The circle never stopped.

  The ground of Smile City seemed to tremble with the beat of the atabaques, the clapping of the people, and the laughter that rose between the chants.

  Lukas had already lost his shame.

  If he fell, he got up.

  If he missed a step, he laughed.

  Every stumble turned into rhythm. For the first time in a long while, he was having fun — light, free, with no weight on his chest.

  But he wasn’t alone.

  Luiz stepped into the circle, light as a leaf in the wind.

  His body moved as if it had always belonged there — a dancer born from the drums themselves.

  He mixed the movement of the House of Cups with pure ginga, and within minutes, he was dodging, striking, and spinning as if he had trained his whole life.

  — “That one’s a natural,” murmured Besouro, impressed. “The drum spoke to him at first beat.”

  Then came Dariam.

  The swordsman entered the circle with a scowl. He tried to sway — tripped.

  Tried to kick — fell.

  Tried to fight — ended up rolling in the dust.

  Every time he tried to force power, the rhythm broke him.

  The people laughed loud and free.

  — “This is savage nonsense!” he shouted, sweating and furious. “Real battle is fought with steel, not this foolish dance!”

  Lukas burst out laughing, doubled over.

  Besouro laughed harder, until Dariam, red-faced, caught a clean sweep and hit the ground nose first.

  He stood, bleeding and humiliated.

  He spat blood and pointed a trembling finger at Besouro.

  — “You’re strong. I’ll admit it. But don’t lower yourself to the rabble of a failed man. Come join the Swords. Leave this filth to those without honor!”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  For a heartbeat, silence fell.

  All eyes turned to Besouro.

  He drew a deep breath, lifted his chin, and spoke — voice steady as the drum itself.

  — “Capoeira is not a joke. It’s blood. It’s faith. It’s sacred. It’s the voice of my ancestors. I’d rather be rabble with them… than a prince with no soul.”

  The crowd exploded.

  Applause. Shouts. Drums like thunder.

  Even the nobles couldn’t hide their awe.

  Then the old man stood.

  Chique-Chique, one hundred and thirty years old, rose with the help of his stick. His voice, however, shook the air like a storm.

  — “Listen well, children of Smile!” he roared. “What you see today is not a dance — it’s a legacy. The legacy of the Guaracy, the blessing of the forgotten goddess… Guaracyara!”

  The crowd fell silent. Even the torches flickered, as if the fire itself was listening.

  — “When the colonizers tried to silence us with whips, we answered with drums.

  When they chained us, we danced.

  When they tried to erase our soul, we laughed in their faces.”

  “That’s how Palmares was born. That’s how the School of Resistance began — through the blood of the Guaracy.”

  The torches blazed higher, flames twisting like banners in the wind.

  — “It was this rhythm — this ginga — that showed the Empire of Bragan?a, and the northern tyrants who wanted our ruin, that the South will never kneel again! Here, elves, humans, demi-humans, and the children of the black sun stand as one! Never again chains, never again whips!”

  The people roared together:

  — “Never again! Never again!”

  The drums thundered.

  The claps became storm.

  The plaza itself trembled as if the world was dancing with them.

  Lukas stood at the center, his chest burning, breath short.

  It was strange. In his past life, none of this existed — not Palmares, not Guaracyara, not even Besouro.

  And now, all of it was alive before his eyes.

  — “What timeline is this…?” he whispered.

  César’s voice echoed in his mind.

  — “No timeline, young legionary. This is destiny changing its path.”

  And Morgana, her tone soft and teasing, purred:

  — “Ahh, chocolatinho… look how you shine when you dance.”

  Lukas smiled, almost in disbelief.

  For the first time, the festival didn’t feel like a show.

  It felt like a promise.

  End of chapter 6