The departure from the place where they had found Nitocris marked the beginning of a journey that, for Leonel, would become a test of endurance as intense as any battle against Demon God Pillars. It wasn't the desert that challenged him, nor the latent threat of enemies that might lurk among the dunes. It was Artoria Lancer Alter.
Since they resumed their march, the Ice Queen had kept Leonel firmly secured in front of her on her spectral mount. What had at first been uncomfortable but bearable (the pressure of her armor against his back, the cold of the metal) soon transformed into something much more... complex.
The desert sun was relentless. Even for a Servant, the heat building up in that black armor must have been unbearable. Artoria, with her usual stoicism, endured the first hours without complaint. But when noon arrived, with the sun at its zenith and the air shimmering like inside an oven, she made a decision that would change the dynamics of the journey forever.
With a minimal gesture, her armor vanished.
It didn't disappear completely, but rather transformed. The menacing black metal that covered her from head to foot reconfigured in an instant, flowing like living mercury until it became a radically different outfit.
What Artoria Lancer Alter now wore was simple, but devastatingly effective. A tight, black sleeveless shirt that clung to her torso like a second skin. The neckline, though not overly deep, revealed the upper curve of her generous chest, and the thin, light fabric outlined every detail of her figure with obscene precision. Below, dark shorts that left most of her thighs exposed, pale and perfectly sculpted by years of training and battle. Her hair, once hidden under the helmet, now fell loose over her shoulders, the desert wind gently swaying it.
Leonel felt the change before he saw it. The hard cold of the metal against his back was replaced by something completely different: warmth. Human warmth (or the closest a Servant could have), softness, and an unmistakable firmness. Artoria's breasts, previously separated from his back by a layer of armor, now pressed directly against him through the thin fabric of her shirt.
Every movement of the mount made that pressure change, made the soft mass shift slightly, rubbing against his back in ways that sent waves of heat through his body. He could feel their exact shape, their volume, their weight. It was a sweet, constant torture.
Leonel's face flushed like a torch. His breath caught in his throat. He desperately tried to lean forward, to create a minimal space between his back and that infernal chest, but Artoria's arm, wrapped around his waist, held him firmly in place.
"Still," she murmured, her voice low and close, right in his ear. "You'll fall."
Leonel swallowed. "B-but... your armor... can't you...?"
"Too hot," she replied, with a naturalness that made the situation even more disconcerting. "This is more practical."
Practical? Leonel thought, on the verge of despair. This is practical? You're driving me crazy!
The reaction from the other Servants was, as expected, explosive. Although most had chosen to return to their spiritual form to conserve energy and avoid sun exhaustion, their voices remained audible through Leonel's mental link.
Tamamo no Mae was the first to explode. Her voice resonated in Leonel's mind with painful clarity. "WHAT DOES THAT... THAT... THINK SHE'S DOING?! Leonel-sama! I can't believe she's using her body in such a shameless way! It's a provocation! An insult to all of us!"
Jeanne Alter wasn't far behind. "That ice bitch! I knew she was up to something! Leonel, don't give in! Resist! Think about... about me! About us!" Her voice trembled between fury and something that sounded suspiciously like panic.
Kiyohime, from Chaldea (since she had stayed behind but was following the journey through the communication system), contributed her own dose of hysteria. "Anchin-sama! Anchin-sama! Don't look! Don't feel! That woman is corrupting you! I am the only one who should be this close to you!" Her screams made Leonel bring a hand to his temple, where a headache was beginning to form.
Nero (also from Chaldea) intervened with her usual drama. "Praetor! The Empress orders you to look away from that... that...! Although... come to think of it, if she can do that, I should be able to too when you return! Schedule a session of 'imperial refreshment'!"
Mash, the most moderate, tried to calm things down. "Girls, please... Senpai is on a mission. We can't distract him with... with these things." But even her voice had a hint of something that might have been... jealousy?
Leonel, besieged by the chorus of female voices in his head and the physical sensation of Artoria against his back, could only close his eyes and repeat to himself: I'm a professional. I'm the last Master. I can endure this.
It didn't work.
Mordred, who had insisted on remaining materialized despite the heat (lest "father" do something worse), walked alongside the mount, throwing murderous glances at the scene. Her expression was a whirlwind of contradictory emotions: fury, disbelief, and something deeper that she herself didn't want to acknowledge.
"This isn't right," she growled, clenching her fist. "Father... Artoria... it's not like you to do something like this. What the hell is wrong with you?"
Artoria didn't even look at her. "Shut up, Mordred. If it bothers you so much, go into spirit form. No one's forcing you to watch."
"It's not that I'm watching! It's just that...!" Mordred blushed, not knowing how to articulate what she felt. It wasn't jealousy of Artoria, not exactly. It was something else. Seeing Leonel so close to her, so intimately pressed against her body, she felt a strange pang in her chest. A kind of... envy? Of whom? Of Artoria for having him like that? Or of Leonel for being so close to her? It was confusing and frustrating.
Jeanne Ruler, also materialized (perhaps out of a sense of duty, perhaps because she didn't want to lose sight of Leonel), walked in silence, her cheeks intensely flushed. Her hands were clasped in a gesture of prayer, and her lips moved in what seemed like silent supplications. "Lord, give me strength not to think about... about the inappropriateness of this situation..."
Leonel, for his part, had entered a state of forced meditation. He tried to think of anything other than the soft pressure on his back. Strategies for Camelot. The Knights of the Round Table. Goetia. The future threat of the Lostbelts. Mathematics. The chemical composition of the sand.
But every time the mount took a step, every little bounce, every readjustment of Artoria's body behind him, all those strategies vanished, replaced by a single, obsessive awareness of her closeness.
And the worst part was that Artoria knew it.
She knew it perfectly. She had planned it, in fact. She was neither naive nor innocent. She was a queen, a warrior, a woman who had lived millennia (in terms of legend) and knew the effect her body could have. And she was using it. Not out of malice, but out of a kind of cold, calculated amusement. She wanted to see how far she could go, how much she could affect her young Master before he lost control.
Every now and then, she would slightly tilt her head and her lips would almost imperceptibly brush Leonel's ear while pretending to adjust her grip. Or she would tighten her arm around his waist a little more, pulling him even closer against her. Small gestures, almost insignificant, which for Leonel were like electric shocks.
"Uncomfortable?" she asked once, her voice a mocking whisper.
Leonel shook his head, not trusting his own voice.
"What a pity," she replied, and Leonel could have sworn he heard a smile in her words.
Thus passed the first day. And the second.
The journey, which according to Da Vinci's initial calculations would have taken about six days on foot, was drastically reduced thanks to Artoria's mount and the efficiency of the Servants, who could alternate between material and spiritual form depending on their stamina. Leonel, the only one who needed to rest, sleep, and eat, was the limiting factor, but even so, they advanced at an impressive pace.
An estimated six days became two. Two days of travel through the desert, two days of Leonel glued to Artoria, two days of sweet, constant torture. Two days in which he learned more about mental resistance than any battle could have taught him.
When the sun set and it was time to make camp, the real challenge began. Not because of enemies (though there were some, packs of lesser sphinxes and Egyptian automatons that Mordred and Artoria dispatched efficiently), but because of the logistics of Leonel's rest.
As soon as the mount stopped and Leonel, trembling, dismounted (always with Artoria's help, who seemed to enjoy his momentary weakness), his other girlfriends would appear.
Tamamo was first, materializing at his side with a speed that defied logic, her arms wrapping around him before he could take a step. "Leonel-sama! Finally! You've endured the unendurable! Come, let me pamper you!"
Jeanne Alter wasn't far behind. Although she pretended disinterest ("It's not that I care, but if you don't rest well, you'll be a burden tomorrow"), she always found a way to be close, sometimes leaning against a nearby rock, other times sitting a little farther away, but always watching.
Mash, the most discreet, prepared the small camp with the efficiency of a trained maid, though her eyes rested on Leonel with a frequency that betrayed her concern.
And when Leonel finally lay down, exhausted physically and mentally, the real "quality time" began.
Tamamo curled up on his left, her head on his shoulder, one of her tails wrapped around his leg like a living blanket. Jeanne Alter, after much insistence ("If I leave you alone, that ice witch will surely bother you again"), ended up lying on his right, though with her back to him and growling if anyone mentioned the obviousness of her affection. Kiyohime, from Chaldea, projected herself spiritually as best she could, her ethereal form floating over him like a loving and slightly terrifying ghost. Nero sent dramatic voice messages through the communicator. Even Scáthach, from a distance, made an occasional appearance, her voice whispering in his mind: "Rest, disciple. Tomorrow I will continue to claim my time."
Leonel, surrounded by affection, caresses, and in Tamamo's case, soft kisses and whispered promises of future rewards, tried to sleep. He didn't always succeed, but the warmth of their bodies, the feeling of being so intensely loved, was a balm that counteracted, however minimally, the daytime torture of Artoria.
Outside, Mordred and Artoria Lancer Alter took turns keeping watch. Or rather, Artoria assigned the shifts and Mordred obeyed grudgingly.
"Why do I have to watch you? You can do it too," Mordred protested the first night.
Artoria, reclining against a rock with her long legs stretched out, looked at her with a mixture of disdain and amusement. "Because I am the queen. You, the subordinate. Besides..." her eyes drifted towards the small camp where Leonel lay surrounded by women, "...I need to rest in order to keep our Master comfortable tomorrow."
The tone of "comfortable" made Mordred clench her teeth. "You're unbelievable. Since when do you care so much about the Master? And since when do you use your body as... bait?"
Artoria didn't respond immediately. Her golden eyes lost themselves in the darkness of the desert. When she spoke, her voice was lower, more thoughtful. "It's not bait, Mordred. It's strategy. The bond between a Master and his Servants isn't forged in battle alone. Trust, familiarity, desire all of that matters too. I am not like the others. I cannot offer gentle caresses or sweet words. My nature is different. But I can offer himthis." She made a vague gesture towards her own body. "And he responds. I feel it. I see it in his eyes, in the way his breathing changes, in how he tries not to look but can't help it."
Mordred fell silent, processing her words. Then, with a mixture of admiration and revulsion, she muttered: "You're a witch, father."
Artoria smiled, a barely perceptible curve on her lips. "Perhaps. But I am a queen. And queens take what they want."
That conversation, which Mordred would report to no one, left her thinking. And when her watch came, she found herself looking towards the camp more than necessary, wondering what it would feel like to be in Leonel's place. Not for the physical contact with Artoria, but for that feeling of being the center of attention of so many powerful women, of being desired, wanted, protected. It was something she had never had. Something that, deep down, she yearned for.
The second day of travel dawned with the same relentless sun and the same compromising position for Leonel. Artoria, true to her new "strategy," kept her light attire, and Leonel, resigned, focused on the horizon.
It was at sunset on the second day when finally, in the distance, they saw something other than dunes.
A city. Not Camelot, but a smaller settlement, a kind of village or frontier town, located on the outskirts of the white city. Stone and adobe houses, dusty streets, and an atmosphere that, even from a distance, felt strange.
"We can get supplies there," said Artoria, stopping the mount. "Water, food for you. And perhaps information."
Leonel nodded, grateful for the distraction. He dismounted (with more difficulty than he would have liked to admit, his legs cramped from two days in that position) and, surrounded by his Servants (who materialized instantly), headed towards the city.
The entrance was unguarded. People came and went, but there was something in their movements, in their expressions, that was unsettling. They walked with their heads down, spoke in whispers, and when they looked west, towards the white silhouette of Camelot in the distance, their eyes shone with a mixture of hope and... fear?
Leonel found a small market and bought water and some simple provisions: hard bread, dried fruit, goat cheese. Artoria, to everyone's surprise, showed an unusual interest in the food. Her eyes scanned the stalls with an intensity bordering on obsessive.
"What is that?" she asked, pointing to a tray of honey-dipped sweets.
"Typical sweets of the region," replied the vendor, an elderly man with a grey beard. "Honey, almonds, a bit of cinnamon..."
Artoria said nothing, but her look was eloquent. Leonel sighed and bought a dozen. The ice queen, the relentless warrior, had a weakness for sweets. It was a human detail that contrasted brutally with her frigid aura.
While Artoria devoured the sweets with a dignity that made the scene comical (she tried to eat elegantly, but the speed at which they disappeared betrayed her true nature), Leonel pricked up his ears, listening to the conversations around him.
"...the white city, they say there is no suffering there," a woman was saying to her companion.
"...King Lion rules with justice. I've heard he accepts all who seek refuge."
"...the Holy Selection. It's the chance for a new life."
"...tomorrow, right? Tomorrow is the day. Many are preparing to go."
"...I've heard no one has returned from the Selection. But surely it's because they stay there, in paradise. Who would want to return to this desert?"
Leonel felt a chill. The Holy Selection. He knew it. He remembered from his previous life what it really meant. It wasn't a welcome. It was a judgment. A purge. The Knights of the Round Table, under the orders of the Lion King, evaluated the aspirants. And those who didn't pass the test... were eliminated. Without mercy. Without appeal.
But the people didn't know that. They believed it was their salvation. And that's why they kept going, full of hope, towards certain death.
He continued listening, his heart beating faster.
"...my son left last week. We haven't heard anything yet, but I'm sure he's fine. He must be."
"...the knights of the Round Table, they say they are angels. That they protect the city."
"...I've heard that the knight Gawain is the most powerful. His sword, they say, never fails."
"...and Lancelot, the Knight of the Lake. What an honor it must be to see him."
Names he knew well. Gawain, Lancelot, Tristan, Agravain, Mordred (the one at his side, although this Mordred was different), and others. All serving a distorted version of Artoria. All committing atrocities in the name of a "salvation" that was anything but holy.
Leonel swallowed. The information confirmed his worst fears. The Holy Selection was real, it was happening the next day, and hundreds, perhaps thousands of innocent people would die in it.
"Did you hear that, Leonel-sama?" Tamamo murmured at his side, her ears drooping. "This... this doesn't sound right."
"No, it doesn't," he replied quietly. "The Holy Selection is not what they believe. It's a massacre."
Jeanne Ruler, who had also listened, paled. "A massacre? In the name of salvation? That is... is blasphemy."
Jeanne Alter, with a bitter grimace, spat on the ground. "Saints, angels... always the same. They use pretty words to hide the shit. I know about that."
Artoria Lancer Alter, finishing her last sweet, observed Leonel with her cold eyes. "So, what do we do? Go in and stop them?"
Leonel shook his head. "We can't. Not like this. If we attack now, we'll face all the Knights at once, plus the Lion King. It's a losing battle." He remembered the story. He knew they needed allies. They needed Bedivere. They needed the sword Excalibur that he carried in his arm. That was the key to defeating the Lion King.
"There's something I have to do tomorrow," he said, with determination. "We'll go to the Holy Selection. But not to stop it... to witness it. And to find someone."
"Who?" asked Mordred, frowning.
"The knight we saw yesterday. Bedivere. He is... important. Without him, we cannot win."
No one questioned his decision. They had learned to trust his instinct, his strange ability to know things he shouldn't know. If Leonel said they needed that sad knight, they needed him.
They spent the night in the city. They found an abandoned building, a house whose owners, according to the neighbors, had left for the Holy Selection a week ago and never returned. The house was empty, dusty, but intact. As if its occupants had simply vanished.
Leonel didn't want to think about what that meant.
While his Servants prepared the makeshift camp (Mash cleaning the dust, Tamamo trying to make some food with the purchased provisions, Jeanne Alter and Mordred arguing about who would keep watch first), Leonel lay down on a mat they had found. The fatigue of the two-day journey, the constant tension of contact with Artoria, and the dread of what he knew was coming, enveloped him like a heavy blanket.
He closed his eyes. And then, the dream came.
It wasn't a normal dream. He knew it from the first instant. He was in a place that wasn't the abandoned house. A white, empty space, but not peaceful. There was a tension in the air, an oppression that made it hard to breathe.
At his side, a familiar presence. Tezcatlipoca. His Persona was there, in his warrior form, the harmonic plates glowing faintly in the white twilight.
"Leonel," said Tezcatlipoca, his voice deep and resonant. "I have brought you here. You need to see."
"See what?" asked Leonel, though deep down he already knew.
The answer was an image that materialized before them.
The Holy Selection.
He saw a great plaza, in front of the gates of a white and resplendent city. The city of Camelot, but not the one of legends, but a distorted version, imposing and cold as ice. Its walls shone with a light that was not warm, but severe, judging.
Before the gates, a crowd. People of all ages, men, women, children. Faces full of hope, of anticipated gratitude. They believed they were about to enter paradise.
And before them, formed in an imposing line, stood the Knights of the Round Table.
Leonel recognized them all. Gawain, with his blond hair and sword raised, his golden armor shining like a small sun. Lancelot, the Knight of the Lake, his presence serene but lethal. Tristan, with his bow and his melancholic expression. Agravain, severe and cold. And others whose names he didn't remember, but whose armor and weapons gave them away.
In front of them, a man with a tired appearance, silver hair and blue armor, was trying to speak with them. Bedivere. His voice was pleading, though Leonel couldn't hear the words. He extended his left arm, the one that wasn't flesh, but a silvery, shining substance, as if forged from solid light. Excalibur, Leonel knew. The sword was there, hidden in that arm.
But the Knights didn't listen to him. Gawain stepped forward, and his sword rose.
Then, the vision changed. The crowd began to move, to advance towards the gates. But not all gates opened. There was a path, a kind of... selection. The Knights evaluated each person who passed. A gesture, a look, a word. And then, the decision.
For most, the decision was death.
Leonel watched as Gawain, with a kind smile, nodded to a family passing by. Father, mother, two small children. They passed through the gate. Then, an elderly woman approached. Gawain frowned, shook his head. And before the old woman could react, his sword moved. A flash of golden light. The old woman disappeared, disintegrated, leaving no trace.
Lancelot was more subtle. His eyes scrutinized each person, looking for something. Impurities, perhaps. Doubt. Fear. Those he found lacking, he marked with a gesture. And then, a shadow, a spear of light, pierced them.
Tristan looked at no one. He touched his bow as if it were a harp, and the notes that emerged were not music, but death. A sharp note, and a person fell. Another note, and another. Without expression, without emotion, as if he were just performing a ritual.
The massacre was silent, orderly, efficient. The people died without understanding why. They had come seeking salvation and found annihilation. And those who passed the test, the "chosen ones," entered the city with a smile, without looking back, without wondering what had become of their neighbors, their friends, their family.
Leonel wanted to scream. He wanted to run, intervene, stop it. But his body did not respond. He was a ghost, a helpless observer.
"This is what they do," said Tezcatlipoca, his voice flat but with a hint of something that might have been... indignation? "This is the justice of the Lion King. A justice without mercy, without compassion. The strong, the pure, the 'worthy,' survive. The rest are erased."
"Why are you showing me this?" asked Leonel, his voice breaking.
"Because you need to know. You need to understand the magnitude of what you face. It is not an enemy you can defeat with strategy alone. It is a system. A killing machine wrapped in divine light. And you, Leonel, will have to face it. You will have to decide whether you can stop it... or whether you will have to join it."
"Join it? Never!"
"I know," said Tezcatlipoca, and for an instant, his voice sounded almost proud. "But I needed to hear it from you. Now, wake up. And prepare. Tomorrow, you will see this with your own eyes."
The vision faded, and Leonel fell into a deeper darkness, but not a peaceful one. Populated by images of death, of pleading faces, of smiling knights reaping lives.
He woke up with a strangled cry in his throat, his body bathed in cold sweat. He was in the abandoned house, on the mat. Around him, his Servants looked at him with concern.
"Leonel-sama," Tamamo whispered, stroking his forehead with a cool hand. "You were shouting. Dreaming."
Jeanne Alter, on his other side, had an unusually soft expression. "Calm down, idiot. It was just a dream."
But it wasn't just a dream, and Leonel knew it. Tomorrow, he would see that massacre with his own eyes. And he would have to decide what to do.
He tried to sleep again, but the images wouldn't leave him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Gawain smiling while his sword reaped lives. He saw Lancelot, the noble knight, turned into a merciless judge. He saw Tristan, the musician, playing melodies of death.
His girlfriends, feeling his agitation, pressed closer against him. Tamamo hugged him tightly, her tails wrapping around him like a warm cocoon. Jeanne Alter, overcoming her shyness, rested her head on his chest, muttering something unintelligible. Mash, from the other side, took his hand and squeezed it gently. Even Artoria, who was on guard outside, peeked in once, her golden eyes meeting his in the darkness, offering a silence that was more comforting than any words.
But not all the warmth of their bodies, nor all the love they emanated, could ward off the nightmares. Leonel slept in intervals, always waking with his heart racing, always seeing those images burned into his mind.
When the first light of dawn began to filter through the dusty windows, Leonel knew he would sleep no more. He got up carefully, disentangling himself from the embrace of his beloved, and looked out the window.
On the horizon, the white city of Camelot glowed with the morning light. It looked like a dream, a place of peace and beauty. But Leonel knew the truth.
Today, the gates of that dream would open. And hundreds of people would enter... towards life or towards death.
He turned to his Servants, who were waking up one by one. He saw Mash, with her loyal and worried gaze. Tamamo, with her feline determination. Jeanne Alter, with her contained fire. Jeanne Ruler, with her faltering faith. Mordred, with her eternal defiant attitude. And Artoria Lancer Alter, cold and imposing, waiting for his orders.
"Today," said Leonel, his voice firmer than he felt, "we are going to witness the Holy Selection. We are going to see with our own eyes what Camelot really is. And we are going to find the knight Bedivere. He is our key to stopping this."
No one asked how he knew. No one doubted. They simply nodded, preparing themselves for what was to come.
Leonel took a deep breath. The day had begun. And with it, the next step in his journey through the nightmare of history.