Valie speaks of three consequences of the Divine Pact.
Three pillars meant to keep the world standing.
Or caged.
The first is the rawest: the Contraries.
Demonic entities.
Inverted reflections of what we are—what we could become—what we refuse to be.
Demons born in the exact shadow of every awakened Word.
You receive Force, your Contrary might be Weakness.
Or worse… a twisted, grotesque caricature of your strength.
They're enemies.
But not just any enemies.
The enemies.
A threat shared by everyone. By all humanity.
And yet… they live.
They have a city of their own.
A black architecture.
A territory isolated, impenetrable, but structured.
A place called the Reverse.
A name that says everything:
It is our opposite.
Their world. Their society. Their… civilization.
Yeah. A demonic society. Organized. Hierarchical.
With its own laws. Roles. Internal conflicts.
They don't just exist.
They adapt.
They evolve.
And that—
that's what's terrifying.
Because they're no longer simple shadows attached to a Word.
They are becoming peoples. Armies.
Independent entities capable of thinking, scheming, uniting.
But no one says that out loud.
Officially, they're perfect targets.
A convenient outlet.
A shared external evil.
When nations fracture,
when awakened Words generate too much chaos,
when the Families want to redirect attention—
they point at the Reverse.
They name the Enemy.
And everyone stays silent.
Everyone applauds.
Because as long as they exist…
we don't have to look too closely at ourselves.
The worst part?
They only live because of us.
Our breath feeds them. Our Word sustains them.
They follow us like an unavoidable shadow.
But if the bearer dies…
or if their Word is sealed…
the demon goes mad.
A beast without a master.
A scream without an echo.
A nightmare without a leash.
And if it kills its bearer?
Then it becomes free.
Autonomous. Independent. Alive.
A complete aberration.
So yeah, I get it now.
That demon—mine—
doesn't want to kill me just to win.
It wants to exist.
**
Second consequence: the Divine Guild.
Impossible to define.
Not a state. Not a religion. Not an army.
Just… an institution born from the will of the gods.
Or maybe in spite of them.
They issue missions. Quests. Metaphysical challenges.
You accept them, you gain fragments.
Of power. Of truth. Of ascension.
But that's not the real purpose.
The real purpose…
is the Wall of Words.
A sacred wall. A carved pantheon.
A list of names and Words elevated to idolhood.
Bearers who transcended their own essence.
Who turned their Word into a path toward the gods.
Me? I see it differently.
I see a staircase.
And me, at the bottom.
I'll climb it.
Step by step.
Until I carve my Word, my name, into the stone up there.
It's the dream of every child, really.
I stay indifferent… or pretend to.
Though part of me would like to care.
**
Third and final consequence: the rule of the Six Great Families.
I live in the capital, under government authority.
But around us stand six cities, six bastions, six thrones.
Each ruled by a Family.
Each with its Word.
Its doctrine. Its territory.
They own everything: education, laboratories, armies, elites.
They don't govern. They shape.
They don't command. They influence.
It's not the gods who run this world.
Not the people either.
It's them.
And us, the government?
We pretend to hold the reins.
But we're just caretakers of a chessboard we stopped understanding long ago.
**
I understood Valie's explanations.
The biographies. The myths.
The sacred tone in which everything is told.
The Six Families don't impress me.
Just people with a central Word…
and an ego swollen enough to eclipse the sky.
Creation.
The builders.
They turn ideas into matter.
Materialize. Structure. Solidify.
Cities, weapons, landscapes—
their power is the world's shape itself.
Their strength is form.
Harmony.
The mediators.
Balancing. Softening.
Their energy flows like a smoothing wave, swallowing tension, silencing anger.
They draw invisible boundaries even the strongest obey.
But too much harmony suffocates.
Peace becomes elegant censorship.
Wisdom.
Knowledge.
Not flashy, but dangerous.
Lucidity is a blade sharper than steel.
They read between gestures.
Hear lies in silence.
Understand what no one wants to articulate.
They don't judge. They deduce.
They don't hate. They predict.
Their power is understanding.
Energy.
The catalysts.
Life in all its forms.
They heal flesh, rekindle breath, reignite dying flames.
Raw instinct tied to nature's pulse.
Destiny.
Readers of futures.
Long-term planners.
Silent strategists.
They rearrange fate with the gentleness of inevitability.
When everything collapses, they're already elsewhere.
They don't want war.
Because they already won it.
Desire.
The manipulators.
Elusive. Unpredictable.
They don't force you.
They make you want.
Want them. Obey them. Please them.
They wield what you hide, what you repress, what you pretend to control.
They don't attack.
They let you destroy yourself.
**
Each Family is a fortress.
Each Word, a command.
Each generation, an heir.
Everything compartmentalized.
Clean. Too clean.
Stable, maybe.
But hollow. Cold. Frozen.
And if you look closely…
this isn't peace.
It's a pause.
A forced breath.
I hope I have no connection to these Families.
No blood tie. No debt.
Not even a faded memory.
To them, I'm a problem.
To me, they're a prison.
Better to stay a stranger to their games.
To their power.
To their legends.
I spent the whole day listening to Valie recite the history of the Six Families like a sacred prayer.
She speaks with the tone of the converted.
Precise. Cold.
She corrects my phrasing. Judges my silence.
She looks like a teacher,
but she works like an inquisitor.
And of course, she wanted to "correct" my evaluation.
Out loud.
She reads my answers, scraping each line with her pointer as if cleaning a stain.
Then she snaps.
"What is this definition of the Six Great Families?! Why do you highlight only the darkness and the flaws? You only listen to what suits you, microbe! Show some respect, damn it!"
I grit my teeth.
Say nothing.
She wants me to talk.
To justify myself.
To bend.
To apologize.
But I only wrote what I felt.
What I saw.
What she refuses to see.
She slams my paper on the desk.
Sighs—
and just for a heartbeat, something cracks.
A flicker.
A tiny tremor of frustration too human for the mask she wears.
It's gone instantly.
Buried.
Erased behind her usual frost.
She keeps going, sharper than before, as if ashamed she slipped.
"The War of Words was dark, sure. And the Divine Pact… But you? You were one breath away from crying for the demons! You pity them, don't you?"
I lift my eyes a little.
No defiance.
Just exhaustion.
She continues.
"But the Wall of Words… oh, that interests you, huh? You think you can make it there? Have your cute little spot among the chosen? You're ambitious, I'll give you that. But stay grounded. Think about surviving first!"
I still don't answer.
I listen.
Absorb.
She pauses.
Looks at me for a long second.
Then slaps down the grade.
"Ten out of twenty. Congratulations."
One point less and I was dead.
She lets that hang in the air.
Then smiles—a smile colder than threats.
"Let's say you passed. That's already good for an anomaly."
She packs her things.
Stands up.
Before leaving, she throws over her shoulder:
"Go sleep. Meditate. Rest if you can.
Tomorrow will be more physical.
Much more."
And I stay alone, in the empty Colosseum, my crumpled page in my hands, my thoughts as tired as my body.