The stone ring looked smaller than ever.

  Silence hung heavy — broken only by the steady breathing of the monks of the Black Sun.

  Akemi entered first. Firm. Her kimono was spotless, her steps light. Her posture flawless — every movement calculated, precise, lethal.

  Lukas took a deep breath. A fifteen-year-old body carrying the mind of a veteran.

  César muttered inside his head:

  — Don’t forget who you’ve already killed, boy. Anatoly couldn’t break you — why would this girl?

  Morgana laughed, her voice a velvet poison:

  — Oh, but look at that stance… even I’d let her knock me down, chocolatinho.

  The signal echoed.

  The duel began.

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  Akemi struck first — sharp, direct. A hip throw, her body coiling like a whip. The ground rushed toward Lukas’s face — but he wasn’t a novice. He twisted mid-fall, let her weight pass, and crashed sideways instead of on his back.

  He rolled to his feet, covered in dust but unhurt.

  The crowd erupted.

  Akemi raised an eyebrow.

  “Hm. Not as clumsy as you look.”

  “I’ve fallen plenty,” Lukas replied with a crooked grin. “Means I’ve had lots of practice getting up.”

  She lunged again — a chain of perfect grips, searching for a lock. Lukas flowed with it, slippery as water, then threw himself backward on purpose. Using her leg as leverage, he sent her slightly off-balance.

  The crowd roared louder.

  From the stands, Tariq narrowed his eyes.

  “He fights… differently. That’s not capoeira. And it’s not jiu-jitsu either.”

  Chique-Chique bellowed a laugh.

  “That’s soldier’s cunning, man! Strategy disguised as clumsiness. The boy’s got ancient tricks in his blood!”

  Inside the ring, Akemi breathed steady.

  “So that’s it. You’ve got no form — only tricks.”

  “Tricks save lives,” Lukas replied, serious now. “I’ve seen too many ‘technicians’ die looking pretty.”

  She charged again — flawless movement, a textbook throw — but Lukas hooked his foot on the ground, rolled with her motion, and turned the fall into a spin.

  He hit the dirt — standing.

  The audience exploded in cheers.

  From the stands, Besouro screamed, waving his arms:

  “THAT’S IT! Trick her, cousin! Give her a dance, boy!”

  Dariam, teeth grinding, venom in his eyes, whispered:

  “Damn that skinny bastard…”

  Sweat ran down Lukas’s face. Every muscle burned.

  My body can’t keep up… but my mind’s already survived worse.

  He raised his fists again, breathing deep.

  “Come on, Akemi. But this time… I’ll set the rhythm.”

  And then the square erupted in one voice, one thunderous chant:

  “CHO-CO-LA-TI-NHO! CHO-CO-LA-TI-NHO!”

  Lukas grinned — exhausted, alive, and unstoppable.

  End of Chapter 16