Night covered the four young people hunting for an impostor. They walked more than ten kilometers without finding anything, so the one in yellow—tired—had them stop on a balcony of an apartment complex. Overheated, Tyron took off the scarf that covered his mouth and nose and said, "Girls, please— we've been at this…!" The one wearing blue placed her hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, quickly removed her own scarf and whispered, "Are you an idiot or what? Don't make noise—you'll get us discovered." The dark-haired boy pulled his hand away and lowered his voice: "I just wanted to say we've searched for…" he checked the time on his phone, "…more than two hours and we haven't found fake Plata or any crimes. I propose we each go home." The girl in light blue and the girl in dark blue exchanged looks, then smacked him on the back of the head. The thud made a small noise, and someone inside seemed to approach the door with a light. The three of them panicked, unsure what to do, until the girl in gray signaled them to follow her; they jumped over the railing and dropped twelve floors down. A middle-aged man in a robe came out, shining his phone's light; finding nothing, he yawned and went back inside.
The four teens landed on a balcony below the previous one and saw the man return home. They left immediately and headed toward other buildings near Forte, stopping on a rooftop.
Tyron, smug: "Ha! You complained about me, but you two were the noisy ones." (He nodded at Alexa and Francesca.)
Alexa: "Whatever. Emi, why are we out in these parts? These places have the least crime, according to the detective."
Emily, showing her phone: "On the way back to Guarly after training, Francesca and I used the data of the last appearances of the people who ended up in the hospital. We marked those points on a map and closed a grid where he's been seen."
Francesca, stern: "Say it more simply—when you said 'data,' we didn't understand."
Alexa, annoyed: "Okay, I understood… actually, no. Emily, can you repeat that?"
Francesca showed her screen: "Basically, if that impostor decides to act tonight, we'll find him faster."
Tyron, surprised: "Wow! That's amazing—like we're spies."
The dark-haired girl was genuinely impressed by what Emily and Francesca had done, though she doubted they'd really find him. Suddenly Gregorio pointed at something far off. They turned and saw a figure trying to climb a motel wall with a rope. They hurried in that direction to intercept him when he reached the roof.
They reached the spot and hid behind the emergency exit. The figure wore heavy armor with metal plates and a metal mask—intimidating. He checked quickly to make sure nobody was watching; the teens held their breath until he retrieved his grappling hook and climbed to the center of the roof. They surrounded him and blocked every escape route.
Emily: "Hold still. We don't want to hurt you—just answer a few questions and we won't bother you."
Masked figure: "So you must be Plata, and these are your friends, right?"
Emily: "Yes, it's me. Did you attack those people?"
Masked figure glanced at the one in yellow: "According to the news, it was Plata. Now let me go."
Francesca, annoyed, drawing her wooden sword: "Don't play smart. Answer like Plata did."
Masked figure, looking at the girl in light blue: "Alright. Plata answered my questions before, so yes—it was me."
Emily, angry: "Why did you do it? What did those people ever do to you to almost kill them?"
Masked figure: "Let me think…" he looked at the girl in blue. "…nothing. I just made sure they got what they deserved."
Emily, serious, stepping close to the masked man: "You don't have to protect people by hurting them. We take care of that. Please go home. My teammates and I will protect people—stop this."
He laughed: "Ha! Do you think I do it for the people? Don't be stupid. I'm not that naive. I'm just giving these wretches what they truly deserve. While you knock them out and leave them with the police, I make sure their suffering is engraved so they won't do it again."
Tyron: "That's not the way. If you beat only those who hit others, you don't stop them—you become their new target and solve nothing."
Masked man, enraged: "Of course I do. I don't just stop them—I put them out of commission so they never do it again. If they need machines to breathe, they'll remember the suffering forever."
Those words brought a flash of memory to Tyron—just days earlier he'd been with his father and seen his former friends beaten, hooked up to machines to stay alive.
Tyron, furious: "It was you, wasn't it? You sent Kiev, Soner, and Monguer to the hospital!"
Masked man: "Do you know them? I had fun giving them their deserved punishment. I felt bad when they begged for mercy, but their screams when bones broke—delicious."
Emily: "Stop!" —seeing Tyron draw his weapon—"don't let his words get to you."
Masked man: "It's a shame you met me like this. Maybe if people saw how my methods reduce crime they'd understand, but they won't give me another choice. I'll give you a lesson in respect so you never cross me again."
The masked man pulled a submachine gun from his back and fired at Tyron. Tyron dodged the shots; the others grabbed their weapons and rushed him, but were repelled by a hail of bullets. The three girls sheltered behind the emergency exit while Tyron ran circles around the shooter, barely avoiding the rounds. Emily, knowing her friend was alone, filled with courage and tried to leave cover—but Alexa grabbed her: "Are you crazy? Don't—think of a strategy and we'll help. Don't risk it." Emily tore free and charged the shooter, recalling her master's words: overestimating your capabilities—maybe you can react to a bullet. The masked man took aim at her and fired five shots. As if in slow motion, Emily saw the rounds and skillfully deflected all five—the gun clicked empty.
Emily closed in a meter away to tackle him when the shooter drew a pistol and fired point-blank at her head. She barely dodged; the bullet sliced her cheek and she fell to her knees, trembling and bleeding. The attacker raised his gun to finish her.
Tyron, seeing his friend about to be murdered, spun at full speed, performed three turns, and landed a blow to the masked man's head that sent him crashing into the motel sign—just in time to save Emily. She trembled and Tyron ripped a piece of his sleeve off to staunch the bleeding.
The masked man staggered up. Francesca appeared in front of him; he tried to point his weapon, but she disarmed him with a quick wrist-twist and landed several body blows despite a metal plate. When she nearly had him out of air, she tried to finish him with a backward elbow to the metal headpiece—the enemy fell again. Francesca rubbed her elbow—it hurt from the impact. The assailant threw a punch; she caught his wrist and hit him with her other elbow, but it had no effect. He kicked one of her legs, making her drop his wrist. He landed a couple of blows to her abdomen and stunned her with a punch to the face. He grabbed his weapon again but Alexa stopped him. He tried a couple of strikes that she perfectly evaded; the dark-haired girl pushed him back with a powerful side kick to the chest and, her eyes darkening, finished him with a palm technique—an air impulse that slammed him into the wall where the teens had been hiding.
Alexa seized the man by the face, yanked him from the wall, pushed him to his knees and immobilized his arms.
Tyron, helping Emily up, looked at Alexa: "How did you do that? You barely touched him."
Alexa, nervous: "Well… you see…"
Francesca scowled at Alexa: "Who cares? He's stopped anyway."
The dark-haired girl nodded at the blonde in thanks. The four surrounded the masked man. Tyron noticed a growing stain spreading across the cloth covering the man's mouth and asked, "Are you okay?" Francesca touched his lips and found small blood spots, but she ignored them.
Emily: "It's over. Masked man, we caught you—we'll take you to the authorities."
Masked man, irritated: "Arrest me? For what, exactly? For not being like you, for not following your useless moral limits? Don't call me 'masked man'—I am Erinios!"
Despite having his arms held by Alexa, he managed to reach a small tube on his belt. The dark-haired girl realized too late: he had already injected himself. He laughed as he strained to break free; in an instant he loosened the grip enough to headbutt Emily, sending her sprawling and then striking her twice in the face. Erinios took a brass knuckle from his belt and smashed it into Tyron's face until Tyron went out cold. He lunged at Francesca—she tried to take him down with a kick to the chin, but it had no effect. Francesca swung her wooden sword repeatedly, but whatever he'd injected made him numb to pain. He grabbed her stomach, pummeled her with knuckle shots and brought her down. Emily countered with a takedown driven with all her strength that cracked the roof a little when she slammed the masked man. Erinios rose and tried to strike; Emily stopped his punches with her hands, turning the fight into a strength battle where she initially had the advantage. Cornered, Erinios dropped the knuckle weapons, reached for his pistol and shot Plata—hitting Emily in the shoulder—and then, before she could react, smashed her jaw with a knuckle.
Erinios had won. He gathered their weapons, stomped on Plata's neck and raised the gun to finish her, but then he stopped, holstered his weapon, turned his back and walked away. The teens rose, determined to catch him. Emily ripped a strip of cloth and tied it into a makeshift bandage to cover the wound in her shoulder.
Erinios, looking back: "You're not giving up?"
Vigilantes: "We will stop you!"
They rushed to take him down when a man in a suit opened the emergency door to see what was happening. Erinios shot the building's security guard in an arm and a leg, using the chaos to warn them: "That'll always stop you—your silly urges to help. This is a warning. Don't cross me again."
Minutes passed since the fight. The youths, now without scarves, sat atop the eighty-story building, swallowing their anger at being defeated.
Francesca, kicking the ground: "Disgusting! How could we lose?!"
Emily, head down: "Calm down, Fran—you're going to reopen your lip wound."
Tyron, looking at the sky: "At least we got the guy before the neighbors saw or before he killed someone."
Alexa, spitting blood: "What does that matter? We lost to someone who had guns."
Tyron, annoyed: "Good point—the guy had firearms and we had sticks. Of course he won!"
Emily, sad: "We can't go home and explain these injuries."
Tyron, sad: "We'll be in big trouble if we go back to school. I wish we could go to the master, but he already said if we come back at this hour we're dead."
Francesca, watching the city: "I got it! Maybe the master can't, but he's the best option we've got—follow me." She leapt.
It was three in the morning in a clean, humble neighborhood. A house was lit. Inside, a man with long brown hair finished bandaging Emily's shoulder.
Matias, wiping sweat: "That guy really hit you hard."
Francesca, angry: "Don't even mention that bastard."
Matias, tired: "You were lucky I wasn't on a night shift and had a full medical kit. It may not be Jayden-style treatment, but you'll hold out until you can see him."
Tyron, relieved: "Thank goodness. I still hurt, but we can sleep a few hours."
Matias, thoughtful: "They say this Erinios wore black and gray—no logo or colors—just metal parts. There are no gun shops in the city, so he must have gotten the weapons from someone. That submachine gun and the Glock they described are expensive; together with that military-style suit, it means there's an arms dealer in Guarly. If you see him again, bring me some of his blood, parts of his suit, or one of his weapons. That will let us track his supplier and shut him down before worse things happen."
Francesca, pointing at her lip: "How do we hide these wounds? They're obvious."
Matias, heading to the bathroom: "You're getting lucky. I've done make-up for my girlfriend a few times; she leaves her kit at my place. Wait here with whatever visible wounds you have—except you, Alexa, you can go."
They walked to the warrior's cabin arguing.
Tyron: "I still think we shouldn't tell him. He'll scold us—especially me—every time we lose!"
Francesca grabbed his collar: "The national tournament teams are chosen next week. Are you kidding me? I'm not letting you stop me telling him just because you don't want the master to mock you!"
Tyron: "What's it cost you to think about others for once?"
Francesca: "Do you realize we need to be vigilantes again tonight? We don't need to be limited by pain."
Alexa, dark-eyed and serious: "We should tell him. It should be whoever here has bothered him the least."
Tyron: "Yeah, smart—who? He treats all of us like trash…"
They all remembered the past weeks and which of them had irritated the warrior. One person stood out: the kind, brown-haired boy. They all looked at Emily—she would be the one to tell him.
Jayden removed his hand from Emily's shoulder and laughed, tears in his eyes. "Ha ha ha! You're telling me some idiot in metal beat you? Hahaha!"
Tyron, stretching: "He's been mocking us for five minutes—this is unfair."
Alexa: "He's not wrong. In his eyes, that guy is no different from the rest."
Francesca: "I think we would've done better with real swords."
Those words inspired Tyron. He walked up to his master: "Master, it's not fair. Our opponent had better gear than our wooden stuff. Isn't it time we used real weapons?"
Francesca and Alexa smacked their foreheads at his recklessness. Emily only smiled. Everyone was surprised when Jayden looked to the sky and asked, "How many of you think you're ready to carry a real weapon?" Two girls raised their hands. The green-eyed girl hesitated—she remembered the time she'd almost killed the blonde when she'd acted in anger and chose to decline. The dark man went into his cabin and brought out three types of swords. Tyron approached and chose the one he'd seen in movies: a double-edged blade with a shining tip.
Jayden, serious: "A claymore—good for attackers like you. The others can pick similar types if they want."
The blonde chose a fencing-style sword; she preferred it for its practicality. The last sword looked absurd to her, but Jayden named it for Emily.
Jayden: "A Florentine—simple, fast, good for thrusts. Perfect for you." Then, looking at the last heavy blade: "A Devastator—heavy, with strong defensive and offensive power. It's heavy, but you have the strength."
Emily stepped forward and dragged the large blade to the center of the practice yard.
Jayden: "Those who took weapons, take combat stance. Fight each other like in practice."
They prepared. The blonde launched a fast thrust toward Tyron; he readied a counter and was pierced through the side by the blade.
Tyron, following the motion: "What the—? You stabbed me!"
Francesca, blocking in time but taking a cheek cut: "Sorry—I didn't feel the contact."
While the others accidentally cut each other from lack of control, Emily trembled under the weight of her great blade. The master healed all their wounds again and took the weapons back, tossing them aside. He said: "This is why I don't give you real tools. Dominate the wooden ones until you can defeat someone with them. When that happens I'll give you a real weapon. When you've mastered the basics, you can specialize. Until then—practice."