The days followed one another in a monotony that only the vastness of America could offer. Leonel's group was a microcosm of energy and personalities in perpetual motion across endless plains, silent forests, and dusty hills. The constant presence of Florence Nightingale ensured that no rest was too long and any wound, however minor, was treated with the urgency of open-heart surgery. Leonel had grown accustomed, as much as possible, to being examined, transported, and occasionally threatened with amputation as part of his daily routine.
Meanwhile, in the heights, moving with a supernatural grace that disturbed not a single leaf, Scáthach continued her vigil. Her scarlet eyes, cold as northern steel, followed Leonel's every move with an intensity bordering on the clinical. She had seen him face minor skirmishes with straggling groups of Celts or Edison's mechanical patrols. They weren't epic battles, but it was in these brief clashes that Leonel's mind shone brightest.
Through his bond with Tezcatlipoca, whose evolution granted him a near-divine perception of the battlefield, Leonel didn't give generic orders. He was like a conductor who could read the complete score of the fight before the first note was played.
"Archer, to your left, three meters behind the oak, a Celt with a sling. Shoot the tree, the branch will fall on him," he would murmur, and Billy the Kid, with an admiring smile, would turn and fire without even properly aiming, causing a heavy branch to fall exactly where Leonel said, incapacitating the enemy.
"Jeanne Alter, the robot on the right has a fault in its left shoulder joint. A concentrated fire burst there will disable it." The Avenger, with a grunt of approval, would launch a spear of black flame that slipped into the tiny gap in the armor, causing the machine to convulse and fall.
It was this surgical precision, this ability to see the threads of fate in combat and pull them with minimal force for maximum results, that fascinated Scáthach. It wasn't the brute power of a Berserker or the refined technique of a Saber. It was something rarer: intelligence applied to warfare in its purest form. Not even the dark entity at his side, that "Tezcatlipoca" who emanated ancient power, could detect her presence, which spoke volumes of her stealth skills. She was the shadow among shadows, and Leonel was the intriguing fire around which they danced.
After days of marching, they sighted a town on the horizon. It was nothing more than a handful of half-ruined wooden buildings, abandoned to the sand and wind. It seemed another ghost point on the map of their journey. But as they entered the dusty, silent main street, a solitary figure in the center of town caught everyone's attention.
It was a woman. She wore a dazzling white wedding dress, with lace, frills, and a veil partially covering her face. Her posture was regal, familiar. A pang of strangeness ran through Leonel even before his eyes fully adjusted. When they did, recognition was instantaneous, followed by a wave of absolute confusion.
It was Nero Claudius. But not his Nero.
His Nero, the one walking beside him, wore her armor and red tunic, her expression one of pride and uninhibited passion. This other Nero, the one in the wedding dress, had a more refined elegance, an aura of romantic solemnity that clashed with the original's theatrical extravagance. It was Nero Bride.
The original Nero stopped dead in her tracks, narrowing her eyes.
The original Nero stopped dead in her tracks, narrowing her eyes. "What... what farce is this?" she murmured, her voice laden with a bewilderment that quickly turned into indignation. "An impersonator? A shadow that dares to usurp my glorious form?" Seeing her doppelgänger was, as Leonel thought in a flash of internal lucidity, a profoundly surreal experience. It was like looking into a mirror that reflected not your image, but an alternative version of your soul.
Both Empresses sized each other up, a silent duel of imperial pride. But the staring contest broke abruptly when Nero Bride's eyes, behind the veil, settled on Leonel.
A spark of instant and absolute recognition shone in them. Completely ignoring her other self, Nero Bride let out a choked cry of joy. "Praetor! My beloved!"
And then, it happened. With a speed that rivaled an Assassin-class Servant, Nero Bride crossed the distance between them and threw herself at Leonel. Her arms closed around his neck, and before he could utter a syllable, her lips met his in a passionate, possessive kiss.
The world stopped for Leonel. The taste of desert dust was replaced by a sweet taste of... strawberries? Was that her lipstick? His normally quick mind went blank. He could only feel the soft lace of the dress against his skin and the firm lips of the bride-empress sealing his own.
The effect on the rest of the group was nuclear.
Leonel's other "brides" stood paralyzed, their faces a masquerade of shock, indignation, and jealousy so intense it could almost be tasted in the air.
Nero (the original) made a sound between a scream and a roar. "WHAT?! How dare you, impostor?! He is MY beloved!"
Tamamo no Mae let out a "Mikon... Another vixen?! And one who jumps straight to the wedding!" Her tails bristled, and her golden eyes shone with a dangerous light.
Kiyohime literally began to smoke, a faint vapor rising from her body. "A lie... this is a lie... Master-sama never told me he had another bride... one who dresses in white!" For her, the wedding dress was the ultimate betrayal, the definitive symbol of a commitment she believed was exclusive.
Jeanne d'Arc (the Ruler) blushed intensely, bringing a hand to her chest. A sharp pain, a mix of envy and sadness, pierced her. She too harbored feelings for Leonel, but her shyness and saintly nature prevented her from acting. Seeing another woman, and a version of an ally at that, claim him so openly was a hard blow.
And Jeanne Alter... Jeanne Alter simply stood there with her mouth open. Her cheeks flushed in a way that had nothing to do with anger. For a moment, the tsundere facade broke, replaced by pure, raw "WHO THE HELL IS THIS?!" She crossed her arms tightly, making a visible effort to regain her facade of disinterest, but the furrowed brow and murderous glare she shot at Nero Bride betrayed her true state of mind.
When Nero Bride finally pulled away from Leonel, leaving him gasping and disoriented, she declared in a voice full of absolute conviction: "I have found you at last, my husband. I have waited in this desolate place, knowing our destinies would cross. It is time. Time for us to marry and begin the Roman lineage, forging a dynasty to last for centuries."
Leonel, still trying to catch his breath and his senses, paled. "M-marry? Lineage?" He had accepted, even embraced, the relationships that had formed with his Servants. He dreamed of a future, a life after saving humanity, where maybe, perhaps, he could find a way to be with all of them. But this... this was a direct marital and reproductive ultimatum. He was not prepared. His mind flooded with images of little Neros running through the halls of Chaldea, declaring holidays and demanding operas for breakfast. It was a terrifying and adorable prospect at the same time.
It was then that the original Nero intervened. But not to help him. "Absurd!" she shouted, planting herself in front of her counterpart. "I am the true empress! I was the first to invoke his love! If anyone is to marry him and bear his heir, it is I! I shall be the first wife and the mother of his firstborn!"
Nero Bride looked at the original with disdain. "A crude and warlike version of myself. True love requires elegance, solemnity, the sacred bond of marriage. I embody that ideal. I shall be his wife."
"LIES! I am the ideal! I am the one who has fought by his side from the beginning!"
"A noisy warrior! I am the one who will guide him to a future of imperial peace and prosperity!"
The argument quickly escalated to a physical confrontation. Both Neros grabbed each other's dress/armor, wrestling and shouting insults in Latin and Japanese, both laying claim to an increasingly cornered Leonel.
And then, the dam broke.
"WAIT!" shouted Tamamo, stepping into the circle. "If we're talking about wives, I was the first to have a 'newlywed' date with our husband! My right is prior!"
"Love is not measured by time, but by intensity!" retorted Kiyohime, stepping forward with her eyes gleaming alarmingly. "And my love for Master-sama is the purest and fiercest! If anyone is to bear his children, it is I! I promise to raise our children in truth, without a single lie!"
Even Jeanne Alter, unable to contain herself any longer, exploded. "AND WHAT AM I, AIR?! I've been here all along, protecting that idiot! Not that I care about marriage or that stupid stuff, but... but...!" She stammered, her face scarlet, unable to finish the sentence without betraying her own feelings.
Saint Jeanne watched the scene with her heart sinking. She wanted to intervene, to say that she loved him too, but the words stuck in her throat. Her shyness was a prison she could not escape.
Leonel found himself surrounded by a chorus of legendary women, all demanding, in one way or another, a piece of his future. It was absolute chaos. Nero vs. Nero, Tamamo vs. Kiyohime, Jeanne Alter denying the obvious... Even Florence Nightingale observed the scene with her head tilted. "Extreme hormonal behavior. Symptoms of acute emotional stress. Should I intervene with a general sedative?" she murmured, pulling a syringe the size of an ice pick from her apron.
It was in that moment of pure and absolute pandemonium that Leonel, driven by desperation and a sudden flash of lucidity, raised his voice.
"ENOUGH!!!"
The shout, charged with an authority he rarely used, had an effect. They all fell silent and looked at him.
He took a deep breath, looking at each of them in turn: at Nero, her passion; at Nero Bride, her solemn devotion; at Tamamo, her homely tenderness; at Kiyohime, her fierce loyalty; at Jeanne Alter, her clumsy, denied affection; and at Mash, who watched him with a mix of concern and an unshakable faith that made him feel stronger.
"I love you," he said, his voice firmer now. "All of you. In different ways, but it's the truth. I cannot, and will not, choose between you."
He paused, knowing the next phrase would change everything forever. "So, if it's a wedding you want... then I'll marry you all. At the same time. In one giant ceremony, when all this is over and humanity is safe. There will be no first wife, no second. We will be... a family. A very, very large and complicated family."
The silence that followed was absolute. You could hear the wind whistling through the rotten planks of the ghost town.
Nero Bride was the first to react. A slow, radiant smile spread across her face. "A mass imperial wedding... What a gloriously Roman idea! I accept! It shall be the most splendid event the world has ever seen!"
The original Nero, seeing she wouldn't be displaced, nodded, regaining her pride. "Hmph! A solution worthy of a Caesar. I accept. But I shall be the one to wear the most eye-catching dress."
Tamamo smiled, her eyes narrowing. "Mikon~ A formal harem for our husband. Sounds... appropriate. This fox gives her consent."
Kiyohime, seeing she wouldn't be excluded, instantly calmed down. "As long as you don't lie to me, Master-sama, and include me in your heart... I accept."
Jeanne Alter, arms still crossed, looked away. "Hmph. Not that I'm excited or anything... but if you insist... I won't object. Just don't expect me to wear a ridiculous white dress." It was her way of saying 'yes.'
Mash, with tears of happiness in her eyes, simply nodded. "Wherever you go, Senpai, I will go with you."
Even Saint Jeanne, in an act of courage, took a small step forward and murmured an almost inaudible "I... I too," which to Leonel sounded like a fanfare.
The crisis had been averted. The chaos transformed into an atmosphere of relief and cheerful expectation. The two Neros, now accomplices in the dream of the mass wedding, began discussing the ceremony's details with renewed enthusiasm.
In the heights, hidden in the shadow of a ruined bell tower, Scáthach watched the scene. For the first time in centuries, a genuine, knowing, meaningful smile graced her lips. It wasn't a smile of mockery, but of recognition.
"Every great warrior," she murmured to herself, her voice a sigh in the wind, "always has a great entourage. Alexander had his generals, Arthur his knights. But this one... this young man forges his legend not only with the sword, but with the heart. An entourage of goddesses and warriors, united not by force, but by a loyalty and love that transcends reason."
Her gaze settled on Leonel, who now smiled, surrounded by his future wives, relieved and, in some way, more confident than ever. Scáthach saw him in a new light. Strength wasn't just physical or magical power. It was the strength of will to accept a complicated fate, the strength of character to lead such powerful beings, and the strength of heart to love in a way that defied all convention.
"Perhaps," she thought, a spark of genuine interest in her scarlet eyes, "just perhaps, this human 'Lion' might surpass the Celtic hound I once trained. Perhaps he has the fiber to withstand the lessons of the Land of Shadows and emerge not only as a lover, but as a warrior without equal."
The road to Washington D.C. continued, now with a promise for the future that gave new meaning to their mission. And in the shadows, the Queen of the Land of Shadows followed their steps, no longer just a curious observer, but as a hunter who had found prey—or a disciple—infinitely more interesting than she had ever imagined. The epic journey had acquired a personal dimension that even Leonel himself could not fully comprehend.
After the tumultuous but ultimately harmonious resolution of the "nuptial incident," the dynamic within Leonel's group underwent a noticeable change. He was no longer simply a Master traveling with his Servants; he was an engaged—or multiply engaged—man surrounded by women who had formalized, in their own legendary terms, their right to be by his side. This translated into Leonel hardly having a moment of solitude. His "brides" had established an undeclared but strictly respected system of turns to walk beside him, hold his hand, or simply watch over him with a mix of love and adorable possessiveness.
Nero and Nero Bride, in a strange truce based on their shared dream of the imperial wedding, often flanked Leonel like consort bodyguards. Tamamo would slip up beside him to adjust his collar or whisper sweet words. Kiyohime maintained constant vigilance, her gaze deterring anyone else—except the other brides—from getting too close. Mash, shyer in her displays, contented herself with walking nearby, her shoulder brushing his from time to time, a serene smile on her lips. Jeanne Alter, true to her style, kept a few steps away, but Leonel noticed her gaze lingered on him more often, and when her tacit turn came, she walked beside him in a silence that was less hostile and more... contemplative.
It was during one of these days of "accompanied" travel that they began to hear rumors among the few settlers they found along the way. They spoke of a nearby town, not far off the route to Washington D.C., that was cursed. Not by ghosts or apparitions, but by a sound. A sound that, they said, tore at the soul and shattered eardrums. A "song" so dreadful it drove away any living being and had left the place completely abandoned. Those who ventured too close returned with debilitating migraines and an expression of deep trauma.
Leonel's curiosity, always alert to anomalies in these singularities, was instantly piqued. "A supernatural sound... it could be a Servant. One without a Master, trapped or manifesting erratically," he reasoned aloud as he walked with Tamamo on one side and Kiyohime on the other. "If we can contact it, it could be a valuable ally. Or at least, neutralize a potential threat."
His companions immediately objected.
"Why seek trouble, my beloved?" asked Nero, making a dramatic gesture. "Our path to the tumor is clear! We need not deviate for spectacles of dubious quality."
"A source of stress-inducing noise," declared Florence Nightingale, who was listening in. "Prolonged exposure can cause permanent auditory damage and psychological disorders. The safest protocol is isolation and avoidance."
But Leonel persisted. "If it is a Servant, and it's causing this chaos, it's our responsibility to investigate. Besides, Roman confirmed it doesn't significantly deviate us from the path. It will just be a quick stop."
It was the angle of "possible acquisition of an ally" that finally convinced most. More hands—or in this case, more legendary powers—were always useful against the threat of Medb and Cu Chulainn Alter. Surprisingly, it was Nightingale who yielded most directly. "If there are beings suffering because of this 'acoustic symptom,' it is my duty to assess their condition and offer treatment." For her, the cursed town was an emergency room full of potential patients.
The town was not far away. A collection of wooden buildings in a tranquil valley, which from a distance looked picturesque and peaceful. But as they approached, they began to feel it. It wasn't a proper sound at first, but an unpleasant vibration in the air, a low-frequency hum that made the skin crawl.
And then, it began.
It was a voice. Feminine, high-pitched, and so terribly off-key it seemed a mockery of the very concept of music. Notes that stretched and broke in impossible places, an erratic rhythm that sounded like a cat being dragged across the strings of a mistuned harp. The "singing" was so powerful it made the windowpanes of the cabins vibrate and sent waves of physical pain directly to the listeners' eardrums.
"By all the Roman gods!" Nero shouted, clamping her hands over her ears. "It is the sound of dissonance itself! My glorious ears are being profaned!"
Tamamo whimpered softly, her sensitive fox ears suffering doubly. "Mikon! It's worse than the howl of a drunken tanuki!"
Kiyohime growled, the noise exacerbating her berserker nature. "What an annoying sound! Let me burn the source!"
Even Jeanne Alter, normally imperturbable, frowned with an expression of genuine agony. "What the hell is this? It sounds like someone's strangling a chicken inside my skull."
Leonel, with tears in his eyes from the effort of enduring the noise, covered his ears tightly. He knew what—or who—it was. Memories from the Orleans Singularity came back to him with force. Elizabeth Báthory. The Lancer version, obsessed with becoming a modern idol. He knew her singing was bad, a fact she was cheerfully unaware of. But the reality, magnified by her Servant nature and the acoustics of the deserted town, surpassed any memory. This was a weapon of auditory mass destruction.
The source of the sound became visible in the town square. There, on a makeshift stage of barrels and planks, was she. Elizabeth Báthory, in her extravagant pink and black idol outfit, her dragon tail swaying to the rhythm of her own cacophony, and her enormous heart-shaped microphone clutched in her hands. Her eyes were closed in ecstasy, completely immersed in her "performance."
Leonel and his group endured stoically, or not so stoically, for what seemed an eternity. Finally, Elizabeth finished her "song" with a particularly shrill high note that caused several birds to fall from the sky (fortunately, they were already dead or had long since fled).
She opened her eyes, panting slightly, a smile of satisfaction on her face. And then, her gaze fell on Leonel.
Her eyes lit up with recognition. "Puppy!" she shouted, jumping off the stage with agility and running toward him, completely ignoring the other Servants surrounding him with expressions ranging from residual pain to homicidal. "My manager! So good to see you! Did you come to hear my latest single? I'm sure my voice has improved a lot since last time!"
Leonel slowly lowered his hands from his ears, feeling a persistent ringing. "H-Hello, Elizabeth... Yes, it was... unforgettable."
She didn't catch the sarcasm, or simply ignored it. "I knew you'd come! A manager must always follow his star idol's talent." Her gaze swept over the group. "My, my, you've gathered quite a... varied bunch. But no matter, Liz is here to light your path with her brilliance!"
Leonel sighed internally, relieved. Elizabeth's tone was as always: egocentric, friendly, and completely devoid of romantic interest in him. To her, he was "puppy" or "manager," a partner in her quest for fame. After the drama with the Neros and the near nuptial mutiny, this was a refreshingly simple and non-threatening dynamic. He could breathe easy; none of his jealous brides would have reason to try to "disinfect" or incinerate the little singing dragon.
After quick introductions and Elizabeth insisting on giving them a "private tour" of her "open-air recording studio" (the town square), the conversation turned to more serious matters. To Leonel's surprise, Elizabeth, in her wandering through the singularity, had gathered useful information.
"Oh, yes! That noisy hussy, Medb," Elizabeth said with a disdainful gesture. "Always surrounded by men, like a cheap imitation of a true idol. She has that big, angry dog by her side, the one who was blue before but now is all dark and spiky. Very scary."
Leonel nodded. Cu Chulainn Alter. The confirmation was valuable.
"And the Grail?" he asked.
"That show-off queen has it! She wears it like another fashion accessory, to summon more of her Celtic cronies. She says all of America will be hers, and all men will be her servants... or her lovers." Elizabeth made a face. "Disgusting. A true idol inspires pure love, not... that."
Leonel recalled Medb's profile from his knowledge of the game. The Queen of Connacht, a woman accustomed to getting everything she desired, whether through persuasion, manipulation, or force. Her history of lovers was legendary, and in the world of Fate, this trait was exaggerated to make her a force of hedonistic, possessive nature. She didn't feel jealousy, only an insatiable lust and a desire for domination. The men who fell into her sphere, Leonel thought with disdain, were like flies attracted to honey—"crumb-seekers," willing to sell their loyalty for a bit of the queen's attention. Knowing she was the final enemy and possessed the Grail gave a clear focus to their mission.
With the information obtained, they decided to spend the night in the town. At least there, the only enemies would be the deafening silence—when Elizabeth wasn't singing—and the possibility of the little dragon deciding to give a nocturnal concert. They set up camp in one of the larger cabins, hoping to rest before the final push toward Washington.
But rest was not in the plans of destiny, or at least, not in the plans of the writers of this particular epic comedy of errors.
Just as most were settling down to sleep, a new presence made its appearance. The cabin door swung open violently, and there, silhouetted against the moon, stood a tall, muscular man with a massive sword slung over his shoulder and a carefree, confident smile. Fergus mac Róich, the legendary Irish warrior, Saber Class.
"Good evening, travelers!" he announced in a booming voice. "I sensed the presence of beautiful women and a warrior spirit worthy of a challenge. I couldn't pass up the chance to... pay my respects."
His eyes, full of jovial and somewhat lecherous fire, scanned the inside of the cabin, stopping on each of Leonel's women. "My, my... what an exquisite selection. An empress, a fox priestess, a dragon maiden, a saint... and even one who seems made of fire and hatred. Fascinating!"
He approached Nero, completely ignoring Leonel. "Miss, that fire in your eyes... I wonder if it would burn with the same passion in the arms of a true warrior."
Nero looked at him with absolute contempt. "Insolent! My heart and body belong only to my beloved Leonel! Begone!"
Fergus, far from discouraged, laughed and turned to Tamamo. "And you, beauty of multiple tails... surely a woman of your... attributes, appreciates the strength of a man like me."
Tamamo smiled, but it was the smile of a fox about to bite. "This fox prefers the intelligence and tenderness of her husband. Your... 'brute' strength is nothing but noise and meaningless fury. Rejected."
The Saber tried with Kiyohime, who merely bared her teeth with a low growl. With Jeanne Alter, who shot him a glare that could have melted steel. "If you don't want to end up as a pile of ashes, keep your distance, pig," she spat.
Fergus finally faced reality. All of them. All of them rejected his advances. And all of them, once again, mentioned the same name. He turned to Leonel, and an expression of comical frustration, similar to Fionn's, took over his face.
"You again?" he roared, pointing at Leonel with his sword, Caladbolg. "What is it with you, boy? Some secret spell? A love potion? It's incredible! Fergus mac Róich, the hero who slept with goddesses and queens, is rejected again and again by the women of a mere mortal!"
Leonel shrugged, too tired for another epic jealousy scene. "Luck, I guess."
"ENOUGH WITH THE LUCK!" shouted Fergus, his frustration seeking an outlet. "If I cannot have their affection, I shall have their respect on the battlefield! I challenge you, Leonel Herrera! You and your Servants against me! Let the gods decide who the true man is here!"
The battle, if it could be called that, was an example of coordinated overkill. Fergus was a powerful Saber, yes, but he was alone. And he was facing nearly a dozen Servants, which included the brute force of Mordred and Artoria Alter, the magic of Tamamo and Geronimo, the fury of Jeanne Alter and Kiyohime, and the unstoppable sanitary might of Nightingale.
Leonel, with Tezcatlipoca at his side, didn't even need to exert much effort. "Tezca, analysis."
«Attack pattern: wide energy arcs. Weakness: slow recovery after each heavy strike. Vulnerable points: shoulder joints when lifting the sword.»
"Mordred, Artoria! Pressure him after he strikes! Don't let him regain his balance! Jeanne, fire at his blind spots! Nightingale... ahem, do your thing!"
It was Nightingale's intervention that sealed Fergus's fate. While the others distracted him with a barrage of attacks, she lunged, dodging a swing of Caladbolg with a millimeter-perfect head movement, and applied what could only be described as a "disinfection hold" on his swordsman's arm. "Hyperdeveloped muscle structure. Risk of stress rupture. Treatment is immediate immobilization." With a dull crack and a shout of surprise and pain from Fergus, she had him pinned to the ground.
The fight lasted no more than ten minutes. Fergus, defeated and humiliated, began to fade. "This... is not how I imagined my night," were his last words before disappearing, an expression of complete bewilderment on his face.
Silence returned to the cabin. No one had been injured. The efficiency had been absolute.
In the shadows of the nearby forest, Scáthach watched, her arms crossed. There was no smile this time. Only a slight sigh of... disappointment. The combat had been laughably easy for Leonel. There had been no need for him to deploy his true potential, to push himself beyond his limits. He had directed, yes, with commendable efficiency, but from the rear, relying on the overwhelming power of his group.
"He is becoming dependent," she murmured to herself, her scarlet eyes gleaming with a cold light. "He relies on his bonds, on his strategies, on the power of others. That is fine for a general, but not for a warrior who seeks to transcend the mortal."
She saw Leonel relax, smiling at his Servants, happy with another uncomplicated victory. Scáthach knew that if things continued like this, his potential would stagnate. Comfort was the enemy of growth.
"A crossroads approaches, little Lion," she whispered, her voice lost in the night. "You cannot remain surrounded by your pack forever. Soon, you will be forced to face a challenge that your strategy and your numbers cannot overcome. And then... then I will see what you are made of. You will either break... or forge a new edge to your spirit."
The shadow among shadows melted further into the darkness, her decision made. She would no longer be just an observer. She would become the catalyst. The price to decide if Leonel Herrera was worthy of her tutelage would be, as it had always been in the Land of Shadows, to be brought to the edge of the abyss and forced to fly.