The training days passed with surprising swiftness, similar to the time it takes to conceive a fleeting thought—perhaps a cherished family memory, an imaginary scenario, or maybe the reminiscence of a promise made years ago.

  Exactly two weeks had passed since Thamuz had fully immersed himself in the rigorous repetition of Vixkard's training methods. During this period, he counted on the invaluable assistance of his father to perfect his defense against the whip, significantly reducing the impact of the blows through meticulous muscle control. Simultaneously, he trained to refine this defensive technique against sound stimuli, trying to get his body to adapt to receiving and dissipating damage passively.

  The imposing bonkam stones that Tawnylon provided were reduced to mere rubble before the special blow that Thamuz had perfected. His method consisted first of attacking the rock in a conventional way to condition his hands, to later finish with a precise impact that caused disintegration from within the stone.

  As part of his routine, he participated in friendly combats with his progenitor, where he repeated techniques and elaborated strategies to incorporate them into his particular fighting style. Occasionally, these confrontations escalated to such an extent that Vixkard was forced to intervene to separate father and son.

  However, right at the beginning of the third week, a messenger sent by Armesto arrived at Vixkard's residence. The emissary carried a message of capital importance inscribed on a leather parchment.

  The persistent knocks of the messenger resonated from outside, while Thamuz and the others savored their food in the yard area. Vixkard perceived the sound and rose slowly, placing his plate on the ground before heading towards the entrance. Upon opening the door, he caught a peculiar fragrance: the characteristic aroma of someone who had undertaken a long journey with the sole purpose of reaching an assigned destination.

  "Are you a messenger, boy?" inquired Vixkard, trying to configure in his mind the silhouette of the newcomer.

  "Indeed, I bring a message for Mr. Tawnylon. I was directed exactly to this address," responded the young man, extending the parchment toward Vixkard. "Are you a relative of said gentleman?"

  "No, I am simply his mentor, but he is currently under my roof," explained Vixkard, extending his hand to receive the document. "I will take care of delivering it to him. Go replenish your strength, young man; it is evident that you have traveled a long way."

  The messenger nodded and turned on his heels, vanishing among the narrow streets of the vast city. Vixkard returned inside and closed the door behind him, holding the parchment firmly while trying to mentally visualize its possible content. His fingertips explored the rough surface of the material, detecting that it was not ordinary leather but Yhamak skin, his own skin.

  "I already know who this message is from," Vixkard declared firmly, heading toward where Thamuz and Tawnylon were resting.

  Thamuz laughed carelessly while savoring his food, as did his father. Both enjoyed the succulent meat of a formidable beast they had hunted together during their last expedition. That same creature had dealt a swipe across Thamuz's back due to his momentary distraction, but fortunately the wound had not been serious and was gradually healing thanks to the bandamenas water that Vixkard had offered him upon returning from the hunt.

  The two interrupted their feast when they noticed Vixkard settling beside them. His face reflected an expression of absolute seriousness as he raised his gaze, wordlessly communicating to Tawnylon and Thamuz that this was a matter of utmost importance.

  "Young Thamuz, I believe this parchment is specifically addressed to you," Vixkard announced with a solemn voice, placing the parchment in the center of the gathering as if it were a sentence.

  Tawnylon and Thamuz exchanged looks of bewilderment at the sudden gravity in Vixkard's behavior. However, upon examining the parchment more carefully, they immediately understood its true nature.

  "It took quite some time to arrive," commented Vixkard to himself, careful that the others didn't hear.

  With measured movements, Tawnylon unrolled the parchment, meticulously examining its contents. A small note detached from the document, falling gently to the ground. He picked it up hastily and discovered it had been written by Armesto. The message was forceful: "I'm sorry for not being able to find any information about this. Zarakel was really extremely careful in hiding the identity of Thamuz's next opponent."

  With this revelation, Tawnylon immediately confirmed the content of the parchment. With a resonant voice to ensure his son heard every word, he proclaimed:

  "By royal decree of the Eternal King Zarakel, tomorrow the activities of shamonak to death tournament will resume. Thamuz must face an opponent of mysterious character during the course of the day following the reception of this message."

  A sepulchral silence invaded the atmosphere. Thamuz abruptly raised his head upon hearing the mention of his name and the imminent resumption of the deadly shamonak combats.

  Vixkard, for his part, remained impassive, as if those words had not altered his composure in the slightest.

  "It seems we will have to leave today," declared Tawnylon while rolling up the parchment again with precise movements.

  "Yes, it seems so," replied Thamuz with a tone laden with melancholy, his thoughts visibly distant from the present.

  "Zarakel took too much time organizing this encounter," observed Vixkard thoughtfully, stroking his chin with a reflective gesture. "With all certainty it will be an extremely powerful adversary, someone whose identity he does not wish to reveal for fear that crucial information about their abilities might be obtained."

  "In that case," added Tawnylon with renewed determination in his gaze, "we have prepared Thamuz to face any opponent and emerge victorious. All these days of arduous training will finally be put to the test."

  But he was surprised by Vixkard's sudden approach, who moved stealthily to his ear, whispering just two words that remained inaudible to Thamuz. Those words, however, awakened a deep concern in Tawnylon, whose face transformed into a grimace of evident hopelessness.

  When Vixkard finally stepped away, Tawnylon rose slowly while Thamuz observed him bewildered. His father turned to him with a forced smile that attempted to hide his worry.

  "Son, do you know how to get home on your own?" he asked with a deliberately gentle tone.

  "Yes, I just need to take a carriage and indicate the direction to Armesto's house. Why do you ask?" inquired Thamuz, without disguising his confusion.

  "Vixkard has invited me to spend time at an establishment we used to frequent in my youth, so I will arrive late at night," explained Tawnylon, resting his hand on Thamuz's shoulder with a paternal gesture. "Besides, you must head to Armesto's mansion to properly prepare for tomorrow's combat. You will need to rest and reflect on the possible characteristics of your opponent."

  Tawnylon's explanation was convincing for Thamuz, who simply nodded and headed to his room to prepare for his departure. Meanwhile, Tawnylon remained motionless, observing Vixkard sideways, who maintained himself rigid like an ancestral statue. The empty sockets where his eyes once were seemed unfathomable abysses, capable of devouring light itself.

  Moments later, Thamuz emerged from the house, carrying a voluminous leather bag over his right shoulder while an elegant black coat completely enveloped his sturdy torso.

  "I'm ready to depart, father," announced Thamuz with determination. "I've also packed your clothes, since you mentioned you would arrive later."

  "That's fine, son. I'll accompany you to where the carriages await," responded Tawnylon, positioning himself beside Thamuz. "After that, you will continue on your own. By the way, say goodbye to Vixkard."

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  Thamuz nodded obediently and approached his master, who remained motionless as if he had been carved from ancient stone. His gaze seemed fixed on a point in the void, gradually becoming aware of Thamuz's presence only by the heat emanating from his body. Slowly, he turned his head to face him.

  "So, young Thamuz, has the moment finally arrived to resume your combats?" asked Vixkard with a slight laugh. "If so, I wish you a good journey. I hope to witness that long-awaited confrontation very closely."

  The last phrase was pronounced with a sarcastic laugh, characteristic of Vixkard, who habitually used his blindness as the target of his own jokes.

  "Yes, the time has come to depart," responded Thamuz, bending slightly to be at the level of his master's face. "I deeply thank you for hosting us and sharing all your knowledge. I will always remember you with great affection."

  With these words, Thamuz extended his hand to shake that of his mentor, but Vixkard, instead of responding to the gesture, raised his fist, closing it firmly.

  "This is how we greeted each other in my time; shaking hands has never been completely to my liking," commented Vixkard with a bit of nostalgia.

  Thamuz immediately understood his master's intention and closed his own fist, bumping it against Vixkard's. Then he slowly straightened up and looked at his father with determination.

  "Well, it's time for me to leave, father," declared Thamuz with a firm voice.

  Tawnylon nodded and began to walk alongside his son, casting a fleeting glance at Vixkard, who returned that look with the same icy intensity he had shown before. It was evident that both harbored numerous secrets they wished to share at that moment.

  Both left the house and traversed the bustling streets crowded with people busy with their daily tasks or simply strolling to clear their minds. Some seemed to have received news about the resumption of the shamonak tournament, as they animatedly murmured about who might be the next contender.

  Finally, Thamuz and Tawnylon arrived at the place where the carriage drivers rested. They were seated on rustic wooden chairs or leaning against the walls, tasting pieces of dried meat they extracted from their leather bags. Meanwhile, their imposing beasts of burden fed from enormous bowls overflowing with food, a necessity derived from their extraordinary speed and their colossal muscle mass, which required an abundant consumption of proteins to maintain their strength and constitution.

  Among the multitude of drivers, Tawnylon recognized an old acquaintance: Tarik. They had met in his youth, when Tarik was just starting in the transport profession and Tawnylon used his services to reach his first official shamonak combats. During those journeys, they used to converse and exchange daily experiences, gradually forging a friendship that extended to various food and drink establishments where they deepened their relationship.

  "Tarik!" Tawnylon's powerful voice resonated in the environment. "Old friend!"

  Tarik was smoking a small aromatic leaf that he had discovered during his various travels. Upon hearing his name, he immediately raised his gaze and, recognizing Tawnylon, his face lit up with genuine joy.

  "Tawnylon, old comrade!" exclaimed Tarik, advancing toward him with extended arms. "How long it's been since I've seen you!"

  Both merged in a fraternal embrace so vigorous that it seemed to make the ground beneath their feet tremble. Upon separating, they exchanged affectionate pats on the back, as their old custom dictated.

  "Tell me, what has brought you back to the city?" asked Tarik while extracting another leaf from his pocket to light it with parsimony.

  "Do you remember Zarakel? Surely you do. We trained together under the tutelage of master Vixkard. Well, now that he wears the crown, he has believed himself entitled to burst into our settlement to intimidate us. He has even forced us to participate in a tournament, designating my son as our representative," explained Tawnylon while pointing to Thamuz with a proud gesture.

  Tarik diverted his gaze to where his friend was indicating and contemplated the imposing figure of Thamuz. His initial surprise manifested in a slight start, impressed by the peculiar appearance and the extraordinary height of the young man.

  "Greetings, sir," pronounced Thamuz with his characteristic deep voice.

  "Hello, son of Tawnylon," responded Tarik, visibly intimidated by his presence. "There certainly is a resemblance to you, although... does he suffer from some condition of the skin?"

  "No, he has been this way since birth. He may seem different from us, but I assure you he is like anyone else," explained Tawnylon, sketching an amused smile at the evident confusion of his friend.

  "If you say so, it's fine. It's simply my first time observing someone with such characteristics. It's truly amazing to witness something new," commented Tarik, trying to regain his composure. "Anyway, how can I serve you?"

  "I wanted to ask you the favor of transporting my son to Armesto's residence," requested Tawnylon, pointing toward the east where a majestic mansion stood on a distant hill. "It's that one visible on that elevation."

  "Yes, I know it perfectly. Occasionally I have made journeys there, and Armesto himself has invited me to share his table and enjoy his hospitality," explained Tarik. "In that case, it would be two green pamtan for both."

  "I will not accompany you; only my son will make the journey," clarified Tawnylon. "I will remain in the city until nightfall."

  "Understood. If that's the case, we will depart immediately," announced Tarik, heading toward his carriage with determined steps.

  Before Thamuz could follow Tarik, Tawnylon detained him by firmly gripping his arm.

  "Stay alert during the journey, son. When you arrive at Armesto's residence, inform your mother that I will remain in the city for a few hours so she doesn't worry about me. Therefore..." Tawnylon drew Thamuz closer to himself and enveloped him in a strong embrace. "Never forget how much I love you, no matter what may happen."

  These words were unusually emotional for Thamuz. His father, although affectionate and kind at times, rarely manifested his feelings with such intensity. Physical demonstrations of affection had been scarce since his early childhood, limited mainly to when Tawnylon had to carry him as a baby or during his first months of life. However, he did not give it greater relevance, interpreting it simply as a spontaneous gesture of paternal affection.

  Tawnylon gradually loosened his embrace and with a gesture indicated to Thamuz that he should proceed on his way. He raised his hand in a sign of farewell while watching how Tarik and his son moved away in the carriage until becoming a tiny point on the horizon.

  Exhaling a slight sigh, Tawnylon raised his gaze toward the firmament. The sunlight, tinted with an intense blue, announced the proximity of twilight. Time seemed to pass swiftly with each step he took back to the house. Occasionally, he chose to traverse narrow alleys or visit places he had frequented in the past, all with the purpose of consuming time while trying to formulate a response to the unknown that disturbed his mind: those enigmatic words whispered by Vixkard.

  The endless walk was beginning to annoy him, while anxiety gradually increased within him. He could no longer retract and simply return to his home, burying that doubt. He was obligated to go to the agreed place with Vixkard, whether by his own determination or as a means to help those who would face coming challenges.

  Organizing his thoughts, Tawnylon headed toward the liquor establishment where he had agreed to meet Vixkard. He traversed sinuous alleys, involuntarily causing the startlement of some citizens who casually crossed paths with his imposing figure.

  Finally, he spotted a sign illuminated by torches placed on both sides, revealing the nature of the place: a tavern of modest dimensions but spacious, so ancient that it had been inherited through four generations. Considering that male yhamak could live between two hundred and three hundred years under favorable conditions, it was possible to imagine the venerable antiquity of the establishment.

  Tawnylon contemplated the sign with bright eyes, feeling a cold sweat that was not caused by the heat, but by the vision of who was inside: Vixkard, seated on a wooden bench while holding a bowl with his right hand and what appeared to be a document with his left.

  Meanwhile, Vixkard took a measured sip from his bowl, savoring with delight and making subtle movements with his mouth to capture all the nuances of the beverage. His senses, sharpened by the absence of vision, perceived the approach of heavy footsteps and the imposing presence that settled beside him, emanating an extraordinary heat.

  "I suppose you must be Tawnylon, right?" inquired Vixkard, maintaining his face oriented toward the front, as if contemplating an invisible horizon.

  "Yes, it's me, Vixkard..." Tawnylon's words flowed laden with resentment, as if each syllable were impregnated with poison.

  "You have delayed considerably," commented Vixkard, bringing the bowl again to his lips to taste another sip. "Come, order whatever you wish, it's on me."

  Tawnylon observed him sideways, with a mixture of contempt and indignation in his gaze, before fixing his attention to the front again.

  "You know perfectly well that I am immune to the effects of those drinks, so you will not manage to cloud my judgment during our conversation," declared Tawnylon with a deep and severe voice.

  "Certainly, you cannot become inebriated, but I can..." the last word escaped from Vixkard's lips almost like a heart-rending lament.

  "Start talking, old man. Every instant I remain here is valuable time I lose to adequately prepare Thamuz," protested Tawnylon, grinding his teeth with evident frustration.

  "What matter do you wish to discuss? I imagined we would simply enjoy a pleasant moment between a master and his former disciple," responded Vixkard, attempting to elude the true purpose of the meeting.

  "Don't play dumb, damn old man! You know perfectly well the reason! I'm referring to those two words you whispered in my ear and that have been devouring my mind incessantly!" exclaimed Tawnylon with such vehemence that the others present in the establishment were startled.

  "Ah, yes, of course, those two words. Perhaps you refer to..." there was a brief but tense pause before Vixkard completely turned his head to expose his empty eye sockets, deep as unfathomable abysses, directly toward Tawnylon, "my promise?"

  "Exactly, that promise, old man," confirmed Tawnylon, gradually regaining his composure.

  "Ah, certainly, my promise," murmured Vixkard, returning his attention to the bowl he held between his weathered hands. "The promise that I would only return to this city if I managed to find an exceptionally powerful adversary... who would take my life in a shamonak combat."