On the Path of Eternal Strength.

The world opens like a frozen wound when the mist clears and reveals the Bloody Mountains.

There is no dawn: only a rusted glow, so faint it seems to seep from the stone itself. The wind does not blow, it cuts; it caresses with the indifference of a freshly sharpened blade and lingers beneath the skin, where no warmth remains to expel it.

Sebastián halts on the ridge of a rocky spur and allows the atmosphere to inventory his new flesh. The beast rises a few steps behind—arched back, stunted wings pressed to its sides—and sniffs the metallic air with reverent caution. Both watch the landscape without hurry: valleys split like throats, crests crackling with red crystals, blocks of stone seeded with horizontal stalactites. Every relief looks like the petrified memory of a cataclysm still breathing.

In silence, they understand the essential rule of this biome: everything that lives here wounds, whether by blade, by hunger, or by cold. And that certainty, instead of repelling them, calls to them like a distant drum.

They advance.

The slope yields beneath their bare feet, not with the crunch of gravel but with a hollow groan: the rock holds empty veins where rivers of lava or fossilized blood once flowed. Drops of bloody frost slip from the edges and shatter before touching the ground, scattering shards that chime like broken bells. With each step, Sebastián feels the heart of thorns adjust its cadence to the subterranean pulse: a grave, monotonous beat that heralds the first act of a relentless hunt.

—You are welcome—seems to say the mountain—so long as you know how to bite.

Without speaking, he nods.

The beast flexes its claws and, together, they plunge into the red throat that will lead them to the first kill of the day.

The throat swallows the rusted light and replaces it with a denser glow, as if the walls exhaled dead heat trapped centuries ago. The rocks no longer merely wound: their edges move, expand, contract with the mountain's breathing, like the ribs of a buried animal still dreaming of chewing living flesh.

Sebastián and the beast descend wordlessly. The air thickens with smells: not fresh, not alive. It is the scent of dried blood mixed with marrow dust, the breath of those who fell without even screaming.

The creature moves ahead a few steps. Its hum sharpens and vibrates against the walls. Sebastián understands: something approaches. Not a predator. A scavenger. A large one. One that cleans what the mountain discards.

The stones tremble under their bare feet. A wet noise surrounds them: dragging scales, jaws striking rock. Then the creature emerges: a crawling being, elongated like a bone worm, with sharp plates on its back and multiple eyes covered by black membranes. It emits no roar. It does not bellow. It only breathes.

And that breath is all it needs to announce its hunger.

Sebastián does not wait. His body reacts before thought. He leaps toward a ledge, while the beast spirals to flank. The worm charges, but lacks precision: it depends on echo, on heat. Sebastián deceives it, hurling a stone toward empty space. The predator bites air and expels a blast of acidic vapor.

Sebastián drops upon it. Not with fury, but with method. He drives his fingers between plates. The beast seizes the moment, bites the base of its segmented skull, and twists. The crack that follows is not of bone: it is of broken will.

When the creature ceases to move, there is no triumph. Only ragged breaths. Only black blood spilling onto the ground and being absorbed by the mountain, as though it were drinking to feed something deeper.

Sebastián looks at his arm: cut from wrist to elbow. The beast approaches, licks slowly. The saliva cauterizes. It hurts, but it seals.

They still do not speak. Not because they cannot. But because here, every unnecessary word can cost a tooth, or a hand, or a tongue.

They advance.

Further ahead, they find a fissure exhaling warm steam. They enter. Inside, the cavern curves downward, like the mountain's own throat. The heat is suffocating, but not searing. The stone drips mineral blood: viscous threads that descend from the ceiling and embed in the floor. Sebastián extends his palm. The blood recognizes him.

It does not burn. It does not harm. It nourishes.

The beast sits. Watches. Sebastián, instead, kneels. Drinks. One drop. Two. Three. The heart of thorns beats with a deeper thrum. A black root sprouts beneath his collarbone, advances a centimeter, halts. It does not hurt. It only grows.

He knows this land wants something from him. And that it will only take it if he breaks whatever softness remains.

At the end, a narrow corridor opens. They ready themselves.

The mountain has yet to show the worst.

And Sebastián… no longer asks what will come. He only sharpens.

Like the stone.

Like the fissure.

Like the hunger that brought him here. The narrow passage opened like a wound, and beyond, at its center, a stone chamber revealed itself. It was not wide, but it was deep. Its walls were covered with red crystals and black veins that glowed with inner light. At the center, a dark pool bubbled slowly, like a heart beating only when no one was watching.

The beast stopped at the entrance.

Sebastián mirrored it.

The place offered shelter. But it also weighed upon them.

As if something—someone—inhabited it.

Still, they entered.

They sought a high corner, far from the pool. A broken rock platform, from where they could keep watch. Sebastián marked the ground with his stained fingers: three crooked lines, crossed, repeated. They were not symbols. They were warnings.

The ground trembled before the roar.

Not a roar in the air. A roar in the rock.

As if the stone had held a scream for centuries and now exhaled it through every mineral vein of the cavern.

The central pool began to bubble, not with heat, but with breath. The black blood that filled it rose, and from its center emerged a mass of living stone, covered in cracked plates and crystalline spines. Two colossal legs anchored on the edge with a blow that shook Sebastián's body. The beast stepped back. Not from fear. From instinct.

The creature was a monstrous turtle.

Every scale was a broken slab. Its shell pierced by mineral lances, as though the biome itself had driven its legacy into its back. And at its center, a single eye: yellow, enormous, still. Sebastián felt it as a presence. As if that gaze measured his size from within, not from without.

The monster advanced, slow, but with a pressure that warped stone with every step. It did not roar. It did not shriek. It only moved. And that movement spoke:

"This is my place. And you have no right."

Sebastián did not wait.

His body already knew what to do.

The heart of thorns beat like a hollow war drum.

He lunged toward the creature's flank, seeking the joints of the shell. His bare feet struck the ground with force. The beast—his companion—ran to the opposite side, in a formation that no longer required commands. Claws scraped stone. Talons leapt.

The first strike failed.

Sebastián drove his fingers between two plates, but could not pierce through. The turtle turned with a dry bellow, and its tail—a column of bone wrapped in blade—swung with brutality. There was no time to dodge. The impact hurled him against the wall. He heard his shoulder crack.

He rolled. Fell.

He rose.

Not like a child.

Like something that refuses to break.

The beast charged. Leapt straight at the eye. A risky maneuver. But necessary. The turtle was not deceived. It sank its body into the ground, and from its mouth launched a stream of boiling blood. The liquid did not burn from heat, but from density: it seeped into pores like living mud and blocked breath.

The creature was trapped in a pool. It roared. Sebastián did not think.

He ran. Threw himself with his injured shoulder and rammed the monster's flank. He did it to distract, but felt something snap in his clavicle. Still, he endured. With his other hand, he tore a sharp stone fragment from the ground and drove it into the membrane between shell and leg.

It went in.

Not deep.

But enough to make the creature twist.

And with that movement, it freed the beast.

She rolled, drenched in enemy blood.

Sebastián fell to one knee, gasping.

There was no victory.

No rest.

Only another round.

The monster rose.

Cast its weight like a collapsing mountain upon them.

The beast bit its left leg.

Sebastián leapt onto its back.

His feet bled. His chest burned.

The thorned heart beat with unchained fury.

He struck.

Drove.

Tore.

Until his hands were flayed open.

Until blood gushed from his mouth from the effort.

And the creature, at last, roared.

A low sound. Ancient.

As if the stone itself gave it permission to scream.

It recoiled.

The eye looked at them.

It blinked. Only once.

And then… yielded.

It did not flee.

It did not die.

It withdrew.

Sank back into the pool.

But left half its body outside.

Sebastián collapsed on his back, gasping.

The beast lay down at his side.

And the monster let them be.

Not out of defeat.

Out of respect.

The ground vibrated again, but this time with another pulse.

A shared one.

The yellow eye closed.

The cavern, for the first time, felt warm.

Sebastián could not move.

His hands were broken.

His ribs cracked.

But his heart—that heart no longer entirely human—

beat with a deeper rhythm.

More savage.

He had fought.

Not won.

Not lost.

Grown.

Now they were three.

Three shadows.

Three forces.

And the biome accepted him.

Because it had seen him bleed.

And not yield.

The cavern fell silent.

The turtle slept submerged.

The beast curled against the wall, breathing deeply.

And Sebastián…

did not sleep.

The pain did not stop him.

What hurt more was something else:

doubt.

He had fought.

He had endured.

But he had not won.

It had not been enough.

Not yet.

He clenched his fists until the blood covering them began to flow again. His body felt swollen, twisted, limited.

The heart of thorns kept beating…

but for the first time, he did not feel it was enough.

He knelt in the middle of the cavern.

The turtle did not move.

The beast did not watch him.

—Draila —he whispered.

Not with a strong voice.

But with desire.

With fissure.

—If you are there… —he murmured through gritted teeth—. If you can hear me…

—Show me how to make this body… stop failing.

The air broke.

As if a membrane tore right between his thoughts.

And from the fissure, she came.

The familiar shadow.

The figure wrapped in mist and living cracks.

Draila.

She did not walk.

Did not emerge.

She simply was.

—So soon you doubt what you have gained? —her voice said, soft but without comfort.

Sebastián did not turn. He did not bow his head.

He only clenched his teeth tighter.

—I did not win —he muttered—. I survived.

But it was not enough.

—My body broke. My strength was not enough.

And this world… only respects what does not fall.

Draila did not interrupt him.

She only circled him as though the earth did not touch her.

—You are right —she said at last—.

It was not enough.

But it was real.

And that… is the foundation of every indomitable body.

Sebastián lifted his head.

For an instant, his eyes burned like wet coal.

—Then it exists? —he asked—. A way to break my limits?

Draila halted.

—There is a path —she whispered—.

The Path of the Indomitable Body.

—It is not power.

—It is fracture.

—It is not technique.

—It is the acceptance of pain as the mother of strength.

Her voice floated like blades of ancient wind.

—The indomitable body is not trained —she continued—.

It is claimed.

Through wounds. Through rejections. Through battles not won.

But that deform you.

Sebastián swallowed.

His throat burned as if the word itself had scraped him.

—Teach it to me —he asked.

Draila leaned close.

Her eyes—if they were eyes—shone with compassion without tenderness.

—Not yet.

—Not because you do not deserve it.

—But because you still expect it to be given to you.

The silence thickened like blood on stone.

—The path is not taught, Sebastián.

It is survived.

And every step… hurts more than the last.

—Do you think you failed today?

It is because you still have soft parts.

And those parts must die.

Draila faded like smoke swallowed by stone.

But before she left, her voice lingered in the air:

—Keep fighting.

Keep falling.

Keep rising broken.

And when your body no longer fears breaking…

the path will call you on its own.

Sebastián remained there.

On his knees.

Breathing as if the air cut him from within.

He received no technique.

No power.

But he received something more brutal.

A goal without shortcuts.

And in his chest, the heart of black thorns beat deeper.

Not with fury.

With direction. The mountain did not sleep. It only kept silent.

In the stone refuge, where the blood of three different creatures had mingled without war, the air smelled of dry iron. Sebastián breathed with difficulty. Not from physical damage. Not from fatigue.

But because his body no longer fully belonged to him.

The battle with the turtle had left visible marks: torn fingers, strained ribs, eyelids burning as if they had not closed in days. But the invisible—the inner fissure that would not stop opening—was what hurt most.

At his side, the beast slept curled, back to the wall. The hum it gave off was low, irregular. Still hurting. Still watching.

Further away, the turtle rested half-submerged in its pool. Only the eye remained above.

Open. Attentive.

Sebastián looked at them.

And for the first time, he did not feel that either was his enemy.

But neither his ally.

They were witnesses.

And he… still felt small.

That night he did not rest.

He rose and walked to the tunnel's entrance.

The stone was cold. But his feet did not notice.

The body responded by inertia.

But not by strength.

He knelt.

Closed his eyes.

—Draila —he whispered, not as a plea, but as a question cast into the void—. Is this all I am?

The answer did not arrive in words.

The air fractured.

The mountain barely vibrated.

And she appeared.

Not with light.

Not with shadow.

But with presence.

—Do you doubt again? —she said, without judgment.

Sebastián did not answer.

He clenched his teeth.

—You survived something others would not understand. And still you feel it is not enough.

Draila walked around him, her voice barely a whisper.

—And you are not wrong. It is not enough.

Because you still hope to grow as a human.

And that… ended here.

He lifted his gaze.

—Teach me —he said. His voice was grave, dry, as if speaking from within a cavern.

Draila stopped.

—I cannot.

I must not.

Because the Path of the Indomitable Body cannot be taught.

It is revealed.

When nothing remains to defend…

only function.

She vanished as if she had never been there.

And Sebastián understood something:

the training had already begun.

Only it had no form.

Nor structure.

Only accumulated pain.

The mountain did not creak.

Nor speak.

It only waited.

And that waiting was the signal.

Sebastián stood without his body's permission. There was no impulse. No willpower. Only a kind of inertia older than fatigue, as if the fibers of his legs remembered that yielding was worse than bleeding.

The beast stretched to his left, giving off a low hum that dragged like a claw through the marrow. The turtle had not moved from its pool, but its open eye already followed him.

The trial began in silence.

Outside the refuge, the air was dense, with the same rancid smell of rusted metal that bleeds slowly. Sebastián tied four irregular stones to his chest, sharp as mountain teeth. He used no rope. He embedded them with dry roots, braided around his torso until it hurt to breathe.

And he walked.

He climbed the nameless slope, the one that looked like the dry tongue of a dead god. The ground was dark crystal, rough, and each barefoot step peeled away skin in shreds. But he did not stop. Every twenty steps, he bent, tore a horizontal stalactite from the edge, and carried it on his back. He did not speak. He did not think. He only added weight.

When he reached the rock where he had once trained, he did not strike columns.

He struck his own limit.

He took position, body hunched, and began to smash his fists against the hardest stone of the ledge.

Not to break it.

To break himself.

Again and again.

His hands bled, then trembled, then ceased to respond.

Then he continued with his forearms.

Then with his elbows.

Afterwards, when he could no longer lift his arms, with his forehead.

Every impact left a deeper mark, but not on the stone.

On him.

The beast watched from a crag.

It did not growl.

Did not intervene.

It only memorized the rhythm.

And when Sebastián collapsed, it descended and forced him to rise again: a dry ram, a claw strike to the back, a tug on the jaw.

Not out of hatred.

Out of method.

At mid-day, they descended together.

But without rest.

The downward terrain was a slanted dagger.

And the turtle awaited them halfway, blocking the path with its immense shell.

Sebastián had to climb it.

Every day.

Without help.

Only with his hands, torn, bleeding, wrapped in roots.

He climbed to the curved summit and from there had to leap across the abyss.

He failed.

Always.

The first times.

And fell upon rocks that did not receive him.

But he tried again.

When at last he succeeded, he no longer walked.

He crawled.

Dragged himself.

And with his teeth, gathered pieces of dead beasts' bones to carry back to the refuge.

The afternoon did not mean rest.

It meant endurance.

And endurance was dance.

The beast confronted him on the margins of the abyss.

Not in clean combat.

But in constant assault.

Leaps from the flanks.

Claw strikes.

Full-body slams.

Sebastián did not block.

He lacked the strength.

He only turned, deflected, absorbed, and when he could… struck back.

A punch.

A fall.

A poorly aimed kick.

But it was a response.

When the sun died behind the mountain—that rusted glow that never gave warmth—the turtle traced symbols in the earth with its tail. Circles that turned on themselves. Open crosses. Impossible forms that Sebastián had to memorize, carve with his fingers until they bled, and then walk blind.

One round.

Two.

Three.

Each mistake brought him closer to the beast's claw, to the turtle's fang, to the abyss's edge.

But he did not retreat.

Not because he knew where he was going.

But because he no longer knew how to stop.

By the final round, the skin of his feet was dry mud.

His hands shook like broken branches.

The air did not enter, only grazed his lungs like blades.

And still, he walked.

Back to the refuge, the world seemed narrower.

The sky lower.

The rock hotter.

The silence heavier.

Sebastián sat down.

Not for rest.

Because the body had nothing left to give.

The beast curled nearby, its hum now slow, almost a chant.

The turtle, from its pool, closed its eye.

Only one.

He did not close his.

He looked at his hands.

The scars.

The new fissures.

And knew something was changing.

It was not strength.

It was not technique.

It was purpose.

The mountain had not yet acknowledged him.

But it could no longer ignore him.

Because flesh that bleeds, if it bleeds every day, ceases to be flesh.

It becomes something else.

And that something…

was being born. The days were no longer counted.

But the flesh was.

The mountain awoke him again without noise. It was enough with a vibration barely perceptible in his sternum bone. Sebastián opened his eyes, and the body responded before the will.

The refuge smelled of rusted frost and coagulated blood.

The only warmth was that retained in the muscles.

He stood.

The stones bound to his chest no longer squeezed him.

They simply were.

As if the body had understood that carrying was not punishment, but posture.

The climb began.

Each step the same as yesterday, but different.

The bare foot pressed against an edge. The skin split.

And did not bleed.

Not immediately.

The blood waited.

As if the body needed to decide whether that cut deserved attention.

Finally, it flowed. But denser. Darker.

It did not fall. It adhered.

As though weaving its own scab.

Sebastián did not stop.

He did not think.

Thought was a luxury.

Now he unfolded.

At the summit, the stone columns awaited.

Before, they had struck him back with indifference.

Today, they vibrated.

Not because they were weaker.

Because something in his knuckles had changed.

The blows were the same.

But the stone splintered sooner.

His hands bled the same.

But did not tremble afterwards.

When a nail broke, there was no immediate pain.

Only an inner heat.

As if the body itself tended to it.

As if it had learned not to inform him.

The beast watched from afar.

It did not growl.

Did not attack.

And that, in her, was respect.

The descent was just as cruel.

But the fall that always awaited him at the end of the leap… today did not catch him.

He landed poorly.

The ankle twisted.

The bone cracked.

But did not break.

And the pain rose only to the knee, then receded.

As if the flesh decided not to exaggerate.

Sebastián kept going.

He did not notice.

Or perhaps he did.

But no longer considered it strange.

In the pool of frozen blood, the turtle did not receive him.

It waited.

He entered.

The liquid rose to his chest.

And this time he did not shiver.

The cold entered…

and stayed.

Not as punishment.

As guest.

The turtle approached and instead of cutting, pressed his chest with a claw.

Right where the heart beat.

And then it happened.

Not a blow.

Not a twist.

Only a different pulse.

An inner wave, as if a muscle that had never existed had awakened.

The turtle's claw withdrew.

Left no mark.

No wound.

But Sebastián, without knowing why, felt heavier as he emerged.

As if carrying something new…

inside.

That night, the labyrinth training did not occur.

Or so he thought.

Because when he knelt to begin the blind tracing, it was already done.

The lines were there.

Drawn with precision.

And his blood, dried, covered them.

He did not remember doing it.

But recognized his fingers in every curve.

And when he touched them, something activated in his back:

a brief pull.

A pain like a thorn entering and not leaving.

There was no explanation.

No questions.

Only a mute, brutal certainty:

The body was moving ahead.

And for the first time, Sebastián did not demand it stop.

He let it.

Because he knew—without knowing how—

that it was the only way to keep breathing here.

And breathing…

no longer belonged solely to him.

The night did not fall.

It recoiled.

Like a wave that knew it could no longer drown.

The refuge was silent.

The beast slept wrapped in its own hum.

The turtle floated, motionless, as though time no longer touched it.

And Sebastián…

did not sleep.

Not from insomnia.

But because the body no longer asked for rest.

Only stillness.

Then it happened.

The air changed.

It became denser.

More… present.

A fissure in reality, small, barely a blink in the world.

And Draila formed.

She did not walk.

Did not descend.

Did not emerge.

She simply was.

Wrapped in that mist of shadow and fossil light, she approached without sound, without weight.

The eyes—those that did not shine, but looked from within—rested upon him.

—You did not stop —she said.

Her voice was not praise.

Nor judgment.

It was statement.

As one names the inevitable.

Sebastián did not rise.

Nor kneel.

He only looked at her.

As though his body no longer needed to adopt a posture to converse with the world.

—I could not —he said, toneless.

Draila tilted her head slightly.

Her lips did not move.

But the words arrived all the same.

—Do you feel pain?

—Yes —he answered.

—And do you still call it pain?

Sebastián thought.

Not with the mind.

With what remained of his human self.

—I don't know —he whispered—. But I don't want it to stop.

Draila walked in a circle around him.

Her steps did not mark the ground.

But each turn she made seemed to erase more of the past.

—Your body no longer belongs to you —she murmured—.

Not entirely.

The mountain has ceased to resist you.

And that is worse than any wound.

Sebastián lifted his gaze.

The fissure's light traced impossible lines across his skin.

Like roots vibrating beneath the flesh.

—What am I becoming? —he asked.

Draila stopped before him.

—A function —she replied—.

A fissure that does not close.

A body that does not break.

Not from power.

From purpose.

She extended her hand.

Did not touch him.

Only brought it close to the center of his chest.

—Before, this beat to live.

Now…

it beats only to advance.

Sebastián did not avert his gaze.

Nor deny.

—And if I do not want to stop being human?

Draila smiled.

Not with lips.

With voice.

—You already did.

But you do not yet know it.

The Path of the Indomitable Body does not need your decision.

Only your permanence.

She stepped back.

The air stretched like old skin.

—Tomorrow, when you bleed again…

listen.

Not to your pain.

Not to your mind.

Listen to what the flesh says without words.

And when the body acts before you think…

you will know the Path is no longer waiting.

It is using you.

Sebastián bowed his head.

Not from submission.

From weight.

The body no longer weighed more.

But neither did it float.

Draila observed in silence.

And for the first time, her words came as echo, not as teaching.

—You can still stop.

You can still try to remember your name.

But if you take one more step…

the fissure will erase it forever.

The silence that followed was not natural.

It was heavy.

As if the world held its breath before breaking.

Sebastián did not answer at once.

He only lowered his gaze.

And there, on his left wrist, it still was.

The red bracelet.

Broken. Dirty. Faded.

But intact.

He touched it with his fingers.

Not with tenderness.

With doubt.

As if needing to know whether something not physical could still hurt.

—And what if… —he said, without lifting his eyes— if I manage to keep it?

If I go on… but with the name still tied?

Draila did not move.

But the air around her tensed, as if the mountain itself awaited her reply.

—Do you think the name is a chain you can drag? —she whispered.

—Or a flame that does not go out?

He did not answer.

He gripped the bracelet tighter.

The fabric's edges cut into his hardened skin.

But did not break it.

—If the name survives —Draila continued—

then it is not yours.

It belongs to the child you were.

And he… is no longer in this body.

Sebastián lifted his head.

His eyes did not shine.

But something inside them burned.

—And if that child… does not want to leave?

A faint whisper crossed Draila's throat.

It was not mockery.

It was ancient pain.

—That child is already gone, Sebastián.

What remains is his echo.

And the echo… only endures if the fissure desires it.

A dry wind swept the refuge.

It moved nothing.

But touched everything.

—The Path of the Indomitable Body does not accept scraps —she said, lower—.

Neither memories, nor names, nor attachments.

Only function.

Flesh that acts.

Spirit that bends.

Sebastián breathed.

Deeply.

As if needing the air to push down what he did not want to release.

—Then, if I keep this… —he said, raising the wrist with the bracelet—

will I be weak?

Draila approached.

This time she did touch him.

She placed her open hand on his sternum.

Right where the heart of thorns beat.

—You will not be weak.

But neither complete.

—And if I accept everything? —he asked—. If I let the name be lost?

—Then, Sebastián…

you will no longer be a being.

You will be a weapon.

A walking fissure.

A body that does not negotiate.

Silence.

The beast stirred in dreams.

The turtle blinked.

As if they had heard.

—Then tell me, Draila…

What am I now?

The figure did not smile.

But her tone deepened.

—You are what remains when pain no longer frightens…

and memory no longer serves.

—And if I cross that limit, will I still feel?

—You will feel.

But you will no longer know why.

Sebastián closed his eyes.

His fingers caressed the frayed cloth of the bracelet.

And for the first time, they did not tremble.

—I have not let it go yet —he said.

—You do not need to yet —Draila replied.

—When will I know it is time?

She stepped back.

—When the body acts…

and you are no longer part of the decision.

Sebastián lowered his head.

The bracelet tightened.

The heart of thorns beat, heavy.

And the fissure did not close.

But neither did it demand yet. Sebastián remained crouched before the fire that did not burn.

The bracelet was still on his wrist.

The heart beat.

But now, something beneath his sternum throbbed with another rhythm.

Draila had not left.

Not completely.

Her form lingered, motionless.

Like an unmoving root breathing from another plane.

Sebastián lifted his gaze.

His eyes were not red, nor clouded, nor broken.

They were clear.

As though, at last, they saw the void without fear.

—And if I do not want to be a weapon? —he asked.

Draila did not answer immediately.

She walked, slow, leaving no trace.

Then she spoke.

—Then do not be one.

No one demands it.

—And if I do not want to be a child either?

—You must not be.

Silence.

—And if I want… —his voice trembled, but did not retreat— …to keep calling myself Sebastián?

But not as before?

The figure halted.

—As what, then?

He touched the bracelet.

And did not grip it.

He caressed it.

—As what will come.

As what follows after the breaking.

A name that no longer protects the child.

But names what survived.

Draila nodded.

And for the first time, crouched before him.

Her eyes—those two opaque eclipses—pierced through him.

—Then do not lose it.

Fuse it.

Let the Sebastián you were…

die.

But let from his remains a new one be born.

—The same name?

—Yes —she replied—.

But it will not be spoken the same.

—Why?

Draila smiled, faintly.

—Because it will no longer be carried by you.

It will be carried by the Path.

Sebastián bowed his head.

The bracelet loosened softly.

Did not fall.

He held it in his hands.

—And if I leave it here?

—Then, when you cross the next fissure, no one will be able to call you.

And you… will never return if you are lost.

Sebastián thought.

But not with doubt.

With memory.

Then he tied it again.

But this time to his ankle.

And hid it with mud and dried blood.

—Let it stay there —he said—.

To remind me it is no longer a shield.

Only… the scar with which I walked this far.

Draila straightened.

—Then you are ready.

—For what?

—To name yourself…

not from fear.

But from the fissure.

Sebastián closed his eyes.

Breathed.

And inside—deep inside—something rose.

An echo.

A roar still without form.

But with a name.

The same.

And not the same.

Sebastián.

The fissure vibrated.

The mountain fell silent.

And Draila disappeared without farewell.

Because she no longer needed to guide him.

The Path recognized him.

And awaited him standing.

The mountain did not wake.

It waited.

The dawn did not come.

Only a rusted light hanging over the cliff like a taut steel thread.

Sebastián rose before the others.

Neither the beast nor the turtle had moved.

But they felt it.

The air had changed.

Not dense.

Expectant.

The rock he dragged did not weigh.

Not because it had grown lighter.

Because he no longer felt it as burden.

The muscles did not hurt.

The tendons no longer screamed.

They only responded.

The ascent unfolded without pause.

Each stride a word written in stone.

Each leap, a denial of exhaustion.

Today there was no roar of the beast.

Nor guidance from the turtle.

Today there was something else.

He felt it halfway through.

A sound.

Like old bones breaking.

From inside the mountain.

Not threat.

Calling.

Above, the columns were gone.

Where once he had struck until he bled, there was now a hollow.

An altar of stone.

Dark.

Vibrant.

At its center…

a figure.

Not alive.

Not dead.

A body.

His.

Or what had once been.

Sebastián approached.

The heart beat.

The thorns vibrated.

The figure had his size.

His shape.

His face.

But without fissure.

Without wear.

A Sebastián that had never stepped into the forest.

Nor the roots.

Nor the blood.

Nor the loss.

An illusion, yes.

But perfect.

And then, without warning, it opened its eyes.

The battle did not begin with a shout.

Nor with a blow.

It began inside.

Sebastián's body refused to move.

The pain returned.

As if every wound had reopened again from within.

The illusion attacked him.

Seized him by the neck.

Hurled him against the rock.

And the body did not respond.

For the first time in weeks, he felt fragility.

Not from weakness.

From memory.

The illusion struck him.

Once.

Again.

Again.

And each blow returned him to childhood.

Fear.

Desperation.

The unanswered question.

"Who are you now?"

It did not speak with voice.

It screamed it through contact.

Sebastián bled.

And fell.

And for an instant… he doubted.

Only one.

But then, at the edge of collapse,

he saw the bracelet.

Still tied to his ankle.

Still stained.

Not as symbol.

As root.

And he grabbed it.

Not to cling to it.

But to release it.

With his teeth, he tore it off.

And hurled it.

The illusion froze.

As though it had been struck.

Then Sebastián rose.

Not as before.

Not with rage.

Not with fury.

With certainty.

The body was no longer his.

It was the Path's.

And in a single movement—clean, raw, absolute—

he seized the neck of his other self.

Slammed it against the altar.

And devoured it.

Not flesh.

Not bone.

Function.

He absorbed it as if claiming it.

And when it was done…

nothing remained.

Only him.

Standing.

Covered in blood.

With the thorns beating to the rhythm of the world.

The beast climbed.

The turtle emerged.

They surrounded him.

Sniffed him.

And recognized him.

Not as Sebastián.

Not as human.

Not as creature.

As what had been born:

He who broke the body to write a new one.

He who no longer fears his function.

He who walks the Path of the Indomitable Body.

Sebastián exhaled.

And the air curved around him.

Did not brush him.

Avoided him.

Because now, even the world,

recognized what he was:

A fissure clothed in flesh.

A name no longer belonging to a child.

A being that bleeds by choice.

And so, the training ended.

Not with applause.

Not with glory.

With silence.

Because those who truly change…

the world first fears them.

And then

follows them.

The mountain kept silent.

Not from calm.

From respect.

Blood still dripped from his brow.

Breath was heavy, but not tired.

Every fiber of his body had stopped asking permission.

Now they acted.

From the altar, where he had devoured his reflection, nothing remained.

Only a warm emptiness.

As if the world had witnessed a birth… and feared to name it wrongly.

Sebastián lowered his head.

His chest heaved to the rhythm of something that was no longer heartbeat.

It was latency.

And then he saw it.

There, among the rocky fissures…

the red bracelet.

It did not wave.

Did not shine.

Did not call him.

It only was.

Like a witness.

Like a remnant of the child who had brought him here.

Sebastián approached.

Not in haste.

With recognition.

He bent down.

Took it.

It was hard. Encrusted. Stained with old blood.

He held it in his fist for a few seconds.

He could leave it.

Could drop it.

Could bury it like one buries symbols that no longer serve.

But he did not.

Instead…

he cleaned it.

With his fingers, removed the dried blood.

With his palm, smoothed it.

With his forehead, measured it.

And then, tied it to his left bicep.

Firm.

Tight.

Visible.

Like a scar carried not from weakness,

but because it is the map of the path that no longer needs to be walked.

He said nothing.

He did not need to.

The beast, from below, looked at him.

Her hum changed tone, barely.

As if she understood.

The turtle inclined its head.

The yellow eye flickered.

Not in disapproval.

In memory.

Sebastián stepped forward.

And the mountain did not respond.

Because now, the child he was…

the human who bled…

the fissure that learned to walk…

were one.

Not a name.

Not a role.

A living truth.

And upon the muscle, the red bracelet was no adornment.

It was witness.

It was vow.

"I have not forgotten who bled so I could be born."

And with that, he took the first step toward what was to come.

But did not keep walking.

Not yet.

He stood upon the rock, gaze fixed on the Bloody Mountains that had seen him break, twist, burn,

and return.

The air had changed.

No longer weighed.

It curved.

Touched him with the slowness reserved for what is not understood.

As if the mountain, for an instant, did not know whether to fear him… or follow him.

Behind him, the beast and the turtle kept silent.

Not as sentinels.

As witnesses.

Sebastián's body did not ask for rest.

Nor food.

Only watched.

The breath did not quicken.

Only burned within.

Because beyond the abyss stretching before him now—a stone throat covered in black stakes like misplaced bones—

there was something else.

Something that does not train.

Something that does not teach.

Something that waits.

And at that edge, while his shadow stretched toward the next act,

Sebastián did not smile.

Did not doubt.

Did not tremble.

He only remained.

Like one who knows there is no return.

Only function.

And the world, which once sought to erase him,

now prepared to receive him. The descent was slow.

Not from exhaustion.

From respect.

Each stone he touched seemed to record his step.

It did not vibrate.

Did not break.

It only memorized him.

The beast followed, without a single hum.

The turtle crawled behind, leaving a trail of thick liquid that no longer seemed like blood… but memory.

When they reached the refuge, there were no words.

Only a new warmth in the air.

Dense.

Silent.

Sebastián sat down.

Not in his usual corner.

In the center.

The refuge burned with a low fire, as though the flame feared the silence surrounding it. The mountain, now still after the last ordeal, neither roared nor groaned. It only watched through its open fissures. Sebastián sat beside the fire, arms crossed over his knees, chest still marked by the dried blood of his last training. The beast dozed at his right. The turtle, submerged in its thick pool, revealed only its eye, fixed on him. Everything was contained.

Then, Draila's presence emerged without sound. It was not an appearance. It was confirmation. She had always been there.

—Now you can understand it —she said. Her voice was direct, without detours or solemnity.

Sebastián raised his gaze. His face held no fear, but contained tension. The fire barely lit the hardened contours of his flesh.

—The Path of the Indomitable Body —Draila began— is not like the other ways. It does not cultivate Qi, nor mana, nor aura. You do not meditate. You do not channel. You only survive… and change.

Sebastián frowned.

—What is that? Qi? Mana? Aura?

Draila sat before him.

—They are the three common forms of energy in this world —she explained—. Qi is vital energy, used by cultivators. Mana is magical energy, used by mages. And aura is pure inner force, used by warriors and physical fighters. Each channels that energy to grow, strengthen the body, or invoke abilities.

—But I… I use none? —asked Sebastián.

—You do not channel them. You consume them. Your body does not accept them as fluid: it chews them, breaks them, and turns them into flesh, muscle, and pressure. That is why your path is unique.

Draila raised a hand.

—You are not a cultivator, nor a mage, nor a warrior. You are construction. Each level of your path is a mutation. And it all begins when the body refuses to die weak.

—Tell me everything —Sebastián said.

—Ten levels. Each more brutal than the last:

Flesh that Hurts: Your muscles are reinforced through trauma. Your nerves stop screaming. You can move with broken bones, keep fighting with open cuts. Pain is no longer a barrier. It is proof you are alive.

Iron Blood: Your blood thickens. It coagulates almost instantly. You no longer bleed long. Minor toxins do not enter. Infections do not prosper. You can open a wound, close it without stitching, and keep walking.

Bones of Ruin: Your bones densify. Each time they break and heal, they grow stronger. Your marrow produces blood at accelerated rates. They no longer fracture easily. You can fall from heights and rise. Slowly, but intact.

Skin of Punishment: Your skin thickens, both sensitive and protective. You can touch fire for seconds. Resist cuts, discharges, extreme climates. You feel danger before it arrives.

Viscous Muscle: Your muscles work on their own. They can contract without conscious nerve signals. You can remain standing while unconscious, execute combat movements without preparation. Your body becomes more compact, dense, without unnecessary fat. You can hold a creature twice your size and force its joints with precision. Your blows can pierce solid wood or fracture stone without structural damage. If you absorb an impact with your whole body, the shockwave can break enemy bones without direct contact. You are not only strong: you are density in motion, strength composed of concentrated mass and inhuman precision.

—Here you are now —Draila added—. You have crossed the frontier between reactive body and autonomous body. You do not only strike harder. You move without pause, and your entire being seeks survival even without your active mind. Your strength is no longer that of a child. Nor even of a trained man. It is that of something rebuilt to survive in a world that only respects what resists. Comparisons to cultivators or warriors are obsolete. You are already beyond their beginning.

Heart of Combat: Blood is generated throughout the body. You can survive without a heart for minutes. Pressure is regulated as weapon: expelling poison, sealing wounds by force. Your body becomes generator.

Savage Reflex: Your body acts without thought. You can dodge while asleep. Attack unconscious. Poisons that paralyze no longer work. Your nervous system decentralizes. If your spine is cut, you keep fighting.

Living Battle Body: Your flesh remembers pain. It adapts. If a technique wounds you, your body adjusts tension, angle, resistance. Every cell is memory.

Indomitable Constitution: You no longer die from conventional wounds. You can lose an arm, and remain stable. Your blood finds new routes. Your body redistributes functions. You do not collapse. Never immediately.

Root of Eternal Flesh: Your body rebuilds what it loses. It no longer needs fixed organs. If you lose lungs, you breathe through the skin. If your heart bursts, pressure replaces it. Your blood acts as living tissue. And you… cease to be human.

Sebastián swallowed.

—How does that translate into me? What can I do now?

—Strength: you can fracture solid rock without recoil. Your blows pierce structures designed to contain energy.

Speed: no longer human displacement. Only instant traction. You can move from one point to another in straight line over cutting surfaces.

Endurance: you can withstand impacts from larger creatures without critical damage. Survive falls that kill ordinary bodies.

Reflexes: you react before the environment completes. You dodge with movements even you do not understand.

Regeneration: grave cuts scar in less than half an hour. Muscles suture during movement.

Autonomy: you can fight even unconscious. Your body remembers how.

Agility: you no longer need visual balance. You can run backward across a rope, or spin in narrow spaces with perfect momentum.

Metabolism: your body no longer needs food or rest in the conventional sense. What you ingest becomes adaptation, not merely energy.

—And if I try to go back?

Draila shook her head gently.

—Then you will lose the body you have built. And you will be someone without name, without function.

—And if I keep my name? —Sebastián looked at his red bracelet.

—Then you will remember. But you will no longer live by it. The past is your root. Not your form.

Draila rose.

—Your path… does not seek transcendence.

It seeks to impose itself.

Your form is human.

But your body…

is not anymore.

And the fire, without crackling, burned as if it knew it was no longer warming a child.

It was witnessing… the fissure made flesh.

The flame of the refuge crackled slowly, as though it too needed to heal.

Silence was no longer tension. It was postwar. The mountain did not roar. It only contained, as if respecting what had been forged in its entrails.

Sebastián sat before the fire. His body did not tremble, but neither was it calm. He felt the heart of thorns beat with a new cadence. It did not seek rest. Only permanence. There were no thoughts. Only a deep presence, rooted in every joint, in every rebuilt fiber.

The beast was at his side. Not asleep. Only watching.

The turtle remained in its pool, unmoving, but its eye never left him. That eye was not only attention. It was judgment, waiting… and something more.

Sebastián stood, unhurried. The fire did not call to him. It dismissed him.

He walked to the pool's edge. Stopped a step away from the turtle. For long seconds, he said nothing.

Silence weighed more than words.

—You could have killed me —he said, low, rough, as if speaking to the mountain itself—. And you did not.

The eye did not blink.

—You fought me. Wounded me. Marked me. But you also taught me.

The turtle barely rose. Its body, still soaked, released steam at contact with the frozen air.

—I do not ask obedience —Sebastián continued—. I do not want to drag you. But… if there is something in you that also chose to survive outside the mold…

He stepped closer.

—Then walk with me.

There was a tremor under his feet. Not from the earth. From the waters of the pool.

The turtle raised its head. The frost on its shell cracked in fine lines. Then, it advanced. Not swiftly, but with decision. Step by step, it left its pool of blood and placed itself beside the beast.

The three looked at each other. No one gave an order. No one nodded.

But something was sealed.

Sebastián turned to the fissure opening between the rocks. The red bracelet tightened on his bicep firmly. Not as memory. As vow.

—Then let's go —he murmured.

And the mountain… did not oppose.

The stones did not break. The roots did not close. The wind did not push them.

It only let them pass.

Because what left the refuge was no longer a child, nor a guest, nor a solitary fissure.

It was a new cell of the world.

And the world, for the first time, opened a path to see whether it could devour them… or be devoured.

END OF CHAPTER 6