On the Path of Eternal Strength.-Chapter 73 - 71 Blood in the Core

The wind, between broken buildings, whistled like a thin knife. Sebastián kept his gaze fixed, without urgency, without haste. He only watched the way Juliana’s body—with her useless hands, with her senseless trembling—tried to find a firm point between the blood and the pavement. She still did not speak. Not because she could resist, but because she did not even understand that she no longer had a will of her own. Her consciousness was not that of a prisoner. It was that of a broken gear, still turning out of habit, without knowing that the machinery no longer exists.

The warehouse administrator moved. Her stride was straight, without ornament. She did not need to announce herself; they already knew she was coming. Her voice emerged as soon as she crossed the threshold of shadow.

—Half an hour—she said—. That is the maximum time to mobilize the teams. Fifty men. Two vehicles. One with a heavy machine gun. The other with missiles.

There was no need for more details. Sebastián barely nodded, as if that were enough to unleash death.

—We will use a BRDM-2 with a 14.5 mm KPV turret—she continued—and another BRDM-2 with an AT-3 Sagger module. Rapid attack. Route without exposure. Target: the central branch of the investment fund “Eterna Transpor S.A.” —she spat the name like someone naming a disease—. Façade. Inside operates directly the circle of Ivano C. Dirac.

Virka continued without blinking.

—The exact information—added the administrator—we do not have yet.

She turned her gaze. Her eyes settled on Juliana.

—But she has it.

The silence concentrated like a freshly opened wound. Then, without changing her tone:

—Do you mind if I resort to complete methods?

Virka did not answer. She only looked at her.

Narka, on her shoulder, spoke.

—Do what is necessary.

Sebastián did not turn his face. But his voice fell like stone.

—Do it without compassion.

The administrator did not smile. She only nodded, like someone receiving an order that was already being carried out.

—I will use her own cellphone—she said—. We will keep the façade active. No strange messages. No alerts. No one will know that she is already dead in life.

Virka walked until she stood in front of Juliana.

—It’s not personal—she told her, without any emotion—. But the one behind you... will be reduced to ashes.

Juliana did not understand.

That would also stop mattering.

From a distance, the first signs of the operation moved like aligned shadows. The city did not know it yet. But in less than an hour, entire parts of its illegal economy would be torn out by the roots.

And while the world began to turn with violence, at the center of the Crimson Empire... no one ran. No one feared. Because the order that sustained them... was the order of destruction.

Time did not move in a straight line. It folded. It tensed like a rope about to break while the warehouse administrator, already in motion, moved away from the shadow where Sebastián remained motionless. There was no ceremony. Only a minimal, precise gesture, when her thumb pressed the hidden earpiece and the order traveled through circuits that left no trace. The city kept breathing without knowing that, in that brief lapse, its pulse was being rewritten.

Two women came out of the pawnshop with steps that did not draw attention. Simple dresses, muted colors, the kind of presence the eye learns to ignore so as not to tire itself. Between the two of them they held Juliana the way one holds a fragile object that no longer reacts to touch. There was no resistance. Her useless hands hung for an instant before finding an чуж rhythm, and that rhythm dragged her toward the open door that swallowed her without sound. The administrator watched just enough to confirm the transfer and then turned away. On her face there was no satisfaction or haste; only the certainty that the sequence had begun. She said goodbye with a brief, exact nod to Sebastián, to Virka, to Narka, and to Valentina, like someone who leaves a piece in its place knowing she will not look at it again.

When the door closed, the air recovered its shape. The wind kept cutting between broken buildings, but it was no longer a knife; it was a clock. Outside remained the four of them, and time began to be measured by minimal details: the brush of Virka’s coat, the weight of Narka settling in, Valentina’s breathing, small and constant, clinging to the statue that held her.

Sebastián was the first to speak, not because it was urgent, but because his attention shifted toward the concrete. He crouched slightly to be at the girl’s height, making sure that his shadow did not cover her completely.

—Are you cold?

Valentina looked at him without letting go of the statue . Her voice was clear, without ornament.

—No. The statue is warm. It helps me not to tremble.

Sebastián said nothing more. He nodded once. In his mind, concern took the form of silent calculation: skin, pulse, breathing. Everything was still there.

Virka approached afterward. She did not bend down. She remained standing, but lowered her voice until the world fell far away.

—Are you tired?

Valentina averted her gaze for a few seconds before answering.

—A little. I’m getting sleepier than before.

Her words were simple, but not childish. She did not drag her vowels. She did not seek compassion. She only stated her condition with the calm of someone who became accustomed to watching everything from the ground.

Virka held her gaze a second longer than necessary, measuring the slow blink, the body that was yielding to accumulated weight. She did not touch the girl. She made no promises. Her concern was physical, concrete, without gentle words that might get in the way.

Narka spoke last. His voice did not fill the space; it ordered it. From Virka’s shoulder, he slightly inclined his head, seeking that the question would not be lost in concepts a child does not need.

—And inside... how do you feel?

Valentina did not answer immediately. She pointed to her chest with two fingers.

—It feels calmer. As if something heavy were no longer there.

Narka closed his eyes for an instant. He did not ask more. The answer had been sufficient and exact.

The clock kept moving forward. In the distance, without sirens or unnecessary lights, the vehicles arrived. Two large trucks, discreet, the kind that pass through secondary streets without arousing suspicion. Behind them, wrapped in night camouflage, the two BRDM-2s slid like animals that know their route. The 14.5 mm KPV turret remained still, disciplined; the AT-3 Sagger module promised nothing it could not deliver. Fifty men disembarked without superfluous noise. There were no speeches. Each one took his place as if the ground had already been waiting for them.

The administrator returned when everything was set. She carried no visible folders. She carried data.

—Twenty minutes—she said—. Complete information. Routes, schedules, blind spots. Everything confirmed.

She did not need to explain how. The sentence was enough to seal the final stretch.

Virka took a step forward.

—I’m leaving now.

It was not a farewell. It was a state. Narka then leapt, cleanly, onto Sebastián’s shoulder, adjusting his weight with the naturalness of one who chooses where to stay. Valentina lifted her gaze. Virka held it and, without saying anything, brushed her forehead with two fingers. A minimal gesture. A mute affirmation.

The administrator gave the final signal. The trucks moved first. The BRDM-2s followed them, shadows within shadows. Virka disappeared with them, without looking back. When the sound dissolved, Sebastián, Narka, and Valentina remained. And the wind, once again, became just wind. Time, once again, waited.

The platoon advanced like an idea no one had spoken aloud, but that was already irreversible.

In the formation, the logic was exact: a BRDM-2 at the front, loaded with the heavy 14.5 mm KPV turret.

Behind it, the two trucks.

Closing the rear, the second BRDM-2, wider, more contained, armed with the AT-3 Sagger missile module.

Inside it, the warehouse administrator, her gaze fixed on the digital map; atop the second truck, unmoving, Virka.

They did not speak. They did not need to.

The sound of the wheels over the cracked asphalt was enough: deep, continuous, like a drum marking the beginning of something that cannot be undone.

The city slept.

And the world, at that hour, did not know that in its darkest margins, order was beginning to change shape.

The streets were empty.

Perfect.

Traffic lights kept changing color for vehicles that did not exist.

The light from the streetlamps formed straight spasms over the matte skin of the camouflaged vehicles. 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

There were no witnesses.

There were no voices.

Only the movement of the inevitable.

It took exactly twenty-five minutes.

Not because the route was long.

But because every crossing was evaluated, every shadow observed, every second aligned with the tactical structure that, in silence, breathed from inside the rear BRDM-2.

When they approached the area near the branch of “Eterna Transpar S.A.”, the formation changed.

There were no visible signals.

Only a diversion that had been practiced hundreds of times in invisible schematics.

At the key intersection, the BRDM-2 with the heavy turret turned without hesitation toward a secondary route: the rear route of the building.

With it, the first truck also diverted.

A precise maneuver: attack separation to cover both flanks.

In front of the branch, only the direct entry line remained: the second truck, with Virka still seated on its roof, like a warning no one understood...

and the missile BRDM-2, where the administrator prepared the final order.

From a distance, the building did not seem dangerous.

A refined glass front, dim interior lights, automatic access doors, and two visible guards behind the glass.

Both standing.

Both armed.

Both ignorant of what was about to arrive.

The missile-equipped BRDM-2 stopped with mathematical precision.

The truck behind it braked without sound, as if the air had been compressed by the weight of what was about to happen.

And then, without delays, without a countdown, the administrator spoke.

Her voice, brief, laden with steel:

—Initiate.

The BRDM-2 launched its first volley.

There was no warning.

The impact pierced the glass as if it did not exist.

The refined façade of “Eterna Transpar S.A.” exploded inward in a tide of fire and fragments.

The first missiles destroyed the doors, the walls of the lobby, the structure that dressed the entrance in luxury.

The next ones tore through the air that had not yet settled, and fell inside.

Explosion.

Fragmentation.

Fire.

Noise.

Blood.

The guards died without knowing why.

The workers inside the hall were torn apart, knocked down, turned into shapeless bodies against curved desks and interior windows.

The floor was covered in blood before the second wave of missiles concluded.

From a distance, the echo of the fire was followed by the dull burst of gunshots.

The weapons of the survivors were useless.

Defense was a concept that no longer had any application.

At that instant, the side doors of the truck opened.

From its interior, twenty-five men descended.

Each one with semi-automatic rifles, black masks, and the silence of those who are not there to fight... but to finish something that has already begun.

They entered.

One after another.

Feet stepping on blood, debris, and fire.

They advanced among the remains of humanity without stopping, without hesitating, seeking living targets amid smoke and dust.

Virka descended last.

She did not run.

She did not need to.

She walked among shards of glass, opened bodies, and smoke.

Her eyes did not stray.

Chaos was a language she had spoken since before being born.

And with her inside, the building ceased to be a structure.

It became a field of nullification.

A trap that closed from within, with precision, with order, with authorized destruction.

The gunfire did not stop at any moment. Not as clean bursts, but as a continuous pressure that filled the air and made it thick. The lobby was no longer a place: it was an open throat through which the building expelled its last breath. Between shattered columns and crushed glass, people ran without direction, crashed into walls that no longer protected, hid behind desks that promised nothing. Fear moved faster than they did.

The assault group advanced without quickening their pace. Thirty men of the Crimson Empire, aligned by function and distance, covering angles as if the layout of the place were etched into their bones. They did not distinguish between expensive suits and tactical vests. That criterion had been left behind with the façade. Every figure that crossed their field was reduced with the same economy of movement. The sound of gunfire was not chaos; it was rhythm.

On the first floor, the offices still preserved the appearance of normality. Screens lit with frozen graphs, overturned cups, papers suspended in a gesture that was never completed. Armed men in suits tried to organize an improvised line between cubicles. It did not last. The response was immediate and final. The screams mixed with the dry echo of the weapons; then only the steady steps of those who kept advancing remained.

Virka entered behind the first line without seeking cover. She did not raise a weapon. She did not need one. When someone stepped in her way at less than a meter, her hand rose a single time, precise. The impact to the chin was enough to cut intention and movement; the body fell without added noise. There was no cruelty. There was efficiency. She kept walking.

The ascent to the second floor hardened the air. More men, better positions, different weapons. The building revealed its true nature as it was forced. The stairways became funnels of sound; the corridors, lines of pressure. At each secured section, the group reordered itself without words. Fifteen men closed in from the front. Five stayed behind, preventing any escape toward the lobby. From outside, the BRDM-2 with the heavy turret held the rear with sufficient presence to ensure no one tried to break it.

People kept running. Some tripped over bodies, others over their own urgency. It did not matter. The advance did not stop. The offices on the second floor fell one by one, and the number of fallen became a sum no one counted aloud. The building, designed to hide transactions, now displayed its human cost without filters.

The third floor received the group with a tense stillness. More cameras, more reinforced doors, more signs that the core was concentrated there. The perimeter was secured in minutes.

When the last room was opened and checked, the name that justified everything was not there. Ivano C. Dirac was not present.

The notification came through the communicator of one of the men beside Virka. The voice of the warehouse administrator cut through the noise with measured clarity. She reported without detours: Dirac had descended to the basement. There was the main drug warehouse, the largest export volume. The entrance was not visible from the front. It was accessed through the lower lobby, behind the rubble of the reception areas.

Virka did not ask for confirmation. She pivoted on the axis of the place and pointed out the route. The group responded with movement. They left behind the three visible floors, saturated with recent silence, and returned to the point where everything had begun. Beneath the remains of what had once been presentation and luxury, the descent awaited. And with it, the closure.

Virka moved the first block of concrete aside with her bare hands. Dust covered her forearms, but her fingers did not tremble. The debris yielded with a ease that did not belong to the logic of weight; it responded, as if it knew that what she sought was beneath. The men of the Crimson Empire surrounded her in silence, attentive to the sequence. One of them noticed the metal line among the rubble: a reinforced hatch, embedded between what once was design and now was only ruin.

—Armored hatch—said one.

—Explosives—ordered Virka.

Two soldiers advanced, carrying flat cylinders with controlled cautery cores. The metal surface vibrated with a muted tension. They placed the charges with precision over the junction of the hatch and the concrete, fixing them as if they were an extension of the structure. Everyone stepped back, step by step, to a safe distance. No one spoke. No one breathed heavily. Only the brief beep before ignition.

The explosion was not spectacular. It was effective. The hatch did not fly off: it sank, deformed, forced inward by heat and pressure, left bent like a badly broken bone. An irregular-edged hole was left open, exhaling smoke and something denser than smoke: a subterranean smell of blood, of chemicals, of fermented death.

Without wasting time, three stun grenades were thrown in rapid succession. A triple detonation shook the subsoil, accompanied by a tremor that ran through the invisible walls. Then, twenty men descended in formation, as if going down to the center of something that should never have been built. Virka waited until all of them entered before moving forward. The remaining ten stayed in the lobby, weapons raised, eyes fixed on the entrance and on any possibility.

The descent was not vertical, but it was tight. A narrow, reinforced corridor, with flickering yellow lights that had not been turned off. With each step, the air grew thicker. The floor, darker. The blood, more visible. These were no longer traces: they were pools. Edges of human organs brushed the walls. Some still steamed. Others were only shapeless pieces that clung to metal, to dust, to the footprints of those who stepped on them without stopping.

Virka walked without diverting her gaze. There was no disgust in her expression. Nor judgment. What she saw was the natural consequence of a rotten structure. Around her, the drug warehouse facilities appeared like industrial corpses: overturned machines, shattered tables, open bags spilling white powder stained red. Among them, bodies. Naked. Marked by bullets, knives, fractures. Some fallen over their own stations. Others pinned among the remnants of what had once been production. The stench covered everything. It was thick, damp, impossible to ignore.

And then, the gunfire returned. But this time it was not dry, it was not tactical. It came accompanied by screams. Voices of the Crimson Empire. Pain. Abrupt cuts. Echoes that did not return. Virka quickened her pace. The shadows went ahead of her.

When she reached the final stretch, the corridor opened into a wider chamber. And there, as if time had been manipulated, the scene froze.

Twenty bodies. All of them hers. All fallen. Some with their faces still tightened in surprise. Others broken. Others empty. None standing.

And in front of them, three figures. Intact.

Ivano C. Dirac stood at the center. His blond hair slicked back shone under the dirty light. A dark blue gala suit with black edges, fitted, elegant, without stains. Blue eyes, calm, clean face. He looked like an actor stepping off a set, not out of a massacre.

To his right, a man of the same height —1.70— white skin, straight hair, slender build. He wore a cyan nylon suit with white stripes, tight to the body as if it were part of him. He had no visible weapon. Only relaxed hands, eyes fixed.

To the left, the opposite: a body like living stone. Over 1.90 meters tall. Dark skin interrupted by white patches that spread like depigmented burns. Tattoos of black drops descended from his left eye to his jaw. His muscles seemed to breathe separately. The black nylon suit with gold edges did not cover the brutality of his form: it only contained it.

Virka stopped. No one spoke. No one moved. Only gazes collided, like ripples before impact.

And then, Ivano’s two companions stepped forward, one on each side, with slow, confident movements. Hands began to tense. Legs to open into a combat stance.

Ivano did not need to say anything.

Virka exhaled. Her hands lowered calmly, and when they rose again... the claws were there.

Not as a change.

But as a revelation.

__________________________________________

END OF Chapter 71

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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