The heavy silence from the previous chapter broke with a roar — Kyros’s voice booming like thunder across the plaza.

  — “Enough tears! Tonight is no night for sorrow — it’s a night for celebration!” shouted the Patriarch, raising his fist. “Tomorrow, I’ll announce the next trial… but tonight, Sorriso will dance!”

  The crowd erupted. Children screamed, elders clapped, and the drums of Palmares thundered in rhythm. Dancers spun under the moonlight, capoeira warriors leapt like blades of wind, and every beat of the atabaque made the ground tremble.

  Across the plaza, discipline reigned.

  The Monks of the Black Sun, led by Tariq Fernandes Silva, moved in flawless formation — each fall, each twist, accompanied by a sharp, unified shout. The crowd watched in awe, torn between reverence and thrill.

  It was as if the festival had split into two worlds:

  on one side, the freedom of the drums; on the other, the discipline of shadow and steel.

  Lukas watched in silence until a bony hand tapped his shoulder.

  He turned and saw Elder Chique-Chique, smiling with mischief beneath a beard as white as salt, his cane tapping in rhythm with the drums.

  — “Boy,” the old man said, his voice rough yet alive, “you look down too much. Who only looks at the ground ends up tripping over his own shadow. Learn to listen, to feel… the thunder and the drum. Even the earth itself can lift a man — if his heart beats in the right rhythm.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  César grumbled inside Lukas’s mind:

  — “That old man’s sharper than he looks.”

  Morgana laughed, her tone dripping with wicked sweetness:

  — “Oh, my little chocolate, even that wrinkled relic sees what you keep pretending not to.”

  Before Lukas could answer, another figure stepped out of the crowd.

  A tall young man — dark skin, a round afro like a halo, a yellow cord tied at his waist. His smile was open, but there was a fire behind his eyes.

  — “Besouro Guaraci Fernandes,” he said proudly, extending a hand. “I saw the way you looked at the drums. They spoke to you too, didn’t they?”

  Lukas shook his hand, surprised by the strength.

  — “They did… but I don’t understand their language.”

  Besouro laughed and thumped his chest.

  — “Then stick with me. When your heart beats in rhythm, you’ll understand — no words needed.”

  Suddenly, a feminine voice cut through the noise.

  Akemi Fernandes Silva — beige kimono, small braids down her back, eyes cold as steel.

  — “From the Black Sun,” she said bluntly. “They say you’re the failure who won three trials in a row.”

  Lukas raised his chin.

  — “And do you believe that?”

  She crossed her arms.

  — “Not yet. But I’ll see for myself.”

  Besouro burst out laughing, throwing an arm around both of them.

  — “Oh, Akemi, let the man breathe. Tonight’s for dancing, not doubting. He’s my guest — and a guest of Palmares dances and smiles!”

  Lukas’s heart pounded faster.

  It was strange — in the last life, neither Besouro, nor Akemi, nor Chique-Chique, nor even the schools existed.

  But now they did.

  And for the first time, maybe…

  the “failure” wasn’t so alone in the fight for the resistance to come.

  Because the Magrelo’s plan was already moving —

  quietly, in the shadows.

  End of Chapter 3