The American plains, vast and silent, stretched before them like a sea of grass and dust. The encounter with Scathach had left an invisible but profound mark on the group, a psychological scar that altered their dynamics in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. They were no longer simply a group of travelers; they were a company on high alert, a small army with a tremendously complex emotional core.
Leonel Herrera walked with a new awareness of his surroundings. Every elongated shadow from the trees at dusk, every whisper of the wind among the rocks, was scrutinized by his senses, now sharpened by the residual adrenaline of having been tested by a living legend. He knew, with a certainty that made his skin crawl, that Scathach was watching them. He didn't see her, didn't feel her in the usual way, but her presence was a constant pressure on the edge of his perception, like the hum of a high-voltage transformer just before a storm.
This hypervigilance had a catalytic effect on his bond with Tezcatlipoca. The Persona, an extension of his own psyche and will, evolved in unison with him. The need to detect the undetectable, to anticipate a hunter who mocked conventional laws of stealth, drove a new adaptation. The imposing figure of Tezcatlipoca at his side seemed to vibrate at a higher frequency. Its eyes, which once reflected stars, now scanned the visible and non-visible spectrum, dissolving illusions and perceiving distortions in the very fabric of reality. It was a spiritual radar tuned to pick up not just mass and energy, but hidden intent, the shadow within the shadow. A direct and practical consequence of the trauma of having been ambushed by the Queen of the Land of Shadows.
"Assassin-Class or higher stealth signatures are no longer a guarantee of invisibility to us, Leonel," the Persona's voice resonated in his mind, a sharper, more analytical tone. "I have recalibrated the search parameters. If she moves within a five-hundred-meter radius with hostile intent, we will detect her. But caution is still advised. Her level of existence is... singular."
Leonel nodded to himself. It was a comfort, but a small one. Scathach wasn't a common Assassin; she was a force of nature. But at least now they had a slightly better burglar alarm.
However, the most immediate and visible consequences of the incident didn't come from the outside, but from the very heart of their group. Leonel's "brides," those fierce and beautiful legends who had forged a tacit (and explicit) pact with him, had processed Scathach's intervention in a very particular way. For them, it hadn't been a test of courage or an evaluation of potential. It had been an intrusion. A brazen, arrogant, and dangerously attractive intrusion into already claimed territory.
The concept of "harems" or "legendary polyamory" was, in practice, an emotional minefield requiring a most delicate balance. The appearance of a new candidate, especially one of Scathach's caliber—powerful, self-assured, and with a proposal as bold as "let us rule together"—had triggered all alarms. The relative peace that followed the mass wedding declaration shattered, replaced by an attitude of territorial protection that bordered on the comical and, at times, the oppressive.
It was Tamamo no Mae who, in an impromptu war council during a meal break, laid down the new tacit rules. "Mikon~ After that... purple person's attack, it's evident our husband is a magnet for skirt-related trouble. For the sake of his emotional safety and to avoid distractions on the mission, I propose we establish a perimeter."
Nero Claudius, normally at odds with Tamamo on everything, nodded with imperial solemnity. "A brilliant idea, fox! A cordon sanitaire around our beloved. No one who hasn't been properly accredited—that is, us—shall approach within... ten meters?"
"Fifteen!" corrected Kiyohime, her eyes shining with possessive fervor. "Fifteen meters distance! And they must wear visible identification!"
Jeanne Alter, listening from a log, grumbled. "It's stupid. And pathetic." But when Leonel tried to approach Geronimo to consult a map, Jeanne Alter suddenly stepped in his way, arms crossed. "Hey, where do you think you're going? The strategizing zone is over there." And she pointed to a place where no "non-accredited" woman could be nearby.
The rule was enforced with terrifying efficiency. Elizabeth Bathory, trying to hug her "puppy-manager" to tell him about a new "single concept," was intercepted by a barrier composed of Nero, Tamamo, and Kiyohime, whose collective glare made her back off with her hands up. "Hey, girls, I'm just his star idol, not a rival..." But the explanation fell on deaf ears.
The most comical—and a bit sad—moment came when the male Servants of the group tried to approach Leonel. Billy the Kid wanted to show him a new gun trick and was met by a Wall of Murderous Glares™. "The Master is busy meditating on his next strategic move," said Mash, with her usual sweetness, but planted firmly in his path. Georgios, seeking advice on defensive techniques, found Jeanne Alter blocking the way, her black sword resting negligently on her shoulder. "Having problems? Talk to me. He's... indisposed." The poor saintly knight retreated, confused.
Leonel, at first, tried to protest. "Girls, this is ridiculous. They are my friends, my allies. I need to be able to talk to them." But it was in vain.
"It's for your own good, my beloved," said Nero Bride, adjusting his collar with a possessive gesture. "Your heart is too noble and open. Opportunists might take advantage."
"Exactly," added Tamamo, offering him a piece of fruit. "Until this Singularity ends and we are all properly married to you, we must maintain a controlled environment. It's an emotional security measure."
Even Florence Nightingale offered her diagnosis. "Protective clustering behavior observed in the female units. They appear to identify the Commander as a scarce vital resource. The preventive quarantine of potential vectors of emotional stress, although methodologically questionable, reduces the risk of internal conflicts compromising the primary mission. I will not intervene unless I observe symptoms of clinical distress in the patient."
Leonel surrendered. It was easier to navigate a battlefield full of Celts than the minefield of his future wives' preemptive jealousy. He learned to communicate with his male allies through looks, gestures, and the occasional brief telepathic message that Tezcatlipoca facilitated, bypassing the "cordon sanitaire."
The journey to Washington D.C. thus became a long, tedious procession. Days blurred together under a relentless sun or a persistent drizzle. Encounters with the enemy were sporadic and, compared to the challenge of Scathach, almost boring. Patrols of Celts, emerging from nowhere with their war cries, were swept away with routine efficiency by Mordred, Artoria Alter, or Jeanne Alter, under Leonel's distant direction. Edison's clumsy mechanical guardians or self-propelled artillery fell to the magic of Tamamo and Geronimo or Billy's precise shots.
None of these enemies recognized them as allies. To the Celts, they were intruders in their queen's territory. To the machines, they were unidentified anomalies to be eliminated. Each skirmish was a waste of time and resources, but a necessary one. Leonel directed these clashes with one part of his mind, while the other calculated distances, supplies, and the growing weight of expectation.
Through it all, Florence Nightingale was a pillar of stoic imperturbability. Her obsession with the "tumor"—the Holy Grail—was the group's most constant engine. Every morning, her first comment was an assessment of their progress toward Washington. Every night, she expressed a cold satisfaction for the distance covered. "The excision of the primary pathogen is 12.3% closer. The progress rate is acceptable." Was that happiness? Joy? On the impassive face and clear blue eyes of the berserker nurse, it was impossible to tell. Her EX-ranked Madness Enhancement didn't manifest in screams or fury, but in an absolute concentration on her goal that erased any other human consideration. For her, Leonel was not a potential lover or a charismatic leader; he was the Commander of the disinfection operation, a crucial but instrumental element in her particular war against disease. Her loyalty was to the mission, not the person, and in a way, that made her the most reliable and yet the most disconcerting of them all.
And so, days passed. Days of endless walking, of nights under the stars where the "brides" took turns sharing the watch (and proximity) with Leonel, of meals prepared by Tamamo or charred by Kiyohime with excessive love. There were moments of genuine peace, of trivial conversations, of shared laughter. Nero and Nero Bride amiably argued over the details of the mass wedding. Elizabeth tried, and failed, to give private concerts until a collective look silenced her. Mash and Leonel shared comfortable silences, their hands meeting in brief, warm touches that said more than a thousand words.
At times, they forgot the war, the Grail, the threat of Goetia. It seemed like a family trip, absurd and chaotic, but a family nonetheless. A family where the mother was an obsessive nurse, the aunts were empresses, saints, a dragon, and a fox, and the father was a dazed young man trying to keep everyone alive and sane. It was an epic sitcom, a breath in the narrative of a tragedy.
Leonel, in his moments of quiet, felt the weight of this calm. He knew it was the eye of the hurricane. Every step brought them closer not only to Washington, but to the confrontation that would decide the course of this Singularity. Medb and her Celtic army, the corrupted Cu Chulainn Alter, and the Grail that powered it all, awaited. The battle in London had taught him the bitter taste of crushing defeat. This time, he wouldn't be caught off guard. This time, he had a stronger team, more united, and a determination forged in guilt and reforged in the fire of self-improvement.
He also felt, like an itch on the back of his neck, the observing presence of Scathach. It wasn't hostile, but it was intense. It was the gaze of a blacksmith evaluating the metal, wondering if it was worth heating in the forge and hammering into shape. That attention kept him alert, pushed him to be better, to think faster, to not settle for routine efficiency.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity of dust and road, the plains began to give way. The terrain grew more irregular, dotted with hills and the first signs of large-scale civilization: wider roads, remnants of telegraph lines, and in the air, a mist distinct from London's. It wasn't a corrupt magical fog, but a heavy haze, laden with smoke, ozone, and the distant echo of heavy machinery and war cries.
One morning, climbing to the top of a pine-covered hill, they saw it.
Washington D.C., or the monstrous distortion that occupied its place in history. It wasn't the city of white monuments and wide avenues. It was a nightmare fortress. Enormous walls of earth and logs, mixed with plates of twisted metal and shimmering Celtic energy crystals, surrounded an urban core where both primitive watchtowers with Celtic banners and strange, extremely tall antennas sparking with blue electricity rose. Columns of black smoke rose from various points within the walls. In the sky, swarms of Edison's mechanical birds skirmished with flocks of magic-distorted winged beasts. The sound that reached them was a continuous bass of cannon fire, screams, and the ominous hum of uncontrolled energy.
In the very heart of the distorted city, over what should be the Capitol, a light pulsed with a sickly rhythm. It was golden, but stained with purple and red. The Holy Grail. They could feel its power from there, an oppressive pressure that made the air smell of copper and rotten herbs.
The calm was broken. The family trip was over.
They all gathered on the hilltop, looking at the horizon of the final battle. Playful, jealous, or serene expressions hardened, replaced by the seriousness of warriors. Even Nightingale's impassivity seemed to intensify, her eyes fixed on the city like a surgeon's on a malignant tumor.
"There," said Leonel, his voice low but clear, cutting through the wind that smelled of war. "There is the tumor. There is Medb. And there..." he paused, remembering the bestial shadow that had defeated them in London, "...there is our redemption."
Nero drew her sword, the steel singing softly. "Finally! A stage worthy of the final act of our opera!"
Jeanne Alter smiled, a smile laden with hatred and anticipation. "Time to burn something bigger than a ghost town."
Mash tightened her grip on her shield, her gaze firm on Leonel. "I am ready, Senpai."
Florence Nightingale adjusted her gloves. "The operating theater is ready. Let us proceed with the excision operation."
Leonel looked at his company, his dysfunctional and powerful family. He felt fear, yes, a cold knot in his stomach. But above it, a hotter, more solid determination. They weren't alone. They had a plan, they had power, and they had something to fight for that went beyond saving humanity: they had a future together to promise.
"Alright," he said, raising his voice so all could hear. "This is the last stop. Let us remember London, but let us not be paralyzed by it. We fight together. We win together. And after..." a small smile touched his lips, "...there's a giant wedding to plan."
A chorus of nervous laughter, grunts of approval, and a "Yes, my empress!" from Nero filled the hill. The period of tranquility was over. The war for America, for the Grail, and for their future, was about to begin. And Leonel Herrera, the boy from another life turned strategist, lover, and leader, was ready to lead them through the fire.