The training courtyard roared with the clash of steel, the shouts of exertion, and the harsh orders of instructors.

  Among dozens of soldiers, four figures stood out.

  Lukas knelt at the center of the circle, leaning on Máximo, his gladius, while struggling to catch his breath.

  Every inhale burned his chest like a spear piercing his ribs.

  “Stand up,” Luiz ordered, his voice sharp as a blade.

  “If your body can still move, you’re nowhere near ready.”

  Lukas lifted his eyes, teeth clenched.

  “It’s already… been three hours.”

  “Then stay standing,” added Valquíria from where she leaned against a pillar.

  “When we trained with Father, we went until we coughed blood.

  Do you think the Eleventh Disaster will wait for you to rest?”

  “He won’t,” said Adriele, her calm tone one she had learned to wear like armor.

  “Neither will the other ten.”

  Lukas forced himself to his feet. His left arm trembled from exhaustion.

  The shield weighed like lead — but he stayed upright.

  Luiz spun his spear and pointed the shaft toward him.

  “Legionary style. Show me again.”

  The dry crack of training echoed once more.

  Lukas attacked, shield tight against his body.

  His blade swept a wide arc toward his brother’s flank.

  CLANG!

  The strike was blocked with one arm. Luiz shoved him back with the spear’s butt, almost knocking him over.

  “Too slow,” Luiz said. “You hesitate before you cut.

  There is no hesitation in real combat.”

  “Try fighting three hours straight, then complain,” Lukas shot back, breath ragged.

  Luiz raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ve been training since before you were born.”

  Valquíria sighed.

  “Stop talking and fight. Here—”

  She tossed a piece of bread toward Lukas. “Eat before you pass out.”

  “Thanks…” Lukas muttered, biting into it with the dignity of a beaten dog.

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  Adriele knelt beside him, wiping blood from his forehead.

  “You’re already better than you were,” she said softly, almost pleading.

  “Don’t kill yourself just to prove something.”

  Lukas lowered his eyes.

  “I’m not proving anything to you,” he rasped. “I’m proving it to myself.”

  Silence fell—

  Until a soft voice broke it.

  “How poetic…”

  Morgana stood atop the stone arch, smiling with that dangerous, enigmatic glint.

  The wind tossed her dark hair; her eyes shimmered with something heavy—almost lethal.

  Valquíria shot to her feet, weapon drawn.

  “Her again… I’M GOING TO KILL THAT WITCH!”

  Luiz moved, ready to strike—

  But Morgana simply raised one hand, as if to calm them.

  The stones beneath her cracked lightly, the mana of the Tower stirring at her presence.

  “Relax,” she said sweetly, playfully. “I didn’t come to fight.”

  Lukas stood with effort. His body screamed, his head pounded, but his anger burned hotter.

  He glared at her.

  “You’re a Disaster. And not just any…”

  Morgana tilted her head, her smile almost… shy.

  “That’s right.”

  She leapt lightly from the arch and landed before them.

  Valquíria readied her strike. Luiz stepped forward.

  But Morgana didn’t attack.

  She simply approached Lukas.

  “Have you ever thought…” her voice dropped, playful and venomous,

  “…about having children?”

  Time froze.

  Valquíria froze.

  Luiz blinked, stunned.

  Adriele lost her breath.

  And Lukas—

  SMACK!

  The slap echoed through the courtyard.

  Morgana’s head tilted to the side, her hair whipping around her face.

  But she didn’t fall. Instead, her body trembled from head to toe.

  And then…

  She laughed.

  “Hah… that was… so good.”

  Lukas’s eyes burned crimson with fury.

  “This is kill or be killed,” he growled.

  “There’s no room for your games. Or for romance. We’ve tolerated your audacity long enough.”

  Morgana touched her cheek—then grabbed the front of his tunic with both hands.

  “I told you, I didn’t come here to fight.”

  She leaned in, her face brushing against his. And then—

  She kissed him.

  A soft, lingering kiss on his cheek, still streaked with sweat and blood.

  “I just… like you,” she whispered.

  And in an instant, her body dissolved into black mist and vanished.

  The four stood frozen. Silence consumed the courtyard.

  Valquíria broke it first:

  “Okay… so Lukinhas just slapped the First Disaster.

  And she liked it.”

  “That’s twisted,” murmured Adriele.

  “I… need a drink,” Luiz sighed, staring at the sky.

  Lukas clenched his fists, breathing heavily.

  ?? — The Tower of the Unfortunate, 100th Floor.

  The wind howled. The air was thick with shadows.

  At the top of the Tower, Anatoly, shrouded in darkness, watched the armies gathering below.

  Morgana lay on a wall of black stone, eyes lost on the horizon.

  “What is it?” Anatoly asked. “You look… different. Thoughtful.”

  She didn’t answer at once.

  Mana swirled around her — heavy, alive, impure.

  “…None of your business,” she finally said, her voice faint.

  Anatoly fell silent. His hands trembled.

  Morgana didn’t look at him.

  But the fury in her eyes, the shadow burning her skin, and the memory of that slap

  made something strange pulse in her chest.

  And even there, atop the Tower, in the heart of horror—

  Lukas’s touch still burned on her skin.

  End of Chapter 2