The city of London seemed to have become an endless maze.
The twisted streets, swallowed by the fog, revealed only deformed shadows and flashes of enemy machinery. Those magical creations, amalgamations of iron and stone animated by glowing mana cores, emerged from every corner like inexhaustible swarms.
Leonel ran alongside his Servants, breathing heavily, as smoke and metallic sparks sprayed around him.
—Tezcatlipoca! —he exclaimed, raising his voice over the din of steel against steel.
The dark figure of the jaguar god manifested beside him, his obsidian mask reflecting the light of the enemy cores. A deep murmur resonated in Leonel's mind.
—They are soulless puppets. Always aim for the core. Don't waste time with the shell.
Leonel relayed the orders immediately.
—Cores! Focus on the cores!
Jeanne Alter, like a black flame, brandished her banner in devastating arcs that burst the machinery with explosions of dark fire. Drake fired from behind, her pistol crackling with mana-imbued bullets, piercing enemy armor as if it were paper. Kiyohime moved in swift spirals, laying waste with claws and searing flames.
Mash kept her shield forward, covering Leonel whenever one of those abominations tried to charge.
Time became hazy. Each step toward the magical concentration's center was won with blood, sweat, and metallic noise. There was no rest: when one group of machines fell, others emerged from the fog, as if the entire city were breathing hostility.
After hours of fighting and attrition, a wide plaza finally opened before them. There, at the center, a stream of mana bubbled up from the cracked paving stones, like an ethereal spring feeding the enemies. The fog was so dense they could barely see each other, yet the feeling of having reached a crucial point was undeniable.
—We made it... —murmured Leonel, exhausted, leaning on Mash for a moment.
It was then that applause resonated in the gloom.
A clear, theatrical echo that chilled them all.
—Oh, oh, oh... does the tragedy not need an intermission to breathe? —a voice laden with drama rose from the shadows.
A man with curly hair emerged from the mist, with a haughty, theatrical air. He held an open book in one hand, and with the other made grand gestures.
—William Shakespeare... —Drake whispered, curling her lip in distaste.
From the opposite side, another figure appeared: a small man, of fragile countenance and melancholic expression. His eyes reflected both sweetness and torment. He held a notebook in his hand and was enveloped by a bluish aura.
—Hans Christian Andersen... —added Mash, adjusting her shield.
Leonel took a step forward, feeling Tezcatlipoca vibrate with distrust.
—Two Casters at once... but not of their own free will.
The proof came the next instant: both writers raised their books and began to recite, but their voices were hollow, their gestures stiff, like puppets. From the mist then slid a hunched shadow, with a grotesque white mask and a sickly air of obsession.
—The Phantom of the Opera... —muttered Jeanne Alter, her eyes burning with fury—. An Assassin.
Leonel understood everything:
—He's controlling them. They're not themselves. If we want to free them, we can't kill them.
The order was clear, but difficult: face two Casters without killing them, while the true puppeteer hid in the fog.
Shakespeare raised his voice first, his book glowing with red light.
—Oh inevitable tragedy, let the heroes be crushed by the weight of fate! Let words become spears that tear the flesh!
A swarm of magical spears rained down on the group, forcing Mash to raise her shield with all her might. The explosion shook the ground.
Immediately after, Andersen raised his notebook, his words softer, but just as lethal:
—Let history be written with the ink of suffering. Let their steps become heavy as lead...
A dark aura spread across the field, draining energy, weakening morale and reflexes. Even Jeanne Alter growled upon feeling her strength reduced.
Leonel planted himself in the midst of them all, his voice clear amid the chaos.
—Don't inflict lethal damage! Just incapacitate. Jeanne Alter, stop Shakespeare's frontal attacks. Mash, maintain defense and protect Drake. Kiyohime, search for the Assassin in the fog. Drake, focus on shooting Andersen's hands, not his body!
The orders ignited the group.
Jeanne Alter charged against Shakespeare's projections, tearing them apart with her banner. Each clash was like a duel between dark fire and the theater of tragedy. Drake fired with surgical precision, breaking pages of light that Andersen invoked, while Mash stood firm, blocking projectiles and deflecting spells.
Kiyohime, with a roar, disappeared into the fog, her eyes glowing. The Phantom's shadow moved, casting threads of control over the two writers.
Leonel, with Tezcatlipoca by his side, didn't rest. His Persona transmitted the patterns of control, the magical vibrations emanating from the Assassin.
—Over there, to the left! —he shouted, and Kiyohime unleashed a torrent of flames toward the indicated direction.
A sharp, dissonant cry pierced the plaza: the Phantom had been partially hit, but he was still alive, angrier than before.
—Bravo! Bravo! —Shakespeare laughed with a hollow voice, reciting a bloody sonnet while the fog churned more violently.
The fight had become a theater of madness: feathers, fire, steel, and words clashing. Leonel knew they couldn't surrender. Freeing the writers and defeating the Assassin was the only way to break this endless cycle of hostility.
And as the battle raged in the middle of the plaza, the fog closed in even tighter, as if London itself wanted to swallow their cries.
The plaza had become a chaotic stage. The thick fog made it impossible to see beyond a few meters, and every shadow seemed to hide an enemy.
Jeanne Alter advanced with fury, her banner waving like a dark flame. Her offense was a whirlwind: gusts of black fire and relentless blows that forced Shakespeare to keep his projections of tragedies active for defense. Each collision shook the ground as if two storms were clashing.
In the distance, Drake fired with precision from the flanks. Her pistols rang out one after another, firing mana-imbued bullets that pierced magical pages and bright flashes from Andersen. The pirate captain held nothing back: her shots were bursts of artillery that momentarily illuminated the fog.
Kiyohime, for her part, had sunk into the sea of shadows. Her reptilian eyes shone within the haze as she hunted the true puppeteer. The Phantom of the Opera slid like a specter, projecting control threads toward the two writers. Every time Kiyohime got close, the figure vanished with an echo of distorted laughter.
Meanwhile, Leonel stayed at the center, with Mash firm by his side and Tezcatlipoca projected behind them. The jaguar god looked around with disdain.
—The fog... is a mantle designed to blind us. I can feel vibrations, but they're blurred.
Leonel gritted his teeth.
—Then we'll have to improvise.
A metallic roar interrupted his words. The ground vibrated, and from within the haze appeared a steel titan. It was a mechanical construct far larger than the machines they had faced before, with a mana core embedded in the center of its chest, glowing like a fiery heart. Its steps were thunderclaps echoing on the plaza's paving stones.
Mash thrust her shield forward firmly.
—Master Leonel, careful! That core... it's the one we're looking for!
Tezcatlipoca confirmed with a low growl:
—Yes. This is the point. If it falls, the mana flow here will stop.
Leonel swallowed. The problem was obvious: they were separated. Jeanne Alter, Drake, and Kiyohime were busy fighting in the fog, while he was with Mash facing the mechanical colossus.
—Great... just what we needed. —Leonel took a deep breath and raised his voice—. Mash, full containment! I'll direct the movements!
The robot advanced, raising a metallic arm that ended in a spinning blade. The cutting wind it generated forced Leonel to cover his face. Mash planted herself with her shield firm, blocking the blow with a deafening crash that made the plaza rumble.
—Now! —Leonel ordered—. Tezcatlipoca, analyze the joints, I need weak points.
The jaguar god closed his eyes, the air vibrating around him.
—Its legs... are heavy, anchored to patrol a specific zone. If you can make it lose its balance, it will become slow and vulnerable.
Leonel nodded, immediately relaying the orders.
—Mash, keep it occupied at the front. I'll find a way to guide it toward the columns.
The plan was risky, but they had to do it. While Mash absorbed the colossus's attacks, Leonel ran to one side, shouting to attract the machine's attention. The robot's eyes glowed red and turned toward him, firing an energy beam that nearly knocked him down. Mash jumped in time, interposing her shield and blocking the blast.
Leonel forced himself to stay calm.
—Follow my movements, Mash. When I give the signal, charge at its right leg.
The titan took another step, and Leonel positioned himself next to a ruined column in the plaza. The robot raised its arm to strike him, but at the last second, Leonel yelled:
—Now!
Mash rammed her shield with all her strength against the colossus's right leg. The impact resonated like a cannon shot, and the metallic monster staggered, falling to its knees against the column. The impact opened a crack in its armor, exposing part of the core.
—There! Shoot there! —Leonel instantly shouted.
Drake, who had heard him amid the gunfire, quickly turned and fired a precise burst into the crack, damaging the core and making the titan let out a mechanical roar.
Jeanne Alter, though still fighting Shakespeare, launched a projectile of black flames that finished charring part of the exposed plating.
The robot thrashed violently, releasing a shockwave that knocked Leonel to the ground. Mash covered him instantly, driving her shield into the ground like a wall.
Leonel panted, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
—We can do it... just a bit more.
Tezcatlipoca spoke in his mind with a firm, grave tone:
—Endure, little shaman. Guide your warriors and the hunt will be ours.
Meanwhile, in the fog, Kiyohime finally roared, unleashing a flare that forced the Phantom of the Opera to partially emerge from the shadows. The control threads over Shakespeare and Andersen flickered, weakening.
Leonel understood instantly: they had to synchronize everything. Defeat the robot, free the writers, and corner the Assassin. All at the same time, or London would devour them.
The battle in the plaza had only just begun, and the fate of that second key hung by a thread.
The metallic roar of the colossus rumbled like thunder, reverberating through the fog-wrapped plaza. Its steps made the ground tremble, each one accompanied by the screech of gears and a sinister glow from its mana core. Facing it, Mash raised her shield, Lord Chaldeas, its edges gleaming with defensive light.
—Mash, hold firm! —shouted Leonel, his eyes scanning every joint, every gear, for a weakness.
Mash nodded, determination fixed on her face.
—Understood!
The first clash was brutal. The colossus brought its blade-arm down with surprising speed for its size. The blow was met by Mash's shield, and the crash it provoked almost ruptured Leonel's eardrums. Sparks flew in all directions, and Mash was pushed back several meters, her boots dragging against the ground to maintain balance.
Leonel squinted. Mash's shield was invulnerable to many attacks, but it was designed for absolute defense, not for counterattacks. Every time Mash tried to strike the enemy with the shield's edge, she barely managed to dent the colossus's metallic surface.
—Aim for the leg joints! —Leonel ordered, pointing as he analyzed the movement—. Those parts aren't as reinforced; it's the only thing that can stop its advance!
Mash obeyed instantly, dodging to the side and striking the right leg's joint with all her might. The impact rumbled, the metal bent just a few centimeters, but it was enough to slow the colossus for an instant.
—Like that! Again, but quickly! —yelled Leonel.
Before Mash could repeat the move, the robot opened a compartment in its torso. From within emerged mechanical cannons that charged with an electrical hum.
—Cover! —roared Tezcatlipoca, his voice like a jaguar's snarl in Leonel's mind.
The titan fired. A rain of magical projectiles shot out, each bullet bathed in a bluish fiery aura. Mash barely had time to plant her shield in the ground and cover Leonel. The bullets hit in waves, each explosion making the shield vibrate as if it were about to split in two. The heat from the magical discharges cut through the air, and Leonel had to take cover behind Mash, his heart pounding a mile a minute.
—We can't withstand another barrage like that! —said Mash, sweat beading on her forehead.
—We don't need to withstand another! —Leonel replied firmly—. The next time it opens the cannons, redirect them toward its own legs. Make it shoot itself!
Mash nodded, catching her breath while staying alert.
Meanwhile, in another sector of the plaza, chaos reigned.
Shakespeare laughed like a maniac, conjuring physical forms of classic tragedy scenarios: illusory dragons, doomed heroes, and storms of fire. Jeanne Alter faced him head-on, her dark banner piercing through illusions with fury. Each of her attacks was charged with a visceral hatred that made even the air tremble.
—Stop reciting garbage and fight like a man! —Jeanne Alter shouted, her black fire devouring an entire "Macbeth" stage as if it were paper.
Andersen, however, was a different problem. His writings materialized as tiny creatures, fairy tales turned into automatons that hindered Drake's movement. She fired relentlessly, each bullet shattering literary puppets, but Andersen always invoked more.
—Ugh, paper children! I never thought I'd hate fairy tales so much! —Drake huffed, reloading her pistols angrily—. Come here, runt!
Kiyohime, however, had another target. Her eyes glowed like embers as she stalked the true enemy. Within the fog, the Phantom of the Opera whispered distorted melodies, his control threads glowing faintly while keeping the two writers under his dominion. Every time Kiyohime got close, the Assassin vanished with a mocking laugh.
—Stop hiding! —roared Kiyohime, unleashing a flare that cut through the haze. For a moment, the Phantom's silhouette appeared, the white mask reflecting the fire, before vanishing once more.
Back with Leonel and Mash, the mechanical titan moved with heavy steps, its cannons glowing again.
—Here comes another barrage! —Leonel warned.
—I'm ready! —Mash yelled, shield prepared.
The colossus opened fire, but this time Mash charged diagonally, tilting the shield to deflect the projectiles. The magical bullets ricocheted off the metal and slammed into the ground, creating explosions that shook the plaza. Mash spun with force, forcing the machine to readjust its aim, until, as Leonel had planned, several bullets struck the robot's own leg.
The blast tore away part of the armor, revealing a tangle of wires and incandescent mana.
—There it is! Strike, Mash! —Leonel pointed with all his strength.
Mash cried out and slammed the edge of her shield against the damaged area. The impact sent sparks flying, and the robot staggered, its core blinking erratically.
But it didn't fall.
The colossus raised both arms, ready to crush them with all its might. Mash retreated, sweat and strain visible on her face.
—Leonel, it can't hold out much longer!
Leonel took a deep breath, his heart in his fist. They couldn't stop now. If they fell, they wouldn't just lose the core, but they'd put everyone else at risk.
—Hold on, Mash! Trust in me, and I'll trust in you!
The battle was at its most critical point. Jeanne Alter, Drake, and Kiyohime were barely managing to control their respective fights, and Leonel and Mash were at their limit against the colossus.
The confrontation wasn't over yet.
The plaza was still trembling. The mechanical colossus still breathed fire and gears, each beat of its core like a hammer striking the ground's bones. Mash held her shield planted in the earth as if it were a stone wall; beside her, Leonel didn't stop giving and revising orders, his words short and precise like lashes against the chaos.
—Now! —Leonel yelled when he saw the opening they had forced in the robot's armor—. Use its rotation, the gap on the right... two strikes there and its center will be exposed!
Mash, panting, gathered all her strength. The shield's edge struck the damaged joint once more. The metals shrieked; an internal gear snapped; for a moment the titan's stability broke. Leonel saw the core blinking more violently and knew that instant was the one they had been seeking.
But the plaza hadn't finished vomiting danger. In the fog, the masked figure jumped and hid like a harassed animal; spectral threads vibrated between its hands. Kiyohime had finally found the Phantom of the Opera. Without Tezcatlipoca's cold logic in her ear —the fog had interfered with the mental link between Leonel and the Berserker— she couldn't follow an order. Kiyohime attacked by instinct: fast, brutal, without concession. Her serpentine flames bit into the mist, but the Assassin knew every blurry corner and exploited the gaps to strike where he was least expected.
Jeanne Alter and Drake, on the other hand, had contained Shakespeare and Andersen. Projections of tragedy and fairy tales exploded into pieces or were pinned by Drake's shots; Jeanne Alter dragged her banner like a scythe that wouldn't allow the writers' lethal creativity. The two Casters were bound by containment runes, not killed —that was the order— but no less fierce when their voices conjured new threats.
Kiyohime and the Phantom moved in a duel of presences: the beast against the cloaked actor. He would emerge from behind a column, a silent cut; she would respond with a flare that turned shadows into vapor. Every blow Kiyohime launched was imbued with the fury of her class —Berserker— and the animal devotion for Leonel. Without instructions or pauses, her attacks tore the enemy's mask once, twice. The Phantom covered his face with faltering hands, and for the first time his control lost strength.
Then Kiyohime, already surrendered to the tide of her Noble Phantasm, stopped measuring, stopped holding back. Her voice rose in a wail between human and beast; the air around her turned electric blue and the flames within her grew into a serpentine shape. That flare wasn't just heat: it was hunger and jurisdiction; the blue fire serpent emerged, sinuous, and began to devour the space between her and the Phantom, pursuing him through the fog. The Assassin tried to escape, his control threads faltered. The tongue of fire enveloped him, burning him until the specter dissolved into a hollow scream and golden motes that rose and disappeared, returning —like every vanquished spirit— to the Throne of Heroes.
With the Phantom reduced to ashes, Andersen and Shakespeare were freed: their bodies lowered their hands, their eyes returned to normal. Andersen, confused and moved, held back tears; Shakespeare, with a theatrical grimace, brought a hand to his chest as if reclaiming his breath after a dramatic scene. Both figures, no longer puppets, looked around in disorientation and then, with a mix of curiosity and respect, nodded to Jeanne and Drake. Jeanne Alter glanced at them, twisting her lips into something that dangerously resembled a small measure of satisfaction. It wasn't prideful mimicry; it was the smile of one who has executed her duty.
While that was happening, Leonel and Mash were on the verge of culmination. The robot, staggering with its core blinking like a sick lighthouse, launched a final volley that rumbled in their ears. Mash folded, exhaled, and with a determination that seemed to move mountains, drove her shield into the exposed gap and applied all her weight in a final push. It was a slow, calculated blow, the kind that breaks resistance at its weakest point.
—Now, Mash! —Leonel whispered, feeling every fiber of the moment—. Put everything into it.
She obeyed. The impact was dry and deep: the robot's core exploded in a shower of sparks and fragments. A muffled roar spread through the plaza. The titan's gigantic carcass lost the source that animated it and collapsed in a metallic crash, leaving a smoking crater around it. The pieces fell heavily, and with the last lament of the engine, the core's light went out.
The mist responded as if breathing through a wound: the density that had made vision impossible loosened, the waves of mana that had weighed down the air began to dissipate. The dust raised by the collapse scattered, and the world regained contours; the silhouettes became buildings again, not shadows.
Tezcatlipoca, now freer from interference, extended his presence like a beacon: the navigation link reestablished itself quickly. In Leonel's mind —clear for the first time in hours— came a network of coordinates: the positions of Jeanne, Drake, Kiyohime, Artoria, and the others. It was a mesh of light signaling safe steps among ruins and streets.
—Return to the refuge —Leonel ordered, his voice cold but serene—. Regroup. Check for wounds. We have one point less, but the Singularity is still alive.
The Servants responded: Jeanne Alter, still with her sword smoking, cast a passive glance at Shakespeare and Andersen; Drake approached Leonel without shame with that wild smile, her hair disheveled and jacket stained with dust, and —without preamble— kissed him on the forehead in a gesture that didn't ask for permission but claimed presence. Kiyohime, with remnants of blue in her hair, approached with slow steps, her eyes warm, and let herself fall as if she were an animal seeking refuge in Leonel's body; she hugged him, sniffed him with a mixture of relief and affection that left him breathless. Jeanne Alter, uncomfortable with the scene, cleared her throat and stepped back a pace, denying brusquely:
—It's not that... I did it for you or anything. I just wanted... nothing to... happen to you. —Her voice was sharp, but the blush on her cheeks betrayed her.
Drake, direct as always, took Leonel's hand and squeezed it with a raspy promise:
—If this is over, I'm buying you a drink as payment. And don't tell me no.
Mash observed the scene with eyes somewhat glassy. A new feeling, an itch in her chest—jealousy—hit her forcefully, but she didn't know how to name it. She found herself holding her shield more tightly, shifting her gaze between her companions and the man she protected. Her understanding lacked the labels, but the sensation was unmistakable: something stirred within her that left her uncomfortable and, at the same time, protectively unchanged.
Tezcatlipoca, from his dark form, exhaled a grave and almost solemn note.
—Good work. But don't get overconfident. This is only one piece.
Leonel looked at his team: tired, bruised, smelling of smoke and salt; alive. He felt a pang of gratitude so strong it ached in his chest. He nodded, helped Mash walk a few steps, and with the core broken and the fog loosening its embrace, began the route back to the refuge they had marked.
The city of London, for now, allowed itself to be seen with less fear. But in the shadows there were still echoes—the Singularity was still emitting heartbeats—and Leonel knew the journey was only advancing. Even so, in that moment, between embraces, tsundere grumbles, and promises of rum, he allowed himself a breath. They had won a decisive battle. They had once again called the fog by its name: defeat.