The return to Chaldea was not a gradual relief. It was a violent jolt of reality, a tear in the space-time continuum that spat Leonel and his Servants back into the sterile white and blue of the Rayshift room. For Leonel, already on the edge of the abyss, the transition was the final straw.
He barely felt the firm metal of the platform under his feet. Chaldea's automatic compensation tried to stabilize his body, but his biological systems were beyond what technology could mitigate. His Magic Circuits, repeatedly scraped to the last drop of mana and then forced to endure the agony of ten simultaneous Noble Phantasms, emitted one last silent 'crack'—a distress signal only he could feel in the depths of his soul. It wasn't a physical pain, but an absolute void, followed by a coldness that spread from his magical core to every limb, as if his very essence were extinguishing.
His vision blurred, the sounds of recalibration alarms and the worried voices of Roman and Da Vinci became a distant buzz. He saw Mash's blurred figure, her lips moving, her hands reaching for him. He saw the unsettling purple of Scáthach's shadow still fresh in his mind, and the persistent sting on his lip.
Then, gravity reclaimed him. His knees gave way without any strength, and his body collapsed onto the cold floor of the room like a sack of bones. There was no attempt to cushion the fall. The impact, dull and dry, was the last physical sensation he registered before the darkness, dense and welcoming, enveloped him completely.
"Leonel!" Mash's cry was a knife in the tense air.
The panic, contained during the battle, exploded in the room. Romani Archaman, his face pale with worry, was the first to reach him, his fingers searching for a pulse at the Master's neck. "Weak, arrhythmic pulse! Severe magical shock! We need to get him to the infirmary, now!"
Da Vinci, her usual serenity fractured by a glint of alarm in her eyes, nodded brusquely. "His vital signs are crashing. The Rayshift system recorded an unprecedented energy drain from his Circuits. This is more than exhaustion, Romani. This is... burnout."
Between the two of them, with the help of a couple of automated assistants, they loaded Leonel's inert body onto an emergency gurney. The Servants, still materialized and showing varying degrees of fatigue and wounds, formed a silent, anguished chorus. Nero Bride tried to approach, but Tamamo, with an unusually grave expression, stopped her with a gesture.
"Give them space, all of you. The Master needs urgent care. Your warmth would only interfere right now," said the Caster, her voice devoid of its usual coquetry, filled with deep, maternal concern.
The march to the infirmary was a funeral procession. The floating gurney advanced through Chaldea's illuminated corridors, followed by a retinue of powerful heroines who at that moment felt completely powerless. Kiyohime wept silently, her tears making small holes in the metallic floor. Jeanne Alter clenched her fists, her knuckles white, rage a mask for the panic eating at her. Artoria Alter walked with stoic stiffness, but her gaze never left Leonel's pale figure. Mordred looked away, unable to process the extreme vulnerability of the one who had directed such a fierce battle mere minutes before.
In the infirmary, under the cold, clinical lights, Leonel was hooked up to a battery of monitors. The lines on the screens painted a grim story: brain activity reduced to a minimum, bodily functions in conservation mode, and a magical reading that was practically flat, with small erratic spikes indicating residual damage.
"It's as if his Circuits have... fused," Romani murmured, scrolling through data on his tablet with trembling fingers. "Nightingale, we need—"
"I am already on it," the Berserker cut in, having appeared at his side like a white and blue ghost. Her eyes scrutinized Leonel with clinical intensity. "No significant physical wounds beyond minor contusions. The trauma is purely magical and, by extension, spiritual. The stimulants I administered in the field only postponed the collapse; they did not prevent it. In fact, they may have exacerbated the damage."
As Nightingale and Romani worked, injecting stabilizing solutions and applying magical life-support devices, Leonel's mind did not rest in peaceful sleep.
He had fallen through layers of darkness, beyond normal dreams, to a place that was both familiar and alien. The air changed, becoming dense, laden with the smell of old coffee, book dust, and the faint scent of wilted flowers. The darkness tinged with a deep, purplish blue and materialized into recognizable shapes.
The Velvet Room.
But it wasn't the same ethereal, slightly cluttered place from his first visit. Now it had a more defined appearance. The bookshelves, though still filled with untitled volumes, were neater. Igor's desk was more solid, the crimson carpet more vibrant. Yet, a closer look revealed fine, almost imperceptible cracks in the blue walls. The glass of the great window that should show the outside world was opaque, as if fogged by a cold breath, and through it, distorted shapes were glimpsed, as if the reality beyond hung by a very thin thread. The fragility of the place, a metaphor for the balance of the human world, was palpable.
"Welcome back, dear guest."
Leonel found himself sitting in the chair facing the desk. Igor was there, with his eternal enigmatic smile, his hands clasped on the table. Beside him, Selene, his silver-haired assistant with star-filled eyes, observed him. Her usual expression of serene curiosity was tinged with something more: a deep, almost maternal concern, and a hint of... pity?
"It has been a considerable time since your last visit," Igor continued, his voice like whispers of silk. "And what a journey you have undertaken. The Singularities, the Incineration of Humanity... an apocalyptic scenario worthy of the greatest tragedies."
Leonel tried to speak, but his voice was an echo in this place. In his mind, however, words formed. Why am I here? Have I... died?
"Oh, not at all, dear guest," Igor laughed softly, as if he had read his thought (and he probably had). "Your body rests, on the edge of the abyss, but your spirit, strengthened by the bonds you forge and the Wild Card you harbor, finds refuge here. It is a testament to your resilience, though also to how close you have come to the end."
Selene nodded slightly, her starry eyes fixed on Leonel. "Your Journey is... more arduous than we anticipated," her voice, melodious yet laden with a cosmic weight. "The shadow you traverse is not a single one. It is multiple, layered."
Igor leaned forward, his smile a little fainter. "You have progressed admirably. You have faced beasts, demons, the corruption of history itself. I congratulate you. Your growth as a bearer of infinite potential has been remarkable." He paused, and the atmosphere in the room grew denser, colder. "But it would be a mistake, a catastrophic error, to believe the storm ends with the final Singularity."
Leonel knew it. Deep in his being, as the residual knowledge of the transmigrator he was, he knew it. The "Solomon" they would face in the Temple of Time was just the end of the prologue. The true threat, the one that would make the Incineration seem like a mere prelude, came after. The Lostbelts. Culled worlds vying to usurp the trunk of the proper history, each with its own catastrophe frozen in time. And behind them, the Apostles of the Alien God, beings of a horror beyond human comprehension.
But... why was Igor mentioning it now? The warning was premature. Unless...
"The perception of the threat is beginning to seep into the foundations of your world," Igor said, as if following the thread of his thoughts. "The organization you belong to, Chaldea, will soon begin to glimpse the cracks in the wall of reality. New actors will move in the shadows, some wearing masks of allies. The distinction between friend and foe will become... blurred."
Holmes? Leonel thought with a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the Velvet Room's temperature. The great detective who would appear in the next Singularity, Camelot, presenting himself as a Masterless Servant, an invaluable help... who was in reality one of the Apostles, an agent of the Alien God from the start. The betrayal, when it came, would be devastating.
"You understand," Selene murmured, her voice filled with infinite sorrow. "The burden you carry is that of two overlapping catastrophes. The immediate one, consuming your present. And the one that looms, threatening to shatter any future you manage to save. It is a burden no mortal should bear."
Leonel felt a wave of existential fatigue. He wanted to laugh, a bitter, desperate laugh. Seriously? After saving humanity from incineration, I have to do it again from dying parallel worlds and alien gods? His journey, which seemed to be reaching a climax, was actually barely the beginning. The road was endless.
He saw the expression on Selene's face. It wasn't just concern. It was a mix of admiration, compassion, and impotent frustration. She and Igor were observers, guides at the boundary of reality. They could see the board, the pieces, the magnitude of the threat, but they could not intervene directly. Their role was to cultivate the potential of the 'guest,' of the Wild Card, and to hope. Hope against all odds, against logic, against the overwhelming evidence that humanity was doomed again and again.
"We have not brought you here to demoralize you, dear guest," Igor said, regaining his serene but firm tone. "On the contrary. It is a reminder. A call to not let your guard down, even in apparent victory. Your potential is infinite, but your time and resources are not. Forge your bonds. Sharpen your mind. Strengthen your spirit. And remember..." His eyes, dark and deep, seemed to contain entire galaxies. "...that the true battle for your world's right to exist has not even begun."
The Velvet Room began to fade around Leonel. The cracks in the walls seemed to glow faintly. Selene offered him one last look, a slow nod, a silent "press on" that resonated in his being.
"Congratulations on your progress thus far, Leonel Herrera," were Igor's last words as the room dissolved into the deep blue. "And may fortune accompany your foolish, necessary, and heroic Journey."
The darkness that reclaimed him this time was not that of total unconsciousness, but of a deep, dreamless sleep, the rest of a warrior whose battles, he now knew, would never end.
Consciousness returned like the tide: slow, carrying scattered sensations. First was the smell of antiseptic and clinical cleanliness, unmistakably that of Chaldea's infirmary. Then, the feel of clean, fresh sheets under his body. And then, the weight.
It wasn't an oppressive weight, but... multiple. Warmth. Several sources of warmth.
Leonel half-opened his eyelids; the room's light, dim but present, made him blink. His vision slowly focused.
To his left, sitting in a chair but with her head resting on the edge of the bed, Mash Kyrielight slept deeply. Her hand, warm and soft, held his with a gentle but unbreakable firmness, as if she feared he would vanish if she let go. Her face, normally serene, showed signs of fatigue and a worry that had left its mark.
To his right, the situation was more... spatially compromising. Nero Claudius (the original Saber, not the Bride) had somehow made room for herself on the narrow bed beside him. She was lying on her side, her head on his shoulder, an arm draped over his chest, snoring softly with an expression of absolute happiness even in sleep. Her golden hair spilled over the pillow and onto Leonel's arm.
And then there was the main warmth. Tamamo no Mae was literally on top of him. Not sitting, but lying across his torso and abdomen, her head in the hollow of his neck, breathing steadily. But the most distinctive feature was her tails. The nine fluffy, magically warm white fox tails not only surrounded her but had spread out like living blankets, wrapping Leonel's torso, his legs, forming a cozy, intimate, and overwhelmingly warm nest. Leonel felt himself sweating slightly under the combined body heat and magical warmth of the tails.
It was a picture of domestic peace and absolute possessiveness, so far removed from battlefields and cosmic warnings that Leonel needed a few seconds to process it. He slightly moved the fingers of the hand Mash was holding.
It was movement enough. The hyper-alert senses of an empress, even asleep, did not overlook it.
Nero's soft snoring ceased. Her golden eyelids opened, clear and immediately focused. Her violet eyes found Leonel's, still hazy from sleep but instantly lighting up with pure, overflowing joy.
"AH!" The cry wasn't one of surprise, but of ecstasy. Nero jumped, not off the bed, but onto Leonel, defying the presence of Tamamo on top. "MY BELOVED! MY STAR! YOU HAVE RETURNED TO US!"
The impact, though cushioned by Tamamo, made Leonel "oof" and shook the sleeping fox. Tamamo awoke with a soft, confused "Mikon?", her tails instinctively tightening around Leonel.
But Nero didn't stop. Her hands took Leonel's face, and before he could utter a syllable, her lips sealed his in a passionate, theatrical kiss full of a love as intense as the sun she claimed to embody. It was a kiss that declared possession, relief, and joy with silent shouts.
The "spectacle," as with everything involving Nero, was impossible to ignore.
The commotion woke Mash, who blinked and then smiled upon seeing Leonel awake, though her smile turned slightly shy at the sight of the kiss. It also awoke other presences in the room Leonel hadn't noticed.
Francis Drake sat up from a corner where she had been reclining on the floor, stretching with a grunt and a lascivious smile. "Well, the captain's awake! And it looks like the party started without me."
Kiyohime, who had been in spiritual form but partially materialized near Mash's bed, solidified completely, her reptilian eyes shining with tears of joy and a spark of jealousy upon seeing Nero. "Anchin-sama! Thank the heavens!"
Even Jeanne Alter, who had been leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, feigning disinterest but not having left the room all night, snorted and looked away, though her cheeks flushed slightly.
Artoria Pendragon (Lancer Alter), sitting in another chair with her spear leaning beside her, observed the scene with her inexpressive golden eyes, like a jury assessing a curious but irrelevant phenomenon.
And Mordred, who had been half-hidden behind a screen, came into view with her mouth open, an expression of complete and absolute "what the hell?" frozen on her face. Being on the battlefield was one thing. Seeing the harem dynamics up close, in a domestic setting and with all their emotional and physical intensity, was another. Each day was a new and more solid confirmation that her Master was the nucleus of a romantic whirlwind that defied all knightly logic.
Nero finally pulled away, leaving Leonel breathless and with sensitive lips. "Oh, what relief! What joy! The melody of my heart plays anew seeing you with eyes open, Praetor!"
"Hold on, Red!" protested Tamamo, now fully awake and frowning, though she didn't move from her position on top of Leonel. "I also have a right to a welcome kiss! I was the one who stabilized his Circuits with my magic, after all!"
"I was his first declared love!" argued Kiyohime, drawing closer.
"A captain claims her tribute!" said Drake, approaching with her sly smile.
"S-Senpai..." murmured Mash, blushing but keeping her hand firmly on his.
Even Jeanne Alter, after visible internal struggle, growled. "This is ridiculous! But... but if everyone's doing it, I'm not going to be the only one left out, got it?! It's not like I want to or anything!"
It was a chorus of demands, jealousy, affection, and possessiveness. Leonel, still weak, his head spinning from Nero's kiss and the overwhelming proximity of his lovers, felt like a castaway on a stormy sea of emotions.
"Order! A little order, please!" he tried, but his voice was weak.
It was useless. The loving chaos was in motion. Drake leaned in and stole a quick, salty kiss on his lips. Kiyohime, weeping with joy, gave him a soft, devoted kiss on the cheek, then, in a burst of boldness, on the lips as well. Tamamo, without moving from her position, turned her head and gave him a deep, slow kiss, full of homely promises and contained passion, her tails caressing him. Mash, with a tenderness that made Leonel's heart tremble, leaned in and gave him a chaste but pure love-filled kiss on the lips, a silent confirmation of their bond.
Jeanne Alter, after several seconds of internal struggle, stomped over, grabbed Leonel's chin brusquely, and gave him a short, hard, clumsy kiss before letting go and quickly retreating, her face as red as her fire. "There! Happy?! Don't read into it!"
Artoria Alter only nodded slightly from her seat, a gesture that, in her economy of movement, was as meaningful as a kiss. Mordred could only scratch her head, completely out of place.
Leonel, at the end of the loving "assault," was exhausted in a new way, flushed, and with a strange warmth in his chest that fought against the cold left by the Velvet Room's warnings. His harem, complex, demanding, and sometimes chaotic, was also his anchor, his reason to get up and keep fighting.
It was then that the infirmary door opened and Romani Archaman entered, his tablet in hand. He stopped short, taking in the scene: Leonel in bed, surrounded and literally covered by a swarm of female Servants, all showing varying degrees of possessive affection.
He cleared his throat. "Ahem. Good to see the... patient has awakened. And that he appears to be receiving... intensive care."
The Servants, a little embarrassed but not enough, moved aside, though Tamamo only moved enough to sit beside him, keeping one tail coiled around his arm. Nero sat on the edge of the bed, taking his hand. Mash remained on his left. The others formed an expectant semicircle.
Romani approached, checking the monitors. "Good, vital signs are within normal parameters. Magical activity..." He frowned. "It's at very low levels, but stable. No more erratic spikes." He looked at Leonel sternly. "Leonel, what you did in Washington D.C. was borderline suicidal. You overloaded your Magic Circuits in a way modern (and magical) medicine can only describe as 'burning them out.' Literally, you pushed them to the breaking point."
He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in. "You were immensely lucky. Tamamo's intervention here, applying her mystical arts of restoration and stabilization at a spiritual level, is what prevented permanent damage from occurring. But it was very, very close."
Leonel lowered his gaze. He knew. He had felt it. "I know, Dr. Roman. I had no other choice."
"There is always another choice," Romani said, but his tone wasn't one of reproach, but of genuine concern. "Your life, Leonel, is not just your own. It is the last thread on which humanity hangs. If your Magic Circuits are permanently damaged, if they stop functioning..." He swallowed. "You wouldn't be able to sustain a single Servant. Chaldea would fall. All would be lost."
The room fell silent. The truth, naked and brutal, hung in the air. All the affection, the power, the strategies, depended on the fragile magical biology of one young man.
"I promise... to try not to push myself like that again," Leonel said, and this time he was sincere. He couldn't afford to fail, not like that.
Romani studied his face, then sighed, his expression softening. "Good. That's all I can ask." He smiled weakly. "That said, physically you're fine. Magically, you'll need a week of absolute rest. No summoning, no active magic use. I'm discharging you from the infirmary, but under those strict conditions."
Relief was palpable in the room. Leonel nodded. "Understood."
Romani turned to leave but stopped at the door. "Oh, and Leonel... do take care of that... uh... social life. Emotional stress can also affect magical recovery." With one last complicit and slightly embarrassed smile, he left.
The silence he left was brief. As soon as the door closed, all eyes turned back to Leonel, and in them there was no trace of the previous moment's solemnity. There was a new determination, born from the scare they'd had.
"You heard the doctor, Praetor," Nero said, her voice firm. "Absolute rest! And what better way to rest than in the company of your empress? I shall take you to my chambers! There will be music, grapes, and imperial massages!"
"That sounds like stress, not rest!" objected Tamamo. "What my husband needs is the warmth of home. A homemade meal, a hot bath prepared by me, and resting on the futon with his fox wife snuggled beside him. That is therapeutic!"
"Anchin-sama will rest with me! I will watch over his sleep and banish any nightmares!" declared Kiyohime, hugging him from the other side.
"My, my, so many overwhelming options," Drake interjected with a smile. "What the lad needs is fresh air... well, simulator air. A smooth glass of rum, a quiet card game, and the relaxed company of a captain who won't smother him. What do you say, lad?"
Even Jeanne Alter, with her arms crossed, muttered. "If you need... someone who won't talk much and will just be there... I might... consider guarding your door or something. Not a special offer."
Mash, the voice of reason, tried to intervene. "Senpai needs peace and quiet!"
It was a cacophony of "recovery date" plans. Leonel realized there was no escape. His "absolute rest" was about to be scheduled minute by minute by a committee of overprotective and jealous brides.
With a sigh that was half resignation, half a strange, warm affection, Leonel raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Alright... alright. But in an orderly fashion. We can... take turns. A little while with each of you. Doing quiet activities. Deal?"
It wasn't a perfect solution, but it was the only viable one in the complicated diplomatic map of his heart. And so began what, for Leonel, was a week of "rest" that was anything but restful.
He spent the first hours with Tamamo, who, true to her word, took him to her rooms (which they had decorated together to resemble a cozy Japanese temple) and pampered him with an exquisite meal, a hot bath perfumed with herbs where she washed him with a tenderness that made him forget all wars for a while, and then an afternoon curled up on the futon, her tails as a living blanket, simply talking about nothing and everything.
Next was Nero's turn, whose "rest" involved a private (quite soft by her standards) lyre recital, feeding him grapes, and massaging his shoulders with an energy that, while invigorating, was not precisely relaxing, but the love with which she did it was undeniable.
With Drake, they played cards in Chaldea's simulated bar, drank tea (she drank rum), and she told him tales of the high seas that were more hilarious than stressful. With Kiyohime, they "rested" in her room, which she had decorated as a temple of possessive love, and she simply held him and whispered to him how much she loved him, which, despite the intensity, was surprisingly calming for his spirit.
Even Jeanne Alter kept her strange "vigil," sitting silently in a corner of Leonel's room while he read, throwing him furtive glances and correcting his posture with occasional grunts. It was awkward, but also, in a twisted way, comforting to know she was there.
Mash, of course, was his constant, his anchor. They walked through Chaldea's corridors (slowly), watched movies in the common room, and talked about the future, their fears and hopes, in conversations that were the most effective balm for his weary soul.
Artoria Alter, for her part, "accompanied" him to his magical physical therapy sessions, observing the exercises with the attention of a general studying maneuvers. And Mordred... well, Mordred sometimes "got lost" and ended up in the same common room, feigning indifference but listening to the laughter and conversations, gradually accepting that this was the strange, chaotic, and affectionate world her Master had built around him.
It was a week of forced domestic peace, full of minor jealousies, tacit negotiations, and an overload of affection that, against all odds, began to heal not only his Circuits but also the deeper cracks left by the defeat in London and the constant tension. The love of his Servants was a power as real and healing as any magic.
But deep down, always present, was the whisper of Igor, the sting on his lip from Scáthach's bite, and the lengthening shadow of the threats to come: Camelot, the Temple of Time, and beyond, the culled worlds and the alien apostles. As Leonel let himself be swept from one "rest date" to another, laughing, blushing, and accumulating warm memories, time kept running. The future catastrophes only gained time to manifest, patiently waiting for humanity's last Master to finish his brief respite in this nest of love, before throwing him back into the fire of history yet to be written.