The drums of Palmares slowed, their rhythm fading into the dusk — until a sharp cry split the air.
— “HAA!”
Every head turned at once.
Marching in perfect lines, the Monks of the Black Sun entered the square.
Beige robes, red and white sashes, their breaths synchronized —
each step striking the ground like restrained thunder.
Silence swept over Sorriso.
At the front walked Tariq Fernandes Silva, Kyros’s middle brother.
Serene as a still lake, yet his eyes carried storms.
Lukas frowned.
In his past life, this had never existed — no Black Sun, no Tariq, no monks.
Only the Castle of the Four Seasons.
“Strange…” he muttered under his breath. “None of this was here before…”
The old Chique-Chique tapped his cane in rhythm with the air, his voice calm and deep.
“The drum calls the heart. The thunder calls the breath,” he said.
“Each school speaks of freedom in its own way — one through dance, the other through silence.”
Before Lukas could answer, a familiar shout broke the tension.
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— “Lukas!”
It was Aníbal, running across the square with a huge rib in his hand, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
“We came from the other side! Everyone’s talking about your fight in the capoeira ring! We wanted to see, but looks like it’s over!”
Behind him, Amélia sighed, tugging her brother’s arm.
“If you don’t drop that meat, you’ll embarrass us in front of the Patriarch.”
Yumi walked with calm, feline steps, but her golden eyes didn’t leave the monks.
The wolf’s senses were sharp, restless.
“Hmm… predator discipline,” she murmured. “Still prefer Luiz’s rhythm, though.”
Aika, the little fox, hid halfway behind Aníbal’s leg —
her wide eyes darting, ears twitching under her hood.
She whispered softly, almost too quiet to hear:
“…It’s about to start.”
And it did.
At the head of the formation stood a young woman — her kimono flawless, dark hair braided into a high knot.
Her gaze met Lukas’s — cold, sharp, unshaken.
Akemi Fernandes Silva.
She said nothing.
Only observed, as if measuring an opponent not yet worth speaking to.
Then Besouro burst into laughter, throwing an arm around both Lukas and Aníbal.
“Now this is what I call a party! Thunder on one side, drums on the other — let’s see who can handle Sorriso now!”
The crowd split in two:
half still swayed to the rhythm of the drums,
half stood frozen, drawn to the calm, thunderous discipline of the Black Sun monks.
And Lukas, caught between both worlds, felt his heart tighten with unease —
and yet, somehow, open with joy.
In his past life, none of this had existed.
Now, in Sorriso, heart and rhythm marched as one.
End of chapter 9