A new week begins in Guarly. Early Tuesday morning, a car speeds through the city at over sixty kilometers per hour, taking sharp turns through its narrow streets. One of the shadows pursuing it runs along the ledge of a building. Suddenly, a soldier smashes the car's window and begins firing at the silver-hooded Vigilant. The brown-haired girl sees the bullets coming and, with an agile movement, cuts and deflects the projectiles. She then deliberately falls back, letting the soldiers believe they've lost her. Pulling out her phone, she calls her dark-haired companion.
"They're moving!"
Alexa pulls the light-blue hood over her head, watching as the vehicle they're chasing enters the main road. She leaps toward it. The soldier in the passenger seat raises his submachine gun and sprays bullets at her, but she slices and deflects them effortlessly, landing on the roof and embedding her katana into the metal. In doing so, she unknowingly slices the cheek of one of the soldiers in the back seat.
The woman who fired at Plata leans out the window to shoot again, but Alexa knocks her unconscious with a right side kick, sending her flying from the vehicle. The bleeding man also leans out to fire, but Alexa strikes him in the face with a wind sphere, blasting him off the car as well.
The driver hands the wheel to his passenger and cleanly jumps out through the window, grabbing the roof with his right hand. With his left, he draws a katana and swings at Alexa. She ducks smoothly, shifts right, and counters with a straight left kick to his abdomen, slamming him onto the windshield and blocking the driver's view.
Zafiro repositions herself to maintain balance as the car swerves dangerously. From her right, she sees a faint glow—her companion in blue preparing a Flying Blade. Understanding instantly, Alexa raises her weapon and flips backward off the vehicle. The tires explode. She lands rolling across the pavement, suffering only a few scrapes.
Unable to regain control, the soldiers crash violently into a lamppost. The passenger is left with broken arms and a deep gash on his forehead, blood pouring down his face. The sergeant, riddled with glass in his abdomen, a split lip, and a shard of metal from the hood piercing his left leg, manages to roll onto the pavement. Seeing the blue-clad Vigilant still standing infuriates him, and he struggles to rise—only for a shadow to descend upon him, a glowing palm striking his face and knocking him unconscious into the asphalt.
A black sedan screeches to a halt near the scene. Plata drops from a building, landing perfectly despite carrying a soldier over her right shoulder. The detective steps out, surveying the skid marks and the damaged lamppost.
"Quite the mess, huh?"
The blue- and teal-clad girls say nothing, simply bringing the captured soldiers over so he can cuff them and load them into the back of his patrol car, along with another enemy he picked up on the way. Once everyone is detained, the blonde and the dark-haired girl check the military vehicle's trunk—only to find it empty. Annoyed, the girl in blue leaps away, resuming that night's patrol, followed by her two companions.
The three shadows reach the top of Liz Tower. Without a word, they remove their hoods and scarves. The blonde and the dark-haired girl sit at opposite ends, feet dangling over the edge, gazing into the void. The brown-haired girl watches silently, searching for words that might make them speak—but finds none.
No shame or helplessness compares to witnessing someone you knew being killed, despite all the strength, experience, and power you've gained—yet still being unable to save them.
What if we had called the Master earlier? she wonders, imagining how things might have been different. Her fist tightens as she closes her eyes, a tear of frustration slipping free.
Silence reigns, until finally the blue-eyed girl stands and says loudly:
"This is all his fault. We warned him. We told him not to do it—and he did it anyway. It's all his fault."
Her words make the brown-haired girl turn sharply, and the dark-haired one steps forward angrily.
"How can you say that?! Yes, it was his mistake to involve someone who didn't have the strength to fight—but if it weren't for Antonio, the Director's forces would still have that entire arsenal! We couldn't have stopped it! He died, and we couldn't save him, but thanks to his sacrifice, the enemy's weapons were reduced!"
They stand face to face.
Francesca: coldly "Reduced? And what did that accomplish? Now the streets are crawling with soldiers and sergeants. Tyron made someone sacrifice himself for nothing. We just kicked the hornet's nest. Even after destroying a huge arsenal, they're clearly focused on a new project."
Alexa: grabbing Francesca's gi tightly "Don't belittle someone who fought and gave everything to achieve what should have been impossible! Maybe we didn't stop them completely, but we delayed them!"
Francesca: meeting her eyes "You think what Antonio did is the same as what your grandmother did, don't you?"
Those words hit Alexa like a blow. Memories flood back—her grandmother's wounds, her sister's fury, clashing blades and raging tornadoes. Rage surges through her veins.
"Don't talk about her like you knew her!" she shouts, lunging forward.
Francesca counters with brutal efficiency—knee, sweep, kick—sending Alexa crashing toward the edge of the building. The blue-eyed girl rushes to help, both drawing their katanas, but a blast of wind from Alexa's foot stops her fall and hurls her back onto the rooftop.
Steel clashes—then stops. Emily stands between them, gripping both of their wrists. Blood trickles from shallow cuts on her forearms, but she ignores it.
"Enough!" she snaps. "I know this loss weighs on both of you—but now is not the time to decide who's right or wrong."
She recalls their master's words.
"What's done is done. If it was a mistake, then we fix it."
Francesca sheaths her katana.
"You say that like the one who caused the mistake is here. That idiot hasn't shown up since Monday—not to train, not to help protect the city."
Alexa scoffs as she also sheaths her blade.
"Have you even talked to him? Of course not. Miss Know-It-All always assumes she's right."
Emily raises her voice.
"Enough! We'll support him until Ty decides whether he comes back or not."
The other two nod reluctantly.
Later, as they part ways, Francesca leaps from the building, calling back, "It's time to go home." Emily follows, sighing in relief—then goes to have her wounds bandaged.
That afternoon, sunlight fills Guarly. At a café called Kiryoku, teenagers laugh, chat, read, and play games. Gregorio sits at a corner table, sipping a fruit smoothie and checking his phone, puzzled by Francesca's message asking him to meet there with Nya and Tyron.
Nya arrives—short pink hair with purple streaks, dark glasses, and a sharp attitude—shooing away the girls surrounding Gregorio.
"How do you always attract crowds?" she asks.
"I honestly don't know," he laughs awkwardly.
They chat until Francesca arrives—then Tyron. The moment she greets him, he freezes.
"Sorry… I think I need to go."
He leaves. Francesca bolts after him.
Outside, she catches up, grabs his wrist.
"What's wrong with you? Why did you stop training?"
He won't look at her. She lifts his chin gently.
"Ty… did you lose your desire to fight?"
Tears fill his eyes.
"I don't want to lose anyone else. I thought I was strong—but it wasn't enough. There are people I can't beat."
He pulls away.
"I don't want to watch anyone die again."
Francesca watches him walk away, fists clenched.
He's given up…
Then she runs to him and hugs him from behind—tight, steady, sincere.
"I'll be here for you," she says firmly. "We're friends. Teammates. We face what comes—together."
Passersby whisper, calling them a cute couple. Francesca flushes crimson with embarrassment—but Tyron smiles faintly… until the memory of Antonio returns.
"I'm sorry," he says softly, pulling away. "I can't. I wouldn't forgive myself if someone else died because of me."
He leaves.
Francesca stands there, arms falling limp, watching his back disappear.
Just like I thought… she thinks bitterly. He's lost his courage. He doesn't have the will to fight anymore.