Each beat struck harder than the last, as if the earth itself were breathing.
The people of Smile — Capital Sorriso — gathered in a great circle at the heart of the plaza.
Children, elders, soldiers, nobles — all pulled into the rhythm’s spell.
“The wheel will turn!” cried Nannda Guaracy Fernandes, master of the Palmares and younger sister of Kyros.
Her smile was sharp as a blade, yet her eyes shone with joy.
At the center, Besouro moved with effortless grace, his laughter blending with the chanting crowd.
“Good evening, Smile — I have arrived!”
The festival turned into a quilombo’s celebration.
Hands clapped, feet struck the ground, and voices rose like thunder.
From the edge of the circle, Lukas watched, heart racing.
Inside his mind, Caesar grumbled:
“Child’s play. If you want to fight, use a sword.”
Morgana, of course, purred in delight.
“Shhh… look closer, Chocolatinho.
This isn’t play — it’s power, hidden in rhythm.”
Then Besouro pointed straight at him.
Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
“Cousin! Your turn!”
The crowd parted. All eyes fixed on Lukas.
“I don’t dance,” he muttered.
Nannda laughed softly.
“No one dances here, boy.
Here, we resist.”
Pushed into the circle, Lukas took a breath.
His steps were stiff, awkward.
The people laughed — not in mockery, but in warmth.
Besouro spun forward.
A kick sliced past Lukas’s cheek; he blocked on instinct.
Cheers erupted.
He tried a counter — missed — fell flat.
Children roared with laughter.
“Get up, boy!” shouted Chique-Chique from the rim.
“Those who fall and stay down aren’t from the South!”
Lukas rolled, rose again, and smiled — his first real smile of the night.
“Alright then,” he said. “Let’s play for real.”
Caesar thundered in his head:
“Yes! Show them that falling is not failure!”
And he did.
Every fall turned into a counter.
Every mistake into a lesson.
He had no grace like Besouro, no lightness like Nannda — but he had cunning, adaptation, rhythm born of struggle.
The circle exploded in shouts and song.
Some nobles frowned — “that’s no fight, it’s chaos” — but the people understood.
Lukas was their mirror: falling, rising, refusing to break.
When it ended, Besouro pulled him into a laughing embrace.
“Told you! He’s got the Palmares spirit hidden in his chest!”
The drums rolled. The chants grew wild. The night burned bright.
Sweat ran down Lukas’s face — and for the first time since his return through time,
he felt it — belonging.
Morgana whispered, honey and venom mixed:
“Mmm… even sweaty, you’re beautiful to watch, sweet boy.”
Lukas rolled his eyes, but the smile stayed.
End of chapter 5