Once again, the same narrow hallway. The same glacial mist blurs the scene, an odor of electricity and wilted flowers, not the same as last time, but close enough. He recognizes the worn-out sofa, the attic window, even the broken sage pipe still lying on the floor… like a déjà vu, if that’s even possible when you’re dreaming.

Isn’t this exactly what you expected? he thinks. Yes, this is exactly it. The very place he wanted to return to. The precise moment. It’s not the first time he’s managed to latch onto a dream after waking and falling back asleep. And yet, he’s surprised, and for a moment, he’s about to lose his lucidity. Because there, sitting on the Persian rug, is his brother, petting Doc.

Now he can clearly see that it’s a singular creature. Its metallic fur shines in the dark, hiding small blue plates that protect its joints like an implant or light armor. The intelidogui sits on its hind legs, hidden beneath, but its front legs are visible, ending in three perfectly humanoid fingers that rest on the ground.

His brother slips a hand into his pocket and pulls out a floppy disk.

—Hello, Di —Iván says, not looking at him—. This is for you.

Torres reaches out, but the nightmare repeats itself, and before he can touch it, the scene dissolves. The glacial mist covers everything and pulls him back. The alley. He’s back. A sharp pain shoots through his ribs and he collapses to the ground, gasping.

In another alley, in the Vigil, Don Gregorio starts his day with tai chi. A routine he’s kept since returning from China. If not for that, most days he wouldn’t be able to get up from his cot. Such is the hardship of retired life for the former personal trainer of the Mayor of Madrid.

He still keeps the apartment in the center, a relic from his days as a wealthy student, when the nights flowed with alcohol. He turned it into his refuge after opening the boxing club in the arcades of Plaza Mayor, a business that launched him to fame.

Now, the open space is more of a sanctuary than a gym. A purple punching bag hangs in the middle of the emptiness, facing a glass wall framing the city rooftops—once bohemian, now devastated by the floods. A trace of that free spirit still floats in the air, although it’s been a long time since Don Gregorio put on the gloves.

In a corner, the water heater bubbles with a hypnotic rhythm while his feline-like movements carve shapes in the cold air of dawn. Slowly, his bare feet brush the floor, as if measuring each inch of the room, and his hands, graceful and precise, split the void into invisible lines.

The city awakens beyond the glass, but the old trainer doesn’t care. Here, at least, he doesn’t have to face the world. Here, the green tea still comforts him after the morning exercise, and he can still pretend the past hasn’t hit him harder than any opponent.

He likes the bitter taste of tea and the smell of wet grass, so different from the putrid stench of a Madrid on the verge of collapsing under the breath of widespread corruption. It’s not that he’s unfamiliar with that stench. His recent retirement has much to do with all of that. With that, and with the new world he discovered not long ago. A place to atone for his sins and perhaps start over.

So he sets the empty bowl on the floor and settles onto his meditation cushion. Straight back, legs crossed. Hands resting on his knees as if they were anchors for his existence. He closes his eyes. Inhale. Deep. Expanding his lungs until they almost hurt. Exhale, letting the breath dissipate into the echo of the room. He listens to the constant rhythm of blood pumping in his veins, a beat that seems louder in the silence.

But when he opens his eyes, the world is no longer the same. On the other side of the glass, the scarlet tower of the Palace of Desires welcomes him to the fluctuating horizon of Oniria. Below him, the cushion floats weightlessly above a floor that seems like solid water, reflecting a sky full of impossible constellations.

With a fluid movement, Don Gregorio stands and smiles with a flash of regained youth. The Method of La Llave, the secret technique for entering the Dream World, is a simple game for a mind as trained as his.

Well, time to work, he thinks, as he adjusts his kimono and takes possession of his lucid dream.

If in Vigil his daily routine starts with tai chi, in Oniria, the first thing is a good breakfast. And the churros(*) with hot chocolate from the Guild of Seekers’ cafeteria are the best in P.D. There, among the weightless colonial-style tables and the shifting reflections of the dreamlike light, he meets Valdés, already sitting with an almost empty tray.

—Have you tried the cake-style churros(**), old man?
—Of course not. I’m not interested in the ramblings of that young girl who’s taken over our kitchen.
—You’re missing out.
—How are the new ones progressing?

Valdés gulps down what seems to be a pastry filled with blue cream before answering.

—The little ones, not well. Two from the west suburb arrived yesterday and refuse to wake up. If this keeps up, we’re going to have to expand the shelter.
—Adapting isn’t easy for children. When they discover they can “do whatever they want” here, they plunge into the Dream in the most anarchic and violent way their psyche—eager to release stress, fears, and terrors—allows them.
—If only the experienced dreamers ignored them… maybe reinforcing the support team for rookies isn’t such a bad idea.
—You’ve matured a lot in a short time, young padawan, —Don Gregorio says with something resembling pride—. That said, it’s time to get moving. Any suggestions?

Valdés shrugs.

—There are several requests from the Guild of Collectors on the bulletin board. Intellidoguis. 200 aerena stones per piece. Looks like Blair is after them.
—That damn witch and her third-rate mercenaries…
—I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, old man, —Valdés says, winking at him.

Not a cycle later, they see them. Two blurry figures kicking another in the Cat Alley. He heard a deranged meow and hurried through the changing passages of the Madrid District, the one he knows best. This time, however, the defenseless one he encounters is not a child. Nor are the attackers the ones he was looking for. The rookie simply had bad luck.

Well, not that bad, he thinks as he cracks his knuckles and falls on the attackers, not giving them time to react.

Don Gregorio moves with the precision and force of an experienced boxer. His fists cut through the air with almost supernatural speed, connecting with jaws, ribs, and stomachs. The first blow knocks down the nearest shadow, which doesn’t even have time to understand what happened before it crashes to the ground with a muffled grunt. The second barely raises its arms when Gregorio shoves it brutally, sending it into the wall.

The guy on the ground takes advantage of the distraction to roll to the side, gasping and clutching his ribs. His gaze, still lost, meets the old trainer’s. No words are needed: he knows what to do. He gets to his feet, staggering at first, but regains his balance just in time to dodge a punch coming straight at him.

—That’s it, kid! —Don Gregorio grunts while dodging another attack and landing a jab to the opponent’s chest—. Nice footwork. Don’t forget to twist your hip.

The rookie is too focused on throwing the next punch to reply. His fist hits hard on one of the aggressors’ noses, sending him down like a rag doll. Don Gregorio lets out a laugh.

—Not bad, not bad. First day in Oniria? —he asks, spinning around and landing a kick to the side of another one trying to attack him from behind.
—Second —the rookie gasps, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand while landing another blow.
—Could’ve been your last if I hadn’t crossed paths with you.

The aggressors begin to retreat, exchanging nervous glances. The situation has changed. The old man, calm but relentless, moves toward them with calculated steps, while the young one, still catching his breath, stands by his side, raising his fists.

—I give you three seconds to get out —Don Gregorio announces, his voice deep and with a look that leaves no room for doubt—. Two.

No need to say more. The thugs run off, stumbling over each other as they disappear into the changing shadows of the alley. The rookie stumbles and leans against the wall, seemingly searching for something in the shadows.
Don Gregorio approaches, extending a hand.

—Good job, kid. You’ve got style, but you lack control. Where did you learn those moves?
—Throwing punches is my thing…
—I can tell. But here, the rules are different. Don’t get cocky. Oniria isn’t kind to those who doubt.

The guy nods, though he seems more interested in trying to stay on his feet. Don Gregorio watches him for a moment, then sighs and finally smiles.

—Come on, I’ll buy you some churros and chocolate. And don’t you dare say no. This has only just begun, and you’re going to need all the energy you can get.
—Thanks, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Could you tell me how to get to something called The Monument?
—Haha! Now, that’s a good one, kid. Let’s go, I’ll take you there.

The young man leans on Don Gregorio, and together they walk out of the alley, leaving behind the echo of a mournful meow that seems to rise from the shadows themselves. The shifting lights of Oniria illuminate their steps as they head toward their destination.

When they reach the vicinity of the Palace of Desires, the old trainer understands everything. There, under the scarlet glow that seems to stain the air with menace, stands she. A redhead in a black trench coat who, upon seeing them approach, stops dead in her tracks. Her glasses reflect the shifting lights as she pushes them up with a casual gesture.

—Torres! For all that is holy! —shouts Gill Santos as she runs toward them.

(*) “Churros with hot chocolate” refers to the traditional Spanish dish, where long, fried dough pastries are served with a cup of thick, warm chocolate for dipping. This dish is well-known internationally, though its specific preparation can vary across regions in Spain.

(**) In the original text, porras bizcochadas is an imaginary dish based on porras, a thicker and fluffier version of churros. These porras are described as having a cake-like texture, blending the concept of churros with a more delicate, sponge-like consistency. Since porras bizcochadas is a fictional dish, I’ve used “churros” in the translation to ensure clarity, while retaining the unique texture suggested in the original.

✨ Last chapter of the year! ✨
I hope you’ve enjoyed every moment!
🚨 Chamán is going on hiatus until further notice.
But don’t worry, it will return with more!
Thanks for joining us this far 🙌