The 95th floor lay drenched in a heavy silence, broken only by the rough breath of the survivors.

  Kátia and Alenna lay motionless, their eyes fixed on nothing. Búdica, fallen and gasping, still had black spikes lodged in her flesh. Adriele, pale, was held up by Valquíria, while Luiz kept his spear raised, the carmine aura flickering around him like a contained blaze.

  Anatoly cracked his neck, bones popping against the hall’s dark echo.

  — They still breathe… stubborn little rats. — His gaze fixed on Lukas. — You’ll be the last one I want to see on your knees.

  Caesar’s voice roared in Lukas’s mind like a general’s cry on the battlefield:

  — He underestimates us too much, boy. That’s his greatest mistake.

  There was a tense beat, and then:

  — We open a gap. Your brother and sister make it. When it opens… you go in. Don’t stop until his heart is dust.

  Lukas nodded, tightening his grip on the glaive Maximus.

  Valquíria, still supporting Adriele, breathed deep. Her tall emerald aura flared like a vivid flash, wrapping her in an intense green halo. She set Adriele down gently and spun the hammer, metal singing.

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  Luiz surged forward, his carmine aura roaring like living fire.

  The assault came at once. Valquíria struck from the right, hammer arcing, emerald light cutting the gloom. Luiz dove from the left, the flaming spear aiming for the abdomen. Anatoly stepped back half a pace to block, but Adriele — wounded, but steady — slid beneath and the springblade cut into the Disaster’s leg.

  Caesar did not shout — he commanded:

  — Now!

  The Fourth Seal ignited inside Lukas’s chest. He moved as if the floor itself pushed him, Aegis Invicta held forward, Maximus poised for the kill.

  — Legionary Style… 22 Sacred Surgical Strikes!

  The first strike opened the shoulder to the clavicle.

  The second ripped the abdomen.

  The third pierced the diaphragm.

  The fourth, the shield smashed a knee.

  The fifth severed the last usable arm.

  The sixth, a double puncture to the lungs.

  The seventh, Maximus drove up through the sternum.

  The eighth, the shield shattered the jaw.

  The ninth, cutting the opposite clavicle.

  From the tenth to the twenty-first, a storm of crossing cuts, each sinking deeper, spreading black blood like rain.

  The twenty-second… was more than a thrust. Lukas planted both feet, held the glaive steady, and with the weight of his whole body — and Caesar’s cry: Will of Rome — a golden aura condensed around his arm. The blade surged like a cannon shot, ripping through and shattering Anatoly’s heart.

  The Disaster staggered, eyes wide.

  — Damn you… you… have his gaze… the Desert Lion… Kyros…

  Lukas stepped back without averting his eyes.

  — Luiz… the head. Clean. Quick.

  Luiz’s carmine aura detonated. The spear spun, and with a single, perfect cut he decapitated Anatoly. The head rolled across the floor, stopping at Lukas’s feet.

  The body collapsed, and the black blood evaporated like smoke. Anatoly’s last words came as a whisper before he faded:

  — I… underestimated… Morgana was right… my damned habit… was my ruin…

  — Damn Kyros, why do you keep living… I killed you… why am I looking at your son and seeing you.

  — Anatoly remembered Kyros’s promise. He is my copy at his peak — you will die by my hands, wretch… Damn Kyros.

  Lukas: I am not my father, but I carry his legacy.

  The hall fell mute. But the silence was not pe

  ace.

  It was the warning that the war was far from over.

  End of chapter