Thunder cracked—

  and the sound of atabaques answered like a living heart.

  The ground trembled—

  not because of magic,

  but because the heartbeat beneath it had awakened.

  Orik Talvos IV — Nightmare Number Four, the Corrupter of Lightning — swung his arm, and a surge of twisted electricity tore through half the wall.

  — I am the storm! — he roared.

  — And you, worm—you’re just flesh!

  Besouro laughed.

  A short, ragged, breathless laugh, through clenched teeth.

  — I am the thunder before your storm.

  His body moved.

  Ginga.

  Not a stance. Not a pose.

  But a living rhythm —

  feet brushing the ground like drums made skin.

  It was capoeira —

  but beyond the art.

  It was memory moving.

  He spun, launched into the air—

  the first kick split the wind in three directions,

  and when it struck Orik’s abdomen—

  it sounded like a drum.

  The corrupted lightning dispersed.

  The Nightmare staggered.

  Besouro landed softly.

  One arm marking rhythm in the air.

  Tum. Tum. Tum.

  The sound did not come from his body—

  but from the earth.

  From stone, from rain, from bone.

  Chique Chique watched from afar,

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  his old eyes drowned in tears and stormwater.

  — I saw this dance once... — he whispered.

  — When the first Zumbi danced until the world went silent.

  Orik screamed—

  the scarlet 4 in his eyes pulsing like venomous lightning.

  He unleashed storm after storm—

  twisted bolts, spear-shaped thunder, shards of black plasma.

  But wherever the lightning struck—

  Besouro was not there.

  He was dancing between the strikes.

  Each dodge—

  a note.

  Each spin—

  a rhythm.

  Each strike—

  a heartbeat.

  Morgana whispered in Lukas’s mind:

  — The goddess is moving him… That’s not just power.

  César spoke, almost reverent:

  — That’s heresy turned into art… That’s Palmares fighting again.

  Besouro touched the ground with his hands,

  spinning into an inverted kick —

  bones cracked in Orik’s metal chest.

  The Nightmare lifted off the ground—

  weightless for a single breath.

  Besouro followed.

  Up.

  The air welcomed him.

  Ginga. Armada. Rabo de Arraia.

  Meia-Lua of Freedom.

  Each motion leaving trails of golden mist in the air,

  like even the light wanted to dance.

  Orik roared—

  but the storm no longer obeyed him.

  The lightning bent—

  following the drums.

  The sky echoed.

  The ground shivered.

  For one heartbeat—

  the battlefield became Roda de Palmares —

  the circle where only Zumbis danced.

  Besouro stood before the Nightmare.

  Steam rose from his skin.

  His veins glowed like fire and roots.

  — Palmares lives. — he said.

  And the ground responded—

  — ZUMBI! ZUMBI! ZUMBI!

  Besouro opened his arms.

  His eyes—

  yellow and green, like flame and forest.

  And then—

  not a voice—

  but a wind, dancing around him, whispered:

  Dance till the end.

  Every step is a strike.

  Every heartbeat is liberation.

  Besouro spun.

  His final kick curved through the air like a scythe of rhythm.

  It struck Orik’s chest.

  BOOM.

  Lightning exploded—

  but Besouro absorbed it.

  The scarlet 4 in Orik’s eyes shattered like glass.

  His chest split—

  not in blood—

  but in broken smoke and static.

  Besouro landed softly,

  one knee to the ground,

  one hand touching the earth.

  Breathing—

  To the rhythm of drums no one touched.

  Orik tried to speak.

  But only the berimbau answered.

  Besouro looked up, rain streaming down his face.

  — That was the Angola touch. — he murmured.

  — Now comes the final beat.

  He rose.

  Muscles tense,

  breathing alive,

  feet ready.

  And on the horizon—

  the drums burned like dawn.

  Tum. Tum. Tum.

  The next strike would be the last—

  the strike that would make both the living

  and the dead

  remember his name:

  Besouro — the Zumbi of Palmares.

  End of chapter. 56