On the Path of Eternal Strength.

Chapter 122: Chapter 120 Where a Decision Opened New Paths

Sebastián did not turn his gaze toward the corridor.

He did not search with his eyes for the path through which the two women had been taken away, nor did he seem to hear Víctor’s groans fading between the underground walls. He remained in front of Wendy, his dark pajamas stained with someone else’s blood and his right hand still covered by a reddish crust that was beginning to dry over his knuckles.

The question remained suspended between them.

It was not an accusation.

Nor was it a moral doubt.

Wendy had asked because she needed to understand the judgment of the man whose orders she carried out. She had learned that, within the Crimson Empire, obedience did not require knowing every reason, but she also knew that ignoring them completely could turn any future decision into a blind move.

Sebastián answered without rushing.

—Because they had not surrendered yet.

His voice did not change. It was low, dry, and steady.

Wendy remained still.

She understood that the sentence did not refer to physical surrender. The two women could not fight anyone. One was unconscious, and the other could barely support herself on an injured, mutilated leg, reduced to covering another person’s body with the only arm she still had.

Sebastián continued:

—The mutilated woman could barely remain standing and, even so, she continued protecting the other one. Every time they moved her away, she returned.

His eyes showed no tenderness.

There was no attachment toward those strangers, nor satisfaction at having ordered that they be treated. The only thing visible in them was a dense determination, impossible to mistake for a passing impulse. The crimson spiral turned slowly around his black pupils, as though each rotation affirmed a truth engraved long before that night.

—When I asked her what she wanted —he added—, she chose for both of them to remain alive.

Wendy remembered the mutilated body leaning over the burned woman. The way that albino woman had looked at Sebastián without knowing whether she was facing a savior, a buyer, or a different kind of death. She had not asked for Víctor to be handed over to her. She had not demanded revenge. She had not even asked for freedom with grand words.

She had asked to live alongside the other woman.

Sebastián held Wendy’s gaze.

—It was not pity. I respect those who still refuse to disappear.

The sentence carried no visible emotion, but it did not need any.

The determination on his face was enough to support it. He did not seem to be justifying an exception or defending a decision before a subordinate. He was stating a rule of his own, one that had not been born in meetings, books, or speeches, but in places where staying alive had required crawling over dead earth, drinking what disgusted him, and continuing to walk when his body could no longer find a reason to do so.

For Sebastián, the will to live was not a plea.

It was a form of strength.

Not strength measured in muscles, energy, or destructive capacity, but in the refusal to allow oneself to be erased when existence itself seemed to have decided that one should no longer continue.

Wendy remained silent.

The answer had been brief, but it was enough.

—I understand —she finally said—. Thank you for answering, emperor.

Her tone remained professional. She did not try to delve deeper or ask whether that idea came from his past. She understood that doing so would mean crossing a boundary Sebastián had not allowed her to touch. He had given her the reason for his decision, not a confession.

And that was enough.

However, as she remained in front of him, Wendy began to understand something that until then she had only perceived in fragments.

Sebastián was not devoid of morality.

That would have been simpler.

A man without morality could be reduced to hunger, convenience, or whim. He could be anticipated by following his benefits, his fears, or his desires. Even gratuitous cruelty had patterns when it depended on pleasure.

Sebastián was different.

He had a morality built entirely upon his own judgment.

He did not divide the world between good and bad people. Nor did he ask what was permitted, what society would accept, or what a law would condemn. He observed what each being had done with the life they still possessed, what they had chosen when faced with fear, weakness, and the possibility of disappearing.

Then he judged.

The same will that had saved the albino women had condemned the House of Chains.

There was no contradiction between the two decisions.

A mutilated woman had used the only thing she still possessed to protect another life. The members of that organization had used their strength to imprison, sell, break, and turn other people’s lives into merchandise. One continued clinging to existence without crushing anyone to do so. The others had built their permanence by destroying their victims’ ability to choose.

Sebastián had seen both things.

And he had decided.

That was the truly dangerous part.

He was not dangerous because he acted without thinking. Nor because he enjoyed blood or because he could lose control. Wendy had known men like that. They were violent, but predictable. It was enough to recognize what fed their impulses.

Sebastián was dangerous because he thought with a consistency that did not need to be shared by anyone else.

He could return a group of captives to their homes and, with the same serenity, order the extermination of those who had imprisoned them. He could grant treatment to two strangers and arrange for the useful organs of his enemies to be sold on the black market. He did not feel that one action denied the other because both answered to the same judgment.

Life was not sacred to him.

But neither was it insignificant.

It could be fragile, reduced to a body incapable of supporting itself, and still contain a will worthy of respect. It could also be strong, wealthy, protected by weapons and structures, and have lost all value in his eyes because of the way it had chosen to exist.

The difference was not established by a law.

It was established by Sebastián.

Wendy understood that working under an authority like that required more than obedience. It demanded observation. Learning what he considered strength, what he understood by choice, and what actions turned someone into an existence that should continue or into a presence that no longer deserved to occupy space.

She could not call it kindness.

Nor justice.

It was a form of judgment too personal to fit within ordinary words.

And, precisely because of that, it should not be confused with compassion.

Sebastián would not save everyone who asked for help. He would not stop before every instance of suffering or take every victim he found under his protection. The people freed that night would be identified, treated, and returned as far as possible. Afterward, the Empire would disappear from their lives.

Not because he hated them.

They simply did not matter enough to him for him to keep them close.

His attention was reserved for those he considered his own.

His family.

Those who walked beside him.

Those who had occupied a real place within his existence.

Everything else was evaluated according to necessity, threat, usefulness, or demonstrated will. He could intervene, he could ignore, he could save or destroy. Shared humanity was not enough to compel him to do anything.

Wendy felt a slight discomfort beneath her chest.

It was not immediate fear. Sebastián did not represent a threat to her at that moment. She had fulfilled her duties, and there was no reason for him to condemn her. However, understanding him a little better also allowed her to recognize the distance that would always exist between him and normal people.

Most people built their morality from shared limits.

Sebastián had built his by surviving where those limits did not exist.

That was why he could appear human, speak calmly, and remain dressed in childishly ordinary pajamas while an entire organization was erased under his orders. He did not need to transform himself to carry out what he had decided. Violence was not a rupture of his identity.

It was a tool within it.

Wendy allowed that understanding to settle without showing it on her face.

She was not there to judge him.

She was there to administer an empire under his orders.

And knowing what kind of man occupied its center could be the difference between interpreting an order correctly or making a mistake she would not have the chance to correct.

A detonation sounded in the distance.

Then another.

The teams’ communications arrived muffled from the corridor: confirmed names, secured rooms, prisoners transferred for interrogation. The House of Chains continued to be dismantled piece by piece while they remained inside the white room.

Wendy fully recovered her professional posture.

—The operation will continue according to your orders —she said—. What comes next, emperor?

Sebastián finally looked away from her.

His eyes swept across the room without stopping on the remains of the bed. They observed the columns, the floor covered in footprints, and the stains left by the bodies that had been removed. He seemed to be searching for something that was not visible at first glance.

—I will stay here for a moment —he replied—. I need to verify something.

Wendy briefly followed the direction of his eyes, but she found nothing that explained those words.

She did not ask.

—Do you require me to remain with you?

—No.

Sebastián walked a few steps toward the center of the room.

—You may leave, Administrator Wendy.

The way he pronounced her title carried no unnecessary coldness. It was a direct dismissal, an indication that her involvement at that point had ended.

Wendy inclined her head slightly.

—As you command, emperor.

She turned toward the exit.

Her shoes crossed the white floor between scraps of foam, dark stains, and fragments of wood. As she passed beside the threshold, she once again heard the sounds from the corridor: brief orders, advancing boots, an interrupted scream, and the scraping of something heavy being dragged across the floor.

She did not look back immediately.

Only when she was about to leave the room did she turn her face one last time.

Sebastián remained standing in the center of the space, alone, small before the columns and, at the same time, too present for the room to contain him completely. The dried blood on his hand seemed like a mark foreign to his body. His eyes were fixed on some point beneath the floor, as though the structure concealed something only he could perceive.

Wendy held the image for an instant.

Then she left.

The door remained open behind her, but her footsteps began to recede down the corridor. The operation received her once again with its discipline, its violence, and its reports. Within a few seconds, her figure disappeared among the agents transferring detainees and securing the final access points of the lower level.

Inside the white room, the noise began to lose strength.

Sebastián was left alone.

There were no captives.

There were no soldiers.

Wendy was no longer there.

Only the motionless columns, the destroyed bed, and the stains the House of Chains had left upon its own heart remained.

Silence descended slowly.

Sebastián closed his eyes.

And he began to verify that for which he had decided to stay.

The white room remained motionless after Wendy’s footsteps disappeared into the corridor.

Sebastián did not open his eyes immediately.

He listened as the operation continued beyond the walls: brief orders transmitted through the communicators, doors opened with controlled force, bodies dragged away, isolated detonations, and the constant movement of the men finishing the task of tearing the House of Chains out of every space where it had taken root.

None of that truly entered the room.

The silence of the chamber was different. Deeper. Almost artificial.

Sebastián opened his eyes.

The crimson spiral turned slowly around his black pupils as he surveyed the columns, the polished floor, and the stains that still remained where the two women had been. The destroyed bed occupied the center like the corpse of a structure that should never have existed. Their pale skin was soaked in blood, and among the torn-open foam, fragments of wood and bent metal pieces protruded.

He did not approach it.

He lowered his gaze toward his feet and removed his footwear without haste. He left it beside one of the columns, aligned against the base, as though even that insignificant gesture had to preserve a precise order.

The bare sole of his first foot touched the white floor.

The surface was cold.

It was not a natural cold. It was the clean and impersonal temperature of a place built to pretend purity while, beneath that appearance, something completely different had lived.

Sebastián moved forward.

He was not walking without direction. He traced a slow path around the room, following the nearly invisible joints between the slabs. Every few steps, his toes came down with a small tap against the floor.

Tap.

He waited.

Then he took another step.

Tap.

He did not apply enough force to break the surface. He merely allowed a minimal vibration to pass through the stone, descend through the lower layers, and return to his body. His toes received that response with the same precision with which others would have heard a sound.

Dense.

Solid.

Without variations.

He continued walking.

Sometimes he placed his heel down first. Other times, he shifted his weight onto the front of his foot and pressed with his big toe before continuing. The sequence seemed simple, but there was no improvisation in it. Each contact searched for a difference: a deeper resonance, an imperceptible delay, the echo of a cavity hidden beneath the whiteness of the floor.

The first circuit took him around the bed.

The second, near the columns.

During the third, he spoke.

—I did not let them live to change anything.

His voice crossed the room with the same dryness with which he had given the previous orders.

There was no one in front of him.

There was no different shadow, no material presence, nor any figure hidden among the columns. Only the empty space and Sebastián walking barefoot over the stone remained.

—No one asked me to —he continued—. I acted according to my own judgment.

He stopped beside a stain of dried blood.

His toes touched the floor.

Tap.

The vibration descended.

Sebastián waited.

He received no response that could be heard in the room. No voice emerged from the walls or crossed the corridor. The air did not change. The columns did not cast a different shadow.

Even so, he remained still for several seconds.

His face retained the same expression.

He did not look like a man waiting for his own mind to reach a conclusion. He waited with the exact calm of someone who had not yet finished listening.

Then he began walking again.

—And even so, that decision opened possibilities that did not exist before.

His toes struck another slab.

Tap.

The response was solid. Sebastián continued.

—Can such a small action alter everything surrounding a life in that way?

He advanced toward a column and slowly circled its base. He touched with his toes the point where the vertical stone met the floor, then shifted his foot a few centimeters and repeated the movement.

He found nothing. Silence continued to occupy everything.

However, when he spoke again, his words were no longer a repetition of the question. They were the continuation of something that had not been spoken for any other ears.

—Then the future is never a single line —he said as he raised his gaze toward the empty space between two columns—. They are paths that are born, separate, and disappear with every decision.

His tone contained neither childish wonder nor naïve fascination. Sebastián did not contemplate that idea like someone who had just discovered hope. He examined it as a structure, a law different from those he knew, immense, but not incomprehensible.

He began walking again. His right foot moved forward, and his toes struck the floor.

Tap.

Then his left did the same.

Tap.

—Letting them live did not guarantee any future —he said—. It only prevented everything from ending in that room.

That was the difference. Sebastián had not seen the two women as pieces of a prophecy or as beings destined to accomplish something extraordinary. He had not imagined what they might become, nor had he tried to guide them toward a favorable outcome.

He did not know what they would do after recovering. Nor whether they would preserve the will he had recognized in them, lose it over time, or make decisions that would eventually turn them into something he no longer respected.

None of that had influenced his choice.

The mutilated woman had continued protecting the other even when her body could barely obey her. Then, when given the possibility to choose, she had asked for both of them to remain alive.

That had been enough.

Sebastián did not need to know what paths would arise from that choice in order to act. His judgment had been formed before any knowledge of the future.

Precisely because of that, discovering that his decision had altered so many possibilities did not turn it into an act of compassion or a heroic intervention. He had not saved anyone to become a savior. He had not obeyed a higher voice or fulfilled a task he had been given.

He had judged and he had chosen. Afterward, the future had moved around that choice.

Sebastián stopped near the side wall. For several seconds, he did not strike the floor. He remained looking at an empty point at eye level, his head slightly tilted, as though trying to organize something that had just been explained to him.

—It is not necessary to seek a result in order to open it —he murmured—. Every decision opens possibilities, even when the one who decides does not intend to do so.

Silence spread again. A distant detonation weakly crossed one of the walls. Then another. Someone shouted an order on an upper level, but the voice arrived distorted and disappeared before it could be understood.

Sebastián continued moving through the room. His toes touched the floor again.

Tap.

The vibration returned uniformly. He took another step and repeated the strike.

Tap.

Nothing.

The dried blood on his hand was beginning to crack over his skin. Small dark fragments fell to the floor when he flexed his fingers, but he did not look at them.

—If so many possible paths exist —he asked—, how can you see them all?

He waited, but the room remained silent.

—How do you distinguish which movement opens a favorable possibility among consequences that have not yet occurred?

This time, the pause was longer.

Sebastián continued his path while he waited. He passed behind the destroyed bed and reached an area of the floor that had previously been hidden beneath one corner of the mattress. The foam had been moved when Víctor was taken away, exposing several intact slabs.

He touched the first.

Tap. Solid.

He tested the second.

Tap.

Then the third.

Tap.

No difference.

He continued toward the back wall.

When he spoke again, there was a new certainty in his voice, though not yet complete understanding.

—You do not observe a single future.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

—You observe the possible consequences of each change and the way some cause the others to disappear.

He waited again. He did not smile or show frustration at the distance that still existed between understanding an explanation and being capable of applying it.

—For us, a decision is uncertainty —he added—. We only know its result after we have acted.

The toes of his left foot touched the base of another column.

Tap.

—For you, the possibilities seem to exist at the same time.

Something changed in his gaze.

It was not fear.

It was recognition.

Sebastián knew the difference between facing a stronger being and understanding that there was a form of existence that operated under perceptions completely foreign to his own. Strength could be measured through blows, speed, energy, or endurance. It could be understood, endured, and, with enough time, surpassed.

This was different.

It was not merely a matter of being able to see farther. It was perceiving a reality that, for everyone else, had not yet been born.

Sebastián remained motionless for several seconds. Then he released a slow exhalation.

—The distance between a being of your level and all other living beings never ceases to surprise me.

His voice carried neither reverential fear nor submission. It was a frank observation.

—We move forward by choosing a path without knowing which ones we have just closed. You seem to see them all before our feet ever touch them.

The air did not respond.

However, Sebastián tilted his face slightly, as though he had received a correction.

—Not all of them —he corrected himself—. Only those that still retain the possibility of existing.

The sentence remained suspended.

Sebastián lowered his gaze toward the floor and continued walking. His steps now followed the back wall, advancing more slowly. He had crossed almost the entire room. Only one corner remained, partially hidden between a wide column and the point where the wall curved toward the side entrance.

His toes touched the first slab.

Tap.

A firm response.

He shifted his foot and repeated the strike.

Tap.

The vibration traveled back up his leg, but this time there was something different. Not a complete absence of support, but a longer echo, muffled by an intermediate layer.

Sebastián stopped.

He did not speak.

He touched exactly the same point again.

Tap.

The response descended, passed through the stone, and returned with a minimal fraction of delay.

There was no completely solid foundation underneath.

He moved his foot to the left.

Tap.

Solid.

He shifted it to the right.

Tap.

Partially hollow.

He planted his heel, placed a small portion of his weight on it, and allowed the pressure to spread across the slab. The material did not give way, but the vibration confirmed what he had perceived.

There was a cavity.

Sebastián followed the edge with his toes. He moved a few centimeters toward the column and then returned toward the wall. Each touch traced an invisible shape beneath the surface.

Rectangular.

Narrow at the entrance.

Wider beyond it.

It was not a natural flaw in the construction. Someone had prepared that space to remain hidden even after the room above had been searched.

Sebastián raised his face toward the empty point with which he had been holding the conversation.

—I found it.

There was no audible response.

Nor did he need one.

He stepped half a pace away and observed the slab beside the base of the column. He could have shattered it with a minimal fraction of his strength, but he did not seek to cause the entire section to collapse or bury whatever lay beneath it.

He raised his right foot.

For an instant, the white room recovered complete stillness.

Then it descended.

The stomp did not produce an uncontrolled explosion. All the force remained concentrated at the exact point where the structure was weakest. The impact penetrated the surface and spread beneath it before returning upward.

The slab sank.

A web of black cracks formed around his foot and ran in every direction. Some reached the base of the column; others followed the joints in the floor like veins that had just awakened beneath skin that was far too white.

The stone broke with a dry sound.

Sebastián’s foot pierced through the surface up to the ankle. Fragments of the covering fell downward.

They did not strike concrete.

They did not find earth.

It took them several seconds to touch something in the darkness.

Beneath the floor of the white room was an empty space.

Sebastián slowly withdrew his foot from the hole.

Several small fragments broke loose from the edges and disappeared into the darkness. They did not immediately strike a lower surface. First came the irregular scraping of falling stone; then, after a brief pause, several dry impacts arrived from below, followed by a short echo that spread through the cavity.

The chamber had depth.

Sebastián crouched beside the opening. He pushed the fingers of both hands into the cracks surrounding the slab and found the fractured edges beneath the white covering. The stone resisted for an instant, still held in place by part of the internal structure.

He closed his hands.

He did not need to make a sudden movement. The muscles in his arms tightened only slightly, and the floor began to give way under clean pressure. The fissures opened around his fingers. A deep sound ran through the slab as the material separated from the base and rose like a plate torn from a wound.

Sebastián pulled upward.

The broken section split in two. One half remained in his hands. The other fell into the hollow, turned through the darkness, and struck the lower floor with a crash louder than that of the previous fragments.

The echo confirmed the size of the space.

Sebastián set aside the section he was holding and inserted his hands again. He removed more pieces, breaking only what was necessary. He did not destroy the column or allow the cracks to advance toward the main structure. He widened the opening through precise movements until he formed a hole wide enough for his body to pass through without brushing against the edges.

Nothing could yet be seen below.

The light from the white room descended only a few meters before being devoured by the darkness.

Sebastián leaned over the opening. He did not look for a ladder. Nor did he call Wendy or request that the agents return. He placed one hand on the edge, let his legs pass through, and released his body.

The darkness enveloped him immediately.

He descended upright, without flailing his arms or trying to hold on to the walls. The colder air of the chamber rose to meet him, carrying the smell of metal, enclosed paper, and dry wood.

The fall ended a few seconds later.

Sebastián touched the ground with both feet. He bent his knees slightly and absorbed the force before the impact could break the surface. Even so, the blow sounded with enough weight to spread throughout the entire chamber.

The echo traveled between distant walls. It first returned from his right. Then from the front. Afterward, from several directions at once.

An electronic sound emerged near the ceiling.

It was brief, almost imperceptible: the activation of a sensor that had spent too long waiting for a presence.

A red light turned on above Sebastián. Then another. And one more.

The emergency lamps began activating in sections, following a line that moved away from the point where he had fallen. The reddish glow crossed the darkness in intervals, first revealing the reinforced concrete floor, then the bare walls, and finally the contents of the chamber.

The first row consisted of reinforced wooden crates.

Some remained closed with metal fastenings. Others had been opened and revealed interiors filled with gold bars arranged in compact rows. The emergency light reflected across them without warmth, turning every golden surface into a cold piece of accumulated wealth.

Farther beyond were larger containers.

Inside several of them, bundles of banknotes wrapped in plastic were stacked, organized by denomination and secured with bands. They were not scattered or abandoned. They formed straight columns inside the crates, stored to be counted, transported, or used whenever the organization needed them.

Sebastián advanced several steps.

The lights continued turning on as the sensor registered his movement.

A new section appeared at the back.

Black cases rested on metal shelving. Some were open and contained diamonds separated by size, small bags filled with gemstones of different colors, necklaces, bracelets, and pieces of jewelry stored individually. Rubies, emeralds, and transparent stones returned distorted flashes beneath the red light of the lamps.

There were also crates containing unworked precious metals, ancient coins, watches, and small objects whose value depended more on their origin than on their material.

It was not a chaotic accumulation.

It was a clandestine reserve.

Each item had been classified, stored, and arranged to disappear quickly if the House of Chains needed to move its fortune. The place had not been built to admire those riches, but to hide them from the world and turn them back into power when necessary.

Sebastián surveyed the chamber.

He showed no surprise.

The gold, the gems, and the money did not awaken in him a reaction different from the one any other resource found during the operation would have caused. Wealth did not change its nature merely because it shone more brightly than the blood through which it had been obtained.

He continued advancing between the rows.

The bare soles of his feet touched the cold concrete. With each step, the sound spread between the crates and returned from the walls, revealing a long, rectangular chamber built directly beneath the white room.

Near the point through which he had descended, Sebastián raised his gaze.

The irregular hole he had opened was several meters above. The white light from the room above entered through it like a distant wound in the ceiling, surrounded by fractured edges and suspended dust.

A few steps away, he discovered another structure.

A metal ladder was fixed vertically to the wall. Its rungs rose toward a square hatch set into the ceiling, closed from above and concealed with the same material used on the floor of the room.

Sebastián approached.

Its position aligned with the base of the column beside which he had located the cavity. From above, the entrance had to be hidden beneath or inside that structure, protected by a mechanism that allowed it to be opened without altering the appearance of the floor.

That was the original entrance.

The House of Chains had built the access to descend in secret, remove part of the fortune, and seal the chamber again without leaving visible signs.

Sebastián observed the hatch for several seconds. Then he turned his gaze back toward the rows of crates, the bars, the bundles of money, and the gems that continued to shine beneath the red lights.

He had not simply found a hiding place.

He had broken through the ceiling of the reserve where the House of Chains stored the value of everything it had sold.

__________________________________________

END OF Chapter 120 The path continues...

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