The days following the encounter with Fergus passed with a deceptive monotony. The American landscape unfolded before them in a succession of hills, forests, and rivers they crossed with relative ease. The enemies they encountered—disorganized Celtic patrols, malfunctioning Edison machines, beasts distorted by the magical fog—were more of a nuisance than a true challenge. For Leonel and his group, each encounter was resolved with almost routine efficiency.
Leonel, from the center of the formation, directed with a calm that hid a perpetually active mind. Tezcatlipoca, by his side, was his sensory and analytical extension. Together they formed a formidable command nucleus.
'Two Celtic spearmen hidden behind the fallen oak, forty degrees northwest,' the Persona's voice resonated in his mind, cold and clear.
'Tamamo, a Confusion Ofuda there. Billy, cover their retreat when they emerge,' Leonel ordered, without even raising his voice.
'The automaton has a weak point in its dorsal reactor. Mordred, a clean strike with Clarent,' continued Tezcatlipoca.
'Artoria, freeze the terrain to slow down those on the right. Jeanne, to your left.'
It was a perfect, lethal, and efficient dance. The enemies fell like dominoes, with none of Leonel's Servants suffering more than scratches. Victory was constant, predictable. And each victory like this, each demonstration of coordinated yet tensionless power, fed a silent frustration growing in the shadows.
Scáthach watched, still as a statue atop a cliff, her scarlet eyes fixed on Leonel. She did not see the warrior she expected. She saw an orchestra conductor, yes, talented, but one who never picked up the instrument himself. She saw a strategist who relied on a crutch, on that dark, wise entity whispering battlefield secrets in his ear. Where was the inner fire? Where was the instinct that pushes a man to the edge of the abyss so he learns to fly or fall gracefully? The defeat in London had left a scar, but also a lesson that seemed to have dissolved in the comfort of numerical and tactical superiority.
'He's growing soft,' she murmured to herself, her voice a sigh carried away by the wind. 'He trusts in his bonds, in his mind, in borrowed power. But a true warrior must trust the edge of his own soul. He must look death in the eye and laugh, not calculate its angle of approach.'
She saw Leonel smile, relieved, after another uneventful skirmish. She saw his "brides" gather around him, offering smiles and words of encouragement, creating a circle of warmth and safety that, to Scáthach, was a velvet cage. Patience, a virtue she had cultivated for millennia in the Land of Shadows, was wearing thin.
'Fate seems determined to deny me the spectacle,' she thought, with black humor. 'Very well. If battle won't come to him, I will bring it.'
And so, on a wide, clear plain, halfway between Elizabeth's town and the distant mists marking the location of Washington D.C., Scáthach decided she had waited long enough.
There was no warning. No change in the air, no omen of energy. One moment, Leonel was walking between Mash and Nero Bride, listening to Roman through the communicator. The next, the world exploded in a dance of death.
A spear, Gáe Bolg Alternative, emerged from nothingness, aimed not at Leonel, but at the exact point between his feet and Mash's. It wasn't an attack to kill, but to separate, to create chaos. The explosion of earth and dark energy forced them both back.
'Enemy!' shouted Mash, reacting first, her shield rising instinctively.
But the enemy was no longer there.
Scáthach materialized like a purple ghost in the middle of the group, her movement so fast it left afterimages. Her first thrust was towards Tamamo, forcing her back and breaking the formation. Her second move, a brutal spin, knocked Kiyohime aside with the flat of her spear. All in less than two seconds.
The surprise was total. Not even Tezcatlipoca, with his expanded senses, had detected her. Her stealth was so absolute it was as if she had emerged from an adjacent dimension.
'Defensive formation! Mash, center! Lancers, flanks! Casters, rear!' Leonel's voice, though laced with surprise, did not falter. Training and instinct took command.
But Scáthach was no normal enemy. She followed no predictable patterns. She was the whirlwind personified, the master of all fighting styles. She dodged Jeanne Alter's fire as if she knew every inch of its trajectory before it was launched. She parried the blows of Mordred and Artoria Alter with her spear, using their own force against them, redirecting their momentum. She seemed to dance among them, an elegant and deadly silhouette that never stopped.
'Extreme speed! Unpredictable attack pattern!' Tezcatlipoca's voice sounded urgent in Leonel's mind, trying to analyze what seemed unanalyzable. 'Calculating probable trajectories...!'
'No time for probabilities!' Leonel shouted internally. 'Give me something concrete!'
'To the left! She's going for Geronimo!'
Leonel reacted. 'Billy, shoot the point I'm marking!' He transmitted a mental image, a coordinate in the apparently empty air. Billy, trusting blindly, fired. The bullet wasn't aimed at Scáthach, but at where she would be if she continued her charge. She dodged, barely, but it was enough for Geronimo to cast a spiritual binding spell that, although she broke it instantly, slowed her next movement by a fraction of a second.
It was that instant that Leonel exploited. 'Jeanne Alter, fan-shaped fire now! Nero, frontal charge! Mash, cover Nero!'
The counterattack was coordinated and brutal. Scáthach was forced to block Nero's charge with her spear, while Jeanne Alter's black fire forced her to maintain an energy barrier. For a moment, she seemed contained.
But then she smiled. A small, cold smile. 'Better. But you still depend on the whisper in your ear.'
And then, she did something no one expected. Instead of pressing her attack, she spun on her heel and threw her spear, not at a Servant, but at the airspace right behind Leonel, where the semi-material form of Tezcatlipoca floated, analyzing.
The spear did not impact physically. Instead, it exploded into a sphere of pure purple energy, a light that seemed to dissolve magical connections. Tezcatlipoca, the evolved Persona, the navigator, the strategist, let out a low sound of surprise—the first time Leonel had heard him express anything resembling an emotion—and his form faded, not destroyed, but isolated, abruptly severed from his bond with his user.
A sudden, terrifying mental silence hit Leonel. It was as if a sense had been ripped from him. The constant stream of data, analysis, predictions, and amplified perceptions shut off all at once. He was left alone with his own mind, his own eyes, his own instincts. And before him, Scáthach, retrieving her spear with a gesture, looked directly at him, challenging.
'Now, Master,' her voice, melodious and dangerous. 'Show me what lies behind the counselor. Show me the edge of your own will.'
Panic, cold and familiar, tried to seize Leonel. It was the same emptiness of power, the same feeling of helplessness he felt facing Goetia. But this time there was no cosmic enemy. There was a warrior, a teacher. And his Servants, his Servants, were watching him, waiting. Mash, her eyes full of faith. Jeanne Alter, with an expression of concern disguised as impatience. Nero, ready to charge. They all trusted him, not Tezcatlipoca.
He took a deep breath. The air smelled of dust, ozone, and the static electricity of Scáthach's power. His mind, deprived of the luxury of superhuman analysis, began to work at a speed he didn't know he possessed. He no longer had processed data. He had to be the processor.
He observed Scáthach. Not as an entity with statistics, but as a warrior. Her posture, slightly leaning forward, weight distributed on the balls of her feet. Her eyes, scarlet, scanning not just him, but the entire group, calculating threats. She was a hunter, but also a strategist. She wouldn't attack randomly. She would seek the weakest link, the slowest coordination.
'She's going for the Casters,' he thought, in a fraction of a second. 'They're the ones who can limit her mobility with area spells. But it's obvious. It's a trap. She expects us to concentrate defense there.'
He shouted, his voice now the only conduit for orders. 'Everyone, listen! Inverted turtle formation! Mash, Tamamo, Geronimo, Shakespeare, center! The rest, outer circle in constant motion! Don't stop! Jeanne Alter, suppression fire in random patterns, don't aim at her, aim where she might want to move! Mordred, Artoria, flashy deterrent attacks, one strike and fall back, don't get locked in!'
It was a counterintuitive order. Grouping the most vulnerable in the center, but making the strongest move ceaselessly, creating a dynamic, unpredictable wall. Jeanne Alter, instead of launching her powerful direct attacks, began scattering curtains of black fire in seemingly random areas, forcing Scáthach to constantly adjust her position. Mordred and Artoria Alter attacked and retreated so quickly it was impossible for Scáthach to counterattack effectively without exposing herself to another.
Scáthach blinked, a flash of genuine interest in her eyes. She had removed the support, and in its place, the boy had deployed a field control strategy based on psychology and movement, not brute force. It was... elegant.
She tried to break the formation. She lunged towards an apparently weak point between Nero Bride and Elizabeth, but Leonel had already anticipated it. 'Elizabeth, now! Your worst scream, straight at the ground in front of you!'
Elizabeth, confused but obedient, opened her mouth and emitted a shriek that was not a song, but a pure destructive sonic burst. The impact on the ground created a shockwave and a cloud of dust that blinded and disoriented for a second. It was enough time for Billy, following a silent prior order from Leonel, to shoot not at Scáthach, but at the rocks on a nearby outcrop, causing a small avalanche to fall right where she would try to reposition herself.
Scáthach was forced to retreat, dodging the debris. For the first time, she seemed slightly on the defensive. Leonel didn't stop talking, his eyes scanning the battlefield like a human radar.
*'Now! All who can, concentrated attack on zone D-3! Not at her, at the space! Force her towards the area Tamamo marked!'*
Tamamo, in the center, had been silently preparing a large Ofuda with a restriction symbol. She launched it to the area Leonel had designated. Scáthach, dodging the suppression fire and flashy attacks, found herself almost unintentionally directed towards that zone. Upon stepping on it, the symbols glowed, and her feet were momentarily stuck to the ground, not by force, but by a spell of increased gravity.
It was only for a second. But it was enough. In that instant, Leonel gave the final order. 'Mash, shield charge! Use Mordred as a battering ram!'
Mash, without questioning, charged with Lord Camelot leading. Mordred jumped, bracing her feet against the back of the shield and pushing with all her might. The shield-sword combo became an irresistible human projectile. Scáthach, momentarily immobilized, couldn't dodge. She crossed her arms and took the full impact.
The roar was deafening. Scáthach was thrown backward, skidding across the ground like a meteor for dozens of meters before stopping. She stood up immediately, with no apparent scratch, but there was a dirt mark on her suit and, more importantly, an expression of absolute surprise on her face.
The battle stopped. Everyone panted, looking at the Queen of Shadows. She looked at them all, and finally, her gaze settled on Leonel, who stood, sweating profusely, his mind burning but his eyes clear and determined.
A profound silence fell over the plain. Then, Scáthach did something unexpected. She let her spear drop to the ground, where it stuck softly. And she raised both hands, in a clear nonverbal sign of surrender.
A slow, genuine, and deeply satisfied smile spread across her lips. It wasn the mocking smile from before. It was the smile of a teacher who has found a nugget of gold in a river of stones.
'Good,' she said, her voice now warm, like the touch of silk on a sharpened sword. 'Very good, Leonel Herrera. You have surpassed... not my expectations, for I had none that were low. You have shattered them.'
She walked towards him, ignoring the still-raised weapons of the Servants, which slowly lowered, confused. She stopped a meter away, her presence overwhelming but no longer hostile.
'Without your spiritual counselor, I saw you. I saw the mind churning behind those eyes. Quick. Sharp. Cautious, but not fearful. A mind that sees the battlefield not as a board of pieces, but as a living organism, with flows, pressure, and breaking points. That... that is rare. That is valuable.'
She paused, evaluating him from head to toe. 'You have the potential to rival, not my best disciples in hand-to-hand combat—not yet—, but the greatest strategists I have known. Your mind is a weapon that only needs to be polished, tempered in fires more intense than these skirmishes. And that...' she added, and her smile became dangerously arrogant, seductive, '...is something I can do.'
Then, she took another step, closing the distance. The scent of dark herbs and bloody metal enveloped Leonel. The "brides" behind him went on maximum alert, but a glacial look from Scáthach froze them in place. It was a look that said 'this is not your concern.'
She leaned towards Leonel's ear, her warm breath brushing his skin. Her voice was a low whisper, only for him, but in the silence, they all heard it. 'Keep this up, little Lion. Sharpen that mind. Survive this war. And perhaps...' She made a dramatic pause, '...I might consider claiming you not only as a disciple, but as a consort. Together, we could rule the Land of Shadows. You would be a strategist king by my side. An interesting prospect, don't you think?'
The effect was instant and explosive.
'WHAT?!' Nero and Nero Bride roared in unison.
'Mikon! Another one! And this one directly proposes a shared kingdom!' shrieked Tamamo.
Kiyohime began to smoke from her nose, her golden eyes blazing with rage. 'Rule?! Together?! NO!!'
Jeanne Alter drew her sword again. 'Enough! I'm going to reduce that purple witch to ashes right here and now!'
Even Mash frowned, a rare glimpse of disapproval in her eyes.
Leonel, caught between the seductive and lethal presence of Scáthach and the whirlwind of jealousy erupting behind him, felt an epic headache coming on. He raised his hands, making a gesture of forced peace.
'Everyone, calm down!' he shouted, with more desperation than authority. 'She's surrendering! Or... something like that! It's not a proposal, it's a... an evaluation!'
Scáthach stepped back, laughing softly, a laugh that sounded like ice chimes. 'Merely an observation of future potential. For now...' Her gaze turned east, towards where the magical mist was thickest. 'Your path lies ahead. The 'tumor', as your nurse says, awaits. And I...' She looked at them all, '...believe I will observe a little more closely. This journey has become far more interesting.'
And as if dissolving in the twilight light, her figure faded, leaving only her spear stuck in the ground as a reminder of her presence. A moment later, the spear also disappeared.
An awkward silence filled the clearing. Everyone looked at Leonel, who ran a hand through his hair, exhausted.
Nightingale, who had observed the entire interaction with her usual impassivity, approached. 'The episode of hormonal agitation appears to have concluded. The immediate threat has been neutralized via strategic surrender. We must resume the march. The primary patient—the tumor—remains untreated.'
Leonel shot her a grateful look. At least someone had their priorities straight. 'She's right,' he said, his voice regaining some firmness. 'Washington D.C. awaits. Medb, Cu Chulainn Alter, and the Grail are there.' He looked at his Servants, his loved ones, one by one. 'And this time... this time we are ready.'
But as they regrouped and resumed their march, Leonel couldn't help but feel Scáthach's gaze on the back of his neck, like a promise and a warning. The shadow among shadows now walked among them, visible only when she wished. And she had ignited a spark in his mind, a question: how much sharper could he become? The road to the capital would, without a doubt, be the most dangerous yet. But for the first time since London, Leonel didn't feel the cold of helplessness, but the anticipatory heat of challenge. And, perhaps, a bit of panic at the idea of having to calm his harem every time a warrior goddess made him a co-rule proposal. Some battles, it seemed, were impossible to win.