The magical defenses still rippled in gold through Sorriso’s inner streets, cracking like glass under thunder. After the collapse of the walls and Luiz’s revelation, chaos had already flooded the city’s heart. And it was there — not in a new arrival, but in the advance — that Mira Von Zar appeared, cutting a path with the ferocity of a warhound. The black pupils bore the crimson 3 burning at their core, a mark that told the world where her power came from. Anatoly’s blood pulsed within her like a drum.

  Behind her, a troop of young and old barbarians filled the narrow street with steel and battle cries. They weren’t beasts — they were men, hardened and disciplined by the deserts and northern valleys. Yet at the front, only two steps separated Number 3 from the scrawny boy who refused to retreat.

  Lukas descended the two steps of the alley alone. The curved shield locked onto his forearm with the sound of a perfect clasp; the Gladius Maximus rested in his other hand as if it had always belonged there. Low stance, left foot forward, right shoulder closed — pure, cold legionary style.

  Mira didn’t smile. She bared her teeth.

  — You… smell of blood and iron. The scent of war.

  — The scent of Sorriso. — Lukas raised the shield a hand’s breadth, aligning its upper edge with his chin; the gladius hidden behind the defense. — And today, you’ll taste it.

  The barbarians charged first, a wave poorly measured. The first raised his axe too high — mistake. Lukas stepped forward: impact on the shield, absorption; the arc of metal redirected the force to the center; the black plate returned it in a straight line, shattering sternum and ribs. The barbarian dropped dead, never understanding.

  The second went for his flank. Lukas pivoted, edge of the shield smashing the opponent’s wrist — disarm; the gladius darted like a snake, piercing between ribs, short thrust; withdraw, recover, close again. The rest hesitated by instinct.

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  Mira came in. Her twin blade cleaved the air vertically; Lukas lifted the shield with a minimal angle, letting the impact slide across the curve. Sparks, scent of hot iron. Mira spun, slashing for his hip — Lukas shifted weight, heel rooted, the lower rim of the shield catching her shin for an instant. His answer was invisible: the gladius grazed her thigh — a clean slice, two fingers deep.

  She drew back half a step, startled. Not by pain — but by the chill that ran through her when she saw, reflected in the black steel of his shield, Lukas’s eyes: gold and violet, embers in darkness. A reflection of something ancient that shouldn’t exist in a boy.

  Mira growled, forcing her lungs to obey. The 3 quivered in her pupils as if recognizing a predator.

  — I won’t back down.

  — Then learn. — Lukas’s smile was thin. — The Legion doesn’t retreat. It weighs. It advances. It finishes.

  The barbarians faltered. The narrow alley — full of angles — became the stage for doctrine. Lukas fought in rhythm: three beats, three functions. Beat one: absorb with the shield. Beat two: return the force through the enemy’s body. Beat three: gladius — thrust, cut, recover. The shield wasn’t a wall; it was a windmill of impact. And the gladius, the verdict.

  In four heartbeats, two fell without a cry. In eight, the barbarian front broke formation. And in the silence between breaths, Mira understood why veterans feared shields.

  — This isn’t a brawl. — Lukas advanced a step, gauging distance with the rim of the shield. — This is war.

  She came again, feral. The clash thundered like trapped lightning. Cold runes slithered under the shield’s metal, murmuring a pulse only Lukas’s arm could feel. The fear was already there, deep, nestled in Number 3’s chest. Not fear of dying — she knew that — but fear of vanishing, of turning to dust like the other Nightmares.

  Lukas tilted his face; her eyes trembled.

  — You’ve felt it, haven’t you? — he said softly. — Here.

  And he touched the center of the shield with the gladius’s tip, where the stored impact waited to be released.

  The barbarians around them stopped without command. The battle hadn’t truly begun — and it was already decided.

  Fear had entered Number 3’s heart, and all her army knew it.

  End of Chapter 39