Dawn arrived without asking permission, without announcing itself. It slipped in the way things do when they don't need to be seen to exist. Outside, the sky still showed no signs of light, but inside the Institute the night had begun to thin. The temperature descended slowly, as if the world remembered it had to become real again.

In a corner where the windows reached the floor and the silence was denser, Sebastián and Virka remained seated. They did not speak. They did not sleep. Their bodies were shadows that had learned to exist without stealing space from their surroundings. Beside them, Valentina still slept with light, almost childlike breathing, wrapped in the same blanket she had been covered with hours before. Her face, under the bluish light dripping from the wall sensors, looked younger, cleaner than what the past had left in her.

Narka remained in the backpack, unmoving. But his open eyes were conscious witnesses. From his dark corner, he felt the vibration of every pulse, the contained balance in the scene. There was no urgency. No interruptions. Only that precarious calm that appears when three presences, marked by different worlds, find a single heartbeat in common.

Sebastián looked toward the glass. The campus lights flickered far away, as if they were stars imprisoned in metal structures. His eyes, eternally open, did not search. They only registered. His body was not tense, but neither did it rest. As if something in him knew that true calm is only allowed for moments, and this one was about to end.

Virka stayed beside Valentina. One knee raised, arms crossed over her leg, head tilted toward the girl. She observed her sleep like someone observing a flower in an environment too sterile. Not with explicit tenderness, but with that kind of attention reserved for what cannot be repeated. Her hair fell like ink over her shoulders, and her breathing barely moved the fabric of the gray shirt covering her torso. She didn't need to speak. She was. And that was enough.

The girl moved once, turning slightly in search of warmth. Sebastián lowered his gaze. Virka covered her better. Neither broke the silence. But something invisible was agreed upon among them.

It was time to let her rest in her space.

Without needing words, they stood up. Sebastián lifted Valentina with an ease that did not diminish the care. The child's body barely curved in his arms. Narka did not protest from the backpack, only contracted his energy so as not to disturb her. The air around them became more contained. More attentive.

The Institute's hallways were still in shadow. As they walked, the lights turned on with a warm glow, as if they recognized them. No footsteps were heard, nor voices. Only the faint murmur of internal systems breathing, the eternal whisper of a place that simulates calm through mechanisms.

They arrived at the children's wing. The doors opened without a sound. Inside, everything was still asleep. The walls with constellations and animal shapes remained painted in their pale colors, and the small furniture held the memory of recent laughter. The room was empty, but not abandoned.

Sebastián crouched down and placed Valentina on her bed. The blanket didn't slip. Her face turned to one side, and the light from the nearby panel gave her a contour of unreality. Her breathing remained steady.

Virka knelt beside her. She didn't touch her face. She only observed it. Then, with a softness so precise it seemed ritual, she lowered her face and kissed her forehead. It was a gesture without possession, without drama, without the need for witnesses. Sebastián watched her in silence. Then he approached as well. He kissed the same forehead in the same place, as if sealing a promise that needed no name. As if both had understood that there was no turning back.

The backpack lay to the side. Sebastián opened it and, without moving more than necessary, looked inside. Narka looked back at him. Golden eyes, unmoving, eternal.

—Stay with her —he said. It wasn't an order. It was a shared decision.

Narka did not respond. But his body vibrated once. An acceptance that required nothing more. Virka approached and also stopped before the creature. She looked at him the way one looks at an invisible guardian. She nodded without a smile. Then she closed the backpack and set it beside Valentina.

She did not wake.

Sebastián straightened up. Virka followed him. For a few more seconds, they both observed the scene: a sleeping girl, a silent creature protecting her, and a room without wounds.

Without a word, they left.

The hallway was a little brighter. The lights, once timid, were now more stable. From the ceiling, a muted announcement echoed in the distance: a tone before the morning message. The Institute was beginning to move. Slowly. Like a huge animal stretching its limbs before returning to existence.

They walked together toward their dorms. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. The silence between them was different. It was no longer distance. It was unspoken belonging. The automatic doors responded with obedience. The air smelled of recent cleaning, of warm metal, of machines preparing to open their eyes.

When they reached the fork that separated their rooms, they stopped. For a moment, they only looked at each other. Sebastián lowered his head by the smallest fraction. Virka held him with her gaze. Then, without saying anything, each continued on their way. The scene needed no farewell. Only the certainty that they would meet again at the next point.

Behind them, in the children's wing, Valentina still slept. And inside the backpack, Narka kept his eyes open, making no sound, not disturbing the air. But his whole being was attentive.

Morning was preparing to be born.

And in that instant before the light, in that crack between sleep and duty, something had already been affirmed.

It was not about the day that would come.

It was about what they had protected while no one was watching.

Morning did not begin with light. It began with a sound.

A soft, neutral, perfectly measured tone traveled through the Institute's ducts like an artificial breeze. From the speakers integrated into each wing, a female voice —identical in every building— unfolded with its modulated precision:

—Good morning, students.

Saturday's schedule has begun.

Breakfast will be served in the assigned dining halls starting at six thirty.

Access to the reinforcement classrooms will begin at seven sharp.

The message repeated once. Then, the silence unraveled.

The lights, programmed with flawless logic, reached their daytime brightness. The internal doors activated. The cleaning systems abandoned night mode. The Institute began to beat again like the functional machinery it was. The world, within its walls, began to move with the invisible choreography that sustained its order.

In the upper-level dormitories, personal alarms vibrated discreetly. There were no shouts or bells. Every student knew what to do, when, and how. Beds emptied in sequence; showers activated; uniforms adjusted over bodies already trained not to waste time.

Sebastián opened his eyes before the voice finished. He was already sitting. His room, minimal and precise, smelled of tempered metal and ozone. He dressed without hurry. Each piece of the uniform fit over his body with the perfection of the inevitable. He did not think. He only moved. His face held no expression, but something in his movements spoke of a clear center, of a decision already made.

In the adjoining room, Virka rose from the floor. She had slept without a bed, without needing comfort. She ran a hand through her hair, tied it into a dark loop that fell down her back. Her uniform was folded beside the panel, and her fingers lifted it as if they remembered its shape without needing to look at it.

They stepped out almost at the same time. They hadn't met yet, but their steps advanced toward the same point.

In the hallway, other students were already walking toward the general dining hall. They did not speak. Some checked portable devices with the day's schedule. Others simply followed the guiding floor lines, lit in blue. It was a line without lines, an order without shouting. The training was no longer visible: it had become habit.

When Sebastián turned the corridor, Virka saw him. They said nothing. They placed themselves side by side, synchronized without the need for intention. They walked among the others. They did not stand out by appearance, but their presence created a natural distance. It was a difference without explanation: something in the way they stepped, in how they looked, in what they did not show.

The main cafeteria was at the end of the north wing. A wide space, with high ceilings and thin columns supporting the upper solar panels. The tables were long, gray, with fixed benches. Each food tray was assigned by section, without choice, without room for indecision. Breakfast was not a social act. It was functional.

Sebastián took his tray without disrupting the flow. Virka behind him. They sat at the table assigned to them. Around them, other groups were already consuming their food in contained silence. No one spoke loudly. No one laughed. It was a scene without chaos, without disorder, without spontaneity. Perfect efficiency.

And then, from the east wing, they arrived.

The primary-level students.

They came in a single line, guided by a tall instructor dressed in softer colors but with the same firmness. She did not use a metallic voice or harsh gestures. She walked with a fluid step at the front of the children. And the children —few, organized in their own way— followed her.

They were singing.

It was a simple, repetitive song, but not ridiculous. It had that rhythm that lodges itself in the memory and, without knowing how, generates cohesion. The lead voice was childish but firm, as if they had rehearsed every word with the same care one uses when putting on a uniform.

—Clear breakfast, mind that learns.

Bread that nourishes, day that ignites.

One breathes, one extends…

The day begins, no one loses it.

Valentina was in the center of the line. She carried her backpack with both hands, as always. But something in her posture had changed. Her back was straight. Her steps firm. She no longer looked at the floor, nor at the instructor, nor to the sides. She walked naturally. Like someone who belongs. Like someone who no longer fears making a mistake by existing.

Narka followed inside the backpack. Still, wrapped in his shell of silence. But his eyes were open, attentive, recording every movement. There was no need for alertness. No threat. But his mere presence was a reminder that nothing that seemed fragile was truly alone.

The line crossed the middle of the children's cafeteria, separated by design from the main cafeteria but visible from certain angles. Sebastián, sitting at his table, turned his head just slightly. He saw her.

There was no gesture. No smile.

Only a register. An acceptance. A recognition.

Virka looked as well. Her face did not change, but her posture relaxed by the smallest fraction. As if something she hadn't even known was tense had received a signal of balance.

The song ended just as the children settled. The instructor gave them directions in a low voice, and the trays were handed out by programmed assistants. The food was different, more colorful, less functional. But even in them, the way of eating followed an internal rhythm, an effortless organization.

At her table, Valentina opened her tray. She looked at the juice, the bread, the fruit. She did not hesitate. She began to eat. She was hungry, but she did not devour. She had learned that in that place, things weren't meant for survival, but for lasting.

The entire cafeteria vibrated with an unconscious choreography. Adults, children, assistants, sensors. Everything responded to an idea of order that didn't need to be imposed. The Institute was a structure of many layers, many ages, many ways of understanding the day. But that morning, under the stable lights and the measured echo of the systems, they all shared something simple: the act of beginning.

A new tone, sharper but just as contained, traveled through the sterile air of the Institute. It filtered through the vents, descended from the ceiling sensors, crossed without friction between the tables. It was the signal bodies had already learned to obey without thinking.

—Attention, upper-level students.

The reinforcement schedule will begin in twenty minutes.

You may proceed to your registration points.

Please finish your breakfast and follow the assigned routes.

The message faded without ceremony. There was no music. No pause. Only the usual silence taking its shape again after the announcement, as if the building exhaled once more after speaking.

Sebastián lifted his gaze. His crimson eyes showed no reaction, but his body was already moving. He set the utensils on the tray, still with food on it. It was not an act of rebellion nor urgency. He simply did not need more. He stood up, moving with the same precision with which a machine breathes after forgetting why it was created.

Virka followed a second later. They did not look at each other. They did not exchange words. Both carried their trays to the waste zone, placed them into the automated slot, and left the cafeteria without disrupting the order.

As they crossed the hallway toward the exit, Sebastián briefly turned his head. Not out of habit, but from a contained impulse. In the children's cafeteria, separated by a designed barrier, the children were still eating. Voices were softer. Some laughed. Others simply listened.

And there she was.

Valentina, sitting at a side table, was chewing enthusiastically on a sliced fruit. Her cheeks had color. Her posture was different. Looser. More her own. The backpack remained at her side, steady, like a sleeping animal that barely breathes.

Inside, Narka opened his eyes.

The vibration was minimal. A soundless heartbeat. But enough. Valentina froze mid-bite. Lowered the fruit, lifted her gaze, and saw them. Sebastián standing by the door, expressionless. Virka a few steps behind, arms crossed.

They said nothing. They made no signal.

But she understood.

She smiled. Not with euphoria, but with the clarity of someone who recognizes a real farewell. She raised her hand, unhurried. A simple, firm movement. A response. Then she returned to her food.

Sebastián and Virka continued on their way.

The main hallway of the middle level was more illuminated now. The route to the modules was clear, but not immediate. Some students were already heading toward their destinations. Others were still crossing between wings, checking IDs or whispering about the day ahead.

It was then that they saw it.

On one side of the hallway, fitted against the wall, an institutional assistance robot activated its screen upon detecting human proximity. It stood a little over one meter seventy. It had a humanoid but schematic shape, with arms folded over a digital terminal integrated into its torso. Its metallic surface reflected the ceiling's cold lights with a faint bluish flicker.

—Welcome —it said, with a courteous synthetic voice—. May I assist you with your transit?

There was no hostility nor warmth. Just a polite functionality designed to be obeyed without resistance.

Sebastián stopped before the console. He inserted his ID. A dry sound confirmed the registration. The panel displayed his identification along with the available itinerary. Virka did the same, without hurry.

—We're looking for the reinforcement class with Rakzar —said Sebastián. It was not a question. It was a statement of purpose.

The robot processed the data. Its eyes, two round lenses without eyelids, blinked in sequence.

—Class registered. Instructor: Rakzar.

Location: external training field.

Level C-Delta.

Initiating assisted route.

A red line of light turned on beneath their feet. From the edge of the terminal, an arrow began to project across the floor, advancing like a directed wave toward the end of the hallway. Each second, new sections lit up, guiding the path as if the building were revealing an inner vein.

—Follow the arrows —said the robot—. The directions will update automatically.

Virka had already begun walking. Sebastián followed her without looking back. Neither thanked. Neither hesitated. The sound of their steps matched the pulse of the light beneath them. A choreography without music, designed by an architecture that never sleeps.

The Institute did not observe them. Did not question them. It only directed them.

They walked without resistance. Not out of submission, but because they had chosen the path beforehand.

The name Rakzar floated like a looming shadow.

But for now, they only walked.

And in the silence of the hallway, the future breathed closer.

The arrows continued pulsing along the floor, as if breathing with their own rhythm. Each line of light advanced a fraction more whenever Sebastián's and Virka's steps touched the previous segment. There was no sound indicating the change, but the hallway enveloped them with an attentive silence, as if the Institute itself were escorting them toward a place not everyone deserved to see.

They passed two intersections, a sealed gate, an optical scanner that asked for no credentials, and finally arrived at a glass tunnel. The air changed density. The environment grew colder. More real. Through the transparent panels, the outside world unfolded as gray sky and raging sea. The dense clouds, like suspended iron, hid the sun. Below, waves crashed against a base of dark metal that stretched toward the horizon.

The hallway ended in a platform: wide, circular, reinforced by hydraulic structures that sank directly into the ocean. There were no walls. No ceilings. Only sky, sea… and the field.

The training circuit lay before them like a living spiral, a ring that mutated with each pulse of internal energy. Moving walls rotated slowly along its perimeter, covered in sensors. Hidden traps emerged from invisible slits. Telescopic towers rose and retracted with no apparent pattern. Floating platforms drifted like leaves in a poisoned river. Everything was designed to move, to fail if one hesitated, to punish the smallest mistake.

The "Ring."

And they were no longer alone.

Ten figures waited at the edge of the field. None of them spoke. None moved without necessity. All wore dark uniforms adapted for extreme weather. Most had their hair tied back, straightened by humidity. Dark tones: blacks, deep browns, only one or two with more defined colors.

One of them, however, stood out without effort.

A young woman of medium height, firm posture and piercing gaze. Her fire-red hair fell like a cascade down to her waist, straight but full of natural volume, as if the wind itself refused to mess it up. Her skin was white, smooth, like someone who has never been touched by the dirt of the world. Her eyes, golden, like ancient embers that needed no further igniting to make their power clear. Defined lips, sharp features. She did not smile. She did not challenge. She simply was. But that alone was enough to impose presence.

A few steps from her, a more relaxed figure contrasted with the surroundings.

A young man with long dark-brown hair, tied in a high bun with careless lightness. His face was young, perhaps seventeen years old, without beard or battle marks. His fair skin stood out beneath the dull sky. His tall, slender body did not seem tense, but his posture was not unprotected. Crouched near a circuit hatch, he observed one of the traps with the expression of someone trying to guess whether it was a real threat… or a bad joke. His lips murmured something, almost a private narration, as if he were recounting the scene quietly to himself. His gaze held a particular gleam: not of mockery, but of lucidity disguised as humor. A spark that was not shown out of arrogance, but out of nature.

The wind struck the platform with a brief roar. None of those present moved. But when Sebastián and Virka crossed the metal threshold, all eyes turned.

Some merely observed. Others measured.

The golden eyes rose.

The barely perceptible smile of the crouched young man widened with a conspiratorial gesture, as if he had guessed that the story had just begun.

And then, on the other side of the field, a different figure walked to the edge of the Ring.

He was not one of them.

He was the instructor.

Brown skin. Dense, functional body, as if every muscle were made to resist and destroy in equal measure. He was not bulky for aesthetics, but for purpose. He wore dark training clothes, fitted to his torso, with a black cap that covered part of his face. He walked with the ease of someone who dominates the terrain. In one hand he carried a tablet of dark metal. In the other, a rolled towel as if he had just finished his own training session.

He did not speak yet.

He only observed them.

And in that silence, the air grew heavier.

As if even the sea were holding its breath.

The wind had not yet decided whether to blow with fury or remain contained. At the edge of the platform, the last strands of moisture clung to the steel as if they did not know the day had already begun. The Ring field, motionless in appearance, pulsed with an energy that did not belong to the present. And there, between the murmur of the sea and the faint creaking of dormant mechanisms, the instructor took a step forward.

His boots resonated with gravity. It was not the sound of someone seeking attention. It was the echo of an authority that does not need to announce itself. The dark eyes beneath the black visor examined the newcomers like someone observing not rivals, but new variables in an equation repeated a thousand times. His body, tense without stiffness, stopped right in front of Sebastián and Virka.

—Why did you decide to participate in Rakzar? —he asked without raising his voice.

The question floated without adornment, without irony, without apparent interest. But in the tone there was a barely perceptible vibration, as if what was being measured was not the answer… but the pulse when giving it.

—To try new things —both said.

The synchrony was not planned. It was natural. As if the shared thought had arisen not from agreement, but from a common origin. The instructor looked at them one second longer. Then he sighed. It was not a gesture of disappointment, but of calm resignation.

—Do you know what Rakzar is?

—No —they answered in unison.

Silence rearranged itself like a heavy cloth. The instructor nodded slightly. Then he turned to the entire group. His voice rose a little, not by force, but by design. The wind receded. The platforms stopped creaking. And then it began.

—Before we start —he said—, you all need to understand what you are about to enter.

He stopped at the center of the platform. His presence filled the space without demanding it. The students —all of them, even those who already knew the circuit— straightened with an attention that did not come from respect, but from the memory of pain.

—Rakzar —he pronounced—. Also known as the Core Run… or the Frontier of Instinct.

The phrase seemed to resonate beyond the air. As if the name was not a word, but a collective scar.

—It was born as a training simulation for close-combat soldiers in hostile environments. Created by technological consortia, not by athletes. It was a testing mechanism. A filter for bodies that intended to survive beyond the human.

He stopped, turned his face toward the Ring.

—But the world is addicted to spectacle. And Rakzar had blood, tension, aesthetics. The power houses turned it into a sport. They sold it as a ritual of valor, packaged it as entertainment. But it remains what it was: an artifact of pure violence disguised as competition.

The instructor's eyes sharpened. Not out of anger. Out of memory.

—Here, each player runs in a lethal circuit. The Ring changes. Always. Every lap is different. Every section breathes. The ground opens. The towers fall. The sensors activate traps that do not wait for you. And you… —he looked directly at Sebastián— have only one task: reach the end with your core intact.

He paused. Then continued.

—That core is not decorative. It is the only thing between you… and death.

Those present did not speak. No one breathed more than necessary.

—That's why the Safeguard Core exists. Also called the Vital Ejection Protocol. Or, if you prefer, the Final Dome. Some call it "Broken Being." Because that is what remains of you when it activates.

He turned slowly on his heels. Each word was a well-closed wound.

—The system does not prevent you from losing an arm. It doesn't stop your back from breaking. It doesn't stop burns. Or fractures. Or pain. It only acts… when you are about to die.

A mechanical hum was heard in the distance. No one looked.

—When that happens, an energy capsule surrounds your body. It expels you with an electromagnetic wave. The body survives. But the dignity… stays here.

There was a brief, sacred silence. The instructor fixed his eyes on the youngest ones.

—The expelled players do not die. But they bleed. They scream. They crawl. The match does not stop for them. The fall is public. And some never return.

Then he lowered his gaze to his tablet, and his voice changed slightly. Drier. More technical.

—Official rules of Rakzar:

One: Each player carries an individual core. Without it, there is no race.

Two: Physical contact is allowed. You may strike. Push. Block. But if you destroy another's core directly, you are eliminated.

Three: Falling outside the Ring or losing the core implies immediate elimination.

Four: The Vital Ejection Protocol only activates in the face of imminent death. Not before. Not after.

Five: No external intervention is allowed. No one can rescue you. No one can assist you. Once inside, you are alone.

He fell silent. Then lifted his gaze toward Sebastián and Virka.

—Questions?

—No —they both said.

The instructor nodded. It was all he needed to hear.

—Then let's talk about the exosuits.

He walked toward a side platform. There, a metallic mannequin displayed a dark, articulated suit, like a second skin made of cables and tension plates.

—Each player wears an ARMEX. Extended Movement Armor. It is biomechanical. High response. Linked to the core.

He stopped in front of the suit. Touched it lightly, with the precision of someone who has used it more than once.

—It does not protect you from pain. It does not stop blows. It only turns your body into something that can move like a machine without losing instinct. It increases your speed. Your strength. Your reflexes. Your control. But it does not make you invincible. It only makes you capable of surviving a little longer… if you know how to use it.

He pressed a command. The mannequin lit up with side projections.

—Standard permitted modules:

Movement amplifier: strength and speed increased up to 300%. No more.

Impact stabilizer: reduces recoil when hitting or landing. Does not prevent damage.

Step memory: allows you to repeat a successful maneuver. Only three times per run.

Spinal enhancer: improves body control. But if you fall badly, you'll break anyway.

Dynamic vision filter: recognizes patterns in real time. But if the core drops below 30%, it shuts off.

Electromagnetic grip field: allows you to hold onto metallic surfaces. Useful. But if you overload it, it explodes.

The images glowed over the suit like warnings.

—And then there are the forbidden ones —he said, with a deeper voice.

enemy core: destroy it. Forbidden.

Pressure modifiers: they simulate stability to avoid being broken. A trap. Forbidden.

Integral shielding: makes the player invulnerable. Contradicts the essence of Rakzar. Forbidden.

Weapon extenders: blades, claws, spikes. Hidden lethality. Unacceptable.

He stepped away from the mannequin. His shadow stretched across the floor.

—There are three recognized types of ARMEX.

Basic: military or academic use. Increase between 100 and 250%. No illegal mode.

Advanced legal: elite versions. More resistant. Up to 450%. They can reach 500%, but with overheating risk.

Customized: tailor-made. They adapt to the user. Power between 500 and 600%. In extreme cases, up to 650%. But there… it's no longer about technique. It's about will.

The instructor put away the tablet.

—Rakzar is not a game. It is a frontier. A way to know if what you carry inside can hold you when everything outside wants to break you.

His eyes, for an instant, sought Sebastián's. Then Virka's. He didn't need to say more.

The field vibrated. Very slightly. As if the Ring had heard. As if the metal, the wind, and the memory were beginning to awaken.

And they had not yet taken the first step.

______________________________________________

END OF CHAPTER 54

The path continues…

New chapters are revealed every

Sunday, and also between Wednesday or Thursday,

when the will of the tale so decides.

Each one leaves another scar on Sebastián's journey.

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Thank you for walking by my side.

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