The path that led to the Hassan village was narrow and winding, snaking between rock formations that stood like silent sentinels. Leonel walked behind Hassan of the Cursed Arm, his guide, while the rest of the group followed in close formation. On either side, shadows moved among the rocks: other Hassans, watchmen, observing their every move with eyes that needed no mask to hide their mistrust.
But when the path opened up and the village appeared before them, Leonel felt the air escape from his lungs.
It was not what he expected.
Instead of an austere, military camp, the Hassan village was... a home. Stone and wood houses, humble but sturdy, clustered around a central square. Bonfires burned at strategic points, providing warmth and light. And among those houses, people walked.
Real people. Not Servants, not soldiers. Ordinary people.
There were children running between the adults' legs, their laughter echoing through the mountain air like a forbidden melody. Young women and old women wove on their house porches, their skilled hands moving with the cadence of habit. Men worked wood or stone, building, repairing, keeping the rhythm of the community alive. Elders sat near the bonfires, hands extended toward the warmth, their faces marked by weariness but also by something Leonel did not expect to find in an assassin's refuge: peace.
"They are... survivors of the Holy Selection," explained Hassan of the Cursed Arm, his voice behind the mask heavy with restrained grief. "Those we managed to rescue before the Knights could reach them. Or those who fled on their own and found refuge among us."
Leonel counted quickly. There were perhaps fifty people, maybe more. Young children clinging to their mothers' skirts, adolescents with eyes too old for their age, elders who had seen too much to remain naive. Each of them carried in their eyes the memory of the massacre, of those who hadn't managed to escape.
A woman with a baby in her arms passed near them, and upon seeing Artoria Lancer Alter, her face paled. Instinctively, she pressed the child against her chest and quickened her pace. Artoria showed no reaction, but Leonel saw how her fingers tightened slightly around her lance.
"Understand their fear," said Hassan, observing the scene. "For them, the black armor, the knights, everything that recalls Camelot, is synonymous with death. They cannot distinguish between one version and another."
"I don't blame her," Artoria replied, her voice flat but with a nuance Leonel recognized as... regret? "What the Knights did... what the Lion King did... is unforgivable."
They continued walking, crossing the village. The inhabitants watched them with curiosity and fear, whispering among themselves. But when they saw Bedivere, some of the elders made gestures of respect, bowing their heads slightly. The silver knight had been seen before in these lands, fighting alone against the Knights, saving whoever he could.
"Bedivere," murmured an old woman, her voice trembling. "The knight who never gives up. May the gods bless him."
Bedivere lowered his gaze, his shoulders hunched under the weight of a gratitude he felt he didn't deserve.
Finally, they reached a structure larger than the others, a kind of communal hall with a high ceiling and stone walls. Inside, a long wooden table, and at the back, a hearth where a constant fire burned.
"Please, sit," said Hassan, indicating the table. "We must talk."
Leonel took a seat, with Mash on his right and Tamamo on his left. The other Servants distributed themselves around the table, some sitting, others standing against the walls. Bedivere sat next to Leonel, his gaze lost in the fire.
Hassan of the Cursed Arm positioned himself at the front, his arms crossed over his chest. Beside him, two other Hassans had appeared from the shadows: one with a skull mask that seemed to smile, another with a mask that wept. They watched in silence, evaluating.
"I will ask you a direct question," Hassan began, his voice resonating in the hall. "Whose side are you on? The Lion King and his Knights? The Pharaoh Ozymandias and his kingdom of sand? Or do you come on your own?"
Leonel did not hesitate. "We are not with the Lion King. That became clear today, when we faced Gawain to protect the innocent." His voice was firm. "We are not with Ozymandias either. We know nothing of him yet. We come on our own, and we seek allies to stop this madness."
Hassan nodded slowly. "That is what I wanted to hear."
He took a seat across from Leonel, and for a moment, the mask seemed to look directly into his eyes. "I will tell you what has happened in this land. So that you understand the monster you are facing."
The story Hassan told was long and grim.
It all began with a Holy Grail War. Not the one Leonel knew from Fuyuki, but a different one, distorted, summoned in the Holy Land at a time that should never have existed. Seven Servants, seven Masters, the Grail as the prize. A war like so many others.
But something went wrong.
Artoria Pendragon, the Lancer version, was summoned. And instead of simply being another warrior queen, something in her Saint Graph resonated with the lance Rhongomyniad in a way that should never have happened. The lance, the pillar that sustains the world, began to change her. To elevate her. To strip her of her humanity.
"She did not win the Grail War," said Hassan, his fingers drumming on the table. "She annihilated it. She killed all the Servants. She killed all the Masters. She took the Grail for herself and, with its power, created a copy of Camelot in this land. Not a kingdom, but a prison. A place where the 'pure' could be preserved, and the 'impure' could be eliminated."
"And the Knights?" asked Mordred, her voice tense. "Gawain, Lancelot, Tristan... how did they end up serving her?"
Hassan was silent for a moment. "They were summoned afterward. Perhaps by the Grail, perhaps by the Lion King's will. But when they arrived, they were already... different. They were not under a spell, not controlled. Simply, their loyalty had been distorted. For them, the Lion King's justice was the only possible justice. Purity was the only path. And their swords, their lances, their bows... became tools of that 'justice.'"
Bedivere, who had been silent, finally spoke. His voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the air like a sword.
"Did none of them try to stop her? Did none of them rebel? Did none remember what it meant to be a knight?"
Hassan looked at him, and in his eyes behind the mask there was unexpected compassion. "Some tried. At first. But the Lion King's power is... overwhelming. And the lance Rhongomyniad, the divine authority it confers, is capable of bending even the strongest wills. Over time, those who resisted were... eliminated. Or they surrendered. Now only those who accepted remain."
A heavy silence fell over the hall. Leonel saw how Bedivere clenched his fists under the table, how his knuckles turned white.
"But not all the summoned Servants were corrupted," Hassan continued, changing the subject. "Some managed to escape. Others were summoned later, when the distortion was already established, and chose to resist."
"Like you," said Leonel.
"Like me," Hassan nodded. "I was summoned some... time ago. I don't know how long. Time here is confusing. But since then, I have been doing what I can. Saving who I can. Gathering those who dare to resist."
"Hassan of the Cursed Arm mentioned another Servant," Tamamo interjected, who had been listening attentively. "He said an archer named Arash was summoned and that other Hassans followed him. Where are they?"
Hassan paused. "Arash is in the eastern mountains, exploring, looking for safe routes to evacuate refugees if necessary. The other Hassans... are scattered across the territory, monitoring the movements of Camelot and the Pharaoh. We are few, but we are fast. And in the mountains, speed and stealth are worth more than brute force."
"And Ozymandias?" asked Jeanne Ruler, who had been silent until now. "What role does he play in all this?"
Hassan's expression darkened visibly, even through the mask. "Ozymandias, the Divine Pharaoh, was summoned as part of the original Grail War. But when the Lion King seized power, he withdrew to his own domain, to the east, and built his own kingdom. He is not an ally, but neither is he an open enemy. At least, not for now."
"In what sense?" asked Leonel, though he already knew.
"Ozymandias is proud. Arrogant. He does not accept that another divine king pretends to rule over him. He has declared his territory independent, and so far, the Lion King has not tried to invade it. Perhaps because she knows that facing a Pharaoh in his own domain would be... costly. Perhaps because she waits for the right moment. But it is only a matter of time before conflict erupts."
"And when that happens," said Mordred, "those of us in the middle will be crushed."
"Exactly," Hassan confirmed. "That is why we need to act before. If we can find a way to weaken the Lion King, to break her control over the Knights, perhaps we can tip the scales. And then, perhaps, we can negotiate with Ozymandias, or face him if necessary."
Leonel nodded slowly. It all matched what he remembered from the game. But there was one key piece he had not yet mentioned.
"Bedivere," he said, turning to the knight. "You have been in this land longer than us. You have seen the Lion King, you have seen the Knights. Is there any weakness? Any weak point we can exploit?"
Bedivere lifted his gaze, his tired eyes but focused. "Gawain is invincible under the sun. But when it sets, his power diminishes. He is not vulnerable, but he is... less invincible. Lancelot is more dangerous in close combat, but his loyalty to the Lion King is... complicated. Tristan... Tristan is blinded by his own melancholy. He does not listen, does not see. He only obeys."
"And the Lion King," Leonel insisted. "Any weakness?"
Bedivere closed his eyes. "Her weakness... is the same she always had. Doubt. Remorse. What makes her divine is what protects her from those feelings. If we could make her remember what she was before, what it meant to be human..." He opened his eyes and looked at Leonel with an intensity that surprised him. "But I do not know how. Perhaps it cannot be done."
"It can be done," Leonel said with conviction. "And you, Bedivere, are the key. Excalibur in your arm is not just a weapon. It is a memory. A reminder of what King Arthur was. Of what she should be."
The hall fell silent. Everyone looked at Bedivere, and in their eyes, the knight saw something he did not expect: hope.
"I... I do not know if I can," he murmured, his voice broken. "I have failed once. I do not know if I deserve..."
"The one who deserves is not the one who does not fail," Leonel interrupted him. "It is the one who, after failing, keeps going. And you have been going forward for fifteen hundred years. Carrying your guilt, but never giving up. That is more than most can say."
Bedivere looked at him, and for an instant, something shone in his eyes. Something that might be determination.
"I will do what I can," he said finally. "For my king. For humanity. For all those who have fallen."
The conversation continued for a while longer. Hassan explained the current situation of the alliance: the resources, the limitations, the possible movements of Camelot and Ozymandias's kingdom. Leonel listened attentively, taking mental notes, processing the information through the filter of what he already knew.
When the meeting ended, Hassan stood up. "It is late. You will rest here tonight. Tomorrow, if you wish, you can meet Arash when he returns from his exploration. He knows better than I the movements of the armies."
They thanked him for the hospitality. Hassan assigned one of the younger Hassans to guide them to the cabins that had been prepared for them.
Before leaving, Leonel paused. "One question, Hassan. Why are you helping us? You could have rejected us, or even attacked us. But you brought us here, you told us about your alliance, you offered us refuge. Why?"
Hassan turned, his mask inscrutable. "Because I have seen you. In the Holy Selection. When most fled, you stayed. When Gawain raised his sword, you stood in the way. You saved those you could." He paused. "I too have tried to save those I could. For too long, I have been alone in this. But now..." His voice softened. "Now, perhaps, I am no longer alone."
Leonel nodded, without words. Sometimes, trust was not earned with speeches, but with actions. And their actions had spoken for themselves.
The cabins assigned to them were small but cozy, with straw beds and thick blankets that smelled of dried herbs. Leonel sat on the edge of one of the beds, physically and emotionally exhausted.
Around him, his Servants organized themselves. Mash and Tamamo would share the cabin with him (for his "protection," they said). Jeanne Alter settled into the cabin next door, not without first grumbling something about "having to keep watch" and "it's not like she cares." Jeanne Ruler accepted a single cabin, needing time to pray and process what she had lived through. Mordred volunteered for outside guard duty, although Leonel suspected she preferred solitude at that moment.
And Artoria Lancer Alter... Artoria simply disappeared into the night. She didn't say where she was going, but Leonel sensed she needed time alone, away from the stares of the refugees who feared her, away from the memories of what her other version had done.
Bedivere stayed outside Leonel's cabin, sitting on a rock, looking at the stars. His silver profile against the dark sky was an image of pure melancholy.
Leonel went out to meet him, leaving Mash and Tamamo inside. "Aren't you going to rest?"
Bedivere did not turn around. "I cannot. Every time I close my eyes, I see their faces. Those who died today. Those I could not save." His voice was barely a whisper. "And I think of Gawain, of Lancelot, of Tristan. Of how they were before. How they should be. And I wonder if... if I had been there, if I had done something different, perhaps..."
"Do not blame yourself," Leonel said, sitting beside him. "You cannot carry the guilt for what others do. They made their decisions. The Lion King made hers. You can only do what is within your reach."
Bedivere was silent for a long moment. Then, he pointed to his silver arm. "You know? For fifteen hundred years, I hated this arm. I hated it for not being able to return Excalibur to the lake, for clinging to it like a coward. I thought it was my punishment, my curse. But today..." He looked at Leonel. "Today, for the first time, I thought that perhaps, just perhaps, it was not a mistake. Perhaps it was given to me for this moment. To use it when it was most needed."
"Perhaps," said Leonel. "Or perhaps there is no destiny. Only decisions. And you decided to keep going. That is what matters."
Bedivere smiled, a tired but genuine smile. "You are a wise young man, Leonel Herrera. Wiser than your age suggests."
"Experiences teach," Leonel replied, thinking of everything he had lived through since arriving at Chaldea. Of the battles, the defeats, the loves, the losses. "Sometimes, more than one would like."
They fell silent, sharing the night. Leonel felt Tezcatlipoca's presence at the edge of his consciousness, watching, evaluating. He said nothing, but his silent approval was palpable.
"Do you think we can win?" Bedivere asked suddenly. "Do you think we can defeat the Lion King, save the Knights, restore what was lost?"
Leonel thought about everything he knew. About the battle that lay ahead. About the sacrifices they would have to make. About the end of the original game, where Bedivere faced the Lion King and, with the help of the Hassans, achieved the impossible.
"Yes," he said, with a conviction that was not feigned. "It is going to be difficult. We are going to suffer. We are going to lose people. But in the end, we are going to win. Because we have something they do not."
"What?" asked Bedivere.
"Humanity," Leonel replied. "The Lion King has lost hers. The Knights have been distorted. But we... we are still human. We feel fear, pain, anger. But we also feel hope, love, compassion. And that, in the end, is stronger than any divine power."
Bedivere looked at him, and for an instant, the melancholy in his eyes dissipated, replaced by something brighter.
"Thank you, Leonel. I do not know if your words are true, but... they make me want to believe they are."
He stood up. "Rest. Tomorrow will be another day. And we have much to do."
Leonel nodded, bidding him farewell with a gesture. As Bedivere walked away toward his own cabin, he felt Tezcatlipoca materialize beside him, in his ethereal form.
"A good speech," commented the Persona, his voice laden with irony. "You almost made me believe in humanity."
Leonel smiled weakly. "And you? What do you think? Can we win?"
Tezcatlipoca was silent for a moment, watching the stars. "It is possible. But it will not be easy. The Lion King is powerful. The Knights are formidable. And Ozymandias, when he enters the fray, will add another layer of complexity. We will need every ally we can get, every resource, every advantage."
"I know," said Leonel. "That is why I need you to be with me. To help me see what others cannot."
Tezcatlipoca turned toward him, and for an instant, his eyes shone with something that might be... pride? "I have always been with you, Leonel. From the beginning. And I always will be."
He disappeared, leaving Leonel alone under the stars.
Inside the cabin, Mash and Tamamo waited for him. They had prepared the bed, spreading out the blankets to make it as comfortable as possible. Tamamo had found some aromatic herbs and placed them near the pillow, to help with sleep.
"Is everything alright, Leonel-sama?" asked Tamamo, her voice soft.
"Yes," he said, entering and letting himself fall onto the bed. "Just... thinking."
Mash sat beside him, taking his hand. "What are you thinking about, Senpai?"
"About everything. About what's coming. About what we have to do." He closed his eyes. "But mostly, that I could not do this without you."
Tamamo curled up on his left, her head resting on his shoulder. "You don't have to do it alone, Leonel-sama. We are here. Always."
Mash, with a blush barely visible in the dim light, leaned in and placed a kiss on his cheek. "Always, Senpai."
Leonel smiled, feeling the warmth of their bodies, the love they radiated. For a moment, the weight of the mission became more bearable.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for being here."
Outside, the night continued its course. The stars shone over the Hassan village, silent witnesses to the lives that had been saved, to the battles that lay ahead. And in the mountain, in the cave where the Old Man of the Mountain meditated, a flame of hope remained lit.
Tomorrow would be another day. Tomorrow they would continue fighting. But tonight, they could rest.
They could dream of a better future.