A tall, dark shadow materialized above everyone against the grey, rainy sky. There was no smooth planing, no controlled descent. It came down with full force, like a stone thrown by a giant, but aimed. The fall was so fast the air hissed in protest.

  It didn't land. It crashed down standing in the exact center of the space between the musket line and the earth adepts, about ten meters from Isabel.

  The impact was a deep, dry THUD that made the ground tremble, throwing dirt and water in all directions. The soil, previously protected by Isabela, was hit by the sheer violence of the arrival, and the diverted water sprayed everywhere.

  Before shock could turn into reaction, before anyone could even scream, the man—tall, wiry, with boots and gloves emitting a muted blue glow—acted.

  He spun on his axis, arms outstretched. It wasn't an elegant gesture. It was brutal, like an enraged top.

  From his gloves and boots came not a controlled breeze, but a concussive GUST of pure wind. A cylinder of invisible force exploded outward from him in all directions.

  The effect was catastrophic.

  Isabela's water dome, already strained to its limit, disintegrated like a soap bubble under a strong breath. The rain fell suddenly and with redoubled force on everyone. The soldiers on the front line, kneeling to reload, were thrown backward as if hit by a wall. Muskets flew, powder flasks were lost in the mud. Groans and cries of pain and surprise erupted.

  Worse: the wind gust was like a giant breath over the field. The dense, damp mist protecting their positions, which Isabela had so carefully supplemented, was blown away. Not slowly dissipated, but swept away, torn and undone into a large cloud that drifted into the surrounding forest, suddenly revealing the complete scene with raw, stark clarity.

  The Republicans, now completely exposed, saw each other, disoriented and fallen. And, looking forward, they also saw the line of attackers advancing, now without the curtain of fog to hinder their vision or their aim.

  At the center of the chaos he had created, the man straightened up. His eyes, clear and calculating, swept over the circle of destruction around him with satisfaction. The smile that appeared on his lips wasn't of joy, but of pure triumphant disdain.

  "Well, well, well..." his voice was melodious, almost sing-song, but laden with cutting scorn. "How many little rats we have here hiding in the mist. How cowardly, isn't it? But I should be grateful to you. With the... unexpected retirement of Zé Vento, I inherited his special little shoes. That, plus my favorite gloves... As a token of gratitude, I'll introduce myself. They call me Typhoon."

  He gave no time for a reaction. With his feet so light they seemed to touch the ground only by choice, he moved. It wasn't pure speed; it was supernatural agility, each step aided by a tiny gust of wind that propelled him, made him glide, change direction instantly.

  His first target was Lívia, the young earth adept who had given the signal. He appeared in front of her as if teleporting.

  "You talk too much, girl," he said, and delivered a kick.

  It was no ordinary kick. At the moment of impact, a concentrated explosion of air shot from the sole of his boot. The sound was muffled. Lívia was thrown backward not just by the kick's force, but by a solid jet of wind. She flew over the low earthen barrier, disappearing into the enemy field with a cut-off scream. A rude victory cry and laughter rose from the other side of the mist.

  "NO!" Tainá shouted, her voice a mix of rage and horror.

  A young soldier who had managed to reload his musket a little faster than the others, trembling with fear and fury, aimed at the wind adept and pulled the trigger.

  The man didn't even look. He made a motion with his left glove, as if swatting a fly. A lateral gust of wind, precise as a fist, hit the musket's barrel at the exact moment of firing. The weapon flew from the young man's hands, the ball lost harmlessly in the foliage. The musket hit a tree and fell, useless.

  "These little toy guns of yours really are a pain in the ass," the wind adept commented, turning to the now-disarmed young soldier. "But they still don't compare to real power. Without them... you lot, not blessed with gems, are just... common trash."

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  With two impossibly quick steps, he was in front of the youth. This time, a kick to the chest, no extra wind, just brute force. The boy was launched backward, over the barrier, following Lívia's fate. Cries of horror and more laughter from the bandeirantes answered.

  The other earth adepts, Iara and Joana, roared in fury. Iara tore a stone from the ground with a gesture and hurled it at him with force. Joana did the same from the other side.

  The wind adept smiled. He didn't move from the spot. He tilted his head to one side, then the other. The stones passed inches from his face, hissing through the air. He dodged not with his body, but with impossibly precise micro-adjustments, as if the air around him pushed him out of the way.

  "Pathetic," he spat.

  Tainá, seeing the opening, slammed her staff into the ground with concentrated rage. The ground under the man's feet opened up, forming a sudden hole. He fell, surprised for an instant.

  "Now!" Tainá shouted to the others, trying to close the earth around him, to bury him.

  But before the earth could move, the man in Zé Vento's shoes simply jumped. Not from the bottom of the hole, he leaped out of it, propelled by a wind explosion so strong it kicked up dust and fragments of earth. He landed softly a few meters away, looking directly at Tainá.

  "Oh, if it isn't the stubborn little prize from before," he said, his eyes roaming over her with unpleasant interest. "I'm not in the mood to play tag with you today, okay? In fact, I think it should be a crime... humans mixing with animals like you. It contaminates the blood."

  Nzambi, who had crawled during the confusion trying to get behind the man, froze when the wind adept's voice spoke again, without even looking back.

  "And you, the Black man with the toy knife... the good thing about observing and waiting is you can learn from others' mistakes."

  The man stomped the ground. This time, it wasn't an explosion, but a concussive wave of air that shot out in a horizontal disk from the point of impact. Nzambi was hit in the chest as if by an invisible anvil. The air left his lungs, and he was thrown backward, rolling on the soaked ground. The dagger slipped from his weak fingers and fell into the mud about two meters away, unreachable.

  The wind adept turned slowly, a triumphant smile on his face.

  "Bye-bye, cursed knife," he sang, raising a glove. He was going to blow the dagger away, toward the nearby creek.

  But before the gust left, an intense cold enveloped his feet. He looked down. His feet, his ankles, his calves up to his knees were encased in a solid, translucent block of deep blue ice, firmly anchored to the ground.

  "Too arrogant," Pedro's voice came from behind him, cold as the ice he conjured. "To think you can invade the enemy field alone and leave alive, just because you're fast."

  Pedro stood, his ice dagger driven into the ground. Blueish veins of frost spread from the blade, feeding the ice prison. Pedro's face was a mask of absolute concentration and contained fury. Every second he maintained the ice at that degree of hardness and growth was an immense drain.

  The wind adept tried to pull free, but the ice was dense, pure, created to trap, not harm. His feet were stuck as if in concrete.

  At the same instant, a familiar CRACK! sounded. A shot from the mist, from the direction where Whisper operated, went straight for the trapped man's head.

  But at the last millisecond, the wind adept didn't try to move. He disappeared under the shadow of the ice Pedro had created.

  A few seconds later, he reappeared near a soldier with a musket, who took another kick and went flying over the barrier. Then, he laughed.

  His laughter echoed, loud and full of perverse pleasure.

  "As I said..." he shouted, looking at Pedro with disdain. "The good thing about observing is learning! I knew all about your helpful little friend from afar."

  Before Pedro, pale from the wasted effort, or anyone else could process the enemy's audacity and adaptation, the next sound was heartbreaking.

  CRUNCH. CRUNCH. CRAAAAACK!

  It was several large stones, thrown from the enemy side but this time with perfect aim. They didn't fall on the people. They hit the earthen barrier protecting the front.

  The barrier, which had been solid and reliable, collapsed in several sections under the bombardment. Tainá and the other earth adepts had been distracted, focused on the intruder, the effort of trying to catch him, the horror of seeing Lívia taken. They had neglected the constant maintenance of the shield.

  And with the barrier shattered and the mist dissipated by the intruder's wind gusts and the battle's movement, the battlefield lay exposed.

  The Republicans, exhausted, wounded, and now visible, faced the sight they feared. From the forest, from behind the trees, from the now-open clearing, dozens of slave hunters, bandeirantes, and mercenaries emerged. Their faces were a mix of brutality, greed, and relief at finally seeing the enemy.

  And they didn't come in silence.

  Men with leather gloves that smoked launched low fireballs that rolled along the ground, igniting the undergrowth and creating curtains of acrid smoke. Others, with frost-covered arms, fired ice shards sharp as razors that hissed through the air. From the ground at the defenders' feet, thick, dark vines sprouted with supernatural speed, trying to ensnare ankles, pull people down.

  It was chaos. It was the final push. And the Republic's defensive line was about to break.