On the Path of Eternal Strength.-Chapter 67 - 65 What Has Not Yet Been Sold

The steam no longer rose like a dense mist, but like a warm caress that dissipated with each minute. The family bath, with its floating toys still spinning in slow spirals, had fallen silent. Sebastián finished rinsing Valentina’s white hair with patient firmness, as if every strand he ran through his fingers were part of a vow. She did not cry again. Not because she couldn’t... but because it was no longer necessary.

Several more minutes passed there. Neither spoke. He held her wrapped in the large towel Lea had prepared, and set her down on the warm stone bench while he gathered the things. The pink dolphin float rested to one side, still damp, with droplets sliding down its plastic back as if it too were breathing.

Time, imperceptibly, began to move.

The scene shifted beyond the family bath.

Through silent corridors, doors that opened with automatic systems and translucent panels fogged by residual steam.

In the west wing of the complex, Óscar was the first to come out. He adjusted his robe with indifference, his high bun still intact. He walked with his hands in his pockets, as if the bath had done nothing more than clear his mind a little. On his face floated that expression between calm and calculation as he crossed the common area toward the changing rooms. Lea received him with a brief smile, inclined her head with professional courtesy, and indicated the way. He did not speak. He only raised two fingers in a sign of approval.

A few meters away, the mist from another bath began to dissipate.

Virka emerged from the vapors like a silhouette sculpted in shadow.

Her robe, completely wet, clung to her body as if it were a second skin. Every curve, every line of her feminine musculature—tense, functional, powerful—was hinted at beneath the soaked dark fabric.

It was not a gesture. It was not a pose.

It was simply what it was:

A body born for battle, shaped by destruction and protection.

And yet... there was something calm in her steps. A pause. As if for an instant, even she could allow herself to exist without watching every corner.

Narka, in his reduced form, rested hidden beneath the inner fold of the robe, imperceptible to all except whoever knew how to look.

Lea received her without a word. She only nodded, with that mix of respect and caution one offers a beast that has chosen not to attack.

Virka looked at her for barely a second.

And kept walking.

Sebastián and Valentina’s bath was the last to open.

He was still carrying her, wrapped in the towel, already dry, with her clean hair gathered atop her head like a small white whirl. They walked slowly, without haste. As if the steam had lightened the weight of time on their backs. Valentina had her arms around Sebastián’s neck, her eyes already open and alive, as if everything that had just happened were not a burden... but a root.

Upon reaching the transition area, Lea inclined herself again.

—Everything all right, Mr. Sebastián? 𝕗𝗿𝕖𝐞𝐰𝗲𝕓𝐧𝕠𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝐨𝚖

He nodded without stopping.

—Yes.

Valentina also looked at Lea. She said nothing, but moved a hand from Sebastián’s shoulder as a brief greeting. Lea smiled at her. Not as a worker. But as a woman. As a mother. As someone who understood what it meant to be able simply... to be.

When the five of them were gathered in the intermediate room, Lea indicated the entrance to the changing rooms.

The door opened with a slight hydraulic impulse.

The walls were covered in treated wood, and the warm floor beneath bare feet seemed to absorb sound.

Inside, the dry clothes hung, pressed and ready. The automatic system had synchronized their garments with the access, so everything was arranged by name and size.

Sebastián set Valentina down on a padded bench and began to dress. She changed with minimal help from Virka, who watched her without words, only with soft eyes, pupil-less, fixed on her.

Óscar already had his clothes on: he adjusted his bun with his fingers without needing a mirror.

Virka was the last. She removed the robe slowly, without any gesture of haste or shame.

Her naked body seemed sculpted by the very pressure that carves mountains: without excess, without caress, only strength at rest.

She took her clothes, put them on piece by piece.

And with that, the silence changed.

Everyone was ready.

The steam no longer existed.

The warmth now lived only in the memory of clean skin.

The steps that followed resonated with another weight. Firmer. More present.

Lea escorted them again to the private elevator.

The doors closed.

And carried them toward the upper floor of the skyscraper.

Where breakfast awaited them.

Where another kind of day began.

Where, for a while, even the wounds of the soul... could remain still.

The elevator opened with a dry whisper and let out a different air, lighter, more awake. The upper floor of the skyscraper did not hold the dimness of steam nor the damp silence of rest; here the light was distributed with intention, clear but not aggressive, filtered through tall panels that let the day pass like a promise without noise. The group moved forward as they stepped out, and the pace was different: firmer, more everyday, as if the body—already clean, already calmed—suddenly remembered that the world continued.

Sebastián walked at the center, the official uniform fitted with sobriety, the familiar weight on his shoulders and his gaze forward, attentive without urgency. Valentina went at his side, the backpack properly placed, the zipper fully closed; she walked with a new lightness, her hair still neatly arranged from not long ago, observing everything as if the place had widened. Virka advanced a few steps behind, uniform impeccable, posture straight, her presence whole; she did not need to take up space to be noticed. Óscar walked ahead, as if the corridor belonged to him by acquired right, turning his head from time to time to make sure they were following.

The corridor opened into wide stretches, and on each side appeared different establishments, living showcases that breathed aromas and colors. One place let out the dense smell of freshly ground coffee; another displayed steaming bowls with deep broths, too serious for a morning that was just waking up. Farther on, bakeries with warm stained glass exhibited golden pieces, too heavy to start the day. Óscar guided them without stopping, pointing with minimal gestures, like someone who already knows the map and avoids the wrong shortcuts.

—Too strong —he murmured as they passed one—. And that one... better for lunch.

There was no reply. No one argued. The walk continued, and the general noise became a pleasant murmur, controlled, as if the upper floor had been designed not to demand more from the ear than necessary. Hanging plants marked the breaks in the hallway; light wood appeared in bands, balancing glass and metal. Valentina paused for a second in front of a display of bright fruits, but Óscar had already moved on and she quickened her step, the backpack bouncing softly against her back.

At the end of the corridor, almost at the edge of the level, appeared the place Óscar was looking for. It had no strident sign nor grand promises; its façade was open, fresh, with light wood and a soft palette that invited one in without raising its voice. Small plants climbed the frames, and the interior light seemed a little warmer, as if the day inside had settled into a rhythm of its own. The air smelled of fruit, of freshly made dough, of something sweet that did not cloy.

Óscar stopped and, for the first time since they had left, smiled with calm certainty.

—Here —he said—. This is the best place to have breakfast in the whole building. Truly.

It was not a sale nor an exaggeration. It was a simple affirmation, almost intimate. Sebastián observed the interior for a second; Virka evaluated without saying a word; Valentina tilted her head, curious. Then, without ceremony, they all followed Óscar as they crossed the threshold.

Inside, the space opened with order. Light wood tables, well distributed; comfortable chairs without ostentation; a background of soft colors that did not compete with one another. The murmur of other customers was low, respectful. A hostess lifted her gaze and received them with a kind gesture; Óscar responded with a brief nod, like someone who had been there enough times to not need introductions.

He walked straight toward the back, weaving past occupied tables, until a wide corner where the light entered from the side and the noise dissolved. A generous, sturdy table, meant to stay for a while. He indicated the spot with his hand.

—Here we’re good.

They settled in without hurry. Sebastián took the seat that allowed him to see the entire place; Valentina sat beside him, carefully set the backpack to one side and rested her hands on the table, observing the details of the place. Virka took the end, back straight, gaze serene. Óscar sat across from them, relaxed, as if the walk itself had been part of the ritual.

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was a natural pause, the exact moment before ordering, before speaking of simple things. Outside, the skyscraper remained alive; inside, the morning found its shape.

The waiter did not arrive in haste nor with rehearsed phrases. He did not seem to seek approval, nor to disguise his presence with exaggerated smiles. He simply appeared. He emerged as a natural part of the place, walking with a measured, silent cadence, dressed in a light gray shirt with no visible logos and a perfectly clean dark linen apron that did not seek to draw attention. His face was young, but not inexperienced; his gaze swept the table with a quick evaluation, without judgment, like someone who has served many regardless of who they were. He stopped at a precise distance—neither too close, nor so far as to force them to raise their voices—and barely inclined his head, just enough.

—Good morning. Breakfast is available with full service. I can bring you a combination of eggs to your liking—scrambled, poached, or boiled—freshly cooked cuts of meat, artisanal toast or soft white bread, golden potatoes with minimal salt, a variety of fresh fruits, natural juices, filtered coffee, or herbal infusions. If you wish, you may adjust according to preference.

He made no gesture with his hands. He did not unfold menus nor screens. He only waited, standing, back straight, like a cultivated pause.

As he spoke, the atmosphere of the restaurant unfolded in layers. It was not luxurious in an ostentatious way, but rather designed not to need it. The aromas were soft, barely perceived: a blend of freshly ground coffee, warm bread, and freshly cut fruit peel. The tableware was matte ceramic, with slightly irregular edges, handmade. No piece was identical to another, yet all matched. At other tables, some people conversed in low tones, as if the place imposed a certain respect without the need for rules. Light entered through tall windows with white wooden frames, casting diffuse lines across the polished floor that did not reflect, only absorbed.

Óscar was the first to speak. His tone was casual, but polished.

—Bring me thick toasted bread, sourdough if you have it. Two poached eggs. A bit of avocado, if it’s ripe. And coffee... slow-filtered, please. Not burned.

He did not look at the waiter as he said it. He kept observing the light falling on the table as if that were the most interesting part of the day.

Sebastián barely lifted his gaze.

—Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Black coffee.

He explained nothing else. There was no need. His tone was not brusque, but it left no room for nuance.

Virka looked at the waiter steadily. There was no distrust, but there was an implicit reading. As if her gaze searched for possible threats even among tableware and trays. She lowered her eyes slightly to formulate the order.

—Double portion of sausages and whole egg. No greens. No garnish. Hot water with ginger root.

She did not use a commanding tone, but her words carried weight. The clarity of someone who did not consume anything without a purpose.

Valentina blinked before speaking. The waiter looked at her without pressuring her, without infantilizing her. She seemed to enjoy the moment, as if she could touch with words what was on the invisible menu.

—Can I ask for mango juice with another of passion fruit? And a soft bread? That round one with sugar on top? Also fruit... but without pineapple. It makes me itchy.

Her voice was low, but clear. She said it as if she did not fear being corrected.

The waiter nodded to each of them with almost perfect discretion.

—Understood. Four complete breakfasts. The total order amounts to ninety thousand units. It will be delivered shortly.

He did not extend his hand. He did not present a bill. The figure floated in the air with the same neutrality with which it had arrived.

And then, he simply left.

His steps were soundless. The air seemed to settle behind him.

The table was left in silence. No one broke it.

Óscar leaned back a little, without saying anything. Sebastián looked at the empty cup in front of him as if he could measure time through its reflection. Virka remained upright, but not tense. Valentina had her fingers on the table, as if drawing invisible lines.

And so, the space breathed again.

Not as before.

But like freshly washed skin, waiting to feel once more.

Breakfast had not yet arrived. But something in them had already begun to settle.

It was not immediate. The time between the order and the arrival of breakfast was just enough for breathing to adjust, for the light to shift slightly in angle, for thoughts—if there were any—to sink into a silence without pressure. The murmur of the place continued to float like a light mist. And then, without announcing himself with voice or footsteps, the waiter returned.

He was pushing a transport cart—narrow, metallic, with dark edges—similar to those on long flights, but adapted. The trays were stacked in thermal compartments, sealed with precision, as if warmth were a sealed promise. Every movement of the waiter was contained. There was no ceremony nor coldness: only practice. Only craft. He stopped at the edge of the table and, without an unnecessary word, began to serve.

One by one, the trays were placed in front of each person. Óscar received his golden toasted bread, still warm to the touch, accompanied by eggs with trembling yolks, almost liquid, and an avocado split open with a sharp knife, perfect green. The coffee steamed in a thick ceramic cup, unmarked. Sebastián obtained his plate of simple scrambled eggs, without seasonings, accompanied by two strips of firm bacon, placed with involuntary symmetry. The cup of black coffee awaited him, without sugar or company.

Virka did not look at the waiter. She only lifted her gaze toward her plate: the two portions of toasted-colored sausage, the whole eggs, with firm whites and intact yolks. Not a leaf, not an unnecessary garnish. At one side, a cup of clear water, with the ginger visible like a motionless root. Valentina received two small glasses, with foamy, golden juices, one more opaque than the other, and a round bread with sugar sprinkled on top, slightly cracked on the surface. The fruit was arranged by color, without pineapple. A wooden spoon accompanied the plate.

The waiter, without altering the rhythm, left on the table a small rectangular receipt, without adornments, printed in sober ink. At the top, on a line without emphasis, the figure could be read: 90,000 units. He said nothing. He only made a slight bow, without inclining his torso completely, and withdrew with the same silence with which he had arrived.

They began to eat. Not as a ritual. Not as an event. Simply as bodies that recognize food. Óscar cut the bread without looking at his plate, letting the avocado spread under the pressure of the dull knife. He tasted the coffee with a minimal sip, evaluating it with the same attention one would give to a melody. Valentina ate slowly, with small gestures of surprise when something tasted better than expected. She held the juice with both hands as if she could read its temperature. Virka ate like someone sharpening a weapon: with decision, without pause, without distraction. She chewed only what was necessary, swallowed without sound. Sebastián ate in silence, with movements that did not seek efficiency nor pleasure, only sufficiency.

It was Óscar who broke the distance. He spoke without looking at anyone in particular, as if the question floated on its own.

—So, have you made friends at school yet?

Valentina lifted her gaze, with a bit of bread still between her fingers. She didn’t seem to be expecting that question, but she didn’t shut down either.

—No. Or well... not yet.

—You don’t like talking?

—Yes... but I don’t know. It’s hard for me to start. Everyone already has their groups.

—And do you like going?

She nodded, without thinking much about it.

—Yes. I have fun. There are weird things, but also nice things. Drawing classes. And maps... I like maps.

Óscar smiled slightly, an almost imperceptible gesture, without mockery.

—That’s more than many adults can say about their days.

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was soft, like a fabric settling into place. Valentina went back to her fruit. Virka watched her out of the corner of her eye, with an expression that could not be called tenderness, but neither vigilance. Óscar took another sip of coffee. Sebastián was breaking the bacon with the yolk of the egg, looking at nothing in particular.

Until he stopped.

It was subtle. No one noticed.

Inside his index finger, the storage ring, a pulse. A contained movement. It was not vibration nor energy. It was an object. One that did not move on its own.

Sebastián set the utensil down on the plate, without noise, without a brusque gesture. He closed his eyes for barely a second. His awareness descended like a thread into the space contained within the ring. He moved through it without haste, but with precision. And there he found it: his phone, which had activated on its own. A faint light pulsed along its edge, hidden from everyone except him.

With studied naturalness, he slipped his hand into the pocket of his uniform pants and pulled it out as if it had been there from the beginning. No one was looking at him at that moment. The conversation had scattered attention, and the food occupied their senses. He took advantage of the moment.

He turned on the screen.

An incoming call.

The name was clear: administrator – Warehouse.

He did not hesitate. He did not look at anyone. He answered.

—Apologies for the interruption, boss.

The administrator’s voice was firm, controlled. She did not ask permission. She did not try to be likable. She was professional even in the rhythm with which she released each syllable. There was no ornament, no feigned warmth. Only that measured courtesy an efficient woman develops after years of being surrounded by men slower than her.

—I hope I’m not interfering with anything important —she added—. I’m calling to inform you that tonight a private auction will be held at the pawnshop.

Sebastián kept the phone pressed to his ear. He did not respond immediately. He remained seated at the restaurant table, his fingers still touching the rim of the glass. No one at the table was looking at him. Not yet.

—What kind of auction.

—Unusual items. Pieces difficult to trace. Some with technical value. Others with commercial, symbolic, or functional value. There are rumors about certain cores, out-of-regulation tools, and ancient technologies, boss. Things that might interest you.

The tone did not rise or fall. It was a straight line. A report delivered with a human voice.

—Also —she continued—, I believe it would be appropriate for you to be seen in person. Word about you has already spread in certain circles, but that’s not enough. The underworld wants eyes, not names. The auction is a good opportunity for them to know who the new boss behind the operations associated with the shop is. To see you. To not forget you.

Sebastián showed no reaction. Neither to the implicit praise nor to the invitation. He pressed his lips together. His mind worked inwardly, but his face was stone.

—Will there be energy sources?

—Yes, boss. Confirmed. There will be medium-condensation reactors, sealed generators, autonomous accumulators, and reusable ancient cells. Also useful fragments for assembling energy matrices. They are not officially cataloged, but they will be there.

The answer came without hesitation. Without marketing. Without exaggeration.

—I’ll go —Sebastián said.

He did not ask. He did not doubt. He decided.

—But you’ll have to come pick me up.

—Of course, boss. Send me your location and authorized personnel will handle it. Discreet vehicle. No trace.

Sebastián lowered his gaze. He activated the location from the phone without looking at the screen. Three gestures, two taps. The rest would be handled by the internal network.

—Location received. We’ll have you there in half an hour... or one hour at most. Let us know if anything changes, boss.

The call ended without further words. Precise. Like a document being closed.

Sebastián set the phone down on the table. Face down. The ambient sound of the place continued unaltered. It was as if everything around breathed at a different rhythm. He took a piece of bread, returned to his plate. But before bringing it to his mouth, he heard the voice.

—I heard everything.

It was Virka.

There was no tone of reproach. Nor of doubt. Only the same solidity as always. That contained gravity that did not need to sound loud to be felt.

—I’m going with you —she added—. Not only because of who you are. Also because I have presence there. I own a place. And there are things I need to see.

She was not seeking approval. She was only making it clear that she was part of it. Of that. Of him.

Sebastián broke the bread with his fingers. He ate without responding immediately. Drank coffee. And then, as if it had always been obvious:

—I wasn’t planning to leave you behind.

Virka nodded slightly. It was the kind of answer she understood without needing more.

Beside her, Valentina had already finished. The little wooden spoon rested crossed over the empty bowl. She looked at the ceiling. The threads of light slipping in through the windows.

Sebastián turned slightly toward her. His tone changed. Not the weight. But the edge.

—We’re not going home. We’re going somewhere else.

Valentina did not tense. She did not ask. She only tilted her head, picked up her backpack with her small hands, and replied without hesitation:

—Okay. No problem.

The place remained the same. As if the day respected the group’s movements. As if the air did not dare alter their course.

Óscar placed the napkin on the plate. He had wiped his fingers calmly. He had been finished for a while. He was only waiting for the moment.

—Then I think it’s time for me to go —he said, without dramatics.

He stood up. Adjusted his clothes with the same gesture a model might use before stepping onto a stage. But he didn’t do it to show off. He did it because it was his way of being.

Before leaving, he stopped. Looked at Sebastián for an instant. His voice was neutral, but with that trace of his that one could never tell whether it was irony or aesthetics:

—Do I chip in for my share of breakfast?

Sebastián shook his head, without looking directly at him.

—No need. I’ll pay.

Óscar smiled. It wasn’t a mocking smile nor a warm one. It was exact. Precise.

—Then see you later.

And he left.

Without turning around.

Without empty goodbyes.

Like someone who knows they will see each other again.

______________________________________

END OF Chapter 65

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.

If this abyss resonated with you,

keep it in your collection

and leave a mark: a comment, a question, an echo.

Your presence keeps alive the flame that shapes this world.

Thank you for walking by my side.

If this story resonated with you, perhaps we have already crossed paths in another corner of the digital world. Over there, they know me as Goru SLG.

I want to thank from the heart all the people who are reading and supporting this work. Your time, your comments, and your support keep this world alive.

If this story resonated with you, I invite you to support me — your presence and backing make it possible for