John (Four) and Nine weren't in the main training area like the others. Instead, they stood in the combat ring just outside the bunker, staves in hand, preparing for a friendly but intense sparring match.
Around the edge, the rest of the group watched with keen interest. Henri stood beside Sandor, both men exchanging amused, competitive glances.
"I've got fifty on John," Henri said confidently.
Sandor smirked. "Then I'll back Nine. He was born for this."
As the two Garde circled one another, Griffin leaned toward Alexander, curious. "Who do you think is going to win?"
Alexander didn't hesitate. "Nine. He's the most physically capable among the Garde. And the staff is his primary weapon—he's had years of experience with it."
Six folded her arms, eyes narrowed on the fighters. "Yeah, Nine's battle instincts are on point. He reacts before most of us even register what's happening."
Sam, who had been quiet until now, chimed in from the back. "Still, don't count John out. He's quick and adaptable. And he's more strategic than people think."
Alexander shook his head, keeping his eyes on the ring. "He's good, yes—but he relies too much on his Legacies. In a pure weapons fight, Nine has the edge."
The bell rang.
Without a word, the two Garde lunged into motion—wooden staves clashing with sharp cracks. Sparks of tension lit the air with every strike and counterstrike. The match had begun.
The moment the bell rang, Nine charged forward like a freight train—confident, aggressive, and explosive. He swung his staff in a wide arc aimed at John's ribs, fully expecting a hit. But John sidestepped smoothly, bringing up his own staff to deflect the blow. Wood clashed against wood with a sharp crack, reverberating through the circle.
Nine grinned. "You're quicker than you look."
John said nothing, eyes focused, feet shifting into a defensive stance. He knew better than to trade strength with Nine. What he lacked in brute force, he made up for in precision.
Nine pressed the attack, moving fast and low. A feint to the left, then a quick jab to John's thigh—but John jumped back, then pivoted, swinging the end of his staff at Nine's shoulder. It grazed him, but Nine twisted with it, absorbing the blow like it was part of his own motion.
From the sidelines, Henri winced. "He needs to keep his distance."
Sandor smirked. "Nine's drawing him in. Classic tactic."
John ducked as Nine's staff whistled over his head. He rolled forward, using the momentum to bring his staff up in a rising strike. Nine parried it easily, their staves locking together for a moment, faces just inches apart.
"Still think you can win?" Nine taunted.
John gritted his teeth and jumped back, creating distance between them.
His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. The sting of Nine's last blow still echoed through his ribs, and he knew if he took another hit like that, the match would be over. He tightened his grip on the staff, trying to refocus.
Nine, ever-patient, twirled his staff once and smirked. "You're running out of room, Four."
Nine lunged in with the confidence of someone who knew he had the advantage. His staff cut through the air with a whistle, coming down hard toward John's shoulder.
John parried quickly, his arms jolting from the sheer impact. Nine was stronger—a lot stronger.
Still, John didn't retreat. He slid to the side and retaliated with a swift jab to Nine's ribs. Nine blocked it with ease, a cocky grin spreading across his face.
"Come on, Four," he taunted. "That all you've got?"
John didn't reply. He narrowed his eyes and shifted his stance, adopting a more agile posture. He wasn't going to overpower Nine—but he could outthink him.
For a while, it worked.
John kept moving, ducking and weaving, his staff landing glancing blows here and there. One strike cracked across Nine's thigh, another grazed his shoulder. The onlookers murmured, surprised.
"John's holding his own," Sam said, surprised.
Henri nodded, eyes focused. "He's smart. He's not trying to match force—he's playing the long game."
But Nine was adjusting. He stopped trying to overwhelm and started tracking John's patterns. He let John land a light hit—then responded with a brutal sweep that sent John stumbling.
Before John could recover, Nine pressed the advantage. A rapid combo of strikes came down like a storm. John blocked the first—then the second—but the third slipped past, catching him in the ribs.
He gasped.
Nine didn't let up. He stepped in, twisted, and swept John's legs. John hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him. He tried to roll away—but Nine's staff came down, gently but firmly resting an inch from his neck.
"Match over," Nine declared.
Silence.
Then Sandor clapped. "Well-earned."
Henri sighed, but offered a small smile. "He held out longer than I expected."
Alexander nodded approvingly. "John's quick—but Nine's staff work is top-tier."
Nine offered his hand to John, who accepted it, pulling himself up.
"You fought well," Nine said, no trace of arrogance now. "You're better than before."
John gave a breathless nod. "And you're still a tank."
They both chuckled.
Six crossed her arms and smirked. "Well, at least nobody broke anything this time."
Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Lexa burst into the room first, followed closely by Crayton, Zophie, and Janus. All four wore tense expressions—excitement and urgency written across their faces.
Everyone in the training hall turned to them.
Lexa didn't waste a second. "We got a message—on the old Loric channel."
The entire room went still.
Henri straightened. "That channel's been dormant for years..."
Crayton nodded, eyes sharp. "Exactly why we need to check it now."
Without another word, the group surged into motion. John grabbed his jacket, ignoring the ache in his shoulder as he fell in beside Henri and Nine. Six was already moving with her usual urgency, and Sam was close behind, clutching his tablet like a lifeline.
They followed Lexa and the others through the corridor, past reinforced doors and narrow tunnels, until they reached the Computer Room—a cold, dimly lit chamber humming with energy.
Lexa slid into the main console seat. "The signal came through encoded. Zophie helped decode the header—we recognized the frequency pattern."
She tapped a few keys, and a waveform filled the screen, followed by lines.
Alexander leaned in. "Is it a distress signal?"
Janus shook his head. "No. It's... coordinated. Intentional. Someone sent this message expecting us to receive it."
Crayton crossed his arms. "And the encryption—only someone allied and friends with Lorien could've sent it."
A moment of silence passed.
John's voice was low. "Who is it?"
Alexander spoke up."Play it."
Lexa nodded and played the message,
The screen flickered again—and an audio clip, heavily distorted, began to play.
Through the static, a voice broke through.