⚠️ WARNING ⚠️
🩸 The following chapter may contain graphic and violent
images and descriptions. 🔪 The author does not intend
to be morbid with any of this. 📖 Everything narrated
in this story is fiction. 🕯️ Reader discretion is advised.
📝 AUTHOR'S NOTE 📝
⏳ I had planned to release this chapter two days after
the previous one, 📅 but I ran into a couple of problems.
Here it is now. ⚙️
💪 Come on, I'm still working on the first chapter, so
please be patient with me. 🙏
📌 Once the chapter is ready, I'll let you know which
chapter it is, and I'll also invite you to check out the 📚
remastering of chapter one, which is necessary ✨ to
make a few adjustments to the story 🧩 that's already
unfolding.
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What is silence to you? Not in definition, but in essence.
For an ordinary person, it is the absence of sound, the
lack of echoes. For others, it is the space where nothing
seems to breathe, where one perceives what is unsaid,
what goes unheard.
But for those streets, silence also meant waiting.
Waiting for something on the verge of awakening.
And the silence could be heard in the streets of Baixa,
in Lisbon, like a presence stretching between the
old buildings, under the still light of the streetlamps.
A police officer made his nightly rounds, moving with the
calm of someone who believes they know the city.
There was nothing out of place yet. Nothing that could
justify the unease building in the air.
Then the silence received the steps.
Thundering. Firm.
A couple of blocks away, the officer caught sight of a figure
running. A young woman, hurried, too fast to be out
for a simple evening walk.
But he didn't alarm himself immediately. Lisbon
was full of strange people at certain hours: drunks,
petty criminals, emergencies that weren't his concern.
Until the silence broke.
Suddenly, he heard a horrible commotion on a nearby
avenue. A sharp, out-of-place sound that split the night
like glass.
He quickened his pace when he heard the screams of
a terrified woman.
When he looked up, he froze at the scene.
A huge, Afro-descendant woman was climbing the
windows. The officer ordered her down, but she didn't
obey.
At first, he thought it was a drunken spectacle. Something
absurd, a passing madness.
But then the woman smashed a window with her hands.
The officer was stunned by that brutal strength.
He shouted at her to come down again, but it was useless.
The young woman entered the apartment as if nothing could
stop her.
The officer ran toward the building in desperation. He
ordered the neighbors on the first floor to close their doors.
He asked the open businesses to shut immediately; he
didn't know if it was a crime, a murderer… or something
worse.
The officer went through the first floor urgently, telling
everyone to close doors and windows.
He shouted to those on the second floor not to go out,
not to open anything under any circumstance.
He evacuated the first families closest to the apartment
where the young woman had entered, as if a few meters
could make the difference between life and death.
He watched the facade carefully, the broken window, the
strange silence that still lingered above.
The first thing he did was grab the radio in his hand
to report it to the station.
However, he didn't even have time to type.
Then he saw patrol cars approaching right toward that place.
He hadn't even brought the radio to his mouth when the
lights already swept across the avenue.
From Alfama, they reported a violent escape from the
station.
A prisoner had brutally attacked four officers during the
transfer.
She had no identification, no clear record, and the report
listed her as a suspect in terrorist activities.
They requested an urgent location.
The officer provided it without hesitation: she had gone
up the building.
Reinforcements took only minutes to decide how to enter.
But they had to act quickly before it was too late.
The report was explicit: the fugitive was hostile,
unrestrained.
No one understood how she had managed to break a cell
welded to the wall.
Fear grew when permission was granted to fire if necessary.
Suddenly, the entire building began to shake.
The neighbors thought it was an earthquake.
Others suspected explosives, an improvised attack, because
it made no sense: it was early morning, the streets were
silent, yet the echo carried a deep rumble, as if
something were drilling from inside.
The trembling did not come from the ground.
It came from above.
Inside, in the darkness, glasses fell to the floor.
The furniture vibrated.
A painting twisted on the wall before collapsing with a
dry crash.
Step by step, we moved toward the inner rooms.
First, Teodoro's.
Then, Uncle Joaquín's.
Teodoro watched, barely covered by the sheets.
He wasn't breathing well.
He looked horrified, unable to comprehend the moment when
everything had broken.
Perhaps because of what he saw earlier, something snapped
in his mind.
And then we saw her.
Helena had lost her mind.
She was hitting her uncle uncontrollably, with blind,
instinctive fury, as if thought itself had vanished, leaving
only brutal overflow.
She had entered an inexplicable state of euphoria.
Her knees immobilized him while she aimed at his skull.
Each impact was the origin of the tremor.
Uncle Joaquín had stopped moving several blows ago.
And then Helena screamed.
"What are you doing to Teodoro, you fucking bastard!"
"Wretched! Damn sicko!"
It was like a monstrous reflection of what she once criticized.
The image no longer seemed Helena, but something older.
A wild echo of what Galton once was.
Her brutal movements recalled the first immortal.
Her rage overflowed so much that her fists glowed, revealing
power.
The floor cracked beneath every blow she delivered.
The man's face twisted until it became unrecognizable.
His nose and eyes vanished under the unleashed violence.
And the building's tremor grew ever stronger.
Cracks spread beneath the floor. The presence of that
fury was felt in her screams, echoing with every blow.
Instinctively, the neighbors began leaving their apartments,
gripped by panic.
Meanwhile, the police climbed the back stairs to evacuate
the residents.
Orders changed as they assessed the situation more carefully.
Now they were clear: shoot to kill.
The ground kept shaking, as if the building were about to split.
Yet, whether from the incompatibility of her thoughts with her
gifts, or something darker, Helena could not explain it.
Outside, chaos reigned: screams, footsteps, voices broken by fear.
But inside… inside there was only silence.
A thick, impossible silence.
As if the world had stopped at the center of that room,
while everything else burned around it.
Helena stopped.
Her body was there, but her mind had not yet returned.
Everything changed when she heard Teodoro scream.
"Helena."
It was then that she finally emerged from that trance.
For a moment, she didn't understand what she was doing.
She knew she had done it; the anger was still there.
But she wasn't fully aware while it was happening.
She only looked at the body on the floor.
Uncle Joaquín hadn't moved since the third blow.
His body was unrecognizable.
It was as if it had been instinct…
Helena didn't understand where the courage for this had come
from.
She didn't even know how to react to the body in front of her.
The silence afterward was unbearable.
There was no triumph, no relief.
She brought a hand to her face without thinking.
Blood stained her skin without her noticing.
She asked herself quietly: "What have I done?"
Only that dead weight that crushes you when facing reality.
Of what you yourself have done. Maybe downplay it with a lie,
but lies only work when the ego is bigger than the shame,
and in this case, both were in conflict.
Helena's hands were red, stained by her sin.
And as a bodily response, she collapsed under the weight of
her initial anguish.
When she realized it, she saw it wasn't an illusion:
The man had no face.
He had no eyes, no teeth, no nose, nothing—he couldn't even
retain the shape of his skull. No one would recognize him.
An immediate gag reflex brought her hand to her mouth.
She couldn't stop herself from vomiting.
She doubled over as if trying to expel what she had just done.
She couldn't stand.
Air was scarce, her chest ached, and now panic left her able
to think of nothing but condemning herself.
She covered her face with her hands.
Everything was before her, yet she couldn't see it.
She could only think of her mother.
Then her real father, the one she had never known.
And then the voices began.
They weren't strange.
They were hers.
But they sounded as if they came from somewhere else.
"You did it."
"You really did it."
"Murderer."
"Wretch."
"You beat a man to death."
"He was a rapist. He deserved to die."
"You deserve to die."
"Murderer."
"Wretch."
Helena squeezed her eyes shut, trembling.
She wanted to deny it, but the words kept coming, piercing her.
Look at it.
Don't look away.
"What have I done?"
"What did I do, for God's sake?"
Besides hyperventilating, Helena began to cry.
Meanwhile, someone pounded violently on the door.
"Police! Open the door!"
"PSP! In the name of the law!"
""Last warning! We're going to break it down!""
But Helena was lost in her mind.
The questions repeated over and over.
"What did I do?"
"What was Uncle Joaquín doing?"
"Did I kill him?"
"No… I'm not a murderer."
"Yes, you are. You did it."
"I did it… with my own hands."
"I didn't do it… no… I didn't do it… I didn't do it…
She screamed, repeating a lie—not because she believed it,
but because it was all she could hold onto before breaking.
Panic tightened her chest.
Air barely entered her lungs.
She hyperventilated while crying, as if her body tried to
escape though it couldn't move.
Stress devoured her from the inside.
Her vision blurred—not a fainting, but as if the world
was shutting down from sheer horror.
The noise outside continued, but it sounded distant,
muffled, as if underwater.
Alone, helpless, Helena felt abandoned.
She never said it, never screamed it, because it was a
shame too old, but everything that happened to her…
since she was a child, she had always felt this way:
abandoned.
It wasn't just being alone in a room.
It was worse.
It was growing up feeling that no one was behind her.
No one to hold her.
No one to say, "I've got this."
Responsibilities fell on her shoulders as if natural,
as if she had been born to endure them and not protest.
And her mother… her mother was there, but not there.
Present in body, absent in everything else.
Helena learned too early that asking for help was useless.
That crying changed nothing.
That the world kept moving, even if she broke.
Because her pain didn't matter, to anyone, not even her
mother—maybe that coldness, that desire to endure,
led her to become self-sufficient.
Something that brought pride, and at the same time, guilt
for having done something wrong.
She had always had to walk alone, even as a child,
stripped of her innocence by her siblings.
She had always had to swallow her fear.
And now, in the middle of that impossible night, with a
corpse before her, that same loneliness returned.
But it returned carrying everything…
There was no one.
Helena didn't have the courage to be brave again.
This time, she only wished for a prince charming.
Someone to rescue her, someone to show her a world beyond
her own—a dream, the kind a child is never allowed to
have.
Yet, as if something inside her refused to sink completely
into that darkness…
And even in the midst of that momentary blindness, she felt
something different.
Warmth.
Not from the world.
Not from outside.
Something that didn't belong to fear.
She felt a hand on her cheek.
It was a gesture like her mother's when she was a child.
The second hand held her other cheek.
At that instant, Helena regained her sight.
The voices fell silent for a moment, as if waiting.
In front of her was Teodoro, bathed in moonlight.
His face showed pain, but also relief.
His lips trembled before he spoke.
"Helena… if you came for me…"
His voice was weak, on the verge of breaking.
She looked at him, tears gathering uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry… forgive me…"
But Teodoro just shook his head slightly.
""You're here… you've saved me…""
He couldn't say anything more.
Teodoro, as if clinging to the most beautiful woman he knew,
embraced her. He no longer felt shame; he only wanted
something to hold onto.
Teodoro had no clothes on.
He was naked, defenseless, with no way to hide.
Not just his body—everything about him was exposed.
In front of Helena, he couldn't lie.
There was a connection that went beyond flesh.
Something that now would be stained forever.
""Please… Helena… can I at least still hold onto you…
I'll understand if you don't… tell me why you came back…""
Helena felt a weight in her chest.
She had wanted to do the right thing, but it was too late.
Intentions didn't erase what she had done.
She lowered her gaze to her hands again.
It wasn't an illusion.
The blood was still there.
She knew she would have to find courage again.
Because enduring was her only habit.
When pain becomes daily, one understands the world demands
everything from you, yet leaves you empty.
Everything of you.
And nothing else.
Every man dreams of being served by a beautiful woman,
but in reality, it's she who never lived.
She only endured.
Because here, money is the only thing that moves people,
and love has become a luxury,
a priority buried beneath the urgency of survival.
The pounding on the door shook the air again.
The mahogany resisted, but it was giving way.
The officers had waited long enough.
Then one of them wedged an iron bar against the lock,
levering violently.
The door creaked.
Another push.
The frame began to give.
At that moment, Helena didn't think much.
She acted before the world closed in on them.
She grabbed a sheet and wrapped Teodoro quickly.
She lifted him in her arms, carrying what was
now her life…
"I have to get you out of here."
Teodoro looked at her with doubt, but also with faith.
He didn't understand what she was, but he trusted her.
"I'll take you far away…"
The door creaked louder.
The lock was about to give.
"I'll take responsibility for what happened today."
Then the door yielded.
The soldiers entered, moving room by room.
Until they reached the end of the hallway, Joaquín's room.
There they stopped.
The floor was cracked.
The corpse lay unrecognizable.
And the window was open.
No one else was there.
Only the victim.
A soldier ran to the window.
Looking down the avenue, he saw her escaping.
She carried a hostage in her arms.
But Helena ran too fast.
The ground trembled beneath her steps.
"Hold onto my neck," she told Teodoro.
She climbed to a building and took the fire escape.
Then, from the rooftops, she began leaping without pause.
Her direction was clear: Odivelas.
However, as she jumped from roof to roof, Helena slipped.
Her foot missed on a wet tile, and she fell toward the square.
She twisted her body in midair instinctively.
She used her back to cushion Teodoro's impact.
The collision went through her entirely, but she didn't scream.
She couldn't afford to.
The fall caught everyone's attention on Calle Real.
Several people turned.
Someone pointed.
That's when Helena understood.
No one could help them anymore.
There was no refuge, no excuses, no way back.
Everything was in her hands.
Death didn't vanish by running.
It didn't disappear with distance.
It went with her.
She gritted her teeth and kept moving.
Ignored the pain in her wounds.
Ignored the trembling in her arms.
Ignored everything except the urge to push forward.
She ran down entire avenues.
The engines of the police followed behind, relentless.
And inside her head, the voices hadn't gone.
They were just waiting for the moment to return.
"You did it"
"Galton"
"You killed him"
"That blood is yours now"
Helena swallowed, but the guilt remained.
She couldn't stop; the ice saint's life was in her hands.
At that same moment, far away,
on the shores of Yancheng Port in Jiangsu,
Kamei-san and Jack were talking.
The moon accompanied them from above.
And then it began to rain.
You could feel the saint of light and the ice saint
escaping under that night.
Both were aimless.
Homeless.
Without family.
They knew nothing of their fate.
They were at the mercy of a world that only sought
to obstruct their freedom.
And the words of Jack and Kamei-san
harmonized with the prophecies to come,
those that were to be fulfilled by divine order.
Jack said:
"Kamei-san, we're going after the earth saint, right?"
"But at the same time, I don't fully understand."
"Isn't there supposed to be another saint too?"
"The ice saint and the light saint?"
Kamei-san answered:
"I don't know who they are, but I'd bet they'll return
from the place they came from."
"Or maybe they're already on their way."
"But I don't understand… is Galton with them?"
"Or are they traveling on their own?"
"How did Nuriel and Adelaida arrive?"
"You said Danae came with you… right?"
"How did they manage to come all the way here?"
"To Vermont… alone, with no experience."
"I'm going with you, but I have to admit it:
sometimes I feel lost in this world."
Kamei-san replied:
"Anyone who dares to cross the sea,
or to travel from country to country alone,
is going to feel lost."
"But that disorientation will, sooner or later,
help them find the way."
"Sometimes you need to lose yourself
to understand where you are, and where you're going."
"I trust the ice saint
and the light saint will make it there."
Jack murmured:
"There's one more saint, isn't there?"
Kamei-san nodded:
"That's true. I had almost forgotten."
"There's also the metal saint."
"I know they'll reach Vermont."
"And when you meet them,
I hope you treat them well, Jack."
Jack smiled faintly:
"Treat them well? Please."
"They're going to be my family."
"I don't know anyone else."
"I've traveled the world, I've met people…
but they are saints."
"That means they're people like me."
"We should be together, don't you think?"
Kamei-san replied:
"You think like a child."
"That was what Christ wanted."
Meanwhile, Helena kept running.
Teodoro was carried in her arms.
She entered the forest, losing herself among the trees.
Their shadows disappeared from sight.
They had long since lost their pursuers.
The trail was completely gone.
But not the weight.
That doesn't vanish.
Many miles away, crossing borders,
there was a young girl who knew nothing of this.
The world was in chaos:
Vietnam.
China under dictatorship.
Latin America under coups.
Portugal closing in on itself.
And yet, there existed a separate place,
one reachable only through imagination.
A young girl leafed through an old book.
Narnia.
A classic from England.
While all this was happening, the saints kept moving.
The Ice Saint and the Light Saint escaped northward.
Galton remained lost in the middle of the Mediterranean.
Kamei-san and Jack, along with Yeon-shil,
were already near the port.
Danae, Nuriel, and Adelaida ventured
into the forests of Vermont.
And Frollam… his whereabouts were unknown.
The world was rearranging itself.
The pieces advanced, one by one, toward something inevitable.
But then…
As if a name could summon the weight of destiny,
as if God's paths were not roads but chains,
something else was awakening.
Far from all of that, in a silent room,
a young girl read before sleeping, knowing nothing.
She had no idea about saints.
No idea about escapes, blood, or prophecies.
She just turned another page.
And yet…
it was as if destiny had already marked her.
As if history itself was calling her.
Her name was Mavis.
And the real question wasn't where she was…
But what she was.
Who was she?
Who is Mavis?