On the Path of Eternal Strength.

The mansion rose in shadows, silent but not empty. The echo of Virka and Sebastián's footsteps expanded through the newly finished corridors, as if the stone recognized those who would be its masters. There were no furnishings, no ornaments, yet the air was heavy: it was a home that breathed even though it did not yet have the shape of a house. Outside, the night thickened; inside, the waiting became a ceremony. Two hours separated that moment from the call of Helena and Selena. Two hours that were not emptiness: they were a bridge between what had been sealed and what was about to be broken.

Sebastián stopped in the vestibule, the light of the hanging lanterns bathing his severe face. The mark on his chest throbbed faintly, invisible to common eyes, yet present like a vow that cannot be erased. His spiral eyes, dark red, burned like contained embers. Virka looked at him for a few seconds, and in that silence she began to speak. Her voice was neither confession nor release: it was a blade recounting its own passage.

—I went to the dojo, she said, her lips tense. I crossed the hall of oaths, and there were the twelve statues. Eleven looked at me with gold. One, the sixth, burned with violet cracks. That river recognized me. Master Kael gave me the inheritance of the twelfth generation.

Sebastián did not interrupt her. His eyes remained fixed on hers, as if each word carried enough weight to need no immediate reply. Virka continued, her red eyes ignited with memory.

—I received the robe. Black, red, and gold. And the circle with the fist, your mark, was engraved on my chest as part of that inheritance. But it was not only that. The master… Kael… offered me something more. Not only his guidance as a teacher. He proposed to be my father. Not in blood, but in life. A father I never had, that I never asked for.

The air grew tense. Narka, on Virka's shoulder, opened his golden eyes. Sebastián blinked slowly, like one who absorbs a weight and lets it fall into its exact place.

—And what do you feel? he asked, his voice deep, without judgment, only an anchor.

Virka narrowed her eyes.

—Strange. I didn't reject it, nor did I accept it. I don't know if I want a father. I don't know if I can allow myself one. But… his words were not a lie. And for a moment I thought yes… that maybe it would be possible.

The mansion's silence absorbed the confession. Sebastián let out a heavy exhalation, as if every fiber of his body remembered the path he himself had forged.

—Virka… his voice was firm, dry. That decision is yours. Only yours. It doesn't matter what Kael says or what I say. If you accept it, you accept it for yourself. If you reject it, you reject it for yourself. I will be with you in either case, but I will never decide for you.

Virka looked at him with her beast's eyes. There was no sweetness in her expression, but there was recognition. Sebastián continued, his voice growing denser:

—We are together. We are companions. But that does not mean chains. Each of us carries our own path, our own Dao. I decided to sink into the Void and into Force, to cultivate until every strike is a weight and every emptiness is reconstruction. I chose to take these places, to make myself the master of this underground city. These are my choices, my burdens. You must also choose yours. I don't want you to look at me one day and say you decided something because I wanted it. I want you to do it because you desire it, because you claim it as your own.

The echo of those words lingered, vibrating like struck iron. Virka lowered her chin, her lips curving just slightly.

—Yes… it's what I expected to hear. Her eyes shone intensely. I don't need chains. I need paths.

The silence was not empty: it was a bond stronger than words. Narka broke it with a deep murmur:

—This is how you must walk together. Not as masters nor as shadows, but as choices that cross without devouring each other.

Virka drew a deep breath. Then she stepped just slightly away from Sebastián, her lips letting slip a sharp smile.

—If we have to wait two hours… let's make use of them. I want to walk through the mansion with you. I want you to feel it. This will be our home, even if it's still empty. And the furniture… we'll get it ourselves, in our own way.

Sebastián nodded. Nothing more was needed. They walked.

The tour was slow, almost ritual. The vestibule received them with its black marble floors streaked with golden veins, shining like the arteries of a mineral heart. The lamps hung like captive stars, swaying with a faint wind that slipped in from the balconies. The echo of their footsteps mingled with the memory of what would soon be life.

The dining hall opened with a long table, still bare. Virka slid her fingers across the wood, and Sebastián watched her in silence. For an instant, both saw the same image: him, seated at the head, eating without protocol, as if a banquet and a ration were the same for a man who had turned food into another battlefield.

The kitchen gleamed metallic, cold, with shining ovens and counters that had never felt the edge of a knife. It was not a place of tenderness, yet they already recognized it as part of the machinery of the house.

The indoor pool welcomed them with its warm steam. The water trembled beneath the dim lights that seemed like motionless embers. Sebastián stopped there, and his deep voice slipped out like a sentence.

—It's been a long time since I bathed in real water. It's strange. It feels… necessary.

Virka looked at him from the corner of her eye, and her lips curved. Without saying more, they continued the walk.

The channel connected to the mountain murmured with crystalline water. The sound was different from the bath: it was permanent, like a thread that never breaks. The library was empty, Bare shelves, but in their shadows the silhouette of Sebastián already took shape, sitting on the floor, reading with discipline.

On the balconies, the wind struck their faces. The city glowed like distant embers; the mountains, dark blades sunk into the sky. The bedrooms, still bare, opened with firm doors: Virka's and Sebastián's, joined by a corridor. Neither said anything, but both knew what it meant.

In the basement, the training hall awaited with thick walls, ready for blows that would make demons tremble. The bunker was a suffocating silence, a sealed refuge. The garage, filled with inherited luxury vehicles, was barely a passage.

When they returned to the pool, the steam wrapped around them again. Virka stopped, her red eyes ignited.

—I want to use this time here. With us.

Sebastián nodded.

The bath was slow. Sebastián's black trench coat fell first, then the shirt that revealed his scarred torso. His scars were drawn like maps of war, twisted lines and traces of steel that were not ornament, but history engraved. Each spoke of fractures and resistances, of battles that had shaped him in silence.

Virka let her dress fall, and her body was revealed as an impossible balance between beast and woman. White skin with faint gray shadows, tense muscles, firm curves, erect breasts, a stomach marked by discipline. It was not a body made to please, but to remind anyone who looked that a living blade resided there.

They descended together into the water. The warm heat took over their bodies, moving across scars, shoulders, and backs. Sebastián exhaled strongly, the steam brushing his lips.

—Yes… I had forgotten what this was.

Virka wrapped her arms around him, her lips seeking his. The kiss was slow, dense, heavy. The water brushed their skin like an anonymous caress, but their hands were a living promise: over the neck, over the back, over the scar-marked stomach.

Narka slipped from Virka's shoulder into the water. His dark shell surfaced beside them, unmoving like ancient rock. His golden eyes remained open, a solemn witness to a moment that needed no modesty.

For half an hour they remained there, submerged in steam and water, kissing, caressing, breathing as if the entire world had stopped outside those walls. There were no unnecessary words: only skin, scars, steam, and silence.

At the end, they rose. The water slid down their bodies as if unwilling to let them go. They dried themselves calmly.

Dressing was also a ceremony. Sebastián put on Draila's black shirt, the dark trousers, the black trench coat, and the military boots. Virka adjusted her dress.

Black of Draila, sober, light-absorbing. They looked at each other, and though the clothing was discreet, their presences were not. They were black flames walking under shadow.

Narka settled once more on Virka's shoulder, living shadow, sentinel.

The phone vibrated. Selena's voice emerged deep, without adornment.

—You have what you asked for. The nightclub opens tonight. I'm sending you the layout. Entrances, exits, registers, cameras. I don't want noise. No spectacle. If you want my support, do it as I say.

Sebastián nodded in silence. When the call ended, his spiral eyes burned like embers. He looked at Virka.

—It's today. The first strike.

She held his gaze, her lips curving just slightly.

—Then let the night cover us.

The silence of the mansion became a sentence. The nightclub was no longer just a building in the city: it was the prey that would feel, for the first time, the weight of the circle with the fist.

The morning opened without birdsong or full rays: only a dim glow filtered between the mountains surrounding the mansion. The silence was so deep it seemed to await a blow. Sebastián and Virka were already ready; there were no ornaments in their preparation, only the sobriety of black clothing that seemed to drink in the light. Narka rested on Virka's shoulder, still, his golden eyes alert like unblinking embers.

There were no more words. Sebastián inclined his head slightly toward her, and in that gesture he took her in his arms as if she were a princess. There was no sweetness in the movement, but firmness: it was the most direct way to advance at the speed they required. Virka did not resist; her red gaze remained fixed on the horizon, accepting that this journey was not romanticism, but strategy.

The air tore apart as they departed. The mansion's walls were left behind, and the world became a landscape devoured at 400, 450 kilometers per hour. The wind roared against their faces, but Sebastián did not falter: his muscles tense, his breathing controlled, his steps striking the earth like invisible hammers. The journey of seven hundred kilometers was reduced to minutes that felt like centuries compressed. Virka, in his arms, perceived the vibration of the world around them, as if the entire planet trembled to open a path for them.

As they approached the city, Sebastián did not seek roads. His feet touched one building, then another, and the run became a dance across rooftops. The jumps were long, swift, as if gravity were a rumor he ignored. Virka felt the air split into blade fragments as they passed over markets, streets, and plazas unseen. They were not part of the human flow; they were a shadow crossing the skin of the city.

At last, they reached the nightclub district. From the rooftop, Sebastián set Virka down at his side. She rose naturally, adjusting the dress that fell like a second dark skin. Narka, motionless on her shoulder, slowly turned his head. From there,

The three observed: workers going in and out, carrying boxes, adjusting lights, preparing the stage for the night that had not yet arrived.

Sebastián's silence broke only for a precise act. From the ring on his hand he drew a phone: a simple object, but in that instant it was a bridge. He dialed. Selena's voice appeared on the other end, deep, cold. There was no unnecessary greeting.

—I need the area clear. Sebastián did not say it as one who commands, but as one who states an inevitable requirement. "No civilians, no trucks. Nothing interfering.

On the other end, the pause was brief, laden with calculation. Selena responded with the same edge with which he had spoken:

—I'll do it. Fifteen minutes.

Time became waiting on that rooftop. Fifteen minutes in which the city continued its normal breathing, but the air around the club seemed to thicken, awaiting the order of a distant will. Sebastián and Virka remained still, two black figures against the dim dawn. Finally, Selena's voice returned, dry, conclusive:

—Area secured. No one will interrupt.

There were no thanks or ceremonies. Only a silence that equaled assent. Sebastián put the phone back into the ring, and turned his spiral gaze toward Virka. She already knew: it was time to descend.

They slid down to the back, where the club's warehouse served as entrance and exit for goods. The metal doors vibrated with the pounding of boxes, muffled voices of men unloading. Sebastián moved first, his body tensed like a bow. Virka followed, her silhouette flowing like shadow. There was no conversation: only measured breaths, footsteps that seemed to sink into the gloom.

A guard turned the corner. He barely had time to open his mouth. Sebastián seized him with one hand at the neck, a sharp twist, and the crack of bone was the only note. The body collapsed without blood, without noise. Virka mirrored the dance with another man who appeared further inside: an arm across the face, an irregular movement of the neck, and life was extinguished like a candle in the wind. Not a drop stained the floor; they were clean executions, precise, without spectacle.

They advanced like this through the warehouse, eliminating those who stood in the way with the same technique: abrupt twists, silent fractures, bodies set in the shadows so they seemed like absence. The air smelled of dust and wood, of closed boxes storing goods for the night. Every step was a blade sliding beneath the skin of the place.

When they were sure the warehouse was clear, they continued their round into the interior of the club. The main stage opened before them: lights off, tables still empty, bottles lined on shelves, the dance floor bare under dead spotlights. It was a temple awaiting sacrifices. They walked among those shadows like the first officiants of a secret rite.

Up the stairs, a corridor rose. The walls vibrated with muffled music from some distant rehearsal. They advanced to a door with clear letters: Manager. They did not pause. Sebastián raised his fist and let it fall against the wood. The blow was a sentence. The door gave way, splintered in a single instant.

Inside, the air was dense, heavy with sweat and cheap perfume. On a wide sofa, the club boss moved with a prostitute. There was no metaphor possible: the man penetrated her with rapid rhythm, his hands gripping hips, his torso bent over her. The panting was animal, stripped of all disguise.

The crash of the broken door froze them. The boss, a gigolo with an open suit and sweaty chest, opened his eyes with fury and surprise. He shoved the woman aside, pushing her as one would throw an object. Her naked body collapsed onto the carpet, and he immediately turned to a nearby table. He opened a drawer with desperate hands and pulled out a revolver.

He never managed to aim. Before the trigger could feel pressure, Sebastián was already in front of him. His speed was an inhuman cut: an instant separated him from the distance, and that instant was extinguished. The revolver was trapped in Sebastián's hands, wrenched away with a sharp motion. The gigolo was hurled against the floor, his body pinned beneath the weight of an arm that pressed like iron.

The man cursed, spat, tried to move. He couldn't. Sebastián had him pinned to the floor, his knee in the man's back, his arm pressing the neck at an angle where resistance was useless.

The prostitute, naked, tried to flee toward the door. Virka intercepted her without hesitation. Her white hands closed over the woman's head; a twist, a crack, and the body went limp, collapsing in silence. Not a scream crossed the room.

The room sank into still air: the gigolo against the floor, the prostitute dead at the side, Sebastián looming over the man, and Narka on his shoulder watching with golden eyes. The silence became an unbearable weight. It was the end of the entry, and the beginning of the sentence.

The gigolo's body cracked beneath Sebastián's weight. It was not only the force of his knee dug into his back, nor the arm pressing his neck at an impossible angle: it was the certainty that any attempt at resistance would end in broken bones. The man gasped, sweating, his nails scratching at the carpet stained with cheap perfume and fluids. Before him, the prostitute lay with her neck twisted, a motionless husk in the gloom of the room.

—This place is mine, said Sebastián, his voice deep, dry, without exaltation. It was not a shout, nor a threat. It was a fact that descended on the gigolo like a tombstone.

The man let out a nervous laugh, broken by the pressure on his windpipe.

—No… you can't take this so easily… This is part of something bigger. You have no idea what you're touching.

Sebastián lowered his face, his spiral eyes spinning with a deep red. He didn't need to raise his voice.

—Yes, I do. —A pause heavy with emptiness— This club is an extension of the underground casino in the rural zone. And that casino already has a new owner. Me.

The silence that followed was a knife slash. The gigolo's eyes widened, incredulous, his lips trembling.

—You… he tried to breathe. You killed the boss over there…

Sebastián nodded slowly.

—Yesterday.

Desperation changed shape on the gigolo's face. Fear turned into quick calculation.

—Wait… I can help you. If you are the new boss of that place, I can keep this club for you. No one will suspect. I can make everything work. Even if I die, you'd lose the legal side. If you let me live, you'll still have both.

Sebastián looked at him as one looks at an insect trying to negotiate its crushing.

—I don't need someone like you. A traitor is the same in any side. I'd rather kill you right here.

The man trembled, his muscles struggling against an impossible wall.

—You can't! If I disappear, the club is legal… Legal! The police, the papers, the licenses… suspicions will rise, and all this will come down on you.

Virka, standing by the sofa, raised her chin. Her red eyes burned, impatient.

—And what does it matter? Her cutting voice tore through the tension. If you want it, you take it. Whether the ruins rise or not, it doesn't matter. The club is yours, Sebastián.

Narka, from Virka's shoulder, slowly turned his head. His golden eyes glowed like ancient embers.

—No. His voice was a slow, deep rumble. It's not enough to take it in shadow. If you leave it stained only with blood, later it will become an obstacle. The poison of the legal is slower, but deeper. Touch it on both sides, and then nothing will stand against you.

Silence once again weighed heavy in the room. Sebastián closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, his decision was already stone.

—Virka. His voice was firm, without harshness. Hold him.

She obeyed without hesitation. She leaned down, her arms taut like living chains, pinning the gigolo to the floor. The man struggled, useless, his breath broken.

Sebastián drew the phone from the ring. He dialed.

Selena's voice came from the other side, cold as steel under rain.

—Do you have him already?

—Yes, Sebastián replied, dry. Change of plans. I don't just want this place. I want it also on the surface, in the legal. I don't know those procedures. I want you to tell me how to do it.

There was a brief silence. Then, Selena's voice dropped like a blade.

—I knew it. I thought you'd ignore it and use the boss as cover. But of course… you're not just a monster that destroys what it touches. You're something worse: one who also knows how to calculate.

Sebastián did not smile, nor reply.

—This path is mine. And I won't let a legal crack break it.

Selena let out a low laugh, devoid of joy.

—You're more dangerous than Helena warned. Not a weapon… a monster that adapts its rules to every strike. Fine. Then listen.

Her voice turned more technical, more precise:

—We can use Helena's network. If you enter as a covert shareholder, the club will pass to your legal control without leaving traces. But you'll have to speak with her. This touches her company, and though we have a cleaning agreement, it doesn't mean you can burst into her domain.

—I accept. Sebastián closed his eyes for a moment, settling the decision. "I'll speak with her."

—Good. Selena's voice softened just slightly, a sheathed blade still dangerous. "And regarding the boss… don't kill him yet. I need him. He can serve us to open the drug route of the smiths. It will be a mutual favor.

Sebastián inclined his head, as if she could see him.

—Send someone for him. Have him taken.

—I'm already on my way," she replied, cutting the line.

Silence once again filled the room. Virka loosened her grip on the gigolo just slightly, looking at him with contempt. Sebastián stored the phone in the ring and spoke:

—We'll have to wait until they pick him up.

Virka arched her eyebrows, her lips tightening in a grimace.

—I accept Selena's help… because we need it. But I don't fool myself. That woman always smiles with calculations on her tongue.

Her eyes shone with a red of barely disguised jealousy. Still, she added:

—But if it is your path, I will walk it with you. As your queen.

Sebastián observed her for a moment, passing no judgment. His eyes burned, but his face remained stoic.

Narka, from the shoulder, spoke with his ancient voice:

—The club is only the first. More pieces remain on this board. Four places, all tied to the casino: the brothel, the pawn and auction house, the loan branch, and the central warehouse.

Sebastián listened in silence. Narka continued:

—The warehouse is the simplest. It is pure shadow, without papers or masks. Leave it for last. The difficult part is covering the legal.

Virka nodded, turning toward Sebastián.

—Then let's go first to the pawn shop. It is close, just a few streets away. There are valuable objects there, jewels, antiques. It will not be difficult to take it now, when it is still morning.

Sebastián did not reply immediately. His eyes moved, spinning like a crimson whirlpool in silence.

—The brothel would be simpler, he murmured at last. We could infiltrate it easily.

Virka's reaction was immediate: her gaze burned, and her lips tightened into a cutting line.

—No. Her voice was a contained roar. I will not be merchandise or bait. My body is not an object to open doors.

The silence after those words was as heavy as stone. Sebastián held her gaze, and added nothing. He didn't need to.

Narka intervened, grave, weighing each syllable.

—Then the choice is clear. Begin with the pawn shop. The nearby, the valuable, the legal. The rest will come later.

The air in the room grew dense, as if the very walls were listening. Outside, the city breathed its routine, unaware that within those walls the future of its shadows was being decided. And they waited, like beasts at rest, for Selena to send her people for the gigolo.

The silence after the call with Selena remained heavy, as if the walls had heard every word and wanted to keep them. The gigolo was still immobilized, gasping against the carpet, his eyes glazed and reddened from the constant pressure on his neck. Virka held him with relentless firmness, her muscles tense like invisible claws. Narka, still on her shoulder, seemed a fragment of stone with golden eyes, watching every breath.

Sebastián raised his gaze, scanning the room with his spiral eyes. There were bottles lined up behind the bar, closed chests, half-hidden briefcases. Wealth lingered in the air like a sour perfume, mixed with sweat and sex still clinging to the furniture. Finally he spoke, his voice dry, without rising more than necessary:

—We will not sit idly by while we wait. This place is already ours. We will loot it. Money. Alcohol. Everything worth taking.

Virka raised her face slightly, and a flash of approval crossed her red eyes.

—Either way, it is already yours. It doesn't matter if you empty it. Her lips curved in a thin grimace. Let the loot be the first offering of the place to its master.

Narka slowly turned his head, observing the shelves loaded with bottles. His deep voice fell like a stone into a river:

—It has been centuries since I tasted a liquor made by human hands. Cultivators usually despise them… but I still remember that some have a strange taste, like sweet embers on the tongue.

The comment was so unexpected that even Virka arched an eyebrow. Sebastián, without showing any expression, only gave a slight nod. And so, the looting began.

Sebastián dragged the gigolo by the neck to the bar. The man tried to resist, but a crack in his ribs reduced him to silence. With his other hand, Sebastián pointed toward the shelves.

—Where is the money. Speak.

The man swallowed painfully, pointing with a trembling finger toward a false wall behind the bar. Virka held him on the floor while Sebastián struck with his fist, splintering the wood and revealing a hidden compartment. Inside were bundles of bills, stacked like green bricks. The air filled with the smell of old paper and fresh ink. Sebastián gathered them without hurry, placing them into a briefcase he found nearby.

Meanwhile, Virka walked to the bar and took one of the darkest bottles. She lifted it against the dim light and observed it as if it were blood trapped in glass.

—Curious… she whispered. I never understood why humans obsess so much over these things.

Narka laughed low, a hoarse laugh like rock sliding.

—Because they believe they are still alive when the tongue burns and the throat sears. It is a borrowed memory. A trick.

Sebastián closed the briefcase with a sharp snap. He turned to Narka, his voice deep, inquisitive:

—And you? Do you still need it?

The elder's golden eyes lit up, and he spoke slowly, as if dragging centuries in every word:

—After level ten, Middle Patriarch, none of this is needed anymore. Neither food, nor water, nor sleep. The body stops obeying human laws. We are dense spirit, contained energy. But that does not mean we cannot. Some do it to remember what it was to be human, or to share moments with their own. Not out of need… but out of memory.

Silence filled the air. Virka lowered the bottle, her lips tightening harshly.

—I never needed it. Neither as a beast, nor now. When I took human form I thought it would be different, that I would have to eat, sleep, or feel those lacks. But no. Nothing changed. My body does not ask for those things.

Sebastián watched her, motionless.

—In my case, it is different. His spiral eyes burned darker. Since I entered

on the Path of the Indomitable Body, those needs began to fade. Eating, drinking, resting… ceased to be vital. I can do it, yes. But I no longer need it.

Narka inclined his head slightly.

—That is what distinguishes your body. You do not follow the common rule. You shaped yourself as a living weapon. The price is detaching from what once was human. And that will continue.

Virka set the bottle down with a soft thud on the bar, as if sealing the conversation.

—Then it doesn't matter. Neither hunger, nor thirst. Only what remains of the path.

The looting continued. They found boxes with jewels, gold watches, accounting papers, and stacked them in silence. The gigolo, with his face pressed into the floor, groaned under the weight of Virka's hand each time he refused to speak. Sebastián tore answers from him with the same calm with which he gathered loot, as if breaking bones and opening compartments were part of the same gesture.

Thick minutes passed, filled with controlled breaths and the cracking of broken wood. The echo of the empty club seemed to amplify every movement, as if the very shadows watched the looting in reverent silence.

Suddenly, the ring on Sebastián's hand vibrated. The phone. He took it out and answered with his usual gravity.

—They are already there, said Selena, without preamble. Two of my men. Black car, discreet. They will wait for you at the back entrance. Ask for the code.

—The code? asked Sebastián.

—Operation Smith Club. Only they know it.

The line cut without farewells. Sebastián put the phone away, looked at Virka and Narka, and then dragged the gigolo toward the hallway.

The passage was slow, heavy. The club's dead lights barely lit their silhouettes as they crossed the main hall, briefcase in hand and bottles gathered in arms. Virka carried the man as if he were a useless sack. Narka watched from her shoulder, silent.

When they opened the back door, the cold morning air met them. A black car waited in the shadows, its engine purring discreetly. Two men stepped out, dark suits, earpieces, firm gazes.

Sebastián faced them.

—The code.

One of them stepped forward, his voice deep, dry:

—Operation Smith Club.

Sebastián nodded. He dropped the gigolo onto the ground, and the men lifted him effortlessly, shoving him into the trunk of the vehicle. The car disappeared in seconds, swallowed by the empty street.

The phone vibrated again. Selena's voice returned, serene as a clean blade.

—It is done. I will use him for my own. You continue with yours. I will contact you when I have Helena's part ready.

Sebastián responded with a deep murmur.

—Good.

The call ended. Silence was once again in their hands.

Virka crossed her arms, staring at the point where the car had vanished. Her lips twisted in a grimace.

—I don't like depending on her. But if it is necessary… I accept it.

The red of her eyes shone with a bitter tint, a mixture of jealousy and pride. Sebastián looked at her without judgment, and Narka was the one who spoke:

—It doesn't matter. What counts is the next step. The club is already in your hands. Now four places remain: the brothel, the pawn and auction house, the loan branch, and the warehouse.

Sebastián remained silent. Narka continued:

—The warehouse will be last. It is pure shadow, without papers. The difficult ones are the legal.

Virka nodded, her voice firm:

—The pawn shop is close. Just a few streets away. There they trade valuable objects, antiques, jewels. We can take it this very morning.

Sebastián arched an eyebrow slightly, his deep voice rising slowly:

—The brothel would be simpler. We could infiltrate it easily.

Virka's face hardened immediately. Her gaze burned like lit embers.

—No. Her voice was a cutting edge. I will not be used as merchandise. I am not an object.

The silence tightened. Sebastián held her gaze, without forcing a reply.

Narka spoke, grave, his tone heavy as stone:

—Then there is no doubt. Begin with the pawn shop. The nearby. The valuable. The legal. The rest will come after.

The air of the city smelled of iron and dust, but there, in that instant, three figures stood beneath the shadow of a new empire. The club was left behind, looted, marked, delivered to Helena's network. And before them, the morning opened the path toward the next conquest.

The morning had continued its course, dragging the hours like a thick river that would not stop. The city awoke with its daily bustle: cries of vendors, hurried footsteps, wheels screeching on the streets, smoke rising as if the very air needed to hide its misery. In the midst of that normality, three figures advanced: Sebastián, Virka, and

Narka. They were not furtive shadows nor discreet presences, yet they raised no suspicion; they walked with the contained calm of those who had already chosen their path. People looked at them without stopping, as if their eyes refused to understand what they really were.

Sebastián kept his gaze fixed ahead. Virka walked at his side, lips pressed into a firm line, red eyes burning against the brightness of day. On her shoulder, Narka remained silent, his golden eyes weighing more than the sun itself. It was the hour when the city surrendered to commerce, and they were walkers of another order, figures of a destiny no one there could imagine.

The pawn shop appeared before them with an innocent facade. Discreet frontage, display windows showing golden chains, shining watches, gems that caught the light as if capable of pretending eternity. An entrance guarded by men in dark suits, alert, with that kind of vigilance hidden behind commercial smiles. It was a place that breathed legality and rot at once: a temple of gleaming objects and transactions disguised as respect.

Narka murmured, barely audible, with that voice that seemed to drag centuries:

—An altar for dead things. Souls are not traded, but pieces of what a soul left behind are sold.

Virka tilted her head, a cutting shine in her gaze.

—Then we will burn it from within.

They entered. The air smelled of old dust, expensive perfume, and money counted in silence. Behind the counter, a clerk in a gray suit looked up, bored at first, but his eyes widened as soon as Sebastián laid a gold watch and several jewels from the looting of the nightclub onto the table. The man swallowed, poorly hiding his surprise.

—Interesting… pieces of great quality, he said, forcing a smile. Do you wish to pawn them?

Sebastián inclined his head, feigning clumsiness.

—I'm not sure. Do you buy these or keep them? How much do you pay for something like this?

His voice was deep, but wrapped in convincing ignorance. Virka glanced at him sideways, recognizing the disguise. Narka remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the clerk as if watching something already dead.

The man behind the counter hid a smile of greed. Before him was what seemed a perfect client: valuable pieces in the hands of someone who knew nothing of the trade.

—For objects of this caliber… better that you speak with management, he replied with poisoned courtesy. He made a gesture and led them down a narrow corridor, carpeted and dim.

Sebastián followed calmly. As they walked, he asked with apparent naivety:

—And will we see the manager directly? I don't know how this works.

The clerk barely contained a laugh.

—Yes, of course. He will know what to do with pieces so… particular.

He thought, as he guided them, that this young man and his woman were easy prey

The door opened with a faint creak, revealing a spacious office. The clerk stepped aside with a mechanical bow and withdrew, leaving them inside.

There awaited the manager: an elegant man, impeccable suit, groomed face, the smile of one who believes himself the owner of all that shines. The office was decorated with dark woods, heavy curtains, small luxury ornaments that spoke of easy wealth. At his side, two guards stood firm, weapons hidden beneath their jackets.

The manager leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.

—They tell me you bring valuable objects. Allow me to see them, and I will tell you how much they could be worth in this place.

Sebastián opened his coat. The gleam of gold and gems flooded the table. For an instant, the manager's smile froze. He recognized those pieces. His face hardened, and with an almost imperceptible gesture he raised two fingers. The guards responded at once: weapons drawn, aimed at Sebastián and Virka.

—Where did you get this? The manager's voice turned cold, cutting. These pieces should not be in the hands of two youngsters like you.

Narka was ignored, reduced to a strange ornament on Virka's shoulder. Virka herself tensed her muscles, ready to move, but Sebastián lowered his hand and set it firmly on her thigh.

—Calm. It is part of the plan.

His words were an anchor. Virka looked at him and restrained her impulse.

The manager let out a short laugh.

—Well… you've got guts. But bravery is useless here. Speak quickly or I'll blow your heads off right now.

Then Sebastián tilted his head to one side. From his lips came a dry laugh, without humor, like iron scraping against stone. The mask of the naive client shattered. His spiral eyes darkened, and from his body began to emanate an invisible weight.

The killing intent spread like a black mantle. It was not simple hostility: it was the condensation of ten years of slaughter in Draila, of nameless nights devouring monsters, of blood and broken bones. To that was added a fragment of the Crimson Baptism, a radiance of pain and sin that had branded his soul with burning iron.

The air of the office thickened. The guards tried to keep their weapons raised, but their hands trembled. The triggers would not yield because their fingers no longer obeyed. Their breaths broke, sweat streamed down their foreheads. With a strangled groan, the weapons fell to the floor.

The manager struggled to hold the gaze, but his eyes clouded, his lips pressed tight in a useless effort to remain upright. He could barely lift his head, as if an invisible weight forced him to bow.

Sebastián rose, adopting a firm posture, shoulders straight, gaze fixed. It was the stance of the Crimson Emperor: a being who did not ask permission, who did not negotiate, who imposed. His spiral red eyes spun like storms, burning embers in the gloom.

Virka, at his side, did not retreat. On the contrary: she drew closer, with a cutting smile. She nestled beside him with pride, showing herself untouchable under that murderous pressure. She was the queen in the shadow of an emperor.

The silence was broken by Sebastián's deep voice.

—Yes… I recognize them. These pieces come from the nightclub.

The manager barely lifted his gaze, trembling.

—And I know you are surprised. Because now that club belongs to me. And not only that… also the underground casino that rules it.

His words were iron, not confession.

—I killed the former boss. And now I am the one in command.

He leaned forward, letting the weight of his voice fall like a sentence.

—I am not here for business. I did not come to pawn anything.

He paused, his eyes burning like restrained fire.

—I came to take what from now on is mine.

The air grew still, heavy with that certainty. The manager and the guards, reduced to broken shadows before the revelation. And Sebastián, standing in his figure, not as a man, but as the Crimson Emperor claiming dominion.

The air inside the office remained steeped in the crimson pressure Sebastián had released moments earlier. The pawn shop manager, trapped in that presence, could barely breathe, as if the very air were made of blades. His eyes were glazed, his body trembling in spasms that revealed him as a broken man.

Sebastián did not move immediately. He walked slowly around the desk, each step resounding like an echo in the shattered mind of the manager. He did not need to raise his voice; his silence was enough to break wills. He leaned toward him, placing a firm hand on the back of the chair, bringing his lips close to his ear.

—You are going to draft a contract, he whispered, with a tone so cold it seemed to drag shadows with each syllable. This place could not pay what I came to pawn. So this house, your goods, your very name, will be pawned to me. You will sign the debt with your own hands. You will seal your surrender with your own seal.

The manager shuddered. Sweat ran down his forehead, sliding to his jaw. His trembling hands reached for a blank paper, and with broken handwriting he began to write what Sebastián dictated. Every word was guided by the murderous intent crushing him: twenty years of unbreakable debt, mortgaging the pawn shop itself as collateral.

Virka rose from her place, walking to the man's other shoulder, her lips so close that her icy breath brushed his neck.

—Remember what you write, she said with a trace of pride. All of this now belongs to the Crimson Emperor. You know it, even if your mouth does not repeat it.

Narka, seated on the desk, opened his golden eyes with gravity. His voice, slow and deep, added a weight impossible to ignore:

—Be specific. Debts must have roots. Let it be clear that they will not be paid with simple coins, but with what sustains this place: your inventory, your vaults, your legal power. Write each clause as if it were a shackle around your neck.

The manager obeyed, his mind fragmented, barely sane. The paper filled with letters stained by the trembling of his hand. The ink formed sentences that condemned him with every line.

When he finished writing, with a broken voice he stammered:

—I… need… the seal… so that… it has value…

Sebastián straightened, his red eyes burning with inhuman calm.

—Bring it, he said, without raising his voice.

The man clumsily called the clerk who had brought Sebastián, Virka, and Narka to the office. The young man entered, curious, but his expression changed instantly when he saw the scene: the manager unhinged, the guards motionless with lost gazes, Sebastián standing like a shadow that devoured everything.

—The… seal, bring the legal seal for contracts, ordered the manager, in an almost pleading tone.

The clerk opened his mouth to ask, but the manager interrupted him immediately, with a desperate shout:

—Don't question anything! Just do as I say!

The boy swallowed hard, nodded, and hurried out. He returned with a black wooden box. When opened, the manager took the seal with trembling hands and stamped it onto the document, leaving the official mark that validated his ruin.

Sebastián picked up the paper calmly, folded it, and tucked it under his coat. His voice, deep and contained, sank into the manager's ears like a slow knife:

—You will remain alive. You will remain the manager. No one will know this has changed. But remember: now your life hangs on this document. If you fail, if you dare to betray me, you will die by my hands before your heart gives a final beat.

The air vibrated again with another wave of killing intent. The manager, unable to resist further, let out a broken whimper. His pants soaked as he pissed himself from sheer terror, and white foam spilled from his mouth as his body shook like a broken puppet.

The clerk was still present, paralyzed by what he saw. Sebastián turned his head toward him, walked with slow steps, and faced him. He released only a fragment of his killing intent, just enough to wrap the young man in unbearable cold, as if death itself were breathing on his neck.

—Carry a message to all the employees, said Sebastián, with inhuman calm. There is a new owner here. They are to obey. They are not to question. They are to remember that what just happened to your boss is a gift compared to what will happen if they dare to disobey.

The clerk fell to his knees, nodding without voice, his gaze glassy. Sebastián left him there, barely alive, steeped in a fear that would never fade.

Virka smiled with dark pride, resting her hand on Sebastián's arm like one who accompanies the most dangerous throne in the world. Narka descended from the desk, his shell emitting a faint ancestral creak.

Without another word, the three left the place. Outside, the city carried on indifferent, the bustle of the morning contrasting with the hell that had just been sealed behind those walls.

They walked through the streets, blending into the crowd without drawing attention. The sun moved toward noon, and Sebastián's steps marked a constant, inevitable rhythm.

—The brothel is next, said Narka, his deep voice sounding as he walked beside the Crimson Emperor.

Virka pressed her lips, still with the echo of veiled jealousy at the constant mention of Selena, but she accepted without argument. Her eyes, red as embers, fixed on the horizon.

—They are waiting for us there too. But this time, we will do it our way, she whispered, leaning on Sebastián with the pride of a queen walking beside her emperor.

The air of the city mixed with the murmur of ordinary people, but for those who could feel it, an invisible shadow accompanied every step of the boy and his two allies. The shadow of the Crimson Emperor, marking the path toward the next domain.

The echo of their steps sank once more into the city. The heavy morning air was already tinged with the murmur of streets beginning to awaken on an ordinary day, but for them it was no ordinary day. The nightclub and the pawn shop were left behind, new scars in the rotten body of the city. Now, before them, awaited the other den: the brothel.

The path there was different from the others. There was no rush, no need to hide like thieves. They walked together, Virka at the front, Sebastián at her side, and Narka upright on her shoulder like an ancient sentinel. The decision had already been made before setting foot on those streets: this time it would not be Sebastián who took dominion. It would be Virka.

It was she who broke the silence as they advanced. Her voice was not a whisper nor a confession, but the dry declaration of someone who had chosen.

—This place will be mine, she said without taking her eyes from the street. I do not want you to rule it, Sebastián. It is not that you would wish it for me as a throne. It is that this place is built on the bodies of women, and I prefer it remain in my hands. I prefer that if it is to continue, it do so under my shadow and not under yours.

Sebastián turned his face slightly. His expression did not change, but embers spun in his eyes.

—I did not think you would be interested in ruling something like this, he responded calmly.

—Normally not, Virka replied, her lips tense, her gaze fixed on an invisible horizon. But this place is made to reduce women to merchandise. I do not want you to be associated with that. I do not want those carrion surrounding you. And… she broke off slightly, letting her frown speak more than words. And I do not like the idea of you living surrounded by those shadows. This place I will rule.

Narka opened his golden eyes, as if centuries spoke from that light.

—That is how it must be, he said gravely. Each chooses their own path. Sebastián promised in the mansion: he would not impose chains on those who walk beside him. Virka, if you decide to claim this place, it will be yours. Not as shadow, but as decision.

Sebastián nodded. His voice came out firm, without hesitation:

—Then there is no problem. If this is what you desire, I will support it. But tell me: how do you want to proceed?

Virka tilted her lips slightly in something that was neither smile nor mockery, but restrained blade.

—With purification. Blood and darkness. The pimp and his guards will fall. We will take the information they have and then they will disappear. This brothel will bear the seal of the Crimson Emperor… and of the Beast Queen. But it will be under my hands.

The silence that followed was a sentence. There was no turning back.

The brothel stood before them shortly after. The facade was vulgar: lights still off, a worn sign, heavy curtains concealing what seethed inside. They did not try to circle it, nor seek side entrances. Virka pushed through the front doors without stopping, her body upright, her gaze fixed, her stride like a blade.

The interior smelled of cheap perfume, rancid alcohol, and weary bodies. At that hour there were few clients, but enough to fill the air with murmurs. A prostitute with dyed hair approached them with a forced smile, dragging a dress that hid nothing.

—What do you desire, darling? We have fresh girls… or something stronger, she said in a rehearsed voice.

Virka did not respond. Her red eyes pierced through the woman with an icy gleam. She stepped forward and, without taking her gaze off her, raised her hand and slammed it against the nearby wall. The wall cracked and split open, dust and chunks of plaster falling. The crash was enough to silence the music and stop every breath.

—I want to see the boss, Virka said, her voice low but sharp as red-hot iron. Now.

Silence was absolute. The clients looked at each other, some stumbling to their feet to flee, others frozen by morbid fascination. Then two burly guards appeared, their faces marked by scars and eyes of beasts tamed by money.

—You don't do whatever you want here. Get out before we have to throw you out, one growled, raising his hand to touch Sebastián's shoulder.

But Virka moved first. She seized the man's wrist before he could brush against her companion. With a sharp, sudden twist, she shattered the bones in his hand. The guard screamed and fell to his knees, cold sweat sliding down his forehead.

Virka leaned over him, her shadow enveloping him.

—Take me to your boss, she repeated, without raising her voice, but with a presence that froze blood.

The second guard hesitated, his lips trembling, and finally nodded. He gestured with his head and began to lead them down the corridor.

As they advanced, the inside of the brothel revealed itself like an open wound. Women danced on metal poles, covered only by thongs and a sheen of sweat. Some continued their routine, indifferent to the chaos, because they knew stopping could cost them beatings. Others watched with eyes of hope or fear at the newcomers. The tables were full of half-empty bottles, sticky glasses, the stench of strong alcohol.

A small bar in the back served drinks to clients who had not left. The bartender glanced at them nervously, his hands trembling over the bottles.

The path was marked by their steps. The clients left one after another, dragging the prostitutes they could, while others hid behind columns or curtains, too curious or too cowardly to go. The atmosphere of the brothel, once made of false laughter and purchased moans, had turned heavy as a tomb.

At last they reached a double door at the back. The guard opened it with trembling hands.

Inside, the boss awaited.

It was not a male pimp, but a woman. Her hair dyed black, jewels hanging from every finger, heavy perfume trying to disguise the stench of cigarettes and ill-gotten power. Her eyes were cruel, accustomed to negotiating flesh like one weighs cattle. She was surrounded by two armed guards, and behind her, expensive furniture that seemed to rob the place of authenticity.

The door closed behind them. The air thickened.

Virka stepped forward, her shadow stretching across the carpet like an omen. The game had begun.

The office door shut behind them with a dry thud. The dense smell of cheap cigarettes mixed with heavy perfume and rancid alcohol. In front of them, the brothel's boss waited, seated in a velvet-upholstered chair worn by time. Her ring-laden fingers gleamed under the yellowish light, and her painted smile rose like the grimace of a witch.

—So you've come to claim thrones, girl? her shrill voice vibrated like rusted iron. You chose the wrong place. Get out before you end up as merchandise.

The laugh that followed was a screech that tore through the atmosphere. But Virka did not move. She stepped forward, her shadow widening, and with a deep voice replied:

—I did not ask permission. I said this place will be mine.

The laughter died instantly. When the madam barely blinked, Virka was already upon her. Her hand pressed into her chest, crushing one of her breasts with brutal force, while her knee drove into her leg, pinning her against the chair. The woman screamed, her eyes wide with pain, and in that instant understood she was not facing a "girl," but a predator.

—This place will be ruled by me, Virka whispered, her red eyes blazing. And they will call me the Beast Queen.

The scream ripped through the air. The madam reacted by pulling a hidden knife from her dress, trying to stab at point-blank range. The blade never touched skin: Sebastián was already there. His hand seized her wrist with inhuman pressure, bones cracked, and the knife clattered to the ground with a metallic sound.

—Do not try another move, Sebastián said, his voice rough as ground iron. If you do, I'll tear your hand off.

The madam's eyes trembled under the weight of those words. Virka turned her face slightly, sketching a brief smile.

—Thank you. But I will handle this myself.

Sebastián held her wrist a moment longer, then released it and stepped aside. He dropped into a chair at the side, with the calm of one watching an inevitable judgment.

Virka pressed harder, making the woman shriek like a wounded animal.

—I did not ask you for explanations. I told you to hand it over.

Between sobs, the madam managed to stammer:

—I-I can't… this place is not under my name… I am only the administrator… the brothel is under a front man… and I… I report to the casino…

Sebastián's dry laugh cut through the air.

—Do not look for excuses. The casino is already mine. The nightclub as well. And the pawn shop obeys our seal. There is nothing left for you. Only obedience.

The woman broke into tears. Her makeup smeared into grotesque lines.

—Fine! I'll do whatever you want! Just don't kill me!

Virka tilted her face, her red lips curved in a cruel gesture.

—Call the front man. Now. Make him come. And listen well: if you try to delay or deceive, I will use the other. And then you will learn what it means to beg without a voice.

The scream tore the air again as Virka sank her fingers deeper into her chest. Trembling, the madam grabbed her phone and dialed a number with clumsy fingers.

—Yes… come to the brothel… there are some papers to sign… and you know, I have merchandise for you… her voice tried to sound normal, but the trembling betrayed her. Yes… as quickly as possible.

The male voice on the other end agreed. Twenty minutes.

Virka withdrew her hand from the woman's chest only to drive it into her leg. The crunch of bone mixed with a rending scream.

—This is so you don't forget. So you don't think about escaping before he arrives. I want your fear to fill this room when he crosses that door.

The madam wept uncontrollably, trembling from head to toe, unable to resist. Her eyes were those of a cornered animal, pleading and broken.

Sebastián, in silence, observed her with his spiral eyes, red flames spinning in lethal calm. Narka, on his shoulder, closed his own like a judge delivering sentence without need of words.

Time hung suspended in that office. Outside, the feigned music and purchased laughter of the brothel tried to continue, but inside the world had stopped. The madam no longer owned anything. She was only a broken bridge toward the one who would sign the papers.

The fate of the brothel was sealed. It was no longer a place of pimps. It was the territory of the Beast Queen.

The brothel office was heavy with a metallic stench, a mixture of sweat, smoke, and the thick fear of the madam who panted against the floor. Silence was broken only by her whimpers, by the crunch of her chest where Virka's fingers were still sunk like claws into soft flesh. There was no hurry: immediacy did not exist in that place. Time had to be given for the front man to arrive, and meanwhile, tension was building like an invisible rope around every throat.

Virka was not content with physical pain. She did not want only the position, she wanted to understand what she would rule. Her voice became the edge of a knife, insistent, wounding more with questions than with blows:

—How much money do you produce per month? she pressed deeper into the soft flesh, tearing another scream.

—What money routes sustain this place? Who launders the profits? What ties do you have with the casino, with the club, with the moneylenders?

The madam, between sobs and tears, confessed that the den generated nearly fifty million a month. Monstrous figures justified by the steady clientele of the casino and by the black hands that fed it from the streets. Drug routes, trafficking disguised as contracts, bribes to police, pacts with officials. Everything spilled out like broken vomit, and each fact was another nail driven into her own grave.

Meanwhile, Sebastián remained seated, motionless, as if the torture were background music. His phone vibrated in the storage ring, a strange pulse in the middle of the carnage. He drew it calmly, and the screen reflected a single name: Helena.

He answered.

—How is your operation going? Helena's voice slid cold, unadorned, like the sound of a scalpel.

Sebastián held it to his ear, glancing sideways at Virka tearing out another scream.

—Good. Another place is about to fall. Is the reason for your call about the nightclub?

—Exactly, Helena said. There will be no problem in putting you down as a shareholder to shield the club's legality, but with conditions.

Sebastián smiled with irony.

—I expected as much. What are they?

—The first: five percent of the club's profits stay in my company. That secures my funds and covers your legal mask. That five percent, incidentally, will make you a shareholder within the network.

—The second: when you begin your studies, I want you to work with me as a personal bodyguard. I am not talking about cleaning. I mean trips, meetings, delicate situations. I could accept you bringing Virka if you prefer.

Sebastián narrowed his eyes.

—Don't you already have bodyguards?

Helena laughed, but her laughter was not light, it was cutting.

—Of course I do. But many of them answer more to other shareholders than to me. All of them

They see me as a treasure inherited from my father. Betrayal is always on the table. I need a weapon that answers to no one but me. And tell me, who better than you?

Sebastián remained silent for a few seconds. He knew that condition was no whim, but a clean move. He nodded even though she could not see it.

—I accept.

—I'm glad you keep your word, Helena added. Her tone dropped, almost amused. By the way, the gigolo they handed me turned out useless. He knows nothing about the smiths. He was barely a cheap façade, a little man used as a screen.

Sebastián tilted his head, intrigued.

—Gigolo? he repeated, with total lack of knowledge.

On the other end there was silence, followed by a dry laugh, as if Helena savored the moment.

—You don't know what that is, do you? Sometimes I forget you were raised in a prison of monsters and not in a human world. A gigolo is… a man who sells himself for pleasure, a male toy. That simple.

Sebastián's silence was harsh. There was no shame in his ignorance, only coldness in assimilating it. Helena laughed again.

—It's fascinating. You can destroy armies, but you don't know the most basic words of the mortal world. That makes you even more dangerous.

The call ended shortly after, not without Sebastián asking if there had been any progress with the smiths. Helena admitted there had not, that the trails were vague and the threads too weak. She closed the talk with the promise of speaking later about the empire he was building.

Sebastián lowered the phone.

—It was productive, he said simply.

Narka, from Virka's shoulder, spoke with a grave, sententious voice:

—Every knowledge, even the most vulgar, can open a path in the Dao. The mundane also weighs in the balance of the eternal.

The contrast was brutal: the madam moaning under Virka's claws, and Narka speaking like an ancient philosopher about the bridges between the human and the transcendent.

Minutes passed. Virka squeezed out even more data: contacts, names, dates, the numbers that sustained prostitution and the selling of bodies. The room became a bloody confessional.

And then footsteps arrived. The front man was approaching.

The first thing he saw upon entering was the scene: the madam with her chest torn open, her leg pierced, her face bathed in tears; Virka standing, her hand still sunk in flesh, staring at him with blazing red eyes; Sebastián seated with inhuman calm; and Narka as an ancient weight upon the shoulder. Horror struck him before anyone spoke.

He tried to back away, but Virka caught him at once, shoved him against the wall, and dragged him to the chair beside the madam.

—You are going to transfer this place, she said, her voice of ice.

The front man stammered yes, but that the process would take time, that it could not be immediate. Sebastián watched him in silence, measured his ragged breathing, the trembling of his fingers, the cold sweat.

—He lies, he declared with the certainty of his indomitable body.

The mask of the front man collapsed. Virka gave him no respite: she sank her claw into his ribs, pressed until she caught a bone, and twisted it slightly. The scream was rending.

—If you lie again, I'll break you from the inside, she whispered.

—No more! he shrieked. It can be done in minutes, I just have to change the name in the records.

—Do it. And the new name will be Queen of Beasts, Virka sentenced.

With trembling hands, he pulled out his phone, opened encrypted documents, and began to type. Virka kept her claw inside, reminding him with every spasm that there was no escape.

—Who were you talking to? she asked Sebastián, without taking her eyes off the front man.

—With H, he replied.

She understood instantly.

—What does she want?

—Five percent of the club, and for me to work as her bodyguard. No more details.

Virka nodded. Though jealousy burned in her chest, she did not argue.

—If it is your decision, it will be the path.

The front man finished in five minutes. He raised his phone, showed the updated records: the entire brothel now fell under the ownership of the Queen of Beasts.

Virka smiled, but did not release him yet.

—Good. Now your tongue.

—No! I won't, I won't say anything! he begged.

She did not answer. She thrust her fingers into his mouth, seized his tongue, and with a sharp motion tore it out. The spray of blood drenched his shirt. The front man thrashed like a fish out of water, mute forever.

Sebastián caught him before he bled to death. With strips of cloth he improvised a tourniquet in the mouth, pressed the wound in his ribs. The man would survive, though forever marked by terror.

At that instant the external contact arrived, an employee with the official papers. He opened the door, saw the scene, and turned pale. Sebastián placed himself behind him, whispering dryly:

—Say a word and I'll rip out your heart.

The contact swallowed hard, left the papers, and left without looking back.

The front man staggered back in, handing the sealed documents to Virka. She received them with a calm that only made more terrifying the image of the madam dead at her feet, already destroyed completely in her final interrogation.

—Now this place belongs to me, Virka said, raising the document. The Queen of Beasts marks her domain under the seal of the Crimson Emperor.

The front man fled like a shadow, stumbling, leaving behind a trail of blood. No one would ever see him the same again.

And so, the brothel was marked by a new crown: not that of vulgar pimps, but that of a ruthless queen who needed nothing but pain, cunning, and terror to claim it.

The office door burst open. Virka emerged from there like a specter of war: the black dress was stained red, the fabric still damp with the blood of the madam and the front man. Her jet-black hair, plastered in strands against her cheeks, gleamed under the dim light of the lamps. Her breathing was calm, but her eyes, two burning embers, blazed with an intensity that none of the women gathered in that den had ever seen.

In the hallway, a prostitute froze at the sight of her. Virka seized her wrist with enough force to make the bone crack, and without shouting, without roaring, with a voice sharp as a blade, she ordered:

—Gather them all. And get the clients out. Now.

The woman's body trembled, but she obeyed. She slipped free as best she could and ran toward the main hall. Sebastián and Narka followed behind Virka, in silence, like sentinels. Sebastián walked with his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, his face imperturbable; Narka, unmoving on Virka's shoulder, with his golden eyes open like suns of eternal judgment.

The bustle of the brothel began to fade. The clients, few in that late morning, murmured in annoyance when asked to leave the place. Some wanted to protest, until they saw Virka at the entrance to the hall: her body stained, her beast's gaze, Sebastián's shadow behind her. No further explanations were needed. The men left one by one, some stumbling over tables, others averting their eyes as if that way they could escape the fear that had pierced the back of their necks.

Minutes later, the establishment was empty of clients. Only the prostitutes, the bartender, and some cleaning staff remained. There were more than a hundred in total. They huddled around the tables, some still with lips painted, others with skin marked by nights of abuse. The silence was harsh, broken only by Virka's steps as she approached the center.

She stopped there, standing, her arms stained up to the elbows. Her voice did not need to rise much to dominate the place:

—Listen. From today, this place is under my banner. I am the Beast Queen.

No one breathed. Virka continued, each word heavy, as if it were a decree carved in stone.

—No one enters this brothel without my authorization. No client, no trafficker, no idiot with money. If anyone dares to cross these doors without my permission, they will be ripped out at the root. And if anyone dares to touch you without consent, I myself will tear them apart until their bones forget what they once were.

Some of the women looked at each other, incredulous. Virka stepped forward once more.

—You will no longer be disposable merchandise. You will no longer be flesh to be bought and thrown away. Those who stay will be protected under my claw and under the fist of the Crimson Emperor. Your bodies will remain currency, yes, but now they will have a worthy price. You will earn more than you were ever given. Not because your fate moves me… but because under my command, no one will be used without receiving their share.

The murmur grew. Some wept, others clenched their teeth as if they wanted to believe it but could not.

—And it is not only money, Virka continued, her voice swelling like a contained thunder. You will have rest. You will have care. If one of you falls ill, she will not be thrown into the street like a dead dog. If one of you rejects a client, that client will leave. No one will force you by violence. While you are under my banner, each one of you will bear my mark, and whoever touches you without my permission will be touching the Queen of Beasts.

A dense silence followed those words. Many blinked in disbelief. One of them dared to raise her voice:

—And if we don't believe in you?

Virka tilted her head. Her lips curved into a cutting sneer, and her gaze burned.

—Then leave. Now.

There was a break. About half of the women turned toward the exit. Painted nails, clumsy heels, bodies pressed against the door as if fleeing a fire. In a few minutes, fifty of them were gone, dragging with them distrust and fear.

The other fifty remained. Some trembled, others held their gaze, others seemed petrified. But they did not move. Virka swept over them with her eyes, and spoke again:

—Good. You are the ones who choose to stay. Do not think it will be a soft path. You are under my shadow, and that shadow rises over blood. You will be protected, but also watched. I am no mother. I am no saint. I am beast. And now I am your queen.

She raised her right hand. Upon the invisible air of the hall, she drew the red circle with the fist inside: the seal of the Crimson Emperor. And with the other hand, she traced a claw that marked the symbol of a beast: her own emblem. Two signs glimmered for an instant, not with physical light, but with the weight of the murderous intent that still burned in the air.

—This place will never again be what it was. Now it is the domain of the Emperor and the Queen. And whoever forgets it will die.

The women who remained lowered their heads, not like slaves, but like those who know they have just made a pact with the shadow. The bartender crossed himself with trembling hands.

Virka turned to Sebastián. He gave the faintest nod. Narka, from her shoulder, murmured with a grave voice:

—This is how those who decide their own Dao walk. It is not enough to destroy: one must also uphold.

Virka turned one last time to the women.

—For now, close the business. No one enters or leaves. Rest. When I return, my own guards will protect this place. Then you will open again. Until then, this will be a sanctuary under my claw.

With that, she walked toward the exit. The echo of her steps resounded among the empty tables, among the dance poles where the music had died. Sebastián followed, his shadow stretched across the floor, and Narka moved with them like a memory of older eras.

The doors of the brothel shut behind them with a dull thud. Outside, the afternoon began to stain itself with a heavy gray. Sebastián spoke, his voice low, firm:

—The next point is the loan house.

Virka did not respond. She only smiled faintly, blood still marking her dress, fire still lit in her gaze. And so, under the heavy gaze of the city, the three continued their march toward the next domain.

Blood still dripped from Virka's dress as the three crossed the dim exterior of the brothel. Her figure, solemn and stained, was that of a queen who had claimed her throne amid crimson ruins. Sebastián, seeing her walk like that, paused for just an instant. He did not speak with tenderness, he did not scold; he only extended his hand and activated the ring Draila had given him. The dark metal glowed with a faint gleam and, at once, the blood was absorbed as if it had never existed. The fabric of Draila, absolute black, returned to its original purity, as though it had never known profanation.

—The ring, Sebastián said in his grave voice, without further explanation, devours all that has no life. Blood is no exception.

Virka glanced at him from the corner of her eye. There were no words of gratitude, only a slight movement of her lips that revealed her white teeth, as if silently accepting the gesture. It was her way of smiling. Narka, from Sebastián's shoulder, blinked slowly, his golden eyes burning like ancient coals.

The path led them through streets awakening under a barely tilted sun. There was no clamor, only the murmur of a day in transition. In the distance, the facade of the loan house rose like a mansion of another era, misplaced in the city: tall walls, stained glass windows, Victorian columns that seemed to imitate nobility in the midst of rot. The place was large, broader than the nightclub, with two floors and the arrogance of a bank in disguise. It lured the desperate with promises of easy money and chained them with impossible interest.

—How will we proceed here? Virka asked, adjusting her stride, the wind brushing her black hair still damp with the air of the brothel.

Sebastián looked at her without frowning, with the same unchanging severity that always accompanied him.

—Without detours. Not with masks nor contracts in disguise. Here they will know immediately who rules.

He said it without raising his voice. It was a sentence.

They turned toward the back of the building. The bricks were stained with damp, with an iron gate guarding the service entrance. Sebastián stopped, closed his eyes for a second, and listened. The vibrations of the air, the steps of the employees, the scratching of quills over papers, all filtered into his perception. There were lives there, insignificant, but enough to witness the inevitable.

Sebastián's right fist tightened. Every fiber of his indomitable body burned like a forge. The air compressed around his arm, and space trembled with invisible pressure. A roar that was not sound but vibration spread, and suddenly flesh became manifesto.

Absolute Dragon Fist.

The impact tore through the world. A dragon of pure atmospheric pressure, formed by the brutal clash of force, burst through the back wall with violence. The bricks exploded into dust, the beams bent like fragile bones, the floor shook with a crash that spread through the entire block. Inside the building desks shattered, furniture splintered, papers burned in the air like fireless ashes. The dragon surged forward until it slammed into an inner wall, stopping there, leaving behind a tunnel of ruin and debris.

When the dust settled, Sebastián stepped through the opening with the calm of one crossing a door. His boots rang against the wreckage.

—I need to speak with the boss. Now.

The surviving employees lay sprawled on the floor, some wounded, others trembling. One of them, his face bloodied but without fractures, raised his hand like a man surrendering in a war he did not understand.

—Y-yes… yes… this way… he stammered.

With stumbling steps, he led them through damaged corridors until they reached an office at the top of the second floor. There, behind a reinforced mahogany door, awaited the man they called master.

The head of the loan house rose from his chair as they entered. He was a man of mature age, brown hair streaked with gray, a perfectly kept mustache, and wrinkles that did not weaken his expression but made it more cunning. His eyes were those of a serpent: cold, calculating, accustomed to watching others kneel before him.

—Quite a spectacle… he said in a deep voice, adjusting his dark jacket. And to what do I owe the honor of your visit, boy?

Sebastián planted himself before him. His shadow filled the half-ruined room.

—This place is mine now.

The man laughed, a short, incredulous laugh.

—Yours? You know who you are talking to, don't you? This place has backing. The law. Other names. It is not as simple as breaking a wall.

Sebastián did not change his expression. He only let out a sigh.

—I am not here to argue.

His left arm tensed, and the second Absolute Dragon Fist was born with the same invisible roar. The impact shattered the side wall of the office, tore out entire shelves, splintered the wood of the desk, and hurled the boss himself to the floor, making him roll until he struck the opposite wall. The man gasped, bruised, his clothes in tatters, but alive.

Sebastián lowered his arm and stepped closer.

—Do you understand now? I am not playing.

The boss tried to compose himself, bracing on an elbow, breathing with difficulty.

—Raw power is not everything. There is law. You will not simply take whatever you want.

Sebastián's smile was minimal, a crack in his stone face. He leaned in slightly, letting his shadow cover the man completely.

—Your law has saved no one here. And if you want proof… look around you. Clandestine casino, nightclub, pawn shop, brothel. All are mine now. And this… will be the next.

The man swallowed hard, trying to maintain composure. His cunning still sought a way out. But then, the pressure changed. Sebastián released a fraction of his murderous intent, the condensation of ten years in Draila and the crimson mark that crowned him. The air became unbreathable, the weight of a thousand deaths poured into the office. The boss felt his hands trembling beyond his control, his forehead beaded with sweat.

—You know how these things work —said Sebastián, his voice low, threatening—. A man like you always keeps documents prepared for unforeseen situations. Transfers of rights. Fictitious inheritance contracts.

The boss, trembling, nodded slowly.

—Y-yes… yes, I have them…

—Good. —Sebastián raised his right fist, charging again with the force of the Dragon, without releasing it, only showing it as a sentence—. Use them. Now.

The man opened a secret drawer in the floor, pulling out folders with official seals. With trembling hands, he began drafting a transfer of rights. The paper, stained with dust and sweat, already bore the mark of fear. Sebastián watched him without blinking.

—Five years —he then said, firm—. During that time, you will remain in your position. But this place is already mine. You will manage it in my name until I decide to claim it as sole owner.

The man looked at him, trembling, realizing this was the only way out. He signed the document, stamped the seal, and let the pen fall.

Sebastián took the paper, folded it calmly, and stored it inside his black coat.

—You will live until you fulfill your duty. If you fail… you will not be long in dying by my hand.

The boss tried to keep his composure, but the trembling betrayed him. A stream of urine stained the floor, and white foam spilled from the corner of his lips. He was broken, marked by the shadow of the Crimson Emperor.

Sebastián turned toward the door. Virka and Narka were waiting there, motionless, witnesses to it all.

—It is done. —his voice was dry, final—. Let's go.

And the three left, leaving behind a devastated office, a broken man, and a building that had just changed hands under the seal of fear and force.

The echo of the last strike still trembled in the crumbling walls of the loan house. The transfer document already rested inside Sebastián's coat, impregnated with the imprint of fear and the forced seal of the old manager. There were no more words: the transaction was closed under the shadow of terror, and the fate of the place was sealed as a new link in the crimson empire.

Sebastián did not wait for the dust to settle. With a cold movement, he lifted Virka into his arms, as if her war-stained body were an unbreakable treasure. She, far from resisting, rested her head on his shoulder with a satisfied smile, still with the pride of conquest throbbing in her blood. Narka, grave and silent, settled on his left shoulder, watching everything with his golden eyes that seemed to pierce through the ruins and the gazes of men.

The hole opened by the Absolute Dragon Fist was still smoking, like the wound of a freshly torn monster. Sebastián tightened his legs and, in a single impulse, leapt toward the neighboring rooftop. The air split with the snap of his body cutting through the void. From below, a murmur of voices rose: screams, confusion, the sound of desperate footsteps rushing toward the wounded building.

—An attack… —someone whispered in the street.

—An explosion… —another answered, trembling.

Eyes lifted toward the rooftops, but all they managed to see was a fleeting shadow vanishing among the terraces.

Sebastián landed on the dry clay of a wide roof, the crunch of the impact resounding like a restrained heartbeat. From there, he, Virka, and Narka watched as the crowd swarmed in front of the ruined place. Local guards, men from the underworld, onlookers. All pointed, all murmured, all sought an explanation. But no one understood that there had been no explosives, no gunpowder, no bombs: it had been a single fist, the will of a body that had already surpassed flesh itself.

Sebastián let out a sigh. —There's no point in staying here. What we did today can't be mistaken for anything other than a roar. They already know someone is claiming this city.

Virka settled more comfortably in his arms, proud to be carried as both queen and captive. Her red eyes glowed fiercely. —And what do you propose, Emperor?

He lowered his gaze to her, with that rock-like calm that neither blood nor fire could shatter. —Wait. Before going for the warehouse, we need time. The administrator will arrive at dusk. Until then… how about something simpler? Meat. Bread. A breath.

Narka released a deep sound, a mix of laughter and sentence. —Even indomitable bodies know you cannot always walk upon ruins. Sometimes, a bite sustains more than an oath.

Sebastián nodded, and immediately began running across the rooftops. He leapt from terrace to terrace, carrying Virka effortlessly, as if her weight were part of himself. The streets stretched below, full of noise, street vendors, and the dirty echo of urban life. The eyes that dared to look upward caught only a black flash moving against the descending sun.

After a few minutes, Sebastián descended into a discreet alley, in the heart of the center. He set Virka down gently, and she, still stained with the aura of what they had done, adjusted her dress with a proud gesture. Narka descended slowly down his arm to the cobblestone ground, walking with the gravity of a mountain.

The smell arrived before the sight: smoke of embers, sizzling fat, the rough perfume of garlic and charred meat. In front of them, a street stall of metal and wood blazed with the flame of a small coal fire. A sweaty man turned chunks of meat skewered on iron, while a pair of women served bread and watered-down beer to the customers.

It was a vulgar, dirty place, but full of that life which knows nothing of hierarchies or empires. Sebastián stepped forward with a calm gait, and as he approached, conversations died down by instinct. He didn't need to release killing intent: his presence was enough. The vendor swallowed hard, forcing a nervous smile.

—What… what do you want?

Sebastián looked at him with indifference. —Meat. Bread. Whatever you have. Three portions.

The man obeyed at once, while Virka sat on an improvised wooden bench, crossing her legs with the air of an owner, and Narka settled beside her, massive even in his reduced form. The noise of the city kept beating around them, but in that corner, everything fell silent.

When the food arrived, Sebastián did not bother to give thanks. He tore the bread with his hardened hands, tasted the meat with the calm of someone who had ripped lives away just moments before. Virka imitated him, testing with curiosity that vulgar flavor, and let out a brief laugh.

—This… is not bad. Strangely good.

Narka nodded. —Mortals remember their place through the simple. The blood of the Dao is not in the delicacy, but in the resistance offered by hard bread.

Time passed slowly, dyed by the twilight that had begun to fall. The sun hid behind the buildings, and shadows grew like tongues of ash. Sebastián lifted his gaze to the sky, calculating the moment.

—Half past five —he murmured—. Soon it will be time. The warehouse administrator will arrive. And then, we will finish what remains of this dead empire.

Virka calmly licked the grease from her fingers, her eyes burning like embers. —Then we shall go, and this city will kneel completely.

Narka closed his eyes, as if listening to an ancient echo. —One more step, and the night will be ours.

Silence settled again. The meat sizzled on the embers, but the only thing that mattered was the certainty: rest was merely a blink before plunging fists into the darkness of the warehouse.

Silence sat at the table once more like an unwelcome guest. The meat had been consumed by the embers, leaving in the air a sour smell, a mixture of smoke and dried blood. They had eaten without ceremony, as if the food were nothing more than a formality between conquest and the next strike. Rest was not rest, but a restrained blink before plunging fists into the next darkness.

Sebastián slid a hand beneath his trench coat, a slow and deliberate gesture. No one noticed how his ring glimmered in the dim light. Inside the fabric, as if his pocket were a bottomless pit, the money surfaced in silence: stacked bills, rescued from the shadows of the club. Nocturnal, and of the traffickers' corpses that were already dust in memory. With a precise movement, he let twenty thousand units rest in the palm of his hand and, as if drawing out a simple ordinary payment, he extended them to the man at the stall. No one suspected anything: neither the fire in his eyes, nor the invisible weight of an empire expanding beneath skin and steel. The vendor bowed his head and kept the money, not daring to ask.

—Done —murmured Sebastián in a low voice, without looking back.

Virka lifted her gaze, her lips still stained with grease, and nodded. Narka, in his reduced form, lay motionless on her shoulder, golden and grave like a breathing shadow.

The three of them rose and walked. There was no haste in their steps, but the cadence of a tide advancing without return. They crossed streets where the murmurs of the people still spoke of the roar at the loan house. No one suspected them, no one dared to connect the glances with the rumors. They were only figures crossing the city, carrying a silence that weighed more than any voice.

The clandestine warehouse appeared at the end of an avenue, like a shell of rusted iron embedded in the flesh of the neighborhood. A Victorian mass, with gray walls and sealed windows, breathing the stench of dust and metal. Its doors were solid plates of steel, and the very size of the building betrayed it: it was no simple storeroom, it was a stone monster capable of swallowing hundreds of crates, goods, and secrets.

Sebastián halted when he saw the woman approaching the entrance. She was the administrator. She dressed as if time did not matter: a long patterned skirt, frayed wool jacket, wooden necklaces, the air of a hipster lost in a world too cruel. But her eyes —evasive, nervous— showed she was no stranger to the shadow. She knew what she guarded.

As soon as the woman pushed the heavy door, Sebastián and his own entered behind her, without concealment, without words. Their presence was no stealth: it was an incursion, a lightning bolt contained in flesh. The woman barely turned her head when a hand like iron closed over her mouth.

—Silence —Sebastián whispered to her, cold as stone sunk in black water—. If you want to keep your tongue in your mouth, do not utter a sound.

He dragged her one step inside and then released her, as if she were nothing more than a worthless object. The woman trembled, her voice tried to rise in protest, but he raised a finger, and that mute threat was enough for the words to die in her throat.

Then Sebastián opened his trench coat and took out documents. They were not simple papers: they were scars turned into contracts, proof that the foundations of the underworld had shattered in his hands. First he unfolded the deed of succession of the loan house; then the debt document of the pawnshop; afterward, Virka dropped on the table the seal that named her mistress of the brothel; and with a grave voice, Sebastián enumerated:

—The clandestine casino is mine. The nightclub as well. What you see here are not threats: they are realities. Every stone of your world already belongs to us.

The administrator stepped back, as if the papers were blades. The necklaces on her neck jingled like bones. Her eyes wandered between the faces: Sebastián, imperturbable; Virka, still stained with the blood that the ring had not been able to erase entirely from her aura; Narka, golden and ancient, watching as if everything were just another echo in eternity.

—What… do you want? —she stammered, her voice trembling.

Sebastián did not answer immediately. He walked toward the interior of the warehouse, and each step resounded on the concrete floor. The air inside was heavy: the smell of dust, damp wood, rusted iron, and coins counted too many times. The hanging lamps lit a sea of crates, stacked like truncated mountains. There were sacks, locked chests, tools, goods of dubious origin: everything that fed the clandestine belly of the city. It was vast, far vaster than any façade could suggest.

—We want what is already ours —Sebastián said at last, his voice so low that the woman had to lean closer to hear him—. Your silence. Your obedience. And your seal.

The administrator swallowed hard. The echo of her fear filled the space. She knew they were not negotiators, that they did not seek deals: they sought to subjugate, to carve in stone that this place too had fallen under the emblem of the Crimson Emperor and the Beast Queen.

Virka stepped forward, the shadow of her red eyes glowing like coals. —You own nothing. You are only a custodian. And from today, you are custodian for us.

The woman lowered her head. Her hands trembled, but she understood: that night was not about business, but survival.

And there, among the crates and the dust, with the papers still stretched in the air, the warehouse itself seemed to bow under the new weight that had entered it.

Silence still vibrated in the walls of the warehouse when the woman—slender, with loose garments that gave her the air of a belated hippie—tried to compose herself. Her breathing trembled, but her eyes searched for the composure that life in the shadows had forced her to learn. She passed her tongue over dry lips and, with a voice forced into calm, spoke:

—If you seek to turn this place into yours, I must tell you the truth… —she swallowed—. Legally it is not so simple. The warehouse has records, licenses, names that are not easy to move without raising suspicion. The papers… they would need months, perhaps years of adjustments, bribes, silences bought.

Sebastián listened motionless, his red eyes burning like embers hidden beneath the eyelid. He said nothing at first. He let the weight of his presence suffocate her. Only Narka, on his shoulder, tilted his head with that gravity that made each of his silences a sentence. Virka, at his side, crossed her arms, still wearing the fierce expression that allowed no rest.

The woman hurried to add, trying to keep her words from sounding like excuses:

—But… an immediate transfer is not necessary. I can continue administering. The money, the goods, the shipments… nothing will change in the eyes of outsiders. It will still be my name that appears, but… —she looked at Sebastián, swallowing her pride—, I will obey only you.

It was then that Sebastián let out a brief sigh, heavy with that coldness that cuts deeper than a shout.

—That's better —he murmured, stepping forward—. I'm not looking for papers. I'm looking for obedience.

He stopped in front of her, so close that the woman could feel the killing intent he carried from Draila brushing her skin like an invisible blade.

—Your life is fragile. And it only remains because I hold it now. From this moment on, you will answer to no one else. What you earn, what you hide, what you fear… all belongs to me.

The administrator lowered her head, a tremor running through her hands. But in that tremor seeped a secret relief: she would remain alive. And in a world like that, that was already a victory.

—I accept —she whispered, and her fear-laden voice sounded like a prayer.

Virka then stepped forward, her red eyes glowing like burning coals. Her smile held no tenderness, only savage pride.

—Then show us. —She raised her chin with animal arrogance—. I want to see what you keep here, what food feeds your false throne.

The woman nodded quickly, hurriedly, and led them toward an inner corridor. The air grew heavier as they descended the metal stairs. There, behind several reinforced doors, she opened a hidden storeroom. The smell hit them first: chemicals, sweat, dust, alcohol. The stench of rot disguised as business.

Entire shelves rose filled with boxes: white powder in sealed bags, turquoise vials with glowing liquids, syringes lined up like instruments of a macabre rite, colored pills like little poisons disguised as candies. Each shelf was a reminder that this place was sustained by the flesh and ruin of others.

Sebastián's gaze swept every corner. There was no judgment on his face, only the coldness of one who understands that everything rotten can become useful if subdued.

—And this is what feeds your coffer? —he asked without waiting for an answer, his voice dry as iron.

The woman lowered her eyes, unable to withstand the question. Virka, however, walked among the shelves with her fingers brushing the boxes, as if weighing the value of each package, of each drug. Her expression was that of a beast measuring whether the herd deserved to be protected or devoured.

—Much carrion… but money, after all —she said, with a brief laugh.

Sebastián turned toward the administrator.

—It's not enough. —His eyes burned brighter—. I want more. Where do you keep what you don't show to the first who threatens? Minerals. Stones. Jewelry.

The woman hesitated, but the weight of the killing intent in the air pushed her to confess.

—Yes… there is another compartment. They're not part of the usual business… they're pieces kept for special clients.

She led them to another chamber, smaller, locked with a double bolt. There, in wooden and iron chests, were piled jewels, chains, carved and uncarved minerals, stones that seemed to steal light from the lamps. Rubies like drops of solid blood, fragments of greenish jade, dark pieces that breathed a strange magnetism.

Sebastián approached slowly. His eyes, already burning, seemed to ignite in front of the reflection of those stones. He lifted one in his hand, an irregular gem, black with red veins that seemed to pulse. He held it for a moment and spoke more to himself than to the others:

—With this… my mark will be born.

Narka raised his head, as if he understood the seed of a greater design. Virka, at his side, smiled with fierce pride.

Sebastián closed his fist around the stone, and his voice resounded deep in that chamber thick with dust and secrets:

—I will forge a seal. A coin marked by my fist and by the beast who walks with me. Whoever holds it will be an extension of my will. And whoever rejects it will know what it means to oppose the Crimson Emperor.

The echo of his words lingered in the chamber like a vow. And in the trembling eyes of the administrator, the certainty was carved that this place, though still under her name, would never again belong to her.

_____________________

END OF CHAPTER 35

The path continues…

New chapters are revealed every

Sunday, and also between Wednesday or Thursday,

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