Days in Chaldea had taken on a new rhythm, an unrelenting cadence marked by the imagined whistle of a warrior queen. For Leonel Herrera, what was once a haven of relative (if chaotic) domestic peace had transformed into an endless training ground. And in the back of his mind, when exhaustion allowed him to think clearly, nested a comical, almost pathetic sadness for the definitive loss of his normal life.
"Normal" was a relative term, of course. Before Scáthach, "normal" meant walks along Chaldea's illuminated corridors with Mash, discussing strategy or simply enjoying shared silence. It meant extravagant dates with Nero in her recreated Domus Aurea within the simulator, where she would recite poetry or stage one-person plays (featuring him) about her exploits. It meant afternoons curled up with Tamamo in her chambers, the warmth of her tails and the scent of incense and home-cooked food creating a bubble of home amidst the apocalypse. It meant flirtations heavy with double entendres with Drake at the bar, furtive and passionate kisses with Kiyohime in some quiet (or not so quiet) corner, and even the awkward but genuine interactions with Jeanne Alter, where an insult could hide a caress and a complaint, a veiled confession.
There were kisses. There were caresses. There were moments of sweet, fiery, or possessive intimacy that made the weight of being the last Master feel, for a few instants, like a worthy price to pay. It was the distorted dream of any man with a harem: to be loved, desired, and protected by a group of extraordinary women, each unique in their expression of affection.
Scáthach had taken that dream and used it to stoke the fires of her own training furnace.
Now, "normal" meant being awakened each morning not by the soft light of the simulated illumination system, nor by the tender whisper of a lover, but by a cold and immutable presence at his bedside. Scáthach never touched the alarm. She was simply there, standing, her arms crossed, her crimson eyes glowing in the dim light like those of a nocturnal predator. She didn't say "good morning." She said, "Get up. You have five minutes."
Training began before the simulated dawn. It wasn't conventional physical exercise. It was a brutal mixture of Celtic martial arts, meditation for magical control under extreme pressure, and endurance exercises designed to push him to his limit again and again. Scáthach was a merciless instructor. She corrected with the precision of a surgeon and the force of a hammer. A poorly placed foot sweep was "corrected" with a sweep that left him on the floor, breathless. A faltering mana flow was "stimulated" with a discharge of dark runes that made his Magic Circuits burn. She didn't aim to permanently injure him, but her definition of "acceptable injury" was alarmingly broad.
"Pain is an excellent teacher," she told him once, while bandaging a sprained wrist with impersonal efficiency. "You remember a lesson that hurts better. And in the Land of Shadows, a mistake hurts much more than this."
Leonel regretted, with all his soul, the loss of his lazy mornings, of having a leisurely breakfast being pampered by Tamamo or being dragged to an "imperial breakfast party" by Nero. Now he ate high-energy nutritional bars while Scáthach explained the principles of magical armor penetration.
Scáthach's territoriality was another monster. At first, she had tried to claim all his time, treating their training sessions as exclusive, sacred appointments. The others, of course, rebelled. It was a chaotic, comical, and ultimately effective rebellion by sheer volume.
There was a tense meeting in the common room. On one side, Scáthach, unflappable, arguing that training time was inviolable to forge humanity's savior. On the other, a united (but noisily discordant) front of jealous women.
"My Praetor needs time for art and beauty, not just for punching sandbags!" declared Nero.
"The warmth of home and mental rest are crucial for his magical recovery!" argued Tamamo, with a logic that had Nightingale nodding in the background, though for different reasons.
"Anchin-sama must receive my love or he will wither!" shouted Kiyohime.
"If he turns into a muscular furniture with no personality, what's the point!?" added Jeanne Alter, disguising her concern with insults.
Even Mash, with her steely sweetness, said, "Senpai also needs time to be... just Senpai. Not just a disciple."
It was a war of attrition. Scáthach, for the first time, found herself in a battle she couldn't win with strength alone. The numerical logic and emotional persistence of her "rivals" were a swarm against which even Gáe Bolg was useless. With a disdainful snort that barely concealed a hint of respect for the others' tenacity, she gave in. Reluctantly.
A schedule was established. A sacred and contentious document, stuck on the cafeteria fridge door and copied to the tablets of all interested parties. It detailed, with the precision of a post-world-war peace treaty, Leonel's hours. The early mornings until noon were Scáthach's undisputed territory: "Training and Survival." The afternoons were divided into "Quality Time" blocks assigned to each of his other fiancées. The nights were, in theory, free, though they often ended up being ambushed by whoever had a jealousy crisis or a "spontaneous" idea for a date.
Leonel felt like a scarce resource, a precious and horribly scheduled commodity. He missed the spontaneity. He missed falling asleep with Tamamo without an internal alarm screaming that in six hours, Scáthach would be by his bed. But, in a corner of his mind not occupied by lamenting or planning the next brutal stretching session, he couldn't deny the truth: he was improving.
Under Scáthach's ruthless tutelage, his body became faster, tougher, more self-aware. His control over his mana, once a torrent he directed with will but little finesse, was being refined. He learned to channel precisely, to conserve energy, to sense the magical currents around him. Even his synchronization with Tezcatlipoca, his Persona, benefited. Scáthach didn't understand the exact nature of the Wild Card, but she perceived the spiritual entity as an extension of his being. She made him practice quickly summoning and dismissing Tezcatlipoca under physical stress, forcing a deeper, reflexive integration.
He couldn't hate her. For every moment of physical agony, for every drop of sweat and every trembling muscle, there was a tangible gain. Scáthach, in her own twisted way, was helping him. She was forging him into something more capable of surviving the catastrophes to come. And that truth, bitter and bruised, settled in his stomach alongside the nostalgia for his peaceful days.
This morning had been no different. Scáthach had woken him at 4:30 AM. A running session in the mountain landscape simulator, followed by sparring with wooden weapons where she had knocked him down three times (an improvement: last week it was seven). Then, magical resistance exercises, holding a runic shield while she hurled low-intensity (but painfully impactful) energy projectiles at him. By 11:00 AM, Leonel was wrecked, drenched in sweat, his mind fogged by fatigue.
"Enough for today," Scáthach said, watching him slump against a virtual wall. "Your endurance improves. Slowly, but it improves. Go eat. Recover your energy. Your... other schedule begins soon."
There was a hint of something in her voice when she said "other schedule." Not open jealousy, but a kind of resigned disapproval, as if she saw the others as a set of pleasant but unnecessary distractions. Leonel didn't have the energy to respond. He just nodded, panting.
And so, half an hour later, bathed and dressed in clean clothes but walking as if his bones were made of jelly, he headed to Chaldea's main cafeteria. He wasn't alone. He was escorted.
On his right, with her arm linked in his with a cheerful, slightly theatrical possessiveness, was Nero Claudius. She wore a white and gold dress that seemed more appropriate for a gala dinner than for lunch in a secret facility cafeteria, but she radiated happiness. "Oh, Praetor! Finally, the sun of my day shines! Those morning shadows are necessary, I understand, but now is the time for the Empire's splendor... and its Empress!"
On his left, walking with feline grace and a serene but equally possessive smile, was Tamamo no Mae. Her arm was also linked with Leonel's, and one of her tails had gently coiled around his waist, a soft but undeniable mark of ownership. "Mikon~ Certainly, training is important, husband, but a strong body also needs a nourished spirit. And nothing nourishes the spirit like a meal prepared with love and the right company."
Today was their turn on the calendar. "Lunch and Leisure Afternoon: Nero & Tamamo (Mutual Supervision Approved)." The "mutual supervision" was a clause added after an incident last week where Kiyohime, during her time block, had tried to drag Leonel to an "eternal union ceremony" in the ventilation shafts. Now, group dates or dates with tacit supervision were the norm, to "maintain sanity and the structural safety of Chaldea," as Da Vinci had ruled with a smile.
As they walked, Leonel couldn't help but remember yesterday's "turn." It had been assigned to Jeanne Alter and Francis Drake. And let's just say the interaction was... interesting.
The cafeteria, at that hour, was relatively empty. Drake, true to her style, already had a jug of foamy beer (where did she get it? No one knew, nor wanted to ask) in front of her. Jeanne Alter sat rigidly beside her, drinking coffee as black as her soul, pretending not to be mortified by the situation.
Drake, seeing Leonel approach, shot him a smile that was pure sailor's mischief. "Ah, the captain! Come on, park your stern here. Your first mate and your... uh, emotional gunner with mixed feelings are waiting for you."
Jeanne Alter scoffed. "I'm not his 'gunner' of anything. I'm only here because the stupid schedule says so. And because if I didn't come, the fox or the crazy empress would complain."
The "date" began with Drake monopolizing the conversation with exaggerated stories of plunder and treasure, always accompanied by lewd insinuations directed at Leonel. "You know, boy? A good captain knows how to appreciate all riches... including the ones sitting at his table." She winked at Jeanne Alter, who turned red with anger and embarrassment.
Then, Drake decided to escalate. She leaned over the table, her cleavage (always generous) becoming the gravitational center of the conversation. "This drink is fine, but there are much more... intense flavors to explore." Her gaze swept over Leonel from head to toe, and then she placed her fingers on her own collarbone suggestively. "An experienced captain knows how to make a rookie sailor... navigate stormy waters."
Leonel, though tired from training, was not immune. Drake had a raw charisma and a sexual confidence that was impossible to ignore. He felt drawn, like a ship to a whirlpool.
That's when Jeanne Alter exploded. Or rather, imploded from jealousy and then acted. Seeing Leonel's gaze fix on Drake's cleavage and the pirate's triumphant smile, something broke inside her tsundere facade.
"ENOUGH!!" she shouted, jumping up. Her eyes blazed with real fire. "Don't you dare corrupt him with your... your cheap pirate tactics!" And then, in an impulsive and clumsy move, she grabbed Leonel by the shoulders, turned him towards her, and... hugged him tightly.
It wasn't just any hug. It was a desperate move of protection and jealous possession. And due to the force and clumsiness of the gesture, Leonel's face ended up buried directly in Jeanne Alter's generous cleavage.
An awkward, electric silence fell over the table. Leonel, trapped, remained motionless. His mind, already fatigued, went completely blank. There was only sensation: the softness of her clothing material, the warmth of her skin beneath, the scent of smoke, ash, and something inexplicably sweet that was unique to her. It was a moment of pure, involuntary paradise.
Jeanne Alter, for her part, froze. Her brain took a few seconds to process what she had done. She felt Leonel's breath through the fabric, the heat of his face against her chest. The reality of the intimate contact, unsought but tremendously effective, hit her like a cannonball.
When she reacted, it was like a released spring. She let go of Leonel as if he burned, jumping back three steps. Her face wasn't simply blushing; it was a pyrotechnic display of shame and fury. A scarlet red so intense it could have made a ripe tomato pale, competed with Chaldea's fire alarms and won.
"Y-YOU! YOU! PERVERT! IDIOT! THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT!!" she stammered, her voice broken by agitation. Her hands flailed in the air, not knowing what to do. Then, with a choked cry that was half rage, half absolute panic, she spun on her heels and ran out of the cafeteria, leaving behind a trail of black smoke of shame.
Drake, who had watched the whole scene with eyes wide as saucers, burst into monumental laughter. She laughed so hard she had to hold her stomach, tears welling in her eyes. "HAHAHAHA!! By the seven seas, I can't believe it!! The fire-and-brimstone girl melted faster than ice cream in hell! And you, boy! What a funny crew you have!"
Leonel, still stunned by the sensory experience and Jeanne Alter's flight, could only stand there, his face hot, the memory of the softness still indelible.
Drake, seeing him vulnerable and perhaps feeling the opportunity was too good to pass up, stood up. Her laughter softened into a smile laden with promises. She approached him, placing her hands on his shoulders. "Well, well. The poor girl got scared. But a real captain doesn't run." Her voice was a hoarse, seductive whisper. "If you liked that... sample, imagine the full loot."
And then, in a much more deliberate and expert move than Jeanne Alter's clumsy one, Drake hugged Leonel, pulling him against her body. Her embrace was strong, confident, and her cleavage, if possible, was even more daring. She guided Leonel's head towards her chest, offering the same "pillow" but with clear, consensual intent. "No need to be shy, captain. The sea is for sailing... and a good treasure, for plundering." She whispered in his ear, her breath smelling of beer and adventure. "My hands are ready to teach you the knots... and to untie them. If you catch my drift."
Leonel, his moral resistance already weakened by training, the previous shock, and Drake's overwhelming presence, felt tempted. Seriously tempted. Drake was a force of nature, a woman who took what she wanted without complexes. And at that moment, she was offering a very different kind of "training" from Scáthach's. One involving less pain and more... exploration.
He knew, in a rational corner of his mind, that if he gave in, if he allowed his hands to wander or accepted the veiled invitation, there would be no turning back. Drake didn't do half measures. If he "plundered" her, she would "plunder" him completely, taking him on a whirlwind of unrestricted passion that would likely include adult games, nocturnal adventures in Chaldea's most unlikely corners, and a corruption of his "purity" that would be total and, probably, very, very enjoyable.
He was on the edge. His heart pounded. Drake's heat, her scent of salt and freedom, the promise in her eyes...
That's when the cafeteria door opened with a dry creak.
There was no need to look. A wave of cold, absolute authority, and pure danger flooded the room. Drake felt the presence and lifted her head from Leonel's shoulder to look, an eyebrow arched in curiosity.
There, in the doorway, was Scáthach. She didn't seem angry. She seemed... dangerously calm. Her crimson eyes scanned the scene: Leonel in Drake's embrace, his face still close to the pirate's cleavage, the look of temptation in his eyes.
She didn't say a word. She just walked towards them, her steps silent but echoing on the floor. Drake, with a defiant but intelligent smile, slowly released Leonel. "Well, well. The strict instructor. Did you come to join the party?"
Scáthach ignored the comment. Her hand reached out and closed around Leonel's wrist with the same inescapable firmness as always. "Your 'leisure' time ended three minutes ago," she said, her voice flat as a slab. "You have post-training recovery exercises."
Without giving him time to protest, Drake time to object, or Leonel time to catch his breath, she dragged him out of the cafeteria. Drake watched them go, then shrugged, a playful smile still on her lips. "Another day, then, captain. The treasure isn't going to run away." And she went back to her beer, completely unfazed. For her, there was no hurry. Chaldea was a closed ship, and she was patient. She could "plunder and corrupt" her Master whenever she wanted.
For Leonel, the journey from the cafeteria was a mix of relief (he had been rescued from a decision that could have further inflamed his life) and growing terror. Scáthach wasn't pulling him with brute force, but her grip was undeniable, and her silence was worse than any scolding.
She didn't take him to the training grounds. She led him to a deserted stretch of one of the maintenance corridors, away from the common areas. There, she finally stopped and released him.
Leonel rubbed his wrist, waiting. Scáthach didn't turn immediately. She contemplated the metal wall for a moment, and Leonel could almost feel the intensity radiating from her, like the heat from a furnace just before opening the door.
Slowly, she turned. And then, Leonel saw her eyes.
They were the same crimson eyes, beautiful and exotic, but now exuding an aura that promised pain. Not the physical pain of training, but something more personal, more piercing. A profound disappointment and a silent warning. Leonel, instinctively, started to sweat cold.
Scáthach began to walk towards him. Not with the speed of combat, but with a slow, deliberate gait, each step a hammer blow in the corridor's silence. Each step made the air denser.
"I have been quite patient, Leonel," she began, her voice a low whisper that cut like the edge of Gáe Bolg. "I accept your... bonds with your other Servants. I understand they came first. I have been flexible, from the depths of my heart, with you and with them. Because they are part of your path, of your strength."
Leonel, not knowing why, began to back away. She advanced, he retreated. It was a slow, ominous dance.
"But..." she continued, and the word fell like a slab of granite. "There is a line." Another step. Leonel, his back already touching a corner of the corridor, retreated into a dead-end side passage. "I have ceded time. I have accepted a schedule. I have allowed you to share your hours, your smile, your... attention with them."
Leonel kept backing away, but now the space was narrowing. The white and blue walls of Chaldea seemed to close in around him. Scáthach's aura enveloped him, cold and suffocating.
"But what I will not tolerate..." she said, and now she was only a meter away, her eyes locked on his, trapping him, "...is you setting me aside. That my time, my place, my right over you, be ignored or belittled by a... drunken pirate and her cheap seduction games."
Kabedon!
But not the typical kabedon, where the dominant man places his hands on either side of the woman against a wall. No. Here, the roles were dramatically reversed.
Scáthach raised both arms and slammed her palms against the wall, one on each side of Leonel's head, completely enclosing him. The impact wasn't loud, but it was definitive. Leonel was trapped in a cage formed by her arms and her intense presence. Her gaze was inescapable. He could see every detail of her eyes, the line of her lips, the absolute determination in her features.
Leonel, cornered, felt all his strategic skills, his leadership, his connection with Tezcatlipoca, evaporate. Faced with this personal force of nature, he felt like the insecure young man who arrived at Chaldea. The fear of disappointing her, of angering her, was sharper than the fear of any enemy.
"I... I didn't..." he stammered.
"Didn't, what?" asked Scáthach, her voice still low, but now with a dangerous edge. "Didn't intend to? Didn't notice? Stop backing away, Leonel. Stop dodging this. My patience, though longer than the lifespan of nations, is not infinite."
Leonel swallowed. There was no escape. Literally or figuratively. He saw in her eyes that this was a breaking point. He could feel the intensity of her claim, a mixture of possessive desire, mentor's responsibility, and something more, an ancient loneliness that saw in him a reflection and a consort.
With a last effort of will, he gathered his thoughts. It wasn't the time for logic. It was the time for tactical surrender. He lowered his head in a gesture of submission, not servile, but respectful.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice firm despite the internal tremor. "You're right. I got carried away. Your time, your... place, are important. I promise, I won't belittle it again. I'll do... whatever you ask."
It was the apology and the promise she sought. He saw how the storm-charged, intense eyes of Scáthach softened. Not much, but enough. The brutal tension in the air decreased a degree. And then, a victorious, slow, and satisfied smile spread across her lips.
It was at that instant, seeing that smile, that Leonel realized. He had fallen into a trap. Not a physical one, but an emotional one. Scáthach might have been genuinely upset, but she had also orchestrated this, used her advance, her kabedon, her intimidation, to force a concession, a recognition of her "right" over him. It was a masterstroke of tactical manipulation applied to personal relationships.
Before he could reproach himself for his naivety, Scáthach leaned in. The victorious smile was still on her lips.
"Then," she murmured, her cool breath grazing his skin, "bon appétit."
And she kissed him.
It wasn't like the kiss in the Summoning Room, which was a public declaration. This one was private, intense, and utterly savage. It was a kiss claiming the promise he had just made. Her lips moved against his with fierce demand, her hands left the wall to tangle in his hair, pulling slightly to tilt his head to the angle she wanted. There was hunger in that kiss, an ancient need and a possession asserting itself.
Leonel, trapped physically and emotionally, couldn't resist. He responded, at first from surprise, then, in spite of himself, with growing reciprocity. Fear mixed with attraction, submission with a latent desire that had always been there, buried under fear and respect.
Scáthach kissed him until she was satisfied, until she felt her mark was imprinted not just on his lips, but on his will. When she finally pulled away, Leonel's lips were red, swollen from the pressure, and stained with the faint lipstick she wore, a dark purple almost black.
But she wasn't finished. As a final seal, as a perpetual reminder of their first encounter, she lowered her head and bit his lower lip. Not as hard as the first time, but enough for a fresh sting of pain, familiar and sensual, to shoot through Leonel. A new drop of blood, his blood, glistened on her lip.
Satisfied, Scáthach stepped back completely. She ran her tongue over her own lips, cleaning the blood, her gaze on Leonel one of absolute triumph and a renewed promise. "Remember your promise, disciple. And remember my mark."
Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away down the corridor, her silhouette disappearing around the corner, leaving Leonel alone, panting, his lips burning and marked, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.
He slowly slid down, his back slipping along the wall until he sat on the cold floor. He touched his lips with his fingers, feeling the swelling, the sting of the bite, the taste of iron and of her.
What is happening to my life? he thought, with black humor. If this continued, the prediction was clear: he wouldn't die on a glorious battlefield against a Demon God Pillar or Goetia. He would die, slowly and sweetly, in the hands (and mouths) of one of his Servant girlfriends when they got too intense. Scáthach had just raised the bar of "intensity" to a stratospheric level. What would be next? A kidnapping by Kiyohime for an "eternal honeymoon" in a boiler room? A declaration of love from Tamamo accompanied by an irreversible spiritual union spell? An attempt by Jeanne Alter to "incinerate" the competition, literally?
It was too much. Too much love, too much possession, too much... life crammed into the scarce moments of peace between catastrophes.
It was at that moment of existential reflection and sore lips when, suddenly, Chaldea's sirens blared.
It was a sound distinct from training alarms or internal emergency alerts. It was the deep, urgent, piercing tone that meant only one thing: they had located a new Singularity.
Leonel blinked, the sound shaking him from his self-pitying reverie. Duty called. Humanity, once again, hung by a thread. With a groan, he got to his feet. The exhaustion from training, the emotional confusion, the taste of blood in his mouth... all were relegated to the background. There was a job to do. Tamamo and Nero followed him through the corridors as the alarms sounded.
He headed towards the Command Center, his steps gaining firmness with each one. But as he walked, a persistent thought fluttered in his mind: his lips. They were still red, marked, evident. If he washed them, if he tried to erase the signs of the kiss and the bite, and Scáthach saw him without them...
A mental image of the Queen of the Land of Shadow, with a raised eyebrow and that dangerous smile, was enough. No. Better to leave them as they were. It was a small surrender, a tacit acknowledgment of her power over him. A walking reminder that, even as he prepared to save the world, his personal life was an emotional and sensual minefield from which he would never, ever escape.
With lips still burning and his determination renewed by the call of duty, Leonel Herrera, the last Master, entered the Command Center, ready to face the next threat to history. Ready for Camelot. And, unknowingly, ready for his already complicated life to take a new turn towards the epic, the tragic, and the profoundly, irrevocably, chaotic.