Between the warmth of the sun and the cold of the abyss, he smiled —
and that smile did not belong to a hero.
The battlefield burned.
Black portals tore through the horizon like distorted columns of light.
The sky was red, as if Sorriso’s own blood was burning inside the clouds.
War was spreading in every direction — enemies falling, templars screaming, mages being devoured by shadow.
Dense spells exploded in the air, walls of mana rose and collapsed — pure chaos in the city that always smiled in the face of adversity.
And in the middle of hell… a drum was beating.
Tum. Tum. Tum.
At first, no one knew where it came from.
But the sound grew — and the ground vibrated with it.
The beasts hesitated.
The soldiers, bleeding, raised their eyes.
Besouro, now standing atop a pile of rubble, breathed slowly.
His bare chest revealed spiral scars — marks that glowed like tribal runes.
The voice of the Goddess still echoed in the wind:
“As long as there is sound, Palmares lives.”
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He moved his right foot back.
The left one turned.
The ginga began.
And then the sound took form.
Monsters fell — one, two, three — every movement in the rhythm of the atabaques.
The rhythm of the Zumbis de Palmares was reborn, protecting the defenseless, anchoring the resistance against those who wanted to kill freedom — and the smile of the Capital.
Every step Besouro took made the ground pulse.
The entire war began to follow the rhythm.
One Palmares scout screamed, delirious:
— HE HAS RETURNED! THE ZUMBI HAS RETURNED!
And soon the entire battlefield, between blood and smoke, echoed the cry:
— ZUMBI! ZUMBI! ZUMBI!
From the top of the fortress, Kyros Fernandes watched the horizon.
The helmet damaged, the mantle torn, thunder in his eyes.
Beside him, Rubya, leader of the demi-humans, wiped blood from her lips.
— So the ancient flame… has played again, Kyros murmured.
Rubya looked at him, her golden eyes shining.
— The Goddess has returned. And she chose one of yours.
While the sound of atabaques made the ground tremble, in a dark and dense plane — a silhouette rose.
Deep black eyes, with an unmistakable crimson glow.
In the pupil — carved in blood-red — the symbol of the ancient letters:
XI.
Desastre Number Eleven opened its eyes.
And the Black Fall was entering the game.
In the void, Anatoly’s voice echoed — deep, distorted, full of fury:
— Who is the bastard messing with my plans?!
These rats from Sorriso…
These strategies spreading across the Empire…
My pawns are falling like insects.
He breathed heavily, his veins pulsing with crimson rage.
— Sharing power through blood is a mistake.
The experiment was flawed.
We must concentrate the power in the heart of the pawns…
Otherwise, they are just shells.
They have the number — but not the strength.
The sound of something breaking echoed — like bones cracking in the dark.
— Damn little rat pushing the white pieces on my chessboard…
You will pay for this.
The air contorted.
The ground trembled.
— It is time for me to enter the game.
King against king.
Let’s see which rat dares to play on my board.
From the shadows, a masked figure emerged.
The crimson glow pulsed beneath the covered face.
The white mask — carved like a skull — bore, in shining black ink on the forehead:
XI.
A true Desastre stepped through the portal.
And with it — the cold of the abyss.
On the other side, Lukas raised his eyes.
The embers of the field reflected in his mismatched gaze — the right eye golden like a sun; the left, purple and deep like an abyss.
His smile appeared — calm, sharp.
— Come, cursed plague.
Come slow… but come burning, ‘cause I’m already on fire.
His voice echoed among the ruins.
— Come, Anatoly.
We’re waiting.
The wind blew.
The flames danced.
And for a moment, in the reflection of the fire, Lukas’s face looked like a smiling demon.
“This time, I am ready.
And Sorriso… will not fall.”
End of volume VII
