The festival exploded into cores. The Palmares danced through the plaza, their atabaques beating like giant hearts.

  The crowd surrendered to the rhythm, chanting echoes that had crossed generations. On the other side, the monks of the Black Sun responded with silence and discipline — perfect verses, sharp cries, synchronized falls.

  It was as if Sorriso were divided between two worlds — and yet, both belonged to her.

  Lukas watched in silence, chest tight. — “This... this didn’t exist in my previous life,” he murmured. “Not Palmares, not Black Sun.”

  Then someone nearby spoke: — “The Castle of the Sun is beautiful today!”

  Lukas turned his gaze to the horizon, where sunlight shone through the golden walls. A shiver crawled down his spine. — “Castle of the Sun? I remember it as the Castle of the Four Seasons…”

  A rough yet lively voice joined him. The Elder Chique-Chique, cane in hand, smiled with the few teeth he had left, his eyes sparkling with centuries of memory.

  — “Boy... it's the same castle, and yet it ain't,” he said, patting Lukas’s shoulder. — “Since Monk Hyami was buried there, people started calling it the Castle of the Sun. It's still the Castle of the Four Seasons... but now the Sun shines above them.”

  Lukas fell silent. César grumbled in his mind: — “They even changed the castle’s name, boy. This timeline is a mess.” Morgana laughed, sweet and cruel: — “I love it. The more confusion, the more fun I can have.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Before he could respond, Besouro appeared, laughing loudly, sweat gleaming on his skin. — “Cousin! Come join the circle! Nobody stays out tonight!”

  Lukas hesitated, but the crowd pushed him to the center. Hands clapped in rhythm. He tried to dance ginga like the Palmares, but his feet were too heavy, too stiff.

  Besouro burst into laughter. — “Relax, man! Let your body speak!”

  Lukas closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. And then, as if an ancient instinct awakened, he let César guide him.

  His movements weren’t pure capoeira. Nor jiu-jitsu. They were precise, direct — like a legionary’s war dance. A spinning strike, an improvised sweep, a block that turned into a counterattack.

  The crowd erupted. Some shouted: — “It’s capoeira!” Others: — “No, it’s jiu-jitsu!” But no one was sure.

  César shouted at himself: — “This isn’t ginga, boy! This is battle!” — And yet, his tone carried pride. He could feel the strength of the monks and the joy of Palmares flowing through the boy’s body.

  Morgana whispered, voice dripping with poisonous sweetness: — “Ah, my little chocolate… you dance ugly, but you dance with soul.”

  Lukas’ body struggled to keep up. His legs trembled, breath heavy. But he compensated with instinct, cunning, and willpower. He used each fall as momentum, each imbalance as an opening.

  When it ended, drenched in sweat and breathless, applause echoed — laughter, claps, cheers. Besouro hit his chest proudly. — “I knew it! You have the heart of Palmares!”

  Akemi, from the Black Sun, watched in silence. Cold as always — but with a hint of surprise in her eyes.

  And Lukas, breathless, looked at the crowd, the castle, his new family. A strange sweetness filled his chest.

  — “This timeline… is different,” he whispered. — “But for some reason… I’m happy in it.”

  End of Chapter 4