The dust mixed with the sweat on my forehead. It wasn't the dust of the desert, but a finer, older dust, as if the very stones of Camelot were slowly disintegrating. From my elevated position on a hill on the outskirts of the city, I could see the battlefield stretching out like an infernal tapestry. And I, Leonel Herrera, the last Master of humanity, was at the center of it all, unmoving, watching through the fragmented eyes of an Aztec god.
Tezcatlipoca's mirrors floated around me like a swarm of obsidian fireflies. There were twelve in total, each showing a different angle of the battle. My mind processed the information at a speed that would have been impossible without the help of my Persona. I saw Ozymandias exchanging solar rays with Gawain. I saw the Hassans dodging arrows in the cathedral. I saw Mordred and Jeanne Alter fighting a twisted version of herself. I saw Lancelot and Xuanzang pushing their way toward Agravain. I saw Bedivere and Artoria Lancer Alter climbing the stairs toward the throne. And I saw, in the central mirror, the figure of the Lion King, seated on her throne, with the spear Rhongomyniad shining in her hand like a fragment of a star.
"All fronts are active," Tezcatlipoca reported in my mind. "But there's one that concerns me especially."
"Which one?"
"The Hassans. They're Assassins facing an Archer of excellence on his own ground. Tristan doesn't need physical arrows. Every pluck of his harp strings is a projectile of light. And the Hassans, no matter how fast they are, can't dodge light forever."
I shifted my attention to the mirror showing the cathedral. The scene was as beautiful as it was terrifying. The stained-glass windows cast colored beams on the stone floor, and in the middle of that kaleidoscope, Tristan danced like a specter. His fingers caressed the strings of Failnaught with a virtuoso's precision, and every note was an arrow. He needed no quiver. He needed no ammunition. His music was his arsenal.
Hassan of the Cursed Arm was the most aggressive of the three. His demonic arm, wrapped in cursed bandages, extended like a whip to strike Tristan from impossible angles. But every time he got close, an arrow of light forced him back. On his right shoulder, an open wound smoked; an arrow had grazed him and the heat had cauterized the flesh instantly. It smelled of burned skin.
"Cursed Arm is losing blood. Not much, but enough to slow him down."
Hassan of the Hundred Faces had suffered the most casualties. Of her original hundred personalities, only about twenty remained, and each was physically distinct. A tall woman with a veil launched herself from the choir with daggers in both hands; Tristan eliminated her with an arrow to the chest before she touched the ground. A muscular man tried to flank him from the right; an arrow to the throat made him vanish. A cold-eyed child crawled under the pews; Tristan, without even looking, plucked a low string and the floor beneath the child exploded into splinters.
"He's decimating her personalities. At this rate, Hundred Faces will run out of bodies before she can get close."
And then there was Serenity. My little poisonous-skinned assassin. She was the stealthiest of the three, the one who moved best among the shadows. Her smoke bombs filled the cathedral with a purple mist that smelled of bitter almonds, her signature poison. Tristan coughed when he inhaled it, but he didn't stop. His fingers kept moving, his arrows kept flying.
"Serenity is using her poison as a curtain. Clever. But the poison won't kill Tristan, it will only slow him down. And time is not on her side."
I watched Serenity slip between the columns. Her bare feet made no sound on the stone. Her large dark eyes, which normally looked at me with unsettling devotion, were now cold as ice. There was no fear in them. Only determination.
"She knows she might die," I thought. "She knows and still..."
I remembered the kiss on the cheek she had given me before leaving. "In case I don't come back alive," she had said. At that moment, it had seemed like a sweet gesture, albeit awkward because of my other girlfriends' reactions. Now, watching her dodge arrows by inches, feeling death prowl around her like a patient wolf, that kiss weighed on me like a tombstone.
"I can't lose her. I can't lose any of them."
"Then trust them," Tezcatlipoca replied. "The Hassans are Assassins. This is their specialty. Do not underestimate those who walk in the shadows."
I nodded inwardly and shifted my attention to the second mirror.
The battle against Gawain was a spectacle of gods.
Ozymandias, the Divine Pharaoh, faced the Knight of the Sun in a duel that seemed taken from an ancient Egyptian painting. Both radiated light, but they were different lights. Ozymandias's was golden, warm, like the midday sun over the Nile. Gawain's was white, relentless, like the reflection of the sun on a sword.
"Ozymandias is expending too much energy," observed Tezcatlipoca. "His Dendera Electric Bulb is an anti-fortress class attack, but Gawain, under the sun, is practically immune to anything that isn't a conceptual attack. The Pharaoh is using his authority over the sun to counteract the blessing, but that consumes an absurd amount of mana."
I could see it. Ozymandias's face, normally serene and haughty, was tight with strain. Drops of golden sweat—or was it liquid magic?—slid down his forehead. His scepter trembled slightly every time he fired a beam. And although each attack drove Gawain back, the knight rose again and again, his armor dented but his spirit intact.
"It's like trying to punch down a mountain," I murmured.
Nitocris and Tamamo no Mae worked together to support Ozymandias. The timid but loyal pharaoh had deployed her magical mirrors around Gawain, creating a labyrinth of reflections that confused the knight. Every time Gawain attacked, his sword struck a mirror, and the reflection shattered, releasing a curse that weakened his muscles.
"Nitocris's mirrors are a curse-type Noble Phantasm. They don't do direct damage, but they accumulate weakening effects. If she manages to hit him with enough shards, Gawain will become slower."
Tamamo, for her part, had adopted an offensive support role. Her talismans floated around Gawain like a cloud of wasps, casting slowing and energy-absorbing spells. Her tails, nine divine fox appendages, moved in a hypnotic pattern as she channeled her magic.
"Goshujin-sama would be proud of me," I imagined her saying, with that mix of vanity and devotion that characterized her.
But even with three high-level Servants working together, Gawain did not fall. His Excalibur Galatine swept the battlefield in arcs of light that toppled mirrors and talismans alike. His armor, though battered, still shone with the Lion King's blessing. And his smile, that damned courteous, empty smile, had not disappeared.
"He's a tank," I thought with frustration. "A tank on divine steroids."
"True. But every tank has a weak point. Gawain depends on the sun. As long as Nitocris and Tamamo maintain the sandstorm and absorption spells, his invincibility is neutralized. Now it's a matter of attrition. Who gets tired first."
"Ozymandias is getting tired first."
"I know. But trust him. He's a pharaoh. Pharaohs don't give up."
I turned my gaze to the third mirror.
The battle between the two Mordreds was absolute chaos. There was no strategy, no tactics, just two identical warriors hitting each other with a fury that made the nearby buildings tremble.
My Mordred, the Saber I had summoned in America, fought with a mixture of ferocity and desperation. Her Clarent clashed against the Clarent of her enemy counterpart, and each impact generated a crimson shockwave that cracked the ground. The two were equal in strength, equal in speed, equal in swordsmanship. But there was a crucial difference: the enemy Mordred didn't hold back.
"Clarent Blood Arthur!" roared the Mordred of Camelot, and a torrent of crimson energy swept the plaza. My Mordred threw herself to the side, rolling across the pavement, and the explosion passed so close that I could see her armor blacken from the heat.
"Damn you, stop using that!" shouted my Mordred, getting up with difficulty. "Every time you do it, you die a little more! Your Saint Graph can't take it!"
"I don't care!" roared the other, and I could see the unstable glow of her body. She flickered, like a bulb about to burn out. Her armor was cracked, not from my Mordred's blows, but from the internal strain of her own blessing. Each instant Noble Phantasm consumed a portion of her existence, and she knew it. She just didn't care.
"She's committing suicide," I murmured. "She's using her own life as ammunition."
"The Lion King's blessing is self-destructive," Tezcatlipoca confirmed. "Mordred can activate her Noble Phantasm without charging, but the cost is a fraction of her Saint Graph. At this rate, she'll fade away in minutes."
"But in those minutes, she can kill my Mordred and Jeanne Alter."
Jeanne Alter, meanwhile, wasn't far behind. Her black fire, fueled by hatred and vengeance, sprouted from the ground in columns that tried to trap the enemy Mordred. But the knight was too fast, too furious. She dodged the flames by centimeters and responded with sword swings that Jeanne could barely block with her blade.
"Brat!" shouted Jeanne, using her fire to create a wall between herself and the enemy Mordred. "If you keep this up, you'll kill yourself before we can!"
"Then so be it!" replied the Mordred of Camelot, with a manic grin. "As long as I drag you with me!"
"She's insane," I thought. "Completely insane."
"Madness is a form of power," Tezcatlipoca said. "But it's a power that consumes itself. They just need to hold out long enough."
"Hold out. That's what we're all doing. Holding out."
The fourth mirror showed a completely different scene.
Lancelot and Xuanzang Sanzang were facing Agravain in a meeting room that looked like a war chamber. Maps of Camelot covered the walls, and chess figurines represented the armies' positions. Agravain, the brains of the Round Table, wasn't a warrior in the traditional sense. His strength didn't lie in his sword, but in his mind. And at that moment, his mind was working at full speed.
Lancelot attacked with Arondight, his Lake sword, tracing arcs of blue light that Agravain dodged with precise, economical movements. He wasn't as fast as Tristan nor as powerful as Gawain, but his combat style was methodical, calculated. Every dodge was exactly the necessary one. Every block, just in time.
"Agravain isn't fighting to win," Tezcatlipoca observed. "He's fighting to buy time."
"Time for what?"
"For the Lion King to complete her plan. Whatever it is."
Xuanzang, for her part, took advantage of the openings Lancelot created to launch her attacks. Her palms, charged with divine energy, struck Agravain in the flanks with the force of a battering ram. Each impact rang like a bell, and the knight's body staggered. But he didn't fall.
"You have to listen to me, Agravain!" shouted Lancelot, his voice full of a mixture of fury and pleading. "The Lion King is not Arturia! She's an empty shell! You know that better than anyone!"
"I know," Agravain replied, blocking a slash from Arondight with his sword. "I've always known."
"Then why do you follow her?"
"Because the Lion King, even if she isn't Arturia, is the only one who can save Britain." Agravain wiped a drop of blood from the corner of his lips. "Arturia was too human. Too compassionate. And look what happened. Her kingdom fell. Her Round Table was destroyed. Her knights killed each other." He pointed at Lancelot with contempt. "You, Lancelot of the Lake, were the catalyst for that destruction. Your forbidden love for Guinevere tore the kingdom apart. And now you come here, with your sword and your guilt, to tell me to fight against the only Arturia who can prevent history from repeating itself?"
Lancelot gritted his teeth. "She's not the only Arturia. There's another. One who is fighting on our side. One who hasn't lost her humanity."
Agravain laughed, a dry, humorless laugh. "A dark Arturia? A tyrant of storms? That's your alternative? Pathetic."
Xuanzang intervened, her fists glowing with golden light. "It is not pathetic to seek redemption. Sir Lancelot has sinned, yes. But you, Sir Agravain, are sinning right now, following a false god. It is never too late to make things right."
"Your words are pretty, nun," Agravain said, raising his sword. "But words don't win wars."
And the combat continued.
The fifth mirror was the one that worried me most. Bedivere and Artoria Lancer Alter were climbing the stairs toward the Lion King's throne. The stairs were endless, a spiral of white marble rising toward a blinding light. Each step was guarded by spectral knights, but Artoria swept them away with her dark Rhongomyniad without stopping.
Bedivere ran at her side, his silver arm shining brighter and brighter. Excalibur, the sword he had not returned to the lake, was awakening. I could feel it even through the mirror. The energy in that arm was a battle song, a hymn of redemption.
"Bedivere is ready," I said quietly. "After fifteen hundred years, he's ready."
"But Artoria Lancer Alter is nervous," Tezcatlipoca observed. "Look at her posture. Her shoulders are tenser than usual. Her grip on the lance is firmer. It's not fear. It's anticipation."
"She's going to face the divine version of herself. What she could have become if she had made different choices. It's normal for her to be tense."
I remembered the conversation Artoria and Bedivere had in the mountains, under the stars. "I chose to be human. She chose to be a goddess. That's the difference." At that moment, it had seemed like a statement of principles. Now, watching her climb those stairs toward her destiny, I understood it was much more than that. It was a challenge. A duel between two divergent paths of the same soul.
"Will they make it in time?" I asked.
"That depends on what the Lion King does."
And then, the world trembled.
It wasn't a physical tremor, although the ground under my feet vibrated as if a giant had struck the earth. It was something deeper, more fundamental. As if reality itself had shuddered.
"What was that?" I asked, grabbing onto Mash so as not to lose my balance.
"A fluctuation in the texture of the Singularity," Tezcatlipoca responded, and for the first time, his voice sounded alarmed. "Something is changing in the structure of this world."
At that moment, Romani Archaman's voice sounded in my communicator. His tone was urgent, almost hysterical. "Leonel! Leonel, can you hear me?! A huge mass of energy is gathering in Camelot! And it's not an attack! It's... it's something else!"
"What kind of thing, Roman?"
"The Singularity is starting to disappear!" The panic in his voice was palpable. "Chaldea's readings show that the space-time around Camelot is tearing apart. The city... the city is rising!"
"Rising?"
I looked up. And I saw it.
Camelot, the sacred city of the Lion King, was slowly rising from the ground. The walls broke away from the earth with a crash of fractured rock. The towers rose toward the sky like accusing fingers. And at the center of the city, the spear Rhongomyniad shone with a light that eclipsed the sun.
"The spear," I murmured. "She's using the spear to lift Camelot."
"Exactly," said Roman, his voice breathless. "The Lion King is using Rhongomyniad as a reverse anchor. Instead of fixing reality, she's tearing it. She's selecting the 'pure' humans she has collected and lifting them along with the city. But the rest of the Singularity..."
"...is disintegrating," I finished.
I looked around. The hills where we had set up our command post began to crack. The sky, once blue and clear, was now a mosaic of purple and black tones, like a cosmic bruise. The wind blew in all directions at once, bringing with it a smell of ozone and something else, something I couldn't identify but that chilled my blood.
"The Lion King has decided that this world no longer deserves to exist," Tezcatlipoca said. "She's accelerating the Final Judgment. The 'pure' will be saved. The 'impure'... will be erased along with the Singularity."
"How much time do we have?"
"I don't know. But not much."
Mash grabbed my arm. "Senpai, we have to move. If we stay here, the disintegration will reach us."
"You're right." I stood up, shaking off the dust. "But we can't retreat. If we leave, everyone fighting inside Camelot will be trapped."
"Then what do we do?"
I took a deep breath. "We go in."
Running toward a city that is rising into the sky wasn't something I had imagined doing when I woke up that morning. But there I was, with Mash beside me and Tezcatlipoca floating over me like a golden bodyguard. The gates of Camelot were open, probably because the Lion King didn't expect anyone to be stupid enough to enter. Or maybe because she no longer cared. The end of the world tends to make gate security irrelevant.
We entered the city just as the ground beneath the walls began to disintegrate. Large fragments of rock floated in the air, spinning slowly like miniature asteroids. The buildings, once white and perfect, were now cracked and twisted, as if a giant had crushed the city with his fist and then stretched it like chewing gum.
"Careful, Senpai!" shouted Mash, raising her shield. A spectral arrow bounced off Lord Camelot, leaving a spark of white light. The spectral knights guarding the streets were still active, attacking anything that moved. They were the defenders of a mad goddess, and they wouldn't stop until the Singularity collapsed.
"Mash, cover me. Tezcatlipoca, I need an analysis of the battlefield. Where are the civilians?"
"The 'pure' civilians are being elevated toward the city center," Tezcatlipoca answered. "The spear is absorbing them. The 'impure'... have been eliminated by the spectral knights. There are no civilians left to save in the streets."
"Damn." I clenched my fists. "Then our only option is to stop the Lion King before she completes the ritual."
"Correct. But for that, we need all fronts to win their battles. If the Knights of the Round Table aren't defeated, they'll reinforce the Lion King."
"Then let's go help." I started walking toward the interior of the city, Mash covering my advance. "Tezcatlipoca, I need you to keep me updated on all fronts. And I need you to give me options. Where can I be most useful?"
The mirrors floated around me, rearranging themselves. Each showed a different scene, a different combat.
The mirror of the Hassans showed a desperate situation.
Tristan had gained the upper hand. His melody had become faster, more aggressive, and his arrows fell like rain. Hassan of the Cursed Arm was wounded in one side, his cloak soaked in blood. Hassan of the Hundred Faces had lost another five personalities, and now only fifteen remained. And Serenity... Serenity was cornered.
Tristan had pinned her against the cathedral altar. His fingers caressed the longest string of his harp, the one that produced the deepest tone, the one that launched the most lethal arrows. Serenity looked at him without fear, her poisoned daggers in her hands, but she knew she couldn't get close. Every time she tried, an arrow forced her back.
"I'm not going to beg," Serenity said, her voice barely a whisper.
"I don't expect you to," Tristan replied, with his eternal melancholy. "The Hassans don't beg. The Hassans die in silence. That's what I've always admired about your order."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
"For Cursed Arm to try to save you." Tristan turned his head slightly, and his fingers plucked a string. An arrow of light cut through the air and embedded itself in the shadow from which Cursed Arm was emerging. The Assassin groaned, falling to his knees. "I knew it. You always try to save each other. It's your greatest weakness."
"It's not a weakness," Serenity said, and her eyes locked onto Tristan's with an intensity that surprised me. "It's our strength."
"Then die with that strength."
Tristan's fingers tensed on the string.
And then, I acted.
"Tezcatlipoca! Masukukaja on Serenity!"
My Persona obeyed instantly. A wave of green energy enveloped Serenity, accelerating her reflexes. The moment Tristan released the arrow, she was no longer there. She had moved at impossible speed, leaving an afterimage in her place. The arrow pierced the hologram and embedded itself in the altar.
"What...?" Tristan started, but he couldn't finish. Serenity appeared behind him and plunged a dagger into his shoulder. The poison wouldn't kill him, but the pain made him stagger.
"Now, Cursed Arm!" Serenity shouted.
Hassan of the Cursed Arm, despite his wound, rose and extended his demonic arm. "Zabaniya!"
The illusory heart of Tristan was torn from his chest. The knight stiffened, eyes wide, then fell to his knees. He wasn't dead—Servants don't die so easily—but he was out of commission.
"We did it," Serenity panted, collapsing to the floor, exhausted.
"Thanks to Leonel," said Cursed Arm, looking toward the sky, as if he knew I was watching. "Always thanks to Leonel."
I smiled weakly. "You're welcome," I murmured, though they couldn't hear me.
The mirror of Ozymandias showed the climax of his battle.
Gawain, weakened by Nitocris and Tamamo's spells, had lost much of his invincibility. His armor was in tatters, and his breathing was irregular. But he still stood, his Excalibur Galatine shining with one last reserve of power.
"It's time to end this," Ozymandias said, raising his scepter. "Nitocris, Tamamo, step back. This is going to be big."
The two Servants obeyed, moving away from the impact area. Ozymandias aimed his scepter at Gawain, and the sun itself seemed to concentrate at its tip.
"Dendera Electric Bulb... Maximum power!"
The beam he fired was not a simple attack. It was a fragment of the sun, condensed into a beam of pure energy that struck Gawain with the force of a supernova. The knight screamed, not from pain, but from defiance, and raised his sword to block. But his blessing no longer protected him. Nitocris's sandstorm had filtered the sunlight, and Tamamo's talismans had absorbed the rest. Gawain was, for the first time in a long while, vulnerable.
Ozymandias's beam pierced him. It didn't kill him—Servants don't die from a single attack, no matter how powerful—but it left him unconscious, his Saint Graph so damaged that he faded into particles of light.
"Victory," Ozymandias announced, lowering his scepter. His face was pale, and his breathing was ragged. "But it cost me almost all my mana."
"You have fought like a god, Pharaoh," Tamamo said, with a respectful bow.
"I have fought like a king," Ozymandias corrected. "Which is better."
Nitocris, exhausted but happy, smiled. "We did it. Gawain has fallen."
"Good," I said from my position. "One front down."
The mirror of Mordred and Jeanne Alter showed the end of the enemy Mordred.
It wasn't a glorious death. It was a sad death. The Mordred of Camelot had used her Noble Phantasm so many times that her Saint Graph was a mosaic of cracks. Her body flickered, sometimes solid, sometimes translucent, like a ghost refusing to disappear.
My Mordred looked at her with an unreadable expression. "It's over," she said, lowering her sword. "You can't fight anymore."
"Of course I can!" roared the other, trying to charge her Noble Phantasm once more. But this time, the crimson energy didn't spring forth. Her Saint Graph was depleted. She fell to her knees, her sword planted in the ground, her body slowly fading.
"Pathetic," murmured the enemy Mordred, looking at her counterpart. "Pathetic... that it's you... who wins..."
"It's not about winning or losing," my Mordred said, kneeling in front of her. "It's about choosing. You chose to die for a false god. I chose to live for a Master who's worth it."
The enemy Mordred let out a weak laugh. "Always... so sentimental..."
And she vanished.
My Mordred stayed there, kneeling, staring at the spot where her counterpart had disappeared. Jeanne Alter approached and put a hand on her shoulder. "Hey. Don't get all melancholy. She was an enemy."
"I know," Mordred said, standing up. "But she was also me. A version of me that never had anyone to tell her she deserved to live." She shook her head. "Come on. There's still the final boss."
The mirror of Lancelot and Xuanzang showed the outcome of their combat.
Agravain had fallen. Not by Lancelot's brute force, but by the combined attacks of the nun and the repentant knight. He was on his knees, his sword broken, his armor shattered.
"You've lost, Agravain," Lancelot said, sheathing Arondight. "Surrender."
"Surrender... is not in my nature," Agravain replied, spitting blood. "But I suppose... it no longer matters." He raised his gaze to Lancelot. "Just tell me one thing. Do you truly believe that dark Artoria is better than the Lion King?"
"I don't know," Lancelot admitted. "But she's human. And sometimes, that's enough."
Agravain let out a bitter laugh. "What an idiotic answer." And he vanished.
Xuanzang pressed her palms together. "May he find peace in his next life."
"Amen," Lancelot murmured.
And the fifth mirror, the most important of all, showed Bedivere and Artoria Lancer Alter arriving at the throne room.
The doors opened slowly, revealing a circular hall of white marble. In the center, on a golden throne, sat the original Artoria Pendragon. No, not the original. The copy. The goddess. The Lion King.
She was identical to the Artoria I knew, but there was something different about her. Her eyes held no warmth. No humanity. They were the eyes of a deity who judges souls without understanding them.
"Bedivere," said the Lion King, and her voice resonated in the hall like a bell. "You have returned."
"I have returned," Bedivere answered, his silver arm shining. "To finish what I started fifteen hundred years ago."
"You didn't start anything. You fled." The Lion King stood up, and the spear Rhongomyniad shone in her hand. "You fled with Excalibur. You condemned me to this."
"I know. And that's why I'm here. To return to you what is yours."
Artoria Lancer Alter stepped forward, her own dark spear ready. "I'll handle the spear. You handle her."
Bedivere nodded. "Thank you, Artoria."
"Don't thank me yet. This has only just begun."
And the final battle began.
From my position in the streets of Camelot, watching everything through the mirrors, I felt a chill. The city kept rising. The sky was cracking. The Singularity was dying. And the battle against the Lion King had just begun.
"We don't have much time," I said out loud.
"No," Tezcatlipoca confirmed. "But we have enough. If we act fast."
"Then let's act fast." I turned to Mash. "Let's go. We have to make sure nothing interrupts that battle."
"Understood, Senpai."
And together, we plunged into the heart of the storm.