The training grounds of Castle Bragan?a were as usual: shouts, clashing steel, the smell of sweat and wet earth.

  But that day was different.

  Luiz sat on a crate, arms crossed, watching Lukas rise for the hundredth time.

  — “Gonna tell me it’s over?” Luiz asked with disdain. “Already on your knees, Lukinhas?”

  Lukas spat blood and leaned on his gladius, panting like a wounded animal.

  — “…I… won’t…”

  His eyes burned with the same fire as two years ago.

  — “I won’t… give up.”

  Luiz sighed theatrically and stood, walking toward him.

  — “I already told you — this trash style of yours won’t get you anywhere.”

  — “It’s my style…” Lukas growled. “I created it… I won’t throw it away.”

  — “You didn’t create anything.” Luiz jabbed a finger in his face. “You just patched together cheap tricks with brute force.”

  He stepped closer.

  — “Do you know why I don’t respect it? Because it has no essence. No purpose. Just rage. And rage blinds a man.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Lukas staggered to his feet, trembling.

  — “Then… teach me. Teach me something that matters.”

  Luiz raised a brow.

  — “You think I’ll hand over the techniques of the Copas just like that?”

  — “If it means defeating the Disasters, I’ll take anything.”

  Luiz snapped his fingers. Two soldiers dragged in a massive log, covered with old cuts.

  He nodded toward it.

  — “Until you split this in half, you won’t learn a thing. Train your cut until your arm falls off. When you’ve got the strength for it… we’ll talk.”

  — “That’s it?” Lukas let out a hoarse laugh. “Sounds easy.”

  — “Then shut up and do it.” Luiz smirked, turning away. “And if you die, try not to make me clean up the corpse.”

  ---

  A Thousand Defeats, Not a Single Victory

  When Luiz left, Lukas placed his gladius on the log.

  Every fiber of his body screamed. His shoulder burned as if on fire. Blood dripped from fresh and old wounds alike.

  And still, he raised the blade.

  There had already been more than a thousand defeats.

  He had stopped counting once he realized he had never beaten Luiz. Not once.

  And yet, he kept going.

  Why?

  Because the King of Copas wasn’t just strong. He was a genius of close combat. The living reflection of everything Lukas still wasn’t.

  ---

  The Sound of Persistence

  The first strike did nothing. Not a splinter.

  The second left a scratch.

  By the fifth blow, his knees buckled. By the tenth, his gladius trembled in his hand.

  But he didn’t stop.

  From afar, someone watched.

  — “You’re so… fascinating,” Morgana murmured, sitting atop the wall, legs swinging. “What kind of man keeps standing after all that?”

  She bit her lower lip, heart racing. She wanted to climb down to him. To see those hollow eyes up close.

  But it wasn’t time. Not yet.

  ---

  Fourth Day

  Three days later, when Adriele came to bring water, she found Lukas asleep sitting up, his arm still locked on the gladius — which had sunk halfway into the log.

  She knelt and pressed her forehead to his shoulder.

  — “Brother… how long are you going to carry all this alone?”

  ---

  The Night of the Break

  On the night of the fourth day, he finally split the log in two.

  The dry crack echoed in the empty courtyard.

  Lukas collapsed to his knees. He cried silently. Not from pain — but because deep down, he felt nothing he did could erase the name he bore.

  Fernandes.

  A name that once meant hope.

  A name that now weighed like a curse.

  He rose, breathing deep.

  Even so… he would not give up.

  ---

  From the Highest Tower

  Meanwhile, from the highest tower, Morgana closed her eyes with a smile that was part madness, part tenderness.

  — “Keep going, Lukas…” she whispered. “Because I’ve already chosen my place in this world.”

  At your side.

  And under the cold moon, the Blood Demon kept training…

  …unaware that the most dangerous eyes of the Tower of the Unfortunate were watching him with devotion.

  End of Chapter 12