On the Path of Eternal Strength.

The echo of the decapitation still weighed on the office walls. The blood had ceased to be a liquid and become a sign, a crust, a writing that no god would erase. The red circle with the fist at its center was no longer Narka's promise: it was a destiny sealed in flesh. Silence was not emptiness: it was forced reverence. And in the midst of that gloom, Sebastián stood as if there were nothing else to decide, although within his eyes the next step burned.

He barely turned his face toward his two companions. His voice, when he spoke, carried no haste, no edge, no sweetness: it was a sentence.

—I will stay here. This place is freshly marked, and it is where I must sink deeper. My strength does not advance with empty strikes: I need to understand the pulse between the Dao of Strength and the Dao of Emptiness. This ground will be my forge.

Narka nodded, with that gravity that dragged centuries. His golden eyes did not shine: they judged.

—Iron forged in silence cuts more than a thousand swords. If this is your altar, sow your emptiness in it.

Sebastián lowered his gaze for an instant, not in doubt, but in calculation. Then, without taking his eyes off the stained wood, he added:

—Virka. You do not need to stay. You have something pending. Your disciple clothing, Kael's. That clothing still belongs to you, even if it is stored in your master's dojo. You cannot continue by my side with that tie open. Go. Claim it. Finish that circle.

Virka watched him in silence. Her lips curved barely, as if the idea did not surprise her but confirmed her. The red of her eyes flashed for a moment; she remembered the white tunic with embroidered patterns she had left behind, the ceremonial garments that had been both symbol and chain. Her smile turned to a blade.

—Yes… that clothing is mine. It is not a memory. It is a debt. And I like to collect debts.

Narka, from Sebastián's shoulder, tilted his head slightly toward her.

—It is wise to close doors before opening others. You will go. And when you return, your master's name will no longer weigh upon your shadow.

Sebastián added nothing. He let himself fall to the floor with the naturalness of one who enters his own battlefield. He sat in the exact center of the office, where dried blood still dripped from the desk. His posture was simple, but the air changed immediately. The boy closed his eyes, and in that closure two worlds burned. Strength presented itself as a river that struck from within, seeking to break bones to make its way. Emptiness, on the other hand, opened like an abyss that wanted to swallow every beat. Sebastián breathed, and with each inhalation he learned to let one sustain the other without them annihilating each other.

Virka looked at him once more. The boy was no longer with them: he had sunk into an invisible ocean. His lips let out a murmur that was more promise than farewell.

—May the emptiness consume you enough so that strength knows where to strike.

She opened the door. Narka leapt calmly from one shoulder to the other, settling on hers. And together they left.

The casino became a corridor of stares. The employees had felt the death of the boss, the proclamation of the new owner, the weight of the law now written in blood. The accountants lifted their eyes for only a second before lowering them again; the croupiers moved the cards with sweating hands; the prostitutes pressed their lips upon seeing Virka's silhouette, half queen, half beast. No one spoke. No one dared breathe louder than necessary.

The silence of those hallways was not mere fear: it was twisted adoration. In every pair of eyes was an unspoken message: "that woman and that golden creature carry the shadow of the new emperor." Virka returned no gaze. Narka neither. Their steps were firm, inevitable, without stopping to gather reverence or fear. They passed like ghosts that needed no witnesses.

When they crossed the exit, the air of the countryside received them with a cleaner breath, though no less heavy. The stars looked like dirty fragments, incapable of illuminating completely. Virka adjusted her trench coat, her jet-black hair brushing her face, and her eyes looked at the road that led to the dojo. Narka spoke, his deep voice resounding in her ear like the echo of a mountain.

—The master does not wait. But symbols do not die. In reclaiming your clothing, you do not claim cloth: you claim your own memory.

Virka smiled, with that calm that softens nothing, only makes it sharper.

—I know. And I will reclaim it like one who rips the skin from an enemy.

Her steps began to sink into the road. Behind them, the casino throbbed with a new pulse, full of fear and obedience. Inside, in the closed office, a boy with spiral eyes breathed deeply, letting Strength and Emptiness clash like tides beneath his skin. Outside, a woman marked by blood and an ancient sage walked toward a forgotten dojo, where the past still awaited its sentence.

Thus began the new journey: three paths divided by a single promise. The red circle with the fist was not yet a mark upon the city, but it already burned in the air like an inverted sun. And every shadow that witnessed it understood that this story would not end until it stained everything.

The afternoon did not dissolve into gentle light, but into a heavy glow that seemed to push every shadow forward, as if the city and the fields wanted to surrender to a new weight. When Virka crossed the casino's door, the hot air of the afternoon wrapped her in a harsh breath. Narka settled onto her left shoulder without speaking a word: none was needed. The echo of the office still burned across their backs, but what their eyes sought was already ahead, not behind.

The ground of the street seemed different. The cobblestones, stained with dust and trembling steps, stretched toward the outskirts like a path of scars. No one dared to stop her; those who saw her turned their gaze away or sank it into the ground. The woman walked with firm steps, her black trench coat brushing her boots, her jet-black hair

following the direction of the wind like a banner that needed no display. Narka watched in silence, his golden eyes open with that mineral calm that was not indifference, but the weight of centuries.

The journey toward the outskirts became slow by choice, not by obstacle. Virka was in no hurry: each step was a beat that prolonged the afternoon, made it denser, more ceremonial. The air smelled of lime, of cut wood, of worked iron; signs of construction that grew with every meter. It was neither mistake nor coincidence. The mansion was there, rising like a new colossus on the edge of the field, precisely where the roads seemed to open into nothing.

When at last they stopped before it, the afternoon sun struck the walls with a reddish glow, setting each stone alight as if a forge burned within. The mansion was almost finished: the walls already firm, the large windows carved into place, the roofs crowned with tiles that reflected red and black gleams. The workers gave the last hammer blows, fixed minor beams, cleaned the remnants of lime and dust. The air vibrated with that hum of work that announces conclusion: a murmur of nails, dry voices, and dust floating like golden mist.

Virka lifted her chin. Her red eyes swept across every visible corner. She did not see a mere mansion: she saw a fortress awaiting her steps, a refuge that, though it still smelled of construction, already breathed as a home. The smile that crossed her lips was minimal, but real: it was the smile of a beast that finds cave and territory.

—Yes… —she whispered, more to herself than to Narka—. Here… here too blood will be written.

Narka turned his head slightly, his golden eyes reflecting the mass that rose before them. The mansion was not for him a wall of stone, but a symbol: a future in which to rest, a refuge for when the path became too harsh even for the indomitable. His deep voice came forth like a slow rumble, like rock recognizing rock.

—A home is not wood nor stone. It is shadow that protects what has not yet broken. This mansion… will be refuge. It will be root.

Virka glanced at him sideways, without losing her sharp smile.

—And it will also be a trap for those who believe weakness beats here.

The wind moved her hair, and for an instant the mansion seemed to lean toward her, as if recognizing the mistress who had not yet inhabited it. The workers, upon seeing her, let their tools fall clumsily, pretending to busy their hands with dust or water. Their gazes were neither mocking nor judgmental: they were clumsy reverence, contained fear. No one dared speak a word. The presence of Virka and the creature upon her shoulder was too evident, too alien to the normality of nails and wood.

For several minutes, none spoke. The afternoon became a frozen tableau: the hammers sounded distant, the dust fell slowly, and the sun traced the silhouettes of the walls as if they were already complete. Finally, Virka lowered her gaze to the road that stretched behind the mansion. There, beyond the fields, the mountains rose. Dark, jagged, their peaks looked like needles driven into the sky. Beyond those mountains awaited Kael's dojo, that place where memories still lingered, unable to remain open any longer.

—It is enough —she said, with a voice that neither asked nor gave space for reply—. The past does not wait.

Narka settled more firmly on her shoulder, as if every muscle of his accepted that decision.

—The master will not know you arrive with a debt. He will only see what you drag in your shadow.

Virka gave one last glance at the mansion. Her red eyes swept across every wall, every window, every shadow. It was not nostalgia nor tenderness that shone there: it was determination. She knew she would return, that this place would be more than refuge, it would be part of her path. And yet, it was not time to stop.

She began to walk. Her steps left the construction behind, crossed the workers' dust, sank into the road that wound toward the mountains. The sound of the construction slowly faded, replaced by the harsh song of afternoon insects and the murmur of leaves stirred in the distance. The sun descended, but there was no sweetness in its fall: it painted everything with a dirty red, as if the sky wanted to remind them that even light rots in time.

Narka watched the peaks draw nearer. He did not speak further. There was no need. Virka sought no words either. The mansion was left behind, vibrating like a promise; the mountains grew ahead, dark and sharp as blades. Between those two extremes—the new and the old, the refuge and the debt—the red-eyed woman advanced, firm, inevitable.

The afternoon wrapped them, slow and heavy, like a bridge between what had been sealed and what still had to be broken. And in that passage, each step was not a path: it was a sentence.

The afternoon dragged itself like a dense river, thickening the air between the mountains. Dust from the road still clung to the edges of Virka's trench coat, and Narka, upon her shoulder, remained silent, watchful as a living statue. Their steps had left behind the mansion under construction, which still echoed in memory with the hammering of workers and the vision of a home nearly ready to be inhabited. Now, before them, the mountains rose like ancient blades, immovable sentinels that hid behind their flanks the entrance to Kael Ardom's dojo.

The ascent was neither brief nor gentle. The paths narrowed between sharp rocks and roots that emerged like petrified veins. The evening wind blew dry, lifting dead leaves and grains of dust that seemed to seek refuge in the folds of Virka's clothing. Each step became an echo, each breath a sentence. Silence was not the absence of sound, but a watchful presence: as if the mountain itself recognized that someone was returning to a place never truly abandoned.

At last, after the final bend of the path, the dojo appeared. It was not a new or resplendent building: it was a living relic. Its wooden walls, blackened by time and weather, stood upright like bones that yielded neither to years nor to oblivion. The carvings of the First Oath were still visible on the pillars, though moss and signs of wear had tried to devour them. Before the main door, the steps of worn stone received the afternoon light with a melancholy glow.

Virka did not linger to contemplate. She approached with firm stride, and her hands pushed the doors with an almost ritual naturalness. The creak of the wood was not rejection: it was greeting. The familiarity with which she opened them was not born of nostalgia, but of recognition. That place had seen her dressed in white, with the disciple's tunic, and now it saw her return in red and black, with the gaze of one who had already tasted blood and had no intention of renouncing its edge.

Inside, the air was laden with the scent of extinguished incense, old dust, and wood steeped in sweat and prayers. The central hall rose at the back, wide, serene, like a heart beating in shadow. And there sat Kael Ardom, in ceremonial posture, his white tunic with gray and blue embroidery fitted with a precision that was not vanity, but discipline. His face, young through mastery of his aura, was crossed by the stillness of one who expected no surprises.

Virka crossed the threshold without hesitation. There was no doubt in her stride. The past was not a wall to her: it was a chain that could be broken at will. Narka accompanied her in silence, his golden eyes open with gravity.

Kael observed her for long seconds before speaking. His words were neither quick nor affected: they fell like stones into a pond, generating ripples that spread through the hall.

—Your time outside the dojo has not been wasted. I see it in your gaze. I hear it in your steps. You do not walk as one seeking guidance, but as one who has chosen her path.

His eyes, deep and severe, ran along her figure and stopped at the red dress. The black tunic and crimson gleam were not ornament: they were declaration.

—That red belongs to you. Not as disguise nor as adornment, but as truth. The fire of that cloth does not consume you: it frames you. It suits you because it reflects what you are now.

Virka lifted her chin slightly, receiving the comment as one receives a sheathed sword: with respect, but without bowing. Her lips let slip a faint smile, without sweetness, only edge.

—I thank you, Master. Not as compliment, but as recognition. No one gave me the red: I tore it away.

Narka, upon her shoulder, inclined his head with solemn slowness. His voice, grave as the drag of mountains, accompanied her words.

—The cloth may be a sign. But what matters is not the color: it is the shadow projected by the one who wears it. And hers no longer confuses with any other.

Kael nodded, without changing his expression. There was something in his blue eyes that was not tenderness, but acceptance. A silent recognition that the disciple who returned was not the same who had departed.

It was then that Virka let her words fall with the weight of an oath. Her red eyes burned like embers in the gloom, and her voice, though serene, carried the edge of a thousand

…promises.

—I am no longer a beast created to kill. Nor a clumsy human trapped in the skin of a beast. Nor a shadow following in someone's steps. No. Now I am what I always should have been: the beast that chose her own throne, the queen who walks beside the Emperor I acknowledge. Not his sword, for I am no instrument; not his shadow, for I am no echo. I am his companion, his equal on this path, and the beast that will destroy everything that tries to break our way.

The air of the dojo seemed to grow denser. Virka's words were not simple declarations: they were the roar of an identity that had found its final form.

Narka closed his eyes for an instant, as if the words resonated in his ancient plates, as if confirming what he already knew.

—This is how those who have found themselves speak. This is how true strength is recognized: not in solitude, but in the decision to accompany without being lost.

Kael did not change his posture, but the tension in his gaze softened. There was no vain pride in him, but certainty.

—Then you are ready. A debt is not paid with words, but it is announced with them. And your words are clear.

The master made a slight gesture with his hand, and the air of the dojo grew even more solemn. Each pillar seemed to stand straighter, each shadow firmer. The very place responded to the preparation.

—Prepare yourself, Virka —Kael said with a deep voice—. For now you are not only a disciple returning: you are the heir of the twelfth generation. And this dojo does not accept empty inheritances.

The afternoon, filtering through the windows, dyed the hall with a worn gold, a final glow before the rite began. Virka remained standing, firm, with Narka on her shoulder, accepting the weight of what was to come. The air was an antechamber, the silence an invisible drum. And in that instant, everything was suspended: the arrival was fulfilled, the ceremony had not yet begun, but destiny was already traced like burning iron in the air.

The hall of the pact was not an ordinary chamber: it was the beating heart of the dojo, a space that seemed to breathe with the echo of centuries. Virka walked down the wooden corridor, her steps resounding on dark planks that had borne storms, bodies, and prayers. The afternoon still filtered its slanted rays through the slits, dyeing the air with golden dust that fell like ash. Narka rested upon her shoulder, his weight not burden but sentence. Kael went ahead, his stride serene, firm, marking the rhythm of what was about to open.

Upon arrival, the doors were pushed with solemnity. The interior was vast, circular, a vault supported by blackened pillars where the shadows seemed to lean inward. And there were the twelve statues. Each one raised on a pedestal of stone, facing the empty center like guardians of an eternal circle.

The First Promised One, with his hands interlaced in the mudra of oath, inaugurated the wheel. The others followed, each with weapons, gestures, or postures that defined their eras and convictions. The lines of the lineage felt tangible, as if the very air carried the voices of all who had ever defended those vows.

Only one statue broke the harmony: the sixth. An incomplete figure, fragmented by cracks that crossed its torso and face, as if time itself had tried to erase it. It had not fallen, but it was broken, like a memory that never healed. That was the shadow of the master who had created the Martial Art of the Beast of Destruction, the forbidden technique that Virka had inherited and shaped.

Kael turned toward her. His white tunic seemed to absorb the light, and in his blue eyes shone the calm of one who had waited far too long for this moment.

—This temple was born more than nine centuries ago, when the First Promised One sealed his body and soul in the three vows. Strength not to dominate, but to protect. Teaching not for glory, but for truth. Defense not for the powerful, but for those who cannot ask for help. Every master represented here upheld those promises. Every generation engraved them in blood and bone.

His gaze stopped at the broken statue.

—Except him. The sixth master broke the path, gave form to destruction, and clothed it as art. What was oath became beast. And yet, even in his fall, he left behind a power impossible to ignore.

Virka did not avert her gaze from the broken statue. Her face showed no doubt or guilt: only decision. Her voice, when it emerged, was firm, tense as sharpened steel.

—I will not deny what runs within me. That beast chose me, and I shaped it. But I am not only destruction. I am not a beast born to kill nor a shadow bound to another's fate. I am the beast who walks with her Emperor, queen at his side, companion who will raze what must be razed. Not sword nor echo: my own will.

The air shifted. A tremor ran through the hall as though the stones themselves had heard. Then the statues began to ignite. One after another, they emanated a golden radiance: columns of protective aura rising toward the vault. It was a deep, warm gold that seemed to represent the continuity of the vow. All shone thus—except the sixth.

From the cracks of the broken statue burst a different light: dark violet, violent, like flames imprisoned in stone. It was not harmonious, it was torn—and yet it had strength. That glow stained the circle with brutal contrast: eleven golden lights surrounding the purple dissonance.

The Veil activated. The hall vibrated, and suddenly the physical plane was suspended. The pillars, the walls, the floor—all blurred, as if submerged in another density. The space remained floating in a spiritual void where the statues stood as giants burning in aura. The twelve lights converged at the center, intertwining, forming a river of energy. The current gleamed golden, but within its flow pulsed violet threads that tore through it and made it even more intense.

Kael spoke with a deep voice, now seeming amplified by the very air itself.

—This is the river of the lineage. Here all our vows unite. To be recognized, you must strip yourself of the old and receive the new.

Virka understood without reply. Her hands slid along the folds of her dress, and slowly she removed it. The fabric fell at her feet like abandoned skin. She stood naked, upright before the masters, under the multiple light of gold and violet. There was no vulgarity in that gesture: her body was symbol, embodied strength. Every muscle outlined the ferocity of her training, every curve highlighted the perfection of the human carried beyond the human. It was beauty not to be admired, but to be feared.

Narka inclined his head, his golden eyes unblinking. Kael did not look away, but on his face there was no desire, only solemn judgment. Virka, without a trace of shame, stepped toward the river. The liquid aura received her with a glow that coursed over her skin, clinging like soft embers. Every fiber of her being seemed to burn, purified by the gold, pierced by the violet violence.

Kael raised his voice, reciting the oath of inheritance:

—In the name of the First Promised One. In the name of every guardian who upheld this temple. And in the name of what could not be erased, we recognize you. The forbidden shall not be chain, the forbidden shall not be fall. You are no echo: you are succession.

The river answered. From the surface of the aura, threads of energy began to rise, wrapping Virka's body. First they were golden filaments, then red like embers, then black like shadow. Each color obeyed a symbol: the gold of protection, the red of the Crimson Emperor, the black of her own essence. The violet of the sixth master crossed those strands, not as master, but as accepted memory.

Little by little, the threads wove themselves into a garment. It was not an exact replica of Kael's tunic, but it bore his ceremonial structure: lines running along the torso, skirts falling to the ankles, embroidery glowing with living symbols. Black dominated, deep and absolute. Red marked the edges and chest, burning like an emblem of fire. Gold appeared in the embroidery, binding the colors as oath. And in the center of the chest, marked in dark filigree, emerged a red circle with a fist: the seal of the Crimson Emperor, integrated into her own heritage.

When the last thread closed, the river of aura began to fade. The statues extinguished one by one, like lamps that had fulfilled their duty. Only the sixth remained lit a moment longer: its violet cracks burned intensely, until the light calmed and remained within the fissures, as if finally accepting its destiny.

Virka emerged from the river dressed in her new clothing. Her red eyes shone with the same brilliance as the mingled violet and gold. Kael rose from his posture for the first time, and his voice resounded like a hammer.

—Before this river, before these stones, before all who were and will be, I proclaim: Virka is the heir of the twelfth generation of the Temple of the Thousand Sealed Promises.

The silence that followed was not emptiness, but reverence. Narka closed his eyes, grave, satisfied. Virka remained standing, unmoving, with her clothes still burning as if alive. The hall breathed with her. And in that instant, everything was sealed: she was no longer an incomplete disciple, no longer a nameless beast. She was the heir, the queen, the beast and the companion of the Crimson Emperor, recognized by the lineage and by herself.

The air of the dojo still held the echo of the river of aura. The golden and violet radiance had vanished, but the hall remained imbued with that sacred density that does not dissipate with silence. Virka, upright in her new black, red, and gold garments, breathed as if each inhalation were the first of a different life. The weight of centuries had fallen upon her and, nevertheless, she bore it as if she had been born to carry it.

Narka slid again onto her left shoulder. His claws gripped the newly created fabric, and his golden eyes, solemn, studied her closely. The voice, when it emerged, had the calm of distant thunder.

—How does it feel, Virka? To have received your first inheritance… to belong not because you were forced, but because you chose it.

Virka did not answer immediately. Her gaze swept the dimmed hall, the statues asleep after the ritual. At last, she let the words out in a low, grave tone, laden with nuances.

—It is… strange. I have been a weapon since I was born. A killing machine. I always believed my only place was by Sebastián's side, as his beast And I still am. But now… with these clothes, with this rite… I feel that I also belong to something else. That I am not only his beast, nor his queen. I am a disciple of a temple I chose. That weighs on me and at the same time frees me.

Narka closed his eyes for an instant, as if the mountain within him listened.

—That is what it means to break chains. You do not deny what you are, but you also do not obey a blind fate. You are a beast, yes, but a beast that walks by its own will. Never forget who you are, Virka. Never forget where you come from. But also do not let that decide for you.

Virka looked at him sideways, and a barely perceptible smile appeared on her lips. Not of sweetness, but of recognition. Before she could add anything, she felt another presence.

Kael had stepped up to her in silence. His hand rested firmly on her right shoulder, the one Narka did not occupy. It was not a light gesture: it was a real weight, a symbol.

—This place will always be yours, Virka —he said in a deep voice—. Even if one day it is destroyed, even if the walls fall and the vows are forgotten, the temple will remain with you, and you with it. That is the true inheritance. You will be part of this family even if you never take the title of master. Because this is not inherited only with techniques: it is inherited with blood, with decision, with bond.

The warmth of that affirmation pierced her. Virka clenched her fists, not with doubt, but with intensity.

Kael withdrew his hand slowly, and then handed her a folded sheet: the red dress she had worn before the ceremony, kept with care.

—Keep it. Let it remind you of where you come from and what you left behind.

Virka took it without hesitation, like one who accepts a familiar weapon. Together they left the hall of the pact. The corridor opened into the wooden passageways of the common temple, where solemnity became more earthly. There, Virka turned to Kael with dry firmness.

—Sit here, Master. I won't be long. I'm going to bring what belongs to me: the black dress I left behind.

Kael nodded with serenity and sat on a wooden bench, while she moved forward with Narka on her shoulder. The path was brief, but enough for the beast to open her thoughts.

—Narka… —she whispered, almost like a secret—. Do you think Sebastián will like this new dress? What it now represents for me?

Narka's golden eyes gleamed, heavy with ancient patience.

—Do not worry about that. Even if you wore another cloth, even if your skin changed a thousand times, Sebastián would recognize you the same. What binds you is not appearance. It is the mark on your chest, the bond that ties your souls. Nothing can erase that. Not clothes, not forms, not distances.

The words sank into her like an unexpected balm. Her lips curved into a different smile: a pure, crystalline joy, without irony, without edge. A joy that had not inhabited her face in centuries. At the same time, the mark on her chest—the one binding her to Sebastián—did not shine with light, but pulsed softly, resonating with her emotions. It was as if, in that instant, despite the distance and the stone that separated them, he was near, breathing with her.

—Yes… —she murmured, lowering her gaze—. He will always be with me.

The echo of that certainty accompanied her until she returned with the black dress in her arms. When she came back, Kael awaited her standing, holding silence with dignity. He looked at her attentively, and after a few seconds, spoke in a different tone: not that of the master, but of a man risking a confession.

—Virka, you are no longer only my heir disciple. I want to propose something more. Beyond the arts, beyond destruction, I want to be something different to you. Not only your master, but your father. A figure to guide not only your strength, but your life.

The air tensed. Virka observed him in silence, her red eyes alight with doubt and surprise. Narka, upon her shoulder, spoke first.

—It is a worthy proposal. But you must not answer now. This would be your first father figure, and a decision like this marks the course of your life. Think on it calmly. Whatever you choose, do not regret it afterward.

Kael nodded, inclining his head slightly toward the golden creature.

—He is right. It doesn't matter whether you accept or not. The doors of this temple will always be open to you. As heir, as disciple, as a woman who chose her own path.

Virka did not answer immediately. She tightened her fingers around the black dress, breathed deeply, and let the tension dissolve into an unspoken promise: she would think, she would decide, not out of obligation, but out of will.

The three began to walk toward the exterior. When the main doors of the dojo opened, they discovered it was already night. The stars stretched like cold embers across the sky, and the wind carried with it a different murmur: the day had died within the ceremony. The succession had not been a brief instant, but a long, profound passage that had devoured the entire afternoon.

They advanced together: the woman dressed in black, red, and gold; the golden creature resting on her shoulder; and the master in a white tunic, firm as a wall. The dojo remained behind, breathing with them, not as a building, but as a new family. And although the night rose vast and silent, none of the three walked alone.

The night descended like a thick mantle, but it was neither cold nor serene: it was dense, almost mineral, as though each shadow carried a different weight. Virka walked with steady stride, and upon her shoulder Narka remained silent, his golden eyes measuring every vibration of the air. Kael still accompanied them, never taking his gaze from the path. For long minutes, they did not speak, until the trail opened onto a clear hill and, beyond, the imposing silhouette of the mansion emerged.

The lit lamps outlined the dark mass against the night sky. It was no longer a skeletal worksite nor an unfinished project: it was a complete residence, immense, standing as though it had always been there, waiting. The large windows reflected glimmers of internal lamps, the gardens revealed careful lines, and the iron-and-steel gate shone beneath the electric lanterns.

Kael stopped. His steps advanced no further. Virka barely turned her face, without losing the strength of her stride, and understood before he spoke. The master's voice came out grave, slow, like one delivering an oath:

—Beyond this point, I am neither guide nor shadow. That mansion belongs to you, to Sebastián, and to this creature. I will not enter, because a home admits no outside witness. But remember: the dojo will always be a refuge, and my hand can always be a father's if you choose to accept it.

Narka inclined his head, as if acknowledging the boundary imposed. Virka did not smile, did not thank him with words; she only held him with her red gaze for one more second, enough to seal the farewell. Kael turned and disappeared once more into the darkness.

The silence thickened. The mansion awaited.

Virka advanced to the gate. The cold metal opened with a slow screech. The front garden unfolded like a solemn corridor: paths of dark stone, fountains stilled in their murmur, electric lanterns illuminating the damp gravel. Everything seemed still, as if it had been awaiting her arrival for centuries.

Narka finally spoke, his voice vibrating against his mistress's skin:

—These walls are not ordinary. They are not made to fall. They have been raised to withstand the uncontainable. Even Sebastián's fury.

Virka did not answer. Her eyes swept the vestibule as she crossed the entrance: a vast space, with black marble floors veined with gold, walls that rose double height, lamps hanging like captive stars. The echo of her steps filled the empty hall. And there, for an instant, she did not see herself alone. In her mind, Sebastián rose in the middle of the vestibule, standing, with that unbreakable posture that needed neither throne nor banner. The memory was so vivid her skin bristled.

She advanced toward the dining room. A long table of dark wood occupied the center, able to gather dozens. The surface gleamed under the light, but it was empty. Virka blinked, and in that emptiness another image formed: Sebastián seated at one of the heads, eating with brutal naturalness, distinguishing neither banquet from ration, as if food itself were another battlefield. His jaw moved slowly, his spiral eyes burning in calm. The memory lasted only a breath, but it left a heavier beat in her chest.

The industrial kitchen appeared behind, with its metallic counters, gleaming ovens, and a clean silence, of a room never used. Virka barely paused. That place was not hers, nor would it ever fully be: but she could imagine Sebastián entering there, with the indifference of a man who distinguishes no difference between weapon and food.

Farther on, a side door revealed the indoor pool. The still water reflected the ceiling like a mirror broken by the light. Beside it, a giant bath, almost a pond, released warm steam. Virka stopped. The heat escaping from the water brushed her face, and then the memory was stronger: Sebastián seated there, the steam covering his shoulders, she at his side, both in silence. Neither spoke, neither needed words: the water burned, and yet it felt like rest. It was only a flash, but she felt it with such clarity that her lips curved slightly, not in tenderness, but in recognition of the inevitable.

The pond connected to the mountain stretched on the other side, with water flowing constantly from a hidden channel. Virka observed it, and on the surface of the crystalline water she saw, for a second, Sebastián dipping his feet, as if rest itself were part of his training. She standing, at his side, watching. The memory dissolved with the murmur of the real water.

They climbed to the upper floor. The corridors were clean, empty, the air still smelling of new wood. The first room was enormous, austere, silent. Narka spoke in a low voice:

—Here your steps will find rest. And his will too.

Virka knew it. That was her room, and beside it, Sebastián's. Both joined by a narrow corridor. When she crossed the threshold, she saw no bed nor furniture: she saw the shadow of Sebastián walking in silence toward her, as if that corridor were their inevitable bridge.

The library appeared next, shelves still empty, dust almost nonexistent. Virka slid her hand across a shelf, and in her memory she saw him seated on the floor, a book open in his hands, reading not for pleasure but for discipline.

On the balconies, the night wind struck her face. The city shone in the distance, small, and beyond, the mountains were dark blades against the sky. Virka rested a hand on the cold railing. And then she saw him again, fleeting, from behind, contemplating that the same horizon, with spiral eyes burning, as if the city did not exist and only the mountain mattered.

They went down to the basement. The training hall stretched like a reinforced void, thick walls, floors prepared to withstand. Virka walked it in silence, but in her mind the blows of Sebastián already resounded: each fist against the wall, each echo thundering like contained storm. The air vibrated as if anticipating those assaults.

Narka spoke, solemn:

—These foundations do not tremble. Not even if a demon struck down here.

Farther ahead was the bunker: sealed chambers, armored doors, a suffocating silence. Virka walked through it calmly, and in a flash she imagined him there, seated, not as prisoner, but as sentinel who even in confinement could not be contained.

At the end, the underground garage, empty save for some inherited luxury vehicles. Virka did not linger much: it was not the cars that mattered, but the vastness of the space.

When they returned to the vestibule, the mansion was no longer just construction nor luxury. It was a new body, a territory that recognized her. Virka stopped in the center, gazing at the lamps, the windows, the corridors. Every corner had awakened a memory of Sebastián, as if he already dwelled there though still far away.

The mark on her chest pulsed softly, warmly, confirming that certainty.

Narka settled on her shoulder, his golden eyes gleaming in the half-light.

—It is not only house. It will be refuge. And it will be root.

Virka closed her eyes for an instant. The air of the vestibule was heavy, but not stifling. It was the weight of belonging. No longer wandering beast. No longer shadow without shelter. She was mistress of a chosen home, a space where Sebastián and she would not only fight: they would live.

The night continued outside, but within the mansion time seemed suspended. Virka opened her eyes. And in that silence, she understood that every wall, every stone, every shadow already guarded the heartbeat of the Crimson Emperor, even if he had not yet crossed the threshold.

The mansion still breathed as if it were a new organism, newborn of stone and steel. The dust of construction had faded with the afternoon, and upon its walls fell a dense, reddish glow, as though trapped in the cracks of the horizon. Virka walked the last corridor without words, with Narka perched on her shoulder, until she stopped before a wide door, framed with dark wood. There, silence held a different weight: the scent of controlled humidity, muted echoes of water.

She pushed the door, and the warm air of the inner bath received her. A broad chamber, with walls clad in polished stone and dim lights that glowed like motionless embers, opened at its center a colossal bath, almost a hidden pool under the roof. Steam rose in thin veils, blurring the ceiling and softening the shadows. Virka stopped for an instant, her red eyes reflecting the murky shimmer of the water. It was not blood nor sweat nor rain; it was a clean mirror, a promise of rest she had never considered.

Without haste, she unfastened the dark trench coat that covered her body. The sound of leather brushing her skin mingled with the deep hum of the bubbling water. Then, with the same calm, she removed the inheritance garment, that attire Kael had given her in the ritual. She did not throw it aside nor treat it carelessly: she laid it carefully upon a stone bench, arranging it with instinctive respect, like one who knows every cloth holds memory. It was a garment of weight, and it was not to be folded nor hidden: it had to rest as a witness.

The air then touched her uncovered skin. Virka stood naked, and her body revealed itself in its full, superhuman magnitude: the whiteness of her skin, marked with faint gray shadows; the slender tension of her muscles, fine and perfect like cords; the implacable curve of her hips, the firm breasts, upright like a challenge; the line of her abdomen, carved in discipline; the long legs, charged with power and beauty in equal measure. Nothing was vulgar: everything in her seemed designed to remind the world that in her flesh existed a dangerous equilibrium between beast and woman. Narka said nothing, but his golden eyes narrowed, with the gravity of one who contemplates not desire, but truth.

Virka descended the stone steps into the surface of the water. The warm heat first enveloped her feet, then her thighs, and finally covered her entire body in an embrace that was neither combat nor torture, but relief. She submerged slowly, letting the liquid trace every curve of her skin, caressing shoulders, chest, belly, and back. The steam drew threads across her lips as she exhaled a deep sigh, as if releasing centuries of tension she had carried in muscles and bones.

The water slid with glimmers across her breasts, highlighted the arch of her neck, ran over the roundness of her backside with the same respect as an ownerless caress. She did not hide: she leaned against the edge, arms stretched out, head tilted back, eyes closed. It was brutal fanservice in its purity, a spectacle of beauty that needed no spectator. Virka herself was enough witness to what she was.

Narka slipped from her shoulder into the water, sinking with the serenity of a rock returning to the river. His massive body, in that reduced form, did not disrupt the balance; he merely surfaced beside her, letting the water stream across his black carapace streaked with incandescent veins. For a while, neither spoke. Only the murmur of the water and the slow heartbeat of the mansion.

—I did not think I would stop in such a place —Virka said at last, her voice deep, hoarse from the heat—. I have known baths of blood, rotten rivers, puddles where the water smelled of death. But never… this. Warm water that asks nothing, that demands nothing.

Narka tilted his head, his golden eyes reflecting the ripples of the water.

—It is not just water. It is permanence. It is symbol. The body cleanses, but not from filth: from weight. Here you are neither prey nor hunter. Here you simply exist.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. The steam traced a halo around her, and for an instant she recalled another image: Sebastián, seated in silence, his torso wet, water slipping over his tense muscles. It was not an exact memory, but a shadow her mind wanted to place in that space. Her smile was slight, laden with edge and tenderness at once.

—I imagine him here too. Not as master, not as owner… but as equal. Sitting in the water, silent, observing without asking for anything.

—And he will be —Narka replied, with a low rumble that seemed to rise from the stones—. Because this home is not only stone nor iron. It is the mark of three destinies that chose not to surrender.

Virka closed her eyes again. The water covered her up to the neck, caressing the scar of the spiritual mark on her chest. There was no dependence in her thought; there was certainty of companionship. Her muscles, always tense, began to yield. The bath was not luxury, it was a reminder that the body could also rest without surrendering. Little by little, she sank deeper, until nearly submerged, as if seeking the water to hold her instead of holding herself. She did not sleep: she kept herself in a quiet vigilance, like a beast that, at last, could close its eyes without fearing ambush.

The silence of the bath merged with another silence, denser, deeper. The fragment of reality bent, and the scene changed.

Sebastián was in the office of the underground casino, alone. Dried blood still stained the floorboards, the red circle with the fist remained invisible yet latent, like a mark in the air. He was seated in the center, legs crossed, eyes closed. No external noise; all that existed was his breathing and the tension of his body, turned forge.

The Dao of the Void opened first. Within his mind, a black whirlpool turned slowly, not yet colossal, but enough to drag the light. Its edges were sharp, and each rotation left a hum like blades scraping bone. Around it floated golden runes, unstable, like cracks that appeared and vanished, briefly lighting the darkness. At the center pulsed a vortex like a dark heart, pumping outward a beat that warped the shadows. Everything gave off a low, muffled sound, as if the universe itself were sucked in with every breath.

Sebastián opened his eyes within that vision, and his hands moved through empty air. He absorbed the image of a flame that emerged from nothing, and the void devoured it. But it did not destroy it: it rebuilt it as a black spark burning in his palm. He understood: the void was not death, it was reconstruction. It was devouring in order to remake. And in comprehending it, he felt how every wound that someday broke him could be returned to its origin, remade with that power.

Then, Force appeared. Crimson waves began distorting the space around him, as if everything were under a dry heat. His muscles tightened, and beneath his skin shone red veins, burning like invisible embers. The air became lead; each inhalation was a deep drum pounding from his bones. Nonexistent stones began to float around him in his vision, fragments of metal and Qi vibrating as if they recognized his will. The ground, even in the vision, fractured, red lines running like open wounds.

Sebastián struck forward, and the void absorbed the energy. Another strike, and Force returned it as pressure. He understood that Imposing Force was not only push: it was authority

it was a zone. Wherever he breathed, the enemy lost mobility, lost clarity. His will was weight, and that weight could break.

For hours, he remained caught in that double ocean: the void devouring and remaking; the force imposing and crushing. He did not try to fuse them, because he could not yet. He confined himself to refining them, to feeling how each grew sharper, clearer, more his own. The night stretched on, and with it his breathing grew heavier, deeper, until his whole body vibrated with the certainty of an advance.

At dawn, he opened his eyes. The world was still stained with dried blood, but within him something had changed: Level 7, the Superior Channels, had reached its peak. It was the Apex stage. He had not made the leap to the next level, but now every strike of his was more dangerous, every inhalation more laden, every silence more threatening. The red circle with the fist seemed to glow for an instant, invisible to others, but burning to him.

Sebastián rose. The night had passed, and the day awaited him with a new weight on his shoulders. The void reconstructed, the force imposed. And he, between both, was the blade that decided what remained standing and what turned to dust.

The forge within his chest dimmed with the same measured sound with which he had earlier kindled the fire: a single tick, an exhalation that asked no pardon. Sebastián stood still a moment longer, still within the silence left by extreme practice: his body bled heat from every joint, his breath was a mechanical metronome. The underground office smelled of metal and old ink; the dried blood on the boards needed no decoration of guilt. He gathered his calm like one gathers a cloak and prepared to step into the cold light.

From the ring he kept stored, he drew the phone Helena and Selena had given him—an apparatus for matters that did not fit in common words. He activated it without haste, with the deliberation of one who does not beg favors but requests tools. The number on the screen looked like a match, and when he dialed it Selena's voice emerged, deep and ironic, half lit with sleep.

—At this hour? —she asked, more puzzled than angry, the voice of one who, at such hours, measures the day in pending accounts—. Tell me you're not calling to ask for fireworks at four in the morning.

Sebastián spoke without useless flourishes. He laid out his intent as one describes a map: precise, cold, without gestures of supplication.

—There are establishments around the underground —he said—. Places that feed the night and its papers. I want to control them. Not to celebrate them, but to know what they guard: names, debts, routes. Information. You're in the middle of a cleansing; this may serve you.

She breathed on the other end, a sound that was more calculation than pause. Selena did not deny with words; she spoke occupations: smithies that had to be shut, supply routes that needed to be cut, deals that demanded time. The city called her for schedule, and she gave it. Her response was measured, with that mixture of disdain and politics that made her dangerous.

—I am not into free favors —she said—. I have the cleansing underway and other fissures consuming me. Smiths, routes, people who don't fit into easy lists. But listen: if what you propose opens holes where I can put my hands and close what I've already detected, then let's talk.

Sebastián did not smile. He answered with the cadence of one who offers an exchange —not romance nor alliance without price—: his control of the venues was access to the papers she needed, a bridge that could allow her to close routes and tie names to tables. The conversation folded into utility.

—Talk to Helena —Selena said, finally—. Give me two hours. If what you announce has body, I'll give you the threads I can get. But do it calmly and without noise. If you want me to support you, make it worth the effort.

The word "two hours" fell like sentence. Sebastián cut the call with a gesture so small it seemed invisible. He put the phone back into the ring, like one stores a key in the hollow of the hand, and stayed a few more seconds in the gloom, listening to the echo of his own breathing before ordering his people.

—No one leaks anything —he said, and his voice allowed no reply—. If someone speaks when they should not, they will be example. They will understand that betrayal is not mistake but lesson.

There was no need for shouting. The phrase hung in the air, cold and precise, and in the underground obedience adjusted to the pulse of the warning. He did not detail methods; the promise of the response was enough for silence to grow sterner.

He exited through the back door that opened onto the still-sleeping town. He did not run like one who loves clamor; he rushed like the cut of a blade that knows its edge. At the speed his indomitable body allowed —that figure you spoke of, close to five hundred and fifty kilometers per hour— the city unraveled into indistinct lines: roofs, wires, lamps, everything became a stroke. The wind bit his face; the lights stretched into stubble; the air smelled of oils, old coffee, city entrails. It was not vain haste but vehicle: the time between intention and execution had to be minimal, precise.

The mansion appeared like a statue amid the dawn mist: scaffolding still folded, lanterns hanging that expelled small threads of smoke, planters repeating perfect angles. Virka stood at the door, Narka on her shoulder like a breathing crown; her silhouette cut against the nearing completion of the work was the affirmation that something had ended and something began. She did not greet him; she received him with a calibrated look.

—Selena? —Virka asked, without preamble. Her voice kept the cutting softness of one who has learned to measure affections with distance.

—She spoke —he answered—. Wait two hours to talk with Helena. If what I proposed is useful, she'll throw me the threads. I ask that the house remain closed. No one enters or leaves of their own will until I say so. I don't want leaks.

Virka let her eyes travel across his face. There was no dramatic gleam in her movements; only the economy of one who understands the value of silence.

—I will come —she said at last—. Narka will come. The house is sealed. Do not turn it into spectacle.

Narka gave a deep sound, a stone's assent. The brevity of the exchange was its strength. They needed no more words: the pact was sealed in the restraint of gestures.

The mansion closed with the precision of an honest object. There was no noise, no theater. The windows sealed where they should, the doors that might serve rumor were blocked by trusted hands; the few who knew were left with clear instructions. Virka went inside the house to oversee that all was in order; Narka settled, watchful and still, like a statue that commands respect.

Sebastián observed the house a moment longer, measuring the air around it, and then turned back to his carrion of responsibilities. He did not celebrate. He stored the sensation in the same place where he stored decisions: in a cold, functional compartment. The day that had delivered Selena's promise was not yet victory, only movement —the first piece placed in a sequence that demanded silence and precision.

____________________________

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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