Chapter 14:

  "The Weakest Soldier and the Weakest Scientist"

  Arc 2: Chapter 4

  POV: "???"

  The silent smile of Empty welcomed Flávio's noisy approach, a rarity in his repertoire of expressions. In seconds, however, the atmosphere shifted from warm to feverish. Flávio and Fencer, the two brothers in spirit united more by habit than affinity, fell into a discussion that seemed like an old, worn ritual.

  Flávio gestured, his voice an instrument of pure awkward optimism.

  "Goodness wins! People just need to believe in each other! The world gets fixed with faith and hard work!"

  Fencer, leaning against the arena wall as if seeking to merge with the stone, adjusted his glasses with a weary movement, a nervous tic. His voice emerged, a low, cynical, sharp counterpoint like a scalpel.

  "Humankind only learns through shock. Through loss. A war that breaks the old pillars, that leaves everything in ashes… then, maybe, something new can be born. Words are wind. Illusion of those who have never seen the bottom of the well."

  The discussion escalated from philosophical debate to personal insults, then to clumsy shoves. Weak punches, poorly thrown, without weight or technique, crossed the air between them. It was the fight of two men who never learned to truly fight, only to hurt each other.

  Raphadun, with a deep sigh from someone who had already traveled through hell and now had to break up a street brawl, intervened, holding each by an arm with a strength that surprised them.

  "Guys! This leads nowhere! Calm down!"

  Cutting laughter rose from the small crowd that had formed, fed by the free spectacle. "Look at the two 'great' warriors from the back street!" someone shouted. The mockery was clear and cruel: in the kingdom's rigid hierarchy of power, ideas—especially ideas from the weak, the statusless—were just useless noise, entertainment for a tedious afternoon.

  Empty, however, had already shifted his attention. His eyes, always vigilant, were drawn to a different movement on the main street.

  A march.

  It was not a celebration. It was a procession of hatred. People marched in irregular rows, carrying handmade signs. Some were scribbled with the fury of those without talent but overflowing with conviction: "DEATH TO ALL CURSES"

  The hostility in the air was a physical thing, palpable, different from the instinctive, bestial hatred of the Infernal Zone. This was organized, choreographed, fed by fear.

  Then, a voice rose just behind him, so low it almost got lost in the buzz, but laden with a bitterness that contrasted viscerally with Flávio's noisy optimism.

  "Tell me, Empty…"

  Empty turned. To find him, he had to lower his gaze a little.

  And the voice was identified: it was Fencer. The fragile scientist, thin, without an aura of power that even scratched the surface, without a fighter's posture.

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  "Tell me, Empty," Fencer whispered, his voice a cutting steel thread in the fabric of noise. "In all eras, in all societies… who do they choose to place their hatred on?"

  The question hung in the air between them. It was not a doubt. It was an accusation against the world, a terminal diagnosis.

  Then, Flávio gave Fencer a flick on the head.

  "Damn it!" Fencer shouted suddenly, rubbing the spot. The moment of dark lucidity shattered, submerged in the immediate sibling dispute.

  "Hey? Want to fight for real?" Flávio provoked, puffing out his chest in a pathetic attempt to look threatening.

  Before another pathetic fight could begin, a shadow interposed.

  Alfredo appeared. Not with a bang, but with a serene and absolute presence that emptied the air around him. With a movement too fast to follow, too precise to be accidental, he delivered a light but firm flick to each head.

  "Stop this embarrassment, you two," Alfredo said, his voice that of a commander on the battlefield, leaving no room for discussion or excuses.

  Flávio rubbed his head and smiled, instantly disarmed, like a scolded child.

  "Alfredo! Sir!" Flávio quickly recomposed himself at the sight of Alfredo's imposing arrival. Like a great soldier.

  Fencer, on the other hand, raised his gaze with a quick spark of pure rage. But upon meeting Alfredo's serious, impenetrable look—one of the world's pillars, a force of nature in human form—he averted his eyes. His courage, if it existed, evaporated like water on sand.

  "Hey, you," Alfredo continued, turning to Raphadun. "Something important is happening in the tower. Luna needs you, Raphadun." His eyes settled on Empty, assessing, calculating. "And we need to find a discreet place to leave Empty."

  "He can stay at my house!" Flávio offered immediately, his face lit by an opportunity to be useful, to matter.

  "It would be an honor!"

  Fencer remained completely silent. Only a faint, almost imperceptible grumble of contrariety escaped his clenched lips.

  Then Alfredo looked at Empty, a mysterious look. Just like everyone else looked at him. But it was different. Just like understanding the power of the Pursuer. It was clear he understood what was also in front of him.

  From both sides.

  There wasn't even a hint of fear and respect there. From both sides. But, for some reason, Alfredo decided to ignore it. And Empty didn't understand enough to worry.

  Merely nodded, accepting the new detour in the unpredictable flow of this new life.

  Before they departed, a new group approached.

  A young woman, Amanda, in a lightweight metal wheelchair with worn leather, her tired eyes fixed ahead. Behind her, an older lady—her mother—carried a little girl of about three in her arms, innocence still intact in her features.

  "Daddy!" the little girl shouted, stretching her tiny arms like small hooks of love.

  The transformation in Flávio was instant and total. All his pose as an awkward warrior, his exaggerated energy, dissolved. What remained was pure, raw, unshakable joy. He ran to them—not with his clumsy soldier steps, but with a father's lightness—and picked up the girl, lifting her into the air as if she were the kingdom's greatest treasure.

  "Hahaha! How you've grown, my flower!"

  Amanda, in the chair, and her mother remained serious, impassive. Their eyes did not share the childish happiness. They were eyes that had seen unpaid bills, broken promises, a future narrowing with each day. Eyes without faith.

  "Daddy, is that your new warrior uniform?! So cool!" the girl asked, clapping her hands full of admiration.

  "Yes, daughter! Look!" Flávio struck an exaggerated and ridiculous pose, making the girl laugh with a sound that was the only pure thing in that street.

  Amanda's expression did not change a millimeter.

  "That's enough, Flávio. You can see her better later," she said, her voice flat, final, laden with the exhaustion of a thousand lost arguments.

  Flávio stopped mid-pose. His smile wavered, cracked at the edges, but did not disappear. It stayed stuck on his face, a ghost of joy.

  "O-okay…" he murmured, his voice losing all its strength. He returned the daughter to her grandmother with such delicate care it was almost a reverence, as if handing back the only good thing he had ever done.

  Empty and Fencer watched from afar.

  The group of women moved away, the wheelchair creaking softly, the girl still waving backward.

  For a brief, fleeting moment, a look of deep, abyssal sadness crossed Flávio's face. It was as if a leather mask had fallen, revealing raw, bleeding flesh beneath. It was the pain of the man who knows he failed, who is not the hero his daughter believes he is.

  But in the blink of an eye, he recomposed himself. The mask snapped back into place. He turned with a new smile, more forced than the previous one, but still present.

  "Come on, gang?!"

  As they headed to the house—simple, messy, but with a genuine warmth of someone trying—Empty was taken to the guest room. He began organizing his few belongings—the journal, the pen, a clean cloth—with his usual methodical and silent care, creating order in a corner of a world that was chaotic to him.

  Fencer stood at the door, neither entering nor leaving.

  Watching.

  With an analytical, intense, almost clinical gaze. And in his eyes, behind the hatred for the world and the distrust, there was a gleam: the gleam of curiosity. The same one that kept him alive.