Leonel Herrera had always been an avid consumer of stories. In his past life, before fate ripped him from his world and threw him into the epic and terrible reality of Chaldea, he had lost himself in the vast pages of "The Lord of the Rings" and the intricate twists of "Game of Thrones." He admired the long journeys, the camaraderie forged on the road, the weight of the mission on the characters' shoulders. Never, in his wildest dreams, had he imagined his own existence would resemble not the grand journey of the Fellowship of the Ring, but the peculiar and often absurd adventure of Bilbo Baggins in "The Hobbit."
His journey across the distorted plains and deserts of America was, in essence, a surreal and far more dangerous version of "There and Back Again." Washington D.C. was his Erebor, the Holy Grail his Arkenstone, and he, a very unwilling Hobbit, surrounded by a company of "dwarves" who turned out to be beautiful, powerful, and notoriously troublesome legendary women.
The vastness of the country worked in their favor in one aspect: hostile encounters were not constant. The days followed one another with a monotony that, under any other circumstance, would have been boring. But with his group, monotony was a relative concept. The landscapes changed from scorching deserts to endless prairies and dense forests, but the interpersonal drama remained constant. There were moments of calm, of conversations around makeshift campfires, where Nero recited poetry, Tamamo cooked exquisite dishes with foraged ingredients, and Mash listened to everyone with her usual serenity. Even Jeanne Alter, reluctantly, shared sarcastic anecdotes from her time as a dragon. It was, in the brief respites between chaos, like a family trip. A dysfunctional family, composed of empresses, saints, berserkers, and a Mesoamerican god, but a family nonetheless.
However, in every family, there is that one... peculiar member. Leonel was already used to dealing with berserkers. Kiyohime was his first and most significant challenge: a storm of emotions, jealousy, and fierce devotion that required careful handling, like petting a dragon while assuring it was the only woman in the world. But Florence Nightingale was in a completely different league.
Kiyohime was emotional. Her madness had a twisted but understandable logic: the fear of abandonment and betrayal. Florence's madness, her "Madness Enhancement" as a Berserker, was not emotional. It was ideological. It was the incarnation of a logic so rigid and pure it became self-destructive and terrifyingly persuasive. It allowed no objections. It understood no negotiations. For her, the world was divided into "patients," "diseases," and "procedures." And Leonel, as her designated Master, was the primary patient who often needed a corrective "procedure."
If Leonel, after hours of marching under the harsh sun, kindly suggested taking a break, Florence would analyze him with her icy eyes. "Muscle fatigue. Dehydration. Risk of collapse. Treatment is rest, but the mission takes priority. Alternate procedure: assisted transport."
And before Leonel could protest, she would grab him with the same ease one lifts a shopping bag and place him over her shoulders, like a sack of potatoes, continuing the march unfazed. It was surreal. He was her Master, the source of her mana, the one sustaining her existence in this world. But in practice, Florence Nightingale handled him. She was the surgeon general, and he, the reluctant committee member being dragged to meetings by force.
After several failed attempts to reason with a sanitary brick wall, Leonel simply gave up. The mental fatigue of fighting Florence's inevitability was worse than the physical. He learned to choose his battles. If he was going to be transported like luggage, he could at least enjoy the view from an elevated, albeit uncomfortable, position. His other "girlfriends" watched these episodes with a mixture of indignation and secret envy. Nero protested the lack of imperial dignity, Tamamo murmured about "more appropriate care for a husband," and Kiyohime boiled with jealousy, wishing she were the one carrying her Master-sama through the desert. Jeanne Alter, for her part, would mutter a "pathetic" each time it happened, but Leonel noticed she avoided looking directly at the scene, as if it caused her personal discomfort.
Thus the days passed. Washington D.C. remained a distant point on the map, a mirage of resolution at the end of an endless road. Leonel wondered, not without a certain black humor, if they would arrive before Florence decided a leg amputation was the most efficient solution for increasing the group's speed.
It was during one of these long treks, as they crossed a valley surrounded by rocky mesas, that they spotted something different: a small settlement. It wasn't a military camp like Edison's, but a frontier town, with wooden cabins and a dusty main road. But what really caught their attention was the energy emanating from the place. It wasn't the chaotic signature of the Celts or the technological hum of Edison's machines. It was the clear, unmistakable pulse of Heroic Spirits.
Curiosity, and the hope of finding allies—or at least information—pushed them to approach cautiously. From a distance, Leonel could make out two figures at the town's entrance. His knowledge, that archive from his past life, triggered instant recognition alarms.
One was a lanky-looking young man with a cowboy hat, a simple jacket, and a pistol holstered at his side with a naturalness that spoke of deadly familiarity. He had a carefree smile but eyes that calculated distances and angles with unsettling precision. Billy the Kid, the most famous gunslinger of the Wild West, Archer Class.
The other was an older man, with a serious and wise face, marked by the lines of time and endurance. He wore the traditional attire of his people, with feathers and symbols speaking of a deep connection to the land. Geronimo, the Apache leader and shaman, Caster Class.
Leonel remembered. They were the leaders of the resistance, the third group in this conflict, caught between the Celtic hammer and Edison's anvil. They fought for the land's freedom, a noble cause. Potential allies, without a doubt. But there was a problem. A 1.7-meter-tall problem, with silver hair tied in an impeccable bun and an obsession with disinfection.
Just as Leonel was about to devise a diplomatic approach plan—introduce themselves, explain their mission, offer an alliance—the "Arc de Triomphe" of his particular journey decided to act.
Florence Nightingale had been analyzing the town with the intensity of a microscope. Her eyes settled on Billy and Geronimo. She did not see potential allies. She did not see legendary heroes. She saw two unidentified energy sources in the vicinity of the primary disease vector. In her berserker logic, they were, at minimum, secondary pathogens. Potential sources of infection that could compromise the main mission.
"Two uncatalogued anomalies detected in the operational zone," she declared, her voice cutting the air like a scalpel. "Risk of interference with primary disinfection procedure. Containment protocol: elimination."
"Nightingale, NO!" Leonel shouted, but it was like trying to stop a cannonball with his hands.
With the same speed and decisiveness with which she would charge onto a battlefield, Florence sprinted towards the town, her white gloves gleaming in the sun.
Geronimo, with the wisdom and survival instincts of one who had fought a hundred battles, was the first to perceive the threat. It wasn't the fury of a warrior, but the absolute impassivity of a natural disaster in the shape of a nurse. His eyes widened. There was no time for incantations or ceremonies. Just an instinctive cry. "Run!"
Billy the Kid, who had been relaxing against a wall, straightened up abruptly. His carefree smile froze as he saw the slender, lethally fast figure approaching. "What the hell...?"
What followed was a sequence of pure slapstick comedy, tinged with very real danger. Florence, without uttering a single sound, lunged at Geronimo. The Caster, to his credit, dodged the first assault with an enviable agility for his age. Florence struck the wooden wall where he had stood a moment before, and the impact wasn't that of a punch, but of a battering ram. The wood splintered with a deafening crack.
"Stop! We are potential allies!" Geronimo shouted, backing away while throwing up an emergency spiritual shield.
"Pathogens do not negotiate. They are only eliminated," Florence responded, shattering the shield with another precise blow of her fist. It wasn't uncontrolled brute force; it was force applied with the efficiency of a surgeon removing a tumor.
Billy drew his pistol. "Hey, lady! Calm down!" He fired a warning shot into the air.
Florence's eyes shifted to him for a split second. "Ballistic threat. Secondary priority." She grabbed a nearby wheelbarrow and hurled it with the force of a catapult. Billy had to dive to the ground to dodge it, rolling in the dust.
Leonel and the rest of the group came running to the edge of the town, only to be greeted by the sight of Geronimo running for his life, dodging furniture and barrels that Florence threw or destroyed in her relentless pursuit, while Billy, now covered in dust with his hat askew, fired useless shots at a force that seemed completely immune to the notion of "dialogue."
"NIGHTINGALE! STOP! THEY'RE ALLIES!" Leonel roared, running after her, completely ignored.
Kiyohime, for once, seemed almost understanding. "The intensity of that woman... is admirable in its own madness."
Jeanne Alter watched with her arms crossed. "Hmph. At least she's efficient."
It was Mash who, once again, tried to physically intervene. "Nurse Nightingale, please! They are not the enemy!"
Florence, seeing the Shielder step in, stopped. Her gaze moved from Geronimo, who was panting leaning against a well, to Mash, and then to Leonel, who arrived panting beside her.
"Commander," she said, her voice as calm as if asking for a bandage. "These anomalies interfere with our route. Their elimination is the most efficient protocol."
"THEY'RE NOT ANOMALIES! THEY'RE SERVANTS! LIKE US!" Leonel explained, with the patience of a saint. "They can help us get to Washington! They can give us information about the... the tumor!"
The word "tumor" made Florence's eyes focus on him again. The internal logic processed the new variable. "The pathogens... can become antibodies?"
"YES! EXACTLY! ANTIBODIES!" Leonel confirmed, grabbing the analogy like a drowning man to a lifeline. "They are also fighting the disease! They are our... white blood cells!"
Florence looked at Geronimo and Billy, who were recovering, looking at her with barely concealed terror. She processed this for what seemed an eternity. Finally, she lowered her hands.
"Understood. The anomalies will be reclassified as agents of the immune system. Elimination protocol suspended." She turned to the two terrified Servants. "You. Report. Where are the largest infection clusters? What is the condition of the primary tumor?"
Geronimo and Billy looked at each other, then at Leonel, then back at the nurse. Billy adjusted his hat, trembling. "Hey, boss... what... what is that?"
Leonel sighed, exhausted. "It's... a long story. But basically, we're here for the same thing you are. To end this war. She is Florence. She's... our disinfection specialist."
Geronimo, regaining some of his composure, nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off Nightingale. "The... 'disinfection' was... convincing. I think we can talk."
The comedy was over, leaving two new potential allies deeply traumatized and covered in the dust raised by the punches of a berserker nurse. Leonel looked up at the sky, wondering what else this endless, surreal journey to Washington had in store for him. At least, he thought with a glimmer of hope, they now had local guides. And perhaps, just perhaps, they could prevent Florence from trying to "sterilize" the next city they found.
The dust from the altercation with Florence Nightingale had barely settled when, after a long and exhaustive explanation from Leonel, Geronimo and Billy the Kid reluctantly agreed to join their peculiar crusade. The promise to "sterilize" the Holy Grail, albeit stated in terrifying terms, aligned with their own desire to free the land from the plague of war. However, they maintained a respectful—almost fearful—distance from the berserker nurse, whose white gloves seemed to hide the force of a catapult.
The conversation during the march was revealing. Geronimo, with his grave and serene voice, explained the disposition of the forces: Medb's Celts, a relentless tide of ancestral ferocity, pressing from the east; Edison's mechanical legions, a fortress of technology and dogmatism, defending their territories from their armored citadels; and their small resistance, the "Free Nation," fighting for the in-between spaces, for the freedom of the land itself. Billy, for his part, added dry, pragmatic comments about guerrilla tactics and the weak points of the machines.
Leonel absorbed every piece of data, his strategic mind tracing invisible maps in the air. Tezcatlipoca, by his side, processed the information in silence, his impassive presence like an organic computer. Nightingale, however, remained in her own world. Only when the words "Holy Grail" or "source of corruption" came up did her icy blue eyes fix on the speaker with an intensity that made even the stoic Geronimo adjust his collar.
"The tumor must be excised with precision," she murmured to herself, wiping a non-existent speck of dust from her apron. "Any residual cancer cell will cause metastasis."
Billy shuddered. "Hey, boss... are you sure you control that... 'nurse'?"
Leonel smiled wearily. "That's a philosophical question, Billy. Does anyone really control a force of nature?"
They walked for hours, guided by their new allies' directions through a dense forest bordering the plains. The peace of the place, however, was deceptive. Geronimo, with his senses sharpened by his connection to the land, was the first to tense.
"Silence," he whispered, raising a hand. "The forest holds breath."
They all stopped. The birdsong had ceased. Only the occasional crunch of a branch under an imprudent boot broke the silence. And then, like ghosts emerging from the undergrowth, they appeared.
Dozens of Celtic warriors, with their war paint and weapons held high, emerged from among the trees, surrounding them. But they weren't the disorganized rabble from before. These were elite warriors, and at their head, two figures who exuded an aura of power and knightly tragedy.
One was a tall, handsome man, with silver hair and blue eyes that seemed to contain the wisdom of the ages. He wore light armor and a spear of exquisite design. Fionn mac Cumhaill, the legendary leader of the Fianna, Lancer Class.
Beside him, a warrior whose face was marked by an air of melancholy and unbreakable loyalty. Two moles, like black tears, adorned his eyes. In his hands, he held two spears, one red and one yellow. Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, the Knight of the Lance, also Lancer Class.
"Geronimo, Billy the Kid," Fionn said with a melodious and somewhat arrogant voice. "We've been tracking your trail for days. It's a pleasure to conclude this hunt." His gaze then shifted to Leonel's group, assessing them with curiosity. "And I see you've found... unexpected company."
As the Celtic warriors charged, Leonel's group moved with the synchronization that only previous battles could forge. Nero and Jeanne Alter launched themselves like two contrasting elemental forces, one with golden flames and theatrics, the other with black fire and pure hatred. Mordred and Artoria Alter formed a wall of steel and power, shattering anyone who approached. Kiyohime, with her focused fury, protected the flanks, while Tamamo, Mozart, and Shakespeare provided magical support from the rear. Mash, with Lord Camelot, was the unshakable anchor, and Geronimo and Billy used the terrain to their advantage, eliminating enemies with lethal precision.
Leonel, in the center, with Tezcatlipoca at his side, was the conductor of the orchestra. His mind, enhanced by his Persona, processed every move. "Jeanne, turn 15 degrees to your left, a group is flanking. Nero, your right is clear, take advantage. Mordred, careful with the spear of the one with the moles, avoid direct contact." His orders, transmitted through his link, were fast, precise, and vital.
Within minutes, the last Celtic warrior fell, dissolving into particles of light. The forest clearing fell silent, save for the heavy breathing of the combatants. And in the center of that silence, Fionn and Diarmuid still stood, unperturbed.
Fionn smiled, a dazzling smile full of confidence. His gaze, however, did not settle on Leonel, the apparent leader, nor on the powerful Servants around him. It fixed on Mash Kyrielight, who was lowering her shield, her face serene but alert.
"But what do we have here," murmured Fionn, approaching with feline elegance. "A warrior maiden. A shielder who protects with such determination. Your purity shines like a beacon in this corrupt forest. Tell me, fair maiden, does this conflict not seem too rough for someone of your... delicacy?"
Mash blinked, confused by the tone and direction of the conversation. "I... am my Master's Shielder. My place is to protect him."
"A laudable duty, no doubt," said Fionn, with a grand gesture. "But even the firmest loyalty can be rewarded with something more... pleasurable. A knight of my standing could offer you protection and... company, far more refined than that of this... motley crew."
Leonel felt a stab of something hot and unpleasant in his chest. But before he could say anything, Mash responded. Her voice was clear, firm, and without a trace of doubt.
"Thank you for the offer, Sir Fionn. But I decline." She paused and, with a shy but confident smile, added: "My heart already belongs to someone else. To Leonel-senpai. I am... in a relationship with him."
The forest seemed to hold its breath. Leonel looked at her, his own heart skipping a beat. They hadn't had a formal "confession," it was true. It had all been looks, smiles, hands seeking each other in silence, a tacit understanding that had grown amidst chaos and camaraderie. Hearing her declare it with such simplicity and conviction, in front of an enemy and everyone, filled him with a warmth so intense he momentarily forgot the battle. He wasn't complaining. Not at all. Mash was, without a doubt, the sun around which his chaotic planetary system revolved.
Fionn blinked, his smile froze for an instant. Direct rejection was not something he handled well. "Oh? My, my... a pity." His gaze, slightly irritated, then shifted to the other women in the group. "And you, beautiful wildflowers. Surely you yearn for the company of a true hero, not that of a mere... strategist."
Nero laughed disdainfully. "Preposterous! My heart beats only for my beloved Leonel, the Caesar of my soul!"
Tamamo smiled coyly. "This fox already has a husband, thank you. And he is much more... complete than you, old wolf."
Kiyohime simply bared her teeth, a faint smoke escaping her lips. "Come near Master-sama and I'll reduce you to ashes."
Jeanne Alter, with her arms crossed, snorted. "I'm not interested in men who smell of pond water and stale arrogance."
Fionn looked from one to another, his confident expression cracking. All of them. All of them said the same name. "Leonel." A mortal. The last pathetic Master of Chaldea. His pride, already bruised by Mash's rejection, turned into comical irritation.
He turned to Leonel, pointing at him with his spear. "You! What kind of spell have you cast on them? How is it possible that a single person, and a mere human at that, has captivated so many formidable women? Is it some magical trick? A charm from some artifact? It's unnatural! Illogical!"
Leonel, still flushed from Mash's declaration, shrugged with a shy smile. "No trick, Fionn. It just... happens. I guess it's a matter of luck." His tone was casual, but his gaze, settling on Mash, said everything words could not.
Fionn seemed on the verge of an aneurysm. "LUCK!? LUCK!?" His cry was so full of genuine indignation that even Diarmuid, who had remained silent with an expression of martial respect, allowed a slight smile. "I, Fionn mac Cumhaill, possessor of the Salmon of Knowledge's wisdom, hero of a thousand battles, am rejected again and again, and you, with your 'luck,' have a harem of goddesses and warriors! The world is truly rotten!"
It was such a human outburst, so far removed from knightly epic, that the tense atmosphere filled with an aura of absurd comedy. Even Florence, who had been analyzing Fionn as a possible "vanity virus," tilted her head slightly.
The comedy, however, ended as quickly as it had begun. Fionn's frustration turned to anger. "Enough! If I cannot have their affection, then I shall eliminate the object of their devotion! Diarmuid, attack!"
The battle between the two Lancers and Leonel's group was a spectacle of skill and power. Fionn, with his spear Mac an Luin, moving with grace and casting spells of ice and water, and Diarmuid, with his spears Gáe Buidhe and Gáe Dearg, a whirlwind of deadly technique seeking to cut magical connections and inflict wounds that would not heal.
But Leonel and his Servants were synchronized. "Mash, his yellow spear negates healing! Avoid it! Jeanne Alter, your fire can counter Fionn's ice! Nero, Tamamo, cover his flanks! Tezca, analyze attack patterns!" Leonel's orders, guided by Tezcatlipoca's superhuman perception, allowed his allies to anticipate and counter every move.
And then, the sanitary chaos arrived.
Nightingale, seeing the "high-level pathogens" persist, decided it was time for "aggressive disinfection." Completely ignoring the spears trying to pierce her, she charged directly at Diarmuid. The knight, accustomed to duels of honor and technique, was completely baffled by the berserker's fighting style. She didn't dodge; she intercepted, letting the spears graze her uniform while her fists, charged with a force that seemed to want to "heal" the world with blows, sought vital points with terrifying precision.
"Your technique is a focus of infection! It must be purged!" she shouted, as a punch sent Diarmuid reeling several steps, breaking his guard.
Fionn, seeing his loyal companion in trouble, was distracted for a moment. It was the instant Mordred and Artoria Alter needed. A combined attack of Clarent and Rhongomyniad, guided by Leonel's strategy, pierced his defenses. Fionn cried out, his body beginning to fade.
"This... this is unworthy!" he protested, looking incredulously at Nightingale, who was now wrestling hand-to-hand with an increasingly exasperated Diarmuid.
"Disease knows no honor, only symptom and cure," was the nurse's cold response, before a final, clean, brutal blow sent Diarmuid to the Throne of Heroes alongside his master.
Silence returned to the forest clearing. The battle was over. Everyone panted, some with minor wounds that Florence immediately began inspecting with her critical gaze, ready to apply "treatments" if necessary.
As the group regrouped, Leonel approached Mash. "Mash... what you said..." he began, his voice soft.
She blushed intensely, looking at the ground. "Was it... was it inappropriate, Senpai? It's just that... it's the truth."
He took her hand, intertwining their fingers. "It was the most wonderful thing I've heard in weeks."
In the high branches of an ancient oak, a figure who had observed the entire scene in complete silence shifted slightly. It was a woman of imposing presence, dressed in a tight purple suit that accentuated an athletic and deadly figure. Her hair, the color of red wine, fell over her shoulders, and her eyes, red like rubies, held the depth of a thousand battles and the cold of the Land of Shadows. In her hands, she held a spear of a primitive and lethal design, Gáe Bolg Alternative.
Scathach, the Queen of the Land of Shadows, the master of warriors, had been observing. She didn't care about Fionn's disputes or the fate of the Celts. But the way that young Master, Leonel Herrera, had directed the battle... was intriguing. It wasn't just brute force. It was perception, analysis, the ability to see the threads of fate on the battlefield and pull them. He identified his opponents' weaknesses, coordinated a disparate group with remarkable efficiency, and possessed something more, a connection to that dark, serene entity at his side that was no common Servant.
A rare and ancient interest ignited in her eyes. Was this human worthy? Did he have the potential, the necessary spark to endure the hell of her tutelage and emerge as something more? She didn't know. But he was worth observing a little longer. With the silent grace of a predator, she melted further into the shadows of the foliage, her scarlet eyes fixed on Leonel, deciding that, for now, she would follow his journey from the heights. The hunt, after all, required patience. And she had all eternity.