The days following Hassan of Serenity's rescue brought a tense calm to the mountain village, like the stillness that precedes a storm. Leonel walked among the stone huts, observing the refugees who had found a temporary home in this refuge of assassins. Children laughing and running among the adults, elders weaving or telling stories by the warmth of the fire, women cooking, and men repairing the defenses. It was an image of fragile peace, a bubble of humanity in the midst of the hostile desert and the constant threat of Camelot.
But Serenity did not want to leave.
Three days had passed since the assassin had been freed from Mordred's fortress. During that time, Leonel had tried to convince her to return to her own village, where other refugees needed her. Hassan of the Cursed Arm and Hassan of the Hundred Faces had supported the idea, arguing that Serenity was the protector of her people, that her place was with them.
But Serenity clung to Leonel like a climbing plant to a wall.
"I don't want to leave," she had said on the first day, sitting in a corner of the hut Leonel shared with his Servants. Her large, dark eyes looked at the Master with a mixture of gratitude and something else, something Leonel didn't want to identify. "You are the first who can touch me without dying. The first who has shown me kindness without fear. How can I walk away from that?"
"Serenity," Leonel had replied patiently, "I understand how you feel. But your people need you. You are their protector. Without you, they would be defenseless."
"The other Hassan can protect them," she had insisted, shaking her head. "You need me more. Your mission is more important. I can help you."
The discussion had been repeated several times, in different tones and with different arguments, but always with the same result: Serenity refused to leave. And her appearances were not limited to conversations.
At night, Leonel went to bed according to the strict schedule his girlfriends had established to take turns by his side. One night it was Tamamo's turn, who snuggled against him with her tails wrapped around his body like a living blanket. Another night it was Mash, who slept beside him with one hand resting on his chest, as if she needed to feel his heartbeat to make sure he was still alive. Another was Jeanne Alter, who feigned disinterest but ended up curled against his back, her inner fire keeping him warm. Even Artoria Lancer Alter, though she did not participate in the schedule, sometimes sat near the entrance of the hut during the night, watching over him, her silent presence a form of protection Leonel had learned to appreciate.
But every morning, without fail, Leonel would wake up and find Serenity by his side.
It didn't matter who he had slept with. It didn't matter how well-guarded the hut was. Serenity always found a way to slip beside him during the night, curling up against his back or resting her head on his shoulder. And every morning, chaos erupted.
"AGAIN?!" Tamamo would shout, jumping out of bed with her tails bristling like those of an enraged cat. "Serenity! We've told you a hundred times you can't do this!"
"I'm sorry," the assassin would murmur, her large eyes full of feigned (or perhaps real) tears. "But I just can't sleep if I'm not close to him. He's the only one I'm not afraid to touch."
"That's no excuse!" Jeanne Alter would interject, often materializing in the doorway with her arms crossed and a furious expression. "You have your own hut! And your own village! Go to it!"
"But I feel safer here," Serenity would reply, clinging to Leonel's arm. "And Leonel-sama doesn't complain, right?"
Leonel, trapped between Serenity's body and the murderous glares of his girlfriends, could only sigh and raise his hands in a gesture of surrender. "It's not that I don't complain, it's that I don't have time. I always wake up to you all screaming."
"Because she sneaks in!" Mash would exclaim, who was often also present, though she usually got up earlier for her morning exercises. "Senpai, you have to set boundaries."
"I try," Leonel would say. "But she's very... persistent."
The situation had become as comical as it was exasperating. The refugees had grown accustomed to the morning shouting, and some even placed bets on who would end up winning the argument each day. The children laughed watching the Servants chase Serenity around the village, and the elders shook their heads with knowing smiles.
"It's like a soap opera," Mordred commented one day, watching the scene from a rock. "Only with a higher chance of violent death."
"Love is a battlefield," replied Xuanzang, who had stayed in the village after the rescue, insisting that her "disciple" needed spiritual guidance. "And on every battlefield, there are casualties."
"Are you a casualty?" asked Mordred, raising an eyebrow.
"I am a neutral observer!" exclaimed the monk, though her eyes followed Leonel with an intensity that contradicted her words.
Finally, after several days of this back-and-forth, Hassan of the Cursed Arm intervened. With the authority conferred by his position as leader of the alliance, he summoned Serenity to a private meeting. It is not known what words they exchanged, but when Serenity came out of Hassan's hut, her eyes were red from crying, but her expression was more serene.
"I'm leaving," she said, looking at Leonel. "But I will return. When you need me, I will return."
Leonel nodded, with a mixture of relief and regret. "Take care, Serenity. And thank you for everything."
The assassin approached him, and for a moment, everyone held their breath. But Serenity only took his hand between hers, a simple gesture that for her was an immense luxury. Her fingers, cold and soft, caressed his palm.
"You are the first person who can touch me without suffering," she whispered. "That means more to me than you can imagine. I won't forget it."
And then, she left. She disappeared among the rocks like just another shadow, taking with her the tension that had kept the village on edge for days.
Leonel's girlfriends breathed a sigh of relief. Tamamo even organized a small celebration with the food she had stored. "Finally! Peace! Tranquility! We'll be able to sleep without interruptions!"
"I doubt it," murmured Jeanne Alter, looking at Xuanzang, who had started to approach Leonel suspiciously. "There's always another one."
But the monk, at least for now, kept a respectful distance, limiting herself to observing and offering "spiritual advice" whenever Leonel sat down to rest.
With Serenity back in her village and life in the camp returning to a calmer rhythm, Leonel could concentrate on what really mattered: defeating the Lion King.
The strategic meetings had become daily. Hassan of the Cursed Arm, Leonel, and the representatives of each faction (Mash for the Shielders, Tamamo for the Casters, Mordred for the Sabers, Artoria Lancer Alter as an advisor, Bedivere as a Camelot expert, and occasionally Hundred Faces when she could send one of her personalities) sat around a stone table in the communal hall and discussed for hours.
"The main problem is still the lack of offensive power," Mordred said one day, slamming her fist on the table. "Gawain is invincible under the sun. Lancelot is a killing machine in close combat. Tristan can annihilate from a distance. And Artoria herself... the other Artoria... is a force of nature."
"Not to mention the other Knights," added Bedivere. "Agravain, Gareth, Gaheris... although we haven't seen them, I know they are in Camelot. They have all been blessed by the Lion King. They are all formidable."
"We need allies," said Tamamo. "More than we have. The Hassan are skilled, but they cannot face the Knights in open battle. Xuanzang is powerful, but she is only one. We are... limited."
"And Ozymandias?" asked Mash. "Couldn't he be an ally?"
The silence that followed was significant.
Hassan of the Cursed Arm was the first to speak. "Ozymandias is... complicated. He is a divine king, like the Lion King. He does not recognize any authority superior to his own. Asking for his help is not like asking a common ally. It is like paying him homage."
"But if we could convince him that his interests align with ours," said Leonel, "perhaps he would agree to a temporary alliance."
"And how do you plan to convince him?" asked Mordred, skeptically. "Bringing him flowers? Singing him a song? The guy is an egomaniac, like that golden idiot from Chaldea."
"Gilgamesh," clarified Mash, with a shy smile.
"That's the one. Arrogant, overbearing, and with the power to back it up. Ozymandias is the same, from what I've heard."
"He's worse," said Artoria Lancer Alter, speaking for the first time in the meeting. Her deep voice captured everyone's attention. "Gilgamesh is arrogant, but he recognizes worth in others when they prove it. Ozymandias... demands submission. At least at first. If you want his help, you must present yourself before him as a supplicant, not as an equal."
"And if I don't want to do that?" asked Leonel.
"Then you will have to prove to him that you are worthy of being treated as an equal. That you possess something he values. Or that you can offer him something he cannot obtain for himself."
Leonel thought of Nitocris. The pharaoh had offered them her hospitality, and they had declined it. But perhaps, if they convinced her to intercede for them before Ozymandias...
"We have a card," said Leonel. "Nitocris. We rescued her from a kidnapping. We owe her a favor, or she owes us one. If we ask her to introduce us to Ozymandias, perhaps she will agree."
"It's a possibility," admitted Hassan. "But it is not certain. Ozymandias is not someone who is easily influenced, not even by his own subjects."
"Then we will have to take the risk," said Leonel. "We cannot stay here waiting for Camelot to attack us. We need to act."
The discussion continued for hours, outlining the terms of a possible agreement with Ozymandias. Leonel knew, from his memories of the game, that the Divine Pharaoh was not an enemy, at least not in the end. But he also knew that reaching that point required diplomacy, patience, and perhaps a bit of luck.
It was in the middle of one of these meetings that Hassan of the Cursed Arm raised an idea that made everyone fall silent.
"If we need power... there is another option. One we have been avoiding."
"Which one?" asked Mordred.
"The First Hassan. The Old Man of the Mountain. The one who founded our order."
The silence grew heavier. Even Artoria Lancer Alter, usually impassive, tensed her shoulders slightly.
"The First Hassan?" repeated Tamamo, cautiously. "The one who cuts heads and speaks with death."
"That very same one," confirmed Hassan. "He resides at the very top of the mountain, in a cave where he has meditated for centuries. He does not intervene in the affairs of the order unless strictly necessary. But if we ask for his help... perhaps he will agree."
"And why haven't we done so before?" asked Mash.
"Because the First Hassan is... terrifying," replied Hundred Faces, who was present in one of her personalities. "He is not a common Servant. He is the personification of death. Of the inevitability of the end. When he appears, something dies. And it is not always the enemy."
Leonel remembered the First Hassan from the game. An imposing elder, with a skull mask that seemed to look through the soul. In the original story, he had faced Tiamat herself, cut her wings, demonstrated a power that defied all logic. But he was also... how to describe it? A grandfather, in a sense. He took care of the younger Hassan, protected them, guided them. In the game, his relationship with the protagonist was almost paternal.
But he was not the original protagonist. He was a replacement, a transmigrator who had taken Ritsuka's place. He did not know if the First Hassan would look upon him with the same eyes.
"Do you think he would agree to help us?" asked Leonel.
Hassan of the Cursed Arm hesitated. "I do not know. The First Hassan acts for reasons only he understands. We cannot predict his decisions."
"Then, for now, we leave it as a last option," decided Leonel. "First we will try with Ozymandias. If we fail... we will see."
They nodded, relieved not to have to face the Old Man of the Mountain just yet.
The strategic meetings often lasted well into the night, but there were moments of respite. In one of those moments, Leonel found Bedivere alone, sitting on a rock jutting out from the cliff, looking towards the horizon where Camelot rose like a white stain.
The silver knight had been pensive for days, absent in conversations, lost in his own thoughts. Leonel had noticed his mood but had respected his space. Now, he felt it was time to talk.
"May I sit?" he asked, approaching.
Bedivere nodded without looking at him. Leonel sat beside him, letting his legs dangle over the void. The mountain wind was cold, but refreshing.
"I haven't seen you smile for days," said Leonel. "What worries you?"
Bedivere was silent for a moment. Then, he spoke, his voice barely a whisper.
"My king... the Lion King... is not my king. I know it. I've known it from the first moment I saw her. But... a part of me still wants to believe she is. That there is something of Arthur in her. That all is not lost."
"And if there isn't?" asked Leonel. "What if the Lion King is just a monster with her face?"
"Then... I don't know what I will do," admitted Bedivere. "I swore loyalty to her. I promised to serve her until the end. But that oath was to a person who no longer exists. Does that free me from my duty? Or is duty eternal, regardless of what my king has become?"
Leonel thought about his answer. It wasn't easy. There were no easy answers to questions like that.
"I believe duty is to ideals, not to people," he finally said. "You swore loyalty to Arthur because she represented justice, compassion, honor. If the Lion King no longer represents that, then your oath is broken. Not by your fault, but by hers."
Bedivere looked at him, his eyes full of painful doubt. "And what if I am wrong? What if she can still be saved? What if my duty is to help her remember what she was, not to destroy her?"
"That is a possibility," admitted Leonel. "But for that, you have to be willing to confront her. To tell her she is wrong. To hurt her, if necessary. Sometimes, true loyalty is not obeying, but correcting."
Bedivere lowered his gaze to his silver arm, the one that concealed Excalibur. "This arm... this sword... are my sin. My mistake. If I hadn't disobeyed, if I had returned Excalibur to the lake as I was ordered, perhaps this would never have happened. The Lion King would not exist. Camelot would not be this nightmare."
"Or perhaps it would," said Leonel. "Fate is complex, Bedivere. We cannot know what would have happened if you had done something different. The only thing we can control is what we do now. And now, you have the opportunity to use that sword for good. To save those who can still be saved."
Bedivere was silent, processing his words. Leonel stayed by his side, sharing the silence, the breeze, the immensity of the starry sky.
It was then that they heard footsteps behind them.
Artoria Lancer Alter emerged from the shadows like a specter, her black armor barely visible in the dim light. Her golden eyes fell upon Bedivere with an intensity that made the knight tense.
"Do you still doubt?" asked Artoria, her voice deep and cutting. "After everything you've seen. After the massacre. After the cruelty. Do you still doubt that the Lion King must be stopped?"
Bedivere stood up, facing her. "It is not doubt about her. It is doubt about myself. About whether I have the right to raise my sword against my king."
"The right," Artoria repeated with disdain. "And who gives you that right? A code written by dead men? An oath made to a person who no longer exists?" She took a step toward him. "I too was a king, Bedivere. I ruled Britain with an iron fist. I made decisions that killed thousands. And I know that, had I continued on that path, had I let divinity consume me, I would have ended up like her. Like the Lion King."
Bedivere looked at her, surprised by her honesty.
"But I did not end up like that," Artoria continued. "Do you know why? Because I had people by my side who told me when I was wrong. Who confronted me. Who reminded me what it meant to be human." Her eyes locked onto him. "You did not do that. You did not return the sword. You kept it. And in doing so, you allowed this timeline to exist. For the Lion King to become what she is."
The blow was low, and Bedivere felt the words pierce his chest like a lance. "I know," he whispered. "I know. It's my fault."
"Guilt is useless if you do not use it to act," Artoria said, relentless. "You can stay here, lamenting, doubting, while the Lion King continues to kill. Or you can rise, wield that sword, and do what you must do. Not out of duty. Not out of revenge. Because it is the right thing to do."
Bedivere clenched his fists. His silver arm glowed faintly under the starlight.
"And you?" he asked, looking at Artoria. "Why do you fight against her? You are also a version of Arthur. What sets you apart?"
Artoria was silent for a moment. Then, her answer was simple, but powerful.
"I chose to be human. She chose to be a goddess. That is the difference."
She turned around and walked away, disappearing into the darkness. Bedivere stood there, staring at the spot where she had been, processing her words.
Leonel stood up, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You are not alone, Bedivere. Whatever happens, we will be by your side."
Bedivere nodded slowly. He still didn't have all the answers. But perhaps, for the first time in fifteen hundred years, he was beginning to glimpse a path.
The next morning dawned clear and cold. The sun, still low on the horizon, tinged the mountains with golden and reddish hues. Leonel was in the central square, reviewing plans with Hassan and the others, when the first screams shattered the tranquility.
"IT'S THE KNIGHTS! THEY'RE ATTACKING US!"
Panic spread like wildfire. Refugees ran in all directions, some looking for their children, others arming themselves as best they could. The Hassan appeared from the shadows, their skull masks gleaming under the morning sun.
Leonel activated his Magic Circuits instantly. "Everyone to your positions! Protect the civilians!"
Explosions began to sound. They were not conventional magical attacks, but something more precise, more lethal. Arrows of light that pierced stone walls like butter, impacting the refugees and disintegrating them instantly.
"Damn it!" shouted Mordred, drawing Clarent. "It's Tristan! His bow can pierce anything!"
And then, they saw him.
Upon a rocky formation overlooking the village, a figure was silhouetted against the sky. His hair, long and pale, waved in the wind. His armor, of a bluish white, shone with a ghostly glow. In his hands, he held a bow that was no common bow: it was a harp, whose strings, when plucked, shot arrows of light with lethal precision.
Tristan. The Knight of Lamentation. The archer of the Round Table.
But he was not alone.
From the other end of the village, a figure emerged from the flames of a burning hut. Her red armor, her crimson sword, her defiant posture. Mordred. The same one who had attacked them in the fortress. The same one who had sworn to hunt them to the end.
"I've got you!" she shouted, with a fierce smile. "You won't escape this time!"
Leonel felt his heart clench. Two Knights of the Round Table, two front-line enemies, attacking the village. And in the midst, innocent civilians who couldn't defend themselves.
"Mash!" he shouted. "Shield! Protect the refugees!"
Mash nodded and raised Lord Camelot, creating a barrier of light that covered a group of people fleeing towards the mountains. Tristan's arrows bounced off the shield, but the impact made the barrier tremble.
"She won't be able to hold out for long!" warned Mash. "His attacks are too precise!"
"Tamamo, support! Jeanne Alter, fire on Mordred! Xuanzang, Tristan!" The orders flew from Leonel's mouth with the speed of an experienced strategist. His mind, connected to Tezcatlipoca, processed the battlefield, analyzing positions, angles of attack, weak points.
But weak points were scarce.
"Both Knights are blessed by the Lion King," Tezcatlipoca reported. "Mordred maintains her neutral resistance. Tristan seems to have a continuous firing capability. He doesn't need to reload. Each pulse of his bow is an arrow."
"Any weaknesses?" asked Leonel.
"Tristan... is melancholic. His curse is his own emotion. If we can break his concentration, perhaps his shots would become erratic."
"And Mordred?"
"She remains unpredictable. But she is more focused on revenge than strategy. We can use that against her."
Leonel nodded. It wasn't much, but it was something.
"Diversion plan!" he ordered. "Hassan, I need your personalities to create chaos! Don't let Mordred know who to attack! Serenity, if you're listening, we need smoke bombs!"
From somewhere in the shadows, a voice whispered, "I'm here. Always."
Serenity had not entirely left, or she had returned upon hearing the danger. Leonel had no time to feel relieved or irritated. Only to act.
"Then move! I want those knights away from the village, far from the civilians!"
The battle was beginning. And Leonel knew this one would be the hardest yet.
But that, as he had said, was for the next episode.