The heat of the torches mixed with the roaring cheers of the crowd. The Arena of Cápua thundered.
With hundreds of stands packed, banners waving, and warriors adjusting their training armor, the atmosphere was pure tension.
Lukas stood in silence among the other competitors.
— It will be fine, — said Aníbal beside him. — You know the basics, don’t you?
— I do. But basics don’t beat crowds.
— Maybe not. But with enough grit… the crowd will remember you.
The herald raised his staff:
— We begin the duels of the second trial! Individual combats! All participants have been drawn for fights in sequence!
The stands erupted as names were called.
— Lukas Fernandes, tenth son of Patriarch Kyros!
The laughter came immediately.
— Look, the failure is going to fight! — Hahaha! Bet he falls on the first blow!
Lukas walked to the center of the arena, holding a wooden training sword. Scattered claps. Many whispers.
His first opponent: an older swordsman, broad shoulders, arrogant smile.
— Is it true you’re the son of the Thunderous Phantom? Must’ve been an accident.
GONG!
The man charged aggressively. Lukas barely blocked, falling back.
The crowd roared with laughter.
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"Get up."
He breathed deeply. Waited for the second strike. When it came, Lukas turned the enemy’s weight against him, slipped aside, and struck the flank with precision.
The opponent collapsed, breathless.
— How…?
Victory.
The crowd fell silent for a second… then murmured, surprised.
Second fight.
A tall woman with braided hair and sharp eyes spun her rapier with ease.
— You’re cute. But I won’t go easy.
GONG!
She lunged with quick thrusts. Lukas retreated, blocking with effort. He waited. When she raised her blade high, he ducked, pushed her knee, and unbalanced her.
With a swift turn, he struck her arm.
Victory.
The warrior smiled, conceding.
— Not just a pretty face, huh?
Third fight.
A veteran known for cruelty. Scarred shoulders. Empty stare.
— I’ll tear your courage out.
GONG!
He rushed forward. Lukas fell under the block but locked the blade with both hands, spun with the weight of the fall, and smashed the man’s helmet with the hilt.
The brute staggered. Lukas rose and struck his chest.
Victory.
The crowd began to change.
The laughter turned to murmurs.
The whispers went silent.
"He wasn’t just dead weight."
"He knows how to fight."
"It’s not talent. It’s will."
In the upper stands, the patriarchs observed quietly.
Rubya, the White Tigress, chewed a piece of meat.
— Whose mother is this boy? He didn’t inherit talent, but… that will is rarer than kings.
TinBell, queen of the fairies, sat cross-legged.
— Will of a lion… mind of an owl. Perhaps talent lies elsewhere.
Kotan Aspen, arms crossed, grunted:
— I start to understand why Kyros supports him so much.
Helena Summer nodded serenely:
— He has something that cannot be taught.
Kyros, from his balcony, didn’t smile. But he didn’t look away either.
Meanwhile, other fights shook the arena:
Adriele, with her rapier, defeated opponents in two or three moves.
Lincon and Maicon flaunted strength and arrogance, blowing mocking kisses at the crowd.
Aníbal advanced like a defensive wall with his spear.
Amélia, silent, cut down foes with short, precise strikes.
Two duels drew special attention:
A warrior from the Pigeon Guild facing a Bragan?a fighter for fifteen minutes, until the judges intervened.
An amazon of Spring winning with a single spinning kick, drawing whistles.
And amidst all this…
Lukas had won three fights.
Without aura. Without blessing.
Only with what he had: will, basic technique, and the silent promise not to quit.
"Maybe I don’t have the light of the Seasons."
"But I can be the shadow that endures."
And for the first time, when he left the center of the arena…
The crowd applauded him.
End of Chapter 7
