Another week at Celeritas. Francesca stands on the academy balcony staring into the void, thinking about the final match that will decide who represents the city against the other provinces. Her phone vibrates. She unlocks it: a message from Emily reads, "Hi Fran, how are you?... Hey, can I ask you a favor?" The blonde eyes the screen suspiciously and types, "Depends on what the favor is," but her suspicion immediately fades when Emily replies, "I need someone to help me improve those strikes — I feel like I'm doing them wrong."
Francesca types: "Emily… 😑 How many times has the master told you you do it right?"
Emily types: "I know, but I don't feel like I'm doing it correctly 😔😔😔."
Francesca types: "You're too kind. Face it: the people we fight want us dead. Don't be so nice."
Francesca notices the brunette read the message without replying. Someone taps her shoulder. She turns — it's her good friend Gregorio, chewing an apple. After he swallows, he exclaims, "I'm glad you have new friends, Fran. When will you introduce them to me?" Francesca pockets her phone and shakes her head. Before Gregorio can speak again, a commotion runs down the hallway: a crowd is shouting, "Where's Gregorio?" He grabs Francesca's hand and they sprint away. She lets go of his grip as they flee. After going down two flights and reaching the courtyard, they stop by a bench in front of the fountain. Francesca complains, "Why do we always have to run?" Gregorio sighs and tosses the apple core into a trash can. "You know how they are. They don't bother you while we talk because they fear you, but once you leave I'm an easy target."
Francesca sits on the bench. "You should have the courage to reject them one day so they stop following you."
Gregorio sits beside her. "I wish it were that simple. You wouldn't understand. Some I've rejected cry, suffer, or insult me — they really feel something for me. When those tears are because of you, it's impossible not to feel guilty."
Francesca gazes at the fountain. "Then find yourself a partner so you don't have to run around after fans."
Gregorio smiles at Francesca. "For that to happen, my partner would at least have to be the director or the secretary."
Francesca, serious: "I bet the director would do it if you asked."
They laugh at the image. Gregorio pretends to shed a tear, and Francesca smiles faintly. They are quiet for a moment when her phone vibrates. It's Tyron: "Hi Fran 😁😁 Can you help me with my strong technique today?" Francesca recalls how he really does need help — posture and footwork — though Jayden will make them keep practicing until everyone gets it. She types "Yes." Stowing her phone, she notices her best friend making a pout with watery eyes. She playfully scolds him. Gregorio, worried: "You don't take this long to reply to my messages. Have I lost the title of best friend?"
Francesca, serious: "Stop being dramatic."
Gregorio drops the sarcasm and smiles at the fountain. "I'm curious you get along so well with others that you even invite them to your home."
Francesca blushes. "How did you know that?"
Gregorio tilts his head: "Jerome asked who the girl was the other day. Since I didn't know, we guessed she might be your girlfriend, a kidnapper who threatened you, or just your friend."
Francesca stands, crimson with embarrassment. "It's nothing weird that I get along with people."
Gregorio laughs. "Calm down. When you met me at three years old it took you over four years to treat me like a friend. Now you invite people to your house and jump to defend the tough guys like in that video. I'm glad my best friend has that kind of company… as long as I'm number one, obviously."
Francesca's blush fades; she accepts that the athlete is right. She's met great people who went from rivals to companions and now friends — even the dark-haired girl she once disliked for being reserved has become someone she doesn't argue with often. Francesca reaches to hug Gregorio when the recess bell rings. She offers him a hand: "Race to the third floor!" He grins and accepts; they dash off, dodging a brown-haired woman carrying stacks of papers. She walks to a shiny sports car; opening the door she greets her daughter with pink hair: "You'll like this place, Nya. Guarly has improved a lot, hasn't it?" The teenager nods and watches two students sprint past the second-floor windows.
Later, in the forest after training to increase their physical capacities, each student faces a clone to practice their new techniques. Emily is agitated. The warrior's clone watches the marks she's left on the ground and then the girl re-assumes the Védelem base posture. She closes her eyes and launches the first powerful punch to the clone's chin, moving its head; she slithers in and delivers a second elbow to the ribs, and finally gathers all her force, closes her eyes and makes a "cut" from shoulder to belly while smashing the lower ribcage with her right fist. The clone staggers back but is not destroyed. Emily opens her eyes: she failed to break it and screams in frustration, throwing her wooden sword. The warrior approaches; she seems to cry with rage over the technique.
Clone: "Are you okay, Miedosa?"
Emily (annoyed): "I hate this attack. I'll never do it right. It's stupid to keep trying!"
Clone nods: "You're right — it's almost impossible to ask you to hurt someone. Thank goodness I'm just a copy."
Emily breathes deeply. "Why do I have to use an attack? You already know I don't like returning strikes."
Clone: "That's why you're good at takedowns: you use your opponent's weight. Stop worrying about hurting me. I'm a clay clone — I'm your practice tool. Don't hold back. Flow with your force, and when the technique comes out, you'll learn to measure your strength." The clone pats her on the back.
Emily wipes away tears, inhales and exhales until she calms down. Fixing her eyes on the target, she strikes. The warrior feels his jaw break under the impact. In Emily's mind there's only the objective. The second strike cracks something loudly. She ignores it and lands the last blow: the clone is flung into a tree, then collapses and disassembles. A small sky-blue luminous orb rises from the clay heap and travels back to the cabin. It touches the meditating warrior; absorbing the energy, Jayden opens his eyes, surprised and a little madly delighted. He murmurs to himself, "So much strength hides behind such kindness." He creates a slightly larger orb and sends it to the brunette.
Tyron sits, panting. The blonde looks at him angrily. "Up! You're not done yet!" He opens one eye. "That took you a while, didn't it?" Francesca, irritated, stomps on his stomach to get him up. Tyron adopts the stance of his style while feeling his teammate's judgmental gaze on his back. A little intimidated, he releases it and exhales. He performs the first attack movement but is halted by the blonde shouting, "STOP!" He freezes inches from hitting the clone. Francesca approaches and adjusts his foot direction, lowers his shoulders, aligns his wrists with his arms, and pulls his head back a bit. Tyron completes the first move fine, but loses balance on the second and falls. Francesca is surprised — she had placed him in the same stance the warrior used when demonstrating techniques.
Tyron, getting up: "What happened?"
Francesca, serious: "I don't know. I put you in the same position as the master. You shouldn't have fallen."
Tyron, serious: "That's why I fell. I don't want to do the technique exactly as it is."
Francesca, puzzled: "What do you mean? Practice means doing the technique, nothing else."
The clone suddenly laughs. The two adolescents look at it, then Tyron turns to Francesca in a calmer, firmer tone than usual. "Maybe, but if I get the same result while changing something in the technique, I'll be able to compete with you…" Francesca looks bewildered, not understanding his motivation. He asks, "Why do you want to compete?" Tyron takes the base stance with his back to her and says, "Because we'll be teammates and friends, and we'll get along, but first we're rivals. In every fight, you've always mattered more than me. Alexa knows so much about fighting — it shows in every fight — and she has that super palm attack. Emily is a defensive wall with incredible reaction speed and is also very smart — she realized how Erinios was avoiding us. Fran is the planner — she makes strategies in a second. You all excel; I'm the one who brings trouble, who interferes, who's the reason bad things happen — like when those rapists nearly escaped or when Victor attacked us with his group. If I'd realized Antonio had changed and told you, maybe…" He sighs in shame. "…What I mean is you surpass me at everything. Not because our styles differ, but because if I do the same as you, I'll advance slower. So I'll change my approach a bit so I can keep being your rival." Francesca is surprised; she didn't know Tyron felt that way. Remembering the moments he mentioned, she understands. She notices a single tear fall from him.
Francesca: "So what do you want me to do?"
Tyron smiles: "Heh. You memorized the master's posture in a second, so you also know the result he achieves. Tell me if I get the same result." The girl shakes her head at what she considers a silly idea but agrees to watch what he can create.
Meanwhile, the dark-haired girl dismantles her clone and it reassembles. She shouts, "That's not it! Stop using the Moiraía Ptósi technique — use the Chakama!"
Three of the adolescents make progress on their respective techniques, except Alexa, who is trying to combine the new technique with the style her grandmother taught. When it doesn't work, she smiles and rejoins her companions. They head back to Guarly together. On the bus the four sit near the back. Emily and Francesca chat about math; Tyron texts while the dark-haired girl looks out the window. The ride is calm until the bus stops on the first streets of the city. A hooded man in blue jeans and a black hoodie carrying a bag walks down the aisle. Francesca feels a chill and a small whirlpool sensation. The hooded man passes by their seats and drops two small metal boxes. Emily and Tyron pick them up and hand them to him. He thanks them with a smile. Emily glimpses his pale face, bright brown eyes, and black hair. When he disembarks, the blonde watches him for a moment, then decides to ignore her sensations — perhaps it was one of her classmates; otherwise she would have felt it sooner.
The hooded man walks several blocks to a run-down hotel with cracked walls, peeling paint and graffiti. He opens the door: the lights flicker, the floor is stained, and there's a buzzing behind the reception desk. He approaches and finds a swarm of flies eating the remains of an elderly woman with a wound on her forehead. He breathes deeply, smiling as he removes his hood, then climbs the stairs. On the top floor he meets people in military-style clothing who stare at him. He slowly opens his bag and draws out a huge katana with a serrated, blunt side. The others bow when they see the weapon. He gestures them back to their duties. One man with glasses shows him a tablet full of photos of the city's vigilantes and asks, "Mr. Boris, which target will it be?" Boris reviews the photos and smiles, walking to the nearest window followed by the man with glasses.
Boris, looking over the city: "Why rush? Let's see where we can do the most damage before we unleash the chaos," and he begins to laugh.