The field remained in silence, but not for lack of life. It was a dense, mechanical silence, made of sensors that had not yet activated, of structures that awaited the order to mutate. The sea mist crawled along the edges of the Ring as if it wished to witness what was coming, without having permission to intervene. The waves struck with irregular rhythm against the bases of the complex, without disturbing the inner stillness. The wind was no longer a spectator: it now became part of the training.

In front of the group of students, the instructor raised a hand. Without uttering a word, a lateral compartment emerged from the ground with a compressed hum. Hydraulic racks began to rise in sequence, each one holding a practice ARMEX suit. The biomechanical plates reflected the gray light of the sky with a faint glow, as if they contained a storm still asleep. They were limited versions, yes… but they were still dangerous. Beside them, a module projected in the air the calibration temperature, the assigned cores, the initial energy levels. Everything was ready, but not for everyone.

The instructor turned with measured precision. His eyes searched for Sebastián and Virka among the ten aligned bodies.

—You two, not yet.

His voice held no judgment nor superior tone. It was pure instruction, without varnish. Sebastián held his gaze. Virka did not move. The man took two steps forward and stopped in front of them.

—Before entering ARMEX, you need the base protection. The black uniform. You'll find it in the outer changing room, south container. To the left of the hydraulic wall. You will have privacy. Five minutes.

Virka nodded. Sebastián did too. The instructor did not wait further. He turned and returned to the group.

Without needing comment, the two began to walk. The floor beneath their feet was metallic, firm, but vibrated with the tension of living machinery. With each step, the wind licked the edges of their bodies with salty, rough air, loaded with expectation. The distance to the changing room was short, but the atmosphere stretched as if the path were deeper than long.

To one side of the field, between hydraulic pillars, a rectangular structure of dark steel emerged like a forgotten capsule. It had no windows. Only a door without signal, without mark, without voice. As they approached, a pulse reader emitted a blue flash. It recognized their presence. It opened.

Inside, the air changed. It was dry, warmer, sealed. A single lamp hung from the ceiling, projecting light over a metallic bench. On the sides, two open compartments contained the folded uniforms, marked with their names. The rest of the place was empty: no mirrors, no ornaments, no sounds.

They said nothing. They only looked at each other.

First they removed the upper part of their clothes. Then the rest. There was no modesty nor exhibition. It wasn't about showing. It was about not hiding. Their bodies were not forbidden territory, but testimony of what had been lived. Sebastián, with his dark skin marked by scars, tense lines of functional muscle, broad shoulders, firm neck, a torso shaped by pain and discipline. Virka, with her white, sharp silhouette, like a sculpture born from vertigo. Her hair fell like liquid shadow over her back. Her eyes, red like the origin, did not blink.

For an instant, time compressed between them.

Sebastián looked at her. Virka did not avert her gaze.

Their naked bodies were not object, but language. And in that silent idiom, they took a step.

The kiss was not soft. Nor was it clumsy. It was the kind of contact that does not ask for permission, but does not demand either. Their lips sought each other without haste, but without hesitation. The metal beneath their feet no longer mattered. The walls disappeared. Their hands rose. Touched cheeks, brushed napes, traced the border between breath and desire. They did not cross the line. They did not need to. The tremor was in the center of the chest, not in the pelvis. What burned was not skin, but history. It was that point where two wills recognize each other as equals, without surrendering, without dominating, without justifying themselves.

When they separated, there was no apology. Only a long exhale. And then… movement.

They took the uniforms. The fabric was dark, fitted, composed of fibers that regulated temperature and resisted friction without losing sensitivity. Sebastián dressed with precision. Each piece adhered to his body as if it had been waiting for him. The uniform did not hide him: it revealed him. The functional musculature, the abdomen divided by marks of ancient tension, the arms designed to endure. On him, the garment was armor of silence.

Virka put on hers with fluidity. The suit embraced her curves with dangerous elegance. The fabric clung to her back like secondary skin. From the shoulders to the hips, everything in her was controlled definition. There was no artificial sensuality. Only beauty as threat. As certainty.

When they finished, they looked at each other once more. They were no longer the same.

The door opened.

The air of the field received them with a colder gust. The sea roared in the distance. The sky had not changed, but the world had. They were no longer at the edge. They had crossed a threshold that had no return.

They walked back to the core of the Ring.

They did not speak.

And although they had not yet crossed the first trap, both knew that the first blow of the day… had already happened.

The field's air was still there, firm and salty, without comfort. When the changing room hatch closed behind them, Sebastián and Virka emerged again beneath the leaden sky, dressed in the dark uniform that sealed their entry into a world that no longer had room for return. They walked without urgency, but without pause. The sound of their footsteps echoed differently: not because of weight, but because of meaning. They were the same bodies. But they were no longer the same.

Before them, the core of the field had shifted. The Ring was not yet activated, but the scene was no longer the one they had left. The ten students were aligned, like a row of bodies ready to cross invisible thresholds. Each already wore their practice ARMEX, and the sight of that assembled group projected an image that required no words: they were not there to learn… they were there to survive.

The first face that caught them was hers.

The young woman with fire-red hair stood upright like a sheathed weapon. Her body, contained in the glossy black suit with silver and orange details, looked like a sculpture loaded with dynamite. The biomechanical segments traced routes of active energy across her abdomen, thighs, and spine, as if fury were waiting for its moment to rise. Her average height did not diminish her presence; on the contrary, it concentrated it. Her golden eyes, open like embers that did not seek to illuminate but to warn. And at the center of her figure: a perfect balance between desire and destruction. The ARMEX did not cover her. It emphasized her.

To her left, the young man with the high bun stayed slightly crouched, observing the field as if he were still reading it. His navy-blue ARMEX with golden details was more sober, but no less lethal. The energy lines bordered his arms and legs with a constant pulse, as if responding to a rhythm only he could hear. His posture was relaxed but not vulnerable. Fair skin, clean face, no wounds, no visible scars. His brown eyes did not challenge, but recorded. He did not seem to be preparing for a battle, but for a dance.

The other students —eight more figures— completed the semicircle with unique suits, designed to adapt to their bodies, to their ways of moving, to their possible limits. There was one in gray tones with reinforced joints; another, dark green, segmented as if it belonged to a terrestrial predator; another, violet with scattered lines that vibrated along the shoulders and sides; even one with opalescent reflections, as if its wearer wished to blend with the environment. None were identical. None looked improvised.

When Sebastián and Virka crossed the final line between themselves and the field's core, all gazes turned. Some simply recognized them. Others measured them. But the red-haired young woman's gaze remained fixed. Not as a threat… but as a declaration. The young man with the bun tilted his head, with a slight smile that did not seek sympathy, but confirmation. The air between them all was tense, but not aggressive. Not yet. The first real hatch had not yet opened.

The instructor waited for them. Motionless. Standing, arms crossed. There was neither haste nor patience in him. Only constant evaluation. When they were three steps away, he spoke.

—You do not have ARMEX yet —he said. It was not a question.

He shifted his gaze to his right. There, on a more distant rack, hung the last unassigned suits. Four in total. Two still sealed. Two open and waiting.

—Choose —he said, without adding more.

Sebastián stepped forward first. His steps were firm, exact, as if he were not searching… but knowing. He stopped before a dark-designed ARMEX, with deep lines in opaque red, without bright details, without flourishes. The active energy was centered on the chest and thighs, as if it channeled everything into the central core. He touched the rack. The suit responded. A low hum, almost a sigh. Acceptance.

Virka did not rush. She approached another rack. Hers was narrower in design, with smoother joints, with energy plates running down the spine and sides like a second skin. The base color was matte black, but upon touching it, the violet streaks began to light up, as if breathing with her. There was no useless shine. Only controlled tension.

The others watched. No one spoke.

The instructor nodded once. No more. No less.

—Prepare yourselves —he said. His voice was lower than before, but firmer.

The wind slipped between the bodies like a warning. In the distance, the outer towers of the Ring emitted a first flash. It was not full activation. It was the system becoming aware.

The field was no longer waiting.

And although the game had not begun… the game had already chosen its pieces.

The sky did not change. It did not need to. The gravity of the moment required no lightning or roars. Stillness was enough. The twelve stood in formation, aligned with the precision of something that had not been rehearsed but imposed by the atmosphere. All wore their activated ARMEX. The metal breathed over their bodies. The biomechanical lines pulsed with dormant energy, like nerves waiting for a signal to explode. There was no gesture that did not seem observed by a thousand invisible eyes. Every posture contained its own world. The air was not air. It was tension. It was antechamber.

The field had not yet opened, but it was already awake. The sea did not speak. It only observed, silent and deep. The wind licked the plates of the ground with intention. The hatches remained sealed, but the world knew they were about to give way.

The instructor advanced until he stood at the exact center. Not one step more, not one less. The sun did not touch him. No one moved. No one spoke. His presence was sharper than any announcement.

What came next was not a welcome.

—Rakzar is not a game. Nor is it training. This is selection.

Here there are no teams. No saviors. No safety net.

Twelve enter. One can win. All the others… learn.

He did not shout. He did not whisper. He simply said what it was. And that form was more cruel than any warning.

—The first test is synchronization and endurance. There are no simulators. No warnings. A reduced circuit of the Ring will activate. Point A to point B. The first to arrive… earns the point.

Pause.

—Those who are broken, expelled, or incapable… will be marked.

Not a word more. The lateral hatches slid to the sides with a dry sound, more mechanical than hydraulic. Inside, a narrow corridor was revealed, bordered by dark platforms, each marked with engravings that did not shine but were alive. The twelve began to advance without additional instructions. It was the kind of order that did not need to be spoken to be followed.

Inside, the field was something else. Not a space. A being. A sleeping creature that knew it would soon feed. The floor had symmetrical cracks, but not broken: they were closed mouths. Towers rose like teeth waiting to turn. Every surface emitted a dull pulse. The walls were not boundaries. They were contained threats.

Upon crossing an invisible line marked by buried sensors, all ARMEX suits responded. Their internal cores activated with calibrated hums. Artificial energy began to circulate. The suits adapted to each body: regulated pressure, reinforcement on key zones, feed to balance and reaction systems. Each student felt the rise of their capabilities like an internal tide that could not be ignored.

Except one.

Sebastián.

It was not immediate. It was not obvious. But the moment the ARMEX core's energy tried to flow through his inner channels, something else awoke. Not by accident. Not by error. By will.

The Inverted Origin Core reacted.

It did not reject the new energy. It wanted it. Not like a host recognizing an intruder… but like a predator smelling different flesh.

The absorption began as a barely perceptible pulse, a subtle inhalation. Then, it became hunger. The ARMEX's energy lines, which were supposed to feed him, began to be sucked in. Not converted, not redirected. Absorbed.

Sebastián felt it in his chest. An inverse pressure. It was not pain. It was imbalance. The suit lost strength. Biomechanical segments shut down for milliseconds. His right leg did not respond at the same rhythm. His left arm vibrated without cause. Inside, the core's voice did not speak. But its intention was clear.

I want that.

The artificial energy had something that excited it. It was processed, distilled, loaded with structures that no aura, nor Qi, nor mana had ever offered. It was functional energy. With purpose. And the core… wanted to redefine it.

Sebastián closed his eyes. Just for an instant. He could not release it. He could not dominate it. Only contain it. Negotiate with a beast that did not reason, but did understand. The containment was an act of will without scream. Internal. Like closing a door without a handle. He did not stop it completely. But he made it yield.

The ARMEX recovered part of its flow. But it remained unstable. Some sections did not respond with precision. His balance was compromised. It was a disadvantage. A real one.

At his side, Virka noticed.

She did not help him.

She only looked at him.

Sebastián felt her gaze sink into him like a needle without edge. It did not cut. It did not heal. It simply existed. Constant. She held no pity. No doubt. And in that absence of help… he understood.

Not even she thought of stopping. That… was respect.

A red light began to spin atop the central tower. Not fast. Not urgent. Just inexorable. A deep sound expanded like a slow, mechanical roar. It was not alarm. It was beginning.

The field activated.

The platforms vibrated. Towers tilted. Traps unfolded. The Ring waited no more. The surface beneath their feet ceased to be ground: now it was a test.

The twelve began to run.

Some like arrows, others like shadows. One stumbled. Another surged ahead. The energy lines traced invisible routes that changed without warning. The ground opened in segments that sought to catch ankles. A trap emerged from the wall, projecting a rotating barrier that demanded calculation or pain.

Sebastián moved with less precision. His body was functional. But his suit wasn't. Every impulse had to be compensated with real strength. His right arm, instead of obeying the system's direction, responded to his trained musculature. There was no perfect synchrony. Only effort.

Even so, he did not stop.

Virka slid through obstacles as if she already knew them. Her ARMEX vibrated with her, not on her. Every turn, every impulse, was anticipated. It wasn't a race. It was a dance with metal.

The others fought against the field, against themselves, against the idea of failing.

The instructor did not move. He watched from above. He recorded without writing. His gaze was sharper than any trap.

At the far end of the Ring, the finish line was still not visible. Only a blue light blinked in the distance, like a distant promise.

But Rakzar was no longer a promise.

It was now.

It was flesh.

It was decision.

And though not all knew it yet…

it had already begun choosing whom it would allow to pass.

____________________

END OF CHAPTER 55

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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