On the Path of Eternal Strength.

The echo of the oath still floated in the air of the underground chamber. The black gem with red veins remained motionless in Sebastián's hand, as if it awaited to obey only him. The administrator, drenched in cold sweat, did not dare to look away; she understood that this stone was no longer merchandise, but destiny.

—It is not enough —said Sebastián, his voice grave, slow, like a knife dragged across wet stone—. If it is to be the seal of the Crimson Emperor, I need more than this. Other materials that do not bend nor break. Something equally eternal.

The woman hesitated. Her lips parted, but no word emerged. She looked at Virka, whose presence devoured the air like a bestial shadow, and then at Narka, who from atop the pile of boxes watched her with golden, unmoving eyes that seemed to have witnessed the birth of the mountains themselves. She understood that silence meant death, and speaking perhaps survival.

—There are options… —she whispered, her throat dry—. Not many… but they exist.

She went to a small iron chest with double locks. Her hands trembled so much that it took her time to turn the key. When at last she opened the lid, the air of the basement was infused with a crimson glow and a dark radiance, two antagonistic lights that were not reflection, but essence.

From within she first pulled out an elongated ingot, more compact than iron, more alive than ruby. The metal seemed to throb with a crimson gleam, as if it still held within the blood of the mountain.

—Crimson Steel —she said, trembling—. It is neither ruby nor iron, but a mutation. The mountain created it by blending its entrails with the gems. It is harder than common steel, rarer than gold.

Then, with movements even more cautious, she lifted a padded wooden case. Upon opening it, she revealed a dark crystal with a pentagonal shape, symmetrical to the impossible. Its surface was absolute black, like a solid void, and along the edges flashed silver lines that were not reflections, but perfect cuts of the very matter.

—Celestial Obscurite —she explained, almost in a murmur—. Born of the meteorites that struck the continent in primordial times. Black as night, heavy as the sky that fell. Nothing corrodes it, nothing bends it. Some say it holds within the memory of the cosmos.

Sebastián did not blink. His red eyes absorbed every word, every gleam of those pieces. Virka tilted her head slightly, her lips tense, like a beast recognizing in the air the scent of a worthy power.

—Then… —Sebastián closed his hand around the black gem—. These three shall be one. The seal

Narka descended slowly from his corner. The ground creaked under the weight of his shell. He placed himself before the materials and spoke in a deep voice, as though dragging entire centuries in each syllable.

—For two seals the size of your palm, this will suffice: half of their weight in the black gem, one third in Crimson Steel, and the rest in Celestial Obscurite. Fifty, thirty, and twenty percent. Two hundred cubic centimeters for each medallion. No more, no less. Thus the hardness, the blood, and the cosmos are balanced.

Sebastián nodded without hesitation. The decision was made. Yet his eyes fixed on the administrator.

—How are they joined? —he asked—. Is pressure enough?

The woman shook her head, almost horrified by the simplicity of the question.

—No… it cannot be just pressure. These metals are different, incompatible by nature. If you wish to unite them, you must melt them, make them one in fire. Pressure would break them; heat transforms them. Only in a smelting furnace can you achieve it.

Silence thickened for a moment. Then Narka spoke, slowly, with the weight of one giving a final counsel:

—It is true. You could forge this seal by means the world would never understand. You could invoke forbidden methods, techniques that would brand your name in dimensions that do not belong to men. But… —his golden eyes burned with gravity— it is not wise. Not while that being still watches from the shadows. If you force the supernatural here, you will give him reason to intervene, and he will not forgive it. Do it as mortals do. Fire and smelting are enough for you.

His words left a somber echo. Sebastián understood immediately. Virka too, though her lips twisted in a barely perceptible gesture, like a beast accepting a chain only because she knows she can break it whenever she wishes.

—Good —said Sebastián—. We will do it their way.

Narka slowly turned his head toward the administrator. His fixed, immense eyes made her step back. She still could not comprehend how a millennial shell could speak, how that impossible being discussed furnaces like a master craftsman. Her breath faltered, trapped between fear and a fascination that grazed her like a knife.

—Here? —asked Narka, without averting his gaze.

She swallowed hard.

—Y… yes. In the storeroom. There is a smelting furnace for the clandestine work. We use it for weapons, for pieces that must not be registered. With it… with it it can be done.

Sebastián dropped the gem onto the table. The metallic sound echoed like a drumbeat in the gloom. His gaze hardened, and a single word sealed the order:

—Guide us.

The administrator nodded brusquely, pressing her hands against her apron to hide the trembling. She turned around and moved toward a side corridor. The air grew heavier as they descended. The murmur of the club above was already nothing more than a distant memory.

The walls sweated moisture, and as they went down, a muffled heat began to throb from the depths. It was not the heat of lamps nor torches, but the pulse of a hidden fire. The metallic smell filled every crack, an aroma of melted iron and concealed smoke.

At last, they reached a reinforced gate. The woman turned two locks, pushed with effort, and the air struck them: burning, saturated with soot and invisible embers. Inside, the vault opened like the womb of stone, lit by the orange glow of a clandestine furnace. Its metallic jaws roared with a fire that seemed to devour silence.

Sebastián crossed the threshold first. In his eyes, the reflection of those flames was neither red nor orange: it was crimson, as if the fire recognized in him an equal.

The forging of the Emperor was about to begin.

The heat of the furnace roared like a beast trapped in the belly of the storeroom. The administrator moved with nervous clumsiness, dragging chains and opening hidden valves in the stone walls. The inner flame began to grow, first an orange glow, then a white incandescence that licked the blackened walls.

—Three thousand one hundred degrees —she murmured, as though repeating to herself so as not to forget—. Only then do the three melt… only then do they bend to the will of fire.

Her voice trembled. At her side, she prepared the press, a clandestine machine of blackened iron, still convinced that at some point it would be necessary. But Sebastián's silence weighed on her more than the furnace's roar. Beneath that gaze, every tool seemed useless.

Upon a stone table, the woman separated the materials. She weighed them, measured them, as though precision could grant value to her life. Two identical sets awaited:

1500 grams of the black gem with red veins.

900 grams of Crimson Steel.

600 grams of Celestial Obscurite.

She placed them carefully, and as she turned, Sebastián's red eyes were already upon her.

—Boss… —she whispered—, it's ready. I can begin the smelting in the mold.

Her trembling hand reached toward the furnace, but Sebastián's voice, dry as broken iron, stopped her.

—Give them to me.

She blinked, unable to comprehend.

—B… but the mold… the press… if you throw them in like that…

He extended his hand, firm, non-negotiable.

—Give them to me.

The woman's fingers opened against her will, and the burning weight of the materials passed into Sebastián's palms. Silence thickened.

—Boss! —she cried, when she saw him advance toward the furnace—. That will kill you! You need the vessel, the press!

Sebastián did not look at her. His lips barely curved in a sneer.

—No. I am the mold. I am the pressure.

Virka laughed low, a fierce spark in the shadows.

—Fire never devours one who already burns within.

Narka lowered his heavy shell slightly, his golden eyes glowing like ancient embers.

—Let it be with your hands, Sebastián. There is no press purer than the flesh of an indomitable.

And then, the impossible moment occurred.

Sebastián plunged both hands into the furnace's jaws. The flame devoured his flesh on contact, charring it instantly. The stench of burnt skin mixed with molten iron. The administrator let out a strangled cry, but what she saw next silenced her: the blackened flesh regenerated even as it burned, new layers of muscle surging beneath the flame, only to be consumed and reborn again.

The materials melted slowly between his hands. The Crimson Steel throbbed like solid blood, the Celestial Obscurite fractured into liquid hexagons, and the black gem wept red veins that burned like living arteries. For ten eternal minutes, Sebastián endured the fire, while his own blood boiled, evaporated, and mingled with the incandescent metal.

When the blazing mass was ready, Sebastián closed his eyes and brought his palms together. Each arm exerted seven tons of force. Fourteen tons focused into a single…

gesture: his hands crushing fire itself. The furnace trembled. The air split with a dry thunderclap, and the first medallion was born.

It still burned, vibrating like the heart of living metal. Sebastián, without waiting, began to engrave. His burning blood spilled over the surface.

—First —he whispered—, the fist.

The circle with the fist emerged on one side, not as a cold engraving, but as a wound sealed in fire.

He turned the medallion, his skin still crackling in flames.

—And on the reverse… her.

With abrupt movements, he marked the silhouette of Virka in her beastly form: the crimson body, fibrous like solidified fire, the curved horns like spears, the incandescent eyes devouring the gloom. It was no drawing: it was a living impression, a fragment of his memory seared into the metal.

When he finished, he raised the medallion, still burning, and extended it toward the administrator.

—Cool it.

Trembling, she received it with tongs and plunged it into a container of icy water. The steam erupted in a white roar, as if the metal itself screamed. When the water stilled, the woman could barely breathe. She looked at his hands: Sebastián continued to regenerate, flesh sprouting between the charred cracks as though nothing could stop him.

He gave her no respite.

—Prepare the others.

The woman obeyed, voiceless, separating the second batch. Her fingers slipped with sweat, but she did it. She placed the materials on the table, and Sebastián took them. He repeated the process, as if pain did not exist.

Again, the fire devoured. Again, the blood mingled with the metal. The heat of 3100 degrees was not enough to break him, but enough to tattoo him. Ten minutes later, Sebastián once more closed his hands, and the fourteen tons were unleashed again. A second thunderclap shook the furnace, and another medallion took form.

Sebastián lifted it, still red, and began to engrave.

—Again the fist. —The blood traced the circle, the imperial emblem.

He turned the medallion, and his eyes met Narka's.

—And you… you will be here as well.

The reverse took the form of the arcane turtle: the fractured shell covered in stony spines; the golden eyes burning like buried suns; the legs like columns of mountain. Each bloody stroke sank into the living metal until it became an eternal scar.

When he finished, his hands still smoked, but the medallion was complete. He handed it to the administrator, who once again plunged it into icy water. Steam wrapped it like a shroud.

Two medallions now rested upon the table. One bore the face of Virka, the other that of Narka. Both shared the same emblem on the obverse: the circle with the fist.

Sebastián observed them in silence. They were more than symbols. They were oaths in metal and blood. They were the tangible beginning of the Crimson Empire.

The administrator, with eyes emptied of reason, did not know whether to pray or to flee. Virka smiled, showing sharp teeth beneath dark lips. Narka inclined his head, silently accepting the inevitable.

The fire still roared in the furnace, but nothing in the storeroom burned as fiercely as the two medallions.

The Emperor's seal had been born.

The steam had already dissipated in the storeroom, but the metallic scent still lingered, clinging to the stones and the air as if the very earth remembered what had just been born there. The two medallions lay upon the damp table, cooled after being submerged in icy water, yet they still emanated a faint warmth, as if within them burned something that would never be extinguished.

The administrator watched them in silence, her eyes fixed, unable to turn away from that testimony. They were not coins, not jewels, not simple pieces. They were seals that seemed to contain within them blood, fire, and destiny.

Sebastián stood tall, his hands still smoking, skin half-regenerated, but without a trace of pain. His gaze remained fixed on the medallions like a father watching a newborn child, without tenderness, but with the certainty of having left something eternal in the world.

Virka was the first to step forward. Her steps resounded soft yet firm, like claws upon stone. She lifted the medallion that bore on one side the circle with the fist, and on the other her beastly form, the one she had revealed when Sebastián first met her. She held it with her long fingers, and for an instant the dim light of the extinguished furnace reflected in her red eyes.

—So this is my face on your seal… —she murmured, with an edge of laughter on her lips—. Not as a shadow, not as a memory, but as Queen.

Her teeth gleamed in a fierce smile, not of sweetness, but of indomitable pride.

—I like it. Let them see it and understand that I am not your servant, but your equal. Whoever bears this mark will know that the Crimson Emperor rules with the beast at his side.

She pressed the medallion against her chest, like one who keeps a claw torn in battle, a trophy that is at once weapon and proof of dominion.

Narka approached next, with heavy slowness. His steps made the planks creak and his shadow filled half the storeroom. He took the second medallion between his claws, and his golden eyes examined it with gravity. On one side was the circle with the fist; on the other, his own fractured shell, with the spines and scars of eras no one else remembered.

—You have marked me, Sebastián… —his voice was low, like thunder held back—. Not as ornament, nor as amulet. But as foundation.

He fell silent for a few seconds, as though each word dragged centuries of dust.

—Your seal bears on one side the blood and the beast. On the other, the wall and the memory. That means you will never forget where you came from, nor who accompanied you in crossing this swamp of bones. Carry it with you, and as long as I exist, this medallion will be witness and guardian.

Sebastián looked at them both. Virka and Narka held their medallions, not as mere objects, but as extensions of what they were to him.

—I am Crimson Emperor now —he said slowly, his voice deeper than the extinguished furnace—. But these pieces remind me of something: I will never forget what forged me. The blood, the pain, and you. Each medallion is the other face of myself. A beast that reigns, a wall that endures.

The silence weighed like lead. The administrator breathed with difficulty, as if each word could shatter the air. Then Sebastián turned to her, and his voice once more became command:

—Summon the others. I want the representatives here, in this warehouse.

The woman nodded sharply, with an almost mechanical gesture.

—All of them, boss?

—No —Sebastián replied—. The casino is mine. No one represents it. The brothel belongs to Virka. And the nightclub is under Helena's jurisdiction; we will wait for her. Call the others: the warehouse you represent, the pawnshop, and the loan house. Let them come and see the new sign of the Crimson Emperor.

The woman hurried to obey, taking keys and hidden phones from drawers, her fingers still trembling.

Sebastián, meanwhile, did not wait. He raised the communicator and sought Selena. The signal took a few seconds to connect. When her voice came, it was like a dagger of ice: cold, precise, without preamble.

—I already imagined you would call.

—I need to know the situation with the nightclub —said Sebastián, his voice grave, firm.

—Resolved —she answered calmly—. There is already a new boss. Not trustworthy… but one of the best. Discreet, efficient, made to move in the shadows of this business. You can summon her whenever you wish, and I will not intervene as head.

She paused briefly, then added:

—But remember what was agreed: five percent of what the club generates will still go to Helena's enterprise.

Sebastián did not hesitate for an instant.

—As long as they do not interfere in my leadership, I will keep my promise. My word does not break.

For the first time, a slight tone changed in Selena's voice. It was not warmth, not tenderness, but respect.

—That is enough for me.

For a second, the silence was different: not enemy, not ally, but balance. Two distinct wills recognizing each other as equals.

Sebastián broke the moment.

—I need the new representative to come to the warehouse. I am here with the others.

—She will arrive in twenty minutes —Selena confirmed—. No more.

The line cut with the same coldness with which it had begun.

Sebastián put away the communicator. The warehouse was filled with a new pulse. Virka and Narka still held their medallions; the administrator called the representatives; and the extinguished fire of the furnace seemed to remember that a new order had been born there.

It was no longer a clandestine warehouse. It was the place where symbols had been forged in blood and fire. It was the temple where the law of the Crimson Emperor would be proclaimed.

And soon, when the others arrived, the entire city would know it.

The silence of the warehouse was dense, like a shroud breathing with the still-lit flame of the furnace. In the midst of that silence footsteps began to sound, the dry echo of different shoes, dragging shadows that seemed to arrive in unison. Three presences approached, wrapped in murmurs and restrained breaths. The administrator, still trembling from what she had witnessed in the forge, composed herself enough to open the door and receive them. With a mix of duty and fear, she guided them through the dark corridor to the main hall, where Sebastián remained motionless, with Virka at his side and Narka resting upon his shoulder, as though that place were his natural throne. The sight was as solemn as it was impossible: a man whose skin still showed traces charred skin regenerating, a beast with red eyes shining with ferocity, and an ancient creature watching calmly from his shoulder, as though carrying centuries of testimony.

The three representatives crossed the threshold, and the first impression was etched on their faces. The man from the Pawnshop, elegant, immaculate suit and rehearsed smile, could not hide the tremor in his gaze. Though he tried to cling to the mask of refinement, he was still haunted by the memory of that murderous intent that had crushed him in his own office. His fingers fidgeted, his breathing shorter than usual, and though no one spoke of it, fear was visible as sweat upon his carefully powdered forehead.

The old man from the Loan House, by contrast, did not show that tremor. His hunched body, his bony hands, and his gray eyes, cold and calculating, revealed that he had spent too many decades measuring risks to quiver like a child. Yet even so, each step he took was measured, as if he walked across ground sown with blades. His gaze swept over Sebastián with the precision of a fox sniffing out traps, knowing that any false word could cost him more than wealth: it could cost him his life.

The representative of the Nightclub sent by Selena entered with a different bearing. She did not dazzle with beauty nor draw attention with strangeness: she was sober, firm, discreet, professional to the core. She did not lower her head immediately, but neither did she allow herself the insolence of holding his gaze for too long. Her respect was strategic, her distance was obedience. Everything in her spoke of Selena's instruction: move in silence, obey without submitting more than necessary, and never forget that discretion is also a weapon.

Sebastián watched them without blinking, and when the echo of their steps faded, he spoke with a voice that filled the hall like a weight of iron.

—What has gathered here today are not mere businesses —he said—. This place, this meeting, is the beginning of an empire. The Crimson Empire.

His eyes swept over each of those present, wrenching from them an inevitable shiver.

—The clandestine casino. The brothel. The Pawnshop. The Loan House. The Nightclub. And this warehouse. All are part of one body. I am its leader. I am its Emperor.

The silence that followed was a blade that cut the breath. And then, Virka stepped forward. Her red eyes blazed in the shadows and her voice, cold and fierce, shattered the air.

—The brothel is mine. Under my rules. None of those women will be branded as merchandise. None will be discarded like filthy rags. I only accept people capable of understanding this. And whoever dares to break these rules, I will kill. No matter where they come from, no matter how high they believe themselves to be.

The threat was not a shout. It was a decree. The representatives swallowed hard in silence, understanding that the Queen of the brothel was even more ruthless and direct than Sebastián himself. The administrator felt a shiver crawl down her spine: if Sebastián was the sword, Virka was the beast that tore without warning.

Sebastián took the word again, without erasing the shadow of the threat.

—From now on there will be a symbol that will mark every place —he announced—. A red circle with a fist at its center. That will be the sign of the Crimson Emperor. I want to see it on every corner, on every table, in every spot where our name carries weight.

His eyes burned like embers.

—All the money generated will pass through here, through this warehouse. Each month I will receive the reports. If the numbers do not add up, if I find shortages or deceit, there will be no excuses: there will be deaths.

He turned toward the representative of the Nightclub.

—The agreement with your boss will not be broken. Five percent will continue flowing toward Helena's enterprise. But this place will also be under watch.

The woman nodded, rigid, firm, without breaking her composure. Sebastián turned his gaze away and continued.

—The Pawnshop will cease to be a temple for a few arrogant ones. Its auctions will be open to anyone with the money. Their origin does not matter, their blood does not matter. If they can pay, they can enter. And I myself will be able to participate.

A grimace crossed his lips, not of mockery, but of certainty.

—Furthermore, the employees of each place will receive an additional ten percent if they prove their worth. Whoever fulfills will be rewarded. Whoever fails will be replaced.

The words were a whip, but also a promise.

—There will no longer be internal disputes, nor fights between businesses. All will become a single body, a single force. All will march under the Crimson Emperor… and under the Queen of Beasts.

In that instant, Sebastián ordered Virka and Narka to display the medallions. The crimson of the Crimson Steel, the darkness of the Celestial Obscurite, and the blood that still seemed to throb on their surfaces filled the air with an impossible aura.

—These medallions are impossible to falsify —said Sebastián—. Whoever bears them will have the protection of the Crimson Empire. They will signify that they are under my shadow, under my strength, and under my fury.

None of the representatives dared to ask how they had been created. The administrator lowered her head, understanding that even knowing too much could be a death sentence.

The silence stretched until Sebastián broke it with the final decree.

—The third cycle is complete. Now, return to your places. Follow the new rules. Rule your domains as is fitting.

The three representatives bowed their heads, each in their own way. The man from the Pawnshop with an elegant, though trembling, gesture. The old man from the Loan House with a calculated nod, measured like everything in his life. The Nightclub's representative with a sober bow, firm, without unnecessary adornment. Even the administrator bent herself, knowing she served something greater than any business.

They withdrew in silence, one after another, their steps fading into the dark corridor as if the echo devoured them.

Virka smiled, baring just her teeth, pleased to see them bow. Narka remained motionless on Sebastián's shoulder, watching as he had for centuries, with the weight of one who knows that empires are always born from the same clay of blood and obedience.

The administrator stayed in the warehouse, trembling, awaiting the orders that belonged to her. And Sebastián, with Virka at his side and Narka on his shoulder, prepared to depart, leaving behind a heavy silence: the echo of a newly born empire.

The warehouse had been marked by the echo of the impossible. The furnace still exhaled dying embers, and the air, dense and metallic, seemed to carry Sebastián's blood mixed with the sweat of the metals that had been born from his hands. The representatives had already departed, bowed by the certainty that the world they knew had been broken forever.

They remained four: Sebastián, Virka, Narka, and the administrator. She was the only one who could not escape that silence. She forced herself to speak, with the firmest voice she could find amidst the trembling.

—Sir… —she swallowed hard, not lifting her eyes from the floor—. I ask that you keep my number. That way we can maintain the reports, coordinate the money transfers, and… whatever else is needed.

It was not supplication, nor obedience: it was instinct for survival.

Sebastián did not answer with words. He reached into the dimensional ring and drew out a cellphone, cold, polished, incongruent in the midst of a world where the impossible was made of flesh and fire. The administrator froze; that object was a silent weapon against logic. She took it with trembling hands, typed in her number, and returned it, avoiding touching Sebastián's blackened skin.

—Thank you… —she whispered, as though each letter was charged by death.

He put away the cellphone and turned toward the exit. He needed nothing more. Virka followed close, Narka rested heavy upon his shoulder. The metal door opened with a rusted groan, and the night poured in like a torrent.

The day had been consumed in fire, smelting, and blood. The sun had died without anyone noticing. Outside remained only the darkness of a rotten city, pierced by greasy lamplights that sputtered like sick fireflies.

They advanced slowly, unhurried. The pace was human, yet each step carried the certainty that nothing in those streets could stop them. Merchants fell silent as they passed, rats fled from their shadows, prostitutes shrank against the walls as if sensing that something older than misery itself was crossing the street.

Silence held until Virka broke it.

—Kael… —her voice sounded grave, weighted not with fury but with confession—. He gave me the choice to decide. He not only trained me, not only forged me. He gave me what no one else gave.

She lifted her red eyes to the blackened sky.

—I recognized him as master. But I want more. I want to recognize him as my father.

The word struck the air with the edge of a sentence.

—So that when I lose myself in my own paths, there is a man capable of reminding me who I am. So that when darkness tries to devour me, I can look back and know I belong to something more than my own blood.

Narka spoke from Sebastián's shoulder. His voice was rock that had waited centuries to break.

—That man can bear it. Being a father is not born of flesh, but of destiny. And Kael is among the few who carry the destinies of others without breaking.

Sebastián did not intervene. He did not need to. He was lover, companion, Crimson Emperor. But not father. That word never belonged to him, and in his silence he accepted it.

Virka held quiet for a moment, as though she had dropped a stone into the well of her own soul. Then she added, in a lower voice, almost human:

—But I do not speak only of myself. I speak of her.

Sebastián understood. The memory rose like a filthy dagger in his mind: that dark, rotten city where they had sought the blacksmith's information. Streets drowned in smoke, prostitutes fleeing from Profanos that devoured flesh in broad daylight, garbage piled like mountains, rats gnawing human bones. They had seen her there. A small girl, white hair covering half her face, one eye brown and the other blue like a shard of ice. Her body marked by hunger and beatings, yet her eyes still held a spark the city had not been able to tear away.

Virka bared her teeth, and her voice came out raw.

—She could be our daughter. Not because she belongs to us, but because she survived where no one survives. Because when the world chose to deny me children, she appeared as the only possibility.

Sebastián did not answer immediately. He walked a few more steps, until his hands, still marked with fresh scars, once again drew the cellphone from the dimensional ring. He typed. Selena's cold tone cut through the air.

—What do you want? —her voice was sharp, without adornment.

—I need you to find a girl —Sebastián replied. His tone was neither command nor plea: it was iron against iron—. White hair, long, covering half her face. One brown eye, the other blue. We saw her in the rotten city where we found the blacksmith. Find out everything: where she lives, with whom, how she survives.

The silence on the other side tightened like a steel thread.

—A girl, in that cesspit… —Selena replied coldly—. Why that one in particular?

Sebastián stopped walking. The night compressed around his voice.

—Because she endured where no one endures. And because Virka wants her to be our daughter.

The words left a long echo, as if the city itself had listened. Selena remained silent. When she spoke, it was not mockery nor reproach, but an icy blade.

—If that is your decision, I will watch her. You will receive precise reports. But do not expect miracles: in that dump, even hope dies quickly.

Sebastián narrowed his eyes.

—Then watch her better than anyone.

Selena's answer was a dry whisper.

—I will.

The call cut. The cellphone vanished into the ring, and the night closed over them once more.

Virka watched him with that new spark in her eyes: not fury, not desire, but a small flame of hope. Narka remained silent, though his golden eyes accepted the decision like one who witnesses the birth of something destined to change centuries.

The city still breathed misery: lanterns dying, merchants counting stolen coins, prostitutes offering broken flesh for a handful of change. And among that carrion, they walked, unhurried, unafraid.

The Crimson Emperor, his Beast Queen, and the millennial witness advanced toward the mansion. But that night they carried not only the foundation of an empire in their blood. They also carried, buried among the shadows, the impossible seed of a family.

The mansion rose in silence as they arrived. The rotten city had been left behind like a bad dream, and the warehouse, with its furnaces still dripping embers and the administrator trembling under Sebastián's memory, was already only a distant echo. The iron gate of the mansion opened as though darkness itself gave them passage. Inside there were no drunkards' shouts nor rats running among corpses: only a silence so dense it seemed to listen.

The contrast was brutal. Outside, the city's decay poisoned every street. Inside, the mansion stood like a sealed temple, with wide corridors and walls that seemed to drink the air, breathing invisible energy. It was as if the place itself recognized its new master, bowing before Sebastián's strength, Virka's incandescent gaze, and Narka's stony wisdom.

Sebastián stopped in the center of the main hall. He was not looking at the lamps or the polished stone, but inward. For hours he had carried the same sensation burning beneath his skin: that of a limit. He had reached the highest point of Level 7 – Superior Channels (Peak Stage), and he knew it. His Qi was no longer what it had been. Before, it had been neutral, malleable, only with echoes of his Daos. Now it was not. Now his energy burned with the true weight of Void and Force. Every breath confirmed it: his Qi no longer evoked, it was.

He thought on it seriously. Was this right? Was it the path, or a dangerous deviation?

He turned to Narka.

—Tell me —his voice was grave, without adornment—. I have felt my Qi changing. It no longer carries echoes of my Daos, but begins to be stained by them. Is this the correct path?

Narka looked at him from his shoulder, with those golden eyes that had contemplated entire eras. He did not speak immediately. He let the silence stretch like a taut cord before answering.

—What you feel is the threshold of the next realm. —His voice was slow, like a river of stone—. Level 8 – Basic Qi Master is not a simple ascent. It is the birth of a Qi of one's own.

Sebastián listened without moving a muscle.

—Until now, your Qi was neutral. It could reinforce you, but it had no identity. At Level 8, Qi ceases to be an empty river and becomes a marked river. Each cultivator imprints their Qi with their Dao, with their path. Some turn it to fire. Others to poison. Others to blade or expansion. You will turn it to Void and Force.

Narka inclined his head, grave.

—At this level, each cultivator leaves a unique energetic signature. It is no longer possible to hide. It is no longer possible to retreat. That Qi becomes an extension of your Dao, and it marks your existence forever.

Sebastián closed his eyes for a moment. He understood what those words implied: there was no turning back. His Qi was already Void and Force. He could not deny it. The only option was to accept it and move forward.

He opened his eyes, red as living embers.

—Then I will enter Closed Door Cultivation. Here. In this mansion.

Virka, who had been watching him in silence, spoke firmly.

—Do it. —Her eyes shone like steel—. There are no pending matters that require you outside. Mine is clear: I will recognize Kael as father and await the reports about the girl. Now cultivate. This is your moment.

Sebastián nodded. The weight of the decision sank into the hall like a seal. He crossed the corridors to his room, closed the door behind him, and began to seal himself in isolation. The air thickened around him, as if the mansion itself held its breath.

Only Virka and Narka remained.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, and the hardness of her expression gave way slightly.

—I'm going to the sauna. —Her voice carried no weariness, but a tone of release—. Not from fatigue, but because I want to. I like hot water, it clears my mind. Are you coming?

Narka narrowed his golden eyes, like an old sun beneath water.

—Yes. The day was long. And though I do not tire as you do, I like the idea.

They walked together toward the bath. The corridors filled with a different silence, as if they knew the Emperor had locked himself away to cultivate and that everything else must fall quiet. They reached the sauna, and the steam wrapped them like a warm embrace.

Virka let the dark fabric she wore fall. Her skin, smooth, white, almost snowy, glowed beneath the vapor. There were no scars: only the spiritual mark of her bond with Sebastián gleamed faintly on her chest, like a living tattoo that pulsed with every breath. She entered the water, and the ripples spread like trembling mirrors. Her red eyes shone with a strange gleam at the touch of the heat.

Narka, in his reduced form, descended into the water as well, settling near her. The contrast was strange: Virka's feminine body, perfect and lethal, beside the ancestral bulk of Narka, though diminished, still an unbreakable weight.

The water murmured around them.

—Tell me something —Virka broke the silence—. If you are a cultivator, why don't you advance like Sebastián? Why don't you cultivate to the next level?

Narka looked at her, and his eyes seemed to contain centuries of fatigue.

—Because I am at Level 20. And at that level, energy is not enough. Forcing the body or the Qi is not enough. To advance, one must fully understand the level one is in. And only then, transcend it.

The water bubbled softly.

—The higher you climb, the harder the barrier. Not from lack of energy, but from lack of understanding. Many cultivators die trapped in those invisible walls.

Virka listened attentively.

—I thought everyone cultivated like you do. That everyone sought a Dao.

Narka shook his head slowly.

—No. Most lose their way. Some chain themselves only to martial strength. Others define themselves as righteous, as protectors. Others declare themselves evil, predators. All trap themselves in their own chains: morality, power, desires, hypocrisies. And those chains keep them from seeing the Dao in its purity.

Virka frowned.

—Then, what path do you follow? What path does Sebastián follow?

The water stirred a little when Narka answered.

—None of those. Neither righteous nor evil. We are pure cultivators of the Dao. Sebastián seeks Force as the principle of life. I follow my own, without chains, without labels. It is not a new way of cultivating. It is the oldest way. The true origin of cultivation. When the first ones did not seek appearances or morality, but only understanding.

Virka remained silent. The steam veiled her face, but in her eyes burned a different comprehension. She shared destiny with two beings who had broken all chains. Two beings who did not let themselves be trapped by the lies of the world, but cultivated with the brutal purity of those who seek the eternal.

The sauna filled with thick steam, hiding the bodies and leaving only the voices. Outside, in another room, Sebastián sealed himself with his Qi in full mutation. Inside, Virka and Narka spoke of Daos and chains. The mansion became a divided sanctuary: three different paths beating in unison beneath one roof.

And so, the night advanced. Outside, the rotten city followed its course. Inside, the Crimson Empire began to take root not only in blood and power, but in cultivation, in reflection, and in impossible bonds.

The water of the sauna kept releasing columns of steam, wrapping the air in a thick veil that seemed to swallow the contours of the world. Virka remained submerged to her shoulders, her white skin barely touched by the ripples she had created upon entering. Narka, in his reduced form, floated at her side, motionless, as though the heat could not pierce the millennial memories that encased him.

Silence weighed for a long while. Only the murmur of the water licking the stone walls and the distant crackle of the wood burning behind the wall could be heard. Virka, her gaze lost in the vapor-covered ceiling, spoke first. Her voice did not sound like confession, nor doubt, but like the statement of a thought that had slowly ripened deep in her mind.

—Yours… is a strange path —she said slowly, referring to Sebastián and Narka—. You bind yourselves to thoughts, to Daos, to understandings. You sit and stare into darkness, waiting for it to return an answer. I… am not like that.

Her red eyes gleamed for an instant through the steam. Virka lowered her gaze and raised a hand, letting the water slide down her long, firm fingers.

—I am a wielder of Aura. I do not feel that need to dig into hidden meanings, nor to force the mind to find an order. My strength… is not born of understanding, but of the fight.

Narka tilted his head, his golden eyes —ancient as volcanic rock— fixed on her. But he did not interrupt. He wanted to listen.

—I am at level ten —she continued, with a calmness that felt like a blade—. And even so, I never stopped to "understand" anything. My master told me once: Aura cannot be explained. Aura lives with me. It grows when I fight. It expands when I endure. It obeys no laws, no hidden roots. It is my instinct made fire.

Her words were not lofty; they were sharp, like a sudden strike. The water trembled for an instant when her Aura, only as an unconscious reflex, manifested around her: a dark, dense pressure that blended with the steam.

—Sebastián carries his Daos, you carry centuries of understanding… I carry my will. Aura reflects who I am when I fight. Every wound I received, every enemy I crushed, every step over the blood of others… all of that is etched into my Aura. I do not need to sit in silence and ask the world what I am. My Aura already knows: I am struggle. I am claw. I am the one who fights even if the sky collapses.

Silence returned, but this time the water seemed to hold itself to listen. Narka closed his golden eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, there was a different gleam, not of surprise, but of recognition.

—It is true… —he said, his voice deep, slow, as if dragging stones from the bottom of a river—. Aura does not follow the same shackles as cultivation. It does not seek a Dao to give it form. It is pure reflection of will. Your strength is as legitimate as ours… but also more fragile.

Virka arched a single brow.

—Fragile?

—Yes. —Narka's voice did not waver—. The cultivator, even if he falls, leaves traces in his Dao. Those traces persist, even if his spirit shatters. But Aura… depends entirely on its bearer. If your spirit were to break, if your will faltered, your Aura would unravel with you. There would be nothing left but emptiness.

The steam thickened even more, as if the air itself reacted to the gravity of those words. But Virka did not avert her gaze. Her lips, red and tense, curved into a half-smile that held no sweetness, only conviction.

—My spirit does not break —she replied coldly—. It has been forged in the only thing I understand: the fight. I do not meditate, Narka. I do not seek "paths" or "truths." My Aura feeds on my blood, on my claws, on my steps along the edge of death. I do not fear breaking, because they already tried before. And I am still here.

Narka lowered his gaze for an instant, as if the reflection of that certainty had pierced him. It was no empty claim: the Beast of Destruction spoke with the voice of her own flesh, hardened in chains, in blows, in loss.

The old being sighed, heavy, with a sound that seemed to come from within the mountain itself.

—Then… you are the mirror of what cultivators forget. The Daos do not matter, the understandings do not matter. Only will. Only struggle.

Virka closed her eyes and sank a little deeper into the water, letting the heat envelop her smooth, white skin, unmarked by scars, except for the invisible seal that bound her to Sebastián. A mark that was bond, not wound.

—Exactly. —Her voice sounded low, almost like a contained growl—. Aura is not understood. Aura is fought.

The steam swirled as if it answered that decree. And in that instant, for a brief moment, there was no difference between the roar of a beast and the affirmation of a queen.

_______________________________________________________

END OF CHAPTER 35

The path continues…

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