screamed. Fear was absolute.

—This is not a joke —Sebastián continued, his voice frozen—. This is law.

Virka clapped once, slow, with a proud smile. Her eyes burned with a possessive gleam, watching Sebastián proclaim himself master of the hall.

Sebastián extended his hand.

—I want records. Every branch, every business, every debt. Casinos, brothels, betting routes. Everything. And I want it now.

A pair of employees bolted out as if fleeing a fire. They returned with boxes, binders, folders. They stacked them upon the desk, at Virka's feet.

Sebastián leafed through the documents. He found names of other casinos in slums, brothels disguised as private clubs, clandestine betting routes, account books stained with dust and grease. But no drugs. No trace of what he sought to fulfill his pact with Helena and Selena.

He frowned. He spoke not of disappointment, only of calculation.

—Good. We will begin with what you do have.

He raised his gaze, his crimson eyes burning into every face in the room.

—From now on, every chip exchanged, every bed rented, every wager that breathes… is mine. Whoever steals loses a hand. Whoever lies, a tongue. Whoever betrays, a head. I do not repeat rules.

The echo of his voice did not fade. It carved itself into each one like an invisible tattoo.

Narka, from his shoulder, nodded with gravity.

—Thus do kingdoms begin. Not with crowns, but with severed heads.

And the entire casino, paralyzed, understood that night a new master had been born. Not a man. Not a boy. Not a monster.

The Crimson Emperor.

The silence still clung to the walls like dampness. The severed head of the boss, tossed into a corner, stared at the ceiling with empty eyes that could challenge no one. The blood had become ink for the first decrees of the Crimson Emperor.

Sebastián, unhurried, spread his hands over the boxes of documents the employees had brought. He opened them one by one, scanning the stained folders, the accounting ledgers with pages stiffened by sweat, the black-and-white photographs of faceless buildings hiding businesses. He turned the pages as one measuring blades, each name a nail, each figure a rope tightening around the neck of the underworld.

Finally, he spoke without lifting his gaze:

—Go back to work. The casino must breathe as if nothing has happened. I want no interruptions unless the sky itself splits. Whoever bothers me with trifles… will be the next to lose their head.

Those present looked at each other, terrified, and nodded without hesitation. They filed out of the office in hurried steps, scattering like a broken swarm.

Soon the murmur of the casino returned. But it was different.

The dealers shuffled cards with trembling fingers, forcing smiles so as not to betray their panic. The prostitutes resumed their dance, though their eyes reflected a fear no makeup could conceal. The accountants moved abacuses and tallied numbers as though every mistake could cost them their tongues. The guards patrolled the halls with hands sweating on their holsters, knowing the slightest hesitation could be their sentence.

The casino functioned. But now it did so with a new pulse: the constant terror that the Crimson Emperor was watching.

Sebastián leafed through the documents slowly. Names. Addresses. Maps of clandestine routes. Three smaller casinos in the city. Two brothels disguised as private clubs. A betting hall hidden behind a cockfighting market. All connected to this branch, like poisoned roots spreading beneath the city.

Virka rose from the desk with feline grace. She approached and leaned against Sebastián's shoulder, her eyes gleaming with that blend of pride and desire only she could carry.

—So… what's next? —she asked in a low voice, almost a dangerous purr—. Here everyone already knows whom they obey. Which of these dens will you tear the skin from first?

Sebastián ran a finger down a list of addresses, as if caressing old scars.

—They're all in the city. One by one. We'll return there. We'll take each branch, until no corner remains that does not smell of me.

Virka smiled, showing her fangs just slightly.

—Then let the city tremble.

Narka, who until then had remained motionless on Sebastián's shoulder, tilted his face just slightly. His golden eyes shone with gravity.

—If you advance like this, your name will multiply like a plague. But a name dissolves with the wind. A name is not enough. You need a sign. A mark that speaks for you even when you are not there.

Virka looked at him immediately, nodding with the fierceness of one who recognizes truth in her own reflection.

—He's right. They already call you the Crimson Emperor… but what proof is there beyond your shadow? An empire cannot be built on fear alone. It needs a banner. A sign that makes them tremble before you arrive.

Sebastián kept silent for a few seconds. He slammed a book shut. The dry echo spread through the office.

—What do you propose?

Narka spoke slowly, as though each word dragged centuries of dust:

—Draila has already marked you with its crown. A red circle, floating above you, sign that you are more than flesh. But that symbol is incomplete for this world of wagers and blood. Here they do not fear crowns: they fear hands. Fists.

His eyes shone brighter, reflecting the yellow lamp.

—Take that circle. Make it yours. And in its center, carve a reddened fist, like burning iron. Let it be the mark of an indomitable being crowned by Draila. The Crimson Emperor.

Silence tightened.

Virka smiled slowly, the white line of her teeth showing between red lips.

—Yes… perfect. A red circle with a fist inside. Let every brothel, every table, every cellar remember it. Let them see it and know there is no escape. It will be the echo of your hand crushing their throats.

Sebastián nodded slowly, his eyes swirling with calm, like tornadoes that never end.

—That will be our banner. And I will leave it marked in every place we conquer.

Virka pressed her palm against his chest, feeling the beat of a heart that belonged to no human.

—Then you will no longer be only Sebastián. Not just the one who survives. You will be the fist that reigns. My Crimson Emperor.

Narka lowered his eyelids with gravity.

—The symbol will become flesh in memory. They will see it before you arrive. And when you arrive, they will know it was prophecy fulfilled.

Sebastián looked again at the documents. Each name, each address, each branch was an altar awaiting sacrifice. The circle with the fist would burn on every wall, every desk, every corpse he left behind.

He lifted his gaze to Virka and Narka.

—We begin tomorrow. We will take the first branch. Then the second. One after another, until the entire city bears my mark. And with every conquest, the money will flow. The underworld will kneel.

He shut the ledger, now stained with dried blood.

—And when the moment comes, even Helena and Selena will understand that this empire is also part of the cleansing.

The lamp hung a little lower, as if straining to listen. The air of the casino vibrated with a different pulse. Outside, the noise of chips and nervous laughter went on, but beneath it beat a new truth: a red fist, inside an eternal circle, had just been born as an emblem.

The Crimson Emperor was no longer just a name. Now he had a sign. And soon, he would have an entire city branded in fire.

________________________

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.

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