Leonel's consciousness returned not with a jolt, but like the tide, slow and lazy. The first thing he noticed was the absence of sharp pain. Instead, there was a dull, generalized discomfort, as if he had been used as a punching bag by a gentle giant. His thoughts were cottony, and the world beyond his eyelids was a warm, quiet gloom.
He opened his eyes. He was lying on a camp cot under the canvas roof of a tall tent. The air smelled intensely of disinfectant and cleanliness, an almost surgical scent that was both reassuring and strange in the middle of a 19th-century military camp. He shifted slightly, and a stabbing pain in his side reminded him of the cannonball incident. But overall, he felt... fine. Remarkably fine.
'Whoever treated me is a professional,' he thought with deep gratitude. 'Not a single serious scratch after such an explosion. Must be a Servant, for sure. Someone with medical skills.'
His eyes scanned the tent. It was impeccably tidy. Shelves with bandages, jars of medicine labeled with precision, surgical instruments gleaming in the dim light. It was an oasis of neatness amid the chaos of war. And then, he saw her.
At the other end of the tent, with her back to him, was a slender figure dressed in an immaculate Victorian nurse's uniform. Her silver hair was pulled back in a bun so severe it looked painful. She was examining the bandaged arm of a soldier who looked terrified.
The woman's voice reached him, clear, firm, and devoid of all unnecessary emotion, like a medical report read aloud.
"Deep lacerations and contusions on the left arm. Risk of tissue necrosis: forty-three percent. Probability of gangrenous infection: high. Too much risk."
Leonel felt sorry for the soldier. 'Poor guy. But at least he's in good hands.'
The voice continued, relentless. "Protocol dictates the elimination of the potential infection focus. Therefore, I must amputate."
Leonel froze. Amputate? For some bruises and cuts. That was excessive. Almost criminal. A stab of concern for the unknown soldier ran through him. But then, the nurse turned slightly, and her gaze, those intense, completely impassive blue eyes, didn't settle on the soldier, but swept the tent and, for a fleeting moment, locked onto him.
And then, she began to walk. Not towards the soldier, but directly towards HIS cot.
Each of her steps was firm and decided. Her eyes, like two pieces of blue ice, were fixed on him, analyzing him, dissecting him.
"The conscious patient presents contusions and abrasions on the right leg," she declared to herself, as if Leonel were an interesting specimen on a dissection table. "Exposure to battlefield soil particles and oxidized metals increases the risk of bacterial contamination by eighty-seven percent. The probability of developing tetanus is significant."
Leonel felt the color drain from his face. A cold sweat broke out on his temples. 'No. No, no, no. She can't be talking about...'
"Too risky," concluded Florence Nightingale, stopping beside his cot and looking at his leg with the same expression a carpenter would look at a piece of rotten wood. "It must be amputated."
'I KNEW IT!' The thought flashed through Leonel's mind like lightning. It was Florence Nightingale! The Berserker. The nursing legend whose madness wasn't the destructive rage of Kiyohime or Jeanne Alter, but an obsession with health so profound it became its own distortion. Her logic was simple, direct, and terrifyingly radical: if something could get infected, it was removed. If an illness had a cause, the cause was eradicated, even if that meant scorching everything around it.
"W-w-wait a minute!" Leonel stammered, sitting up abruptly, which sent a twinge through his ribs. He raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "Nurse Nightingale, I think there's a misunderstanding!"
She tilted her head, a mechanical gesture, as if a robot were processing an unexpected variable. "There is no misunderstanding. The diagnosis is clear. The arm and leg are a risk to the integrity of the entire bodily system. They must be excised to ensure patient survival."
"But they're just bruises and scrapes!" Leonel insisted with comic desperation. "Look! I can wiggle my fingers!" He frantically wiggled his fingers on both hands and feet. "See? Everything works! No need for... for... extractions!"
Florence didn't seem impressed. Her eyes showed not the slightest change. "Current mobility is irrelevant. It is the future risk that must be managed. Prevention is the basis of medicine. And the best prevention is the elimination of the threat at its source." She pulled a surgical saw from her apron that gleamed sinisterly under the lamplight. "Please remain still. Anesthesia is unnecessary for quick procedures. It is an additional risk."
Leonel instinctively scooted back to the edge of the cot, his heart pounding in his chest. This was a completely new situation. How did one reason with a force of medical nature? How did one negotiate with a sanitary tornado?
"But if you amputate my arm and leg, I'll be weaker!" he argued, desperately searching for a logical angle. "More susceptible to other infections! I won't be able to run from danger!"
"A body without infected limbs is a healthy body," she replied, as if reciting a fundamental axiom. "Mobility is secondary to biological purity. Now, the left arm first."
She approached, the saw held high. Leonel was about to scream, to summon Tezcatlipoca, to do anything, when the tent flap was thrown open.
"Senpai? Are you alright? I heard..." Mash's voice cut off as she saw the scene: Leonel, pale as death, cornered on the cot, and Florence Nightingale brandishing a carpenter's tool over his arm with the serenity of a surgeon.
Mash's eyes went wide as saucers. "Nurse Nightingale! What are you doing?"
Florence didn't even flinch. "Standard medical procedure, Shielder. Risk elimination. Please do not interfere."
Leonel didn't think twice. With a muffled cry, he launched himself off the cot and behind Mash, grabbing her shoulders like a child clinging to his mother in a horror movie. "Mash! Save me! She wants to turn me into an IKEA piece of furniture!"
Mash, caught in the middle of the absurdity, froze. On one hand, it was Florence Nightingale, a legend of medicine, a figure she deeply respected. On the other, her Senpai was terrified and clearly didn't want his limbs removed.
"N-nurse," Mash said, raising her hands in a pacifying gesture while Leonel clung to her back. "Are you... absolutely certain amputation is necessary? Senpai's bruises seem... superficial."
"Appearance is deceptive," Florence responded, her gaze fixed on Leonel, like a predator not losing sight of its prey. She began to walk slowly to the left, trying to circle Mash. "Infection is invisible until it isn't. It is my duty to act before that point."
Leonel, plastered to Mash's back, moved in sync, keeping the Shielder between him and the saw. "But you disinfected me, right?!" he shouted, with a flash of hope. "You used... alcohol or something! That kills germs!"
Florence stopped, considering the question. "Yes. Surgical-grade disinfectant was applied. But efficacy is not one hundred percent. Bacterial spores can remain latent."
"But that's an acceptable risk!" Leonel pleaded. "Much more acceptable than not having legs!"
Mash, seeing the tug-of-war, decided to intervene firmly. She put on her most determined expression, the one she used when defending all of humanity with her shield. "Nurse Nightingale. As the Servant in charge of Leonel Herrera's protection, I cannot allow any procedure that would permanently weaken him without absolutely vital cause. His bruises do not justify amputation. I ask you to reconsider."
For the first time, something seemed to cross Florence's impassive face. It wasn't emotion, but a tactical reevaluation. Her eyes moved from Leonel to Mash, measuring the determination in the young girl's gaze. Mash's logic, though based on concern and not pure medicine, presented an obstacle. An obstacle that, if forced, could cause more stress to the patient, which was also counterproductive to recovery.
There was a long silence, broken only by Leonel's panting.
"...Acceptable," Florence finally said, lowering the saw. Leonel felt his legs go weak with relief. "The risk of traumatic stress from a forced procedure could outweigh the infection risk. Instead, sterile compression bandages and topical disinfection will be applied every four hours."
Leonel almost wanted to kiss her then. Almost.
"Yes! That! Bandages! Disinfection! I love disinfection!" he babbled, still trembling.
Florence nodded, putting her tool away with the same casualness with which she'd drawn it. "Very well. Return to the cot, Commander."
The rest of the treatment was... intense. Florence was not gentle. Her hands, though expert, applied the disinfectant with a strength and thoroughness that made Leonel hold back tears. She left not a single square centimeter of skin unscrubbed to perfection. It was like being cleaned by a sandstorm made of alcohol and determination. But, at least, he kept his limbs.
While Florence attended to other soldiers, Leonel and Mash watched with a warm and somewhat incredulous smile. The soldiers, despite the evident fear her impassive gaze and radical logic inspired in them, looked at her with deep devotion. They murmured "angel" when she passed, grateful to be alive, even if the price was enduring her draconian preventive methods. She was an angel, yes, but an angel who carried a saw instead of a flaming sword.
Finally, Florence approached and discharged Leonel with a series of precise and non-negotiable instructions. "Remember. Deep cleaning with soap. Disinfection every four hours. Do not expose wounds to soil. If redness, swelling, or fever appear, report immediately for a reevaluation of the amputation protocol."
Leonel nodded like a scolded child. "Yes, nurse. Will do. Everything."
It was then that Mash, with her characteristic kindness, intervened. "Nurse Nightingale, you are a Servant, right? Wouldn't you like to join us? Senpai and me. We are here to correct this Singularity and save humanity. Your help would be invaluable."
Leonel was stunned. He looked at Mash with wide eyes. 'Invite the amputating Berserker to our group!? Mash, what are you doing!?' Internally, his mind screamed in panic. Imagining Florence in combat, diagnosing enemies as "biological threats" needing "excision," gave him chills.
Florence looked at Mash, then at the line of soldiers waiting their turn. "My place is here. These patients need me. Disease and injury are my battlefield."
Leonel breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment, he had thought that...
"Leonel."
Tezcatlipoca's voice resonated in his mind, grave and unexpected. "You cannot leave her here."
What? Why? Didn't you see what just happened? She almost turned me into a stump!
"She is key. In the original history you remember, Florence Nightingale was crucial to the resolution of this Singularity. Her presence alters the balance. Her obsession with 'eradicating disease' can be directed. She may be the key to understanding the root of this distortion. You must convince her."
Leonel cursed internally. Tezcatlipoca was right, as always. His knowledge of the game told him Florence was a crucial support character. Her medical skills had been vital. But... how in the world did one convince a sanitary tornado?
Inspiration. A terrible and brilliant idea crossed his mind. He cleared his throat, trying to look as convincing as possible.
"Nurse Nightingale," he began, his voice a bit firmer. "Mash is right, but let me rephrase it. You said your battlefield is disease and injury, correct?"
She nodded, her blue eyes fixed on him with renewed intensity. "Correct."
"Well, what if I told you all of this..." he made a broad gesture encompassing the tent, the camp, the war outside, "...is just a symptom? A fever? The soldiers arriving wounded, the machines firing, the Celts attacking... it's all the consequence of a greater illness. The true sickness afflicting this land."
The effect was instant and electric. Florence's eyes widened slightly. Not with surprise, but with sharp focus, like a laser. "A... greater illness?" she repeated, her voice losing its monotony for a shade of profound interest. "The root cause of all this... pathology?"
"Yes," said Leonel, holding his breath. "And we... we are going directly to eradicate it. To excise the tumor that is poisoning all of this."
It was as if he had uttered the magic words. Florence's expression transformed completely. The impassivity broke, replaced by a burning, almost fanatical determination. The light in her eyes was terrifying.
"The root cause must be eliminated!" she declared, her voice now resonant with a force that made the medicine jars tremble. "No other treatment is possible! Sterilization must be absolute!"
Even Tezcatlipoca, in Leonel's mind, emitted a rare thought of surprise. "...Perhaps I underestimated the applicable enthusiasm."
Before Leonel could react, Florence lunged at him. Not with a saw, but with a spiritual needle that appeared out of nowhere. "Contract! Now!"
"W-wait, what...?"
There was no time for protests. Florence drove the needle into his arm with the precision of a master surgeon. A sharp pain, followed by a wave of magical energy, coursed through Leonel's body. He felt the establishment of a new link, a new mana channel, but this one was... different. It was intense, direct, and unsolicited.
"Contract established!" Florence announced, withdrawing the needle. "As of now, you are my Commander in the campaign against this plague. And I, your chief surgeon. Now, take me to the infection focus! Immediately!"
And without further ado, she grabbed Leonel by the arm (the same one she had been about to amputate minutes before) and, with a surprising strength for her slender build, began to drag him towards the tent exit.
"Hey! Wait! Nightingale! We can walk!" Leonel shouted, struggling uselessly. It was like trying to stop a tractor.
Mash, who had watched the entire scene with an expression of perpetual amazement, saw her Senpai being literally dragged out of the tent, his feet leaving grooves in the dirt. A drop of cold sweat, in pure anime style, slid down her temple.
She said nothing. She just sighed, a smile of resignation and affection on her lips, and ran out after them, following the increasingly distant shouts of her Senpai, which mixed with the military-medical orders of the one who was now, officially, the most intense and dangerously dedicated member of their team. The campaign for America had just become much more... sterilizing.
Dignity was a luxury Leonel Herrera had learned to leave behind since becoming Chaldea's last Master. But being dragged across the desert like a sack of potatoes by an obsessive Victorian nurse, while his ribs still protested the cannonball impact, marked a new and humiliating personal record.
"Nightingale! Florence! We can talk about this! I have legs! They work!" he shouted, struggling uselessly against the iron grip on his wrist. It was like trying to bend a steel bar with his fingers.
Florence Nightingale didn't seem to hear him, or simply classified his protests as "ambient noise interfering with operational concentration." Her gaze was fixed on a distant point on the horizon, the supposed "infection focus." Her steps were quick and decided, dragging a Leonel who, after a minute of fierce but useless struggle, understood the futility of his situation. With a sigh that came from the depths of his soul, he surrendered. He let his body go limp, becoming a dead weight being towed through the sand, his heels drawing two parallel lines in the ground.
It was in this state of absolute surrender when the rest of his Servants, who had been regrouping and securing the perimeter after the camp attack, caught up with them.
The scene that presented itself to their eyes was, without a doubt, one of the most picturesque of their mortal and post-mortal existence.
Nero Claudius, the Empress of Rome, stopped dead in her tracks, her mouth agape. "My beloved?! What brutality is this?! Release him at once, woman in white!" Her hand went to the hilt of her sword, but she hesitated upon seeing that Leonel, though clearly in a compromising position, didn't seem to be in imminent danger of amputation.
Tamamo no Mae brought a hand to her mouth, her golden eyes shining with a mix of concern and... was that envy? "Mikon... being dragged around like that by our husband... has a certain primitive, possessive charm, don't you think?" she murmured to herself, perhaps imagining herself dragging Leonel to her own den to "care for him."
Kiyohime, for her part, was on the verge of a jealous fit. Her golden eyes narrowed, and a slight smoke began to rise from her nostrils. "That... that woman... How dare she touch Master-sama in such a... intimate way?! I am the only one who should drag him wherever necessary when needed!" she growled, her fingers twisting as if imagining the nurse's neck.
Jeanne Alter, who had been walking with her usual air of annoyance, stared at the scene. For a brief moment, a flash of genuine confusion and something very much like jealousy crossed her face. Seeing another woman, and a Berserker at that, having such direct and decisive physical contact with Leonel gave her an irrational pang. But then, her Avenger pride asserted itself. She turned her head with a loud "Hmph!" meant to be total indifference. "How pathetic. Can't even walk on his own. Not that I care how that lunatic treats him."
The male Servants observed the scene with a mix of resignation and mild amusement. Mozart, with a sardonic smile, began to hum a slapstick comedy tune. Shakespeare exclaimed, "Oh, the drama! The possession! A new character enters the stage to challenge the protagonist's heart!" Georgios and Siegfried merely exchanged a look and a simultaneous sigh. They were used to their Master's peculiar knack for attracting absurd situations and intense women.
Leonel, already resigned to his fate, took advantage of his mouth not being in contact with the ground to issue orders. "Don't just stand there gawking! Roman, Da Vinci! Any intel on the Grail's location?"
The doctor's voice came through the comms, containing a laugh. "Y-yes, Leonel. We've triangulated it. The highest concentration of anomalous energy, the epicenter of this 'illness' as you call it, is located in what in the correct history would be Washington D.C. It's the heart of the distortion."
"You heard her, Nightingale!" Leonel shouted, being jostled by a bump in the terrain. "The main pathogen is in Washington D.C.! That's where we need to go!"
Florence finally stopped, releasing her grip. Leonel fell to the ground with a soft "oof." She looked at him, then at the horizon, processing the information. "Washington D.C. Understood. It is the tumor that must be excised. Describe the disease vector, Commander."
Leonel stood up, rubbing his sore wrist. "It's called a Holy Grail. It's... a magical artifact of immense power. It's what is causing this war, distorting history, bringing the Celts, and empowering the machines."
Florence stared at him, her blue eyes unblinking. "Holy Grail. A non-medical term. Magic. Unscientific concepts." She paused, and Leonel feared she would dismiss the whole explanation as delirium. But then, she continued. "However, the symptomatology is clear: large-scale armed conflict, appearance of biological and mechanical entities non-native to the era, reality distortion. If this 'Holy Grail' is the catalyst for these symptoms, then it is, by definition, the pathogenic agent. Nomenclature is irrelevant. The treatment is the same: eradication and disinfection."
Leonel blinked. It was fascinating. Florence's logic was so inflexible it could swallow concepts like magic and Heroic Spirits simply by reclassifying them as "symptoms" and "pathogenic agents." She didn't believe in magic, but she believed in illness, and if the Grail caused it, then the Grail was the illness. Period.
"Exactly," said Leonel, relieved. "And as my Servant, I need you to help me get there and... ahem... disinfect the place."
"It is my duty," she affirmed solemnly. "Proceed."
The group began to walk, this time with Leonel on his own two feet, though Florence stayed at his side like an implacable shadow, scanning the environment for any sign of "contamination." The walk was long and monotonous. The desert seemed endless. They had traveled for a couple of hours when a new sound reached their ears: the distant but unmistakable echoes of a battle. Shouts, explosions, the screech of metal.
Florence stopped, her head turning towards the direction of the noise like a radar. "An acute outbreak of violence is detected. Symptoms of the illness in an active state."
"It's a battle," Leonel corrected gently.
"Synonymous," she replied, and before anyone could say anything, she broke into a run. Not with the uncontrolled fury of Kiyohime or the burning malice of Jeanne Alter, but with the efficient, direct speed of an ambulance heading to an emergency.
Jeanne Alter, who always claimed the vanguard as her right by being the most powerful in terms of brute force, was stunned for a second. "Hey! Wait, you!" she roared, and took off running after her, determined not to be outdone.
When the rest of the group reached the edge of a mesa overlooking the valley where the combat was taking place, the scene they witnessed left them speechless.
Below, a group of Celtic soldiers and several of Edison's mechanical guardians were fighting each other with their usual ferocity. But in the midst of that chaos, two figures stood out.
Jeanne Alter was a whirlwind of fire and hatred. Her black sword cut and burned, hurling curses and flames with every movement. "Burn! Turn to ash!" she screamed, a sadistic smile on her face as she watched her enemies consume themselves. She enjoyed the act of destruction, each cry of pain a symphony to her ears.
And then there was Florence.
The berserker nurse did not scream. She did not smile. She didn't even seem to be breathing harder. She moved with a terrifying economy of motion. She dodged axes and bullets with slight bodily adjustments, as if calculating microbial trajectories. She didn't use a conventional weapon. Her hands, clad in impeccable white gloves, were her instruments. She grabbed the arm of a Celt lunging at her, and with a quick, precise motion that sounded like breaking bones, she dislocated it and threw him into another. To a mechanical guardian aiming at her, she drove what looked like giant hypodermic needles into its lens "eyes," making it spark and fail. Her Noble Phantasm wasn't a war cry, but a clinical declaration. "Nightingale Pledge." An area of effect unfolded around her, but it wasn't a healing field for allies. It was an area of "sterilization." Celtic soldiers within it simply... fell, not as if wounded, but as if they had been "disinfected," their bodies losing all vital force before fading away. There was no blood, no fire, just a silent, efficient elimination.
It was, in a way, much more terrifying than Jeanne Alter's vengeful fury. Because fury had emotion. This was pure impassivity. It was a killing machine that firmly believed it was applying high-level disinfection.
The battle ended in a matter of minutes. Jeanne Alter, panting and covered in soot and the satisfaction of a job well done, looked around. Most of the enemies had been eliminated by Florence. The berserker didn't even seem tired. She approached Leonel, her gloves still immaculate.
"The local outbreak has been contained, Commander," she reported in her monotone voice. "Disinfection was successful."
Jeanne Alter looked at her, frustration bubbling inside her. She was the Avenger! The destroyer! How was it possible that this... this nurse had outdone her in lethality and efficiency? Her pride was wounded. She crossed her arms and looked away, her brow furrowed.
Leonel, sensing the internal storm in his tsundere, approached her. He ignored Florence's inquisitive gaze for a moment. He placed a hand gently on Jeanne Alter's head, stroking her silver hair.
"You were marvelous out there, Jeanne," he said, his voice low and warm. "Your power is terrifying and beautiful at the same time. You are our sharpest sword."
The effect was instantaneous. Jeanne Alter turned red as a tomato. All her air of superiority vanished, replaced by adorable flusteredness. "W-what! W-what do you think you're doing, idiot?! I don't need your praise! And I'm not doing it for you! Don't get the wrong idea!" she stammered, pulling away abruptly, but not before Leonel could see the small, genuine smile she was trying to hide at all costs.
Florence observed the exchange with her usual face, a blank slate. She showed no confusion, curiosity, or annoyance. She simply processed the scene as another data point: "Commander interacts with Avenger unit. Avenger unit shows elevated temperature in facial region and verbal denial behaviors. Diagnosis: post-combat stress or possible allergic reaction to dust. To be monitored."
The journey continued. Roman informed them that on foot, reaching Washington D.C. would take them roughly a week. It was a long, dangerous trek through a country at war with itself.
Leonel looked at the horizon, where he knew a city turned into the epicenter of a conflict between two distorted dreams awaited them. By his side, he had a saint who denied her feelings, a dramatic empress, a fox wife, an obsessive berserker, a jealous dragon, a nurse who saw magic as a disease, and a Mesoamerican god as his spiritual navigator.
He sighed. One week. With this group, anything could happen. But it certainly wouldn't be boring. He adjusted his stride, determined to reach Washington D.C. and, as Florence would say, "sterilize" the problem once and for all.