—Do you have what it takes to challenge me?

  It wasn’t a line meant for me. I don’t even know if the camera caught it properly. But I felt it anyway, like someone had carved it into the back of my neck with a knife.

  I could see his smile on the broadcast. Smug. Easy. Like everything belonged to him—like the universe was a living room and he owned the couch.

  My hands clenched on their own. Maximum tension. My blood boiled as if my body had understood before my head did. My aura kept flaring in bursts—messy sparks crawling up my arms without asking permission. The paper dust that always follows me shifted into intense patterns.

  Just from looking at him.

  I want that power, I thought, and the thought came out ugly—raw, like a rude desire. I want to be invincible.

  I wanted to challenge God. I wanted to challenge Dinamo. I wanted to prove I’m the best.

  And at the same time, I knew something way too obvious:

  It was way too soon.

  After all, I’m not even Rank 10.

  We had been calmly having breakfast with my uncle during that ridiculous ten-minute interval. Like a commercial break in the middle of the end of the world. We ate well. He brought my favorite pancakes, lots of sugar and fun. We talked about nonsense. He teased me about something (probably my sleepy face), I defended myself with dignity (and perfect exaggeration), and for a moment the forest felt almost normal.

  Every now and then, the camera showed scattered images of the evacuation: people running, capsules opening, numbers rising, operators yelling with no sound. But most of the time it was that stupid robot telling boring jokes, or jokes with no punchline, or those jokes that only make people laugh when they’ve already lost hope and they laugh by reflex.

  Overall it was a calm, fun picnic. One we hadn’t had in a long time.

  Until the fight started.

  And I got stuck.

  I couldn’t help it.

  It was the biggest display of power I’d ever imagined. The speed, the force, the momentum in every attack. The clean brutality. The impossibility of their abilities. Dinamo’s superiority, but above all…

  The control.

  That’s what hooked me.

  Every one of the Rank 10s had masterful control over their conceptual abilities. The kind of control I’ve always dreamed about—though I don’t say it out loud because then my uncle gets all big-headed and gives me another speech about “discipline” and “keeping a cool head” and “you’re not a bomb with legs, Paper.”

  Breakfast got forgotten. The plate, the glass, the utensils—everything stayed there, like the world had stopped around the tablecloth, the stones, and the mushrooms around us.

  I heard a buzzing in the distance. Persistent. Annoying. I ignored it.

  All I could think about was that fine control. The way each of them adjusted the world with ridiculous precision. Obviously there were differences: some looked born for it, others looked like trained monsters forged by repetition and trauma. But none of them were clumsy. None of them were “impulsive” like me. None of them dumped their power like a pi?ata exploding.

  And that’s when I remembered what the comedian robot said. Roboti, I think. Yeah—let’s make it easier and name him Roboti. Aren’t I great at naming things?

  Anyway, where was I? Right. “A path.”

  —A path— my mouth murmured without my brain authorizing it.

  I remembered the three routes he mentioned. I stored them like cards.

  But the one that stuck with me most was the sword guy. The serious face. I don’t remember if they said his name. Heh. I liked him anyway. He had that “don’t mess with me” vibe I respect a lot.

  —“Bonding,” I whispered.

  Bond yourself to an object to perform techniques. Or at least that’s what I understood. It sounded like my super-duper attacks, but more boring. More organized. More adult.

  Still powerful, though.

  I stared at my hands. Bandaged. The bandages were always a reminder of a lot of things I didn’t want to think about in the morning. But they were also a tool. A habit. A way to keep myself “okay.”

  Okay. How did he do it?

  I replayed the process more or less, like my brain was running a low-quality replay.

  First he said the name. Then he let the energy fall into order. He didn’t throw it. Didn’t detonate it. He guided it. Directed it along a pattern. Only he did it so fast you could barely see the process.

  —Looks like it’s like this… Paper Storm… and then you let it flow… yeah, like that… then this way and— I muttered, moving my wrist like I was drawing in the air. —No, wait!

  It hurt.

  It hurt like when you twist something and at first you think meh, and then your body screams, no, it’s not meh, it’s serious.

  The mistake was simple: I was trying to do something I never do.

  Hold.

  My style has always been release. Cut. Boom and done. Confetti, guillotine—whatever comes out.

  But this time I manifested my ability and didn’t let it burst out all at once. I held it.

  Conceptual energy piled into my arm like living pressure, like the air inside me had teeth. I directed it through my forearm, compressing it, ordering it.

  And the tension rose.

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  Rose too much.

  I wanted to vent a little confetti because my body needed a valve. An escape. Something. But I kept going—stubborn—because my pride had been poked.

  I can’t be the only one who can’t do this.

  And then I remembered my uncle’s phrase—late, as always:

  ?Don’t try something that dangerous without the proper preparation or mindset.?

  Yeah. Thanks, Rob. Now.

  The tension became unbearable. It wasn’t just pain—it was a warning.

  If I kept holding, I’d rip my arm off. Or worse: I’d turn it into something irreparable. My veins burned. I felt like my blood wanted to burst out through my pores under pressure.

  I’m going to die if I don’t do something!

  I let go.

  I stopped holding and fired a Paper Storm into the sky.

  It was a stream of shine, a trail of little points like cheap stars, lost in space. In the void—like a sad firework.

  But my arm—my arm was safe.

  I stood there breathing fast, my heart pounding against my throat.

  —Ah, I almost had it, I muttered, annoyed. Annoyed at myself. Annoyed because it felt like I’d been this close to doing it right.

  Now… how do I replicate the other two?

  The one related to the body sounded easy. I do that all the time. I’m good at doing things with my body. I’m amazing. No one can argue with that. I’m an adorable missile.

  But the other one—the one about manifesting your concept around you—that sounded like a joke without kittens. How am I supposed to do that? Throw paper everywhere until it looks like “environment”? Become a walking printer?

  I stared at the air in front of me.

  —Should I surround my surroundings with paper? I whispered.

  It sounded plausible, but it wasn’t what I saw in the fight. The cotton lady didn’t seem to do it like that. Neither did the guy with the funny bubbles. It was like they created it from nothing. Like the world obeyed when they spoke.

  The buzzing came back.

  Louder.

  Annoying.

  Persistent.

  I ignored it again.

  Until it was too much.

  —Paper!

  I turned, startled.

  My uncle was standing in front of me. And he had that look.

  The look that says, “I’ve been calling you for a while and you’re in your own world.”

  He looked angry.

  —Uh… hehe… what’s up, dearest uncle? I said, trying to act cute. Which I am. Cute. And innocent. That too.

  It only made him angrier.

  Rob took a deep breath, like he was shoveling patience into himself.

  —Let me see your arm.

  —I’m fine, I lied, and hid my arm behind my back even though it was burning like crazy.

  Rob stared at me, serious. Actually serious. Not “fun serious.” Not “joking serious.” Serious like “if you lie to me right now I’ll slap your pride right out of you.”

  —Arm. Now.

  I could only obey.

  He took it carefully, but firmly. And he saw it.

  It probably didn’t look good.

  Without my bandages—which had shredded when I released the Paper Storm—my arm showed too much. My scars were there, like always, but they looked worse from the blowout: pronounced veins, ugly redness, little rupture points that made me want to look away.

  Seeing them stirred up emotions I didn’t want to face right then.

  Rob clicked his tongue.

  He didn’t speak at first. He just summoned a group of tiny bees.

  Cute. Small. Shiny. And terrifying if you’re my enemy.

  They landed on my skin and started working. A strange powder seeped from their bodies—yellow, and very bright.

  The pain dropped immediately, like my body understood, okay, you’re not about to die anymore, calm down. The blown veins sealed. Future swelling died before it could exist. The burning turned into a mild discomfort.

  I swallowed.

  —Thanks… I said softly.

  The little bees flew around me in a sweet way, like they were congratulating me for not tearing my arm off (which did not deserve congratulations), and then they returned to Rob.

  He looked at me again.

  I felt nervous. Almost like a kid. Which I’m not!

  A second passed. Or ten. Or an eternity. I don’t know. When your uncle looks at you like that, time turns into punishment.

  Finally he spoke:

  —How many times have I told you not to do things that dangerous?

  I lowered my head.

  He kept going, not raising his voice, which was worse.

  —Did you seriously try to replicate the path of a Rank 10? Do you know what could have happened?

  —I’m sorry, Uncle. It won’t happen again, I said—and this time it was true.

  I felt awful.

  And, to my surprise, my performance worked. Or maybe it wasn’t performance at all. Maybe he saw the real guilt and got too tired to keep pressing.

  Rob sighed. Once. Twice. Who knows how many times. Then his face softened.

  —Don’t get like that.

  He scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortable, like it annoyed him to be gentle.

  —Why don’t you go check on your mom and Luz?

  The idea hit me like an emergency exit.

  I smiled instantly—bright, relieved. I threw myself onto him and gave him a huge hug, squeezing with all my strength.

  —Thank you, Uncle! Thank you! You’re the best!

  Rob went still for a second, like he always does when I hug him. Then he gave me an awkward pat on the back.

  —Yeah, yeah. Go.

  And with my departure I saved myself from one of the most boring scoldings on the planet. My uncle was awesome, but when he went into “mother hen” mode, he could kill a god with his speech.

  I turned, raised my fist proudly, and thought:

  Victory.

  But I had to hurry. Maybe my baby was scared.

  And if there was one thing I took seriously in this world, it was that.

  Seriously. So childish. That little thing.

  I watched her leave with that “I got away with it” smile, hugging me like that erased the crime. She walked off almost skipping, proud, and I stayed there with amusement and affection. Like I didn’t know her. Like I hadn’t raised that creature.

  She really thought I wouldn’t notice an excuse that stupid.

  But…

  She was so close.

  I looked at the air where her Paper Storm had opened a path. The remnants were minimal—faint, almost invisible: a spatial distortion that didn’t match her level. An echo of her concept soaked into the environment. A reminder that she was progressing, even if she didn’t realize it.

  That was what unsettled me.

  Not her strength.

  Her understanding.

  She had tried to replicate a path.

  The path of a Rank 10.

  The path of someone who walked it for a lifetime.

  And she almost replicated it just from watching.

  In half an hour… no. Not even that. Twenty-one minutes and eighteen seconds. That was the real length of the fight before Dinamo decided to end the show with that impossible attack. Paper didn’t need years or theory. She needed a broadcast and enough stubbornness to shove herself into a place no one invited her into.

  I couldn’t hide a proud smile.

  My niece’s talent is monstrous.

  Like when she learned the name of her ability.

  That memory came back on its own. I’d done a simple demonstration—basic stuff: how to listen for the name of your concept, how to manifest it in reality without splitting your skull open in the process. She saw it once. One single glance. And she replicated it. She learned the name of hers like she’d always known it.

  Unreal.

  Have I said how proud I am of her yet?

  Yes.

  Well. I’ll say it again.

  She’s incredible. She is the most talented person I’ve ever met.

  And precisely because of that, she’s a problem.

  Now I have to think about how to control her growth without it spiraling out of control. Because she grows fast, learns fast, and still doesn’t understand the real weight of what she does. Not out of malice. Out of youth. Impulse. That part of her that wants to “win” even when there is no game.

  How am I supposed to watch her so she doesn’t kill innocent people by accident?

  Ah. What a problem.

  I stayed silent for a few moments, enjoying the forest’s calm at the top of that mountain, far from the town’s noise, with the broadcast over. The protective dome Dinamo had created so his “fight” wouldn’t affect the planet had vanished. The wind moved the treetops. My bugs were calm.

  The calm lasted exactly as long as it needed to.

  Then I said:

  —You can come out.

  Nothing happened for an instant.

  And then reality bent.

  Not like an explosion. Not like a door. Worse: like the world naturally accepted a lie. A cheerful laugh rode the distortion, and a man who looked more like a nomad than a “lord of reality” appeared where there had been no space.

  —Haha… I see you’re still as sharp as ever, Roberto.

  He walked toward me with a steady, confident stride, like it was his territory. With a casual gesture, he created two chairs—far too comfortable for this place. A luxury out of context. A joke.

  He sat.

  I didn’t.

  —What do you want, Hakotane?

  Hakotane smiled with confidence, looking me straight in the eyes. For a moment I saw a universe behind him. Literally. An impossible depth—like his back was a warning shaped like a landscape. The summit of his aura.

  Don’t challenge me.

  I felt it more than I saw it.

  But the illusion disappeared with his next expression, and he was back to being that guy with a friendly air, as if the threat had been a private joke.

  —So cold. Can’t I come say hello to an old friend?

  I didn’t answer.

  Because with Hakotane, every word is a door.

  And I wasn’t interested in opening any.

  After all, he was “The Liar.”