Life in Chaldea, after a singularity event, always entered a peculiar period of tense calm and accelerated recovery. For Leonel Herrera, this period had become a peculiar and exhausting survival trial that didn't involve magical beasts or Demon God Pillars, but something infinitely more terrifying: the hyperactive culinary concern of his Servants.
His awakening had been the start of a new kind of battle. The battle against gruel.
During the first week of his rehabilitation, Leonel became the target of a forced-feeding campaign that would have made any military nutritionist pale. His body, emaciated after two weeks in a coma, was now a temple under reconstruction, and his "devout followers" were determined to fill that temple with offerings of all kinds.
The worst—or perhaps the most persistent—was Kiyohime.
The Berserker had self-appointed herself as the head of his nutrition. With a meticulously prepared tray in hand (which often contained strange—and potentially magical—combinations she called "dishes of eternal love"), she would appear in his room with terrifying punctuality. Her golden eyes, normally clouded by obsession, now shone with the fervent determination of a dragon mother raising her only precious child.
"Open your mouth, Master-sama," she would say, her sweet voice brooking no argument, holding a pair of chopsticks with a piece of perfectly filleted fish (or what she believed was a perfect fillet).
"Kiyohime, I really can eat on my own..." Leonel would attempt to protest, feeling like a helpless chick.
The effect was instantaneous. Kiyohime's sweet smile would freeze. An almost imperceptible tremor ran through her hands. Her pupils contracted. "Is... my food not to your liking, Master-sama?" Her tone was dangerously calm, the prelude to an emotional tsunami. "Are you saying you don't want to accept the love and dedication I've put into this dish? That my efforts are in vain? That... that you're lying to me?"
The word "lying" was the key. It was the nuclear button. Leonel, vividly remembering the blue flames of her Noble Phantasm and her fierce loyalty, would pale. He'd swallow, staring at the piece of fish that now seemed to contain the fate of all Chaldea.
"No, no! Not at all!" he'd hurry to say, opening his mouth like a fledgling about to be fed. "It looks delicious. Really, I appreciate it."
The smile would return to Kiyohime, radiant and satisfied. "I'm so glad! Then, here it comes! One for my beloved!"
And so, bite by bite, Leonel was fed, feeling alternately like a very pampered king and a prisoner in a prison of velvet and excessive devotion. Nero and Tamamo were not far behind, taking turns offering him delicacies "fit for an Emperor" or "made with a wife's love," sometimes creating an awkward competition over who got him to try their food first.
But the most surreal moment, and perhaps the one Leonel secretly enjoyed the most, was when it was Jeanne Alter's turn.
She wasn't like the others. She didn't arrive with elaborate trays or sweet smiles. She'd approach his bed or, later, the cafeteria table, with her usual "I'm here because I have nothing better to do" attitude. She'd carry a plate of perfectly normal food—a stew, a sandwich, something from Chaldea's kitchen—but the ritual was completely different.
"Here. Eat," she'd order, stabbing the chopsticks into a piece of meat with the precision of someone plunging a dagger into an enemy's heart.
Leonel, now regaining some of his strength and characteristic humor, couldn't help but smile. "Is this your version of intensive care, Jeanne Alter?"
"Shut up and chew," she'd grumble, looking away, a slight blush tinting her cheeks. "If you starve to death, Da Vinci will blame me. And I'm not taking that responsibility."
He'd open his mouth, and she, with fierce concentration as if aiming her sword, would bring the morsel close. Her movements were clumsy, almost brusque, but always careful not to hurt him. Every bite Leonel took of the food she offered was accompanied by a wide, genuine smile from him. It was a strange and endearing spectacle: the powerful Avenger, capable of reducing cities to ashes, feeding her Master with visible discomfort—but unbreakable persistence—while he looked at her with a tenderness that made her want to set something on fire, just to hide it.
"Stop smiling like an idiot," she'd growl, shoving another bite of bread into his mouth. "It's just food."
"Right, just food," Leonel would agree, his smile intact. He knew that, in Jeanne Alter's clumsy, denial-filled language, this was the equivalent of a love declaration sung by a heavenly choir.
After a week of this "nutritive torture," Leonel felt almost like new. His body had regained much of its muscle tone and the color in his face. The shadow of the defeat in London hadn't been erased, but it no longer paralyzed him. It had become a lesson seared into his memory, and the overwhelming affection of his Servants had been the balm he needed. Now, with a clear mind and renewed spirit, a new impulse arose in him: it was time to strengthen his team. Goetia's shadow was long, and three singularities lay ahead.
The rumor of a new summoning spread through Chaldea faster than gossip in a cafeteria. By the time Leonel, accompanied by a smiling Mash and a slightly nervous Roman, arrived at the summoning chamber, the place was already crowded.
It was a most picturesque spectacle. Nero was posing dramatically near the circle, as if she were the hostess of the ceremony. Tamamo watched with fox-like curiosity, her tails moving softly. Drake leaned against a wall with a mocking smile, mentally betting with herself on what would come out. Kiyohime watched the scene intently, making sure no "new spirit" harbored inappropriate intentions towards her Master. Jeanne, the saint, observed serenely, while her Alter version stood with arms crossed in a corner, feigning disinterest but with her eyes fixed on the circle. Even Mozart and Shakespeare had appeared, the former humming a suspenseful melody and the latter murmuring about "the dramatic twists of fate and the arrival of new actors to our stage."
"Quite an audience," Leonel murmured to Mash.
"They're all excited, Senpai," she replied sweetly. "And a little worried. After London... everyone wants more strong allies by your side."
Leonel nodded. He did too. He knew, from his knowledge of another life, that luck played a huge role in these summons. And as he stood in the center of the circle, feeling Chaldea's magical energy flow around him, he had a premonition. A name echoed in his mind: Mordred. The rebellious knight of the King of Knights. And with her, almost like an inevitable shadow, the possibility of Artoria Lancer Alter. The prospect of having two versions of her father/mother/self in the same room, especially one that was essentially a dark, gluttonous version of the same, was a recipe for absolute disaster. But it was a risk he had to take.
He took a deep breath, ignoring the expectant gaze of dozens of eyes. He extended his hands and began to recite the words of the incantation, the formula that bound his will to the Throne of Heroes.
"Let the Founder's Seal be active!"
The circle at his feet began to glow with a silver light.
"You are the one who guards the balance!"
Energy accumulated, making the air vibrate.
"I call your name before the void of time!"
A pillar of blinding white light rose towards the ceiling, enveloping him completely.
The glare was so intense that everyone present had to shield their eyes. Roman adjusted his glasses, nervous. Mash held her breath.
And then, from within the pillar, two silhouettes emerged.
The light dissipated to reveal the first. A figure shorter than one might expect from a Knight of the Round Table, with practical silver armor devoid of the excessive adornments of others. She wore her helmet closed, with its distinctive horn, but an aura of pure effervescence and rebellion emanated from her. A red cloak hung from her shoulders. It was Mordred, Son of the King of Knights.
"Ha! Finally! A Master who isn't a total weakling—" her voice began, distorted by the helmet, as she shook off the residual glow of the summoning. Her eyes scanned the room, stopping on Leonel with a mix of curiosity and approval. But then, her gaze shifted to the second figure materializing beside her.
And the world stopped.
The second Servant was taller, imposing. Her armor was black as night, with sinister golden details. She wore a black dress under the armor and a black cloak. In her hands she held a black spear that exuded an aura of absolute cold and darkness. Her hair was silver, and her eyes, of a frozen gold, settled first on Leonel and then, with instant recognition and laden with disdain, on Mordred. It was Artoria Pendragon, not the Saber of the Holy Grail, but Lancer Alter, the distorted, power-hungry version.
A sepulchral silence filled the room. The hum of Chaldea's systems could be heard.
Mordred's helmet retracted with a metallic click, revealing a face strikingly similar to Artoria's, but with a wild, scarred expression. Her green eyes widened, first in disbelief and then with pure, unadulterated rage.
"YOU!" she roared, her voice a thunderclap of accumulated hatred. Her sword, Clarent, appeared in her hand in a flash of bloody red light. "FATHER! OR... MOTHER! OR... WHATEVER YOU ARE! DIE!"
Without even waiting for an explanation, Mordred launched herself like a human projectile towards Artoria Lancer Alter, her sword raised for a decapitating blow.
"Mordred, wait!" Leonel shouted, but it was like trying to stop an avalanche with a spoon.
Artoria Lancer Alter didn't even flinch. Her cold eyes followed Mordred's charge with the boredom of someone watching an annoying mosquito approach. With an almost lazy motion, she raised her spear, Rhongomyniad.
"Noisy insect," she murmured in a deep, serene voice that chilled the blood.
The clash between sword and spear was about to happen, but at that precise instant, Leonel, acting on pure instinct and desperation, stepped between them.
"STOP!"
Both Servants stopped dead in their tracks, their weapons centimeters from his body. The shock of seeing their newly summoned Master risking his life that way paralyzed them for a second.
"Get out of the way, Master!" Mordred yelled, her eyes blazing with fury. "That imposter must pay!"
"Your interference is unnecessary, Master," said Artoria Alter, her voice icy. "Allow me to eliminate this... nuisance."
Leonel, his heart pounding a mile a minute, took a deep breath. This was even worse than he had imagined. He looked at Mordred, whom he knew was more susceptible to calls to loyalty and recognition.
"Mordred," he said, with all the calm he could muster. "You are my Servant now. I am your Master. And as your Master, I order you to lower your sword. She is not your enemy here. Or, at least, she won't be if you obey me."
Mordred looked at him, confused and furious. "But it's her!"
"It's a version of her, yes. But not the one you know. And she is not your king here. I am your commander now. Are you going to disobey your new Master's first order?"
The question had an effect. Mordred's code of chivalry, however distorted, clashed with her visceral hatred. She growled, lowering Clarent a few centimeters, but not sheathing it. "This isn't over."
Leonel then turned to Artoria Lancer Alter. This was more complicated. She wasn't moved by chivalric loyalty, but by cold logic and perpetual hunger. He knew, from his prior knowledge, this particular version's weak point. It was a risk, an absurd gamble, but it was the only card he had.
"And you, Artoria Pendragon Lancer Alter," he said, keeping his voice firm. "Lower your spear."
She looked at him with her impassive golden eyes. "Give me a reason to, human. I feel no obligation towards you yet."
Leonel allowed a small smile, the smile of a gambler about to bet everything on one card. "I offer you a deal. Lower the spear, don't eliminate Mordred, and in exchange..." He paused dramatically, knowing every gaze in the room was fixed on him. "...I guarantee you an unlimited, highest-quality supply of... hamburgers."
The silence that followed was even deeper than before. It seemed even Chaldea's ventilation systems had stopped.
Roman's jaw dropped. Mash blinked, confused. Nero seemed offended by the mere mention of such a plebeian dish. Drake let out a choked laugh.
But it was Artoria Lancer Alter's reaction that froze everyone.
Her eyes, previously cold and impassive, widened slightly. A flicker of something that was neither hate nor disdain, but genuine and voracious interest, crossed her face. Her nose seemed to flare slightly, as if she could smell the promise of meat, bread, and sauce through the sterile air of the summoning chamber.
"Hamburgers..." she repeated, her voice losing a sliver of its coldness. "Unlimited? Highest quality?"
"With cheese, lettuce, tomato, bacon, and our Chaldea chef's secret sauce," Leonel added, sweetening the deal like a fisherman adding bait to the hook. "And fries. Large. Crispy on the outside, tender on the inside."
Artoria Alter slowly lowered her spear. The tip of it tapped the floor with a soft clack that echoed in the silence. She looked at Mordred, who was watching her with a mixture of disbelief and contained rage, and then back at Leonel.
"Acceptable," she declared with the solemnity of someone signing a peace treaty. "The rebellious creature may live. For now." Her gaze fixed back on Leonel. "I demand the first hamburger as a down payment. Immediately."
Leonel felt his legs go weak with relief. It had worked! The miracle of the hamburger had saved Chaldea from a civil war!
"Deal!" he said, almost laughing at the absurdity of it all.
Mordred stared at the scene, completely disoriented. "Seriously? A hamburger?? That's what my life is worth to her??"
"Shut up, brat!" Artoria Alter snapped, now completely distracted by the culinary prospects. "Master, lead the way. My stomach demands its tribute."
And so, the tension broke. The room erupted in a mix of laughter, sighs of relief, and amused comments. Drake was laughing uproariously, holding her stomach. Tamamo murmured "men and their fast food..." with a smile. Jeanne Alter, in her corner, let out a "pathetic" that sounded more like relief than disdain.
Leonel, surrounded by his growing and chaotic family, looked up at the sky—or at Chaldea's ceiling—and whispered a "thank you" to whatever entity, god, or simple whim of fate had granted him that small, greasy show of mercy. The summoning had been a success. He had gained two immensely powerful new allies. And, against all odds, he still had a roof over his head.
As he guided a determined Artoria Lancer Alter towards the cafeterias, with a confused and grumbling Mordred following closely behind (promising revenge "later"), he knew the next few days in Chaldea would be anything but boring. But after the darkness of London, this bright, life-filled chaos was exactly what he needed. The road ahead was dangerous, but with a team like this, anything seemed possible. Including, apparently, negotiating peace with hamburgers.