Chapter 11: Misunderstandings and Lightning
"We meet again!"
The voice, brimming with pure, unadulterated excitement, cut through the tension like a hot knife. Standing before him, spear held loosely at his side, was the green-haired Rider of Red. Achilles.
Siegfried's expression, already serious, hardened into granite. The last time they'd crossed paths, Achilles had gotten so caught up in the thrill of the fight he'd practically shouted his own name to the heavens. That bit of intel had sparked a frantic strategy session back at the Fortress of Millennia. The conclusion had been depressingly simple: aside from Chiron, their own Archer, no one had a reliable answer for the Greek hero.
Yes, the weakness was obvious—strike the heel. But hitting the single vulnerable point on the fastest hero of Greece? Chiron himself had admitted, with grim professionalism, that landing such a shot would be a feat of near-impossible precision, even for him.
Their only real option was to stall. To endure.
Siegfried let out a slow, controlled breath, grounding himself. He adjusted his grip on the massive hilt of Balmung, its weight familiar and comforting. He settled into a ready stance, not advancing, simply waiting. A wall of silent resolve.
"Not coming at me?" Achilles' grin widened, showing too many teeth. It wasn't a friendly expression; it was the smile of a predator who'd found worthy prey. "Fine by me. I'll start the party!"
The ground beneath Achilles' feet didn't just crack—it exploded backwards in a shower of dirt and rock. A sonic boom, visible as a ripple of condensed air, echoed as he vanished. Not in a flash of light, but in a blur of emerald and bronze that tore across the clearing like a hurricane given human form. The air itself screamed in protest.
Twang—THWIP!
An arrow, fletched with hawk feathers, shot from the dense foliage of the surrounding forest. It wasn't aimed for a kill-shot, but for disruption. It struck true, biting deep into the meat of Achilles' shoulder just as he closed in.
Spurt.
Blood, shockingly red against his sun-bronzed skin, blossomed from the wound. The impact was a physical jerk, a punctuation mark in his charge that made him stumble half a step. It was all the opening Siegfried needed.
He didn't shout. He didn't roar. He simply stepped into the stumble, the greatsword Balmung becoming a silver arc of controlled annihilation as he swung it horizontally for Achilles' neck. The force of it parted the air with a deep woosh.
"Tch! Black's Archer!" Achilles spat the words, his reflexes supernatural. His spear, Diatrekhōn Astēr Lonkhē, came up in a blur, the haft intercepting Balmung's edge with a deafening CLANG that sent sparks cascading into the dirt. At the same instant, he jerked his head to the side. A second arrow, aimed for his temple, whistled past his ear, close enough to stir his wild green hair.
More arrows followed, a lethal rain from the unseen Chiron. They targeted joints, his remaining ankle, his eyes—anything to slow, to maim, to create an opening.
"Damn it!" Snarling, Achilles made a brutal calculus. He knew Siegfried's sword couldn't pierce his skin. So he ignored the next overhead chop that rang harmlessly off his skull. Instead, he took the impact, let his head rock with it, and drove his own fist forward in a short, devastating punch that connected squarely with Siegfried's jaw.
CRACK.
The sound was sickeningly solid. Siegfried's head snapped back, a line of blood tracing from the corner of his mouth. Even as he reeled, Achilles was already spinning his spear, its tip becoming a shimmering disk that batted the remaining arrows from the air with a series of sharp cracks.
He reached up, grabbed the shaft of the arrow in his shoulder, and yanked it free with a grimace, snapping the wood between his fingers. "Didn't think you guys had someone who could actually draw my blood," he admitted, a new, sharper respect in his eyes. "Interesting. But it doesn't change the ending."
Siegfried straightened, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his gauntlet. His worst-case scenario was unfolding. Achilles had realized Siegfried posed no offensive threat to his invulnerability. Now, the Greek hero could focus entirely on the attack, a relentless hammer against the anvil of Siegfried's defense. Only the constant, threatening presence of Chiron's arrows kept Achilles from committing fully. It was a fragile, exhausting equilibrium.
BOOM!
A distant, heavy explosion shook the air, rolling from deeper within the forest. The sound was distinct—not the crack of Noble Phantasms or the clash of steel, but the deep, concussive thump of raw impact.
Achilles' head whipped toward the sound, his concentration breaking for a split-second. "Big Sis?"
"I'm fine." Atalanta's voice, cool and composed, came from the trees above. A small pebble, thrown with absurd accuracy, bounced off Achilles' helmet. "Berserker is finished. We're withdrawing."
"Eh? I'm just about to wrap this up!" Achilles protested, shooting a frustrated glance at Siegfried, who remained poised and unwavering.
"The white-haired one is currently mistaken for our ally by the Black faction," Atalanta said flatly, another of her arrows leaping from her bow to intercept one of Chiron's. "That misunderstanding will not last. He will not hold their forces for us. Do you wish to be surrounded by the entirety of the Black camp? Stay if you like."
Without another word, she melted back into the shadows of the canopy, her presence vanishing.
"Wait for me, Big Sis!" With a last, almost petulant glare at Siegfried, Achilles kicked off the ground, the resulting shockwave cratering the earth as he shot after her, becoming a green streak that vanished into the woods.
Gone.
Siegfried allowed himself a moment, just one, to let the tension drain from his shoulders. He lowered Balmung, its tip resting on the ground. Fighting an opponent you couldn't hurt was a uniquely draining form of combat, a war of attrition where you were the only one taking damage. He felt a pang of sympathy for all the warriors who had ever stood across a battlefield from him.
[Saber, support Lancer immediately! A Red servant remains in the western sector and cannot disengage!] Gordolf's voice, sharp with command and anxiety, echoed in his mind.
"That direction," Siegfried murmured, turning his gaze toward the source of the earlier explosion. It was where Achilles had looked. He also recalled, faintly, Atalanta saying a name… something like 'Shi-di-ja'? It meant nothing to him.
Hefting Balmung onto his shoulder, Siegfried broke into a run, his powerful strides eating up the distance.
---
"Hey! Would you all just wait a damn minute!"
Cyd's boot came down, not with a stomp, but with a controlled, crushing motion that pulverized the sharpened wooden pike trying to erupt from the ground beneath him. Splinters flew. At the same moment, his right hand shot out, fingers closing around the tip of the ornate lance aiming for his throat. The metal shrieked in protest but didn't break.
"Unnnngh—!" Franky, Frankenstein's Monster, was vibrating with frantic energy. She had one hand clamped on Astolfo's arm, shaking the pink-haired Rider back and forth like a ragdoll.
"Ahaha, I know, I know! I can't beat him either," Astolfo chirped, his smile brilliantly unconcerned. "So I'm definitely not going to get in Lancer's way!" His eyes twinkled with sudden, mischievous inspiration. He patted Franky's shoulder reassuringly. "Well, I'll leave it to you guys! Toodaloo!"
And with a playful wink, he dissolved into particles of golden light, vanishing entirely.
"Uuunh! Ooooooh!" Franky turned from where Astolfo had been to Vlad III, her vocalizations rising into a panicked shriek. She waved her arms wildly, pointing at Cyd, then at Vlad, then making a series of frantic, chopping motions across her own throat.
"Be at ease, Berserker. I am well aware," Vlad III growled, not taking his eyes off Cyd. His spear was a whirlwind of deadly precision, each thrust aimed with lethal intent. Simultaneously, the earth around Cyd continued to heave as more and more of the sharp, demonic wooden stakes—the manifestation of his Legend of Dracula—burst forth in a forest of impalement. It was a barrage meant to overwhelm, to pin, to slaughter.
And it was doing precisely nothing.
Cyd moved within the storm with an almost casual, infuriating grace. He wasn't dodging so much as redirecting, his hands and feet deflecting spear tips and shattering stakes with minimal, efficient movements. He wasn't counter-attacking. He was… weathering.
"Do not worry, Lancer is strong," a calm voice interjected. Shakespeare, the Black Faction's Caster, gave Franky a pat on the back as his massive, puppet-like golems lumbered past, carrying the heavily bound and finally subdued form of Spartacus. "Let us return this boisterous soul to his quarters. The finale here is assured."
No one understands! Franky's thoughts screamed in her silent mind. Master Caules knows! He found out Lancer mistook the white-hair for Red! But no one is listening to him! Lady Fiore isn't here! No one can stop Lancer!
It was a perfect storm of miscommunication and arrogance. The Masters were distracted, the other servants dispersed. The only one who had the full picture was a Berserker who couldn't form a coherent sentence.
Crackle-snap.
A new presence entered the clearing. Siegfried landed lightly, Balmung already in hand. His calm blue eyes scanned the scene: Vlad III attacking with furious intensity, a white-haired man in strange armor effortlessly nullifying it all, and a frantic Berserker.
"Uuunh! OOOOH!" Franky lunged for Siegfried, grabbing his armored forearm. She pointed violently at Cyd, then made a big 'X' with her arms, shaking her head so hard her bolts rattled.
Siegfried looked from her desperate pantomime to the intense battle, his face a mask of stoic analysis.
[Saber, assist Lancer at once!]
Gordolf's order was unambiguous.
Siegfried nodded slowly. I understand. The situation was clear: Lancer was engaged with a powerful Red servant. His duty was to support his ally.
He raised Balmung, its blade catching the dappled forest light. With a powerful stride, he entered the fray, his greatsword cutting a devastating arc toward the white-haired stranger's flank.
Franky's shoulders slumped. Her sparking eyes seemed to dim. …Idiots. They're all idiots.
"Seriously?!" Cyd's exasperation peaked. The pressure, which had been considerable, just doubled. He'd been actively holding back, suppressing the instinct to end the fight with Vlad III in a single, brutal exchange. Now, with the unbreakable Siegfried adding his relentless strength to the assault, fine-tuning his power to merely subdue became a razor's edge exercise.
Siegfried's sword, the legendary Balmung, swept toward Cyd's neck. Cyd didn't block. He didn't need to.
SCHIIING!
The sound was not of impact, but of slide. The ultra-sharp dragon-slaying blade met the skin of Cyd's neck and stopped dead, unable to bite, unable to even leave a white mark. It was like trying to cut a mountain with a butter knife.
Siegfried's eyes widened, just a fraction. The sensation was unmistakable, horrifically familiar. It was identical to striking Achilles. This wasn't a powerful defense being overcome; this was an absolute nullification.
"Useless," Cyd muttered, turning his head slightly to look at the blade resting against his throat. A faint, wry smile touched his lips.
Vlad III's face was a thundercloud of dawning, ugly realization. He had noticed it earlier—his Kazikli Bey stakes, which should burst from within a target once they pierced the flesh, had done nothing. Not a single one had managed to so much as scratch this man's skin. What he had mistaken for a relentless offensive forcing a defensive fight was, in truth, Cyd simply choosing not to fight back. The implication was chilling.
"UUNNH! OOOOH!" Driven to the brink, Franky did the only thing she could think of. She lowered her head and charged, a living battering ram of metal, leather, and desperation. She slammed bodily into Siegfried, then shoulder-checked Vlad III, knocking both legendary warriors off-balance for a crucial second. She then planted herself squarely between them and Cyd, spreading her arms wide and letting out a continuous, protective growl.
"Berserker," Vlad III's voice was low, dangerous with confusion and rising irritation. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Uuuh! Aah! Ooooh!" She gestured wildly again, a complex, jumbled series of points and signs that meant everything to her and nothing to them.
Siegfried and Vlad III exchanged a glance. In the eyes of the stoic dragon-slayer and the proud Impaler, there was only mutual bewilderment.
"What she's trying to say," Cyd said, his voice cutting through Franky's distressed noises. He reached out and gently placed a hand on her head, his touch surprisingly soft. She flinched for a second, then stilled, looking up at him. "Is that I am not your enemy. I am Ruler."
Franky nodded so vigorously it looked like her head might unscrew.
"And my True Name," Cyd continued, that easy smile returning, though it didn't quite reach his eyes, "is Cyd."
Silence fell over the clearing, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves. The name meant nothing to Vlad III, but the title…
Ruler.
A memory, vague and previously dismissed, surfaced in Vlad III's mind. The younger Master, Caules, returning from the forest perimeter, trying to catch someone—anyone—to talk urgently. But the other Masters had been preoccupied. His sister, the acting leader, sedated for rest. The other servants engrossed in dissecting the intelligence on Achilles…
A cold, sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. The frantic gestures of the Berserker. The absolute, unreasonable defense. The lack of any aggressive intent.
Oh.
A monumental error.
The arrogance of assuming the mysterious servant was an enemy. The rush to battle without full intelligence. The dismissal of a subordinate's attempts to communicate.
Vlad III straightened slowly, the fury draining from his posture to be replaced by a stiff, regal formality tinged with profound chagrin. He pulled his spear back, planting its butt on the ground. The ominous wooden pikes receded into the earth as if they had never been.
Siegfried, ever perceptive to shifts in the battlefield, lowered Balmung. He looked from Vlad's suddenly rigid expression to Cyd's calm face, and finally to Franky's relieved, sparking eyes.
"It would seem," Vlad III began, his voice tight, "that we have acted… prematurely."
Cyd removed his hand from Franky's head and crossed his arms. "That's one way to put it."
The political landscape of the Great Holy Grail War had just become infinitely more complicated. And for the Black Faction, their first major tactical blunder stood before them, in the form of a white-haired hero who had just endured their combined assault without throwing a single punch.