Amélia drew the cord of her mana-bow, and dozens of ice arrows soared at once.
— Freeze! — she shouted, unleashing the volley. The creatures locked in crystalline blocks and shattered in seconds. The crowd roared.
But beside her, Lukas stumbled. His body refused obedience. Blood trickled from his mouth.
— If you keep going like this, you might die. — Morgana’s voice echoed in his mind, cold. — You’re bleeding too much, chocolatinho.
Lukas laughed through gritted teeth, spitting red onto the dirt.
It’s in pain I’ll shine.
Morgana purred, exhilarated. — Ahhh, that’s it! The eclipse begins to rise!
César roared, his voice steel against steel: — That’s it, legionary! Surgical blows! Slice, cut, cut again!
And then something shifted. Lukas felt the two presences within him — Morgana’s dark malice, César’s martial rigor — begin to align.
Pain and discipline. Madness and precision.
His body faltered, but his feet began to move faster. A goblin surged ahead — and the imaginary blade struck. A troll tried to crush him — and the cut hit a tendon. A flying serpent dipped low — and fell decapitated.
— What…?! — the crowd gasped. — He’s disappearing! Looks like a ghost!
Each strike was quick, dry, silent. Only the sound of monsters falling.
The fairy-run panel above began to flash: Lukas and Amélia, previously in last place, shot upward like arrows.
Above them, the Patriarchs shifted uneasily:
- Kotan of Winter clenched his fist. — He fights like a veteran.
- Helena Summer leaned forward. — That’s not the boy who used to cry.
- Aurelius Rowan murmured: — He seems… a ghost.
- Flora Anapelum pressed her hands to her chest, moved to tears.
Kyros watched with a smirk playing at his lips. — Crybaby… you had this strength all along and made me worry fifteen years for nothing? Pest! I’ll give you a beating later!
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His golden aura pulsed, an eclipse of flame rising.
Dariam and his mother stood frozen. — That brood-hatcher’s son… dares to steal the clan’s name before the people!
The other wives of Kyros glanced at each other — some furious, others in silence, recognizing the uncanny resemblance between Lukas and the Patriarch himself.
In the stands, the siblings reacted:
- Selene, her black mask concealing a smile. — He seems like a veteran.
- Her mother completed: — Is this really the crybaby?
- Selene answered: — No. It’s the eclipse. The Sun’s blood awakened.
- Luiz murmured, eyes fixed: — What is this, magrelo…
- Valquíria clenched her fist. — He changed.
- Luiz’s mother smiled in awe. — What a spectacle.
- Valquíria’s mother observed in icy silence.
- Twins Maycon and Lyncon exchanged looks, shaken: — We can’t even bully him now. He was always with Luiz, Selene or Valquíria.
- Lyncon muttered: — What if he holds a grudge?
- Maycon replied: — He won’t kill us. We’re brothers.
Then his tone dipped: — Damn… when did he get this strong? I preferred when he was crying.
Meanwhile, nobles and dukes whispered among themselves, laced with venom:
— He’s not a hero. He’s a lucky loser.
— We’ll bring him into our houses, use him until death.
— If the Patriarch won’t hold him, we will.
Their words were honeyed poison.
César and Morgana sensed it at once — the heat of the commoners’ joy, chanting “CHO-CO-LA-TI-NHO!”, and the cold disdain of the powerful, already seeing Lukas as a weapon or toy.
In the center of the arena, Lukas kept moving.
One cut.
Another cut.
Faster. More precise.
And for the first time, the Ghost of War awakened inside the scrawny fifteen-year-old body.
End of chapter 21