The Tenth Floor never welcomed intruders without a price.

  As soon as the group stepped past the archway, the ground split open, revealing a circular hall lined with broken columns and ancient carvings. But before they could examine the place, two colossal figures emerged — warriors clad in black armor, skull-shaped helms, and axes forged to shatter walls.

  — “Fall back, Lukas!” — Luiz shouted, cutting across one of the beasts’ paths.

  But it was too late. One massive blade came down with enough force to split the floor in two. Lukas twisted his body and, instinctively, shouted:

  — “Divine Defense: Shell of the Sacred Turtle!”

  Lukas froze for a heartbeat.

  — Why… did I yell that? It just came out… like it was natural.

  The air around him distorted. A wall of ethereal shields formed a circle, absorbing the blow and spreading the shock across the stone floor. The sound echoed like a warhammer slamming against solid rock.

  Boudica rushed along the flank, her spears spinning. The Trevos and Copas held the second enemy at bay. Still, it felt like fighting living fortresses.

  At the center of the hall, resting on a worn marble pedestal, waited a shield.

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  Not a trophy… but a throne of war awaiting its heir.

  Golden edges framed its deep crimson body, and in the center spread the wings of an eagle, silver inscriptions glowing all around it.

  Lukas dashed forward, ducking beneath an axe swing that nearly cleaved him in half. He seized the shield with both hands.

  The instant he touched it, a deep voice thundered in his mind — not in any common tongue.

  — “Salve, heres scuti…”

  Lukas blinked, stumbling mid-motion.

  — “What…? I understood that?”

  — “Sanguis tuus… Romam intelligit. Heres Caesaris es… heres iustitiae… legionarius qui gloriam Imperii resurget.”

  The words flowed into meaning as if he had been born with them:

  — “Your blood understands Rome… Heir of Caesar… heir of justice… the legionary who will raise the Empire’s glory again.”

  — “Rome?” — Lukas growled, blocking a strike with the shield.

  The voice chuckled, heavy with pride and theatrics.

  — “Rome, boy, is what you’d get if you mixed discipline, glory, and excellent haircuts. An empire that marched across worlds, raised walls to the horizon, and…” — the voice paused — “…knew how to use a shield properly.”

  Then its tone sharpened.

  — “I… am Gaius Julius Caesar. A man, a warrior, an emperor… and now, your shadow and your strength.”

  Lukas had no time to answer, only to strike back.

  César muttered something in Latin — and suddenly, clear images surged into Lukas’s mind: Roman formations, shields overlapping, glaives striking forward like beastly teeth.

  — “Gladius Maximus!” — Lukas cried, raising his blade.

  — “Quid est hoc?” the voice snapped, almost offended. “Dei… hoc videtur sicut ruina Rei Publicae!” (“My gods… that looks like the fall of the Republic!”)

  Lukas snorted.

  — “Didn’t catch a word, but I’ll pretend it was a compliment.”

  — “It wasn’t.”

  The voice kept speaking in Latin, but with every phrase, the words became less alien — until they blended into Lukas’s own thoughts.

  The last armored giant collapsed, the shield still pulsing with living power.

  — “Brother legionary,” — said Caesar, — “this is your mission: to raise the Empire’s glory once more. Not of stone and gold… but of honor and strength. I will be your mentor, your friend… and, if fate allows… your spear.”

  The pedestal crumbled into dust. The hall shook, and a staircase revealed itself to the next floor.

  Boudica watched in silence.

  Luiz smirked.

  — “That new toy’s gonna be useful.”

  — “It’s not a toy,” — Lukas replied. — “It’s Caesar.”

  End of Chapter 8