Peace in Chaldea, as Leonel had known it, was a commodity as precious as it was ephemeral. An exotic fruit that ripened in the brief interval between one existential catastrophe and the next. After the white hell of his coma and the exhausting yet comforting rehabilitation, they had granted themselves a few days of respite. And Leonel, with the bitter wisdom of one who knows the apocalypse clock never stops, was determined to squeeze every second dry.
His knowledge of the original timeline was both a beacon and a curse. He knew the Fifth Singularity, "E Pluribus Unum," loomed on the immediate horizon. That meant leisure time was a rapidly depleting, non-renewable resource. So, with the determination of a general planning the last party before battle, he dedicated every waking hour to strengthening the bonds that held his spirit and, by extension, all of humanity's resistance.
His days became a mosaic of carefully orchestrated interactions, a delicate balance between the duty of a Master and the beats of a heart that harbored too much affection for a single chest.
For his newly forged relationships, he organized activities that served as both testing grounds and forges of camaraderie. A training session in the simulator transformed into a chaotic and epic game of "capture the flag" between teams led by Mordred and Artoria Lancer Alter. The rivalry between them was palpable, a tug-of-war of challenging glares and cutting remarks, but, to everyone's surprise (especially Leonel's), it stayed within the realm of healthy competition. Or at least, as healthy as it could be when Mordred tried to blow up a hill with her Clarent Blood Arthur to dislodge her "father/mother" from their position, and Artoria Alter responded by freezing half the battlefield with the absolute cold of her Rhongomyniad. In the end, both were dirty, exhausted, and, though they wouldn't admit it, having fun. Leonel, watching from the command post with Mash and Tezcatlipoca (whose new evolved form observed everything with its usual analytical serenity), considered the activity a resounding success. Neither had tried to seriously kill the other, and Mordred had even given Leonel a hearty slap on the back afterward, saying, "Not bad, Master! At least you know how to put on a good show!"
For his "girlfriends," those days were a succession of brief but intense dates. With Nero, it was an evening of opera where the Empress not only sang but also performed all the roles, conducted the imaginary orchestra, and demanded a shower of rose petals from Chaldea's ambiance system. Leonel spent most of the time smiling, captivated by her theatrical energy and absolute devotion.
With Tamamo no Mae, it was an afternoon of domestic serenity. She cooked an exquisite feast, they sat on cushions on the floor of her room, and simply talked. They talked of past lives, future dreams, the warmth of a home. Tamamo reclined against his lap, her nine tails wrapping around him in a soft, warm embrace, and for a moment, the weight of being humanity's last Master faded, replaced by the simple peace of being "husband."
He even managed to steal a moment with Jeanne Alter. He convinced her to "patrol" the less-frequented hallways of Chaldea together. It was a tsundere date par excellence: she complained about everything—the artificial weather, the décor, Roman's incompetence—but she never strayed from his side. When he, in an act of reckless bravery, took her hand, she stiffened like a board, sputtering a "W-what do you think you're doing, idiot?" but didn't let go until they bumped into a surprised Mozart, at which point she pulled away as if burned.
Kiyohime, of course, required constant vigilance. Her idea of a "date" was to follow Leonel everywhere with a tray of food, ensuring he didn't talk to any other female Servant for more than thirty seconds. Leonel handled the situation with a mix of exasperation and genuine affection for the intensity of her loyalty.
It was during one of these interactions, while trying to explain the basics of modern soccer to a very confused Georgios, that Chaldea's lights flickered once, ominously.
An uncomfortable silence hung over the recreation room. Every Servant present instinctively looked up. It was a feeling they knew all too well.
Then, the silence was broken by the metallic, urgent voice of the intercom system.
«SINGULARITY ALERT. SINGULARITY ALERT. ALL KEY PERSONNEL, REPORT TO THE COMMAND ROOM IMMEDIATELY. MASTER LEONEL HERRERA, PLEASE REPORT WITH YOUR PRIMARY SERVANTS.»
The peace was over. As abruptly as it had arrived.
Leonel closed his eyes for a second, a sigh escaping his lips. It had lasted even less than he'd feared. He felt Mash's hand on his arm, a steadying, firm presence.
"Looks like playtime's over," said Drake, who was at the bar pouring herself a drink. She set it down half-finished with regret. "The sea calls us again, lad."
"A new opportunity to demonstrate the splendor of Rome!" declared Nero, though her enthusiasm seemed slightly forced.
Artoria Lancer Alter, who was in a corner quietly devouring her third hamburger of the hour, looked up. "Will there be decent food at this new location?"
Leonel couldn't help a weary smile. "I hope so. Everyone, to the command room. It's time to work."
The walk to the command room was somber. The hallways, which just an hour ago had echoed with laughter and trivial arguments, were now occupied only by the hurried sound of their footsteps and the low-frequency hum of a facility at maximum alert. Tezcatlipoca materialized beside him, his new form imposing and silent. He said nothing, but his presence was a constant reminder of the evolution they had both undergone and the challenges they would likely face.
Upon entering the cavernous command room, the scene was one of contained activity. Technicians scurried between consoles, their voices urgent murmurs. On the central platform, under the giant hologram of planet Earth, stood the three pillars of Chaldea's leadership: Acting Director Olga Marie Animusphere, her face pale and her expression a fire-forged severity; Dr. Romani Archaman, whose dark circles seemed to have become a permanent feature of his face, frantically scrolling through a tablet; and Da Vinci, the Renaissance genius, with her perennial smile but her eyes shining with sharp concern.
"Hererra, it's about time," Olga said, her voice cutting. It wasn't a genuine rebuke, but the nervous discharge of someone who had been holding back anxiety for hours.
"My apologies, Director. We were... coordinating," Leonel replied, taking his place before them. His Servants fanned out behind him, an impressive and heterogeneous assembly of legendary power. Mash took her place at his immediate side, her shield already firmly grasped on her arm.
"No matter," Da Vinci interjected, gesturing broadly towards the hologram. "The world, as you can see, continues to bleed. The Fifth Singularity has been confirmed. The location and era are... instructive."
Roman cleared his throat, feeding data to the main screen. "The Singularity has been identified as 'E Pluribus Unum.' Location: North America, specifically the territories that will become the United States of America. Era: 19th century, around 1783, just after the end of the Revolutionary War."
Leonel suppressed a sigh of relief. So far, it matched his memory. America. The war between the Celts and the Inventors. Medb and Edison. Cu Chulainn Alter. His mind, trained for strategy, immediately began working, retrieving information from his past life. At least the foundation was the same. That gave him an incalculable advantage.
Olga took the floor, her posture rigid and military. "The mission is standard, but no less critical for it. Rayshift to the Singularity, locate and secure the Holy Grail that is the source of the distortion, and correct the course of human history. Sensors indicate a massive level of interference and conflict. It appears to be a large-scale warzone."
"And not just any war," added Da Vinci, crossing her arms. Her gaze was insightful. "The reading of Heroic Spirits is... peculiar. Extremely dense on one side, with a massive, primitive power signature, and on the other, a technological and magical amalgamation we've never seen before. It's as if two opposing concepts of 'power' are clashing."
Roman nodded, leaning over the touchscreen. "The political and historical backdrop is crucial to understanding. On one side, we have Queen Medb of Connacht." An image of a voluptuous woman with a defiant laugh, riding her chariot, appeared on the screen. "A notorious Celtic figure known for her ferocity and her ability to incite men to war. Sensors indicate she is leading a massive invasion of Celtic warriors, a force that historically shouldn't be there. And with her...". The image changed to show a bestial, hunched silhouette with an aura of pure malice and destruction. "...a corrupted, altered version of Cu Chulainn. The power levels he's emanating are aberrant. He is, without a doubt, one of the greatest threats we've faced."
Leonel felt a chill. He remembered Cu Chulainn Alter. A merciless berserker, a perversion of the Irish hero he had once known as Caster. He was a fearsome enemy.
"And on the other side of the conflict," Roman continued, switching the image again, "we have... well, this is a bit harder to explain." The screen showed a figure that was both grandiose and ridiculous: a powerfully built man with a lion's mane and a face that was a mix of human and feline features, dressed in what appeared to be an extravagantly adorned American presidential suit. "Thomas Alva Edison. Or, more precisely, a spiritual amalgamation of Edison with the 'Pillars of the Foundation' of the United States. He is... the embodiment of the 'American Dream' and industrial progress, but manifested in a... well, you see."
Several Servants blinked, confused. Nero frowned. "A lion who is an inventor? Is that some kind of farce?"
"Sounds more like a bad joke," Jeanne Alter commented with a grimace.
"His appearance may be... peculiar," Da Vinci admitted with an amused smile, "but his power is very real. He has established a techno-magical fortress and is waging a war of attrition against Medb's Celtic horde. Essentially, this Singularity is a free-for-all between two distorted visions of conquest and progress: brute tribal force versus industry and innovation. Both sides, fueled by a Grail, believe they have historical right on their side."
Leonel listened, assimilating each piece of data. So far, it all fit the script he remembered. Medb and her Celts versus Edison and his machines. The war for America's "soul." That was manageable. He knew how it played out, the key turning points, the crucial weaknesses.
But then, his gaze met Tezcatlipoca's. The evolved Persona watched him silently, its eyes of cosmic depth seeming to perceive the fragile hope bubbling within him. A single, grave voice, for him alone, resonated in his mind.
«Do not trust memory, Leonel. The river of history is already tainted. London taught us the waters can overflow. Expect the unexpected.»
The warning chilled his blood. He was right. The London Singularity had had significant deviations, encounters and battles not in the original game. Why would this one be any different? His initial relief transformed into vigilant caution. He could use his knowledge as a general map, but he had to be prepared for the terrain to have completely changed.
"I understand the situation," Leonel said, his voice firm and clear, projecting a confidence he didn't fully feel. "A war between two out-of-control factions, both with access to Grail-like power. Our objective is to neutralize both, recover the Grail, and restore history."
"Exactly," Olga nodded, an unusual note of approval in her tone. "We cannot allow either side to win. Both represent a distorted future for humanity. You must find a way to navigate this conflict, or break it entirely."
"The Rayshift is being calibrated," Roman reported. "Coordinates are locked on the point of highest instability, which will likely deposit you right in the middle of... well, wherever it's most dangerous." He grimaced. "Sorry, it's the most accurate we can get with the interference."
"No matter," said Leonel, turning to face his army of heroic spirits. He saw determination in Mash's eyes, ferocity in Jeanne Alter's, pride in Nero's, absolute loyalty in Kiyohime's, and a hungry challenge in Artoria Alter's. Mordred already had her helmet on, ready for a fight. "We faced the darkness of London and survived. We were forged in the fire of failure. No matter what this new land holds for us, we will face it together. As always."
His words, simple but laden with the conviction he had fought so hard to regain, had an effect. The tension in some Servants' shoulders eased. There was a path forward. A leader to trust.
"Then there is no time to lose!" declared Nero. "My love, lead us to victory!"
"Yeah, let's go crush them!" shouted Mordred, banging her sword against her shield.
"Always by your side, Senpai," murmured Mash, her serene smile a beacon in the gathering storm.
Da Vinci made a final gesture on her console. "Sequential Rayshift initiated. Preparing spiritual anchor. Leonel, Mash, selected Servants... please position yourselves on the platform."
The group moved as one organism towards the circular platform in the center of the room. The lights dimmed, and the hum of energy rose to a roar that vibrated in their bones. The crystals in the room began to glow with a bluish, ghostly light.
Leonel stood in the center, with Mash on one side and Tezcatlipoca, a towering, protective shadow, on the other. Around him, his knights, his empresses, his saints, and his berserkers prepared for the journey. He looked at Roman, who gave him a nervous thumbs-up. He looked at Olga, who nodded with a rare expression of respect. He looked at Da Vinci, whose face was a mirror of infinite curiosity and contained worry.
"Good luck, last Master," the Director's voice said, barely a whisper over the din.
The world began to blur. The outlines of Chaldea became nebulous, like a fading memory. Leonel closed his eyes, feeling the cosmic tug of the Rayshift begin. His mind quickly reviewed what he thought he knew: deserts, plains, a battle between ancient gods and industrial dreams.
But Tezcatlipoca's warning echoed within him. Expect the unexpected.
The light enveloped him completely, and the cold reality of Chaldea was replaced by the vertigo of travel through time and space. The Fifth Singularity awaited them. And Leonel Herrera, with his scar-filled heart and steel will, plunged into the unknown once more, ready to write, or rewrite, the history of a nation.
The journey through the Rayshift was as always: a disorienting experience that tore at the senses and defied all notions of physics. It was a whirlwind of blinding light and distorted sounds, a freefall through the very fabric of time. Leonel clung to his consciousness, feeling the spiritual anchors of his Servants like lighthouses in the dimensional storm. Tezcatlipoca, an impassive presence at his side, acted as a stabilizer, his new evolved form cushioning the worst of the journey's turbulence.
When the light finally dissipated and the unpleasant sensation of falling transformed into the firm—though dusty—texture of ground under his feet, Leonel cautiously opened his eyes.
The landscape that unfolded before them was vast, arid, and bathed in a merciless sun. An endless desert of ochre and reddish tones stretched as far as the eye could see, interrupted only by rocky mesas and the occasional solitary cactus. The air was dry and hot, carrying the scent of parched earth and something else... the faint aroma of ozone and hot metal.
"Landing confirmed," announced Roman's voice through the comms, with an audible sigh of relief. "Coordinates... well, you're in the middle of nowhere, but it's the right place. Welcome to 19th-century America, or a very distorted version of it."
Leonel scanned the horizon. His memory, that archive of his past life, fit the pieces together. The desert. The heat. If history remained true, the first encounters would be with...
A metallic screech, followed by an anomalous electrical buzz, cut through the desert silence. From behind a nearby dune, three mechanical figures emerged. They weren't elegant automatons like those in London; these were crude, heavy, built of riveted metal plates and exposed wiring. They walked on articulated legs, and twin cannons protruded from their "shoulders." Their "eyes," simple red lenses, fixed on the group with lethal intensity. They were Edison's Mechanical Guardians.
«Identified: unauthorized entities! Elimination protocol!» A synthetic, monotone voice emerged from one of the machines.
The cannons swiveled with an ominous sound of oily gears, aiming directly at the heart of the group.
"Mash!" Leonel shouted, his instinct taking over before his mind finished processing the threat.
The Shielder didn't need to be told twice. With a fluid, trained motion, she interposed herself between her Master and the machines. "Lord Camelot!"
The great round shield deployed, not in its full fortress form, but as a wall of concentrated energy. Just in time. A volley of bright, destructive magical projectiles slammed against the shield's surface with a deafening roar. BANG! BANG! BANG! Each impact pushed Mash back a centimeter, her boots digging furrows in the sand, but her stance remained unbroken, her face a mask of determination.
"Metal worms! You dare?!" The voice that erupted wasn't Leonel giving a tactical order, but a roar of pure fury. Jeanne Alter, whose eyes had ignited with an inner flame upon seeing the projectiles aimed at Leonel, stepped forward. Her aura of hatred and black fire expanded, making the very air vibrate with heat.
"No one!" she screamed, raising her hand. Dark flames, the echo of the pyre that consumed her in another life, sprouted from her palm and swirled in the air before her. "No one harms my Leonel!"
With a final gesture, she hurled the curtain of fire at the machines. It wasn't a wide-area blast; it was a concentrated beam of absolute annihilation. The flames, of an inky black with crimson flashes, enveloped the mechanical guardians. The metal didn't melt slowly; it scorched instantly, turning white-hot before disintegrating into ash and sparks. The mechanical screeches turned into an agonized shriek of melting metal, then into silence. Within seconds, where three war machines had stood, there were only three shapeless mounds of smoldering slag.
Silence returned, broken only by the crackle of cooling remains and Jeanne Alter's heavy breathing. She lowered her arm, her chest rising and falling with adrenaline. Then, as if a switch had been flipped in her brain, the reality of what she had said—and with what vehemence—hit her.
She turned towards Leonel, her cheeks stained a scarlet red that had nothing to do with the desert heat or her own fire. "I mean... no one harms my... my Master... because he's a useful idiot and can't defend himself... and... shut up! Don't say anything!" she stammered, looking away furiously, crossing her arms in a defensive gesture. She looked like a bristling cat, vehemently denying the affection she had just proclaimed at the top of her lungs.
Leonel, who was still recovering from the surprise attack, couldn't help but smile. A warm blush crept up his neck to his own cheeks. Seeing the fierce Avenger so flustered and so... human, was an endearing and rare spectacle. "I didn't say anything," he replied, his voice laden with a tenderness that made Jeanne Alter want to set something else on fire, just to cover it up.
But the desert granted them no truce for romantic drama.
A new sound filled the air, this time not mechanical, but savage and visceral. War cries, guttural and full of ancient ferocity. From behind another dune, a dozen humanoid figures burst onto the scene. They were tall, muscular men, clad in little more than loincloths and pelts, their bodies painted with intricate blue symbols. They carried swords, axes, and spears of primitive but lethal design. Their eyes shone with a fanatical, bloodthirsty light. Celtic soldiers.
"For Queen Medb! Kill the intruders!" one of them roared, charging with his sword held high.
The transition from a technological to a tribal threat was so abrupt that for a moment the group was paralyzed. But only for a moment.
"Tch! More troublemakers!" Nero exclaimed, drawing her sword, Aestus Estus, with a dramatic flourish. "Do not interrupt my beloved's moment! The Empress shall punish you with all her wrath and splendor!"
"Mikon~ It seems we have to clean up a bit more garbage before we can have a moment alone with our husband," said Tamamo no Mae, her golden eyes narrowed in a dangerous smile as her paper charms, ofuda, began to float around her, glowing with magical energy.
The two women, normally immersed in their own comedic rivalry for Leonel's affection, moved with an instinctive synchronization. Nero charged forward, her sword creating an arc of golden flames that forced the Celts to recoil. "Nobilis Fantasma!" She didn't use her full Noble Phantasm, but the wave of heat and power was enough to disrupt their formation.
While Nero distracted and contained the majority with her flamboyant, fiery swordsmanship, Tamamo acted from the rear. "Koumon Kishuu Hou!" Her ofuda flew like guided projectiles, not at the Celts, but at the ground at their feet. Upon impact, they created small force fields or bursts of spiritual energy that destabilized the warriors, making them stumble, interrupting their charges, and leaving them exposed to Nero's precise attacks.
It was a dance of coordinated destruction. Nero's solar, performative power and Tamamo's shintoistic, strategic magic complemented each other perfectly. In less than a minute, the Celtic soldiers lay on the ground, defeated and beginning to fade into particles of light. No deaths, just a blunt, efficient incapacitation.
The battle was over. Silence, once again, reigned over the desert.
Nero and Tamamo turned towards Leonel almost in unison, wiping sweat from their brows with exaggerated gestures. Their looks were eloquent: a mix of pride, expectation, and a clear "now, our reward."
Leonel looked at one, then the other. He knew full well that if he tried to dodge them or give them simple words of thanks, they wouldn't leave him alone all day. Mash watched with a smile of amused resignation. Jeanne Alter was still staring at the horizon, pretending not to care, but her ears were scarlet. Mordred watched the scene curiously, like a child watching a peculiar play. Artoria Lancer Alter, for her part, had a slight frown, an expression of confused disapproval on her face. To her, Leonel was a reliable source of hamburgers, a logistical resource. Why this physical reward ritual? She didn't understand it, and it bothered her.
With a sigh of feigned annoyance that failed to hide his affection, Leonel first approached Nero. "It was a magnificent spectacle, my Empress," he said, and before she could launch into a speech, he leaned in and gave her a quick but firm kiss on the lips.
Nero let out a sound between a gasp and a chirp of joy. Her cheeks flushed intensely. "Oh! My beloved! A kiss worthy of a Caesar! It is the grandest prize!" She seemed about to declare a holiday in honor of that kiss.
Leonel then turned to Tamamo. The kitsune already had a mischievous, expectant smile. "My turn, husband~."
He smiled and repeated the gesture, kissing her with the same hurried tenderness. Tamamo closed her eyes, a sigh of happiness escaping her lips. "Mikon... sweeter each time. This fox is the luckiest wife."
Both were momentarily satisfied, looking at each other with a renewed but benign rivalry, both happy to have received their "payment."
Mordred shrugged. "Weird, but whatever works, I guess."
Artoria Alter grumbled to herself. "Illogical and inefficient behavior." Yet, she couldn't help but notice a strange, slight pang in her own stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.
"Well, that was an... intense welcome," Leonel said, composing himself and looking towards the horizon. In the distance, against the sky, he could see columns of smoke and the faint sound of what seemed like cannon fire. "We need to find a safe place and gather intel. Roman, any reading on a nearby settlement or base?"
"Yes!" the doctor's voice sounded relieved through the comms. "There's a reading of organized energy a few kilometers northeast. Appears to be a fortified camp. The signatures are... mixed. Human and mechanical. Likely an outpost of Edison's forces."
"Perfect. That's our destination. Stay alert," Leonel ordered, and the group began to advance through the scorching desert.
The trek was tense but without further incidents. The landscape was monotonous and exhausting. Finally, they sighted the camp. It was a rudimentary but imposing installation, surrounded by a log palisade and watchtowers with searchlights. Inside, they could see barracks and several mechanical structures, including what looked like antiquated but large-caliber defense cannons. The hustle of human soldiers and the screech of more mechanical guardians could be heard.
They approached cautiously, looking for an entry point or a way to announce their presence peacefully, when the most terrifying sound so far filled the air: the high-pitched, sinister whistle of an artillery shell that wasn't aimed at them, but had gone astray from its course.
Everyone looked up. A black dot grew rapidly in the sky, followed by that approaching sound of death.
"Incoming!" Mash shouted, instinctively raising her shield.
But it wasn't coming directly at them. It passed overhead, whistling terrifyingly, and landed... about twenty meters to their right.
BOOOOM!
The explosion was deafening. The shockwave hit the group with the force of an invisible giant. Sand and rock were thrown up in a destructive curtain. Leonel, who lacked the superhuman endurance of a Servant, was torn from the ground like a leaf in a hurricane. The force of the blast threw him several meters through the air. He felt a dull pain and then a crushing pressure all over his body before his head hit something hard and the world went black.
"LEONEL!" The cry was a chorus of terrified voices.
The explosion had taken them by surprise. Mash, though protected by her shield, was knocked down. The other Servants, thanks to their parameters, managed to stay on their feet, but the concussion was brutal.
As the dust settled, the scene was one of chaos. And at the center of that chaos, lying motionless in a small crater of sand, was Leonel.
"SENPAI!" Mash was the first to reach his side, her voice torn with panic. She fell to her knees beside him, her trembling hands seeking a pulse. "Senpai! Please, wake up!"
Jeanne Alter arrived a second later, her face as pale as ash. "Idiot! Leon! Breathe, damn you!" Her usual fury had been replaced by raw terror.
Nero and Tamamo came running, their reward kisses completely forgotten. "My beloved! No, it cannot be!"
"Leonel! Open your eyes!"
Even Artoria Alter and Mordred approached with grave expressions. Kiyohime, who had been in the rear, arrived weeping hysterically, trying to embrace his unconscious body. "Master-sama! Don't leave me! You promised not to lie!"
Tezcatlipoca materialized beside him, its imposing form leaning over Leonel. Its cosmic eyes scanned the Master's body. "No lethal external wounds," its grave voice declared, slightly calming the panic. "Concussion, possibly some fractured ribs, and a tremendous jolt of disruptive magic from the explosion. He is unconscious but stable. He requires immediate medical attention."
"The camp!" Mash said, wiping tears with determination. "They must have a doctor!" Without waiting for approval, she carefully lifted Leonel's unconscious body in her arms, showing a superhuman strength fueled by desperation. "Let's go! Now!"
They ran towards the camp's entrance, where some frightened soldiers and several mechanical guardians were aiming their weapons at them.
"Halt! Identify yourselves!" a sergeant shouted, his voice trembling.
"We need a doctor! Our Master is injured!" Mash screamed, her voice a command that brooked no argument.
The urgency in her tone and the evident gravity of the situation made the soldiers hesitate. After a quick exchange of glances, one of them nodded. "Follow me! Quickly!"
They were guided through the camp, past the curious and worried looks of soldiers, to a tent larger than the others, marked with a rudimentary red cross. Upon entering, the contrast with the outer chaos was immediate. The interior was impeccably clean and orderly. It smelled of antiseptic and cleanliness.
And there, standing beside an empty cot, was the woman who cared for the place.
She was tall and slender, dressed in a strict, immaculate Victorian-era nurse's uniform. Her silver hair was pulled back in a severe bun. But the most striking features were her eyes: an intense, clear blue, devoid of all superficial emotion, yet radiating an absolute determination that was almost tangible. Her posture was straight, her gaze inquisitive and analytical. She did not look like a sweet healer, but a general on the battlefield against death.
"New patients," her voice said, clear, firm, and devoid of all unnecessary inflection. It was the voice of logic applied to medicine. "Place him here. Immediately."
Mash, with dried tears on her cheeks but renewed hope, laid Leonel's body on the cot with infinite care.
The woman, Florence Nightingale, the legendary nurse turned Berserker Servant, approached. Her hands, expert and sure, began to examine Leonel, palpating his skull, neck, torso. Her eyes left no room for doubt: she was in her element. To her, every wound was an enemy to be eradicated, every patient a battlefield to be won.
"Concussion. Non-displaced rib fractures. Multiple contusions. Prognosis is favorable if acted upon with speed and precision," she declared, as if reading a report. Then, her gaze settled on the group of Servants, who were watching with a mix of hope and fear. "You will interfere. Leave. I will take care of eliminating all anomalies from his body."
It was an order, not a request. And in that moment, seeing the absolute professionalism and aura of capability emanating from her, no one—not the proud Jeanne Alter nor the dramatic Nero—dared to disobey.
With one last worried glance at Leonel, they filed out of the tent, leaving their Master in the hands of the angel of the infirmary, a berserker whose madness was perfect health and whose mission, in that instant, was more important than any war outside that tent. The battle for Leonel Herrera's life had begun.