not with imperial trumpets, but with the deep, pulsating beat of atabaques.
Ancestral rhythms echoed along the walls, blending with the dry chants of the monks and students of the Sol Negro, and the vibrant chorus of the disciples of Palmares.
Each drumbeat made the ground tremble like thunder. The air smelled of sweat, incense, and dust rising from the crowd.
The entire plaza stretched their necks to see.
From the monumental archway, the first to advance were the ten wives of Kyros.
Their ceremonial robes gleamed with the colors of their native lands — and none of them were Lukas’s mother.
The most imposing among them was Alara Anapelum, mother of Leli and elder sister of Flora Anapelum, revered as a daughter of the seasons.
Behind the wives came the masters of the schools.
— Nannda Guaracy Fernandes, Kyros’s younger sister, capoeira master and head of the Palmares School.
— Tariq Fernandes Silva, the middle brother of Kyros, stern and sharp-eyed, master of jiu-jitsu and leader of the Sol Negro School.
Marching with them were hundreds of disciples —
synchronized steps, forged bodies, voices echoing hymns of war and freedom.
Among the young, two stood out like lances amid the crowd:
— Besouro, Nannda’s only son, muscles vibrating, a grin defying the world.
— Akemi, Tariq’s daughter, light-footed as the wind, eyes deep as night.
The plaza burst into murmurs:
“Who are they?”
“Are they with Kyros?”
“New competitors?”
Atop the grandstand, Kyros opened his arms.
His beard gleamed beneath the sun, and his voice rolled like thunder:
“Sorriso! Open your eyes and hearts! My family has returned home!”
The roar of the people shook the very walls.
Lukas froze among his siblings.
In his past life, none of this had existed —
No Aunt Nannda. No Uncle Tariq.
No ten wives. No armies of disciples.
It was like watching a forbidden dream.
César growled in his mind, confused:
“This wasn’t on the board, boy. Who moved the pieces?!”
Morgana laughed, her tone both teasing and sharp:
“Hehe… maybe you did, sweetheart. Maybe this is all your fault.”
“This makes no sense…” Lukas murmured, eyes wet without realizing.
Kyros descended from the dais, embraced Tariq and Nannda,
then each of his wives before the crowd, drawing thunderous applause.
“We have fulfilled our mission for the Empire!” announced Tariq, voice deep as stone.
“And now we return what is yours — our art, our discipline, our blood!”
Nannda raised her arm, and the Palmares chorus answered with a cry that made even nobles tremble.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Lukas trembled.
“I… never had this. Never.”
“Now you do,” whispered Morgana — cruel and sweet.
“A giant family, just like you always wanted. Maybe that’s why you crave so many wives… five, wasn’t it, last time?”
“Shut up.” Lukas closed his eyes but couldn’t stop the trembling smile.
Besouro and Akemi climbed into the arena with their groups, and the crowd vibrated as if the city itself breathed with them.
The entire festival had shifted in scale.
For the first time, Lukas felt he was fighting not just for vengeance —
but for a future that had never existed before.
Kyros raised his voice once more, booming like a storm:
“Welcome home, my family! Our blood! Our culture has returned!
We are back! Let the festival begin!”
The drums exploded again, uniting claps, voices, and steps until the Capital Sorriso itself pulsed like a living heart.
And then, the people began to sing —
the Canto do Povo de Sorriso.
(The sound of the atabaques starts soft. Rhythmic claps follow. Gradually, the chorus rises like thunder from the heart of the people.)
Verse 1
Good evening, Sorriso, I’ve arrived!
Beat the drum, for today I won’t rest!
Under the moon’s rhythm, I danced,
Call the people — the feast will rise!
(The drums grow stronger, claps faster. Voices unite in a vibrant chorus.)
Chorus
???, shout loud — life will win!
???, in the South, no one will hide within!
???, tonight we live and sing again,
Good evening, Sorriso, I’ve arrived!
Verse 2
Through the wind runs a burning flame,
In every heartbeat, the earth feels the same!
If sorrow comes, it won’t remain,
For the people’s smile will sing again!
Chorus (stronger, almost a festive war cry)
???, shout loud — life will win!
???, in the South, no one will hide within!
???, tonight we live and sing again,
Good evening, Sorriso, I’ve arrived!
(The chorus repeats. Claps, laughter, children and warriors in one voice.
The people sing as if joy itself were defying death.)
In the center, Besouro spun, flipped, and slid like the wind.
With each movement, the crowd shouted louder.
Children clapped, elders cried, even nobles hid their smiles.
At the front walked Elder Chiquechique,
staff in hand, skin marked by battles, white beard to his chest, eyes glowing like embers.
He raised his hand, voice thundering:
“Listen, children of Sorriso!
This song is not only joy — it is memory.
Each beat of these atabaques carries the voice of those who fell before us.
Each clap is the cry of those who refused to die in silence!
Today you dance — but remember: dance is also resistance!”
The crowd went silent for a heartbeat.
Then the chant rose again — louder, prouder.
Even the monks of the Sol Negro bowed their heads in respect.
Lukas stood still, chest tight, as if the world had knotted around him.
“This didn’t exist…” he whispered.
“What’s happening? My father never had brothers. Ten wives? None of us met our mothers in the last life.
The board is broken.”
He clenched his fists, heart pounding.
“Morgana… César… that spell you used — could it actually bend time itself?”
Morgana’s laughter slid through his mind, soft and serpentine:
“Hehehe… sweet chocolate, do you really think I only toy with your soul?
My spell wasn’t meant for this… but time is a capricious whore.
I stitched you back from death — maybe I pulled too many threads.
Maybe the board cracked because you came back carrying too much.
Maybe me. Maybe the Seal. Maybe both. Who knows? Even I’m curious.”
César’s deep voice cut like iron:
“It wasn’t just her spell, Lukas. Time doesn’t bend that easily.
Another force was already moving.
When Morgana pulled you back, she only accelerated what was already unraveling.
These changes — brothers who never existed, mothers you never met —
they’re part of something greater, tied to the seal in your heart.”
Morgana giggled again, half sweet, half venom:
“Oh, how he loves his sermons… but he’s not wrong.
You didn’t return to the same line, my dear.
You came to one where all the pieces got shuffled.
And guess which piece doesn’t fit anywhere? That’s right… you, my cracked little chocolate.”
César chuckled, calm but sharp:
“If it didn’t exist before, it does now. And you have no idea of its weight.”
Morgana whispered, voice fading like smoke:
“Be careful, sweetheart.
Sometimes, a people armed with joy is more dangerous than an army.”
End of Chapter 1