On the Path of Eternal Strength.

The February sun filtered through the mansion's curtains, as if hesitant to interrupt the silence that had ruled its corridors for weeks. There were no footsteps, no conversations; only the subtle murmur of a day beginning with precision.

Sebastián was already on his feet. He had awakened before the light touched the floor, like someone who feels the duty to maintain routine more than to seek rest. Measured breathing, body alert: every muscle prepared for movement, even though that day held no battle to win.

In the adjoining room, Valentina finished buttoning her vest with a concentration that bordered on solemnity. Her elementary school uniform —white shirt, navy-blue vest with a thin trim, skirt of the same tone, and high socks— seemed to absorb the small dignity the moment required. Her hair, white almost entirely with a few scattered brown strands, fell like a thread of winter that had not yet learned to blend with spring. She braided it clumsily and tied it with a simple ribbon.

Virka, at the other end of the hallway, adjusted the bow of her uniform. Her reflection in the mirror returned the precise image of discipline: immaculate blouse, dark skirt at knee height, tie the same color as Sebastián's, black stockings, polished shoes without excess. She wore no makeup; only her red eyes, clear and sharp, contrasted with the pale whiteness of her skin.

Sebastián dressed as always: without unnecessary ornaments, without gestures that sought attention. The dark jacket closed with precision, the silver buttons tightened, the sober tie, the formal trousers. It was a uniform, but on him it felt like armor that breathed without sound.

From the doorway, Narka observed in silence, his golden gaze reflecting the serenity that precedes necessary movement.

The mansion's main gate opened with a faint metallic groan. Outside, Selena and Helena waited beside a dark-blue truck —the same one that had closed the previous chapter of their lives—. The engine was running, the rear door open. No ceremony: only the next step in a process.

They climbed in without words. The air inside the vehicle smelled of new fabric and distance.

Valentina settled into her seat, holding her notebook against her chest. She looked at Sebastián and then at Virka, containing a mix of nerves and curiosity.

—Is the school big? —she asked cautiously.

—Big and orderly —Sebastián replied without taking his eyes off the horizon—. It will teach you what is useful.

—And will I see Mom Virka and Dad Sebastián during the day?

Virka replied without harshness, but with the coldness inherent to her natural tone:

—Not always. But you'll be close.

—Will I have friends? —the girl insisted.

—You'll have time to decide that —said Sebastián. His voice promised nothing, yet it didn't deny hope either.

From the front seat, Selena spoke without turning around:

—The institute is prestigious. It doesn't discriminate by origin or surname, only by effort. It serves from elementary school to university. Each division has its own spaces, but all follow the same principle: discipline and self-improvement.

Helena added while checking a tablet:

—It's located on the northern coast, overlooking the sea. About ten thousand kilometers from the border. It's a large, open campus, with residential and training zones. There are no night classes, but there are cultural clubs, science clubs, and controlled combat training.

Valentina looked ahead, processing the information like someone trying to imagine a map.

—And what does "controlled combat" mean? —she asked.

Sebastián exchanged a glance with Virka; neither of them smiled.

—It means that even strength can learn to wait for its moment —he replied.

The truck moved on.

The roads stretched wide, lined with trees that seemed to guard the passage toward the future. Through the window, Valentina watched the signs, the streets filled with people walking unhurriedly, and the groups of uniformed students. In her eyes, wonder and caution blended together.

Virka, on the other hand, kept her gaze fixed forward. Her attention moved like a hidden weapon: calculating routes, exits, faces. Nothing escaped her analysis.

Sebastián watched the horizon with the calm of someone who knew he was entering unfamiliar ground, yet would face it like any other training field. In silence, he measured the pulse of the vehicle and the rhythm of the outside world.

Narka broke the silence with a deep, barely audible voice:

—Not all training fields have soil or blood. Some are watered with words.

Sebastián nodded, without taking his eyes off the road.

—And in all, will is what's measured —he murmured.

The vehicle slowed down. Before them rose a metallic gate with an emblem engraved in relief: a spiral divided into three equal parts, representing mind, body, and spirit.

Beyond the gate, the campus stretched like an orderly city. Stone paths and immaculate gardens connected the different buildings. There were statues of ancient masters and a main building of modern architecture, with dark-blue windows reflecting the brightness of the nearby sea.

On either side, groups of students walked with discipline. There was no chaos or excessive noise; the air was charged with a natural order.

Valentina pressed her forehead against the window glass.

—Is all of that ours?

Selena barely smiled.

—Everything you can learn will be.

The vehicle stopped. Sebastián got out first, opening the rear door to help Valentina.

Virka descended after him, calmly smoothing the skirt of her uniform and tightening the bow with a firm pull. The sea air drifted between them, mixing the salt with the clean scent of new fabric.

In front of the group, Helena checked a folder and lifted her gaze.

—Good. From here, you walk on your own.

The final instructions came without drama.

—Head to reception —Helena said—. The coordinators are waiting with your entry records.

—Remember —added Selena—: this process is part of your adaptation. It's a test, but also an opportunity.

Valentina, clutching her notebook tightly, nodded.

—I promise I won't fail you.

There were no sentimental replies. Sebastián and Virka watched as she took a step forward, small among the crowd moving with precision.

Sebastián, without looking directly at her, murmured:

—Every beginning is a field of strength.

The coastal wind blew, soft yet firm. The three —Sebastián, Virka, and Valentina— walked together toward the institute's gates, with Narka on the shoulder, silent, observing.

The reflection of the sea on the windows gleamed for an instant, and the echo of a distant bell rang out, just like the one that had closed the previous chapter, spreading through the corridors and the light.

The world did not welcome them with open arms, but neither did it reject them.

Sometimes, that is enough to begin.

The metallic gate closed behind them with a sound that seemed to seal a boundary. The air of the campus carried a different weight: neither solemn nor noisy, only orderly. Stone avenues stretched between contained gardens, and in the distance, beyond the towers of the main building, the sea breathed with a pale blue hue. The students walked in almost invisible lines, each with their own rhythm, with the steady stride of those who already know where they are going. The institute's staff, wearing vests with the spiral emblem, moved among the newcomers, guiding them silently toward the central courtyard. There were no shouts or empty ceremonies; the atmosphere was sustained by a sober anticipation, as if the entire place functioned with the precision of a clock that does not tolerate applause.

On a modest platform at the front of the courtyard, a woman with chestnut hair streaked with reddish tones was waiting. She wore no adornments—only the composure of someone who does not need to impose herself to be heard. The director's voice was clear and firm. She spoke of effort, of the balance between mind and body, of each person's right to learn without being judged by their origin. She said that here, no one competes against others, but against who they were the day before. Her speech lasted only long enough to be understood, and then, with a slight gesture, she signaled the staff to begin the reception. The movement was immediate.

Through the loudspeakers came the first announcement: "New tenth-graders, please proceed to the east wing corridor." At another end, two teachers raised small banners marked "Primary" and began gathering the children. The flow divided naturally. Sebastián observed the hallways and staircases, memorizing exits and points of convergence. Virka kept her gaze straight ahead, her expression as serene as ever, while Valentina turned her head again and again, unwilling to miss any part of the scenery.

Before they separated, Sebastián crouched down. The gesture was simple, calculated. He held Narka for a moment and brought him close to Valentina.

—Remember —he said—, while I'm not around, he'll be with you.

Valentina nodded without words. Narka, with a slight inclination, slid into the girl's backpack until he was hidden among the folds. Only she knew he was still there.

The secondary line moved efficiently. Upon reaching the registration desk, an assistant verified the documents that Helena and Selena had processed. Data scan, photograph, signature—and in less than a minute, two new cards came out of a thermal printer: names, internal chip, the institute's seal. The assignment was direct: Tenth A. There were no questions or surprises, but Sebastián noticed that this was no coincidence; the precision of the details bore the mark of those who had prepared everything.

In the primary area, the process was slower. The soft-voiced teacher went through the list of names, checking that each child had all their papers in order. When it was her turn, Valentina carefully handed over hers. The photo was quick: a white flash, a metallic sound. They gave her a small blue card with drawings along the bottom and the number of her group: First Grade. She smiled. Then she discreetly touched the zipper of her backpack and felt the faint movement inside.

With the cards distributed, the staff began explaining the basic rules. For the older students: schedule, map of buildings, location of the cafeteria, infirmary, and library. They spoke of the training clubs, culture, and science. For the younger ones, the teachers described the play and reading activities. Today —they said— there would be no formal classes, only orientation. The day would serve to explore the halls and classrooms that, starting tomorrow, would become their routine.

Valentina walked with her group. The primary school corridors were lower, painted in neutral colors and lined with clean blackboards. Through the large windows, inner gardens could be seen, and at certain points, the reflection of the sea. The teacher spoke calmly, pointing out the bathrooms, the infirmary, and the reading area. Valentina raised her hand, a bit timidly, and asked if she would be able to see "Mom Virka" and "Dad Sebastián." The woman smiled.

—During recess, maybe. And at the end of the day, surely.

The girl lowered her gaze, satisfied. A soft tap inside her backpack confirmed she wasn't alone.

On the opposite wing, Sebastián and Virka walked with their group through the science laboratories. The guide, a thin man with a folder under his arm, explained the gym rules, the library reservation system, and the academic clubs. Everything was orderly, measured, with a discipline that needed no raised voices. They listened without interrupting, recording every detail in memory.

The tour ended in front of the Tenth A classroom. The guide called roll: thirty names, including Sebastián and Virka. He handed out the schedule and a map of activities. Regular modules would begin tomorrow; today was only orientation. No one mentioned that they were new arrivals, but the teacher made a note on his control sheet. He knew they were part of a special program, though protocol required silence.

In another building, Valentina found her desk. It had a small drawer for notebooks and a wall where other children had hung their drawings. They explained how the entry and exit routines worked, and that the day would end with a brief visit to the cafeteria. She nodded at everything, with that mix of shyness and curiosity that only those who have never had a place of their own possess.

The final bell echoed throughout the campus. Groups began to scatter toward their blocks. Valentina walked behind her teacher, her card hanging from her chest. From time to time, she touched her backpack; the faint movement inside restored her calm. In another wing, Sebastián and Virka stood by a window, their cards still warm between their fingers. Before them, the building's floor plan looked like a map of possibilities.

The shimmer of the sea entered through the glass and reflected on the polished floor. There were no oaths, no pending speeches, only the silent weight of new credentials and hallways to learn. Outside, the ocean wind slipped through the garden statues, and in its murmur there was something that resembled a beginning. The silence of the mansion was left behind, replaced by the murmur of hallways, the bell, and the voices learning to say their names. Sometimes, belonging must also be trained.

Dawn arrived with the precision of a well-trained clock. Inside the institute, light filtered through the high windows and broke across the waxed floors like an obedient tide that dared not lose its rhythm. The first bell of the day rang through the walls, leaving behind an orderly echo of footsteps, conversations, and freshly ironed uniforms. The three —Sebastián, Virka, and Valentina— crossed the corridors in silence, each toward their own wing, like three separate notes from the same chord.

The air of the academic blocks carried a faint scent of paper, metal, and restraint. Sebastián and Virka entered the Tenth A classroom, where the morning already simmered with glances.

Thirty students were waiting; their bodies formed small constellations of confidence and hierarchy—groups that already knew one another, and others that only pretended to. The entrance of the two newcomers broke the symmetry of the place. They made no sound; they didn't need to. Their mere presence was enough for the air to pause for an instant before regaining its rhythm.

Sebastián's body, even beneath the dark jacket of the uniform, revealed a precision no gym could manufacture. It wasn't size or volume—it was density, function. His shoulders moved with the balance of someone who knew strength from within. The tendons in his neck traced a history that needed no words. And his eyes… those deep red spirals, turning slowly toward the dark center that reflected nothing. The black pupil, devoid of human glint, absorbed more than light. One student pretended to look for a pencil on the floor just to observe him more closely. Another, without knowing why, lowered his gaze.

Beside him, Virka looked like something reality still struggled to accept. Her white skin carried a faint gray undertone visible only under shadow, as if the light had to remind her that she still belonged among the living. Her jet-black hair fell straight over her shoulders, and her red eyes—clear, luminous, without distinct pupils—moved with a calm that bordered on the inhuman. She wore no makeup, but the substance of her face alone was enough to unsettle. A voice, very low, whispered a question about whether she wore contact lenses; another answered no, that those eyes were real.

The teacher, a man with a weary posture and precise diction, set the papers on the desk and said it was time for introductions. He did so without theatrics—just another command within the order.

—The new students, please.

Sebastián stood up. His chair made no noise.

—Sebastián Solis.

Nothing more. His voice carried the weight of a stone falling into water and vanishing without a splash. The surname lingered in the air with unusual clarity. Within him, a brief memory stirred: his mother, the inherited name, the root that refused to die. Someone jotted something in their notebook—perhaps out of habit, perhaps to fill the silence.

Then, Virka rose to her feet.

—Virka Solis.

The same surname, spoken in a tone that asked for no permission. There was a brief silence—not from surprise, but from instinct. Some students exchanged quick glances, as if that detail—the shared name—hid a story better left unspoken. The teacher nodded, noted their names on the list, and moved on without comment. But the silence that followed was his mark.

Class began. On the digital board, projected words appeared: General Theory. Controlled Bodily Development. Practical Linkage. The teacher explained the institute's modular system. There were no common courses, no useless subjects. Each student had to choose a path balancing mind, body, and action. Sebastián listened in silence, recognizing—with an almost painful clarity—a domesticated version of his own training. Where he had learned through broken bones, here they spoke of "controlled progression." Where he had bled, they said "supervised physical evaluation." His attention was not curiosity; it was diagnosis.

Virka didn't take notes. She didn't need to. Her mind worked like a clean archive—every word was recorded, every pause counted. She studied the faces around her, measuring reflexes, breaths, the way some avoided her gaze while others couldn't look away. There was no threat in her posture, yet something in the way she stood evoked a beast that, even asleep, still scented the air.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the building, Valentina entered her primary classroom. The contrast was almost another world. The light here was warmer; the desks were smaller, the colorful backpacks and the posters on the walls spoke in a simple language: learning was still a promise, not an obligation. The teacher, with a calm smile, asked the newcomers to introduce themselves. One by one, the children went to the front, laughing nervously. When her turn came, Valentina stood, hands clasped tightly.

—My name is Valentina Solis.

Her voice trembled at first but ended firm, as if that surname anchored something greater than a name. A boy waved at her, curious about her hair. A girl whispered about her heterochromia: the right eye brown, the left light blue. Her hair, almost completely white with just a few brown strands at the base, seemed to steal light from its surroundings. The teacher smiled at her.

—Very good, Valentina. You speak very clearly.

She nodded, returned to her seat, and discreetly brushed her hand over the zipper of her backpack. From within, Narka responded with a small movement, almost imperceptible, as if breathing in rhythm with her.

In the secondary classroom, the teacher continued his introduction. He explained the schedule divided between theory, practice, and optional clubs. He spoke of self-evaluation, merit, and shared responsibility. Some students listened with disguised boredom. Sebastián didn't. For him, every word was a tool to understand. Knowledge wasn't for passing—it was for surviving better. When the teacher mentioned "control of physical impulses," a fleeting glance passed between him and Virka. Both understood.

The morning advanced. The corridors resonated with bells, the creak of doors, and the constant murmur of civilization. Sebastián felt that rhythm like foreign machinery, but he learned its cadence. Order didn't please him, yet he respected it. It was another form of training. Virka, beside him, seemed more uneasy with calm than with any battle. Her gaze kept moving; she never stopped measuring distance.

Valentina, meanwhile, held a yellow pencil with both hands. The teacher was showing them how to trace large letters, how to raise their hand before speaking. The pencil moved awkwardly at first, but she smiled. Each stroke was a victory. No one shouted. No one hit the desk. It was the first time learning didn't hurt.

The sun shifted its angle, spilling slanted light over the rows of desks. Sebastián looked at the board, the precise shadows, the formulas that spoke of balance and discipline. He remembered what the body had once taught him: that pain, too, was a teacher.

Now he had to learn from silence and order. Virka, beside him, breathed slowly. The sound was barely a whisper, but he heard it. There was no danger, only a new emptiness that both of them would have to fill with meaning.

Inside Valentina's backpack, Narka opened his eyes. He needed no light to see. His thought, silent as a submerged stone, drifted through the air: Silence, too, trains.

The rest of the day passed among hallways and voices. The secondary students left in groups, laughing. Sebastián and Virka walked among them; they didn't belong, yet they no longer seemed foreign. No one dared to stop them. In another wing, Valentina ran toward the exit with her card hanging from her neck, the freshly printed photograph gleaming. She raised it proudly.

—Look, I have one like yours!

Sebastián nodded. Virka tucked back a loose strand of her white hair that had fallen toward her forehead. Narka peeked one golden pupil from between the folds of the backpack and then hid again.

The final bell rang. The murmur of the sea slipped through the open windows, blending with the voices of hundreds of students heading home. The midday light fell upon the institute's walls, covering them with a serene glow. Three paths branched from the same point: one toward the childhood that learns, another toward the strength that disciplines itself, and another toward the calm that still doesn't understand its purpose.

The day ended without ceremony—only the sound of the wind between the garden statues and the sea reflected in the windows. Inside, the three Solis—Sebastián, Virka, and Valentina—had begun to exist within order, without hiding, without roaring. The learning had only just begun. And belonging, too, became a form of training.

When the sun sank a little lower and the sea breeze carried that saline stillness that seems to seal the hours, the institute was still breathing movement. The corridors remained open, luminous signs blinked with messages of welcome, and the teachers, now without the ceremonial tone of the morning, walked among groups of students exploring their new world. Sebastián walked slowly beside Virka and Valentina. The noise of the crowd didn't disturb him; it wrapped him instead in an unusual calm, as if the voices and footsteps were another kind of wind.

Beside him, Virka kept her hands clasped behind her back, her gaze scanning every detail of the building—the geometry of the windows, the extreme cleanliness of the halls, the cold metallic scent of the railings. There was no danger in that place, yet her body continued to analyze, measure, prepare. The beast that had learned to coexist with civility didn't sleep; it only observed.

Valentina, on the other hand, walked a few steps ahead, gripping her backpack with both hands and looking everywhere with a brightness that needed no words. Her eyes—one brown, the other blue—captured every color, every reflection, every movement. Her white hair, streaked with faint brown strands, moved with the air streaming through the windows. It was as if the light had chosen her to pass through. In her own way, she seemed to remember that she hadn't always had a safe roof or a school waiting for her, and that certainty made her silence deeper.

The campus was vast: avenues of polished stone, gardens with perfectly trimmed shrubs, and in the distance, beyond the wall marking the grounds, the open sea. It wasn't a decorative view; the building had been deliberately constructed facing it, as if the horizon served as a reminder that all learning points toward the unknown. Between the columns, floating signs announced clubs and departments. It was time for the new students to learn about the extracurricular activities the institute offered. The three stopped before the central plaza, where several tables were arranged in a circle, each with a digital banner and a different motto.

—We can look —said Virka, without emotion, though her eyes followed the movements of the others.

Sebastián merely nodded. They didn't need to say more. They blended into the crowd, walking without haste. The voices of the other students surrounded them—some laughter, comments about schedules, exams, clubs. It was the noise of the world, but none of them perceived it as a distraction. It was a different form of life: orderly, civil, predictable.

The first stand they found displayed, in white letters: "Club of Philosophical Studies and World Culture." Maps were projected in the air, portraits of thinkers, phrases from various religions. A teacher with his hair tied in a bun explained the idea of comparing systems of thought. Sebastián listened from a distance. "Compete against one's own ignorance," read the main poster. The phrase made him raise an eyebrow. It sounded like an elegant version of what he had always done—face his limits with his knuckles. In silence, he took one of the pamphlets from the stand and continued walking.

Virka paused briefly before the next one, where holographic screens displayed equations suspended in the air, rotations of complex geometries, and models of molecules assembling with precision. "Mathematics and Applied Sciences Club," she read. She didn't understand every formula, but she admired the exactness of the lines. Her mind, trained for combat strategy and distance calculation, recognized in that order something familiar. It wasn't the chaos of the body, but the same principle translated into symbols: controlled movement, cause and consequence, balance.

Valentina approached the art stand. A middle-aged woman displayed drawings from former students, small sculptures, and paintings. In one corner, a group of primary school children watched a digital watercolor demonstration. The girl stood there for a moment, watching the colors spread across the screen. She didn't yet know she could be part of that, but something in her expression said she would like to learn. When the woman noticed her, she smiled warmly and handed her an information sheet. Valentina took it with both hands, murmured a thank you, and returned to Sebastián's side.

They walked on, passing by the various clubs. There was one for literature, where short passages were recited; another for languages, another for world history, and one for comparative religion where ethics and morality were discussed. Everything seemed to have a defined purpose, a structure that, to Sebastián's eyes, felt strangely orderly. He remembered the days when learning meant enduring pain—or dying in the attempt. Here, learning was a ceremony of thought, a discipline without blood.

—Everything has a rhythm —said Virka softly, almost to herself—. No one fights, but everyone competes.

Sebastián glanced at her sideways. —Yes. And none of them know it.

They kept walking. At the end of the main hallway, the air smelled of metal and food. They had reached the dining area. It was a spacious hall, with metallic tables and artificial trees that cast real shadows. On the ceiling screens, the schedules for the different blocks were displayed. Students ate, laughed, argued. Some looked at them as they passed. It wasn't fear, nor pure curiosity—it was the instinctive reaction to something that didn't quite fit. Sebastián, even in uniform, carried a posture that spoke of another kind of discipline: straight back, steady gaze, shoulders as if bearing an invisible weight. Virka, with her white skin and faint gray undertone, stood out against the surroundings. Her beauty was so precise it seemed designed to unsettle. Her red eyes, impassive, didn't seek attention, yet drew it effortlessly.

Valentina walked between them, small but equally different. Her white hair streaked with brown made her seem like a figure pulled from another painting. Some children pointed at her with curiosity; others simply looked and kept talking. She didn't mind. There was a slight smile on her lips—one of those smiles that seek no approval, only existence.

At one of the tables, Sebastián stopped. Valentina had ordered a juice from one of the automatic machines. He watched her drink slowly, both hands holding the cup. Virka sat across from them, observing the surroundings—not relaxed, but not on guard either. For the first time, she seemed to accept the environment.

—Do you like it? —Sebastián asked, pointing to the juice.

—It tastes weird —Valentina said—, but sweet.

Virka lowered her gaze to the cup, then to the girl. —If it does you good, that's enough.

The phrase sounded simple, but it carried weight. Sebastián understood. It was the closest Virka could come to saying take care of yourself.

They spent a while in silence. By then, the institute had begun to quiet down. The stands were being dismantled; the luminous signs were going out one by one. In the sky, the color of the sea had turned a deep gray, and the breeze carried that echo of the day's end only found in places where people learn or work until exhaustion.

When they stood up, Valentina carried her art club sheet, Virka held the one from the science club, and Sebastián had the folded brochure from the philosophy club. It wasn't an official choice, just a gesture: each had taken something different from the same world.

They walked back through the long corridor leading to the main gate. The lights turned on one by one as the students passed. The reflection of the sea entered through the glass, casting liquid shadows on the floor. Valentina walked between the two, looking at the windows, trying to memorize the way back.

—It's big —she said, looking at the sky opening above the campus.

—That makes it useful —Sebastián replied, without stopping.

Virka added, —If you know where to walk.

Valentina smiled. She didn't fully understand, but the phrase felt important.

The air smelled of salt and electricity. The institute wasn't asleep yet. Some clubs were still meeting; from afar came the sound of footsteps, soft music, the rhythmic thump of a ball against the floor. Somewhere, someone was reciting a lesson aloud. The world stretched outward, and for the first time in a long while, none of them felt out of place.

At the exit, Sebastián stopped for a moment to look at the building. It was impossible not to think about what it meant to be there. He had spent years learning to endure, to destroy, to survive. Now he had to learn to hold something that didn't need blood to prove its strength. He didn't know if it was harder or easier—only that it was new.

Virka looked at him sideways. —You don't like the noise.

—No. But it's living noise. I can bear it.

She nodded. Her gaze drifted toward the lights that went out one by one.

Valentina took their hands. —We'll come again tomorrow, right?

—Yes —said Sebastián—. Tomorrow.

Narka, peeking just slightly from the backpack, made a faint sound—a soft tap like an ancient agreement. Virka heard it and allowed herself the smallest smile.

They kept walking toward the gate. The sky had turned an almost black shade of blue, and the air heavy with salt wrapped around them like a memory from another time. Behind them, the institute remained lit in fragments: a classroom still glowing, a teacher arranging books, a group of students laughing under a tree. It was a world that ran on its own laws—free of violence, yet equally demanding.

Crossing the last avenue of the campus, Valentina turned to look at the building once more. Her ID card hung from her neck, swaying with the wind. She said nothing—just touched the zipper of her backpack. From within, Narka responded with a soft, rhythmic tap. Three times. She smiled and kept walking.

Sebastián lifted his gaze toward the horizon. The city lights blended with the stars. He felt that each step drew them farther from the mansion and closer to something vaster—something he didn't fully understand, but instinctively knew was necessary. Learning, he thought, was not about accumulation, but about emptying oneself enough to receive without breaking.

The wind blew from the sea, raising a cold breeze that made the curtains of the tallest building flutter. Valentina squeezed Virka's hand.

—Is it cold? —asked Sebastián.

—No —she replied—. It's just the air moving.

Virka looked at the sea one last time before matching his pace. In her gaze, the red of her eyes blended with the blue reflection of the water. It was an improbable fusion, yet perfect: fire staring at the ocean without fearing it would be extinguished.

When they passed through the gate and the street opened before them, the noise of the institute faded behind. There were no applause, no parting words—only the steady breathing of three people who had survived too many things to need witnesses.

The walk back was long, but not heavy. There was a quiet promise in the air: that of a place that did not judge them, a space where they could learn without defending themselves, and where silence was not punishment but rest.

The last sound was the echo of the wind among the campus trees, repeating without a voice the lesson none of them would forget: that even calm can be trained, and that belonging—at last—also demands strength.

The institute emptied with an orderly slowness, as if the day were unraveling in silence and every step across the stone tiles marked the end of an invisible rhythm. Outside, the sky was turning toward reddish tones of dusk, and the sea, in the distance, kept moving with that calm that always seemed to conceal something.

The three Solis stayed a while longer on campus after most students had left. The murmur of conversation had faded through the corridors, leaving only the whisper of the wind slipping between the statues. Sebastián, hands in the pockets of his dark uniform, stopped before one of the benches in the central garden. Virka followed and sat beside him, her back straight, her eyes on the horizon; Valentina nestled between them, her backpack still on her lap as if unwilling to let it go.

For a while, none of them spoke. The silence had a gentle weight—different from that of the training fields or the empty rooms of the mansion. Here, silence was civil, made of routine and fatigue, and yet it carried something sacred. Valentina was the first to break it.

—I liked it —she said softly, still a little uncertain but honest—. I thought everyone would look at me strangely… but they didn't. Well, maybe a little, but it wasn't bad.

Sebastián turned his head slightly to look at her. His face didn't change, but the subtle drop of his shoulders was enough to show that he was listening attentively.

—And did you learn something? —he asked.

—Yes. The teacher said that letters are like doors, and that if I learn to write them well, I can open any story.

Virka raised an eyebrow. —That sounds useful —she said in her neutral tone—. Doors must be used properly.

Valentina laughed softly, not fully understanding but enjoying the company. Her fingers moved absentmindedly over the zipper of her backpack, and from inside, Narka emitted a faint sound—almost a hum of approval.

Sebastián lifted his gaze toward the main building. The lights were beginning to turn on one by one; the institute looked like a heart of glass breathing calmly. Without thinking too much, he slid his hand to the dimensional ring on his index finger and, with a minimal gesture, materialized his phone. He held it in silence for a moment, as if the object weighed more than usual, and dialed a number.

—Yes? —Selena's voice came through clearly, with that professional tone that even fatigue couldn't alter—. It's almost dark, Sebastián. Are you heading out?

—Yes —he replied—. But I want Valentina to have dinner first. It's been a long day. I want it to end well.

On the other end came a brief sigh. —All right. Don't take too long. Let me know when you're ready, and I'll come pick you up.

—I will.

He hung up without saying more. Valentina was watching him, curious.

—Was that Aunt Selena?

Sebastián nodded.

—And what did she say?

—That it's fine —he answered—. We can stay a bit longer.

The girl's eyes lit up. —Then can we go eat something? Please…

Virka glanced at her sideways. —Only if you promise not to eat the table too.

Valentina smiled, unoffended. —Promise.

The three of them stood up and walked toward the institute's exit. The evening air wrapped around them with its scent of salt and metal. The city stretched ahead, its lights beginning to flicker one by one, reflected on the sea like splinters of fire floating over the water.

They found a small restaurant a few blocks away, with a simple, warm façade. Outside, a terrace with yellow lanterns and wooden tables; inside, the quiet murmur of people and the aroma of fruit and freshly baked bread. There were no seafood dishes or luxury—only tropical food served with kindness: rice pudding, steamed meat, sweet fruits, thick juices.

Valentina chose without hesitation: a mango juice and a plate of pineapple pieces with sweet rice. Virka ordered little —a dark tea— and Sebastián only a plate of bread and white rice. It wasn't for lack of appetite; it was habit, the old discipline that had kept them alive.

They sat by an open window from which the sea was visible. The evening light fell obliquely over the table, giving everything a golden and peaceful tone. Valentina ate with that mix of clumsiness and happiness that only children have when they don't feel watched. A drop of juice ran down her cheek, and Virka, without thinking too much, took a napkin and wiped it away.

—Thank you, Mom Virka —said Valentina, without fear, without hesitation.

Virka froze for a few seconds, surprised. Then simply nodded.

Sebastián watched the scene without interfering. Part of him wished he could freeze that moment, seal it in his memory like a precious stone. But he knew that memory, like strength, only mattered if used to keep moving forward.

Inside the backpack, Narka peeked out with a golden eye. Valentina, without anyone noticing, handed him a small piece of fruit. He accepted it with a faint sound, like the brush of a breeze over stone.

—You like it, don't you? —the girl murmured, barely moving her lips.

—It's sweet —Narka answered in her mind, his voice slow, deep, almost paternal—. Sweetness teaches as much as pain, if you know when to taste it.

She smiled, not fully understanding, but storing the words somewhere within.

Time seemed to slow. The conversations of the other diners faded into a distant background. Sebastián drank his tea without looking at anyone, Virka watched the street, and Valentina, content, kept eating slowly. For a moment, they weren't survivors or students of anything—just a family sitting somewhere in the world.

When they finished, Sebastián left some money on the table. The waitress thanked them with a genuine smile, unaware of the intensity in their eyes. They stepped outside as the sky finished dimming. The first stars were lighting up over the sea.

They crossed the street in silence. Valentina walked between them, holding both their hands. Her white hair caught the glow of the streetlights, and for an instant she seemed like a small flame moving through the shadows. Virka lowered her gaze to watch her; she had learned not to show tenderness, but couldn't help leaning slightly to adjust the bow of the girl's uniform.

—Did you eat enough? —Sebastián asked.

—Yes —the girl replied, her voice soft with the drowsiness beginning to overtake her—. It was good.

—Good —he said. And that single word sounded warmer than any praise.

The ride back to the mansion was quiet. The truck picked them up at the corner; Selena was driving, but she didn't ask many questions. She only looked at them through the mirror and nodded when she saw the girl fall asleep almost immediately in the back seat. Virka held her carefully so she wouldn't lean too far to one side.

The road was empty. The lights of the institute faded behind them like a constellation dimming away. Sitting in the front seat, Sebastián watched the reflection of the lights in the glass and realized it had been a long time since he'd felt something as simple as the exhaustion of a normal day. It was a clean fatigue—without blood, without guilt. Almost human.

When they reached the mansion, the gate opened with its usual metallic sound. The air in the garden still carried the fragrance of the flowers Valentina had chosen for the courtyard weeks before. Selena turned off the engine and looked over her shoulder.

—It was a good first day —she said, not expecting an answer.

Sebastián nodded. He opened the door and, gently, lifted Valentina into his arms. She was fast asleep, her head resting against his chest. From inside the backpack, Narka enveloped her with his silent presence, ensuring her sleep was not left unguarded.

Virka opened the main door and turned on the lights. The interior greeted them with the same order as always: the faint echo of the hallway, the clean wood, the stretched shadows of the paintings. Everything the same—but something had changed. The mansion no longer smelled of solitude.

Sebastián carried Valentina to her room. He laid her on her bed—the same one he had kept in his dimensional ring for weeks and that had now become her place. Virka arranged the sheets and left a lamp on. The soft glow covered the girl's face, highlighting the contrast of her heterochromatic eyes even in dreams.

—Sleep well —murmured Virka, more to herself than to her.

Sebastián watched her for a few seconds. His hands were crossed over his chest, as if forcing himself not to touch something fragile. Then he looked down at Narka, who had settled at the foot of the bed, his small body wrapped in a faint golden glow.

—Watch over her —said Sebastián.

—I already do —he replied, without moving his mouth.

They left the room without a sound. In the hallway, the light was dimmer. Virka walked a few steps ahead, her stride silent and steady. Sebastián followed.

—What do you think? —she asked.

He took his time to answer. —That today was harder than it looked. Not because of the body… but because of what it means to stay still.

Virka nodded. —Calm is another form of combat.

—I know. —Sebastián lifted his gaze toward the window in the hallway. Outside, the night was deep, and the sea barely visible.

They stayed there for a few more seconds, staring into the darkness. It was a silence different from that of the institute. This one belonged to the home—heavy but warm, filled with contained life.

—Tomorrow will be the same —said Virka, not with resignation but with quiet certainty—. But you already know it won't be.

Sebastián looked at her. In his eyes there was no exhaustion, only something calmer: acceptance.

—Yes —he replied—. Nothing stays the same once someone sleeps peacefully for the first time.

They walked to the main hall. The clock struck nine precisely. On the table lay a notebook—the one Valentina had brought from school. Sebastián picked it up and opened it: inside were the first attempts at crooked letters, scribbles barely legible but spelling her name: Valentina Solis.

Virka approached from behind. —She writes with strength.

—Yes —said Sebastián, closing the notebook—. Her hand is steady.

He set the notebook on the table. Outside, the wind blew hard, stirring the curtains. The sea couldn't be seen, but its murmur reached them. It was the same sound they had heard the first time they arrived at that house, but now it no longer spoke of escape—it spoke of staying.

Sebastián crossed his arms and looked up at the ceiling, where the light projected in circles. He thought about how much he had changed without realizing it—about what it meant to learn not to fight, but to remain.

Virka watched him without speaking. Her face, half lit, looked carved from a calm that wasn't natural, but one she had learned to hold.

—This is how true strength begins —he murmured, almost to himself.

She nodded, and for the first time in a long while, both seemed to breathe at the same rhythm.

Silence filled the mansion again, but it was no longer empty. It was a living silence, like a heart learning to beat after battle.

In the bedroom, Valentina stirred in her sleep, murmuring something indistinct. Narka lifted his head, alert, then rested it again.

Outside, the sea kept breathing against the rocks.

The night promised nothing—and for that very reason, it was perfect.

The day had ended.

And in the echo of that ending, something new began to take shape: not a destiny, nor a promise, but the quiet certainty that, at last, they belonged.

___________________________________

Author's Note

With this chapter — "The Day That Had No Name" — the Second Season of On the Path of Eternal Strength officially begins.

This moment marks a new cycle in the story of Sebastián, Virka, and Valentina: one where blood and steel remain ever-present, but now intertwine with something different… the humanity that survives among them.

This is not a rest.

It is a pause before the next strike.

The Path does not grow gentler—only deeper.

Here, the characters will learn that even amid destruction, there can exist something worth protecting.

To those who have accompanied me since the beginning, thank you for staying.

And to the new readers: welcome to the second stretch of the journey.

The Path continues—with greater strength, deeper darkness, and more purpose than ever.