Sweat was already sliding down Lukas’s face, but his gaze remained firm. Darian pressed forward like a storm, confident that his younger brother’s resistance would crumble within minutes. With every blocked strike, Lukas felt his arm grow heavier—yet his eyes caught details: the way Darian’s shoulder dipped before a diagonal slash… the subtle shift of his left foot before a thrust… the breath he always took after a sequence of three strikes.

  “He’s fast, but predictable,” Lukas thought.

  César’s voice was immediate, sharp as steel: “Exactly. Use that. Pin his step, force the mistake.”

  Morgana’s laugh slithered in: “Or just smash the shield into his pretty face, chocolatinho. Quick and satisfying.”

  “Focus,” César cut her off. “What do we have?”

  “He drops his guard low after each wrist rotation,” Lukas analyzed. “If I can bait the rotation—”

  “Then act like you’re spent. Trick him,” César finished.

  Lukas lowered his shield slightly and let his shoulders sag, forcing his breath to grow heavier. Darian bit at the bait like a shark tasting blood.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “You’re done, failure!” the elder roared, spinning his wrist to unleash a brutal downward slash.

  But Lukas’s gladius didn’t aim for flesh—it caught Darian’s blade at an awkward locking angle. At the same time, he stepped sideways, shoving with his shield and throwing Darian off balance. For half a heartbeat, an opening gaped wide.

  Lukas twisted, driving the rim of his shield into his brother’s elbow. Darian’s fingers flinched open, his sword clattering against stone. And before he could reclaim it, the cold tip of Lukas’s gladius rested against his throat.

  The arena froze. Silence, thick and absolute.

  The herald, stunned, finally shouted:

  “Victory goes to the tenth son of House Fernandes!”

  The stands erupted—half in wild applause, half in outraged disbelief. From above, Luiz burst out laughing.

  “HA! I told you, the Skinny One’s different now!”

  Valquíria only smirked, as if she’d seen the ending from the very start.

  Kneeling, Darian glared up at Lukas with hatred and disbelief. “That was luck…”

  Lukas met his gaze, old anger flickering in his eyes. “No. It was field reading. You lost because you underestimated me.”

  Morgana sighed, mock-dramatic: “Ah, so serious…”

  César, satisfied, rumbled: “Precise. Calculated. That’s how you start forging a compact tank.”

  And while the crowd continued to roar his name, Lukas knew this wasn’t just a single victory. This was the first step toward burying the title of “useless failure” forever.

  End of chapter 16