The dawn in Uruk was not a peaceful dawn. There was no birdsong, no fresh breeze, no slow awakening of a city lazily stretching after a night's rest. The sun rose over the horizon like a furious eye, staining the sky in reddish and orange hues that were not poetic, but sinister. It seemed that the star king himself was bleeding. And beneath that bleeding sun, the war continued.
I woke up in the house that Gilgamesh had assigned me, with the taste of dust and ash in my mouth. I didn't remember falling asleep. The last thing I remembered was giving orders to my Servants, seeing Tamamo healing the wounded, Mordred laughing as she decapitated Lahmus, the Artorias forming an impenetrable wall around the ziggurat. And then, exhaustion had hit me like a hammer, and everything had gone black.
"Good morning, Master," echoed Tezcatlipoca's voice in my mind. "You've slept approximately six hours. Your mana levels are at seventy-five percent. It's not a complete recovery, but it's enough to function."
"Six hours? Why didn't you wake me sooner?"
"Because you needed the rest. Besides, Gilgamesh gave orders that you were not to be disturbed until dawn. His exact words were: 'Let the Master sleep. A tired strategist is worse than a dead soldier.'"
"How poetic."
"He's Gilgamesh. He's always poetic."
I sat up slowly, feeling every muscle in my body protest. Beside me, Mash slept on an improvised cot, her shield propped against the wall. She hadn't left me alone all night. She had insisted on staying by my side, watching over my sleep like a guardian angel. Her breathing was soft and rhythmic, and for a moment, I allowed myself to contemplate her in peace. Her face, normally tense with worry, was relaxed. She looked younger like this. More vulnerable.
"Don't wake her," said Tezcatlipoca. "She needs rest too. Yesterday she held back a dozen Lahmus without her shield, using only her body. It's exhausting."
"Without her shield?"
"Her shield is serving as an invocation anchor. She can't use it in combat without disrupting the mana flow bringing reinforcements from Chaldea. So she's been fighting without it."
I cursed silently. Mash without her shield was like a knight without armor. She was still strong, still fast, but she was vulnerable. And yet, she had been fighting to protect me.
"You're incredible, Mash," I murmured, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead.
She didn't wake up. She just sighed and curled up a little more.
I stood up, washed my face with water from a pitcher, and walked out into the courtyard. The morning air was hot and dry, thick with the smell of smoke and residual magic. In the distance, atop the walls of Uruk, I could see flashes of light: explosions, clashing swords, Jeanne Alter's black fire, Tamamo's golden glow. The battle hadn't stopped all night.
And on the horizon, Tiamat's shadow was closer.
Not much closer. But enough. The day before, the Beast had been a blurry smudge on the horizon. Now, its contours were more defined. I could make out its twisted horns, its multiple limbs, its colossal mouth open in a silent roar. It was advancing slowly, but it was advancing. And every meter it gained was a meter we lost.
"Good morning, Master of Chaldea," Gilgamesh's voice echoed behind me.
I turned. The King of Uruk stood there, flanked by Merlin and by Siduri, his personal assistant. Gilgamesh did not appear to have slept. His red eyes were ringed with dark circles even deeper than the day before. But his posture remained that of a king: erect, proud, defiant.
"Your Majesty," I greeted.
"I have been observing your progress. Yesterday's invocation was impressive. Ten Servants in a single afternoon. Few mages could have achieved that without burning out their Magic Circuits." He paused. "But it is not enough."
"I know."
"Today I need you to summon more. Many more. Every Servant you bring to Uruk is one more soldier on the walls. Every hero from the Throne who answers your call is one human life we can save."
"How many more, Your Majesty?"
"All that you can." Gilgamesh's eyes bored into me. "I am not asking you to be selective. I am not asking you to bring only the strongest. Bring them all. Shakespeare, Andersen, writers, poets, artists. Even those who are not warriors can serve as support. And those who are warriors... they will be our front line."
"That's... a risky strategy. Maintaining that many Servants at once will drain me."
"I know. And that is why I have ordered that you be provided with the best food in Uruk, the best elixirs, the best care. I will not let you fall, Master of Chaldea. But I need you to trust me. I need you to do this."
I stared at him. Gilgamesh was not a man who begged. He was not a man who asked for favors. He was a king. A tyrant. A god among men. But at that moment, in his red eyes, I saw something I did not expect: desperation. A contained desperation, hidden beneath layers of pride, but real.
"I will do it," I replied.
"Good." Gilgamesh nodded. "Then let us begin."
The courtyard of the house once again became a summoning center. Mash, now awake, had placed her shield in the center, and the white light of Lord Camelot glowed faintly under the morning sun. Around me, my Servants prepared for the battle to come. Tamamo gave me a kiss on the cheek before heading to the walls. Kiyohime hugged me with her dragon arms. Jeanne Alter threw a "don't die, idiot" at me that sounded fonder than she intended. And one by one, they left for their posts.
Only Mash stayed with me. Her shield was the anchor for the invocations, and as long as she kept it active, she couldn't stray from my side. It was a tactical limitation, but also a comfort. Having Mash close gave me strength.
"Ready?" I asked her.
"Always, Senpai."
I reached out my hand toward the shield. Closed my eyes. And began to summon.
The first to arrive was William Shakespeare.
The summoning circle glowed with a pale light, and when it dissipated, there he was. The Bard of Avon. The greatest playwright in history. He wore his Elizabethan attire, with ruff and doublet, and in his hands he held a quill and a parchment. His expression was a mixture of curiosity and amusement, as if everything—the war, the destruction, the end of the world—were nothing more than a play he was eager to write.
"Ah, Master of Chaldea!" he exclaimed, making a theatrical bow. "What a magnificent stage! Uruk in flames, the Beast of Creation advancing, heroes from all ages gathering for the final battle! This is material for a tragedy! Or a comedy! Or both!"
"Shakespeare, I'm glad to see you. I need your help."
"My help?" He raised an eyebrow. "Do you need me to write an inspiring speech? A soliloquy to boost troop morale? A battle scene to make the gods weep?"
"I need you to use your magic. Your Noble Phantasm. 'Globe: The Theater of the World.' You can create illusions, right? You can make the Lahmus see things that aren't there."
"I can make anyone see things that aren't there." He smiled shrewdly. "But making those brainless abominations get confused... that requires a special touch."
"Can you do it?"
"I can try." He made another bow. "After all, what is war but a play with an uncertain ending? I will take care of writing the script. You, Master, are directing the show."
And with a flourish of his quill, he disappeared toward the walls.
The second was Hans Christian Andersen.
He arrived with a sigh of exasperation, as if he had been woken from a much-needed nap. His small figure, dressed in a blue suit and a threadbare cloak, contrasted with the imposing presence of the other Servants. But his eyes, blue and penetrating, gleamed with an intelligence that should not be underestimated.
"This is a disaster," he said, as soon as he saw me. "Uruk in ruins, Tiamat on the horizon, and you, Master, looking like you haven't slept in a week. Do you know what this means?"
"What?"
"That my next story is going to be a tragedy. And I hate writing tragedies." He sighed. "But I suppose I have no choice. Where do you need me?"
"In the rearguard. Your Noble Phantasm, 'A Tale of a Better Life,' can enhance the abilities of the other Servants. I need you to write about them. To give them strength with your words."
"Write about heroes?" Andersen rolled his eyes. "How boring. Heroes are so predictable... they always win in the end. Or die tragically. Sometimes both." He paused. "But if that's what you need, I'll do it. Not because I like you, Master. But because if Tiamat wins, there will be no readers for my stories. And a writer without readers is like a hero without enemies: pathetic."
"Thank you, Andersen."
"Don't thank me. Just make sure this disaster ends well. Or at least, that it ends with me alive."
And he left, muttering something about "damn mages who won't let me write in peace."
The third was Emiya.
The summoning circle glowed with a reddish light, and when it dissipated, there he stood. The Steel Archer. The Hero of Justice. His bronzed skin, his white hair, his red cloak billowing in a wind that didn't exist. In his hands, his twin swords, Kanshou and Bakuya, gleamed with a metallic luster. His expression was serious, but not grim. It was the expression of a man who had seen too many battles and was no longer surprised by anything.
"Master." His voice was deep and calm. "I heard you needed help."
"Emiya. I'm glad to see you."
"I'm glad to see you alive too." He sheathed his swords. "The situation is dire, isn't it? Tiamat, the Lahmu, Uruk on the brink of collapse. Not exactly a picnic."
"No, it's not. I need you to use your archery skills. You're an Archer. You can attack from a distance, eliminate the Lahmu before they reach the walls."
"I can do more than that." He drew his bow, a simple but deadly black bow. "I can project Noble Phantasms. I can create swords, spears, shields. I can give your soldiers weapons that shouldn't exist in this era." He paused. "But you know what that means."
"That you'll spend a lot of energy."
"Yes. And that I'll need support. I can't fight an army of Lahmu alone. But if someone covers me... I can do a lot of damage."
"Tamamo is on the walls. She can provide you with magical support."
"Tamamo. The nine-tailed fox." Emiya smiled slightly. "Good choice. She's an excellent Caster. And she's..."
"She's what?"
"Nothing. Just thinking out loud." He put away his bow. "I'll go to the walls. I'll keep the Lahmu at bay. And if any get too close... well, that's what Kanshou and Bakuya are for."
And he disappeared, not with a flourish, but with the silent efficiency of an assassin.
The fourth was Cu Chulainn.
He arrived with a roar of impatience, his spear Gae Bolg gleaming in his hand. His blue hair waved in the wind, and his red eyes scanned the courtyard with the gaze of a predator seeking prey.
"Finally!" he exclaimed. "I was sick of waiting in Chaldea! You know how boring it is there without you? The others do nothing but fight over the schedule, and I have to put up with them. I can't even get drunk because Chaldea's sake is garbage!"
"Cu Chulainn, we're in Babylonia. There are Lahmus everywhere. I don't think you'll be bored."
"Perfect!" He grinned from ear to ear. "Give me something to skewer with Gae Bolg!"
"That won't be a problem."
"Ah, and one more thing, Master." His expression turned slightly more serious. "That Alter of mine... the one from America. The one who almost killed you. Is he around?"
"No. Cu Chulainn Alter was defeated in America. He hasn't been summoned here."
"Good." He gripped his spear. "Because if he were, I'd have a few words for him. And they wouldn't be pretty words."
"I know. But for now, focus on the Lahmus."
"Done." And he ran off toward the walls, leaving behind a trail of dust and enthusiasm.
The next to arrive were Spartacus and Boudica.
Spartacus appeared with a roar that echoed throughout the courtyard. His muscular body, covered in scars, glowed with an inner light. His eyes were filled with a fury that was not hatred, but love: love for freedom, love for the oppressed, love for rebellion.
"OPPRESSORS!" he shouted. "THE LAHMUS ARE OPPRESSORS! THEY HAVE OPPRESSED THE CITIZENS OF URUK! AND I, SPARTACUS, WILL DESTROY THEM!"
"Spartacus, the Lahmus don't understand oppression. They just follow Tiamat."
"IT DOESN'T MATTER! ANY BEING THAT IMPOSES ITS WILL UPON OTHERS IS AN OPPRESSOR! AND I AM REBELLION INCARNATE!"
"...Alright. Go to the walls. Destroy oppressors."
"I WILL!"
And he left, running into battle with the same grace as a bull in a china shop.
Boudica, in contrast, arrived with the serenity of a queen. Her red hair fell over her shoulders, and her war chariot gleamed under the sun. Her expression was kind, but her eyes held a hardness that spoke of battles fought and losses suffered.
"Master. I'm glad to see you well."
"Boudica. Thank you for coming."
"No need to thank me. Uruk is suffering. Its people are being oppressed by monsters. That is something I understand." She took the reins of her chariot. "I will fight for them. For the innocent. For those who cannot fight for themselves."
"You are a true heroine, Boudica."
"No. I'm just a mother who lost her daughters. And who doesn't want other mothers to lose theirs."
And with a crack of her whip, her chariot rose toward the walls.
The next were the three Hassans.
Hassan of Serenity was the first to arrive. Her slender body, wrapped in her dark cloak, appeared silently in the center of the circle. Her large, dark eyes found me immediately, and a smile—shy, but full of devotion—curved her lips.
"Master. I have come."
"Serenity. I'm glad to see you."
"Really?" Her cheeks flushed red. "I... I'm glad to see you too. Very. Very much. I've been counting the days. The hours. The minutes."
"You're the third person to tell me that in twenty-four hours."
"It's... it's true." She stepped forward, her fingers brushing mine. "You're the only one who can touch me. The only one who doesn't die. How could I not miss you?"
Before I could respond, another figure emerged from the circle. Hassan of the Cursed Arm, with his imposing presence and his demonic arm wrapped in bandages. His skull mask gleamed in the sunlight.
"Master of Chaldea. We have answered your call."
"Cursed Arm. Thank you."
"There is nothing to thank. The debt we owe you is incalculable. Without you, Serenity would still be a prisoner. Without you, Camelot would still stand. We will fight for you."
And then, a third voice echoed in the courtyard. Hassan of the Hundred Personas, in one of her multiple personalities—this time, a tall, slender woman with a veil—stepped forward.
"The order of the Hassans is at your service, Master. Our daggers, our poison, our shadows... all are yours."
"Thank you, all three. I need you to infiltrate among the Lahmu. To use your stealth to eliminate the leaders, the largest ones, those who seem to give orders. Your specialty is not open combat, but silent death."
"Understood," replied Cursed Arm. "The Lahmu will not know what killed them."
"And if they touch me," added Serenity, "they will die. My poison is lethal even to Tiamat's beasts."
"Perfect. Go. And be careful."
The three Hassans vanished into the shadows, leaving behind only the echo of their promises.
And then, Gilgamesh ordered me to stop.
"Enough, Master of Chaldea," he said, his voice sharp as a sword. "You have summoned seven Servants in one hour. Your mana is at its limit again."
"I can continue," I protested, though my body trembled slightly.
"No, you cannot." Gilgamesh's gaze was withering. "You are valuable, Master. More valuable than you think. If you burn out, everything is lost. And I do not risk my investments."
Merlin, beside him, nodded. "The King is right. You have done an impressive job. With these reinforcements, Uruk can hold out for another day. But if you exhaust yourself, you won't be able to maintain the contracts of those already fighting."
"And the temporary contracts?" I asked. "Shakespeare, Andersen, Emiya, Cu Chulainn, Spartacus, Boudica, the Hassans... they have temporary contracts with me. They don't consume as much mana as the permanent ones."
"Exactly," said Merlin. "That's the advantage. The Servants you already had in Chaldea—Tamamo, Kiyohime, the Artorias, Morgan, Scáthach, the Jeannes—have permanent contracts. They consume more. The newly summoned ones, having temporary contracts, are less of a burden. That's why you've been able to summon so many without collapsing."
"But even so," Gilgamesh intervened, "the effort is considerable. Maintaining nearly twenty Servants simultaneously, even if some are temporary, is something few mages in history have achieved." He paused. "I am impressed, Master of Chaldea. And I am not easily impressed."
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
"Don't thank me. I'm only telling you the truth. Now, go rest. Eat something. Hydrate. And then, return. The battle is not over."
"But..."
"It is an order."
I sighed. There was no point arguing with Gilgamesh. When he gave an order, you followed it. So, with Mash by my side and my legs trembling, I retreated into the house.
That day, Uruk held.
It was not easy. The Lahmu attacked in waves, one after another, without rest. But with the reinforcements we had summoned, the city's defense became manageable.
From the window of my room, as I ate a bowl of barley porridge that Siduri had personally brought me, I could see fragments of the battle. And with Tezcatlipoca's Surveillance Mirrors, I could see much more.
I saw Emiya atop a tower, firing arrows that turned into swords in midair. Each projectile pierced a Lahmu, sometimes two or three. His movements were precise, economical, lethal.
I saw Cu Chulainn in the center of the wall, his Gae Bolg skewering beasts like kebabs. His laughter echoed above the din of battle, and the soldiers of Uruk, inspired by his ferocity, fought harder.
I saw Spartacus, completely surrounded by Lahmus, laughing as his body regenerated from wounds. Every blow he received made him stronger. Every oppressor that fell made him shout with joy.
I saw Boudica in her chariot, trampling Lahmus with its wheels, her spear shining under the sun. Her presence was a beacon of hope for the refugees who watched her pass.
I saw the Hassans moving among the shadows, appearing and disappearing. One Lahmu fell with its throat cut. Another collapsed, poisoned. Another simply ceased to exist, never knowing what killed it.
I saw Shakespeare and Andersen in the rearguard, writing furiously on their scrolls. Shakespeare's words created illusions that confused the Lahmus, making them attack each other. Andersen's words empowered the soldiers, giving them strength they didn't know they had.
And I saw my girlfriends. Tamamo, alternating between frontline combat and tactical support, her talismans flying in all directions. Kiyohime, partially transformed into a dragon, her breath of fire incinerating dozens of Lahmus. Jeanne Alter, her black fire erupting from the ground, her laughter echoing as she burned heretics. The Artorias, all four, forming a wall of steel and magic around the ziggurat, impenetrable. Morgan, watching from a distance, conserving her power for the final battle. Scáthach, also holding back, her crimson eyes tracking every movement of the Lahmus with the patience of a predator.
And Nero, of course. My empress. My artist. My gladiator. She was on the front line, her gladius blazing, her laughter ringing, her beauty shining even amid the chaos. "For my Caesar! For Rome! For humanity!"
I, meanwhile, coordinated everything from my command post. The Surveillance Mirrors showed me impossible angles. Tezcatlipoca analyzed the Lahmu's attack patterns and suggested strategies. And through the mental link, I transmitted orders to my Servants.
"Emiya, a group of Lahmus is flanking the north wall. I need you to eliminate them before they reach the civilians."
"Understood, Master."
"Cu Chulainn, Spartacus is about to be surrounded. Cover his retreat."
"Done! Let's go, dog!"
"Shakespeare, the Lahmus are starting to ignore your illusions. Change tactics. Make them believe Tiamat herself is ordering them to retreat."
"Oh, what a wonderful idea! A scene of confusion! I love it!"
And so, hour after hour. Minute after minute. The battle was a chessboard, and I was the player.
"You're using Matarukaja on Emiya, right?" asked Tezcatlipoca.
"Yes. His arrows are more effective if they have more attack power."
"And Marakukaja on Spartacus, so he can take more hits."
"Exactly."
"And Masukukaja on the Hassans, so they're faster."
"Correct."
"And for you? You're not casting anything on yourself."
"I don't need it. I'm not on the front line."
"But your fatigue..."
"I can take it. I promised Gilgamesh I would hold on."
And I held on. For hours, I held on. Until the sun began to set on the horizon, painting the sky in reddish hues that I no longer knew were from sunset or from spilled blood.
It was then that Gilgamesh came to see me.
"Master of Chaldea. You have delivered." His voice was serious, but there was a hint of respect in it. "Today, Uruk has withstood. The Lahmu have temporarily retreated. We have gained a day."
"One day is not enough. Tiamat is still advancing."
"I know. But one day is more than we had yesterday. And tomorrow, we will gain another. And the day after, another. And so on, until we find a way to stop her."
"And if we don't find it?"
"We will find it." His red eyes gleamed. "Because we have no other choice."
Merlin, who had been silently observing the conversation, stepped forward.
"Master, I must say I am impressed. Not only by your ability to summon Servants, but by your tactical skill. I've seen how you coordinated your troops. How you gave precise orders. How you used your support spells." He smiled, but his smile had a hint of concern. "However, I have also seen your fatigue. You are at your limit. You need rest."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not." Merlin looked at me intently. "You are human, Master. And humans need to sleep. Need to eat. Need to recover. If you push yourself too hard, you will make mistakes. And in a war, a mistake can cost lives."
"Merlin is right," Gilgamesh intervened. "I order you to withdraw. Have dinner. Sleep. Tomorrow, we will continue."
"But..."
"It is an order," they both repeated in unison.
I sighed. I couldn't argue with both of them.
"Alright. I'll withdraw. But promise me you'll wake me if the situation worsens."
"Promised," said Merlin. "Now, go. Your Servants will handle the night defense."
And so, with Mash by my side, I retreated to my room.
Dinner was frugal but nutritious. Siduri brought me a plate of roasted lamb, barley bread, dates, and fresh water. I ate slowly, feeling each bite return a little energy to me. Mash ate beside me, silent, her presence a balm for my exhausted soul.
"Senpai," she finally said. "Are you okay?"
"I'm tired, Mash. But okay."
"You did too much today. Too much. Gilgamesh and Merlin are right. You need to rest."
"I know. But I feel... guilty. While I sleep, my Servants are fighting. Risking their lives."
"They do it because they want to, Senpai. Because they trust you. Because they love you." She paused. "And I do too."
"Mash..."
"You don't have to say anything." She kissed me on the cheek. "Just... sleep. Tomorrow will be another day. And we'll be with you."
I finished my dinner. Washed my face. And lay down on the cot, with Mash sitting beside me, her hand holding mine.
Sleep quickly claimed me. As I drifted toward unconsciousness, I heard Tezcatlipoca's voice, soft and reassuring.
"Sleep, Master. I will watch over your dreams. And if there is danger, I will wake you."
"Thank you, Tezcatlipoca."
"You're welcome. It's my function. I am your Persona. I am your soul. And your soul needs rest."
And then, everything went dark.
That night, while Leonel slept, the battle continued.
The Servants who did not need sleep took turns on the walls. Tamamo no Mae had organized a guard system: one group fought for four hours, then rested while another group took over. It was efficient. It was practical. And it allowed everyone to stay fresh.
But Leonel's girlfriends were restless.
In a corner of the courtyard, away from the soldiers' ears, Tamamo, Kiyohime, Jeanne Alter, the Artorias, Morgan, and Scáthach gathered in an improvised conclave.
"This is unbearable," Tamamo whispered, her tails twitching nervously. "Goshujin-sama is sleeping alone. In a room. Without us."
"I know," Kiyohime replied, her dragon eyes gleaming with frustration. "But we can't do anything. The situation is critical. If we wake him, he'll be even more tired tomorrow."
"I know, I know. But... it's so frustrating!" Tamamo bit her lip. "Before the punishment, he slept with us every night. Then came the punishment. Then came Babylonia. And now... now we can't even hug him."
"It's because of the war," said Artoria Saber Alter, her tone cold. "War doesn't understand romance."
"But we do," retorted Jeanne Alter, arms crossed. "I want to be with that idiot. But I also want him to survive. And if to survive he needs to sleep alone... then let him sleep alone. For now."
"For now," repeated Morgan, with an enigmatic smile. "Because when this is over, when Tiamat is defeated, when we return to Chaldea... then, my husband will have to compensate us for all this lost time."
"Compensate us?" asked Artoria Lancer Alter.
"Yes. With time. With attention. With... affection." Morgan's eyes gleamed. "And I don't plan on sharing my turn."
"None of us plan on sharing our turn," said Scáthach, appearing suddenly from the shadows. "But we all know we'll have to. Because Leonel is not for one. He is for all. And even if it pains me to admit it... it's better this way."
"Better?" Tamamo raised an eyebrow. "Since when are you so understanding?"
"It's not understanding. It's pragmatism." Scáthach smiled, her predatory smile. "If Leonel were mine alone, the rest of you would be competing for him. And that would be... annoying. I'd rather share him in peace than have to kill you all."
"How reassuring," Jeanne Alter muttered.
"It's not meant to be. It's the truth."
The girlfriends fell silent. Then, slowly, they nodded.
"Alright," said Tamamo. "We'll accept the situation. For now. We'll fight. Protect Uruk. And when it's all over... Goshujin-sama owes us time. A lot of time."
"And we'll collect," added Kiyohime. "With interest."
"With interest," they all repeated in unison.
And so, with a tacit agreement, Leonel's girlfriends returned to their battle stations. They were not happy. They were not satisfied. But they were united. And that, in the midst of war, was more valuable than any display of affection.
In his room, unaware of the conspiracy being hatched in his name, Leonel Herrera slept deeply. He dreamed of blue skies, of wheat fields, of distant laughter. He dreamed of a future where the war had ended. Where humanity was safe. Where he and his girlfriends could, at last, live in peace.
It was a beautiful dream. But it was only a dream.
Outside the room, Tiamat's shadow continued to advance. And the battle for Uruk continued.