On the Path of Eternal Strength.-Chapter 59 - 57 The Ones Who Remained

The eight-hundred-meter line had been left behind, but it did not mean rest. It meant only that: accumulated distance. They advanced for a few minutes through the secondary corridors of the Ring, and the environment began to shift. The mechanical vibration beneath their feet disappeared. The lights stopped flickering. The floating drones shut down as if they had never been there. There were no longer any signs or obstacles. Only a tunnel of expanded steel, carved with surgical precision, guiding the four survivors toward a final hatch. There were no congratulations. There were no welcoming protocols. Only a thick, black door that opened upon recognizing them without uttering a word.

Sebastián crossed first, not out of haste or vanity, but because his legs had not stopped since everything began. His body, still covered by the empty ARMEX, burned from within, split into circuits, held him like a shattered shadow. The energy core had collapsed at the edge of the goal and the recognition system was no longer emitting a signal. But Sebastián did not stop. He did not need to. Everything his body had done during the run was not thanks to the suit, but to the brute force of his reconfigured existence. The flesh had dragged the metal along. And now, that flesh kept moving without blinking, as if the air owed it respect.

Virka entered a few steps behind. Her exosuit was intact. Not spotless, but whole. She had used it as an extension, as an exact multiplier of a strength she already possessed. The harmony between her physical structure and the machine was so precise that not even the energy core showed signs of fatigue. Her movements were not those of an exhausted competitor. They were those of an entity that had simply done what was necessary to stay in the game, without waste, without glory. What drove Virka was not victory, it was survival with purpose.

The redhead arrived next, staggering, dragging one foot over the last meters as if the ground demanded payment for every step she had forced. She had overloaded the core just a few meters from the finish with a risky maneuver that doubled her speed and allowed her to hold onto second place... but the price had been brutal. Now, the sensors of her suit were emitting constant red alerts. Her breathing was at the limit, her muscles clenched, and the internal circuits smoked beneath the surface of the metal. Even so, her expression was fierce. Pain and pride intertwined. She knew she had achieved it not through talent, but through experience. She knew how to exploit the system like a Rakzar veteran. But she also knew she would not be able to do it again without breaking completely.

The fourth to arrive was the one with the bun. He had not run with urgency. He had not forced anything. His suit was still functioning, his core showed no signs of overload, but his body was tense, on the edge. He had measured every step, every contact, every impact. Not out of fear, but calculation. He had conserved energy, but lost advantage. He entered knowing that he had done the right thing to survive... but not enough to stand out.

The room they entered was different. Cold, white, without adornment. The lighting was flat, as if it had no intention of creating atmosphere. There were the restoration nodes, four floating stations with extended interfaces for ARMEX reconnection. Only four. No more. It was a room designed for records, not for healing. The rest of the students watched them from the other side of a reinforced glass wall. Some with bandages. Others still with fragments of the suit on their limbs. Several seated, expressionless. There was respect in their gazes, but also something else: discomfort. As if seeing those four still walking whole reminded them of everything they were not.

Sebastián did not approach the nodes. There was no point. His ARMEX did not respond. And although his body was intact, there was no possible synergy with a suit whose energy no longer existed. He walked to a corner and stopped. Nothing more. He did not sit down. He did not speak. He simply breathed with his chest firm, as if the only thing he needed to be in that place was to remain standing.

Virka observed the nodes as one measures a tool. She did not need them, but neither did she disdain them. She removed her gloves slowly, as if waiting for one of those present to dare to interrupt her. No one did. She did not connect either. She simply remained there, standing, exact, observing as if she knew that her stability was an anomaly in that environment.

The redhead connected immediately. The core of her suit was on the verge of internal fusion. Her body trembled and the skin beneath her neck showed red lines from overload. The nodes absorbed part of the heat, stabilizing the system, and she let out a slight gasp that was not of relief, but of pure necessity. The one with the bun, on the other hand, did not move. He knew that nothing was broken, but also that nothing could improve with a node. He had already received what he deserved.

Then the instructor spoke.

—You have been observed. Registered. Archived.

It was not a congratulation. It was not a threat. It was a structural sentence, as if the voice were not his but that of the entire system behind him. A hatch opened to the right. It did not lead to another training room. It led to the central transit corridor of the facility. They were being relocated. Not to a ceremony. Not to a rest area. Only to the next stage. Because that was what surviving meant: being sent to the next filter. The gazes of the other students followed them until they disappeared. No one spoke. No one asked. They only observed. Some with fear. Others with resentment. A few, with hunger.

And so, without words, without medals, without applause... the first round of the Rakzar ended. The day had not yet completely broken, but the light was different. Paler. Harsher. As if the sun itself also knew that this group had not run for sport... but to continue existing.

Time had passed since the end of the Rakzar, but it could not be measured with precision. It was not night, nor was it full day. The light was a fatigued presence, suspended in a gray without promises, as if the sky itself had been forced to wait without knowing why. Hours, perhaps more. Enough for the metal to stop burning against the skin, for the systems to shut down, for the bodies to remember that they were still bodies and not extensions of a selection machine.

The four who had reached the end were no longer wearing the ARMEX. The metal had been removed without ceremony, without words, without questions. Only the tight black clothing that all the students wore beneath the suit remained, a second skin without glory, identical in form, but not in meaning. Sebastián walked with his back straight, the dense, tense muscles beneath the dark fabric, marked by a labor that was not aesthetic but brutally functional. His body showed no fragility at all, only a hard stillness, that of one who has been broken many times and reassembled by force of will. Virka advanced at his side with the same silent stability that had sustained her throughout the entire trial, each step exact, without waste, as if even outside the Rakzar her body continued to obey an internal law that did not know doubt. The redhead kept pace with an effort that still vibrated in her tendons, not from weakness, but from the deep exhaustion of one who pushed her limit without breaking completely. The one with the bun closed the group with his breathing already controlled, without urgency, without collapse, but carrying on his shoulders the certainty of having survived by calculation more than by dominion.

The outer field opened before them without transition. Grass trimmed with surgical precision, uniform, artificial in its perfection, stretching like a plain that promised no rest, only exposure. There were no stands. There were no visible walls at short distance. The space was wide, but not free. Every centimeter was under observation. The air itself seemed contained, as if even the wind were allowed to move only up to a certain point.

All the other students were already there. Aligned. Silent. Dressed the same, with the same tight black clothing that erased ranks, names, pasts. Some bodies showed the tension of those who had not yet finished accepting their defeat. Others held themselves in a stillness that no longer tried to deceive anyone. There were eyes that avoided looking. There were gazes nailed to the ground as if the earth could absolve them. And there were a few who observed the four finalists without hatred, but with something worse: with the naked awareness of what they had not managed to become.

The instructor was at the front, motionless, as if he had been there since before everyone arrived, as if time itself had also been a variable at his disposal. He did not need to call for attention. He had it from always. His presence did not depend on noise.

When the four finalists took their place among the others, the silence became heavy, not from tension, but from understanding. Everyone knew what was going to happen. They knew it because it had already happened inside them, from the exact moment they fell, when they were caught, when their body gave no more, when the Rakzar expelled them without permission.

The instructor spoke without raising his voice, and even so each word fell like a definitive structure.

—You have been measured.

There was no reaction. Only contained breathing.

—Eight do not meet the requirements.

He did not point with his hand. It was not necessary. The eight knew it immediately. Not because someone looked at them differently, but because they had already been living with that truth for hours. Since the fall. Since the impact. Since the exact point at which the Rakzar had left them behind.

—They are not fit for the Rakzar.

It was not a moral judgment. It was not a humiliation. It was a technical and existential confirmation at the same time. They were not fit. Not because they were useless as people, but because their structure, their response under pressure, their way of holding themselves at the limit, did not match what that system demanded.

—Withdraw. Now.

The eight moved.

No one spoke. No one argued. No one demanded explanations. Some took the first step with difficulty, as if their bodies were still searching for a different order. Others walked with an almost dignified rigidity, clinging to the only thing they could still hold on to: the way they left. One of them clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, but he did not turn back. Another kept his head held high without looking at anyone. Another walked as if each step were a memory sinking into the grass and disappearing forever.

The sound of their steps was quickly lost in the expanse of the field. The Rakzar did not need farewells. It did not need witnesses. It only needed those who were not fit to cease being there.

When the eight crossed the invisible boundary of the area, no one followed them with their gaze for more than a few seconds. Not out of indifference, but because watching them leave for too long was a way of reminding oneself too closely.

The silence returned.

Heavy.

Stable.

Definitive.

The wind barely moved the grass. The light remained the same. The instructor said nothing more. The other students remained motionless, aligned, breathing as if doing so were now a conscious act.

And the four who had reached the end remained standing among them, not yet called, not yet separated, feeling on their skin the invisible distance that was already beginning to open between those who had been discarded and those who had not yet been.

Nothing else happened at that moment.

Because that was not the beginning of something.

It was simply the definitive closing for those who would no longer try to cross that line again.

And then, only they remained. Four figures, still upright beneath a light that did not warm, facing a silence that now belonged to them by right. The field had recovered its false order. The wind no longer carried чужие names. The instructor did not need to indicate that the remaining group should move forward. They did so by themselves, as if their feet already understood that it was not about being guided, but about being confronted.

They stopped a few steps in front of him. There were no lines. There was no ceremony. Only the exact distance that still allowed respect to breathe. The instructor, motionless like a pillar without age, observed them for a brief instant longer. Then he spoke. His voice carried no emphasis, but no fatigue either. It was just another tool of the process. Precise. Irrefutable.

—Virka Solis.

He named her without looking at the others. As if that name opened a separate section in an invisible archive. There was no reaction from the young woman. Only the fixation of her posture, as if her body recognized that it was being exposed before a truth already known.

—Performance recorded. Observed. Confirmed.

A short pause. Not to create tension, but to allow the words to settle their weight with exactness.

—You were the best. In the entire Rakzar.

He did not say it as praise. He said it as if it were an equation. A statistical deduction without adornment.

—Complete mastery of your physical capabilities. Absolute precision in the use of the ARMEX. Constant adaptability without loss of efficiency. No lag. No technical errors. You handled the equipment as a synchronous extension of yourself.

Virka did not respond. Nor did she need to. Her body, now covered only by the fitted fabric, was an answer in itself. Upright, not a single muscle out of place. What she had done, what she was, required neither defense nor modesty.

—Good —the instructor said—. You can continue improving. You are on the right path.

Then he turned his face slightly.

—Zaira Thorne.

The redhead lifted her chin with that gesture that seemed to be part of her spine itself. She did not smile. She did not thank him. She simply kept her gaze fixed, golden and firm, as if every syllable she heard passed through a filter of internal fire.

—Second place on arrival. General performance inside the Ring: solid. Within the expected parameters for an advanced ARMEX user.

The instructor made a brief pause, almost imperceptible, before continuing.

—You executed a dangerous overload. High risk, but a valid technique. No severe damage or critical consequences were recorded. The control you showed when forcing the system reflects prior experience. Well executed.

Zaira did not respond. Her lips were sealed by something stronger than pride. It was her way of saying that she needed neither approval nor apologies. That what she did, she did because it was what had to be done.

—Your performance was understandable and acceptable against the opponents of this stage. And as you have been doing... you can continue improving.

Only then did the instructor’s eyes stop on Sebastián.

—Sebastián Solis.

The name fell like a stone. Without nuances, without extra weight, without considering that one of the previous ones carried the same surname. There were no hints, no allusions. The only thing that mattered was what had been observed in the Rakzar.

—Third place in arrival. Complete performance record... unusual.

A longer pause, but not from doubt. It was to separate the data. To avoid confusing physical performance with the real problem.

—From the start of the circuit, your ARMEX energy core showed a constant loss. Alarming rate. At times, the signal disappeared completely.

The instructor stopped for a second, as if even his words measured the gravity of what he was saying.

—However, you competed from beginning to end. Without pause. Without assistance. Under conditions that placed you at a clear disadvantage.

His eyes did not move.

—As for physical performance... there is no one in the institute who equals you.

Silence.

—Do you know why the failure occurred in your energy core?

Sebastián held his gaze. There was no tension on his face. No confusion. No defense. Only a dry answer, without adornment.

—No.

The instructor did not reply. He nodded once, briefly.

—Understood. The case will be reported.

And then, he turned for the last time.

—Óscar Smith.

The one with the bun barely raised his eyebrows, as if he expected nothing and, at the same time, found it amusing to be mentioned. He did not say anything. He simply remained standing, relaxed, with that posture of his that seemed to say everything was under control even when it was not.

—Your records are clear. Extremely calculated process. Constant control over each stage of the circuit. Sustained pace at the edge of the margin, without entering crisis.

The instructor crossed his arms behind his back.

—If you continue like this... you will need more control. Excess calculation can become a weakness if you do not know when to break the balance.

Óscar did not respond. He only tilted his head slightly, as if the observation seemed interesting to him, but not urgent. As if it were not a judgment, but just another mental note in his personal archive.

Then, the instructor raised his gaze slightly, like someone closing a report page.

—Any questions?

There was a pause. No one spoke. Only Sebastián raised his hand with a sober gesture.

—When will the next session be?

—Wednesdays and Saturdays —the instructor replied without hesitation—. On Wednesdays, after normal classes.

Silence.

—Anyone else?

Mute denials. No voice. No other question.

—You may leave. Change. Eat. Use the bathing or recovery areas if you need to. Recharge energy.

That was all. Nothing more was said. Nothing more was demanded.

The group did not break into conversation. There was no relief, no camaraderie, no enthusiasm. Only bodies moving toward the back of the field, in the direction of the side pavilions. They were not a team. They were not enemies. They were only the ones who remained.

And in that moment, being that... was enough.

_______________________________________

END OF Chapter 57

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. 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

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