Alenna Fonseca stepped forward, her light sword in hand, her blonde hair shimmering under the torches.
Her smile was the same as years ago — confident and poisonous.
“Don’t worry, Chocolatinho,” she said. “I’ll try not to hurt you too much.”
Lukas took a deep breath. He knew her style — short steps, diagonal movement, a triple-strike pattern.
It wasn’t about strength — it was about rhythm.
She dances with the sword, he thought. Then I’ll change the music.
The crowd was already chanting her name, calling Lukas lucky just for getting to lose in style.
Morgana whispered sweetly in his mind:
“Ahh… she’s still gorgeous. I bet you still feel that heat in your chest, my little chocolate.”
César snapped back immediately, voice thundering:
“Focus, legionary! Fight with honor!”
Lukas raised his shield, feeling the weight of raw iron. He didn’t answer.
The first strike came like thunder. Her blade screeched against the shield, sparks flying.
Then came the second slash — low and fast.
The third came in an arc aimed at his neck.
Three strikes. The same pattern as always.
He blocked the first, dodged the second… and stepped back just before the third.
The crowd roared, thinking he was retreating.
But it was all part of the plan.
The sand near the edge of the arena was uneven — he remembered that from sneaking here as a kid.
One wrong step, and you’d slip.
He let her press the attack, pretending to falter, to miss blocks, to give her an opening.
Her sword grazed his shoulder, slicing the skin.
“Still smiling?” she shouted, breathing hard.
“That’s all I’ve got left,” he replied, panting.
She attacked again, faster now, eyes burning with adrenaline. The crowd was on its feet.
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“You’re stubborn, Fernandes!” she yelled. “I’m almost at the climax of this fight!”
Lukas smirked.
“Funny… I already got there.”
She blinked, confused.
Then she realized — her right foot was past the circle’s edge.
One step too far. Her heel sank into the loose sand.
The herald raised the golden staff.
“Outside the arena! Match over! Victory — Lukas Fernandes!”
Silence.
Then came laughter, cheers, and boos all mixed together.
Alenna froze, face red, torn between surprise and embarrassment.
“What?! No, wait — that was a trick!” she half-laughed, half-shouted.
Lukas set his shield down, breathing hard, and answered with that irritating humor of his:
“Not a trick. Strategy. And maybe… a little luck.”
Morgana laughed in his head:
“Oh, sweetie… made her lose balance and still looked charming doing it. Now that’s art.”
César declared, indignant:
“That was legitimate tactics! A true legionary wins without wasting strength!”
The audience kept murmuring, some amused, others still booing.
Alenna sighed, gave him a playful slap on the shoulder.
“You’re a lucky idiot, Lukas.”
“And you’re gorgeous when you’re angry,” he shot back with a grin.
In his mind, César was now “tied up,” crying:
“What was that?! Morgana, stop corrupting my boy! I swear I’ll protect him from lust!
Divine barrier — zero libido!”
Morgana laughed sweetly:
“Relax, soldier boy. He just gave her a compliment. It’s not like he’s taking her to bed.
But… I wouldn’t mind if he did.”
César screamed:
“Shameless fox! Seal of the Holy Paladin — Purify!”
“Your Latin’s weak, soldier boy… too weak to purify a treat like me,” Morgana purred.
(Mental image: César upside-down, little arrows pointing to him labeled “defeated.”)
Back in the real world —
Alenna looked away, cheeks still red.
“Tch… don’t get full of yourself.”
The herald raised his staff once more, voice echoing across the stands:
“Remember, people of Sorriso! The rules of this trial are clear and fair:
? He who loses the will to fight — is defeated.
? He who steps even one finger outside the circle — is defeated.
? And he who gives up by his own will… loses not only the match, but his honor.”
Silence again — and then thunderous applause.
“Such is the path of the Eleven Trials!” the herald cried.
“Where every victory is forged in blood, sweat, and pride!”
From above, Valquíria Fernandes watched, her hammer resting on her shoulder, eyes narrowed.
“Clever strategy,” she murmured. “But the next trial won’t be won with tricks.”
Lukas lifted his shield, blood still dripping from his arm, and muttered to himself:
“I know. The next one might be you.”
The bell rang again, calling the next names.
The arena echoed with laughter and cheers:
“The Strategist Chocolatinho!”
“The skinny one won!”
“How the hell did he pull that off?!”
Lukas just smiled, walking back down the stone corridor. The shield suddenly felt lighter.
Inside his mind, César said solemnly:
“A victory is still a victory, legionary.”
And Morgana added, her tone sweet and sinful:
“And a well-timed flirt is worth more than any medal.”
Lukas chuckled to himself.
“You two are unbearable.”
And he kept walking — ready for whatever came next.
End of Chapter 14