Each beat felt as if it came from the heavens above,
or from the belly of the earth itself.
The entire battlefield began to vibrate with that rhythm.
TUM. TUM. TUM.
Even those who didn’t understand…
felt it.
Besouro, drenched in rain, lifted his gaze to the sky.
Moments ago, the storm was an enemy—
but now, it circled him like a cloak.
? The thunder greeted him.
?? The rain washed him.
?? And the drum… crowned him.
Not far away, Orik Talvos IV, Nightmare Number Four, staggered, his body cracked with corrupted lightning.
The glowing 4 in his eyes flickered violently, like a dying ember.
— What are you? — he growled, voice distorted. — What kind of power is that?!
Besouro didn’t attack.
He moved slowly.
A single, perfect motion—
Ginga.
— I am what you tried to erase.
— What you burned, chained, and forgot.
Heat burst from the air.
Besouro lifted both arms. The storm bent with him.
— I am the scream that doesn't die.
From afar, old Chique Chique cried openly, raising his hands to the sky.
— He returned! — he yelled. — The Zumbi has returned! The goddess has chosen!
And on that broken battlefield, voices began to rise— hesitant at first, then roaring:
— ZUMBI!
ZUMBI!
ZUMBI!
The name spread like wildfire—
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through the mud, the stones, the smoke, the storm.
?? The Nightmare stepped back.
? His veins crackled in panic.
?? But the lightning no longer obeyed him.
Because this was no longer a battle—
It was a dance.
A ritual.
An ancestral call.
Orik unleashed his full power, lightning whipping across the field, splitting stone and sky.
But Besouro was no longer standing there.
No—
he was dancing between the strikes.
Each dodge was a note.
Each spin a heartbeat.
César, watching from the ruins, whispered in awe:
— This is not just strength.
— This is heresy turned into art.
Morgana spoke softly inside Lukas’ mind:
— This isn’t mana, chocolatinho…
— This is the sound of those who never kneeled.
Besouro's hands touched the ground—
he spun—
rising with a kick that drew a golden arc in the rain-heavy air.
Rabo de arraia.
Armada.
Meia-lua of Liberation.
Every strike left golden trails dancing behind him—
as if light itself wanted to join the roda.
Orik couldn’t keep up.
His lightning began to bend to the rhythm of the drums.
Even the sky started to move on beat.
TUM. TUM. TUM.
This was no longer just capoeira.
This was the Roda of Palmares.
The roda of those who died free.
The roda of those who still resist.
The roda of those who will never be forgotten.
Besouro landed. Steam rose around his feet.
His body trembled—
not from weakness.
But from memory.
He faced Nightmare Number 4—
and said softly, as if praying:
— Palmares lives.
And the field answered:
— ZUMBI! ZUMBI! ZUMBI!
Orik, broken and sparking, choked on corrupted lightning.
— THIS ISN’T MANA! — he howled. — THIS ISN’T POSSIBLE!
Besouro’s ginga slowed.
Deliberate.
Almost ceremonial.
— It is not mana. — he said.
He turned.
The wind followed.
— It is Memory.
The last strike began—
The Final Beat of the Gods.
Besouro leaped.
His leg traced a blinding circle through the rain.
Pááá!
It landed—
not as a blow of flesh against flesh,
but as a blow of drum against soul.
Orik’s chest shattered—
not in blood and metal,
but in a shower of electric ashes, swirling into the wind.
His heart—corrupted, pulsing—
rose into the air, flickering with dying lightning.
Besouro extended his hand.
Only once—
Pá!
He struck nothing.
But the sound traveled through everything.
And the Nightmare’s heart crumbled into dust.
Silence.
Then rain.
Besouro remained standing—
still wounded, still mortal—
but eternal.
Lukas watched, breath caught.
— He turned his heartbeat into a weapon… — he whispered.
César quietly replied:
— That’s what it means to be chosen.
Morgana, soft like silk:
— That’s what it means to be Palmares.
Besouro raised his fist as rain began to fall—
not in drops.
But in beat.
TUM. TUM. TUM.
— Palmares never fell.
End of Chapter 57