The central square of Sorriso had been cleared. The stalls were pushed back, the crowd packed into makeshift stands, and silence hung heavy in the air.

  In the center, two rings were drawn: on one side, the round circle of the Palmares wheel; on the other, the square ring of the Monks of the Black Sun.

  Besouro entered first. His perfectly shaped black hair looked like a crown, and his open smile was contagious. He clapped three times — and the drums answered.

  The wheel formed around him; warriors danced and swayed in rhythm. Besouro’s body flowed like a river — light, playful, alive.

  The crowd cheered.

  On the opposite side, Akemi stepped in. Her kimono was flawless, her red belt tied tight around her waist. She didn’t smile.

  Kneeling, she bowed her head. Behind her, the monks struck the ground with their fists in unison.

  The echo rolled through the air — dry, heavy, like thunder without clouds.

  The contrast couldn’t be sharper: joy versus silence, celebration versus discipline.

  — Begin! — Tariq’s voice boomed from the stands.

  Besouro moved first — a wide ginga, his body swaying with the music. He spun, leg sweeping the air in a spinning kick.

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  Akemi didn’t flinch. She ducked, caught his leg midair, and twisted. Besouro hit the ground — rolled — and came back up laughing.

  — Hahaha! Now we’re talking!

  The people roared. Children shouted, elders clapped, and the Palmares sang:

  ?? ê, Besouro! ê, Zumbi! ??

  Akemi’s eyes remained cold. She dashed forward again, caught his arm, and threw him down.

  He escaped with a sweep of his own, spinning back to his feet with a grin that burned brighter than the sun.

  From the crowd, Lukas clenched his fists.

  — They’re amazing…

  César grunted inside his mind:

  — She bends him like he’s made of straw.

  Morgana purred, amused:

  — Mmm… and look at that smile, chocolatinho. He loves it.

  Above them, Kyros watched in silence.

  Nannda smiled proudly.

  Tariq’s expression didn’t change — his eyes simply measured every move.

  The duel continued — every fall answered by a rise, every blow turned into rhythm.

  Heart against thunder. Passion against discipline.

  At last, both stepped back at once — breathless, eyes burning.

  Akemi bowed slightly.

  — You’re no ordinary man.

  Besouro laughed, spreading his arms.

  — And you’re no stone princess, Thunder Girl. There’s fire in you — I saw it.

  The crowd erupted.

  Palmares clapped, monks struck the ground, the city roared as one.

  No one won.

  No one needed to.

  What they witnessed was the birth of a rivalry that would echo through generations.

  In the middle of the stands, Lukas smiled without realizing it.

  In my past life, none of this existed… but now… I want to see how far this story goes.

  End of chapter 12