Second strike, heavier. CLANG. The shine of the shield flickered between cold silver and deep black. The rune at its center—subtle as breathing—recorded the impact.
“DIE!”
The vein on Mira’s neck bulged; the 3 in her eyes pulsed crimson.
Third strike—hip rotation, aiming for his collarbone. Lukas stepped forward with his left foot, tucked chin and shoulder behind the curve, and accepted it. The shield trembled faintly… and awoke.
The Black Impact was born like a contained explosion—no light, no fire—pure return of force, aligned from the center of the shield to Mira’s chest.
It was as if someone inside her had struck her heart with a hammer of iron.
The body of the Number Three froze.
Obedient muscles—staring eyes.
For one second, the world went silent.
“I… I can still feel my hands… my legs… How can I… be disappearing… if the heart… isn’t beating…”
The dust began at her fingertips.
“You didn’t see the strike you landed on yourself.”
Lukas stepped into her guard, the shield pressed tight, his narrow frame sliding into the space like a blade into its sheath.
“The shield returned everything you gave. From the inside.”
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Gladius Maximus gleamed briefly.
The blade moved clean, silent—leaving only the signature of perfect angle.
“Sacred Surgical Slash of Shadows.”
The stroke divided the air and sealed the verdict.
Mira’s head turned, her mouth trying to shape a laugh that became terror.
“Demon—”
It never finished.
The dust devoured the word.
Her ashes scattered on the wind sweeping through the corridor of houses.
Behind her, the barbarians froze.
There was no cry for vengeance—only silence, the kind that’s born when men understand how they die.
Lukas did not celebrate.
He adjusted the shield one finger higher on his forearm—like a centurion after a well-executed clash.
The gladius came up beside his temple, high guard, ready.
“Line!”
The word left his mouth short and sharp—military.
The barbarians instinctively stepped back two paces.
Some raised crude shields; others lowered their spears, trying to remember their training.
But that street wasn’t an open field.
It was a corridor of death for anyone fighting against shield and gladius.
Lukas advanced in cadence.
The shield opened space, struck wrists, deflected blades; the gladius appeared only when there was something to take.
Short thrusts, always for the gap between plates, always for the chest—because now all of Sorriso knew where to strike.
Two fell, then three.
One tried for a hero’s courage and caught the rim of the shield to the nose—cartilage and pride collapsed together.
The street filled with ragged breathing; no one screamed anymore.
Lukas stopped.
Steam rose from the shield’s metal—a thin white line in the cold morning.
“Anyone else?” he asked, unhurried.
No one answered.
The fear that once belonged to Mira now lived in every face.
A boy raised an empty hand, his blade on the ground.
Human eyes—not beast’s.
“We… we didn’t want this,” he whispered. “They ordered us. If we didn’t come, my sister…”
His voice broke.
Lukas didn’t lower the gladius.
He only shifted his weight.
Doctrine demanded a clean end.
César, deep in his mind, murmured of honor.
Morgana whispered temptation and contempt in equal measure.
The shield weighed heavy on his arm.
The gladius begged.
“Kneel,” he said at last. “Or die standing.”
And the entire street kneeled.
End of Chapter 40.