A beautiful Monday morning dawns in Guarly. Alexa, eyes shadowed, walks her friend Tamara to Forte's library to return several books. She stays silent the whole way, seething at how Erinios slipped away. If only she'd been faster, the outcome would've been different.
Elsewhere, Emily is finishing a set of chemistry formulas. For the fifth time she underlines her results—her pencil tip snaps. The crack of graphite jolts her back to the moment the masked man almost killed her. Frustrated, she thumps her forehead on the desk.
Tyron washes his hands after using the restroom. He looks in the mirror, feeling genuine pity for himself—how useless he'd been against Erinios. Not only had he landed just one hit, that single contribution was only possible because of Emily. Irritated, he punches the wall and leaves.
Second recess lets the three meet in Forte's courtyard.
Tyron, staring into space: "Hey."
Emily, deflated: "Hey."
Alexa, eyes dark: "What are you doing here?"
Tyron, serious: "Brooding. You?"
Emily, looking down: "Thinking about 'what if.'"
Alexa, glancing around, whispering: "Tell me something, Emily. Do you know why we haven't run into that masked idiot again?"
Emily, closing her eyes: "No, I don't. If we could just find him again, I know we'd beat him."
Tyron, angry: "Beat him? He wiped the floor with us and we're trained!"
Emily, sad: "Yes, but I know if we faced him again, it wouldn't be the same."
Tyron, grabbing Emily by the shoulders: "Different how? This time he'd kill us!"
Alexa, pushing Tyron back: "No need to shout. We all get that he didn't kill us because he chose not to. That's exactly why we're going to show him he made a big mistake."
Tyron, exhaling: "You're right… Hey, has anyone wondered how Fran's handling this? Being the most competitive, this must be eating her alive."
The crowd cheers. A referee's whistle blows on the court at the "Grand Champions Center." Golden hair ripples in the wind as the young woman walks to her father, grabs her things, and puts away her racket. She glances at the result of her third and final match.
Alexandre, jaw dropped, eyes popping: "Incredible, Fran! How did you pull off those shots? They were already impressive, but this is just—wow!"
Francesca, walking: "Thanks, Father. I suppose I qualified for quarterfinals."
Alexandre, laughing: "You're joking—three straight wins in an hour and a half!"
Francesca, cool: "Let's go check the screens."
Alexandre, grabbing his bag: "Right—sorry, forgot!"
Father and daughter move through the crowd of competitors. People instinctively give them space; whispers follow the five-time world champion and his daughter. A black-haired girl steps in front of Francesca, racket and ball in hand, challenging her. The crowd parts. Alexandre hangs back to see what his daughter will do.
Francesca simply raises her racket. "You serve. If I score one point, I win. If you score, you win."
The girl nods and serves. Francesca exhales, intercepts the ball, and curls it with so much power her rival only grazes it—and ends up disheveled. The onlookers gasp. The Sejuks continue on their way.
With the quarterfinal slot set two weeks out, they head home. Both blondes sit in silence in the back seat. Alexandre notices his daughter clenching her fist.
"Fran, everything okay?"
She keeps looking out the window. "No. I'm just thinking…"—images of Erinios beating her flash by—"…how to improve a shot."
"I can help with that," he says.
She nods, choosing her words. "Which shots are the hardest to return?"
Alexandre frowns. "I hope you're not planning on using low shots."
Francesca, firm: "Of course not. I need to know how to beat them before someone uses them."
Alexandre, relieved: "Good. For a second I thought you'd toss out everything I taught you about mediums and highs—the beauty, the flow—just to win."
Francesca, meeting his eyes: "You always told me it's better to play to bring out the best…"
Alexandre, inspired: "…in your opponent, so they bring out the best in you. Beautiful. Now, about low shots—they're tricky. They barely clear the net and drop dead for easy points. The best counter is recognizing one early enough to prep your response."
She nods, trying to apply his advice to her real problem. Identifying him is impossible. Thinking that guy runs on nothing but blind rage is… common. A thought clicks. I know who might understand our enemy best. A faint smile touches her lips.
That afternoon the four teens balance on one leg atop thin bamboo poles, ropes tied to basketball-sized rocks dangling from their waists. After two hours, sweat pours, faces flush. Jayden flicks small wood chips at their legs; they can jump or absorb the hits. The real test is keeping balance through any disturbance. Three hours pass. Training ends. Three of them dismount safely, dropping their stones. Alexa lands and her arm spasms—veins standing out—a vicious cramp. The warrior approaches, extending and slowly kneading her arm from shoulder to wrist.
Jayden, kneading: "Hurts, doesn't it?"
Alexa, a tear slipping out: "A lot. A lot."
Jayden, calm: "Breathe. It'll ease up. Keep stretching. When I stop massaging, move it gently. Understood?"
Alexa: "Yes, Master."
He releases her arm and looks at the others. "Rest. Then the box. Let what happened to Liar remind you—not just the outside world is dangerous. Training's worse. The suffering I put you through increases your capacity. Learn to endure—and enjoy—it, because it only gets harder." He heads into the cabin.
Still rubbing her arm, Alexa reaches for her water bottle. Francesca steps close, touches her shoulder, and asks quietly, "You okay?" Alexa startles—she never expected the blonde to worry about her. Francesca adds, a bit brusque, "I'm not asking because I care. I think you can help us catch Erinios."
Alexa, stowing her bottle: "I thought you and Emily were the planners. How would I help?"
Francesca, serious: "Remember what you told me—you hold back because of a certain person, right?"
Alexa, eyes darkening: "Yeah. And?"
Francesca: "Because you hate her—or she makes you furious, right?"
Alexa, walking back toward the others: "Could be."
Francesca: "Maybe you can understand the person under the mask. If we figure out what drives him, we can set a trap."
Alexa, sitting beside Emily: "He made it pretty clear he's angry at 'bad' people. If you want a trap, leave a thief somewhere and watch. Might work."
Tyron: "What are you two talking about?"
Alexa, pointing at Francesca: "She wants to lure Erinios."
Emily: "How? We haven't seen him since our fight."
Francesca, sitting beside Tyron: "If we learn what he's targeting, we can catch him before he moves. And he hasn't stopped—on the contrary, all the injuries last week were in the same areas we patrolled."
Tyron, looking up: "You're right. But how do we figure him out?"
Emily, pointing at Tyron: "You mentioned the boys he hurt. Maybe someone they knew?"
Tyron: "Maybe—but tons of people would've loved to beat them up."
Francesca: "Why?"
Tyron: "I used to be in their group. They're a little gang—bul—"
Alexa: "That's why that guy attacked us with a mob—he was after you. You used your skills on one of them, didn't you?"
Tyron: "…yeah. In my defense, it was self-defense."
Francesca: "Then we have a thread. Alexa can help Tyron map things from the start. Those boys aren't among 'Plata's' public victims, so he likely hit them without his full gear."
Alexa: "Okay, we'll work on who's under the mask. What about you two?"
Francesca: "Emily and I will figure out how he keeps striking the same places without us spotting him. If each pair does its part, he'll walk right into you two." She puts her hand in the middle. "Deal?"
They trade looks. Emily lays her hand in first, then Tyron. Alexa hesitates, then joins. Hands rise together. The warrior appears behind them.
"Sounds fine. Before you go after him again, I need to make something clear." They line up before him. "It'd be stupid to let you roam free and then show up here for help every time you're badly hurt. From now on, each of you gets three chances to call me by my full name. I'll appear before you can…"—he snaps his fingers—"…so use those wisely. After three, I won't show up."
Tyron: "And…?"
Jayden: "And what?"
Tyron: "According to that, we need to know…"
Francesca: "Your name. Tell us your name!"
Jayden looks to the sky, sighs. "Jayden Damnare."
They accept the terms. Alexa is stunned, but before she can speak he says, "Grab your bokken. Log drill."
Training resumes—dodging, striking, and blocking logs the size of motorcycles. When they finish, the others head out. Alexa lingers, approaching the warrior sipping tea on the porch.
"So… the rumors about you. They're true?"
He swallows and answers evenly, "For the most part."
Alexa: "My grandmother hated you because you're part of that clan, didn't she?"
Jayden, eyes on the sky: "Most likely. Like many masters."
Alexa, trembling: "Do you control your gift?"
Jayden, calm: "That's not your burden. Go—plan with your team."
Shaken, she runs. On the bus with Emily and Francesca, the girls mark possible variables Erinios is using to avoid them. Tyron watches Alexa—hyper-alert. He touches her shoulder to ask what's wrong. She startles hard.
"What's with you? You look like you saw a ghost."
"More like a demon," she says, staring out the window. "Anyway, about you-know-who—think it could be one of the bullied ones?"
Tyron shakes his head, an image of his red-haired best friend flashing through his mind. Alexa is about to press him when Francesca holds up her phone.
"I think I've figured out how he's been evading us."
Tyron: "How?"
Emily, grimacing: "The sewers. It's the only thing that links the attack points—and a way we wouldn't have seen him."
Alexa: "Wait—please don't tell me…"
Francesca: "Yep. We'll have to check."