Dos hombres descendieron por un pasillo estrecho y húmedo tallado directamente en la piedra, como si la tierra misma se hubiera rendido a la voluntad de los alquimistas. El aire era espeso, saturado con el hedor ácido de la carne podrida, tan fuerte que incluso los hechizos de purificación apenas lo mantenían a raya.
Ambos llevaban equipo de protección: túnicas reforzadas con encantamientos antisépticos, guantes de cuero empapados en ungüentos selladores y máscaras de metal negro con filtros de esporas encantadas. Caminaron en silencio durante largos trechos, hasta que uno de ellos rompió el silencio con una voz seca y casi mecánica.
—Este lote tenía 250 ejemplares —dijo, anotando algo en un libro de contabilidad entintado en rojo—. Parece que ninguno sobrevivió.
—Espera... Mira ahí. Ese es el espécimen 26... Todavía se está moviendo.
Se acercaron a una de las celdas del lado derecho del pasillo. La puerta de vidrio opaco mostraba sombras tenues y temblorosas. Al abrirlo, se pudo ver una pequeña figura acurrucada en harapos sucios, enroscada sobre sí misma como una larva olvidada. Un niño. No más de seis años. La piel se estiraba sobre el hueso, el pelo negro enmarañado y enmarañado de mugre y los labios tan secos y agrietados que parecían haber olvidado cómo formar palabras.
—En ese estado, no durará toda la noche —concluyó el segundo hombre, completamente desprovisto de emoción—. Vamos a ver qué queda de él mañana.
—Otro fracaso... ¡Qué desperdicio!
Cierran la puerta de la celda sin mirarla de nuevo, como si precintaran un contenedor de residuos. Como si lo que había dentro no fuera una vida, sino un número fallido en un experimento fallido.
El espécimen 26 no lloró. No pudo. Llorar era un lujo que su alma había perdido hacía mucho tiempo, días atrás... ¿Semanas? Meses, tal vez. El tiempo era un rumor lejano en aquel infierno sin cielo. Todo su cuerpo ardía, como si se hubiera vertido fuego fundido en sus venas.
Y eso no estaba lejos de la verdad.
Le habían inyectado Acero Sangriento, convirtiendo con éxito la piedra mágicamente sólida en un líquido diseñado para fluir como la sangre. El objetivo: reemplazar completamente su sistema circulatorio. Un experimento de fusión. Una monstruosidad.
El niño no lo entendió. No sabía por qué lo estaban torturando. Todo lo que sabía era que cada latido de su corazón era una agonía, cada respiración una batalla, y que su cuerpo se negaba a morir... a pesar de que su alma ya se había rendido.
Y entonces, lo vio. O creía que lo hacía.
Un rostro se formó en la oscuridad ante él. Una máscara de humo con ojos como carbones encendidos y cuernos curvos como una cabra olvidada por los dioses. Su sonrisa no era maliciosa. Era peor. Estaba interesado.
—¿Tienes miedo, pequeña? —preguntó la criatura, con la voz de un piano fúnebre, desafinada y fuera de tiempo.
El chico no respondió. No pudo. Pero tampoco pestañeó.
¿Asustado? Después de todo... El miedo a una alucinación parecía ridículo. La muerte ya no le asustaba. Simplemente parecía... tarde.
El demonio inclinó la cabeza, intrigado.
—Me gustas, chico —ronroneó, como si el trato ya estuviera hecho—. Haz un pacto conmigo y te daré un poder que ningún ser humano debería ejercer.
El chico lo miró. Sin lágrimas. No hay esperanza. Solo resuelve.
Y parpadeó. Una vez. Aceptación.
Luego vinieron las risas.
Una risa macabra. Como el eco de una campana agrietada que repica en lo más profundo de la médula del alma. No se escuchó en el coliseo. No fue físico. Estalló desde el centro de la conciencia de Dren, perforando capas de realidad y sacudiendo su mente, aún atrapada dentro del Mundo Espejo de Narel.
Dren gruñó para sus adentros, luchando contra el vértigo. Reconoció esa risa. Lo sabía bien.
—Not now… —he growled silently, gritting his teeth while the world spun around him—. Can't you see I'm busy?
The voice answered, sly and echoing from the bottom of his mind:
—Busy, yes… also losing.
—Then lend a hand, will you?
—Of course I will… —the demon's voice turned syrupy, almost affectionate, but laced with a razor's edge—. My avatar cannot be humiliated like this. Not without interference. However… —it paused, savoring the words— your brain is still physical. As long as it is, you'll be vulnerable to his illusions.
The world cracked around Dren.His senses, once deadly weapons, had become burdens.Vertigo consumed him. His feet no longer knew what plane they stood on. His perception collapsed like sandcastles in a storm.
—But I… I am not physical.Give me control of your body… and I'll end this fight.
Dren didn't answer right away.He knew exactly what that meant.He knew who was speaking.And the price of letting it out.
—Not yet —he replied firmly.
The demon laughed again. Softer now. Slower.As if… evaluating him.
—Right… I don't plan to steal your body. Not yet.But I can give you my power.A heavy silence followed, as if the universe itself held its breath.
—Though you know what that entails…Every second you use my strength, it will grow… and so will the price.To fuel my power… —the voice deepened— I'll consume the Bloodsteel flowing through your veins.
Dren closed his eyes for a moment.He knew exactly what that meant.If the Bloodsteel was used up… if it was entirely consumed… it would be no different than bleeding to death.
—Then —he said, calm and defiant— you'd better finish this fight before I die.
The demon roared with laughter inside his mind. Not mockery. Delight.A sadistic, ecstatic thrill.
—HAHAHAHA! I like you, kid. I like you a lot.Let's make history.
And then, something broke inside Dren.A seal.A binding.A barrier he had kept buried deep, locked tight within the most secret parts of himself.And the darkness… responded.
—Narel… that spell didn't work —Baku admitted, unusually serious—. We'll need to change dreams.
Narel swallowed hard.The Realm of Baku, his illusory domain, was a prison of dreams—a sanctuary where the laws of reality could be rewritten with the ink of imagination. He could seal enemies, bend physics, manifest nightmares… but there was one immutable condition: he could only materialize what his opponent had seen, feared, or imagined.
And Narel… knew nothing about the monster in front of him.
—I'm out of options —he muttered with frustration—. I've only seen him use gravity magic in the tournament. No memories, no fears, no history…
—Kid —Baku growled with annoyance— do you enjoy making things difficult for me?
—You're the one who bragged about not losing!
—And I won't lose to some rage-addicted muscle brute!
But the dark knight didn't wait for them to finish.He moved.And this time… he wasn't fast. He was everywhere.
A barrage of blows rained down upon the Realm of Baku. Not one punch. Dozens.Each one carried enough force to collapse a mountain.Narel, ethereal as he was, wasn't hit directly… but the dream-world was.
Each impact warped the space like molten glass. The mist-walls trembled. The sky above the dream cracked. The reality of the domain was being pushed to its absolute limits.
—This is bad… —Baku said, for the first time sounding afraid—. If his power keeps growing, he'll shatter this world. In a single blow.
—Then we need to finish this now —Narel responded, gritting his teeth.
He closed his eyes and projected the next dream.
Figures emerged from the ground. Warriors—replicas of the dark knight, each with his same appearance and strength—designed to face him in his own language: brute force. They attacked without mercy, mirroring his speed and savage style.
But the colossus tore through them like a hurricane through dry branches.Each strike reduced them to crystal dust.
And then… the ashes lingered.
The dust coiled, and from it sprung chains.At first thin and delicate. Then thick. Heavy.Forged from the same cursed metal as the dark knight's armor.Every fallen warrior became a new link.Chains wrapped around the knight's limbs, coiled around his chest, shackled his ankles with ethereal shackles.
The demon roared in fury.
Narel extended his hand, and from thin air, a black sword appeared. Not ordinary steel—it was his will made blade. A weapon forged of the same metal as the knight's armor. A sharpened idea.
The sword multiplied. A dozen. Then more.The sky filled with mirrored blades poised to strike.
And they fell. All at once.CRASH!
But the knight didn't fall.His horned helmet flared like a burning coal. A shockwave of power burst from his body. The chains shattered. The blades snapped on impact.
And standing amidst the floating wreckage of an illusionary army…The knight was stronger than ever.
Narel stepped back.His face—normally detached—now held something unfamiliar: genuine worry.
—No… it can't be —he murmured—. Every time we bind him… he grows stronger.
The knight vanished.A blink.
And reappeared.Right in front of Narel.
The blow was devastating.
It didn't land directly.But the shockwave was so intense it stretched the membrane of Baku's Realm like a balloon on the verge of bursting. Everything groaned.The air sliced like razors.The light fractured like glass.
And Narel…
Coughed up blood.
—NAREL! —shouted Baku, materializing at his side—. Are you okay?!
Narel didn't answer.He was on his knees, gasping.He could feel his intangible body beginning to suffer under the dimensional stress.If the Realm of Baku broke… he would be dragged down with it.
And the dark knight… the demon bound to Dren's will… understood it.
He didn't need to land a clean hit.
He just had to break the world.
And he would win.
To be continued…