The desert sun gave no respite. Two days after the nightmare that had been the defense of the village, the sun remained relentless, as if it wanted to erase from the face of the earth the scars that the battle had left on their hearts. Leonel Herrera still felt a phantom echo of the drain on his Magic Circuits, a kind of deep numbness that reminded him how close they had come to total collapse. Using the two Command Seals to empower Artoria Lancer Alter had been a desperate move, necessary, but also a clear alarm signal. His resources were not infinite. His luck was not infinite. And the enemy, he now knew, did not play fair.
Those two days had passed in a state of tense stillness, repairing what could be repaired, burying the few who had not managed to take cover in time, and making decisions. The main one, and the most controversial, had been to seek the support of Ozymandias. Leonel's proposal was met with a thick silence, especially from Hassan of the Hundred Personas, who, in one of her few surviving personalities, had expressed her discontent with a professional coldness that did not hide her distrust. "The Pharaoh is a god on earth, Master. He does not negotiate, he demands. To prostrate oneself before him is like prostrating oneself before the very Lion King, but with another mask." Serenity, for her part, had not spoken a word of objection, but her large dark eyes said it all. For her, leaving the relative safety of the mountains to venture into the domain of a solar despot was nonsense. Her Master was her priority, and exposing him like this terrified her. However, the authority of Hassan of the Cursed Arm, combined with Leonel's overwhelming logic, had tipped the scales. "The Lion King has tested us," Leonel had said. "She knows where we are. She knows what we can do. Her next attack will not be with two knights; it will be with all of Camelot. If she finds us here, in these mountains, there will be nothing left to protect. Ozymandias is our only chance to have a combat force that can match the Round Table." The decision, though unanimous in the leaders' vote, left an open wound among the Hassan, a feeling that they were sacrificing their pride as assassins for an alliance that looked down on them.
Now, as the caravan of dust and weariness snaked among the dunes, Leonel could not help but dwell on that wound. He felt the weight of responsibility. He had dragged those men and women of the shadows into a pact with a pharaoh who, according to all legends, was as temperamental as the sun he represented. But as always, guilt was a luxury, and strategy, a duty.
The column was led by Hassan of the Cursed Arm, his black robe fluttering like a banner of mourning under the blazing sun. He knew the way, or at least the general area. "I was here once," he had explained before departing, his voice a whisper snatched by the wind. "When I was gathering information on the movements of the Knights. But when Nitocris was summoned as guardian of these lands, everything changed. She placed very powerful protections. Ancient Egyptian magic that distorts perception and confuses the senses. It was nearly impossible for me to investigate without being detected. I could not pinpoint the exact entrance to her temple, but the area is this very one. The power node is unmistakable." So they advanced with senses sharpened, searching the monotony of the sand for a fissure in reality.
At the center of the retinue, momentarily oblivious to the intrigues of ghost geopolitics, Leonel swayed to the rhythm of the horse. Llamrei, the spectral mount of pure white with silver manes, snorted occasionally with an ethereal sound more akin to a breeze than a neigh. Being on its back was strangely comfortable, like floating. But the comfort did not come from the mount. It came from the person holding him. Artoria Pendragon Lancer Alter, wearing her light outfit of a tank top and shorts strategically chosen for the desert heat, sat behind him, reins in one hand and her imposing presence enveloping him. Leonel's back rested against her torso, and with each step of the horse, he felt the warmth of her body. It was a consented torture. A torture his other girlfriends were stoically enduring.
The argument Artoria had given two days before, upon departure, had been a dialectical checkmate.
"Leonel is a Master," she had declared in a grave voice, leaving no room for rebuttal, before all the assembled Servants. "As a Master, he must remain in optimal condition to supply us with mana at all times. His reserves were almost completely drained the night before last. Walking through the desert for days, in this heat, would exhaust him to the point of uselessness. The safest and most comfortable method for him to recover without expending energy is for him to ride my horse, Llamrei. The desert journey is arduous, so being atop a horse is most optimal for our Master."
Tamamo no Mae had opened her mouth to protest, her tails bristling, but closed it immediately. Mash wrung her hands, worried. Jeanne Alter let out a snort. Even Mordred, who usually jumped at any excuse, remained silent. It was impossible to refute. Artoria was not claiming a romantic privilege; she was presenting a tactical fact. The Master's well-being was above the shift schedule, above jealousy, above murderous glares. No one could argue with the logic without seeming like a selfish person putting her feelings ahead of the mission. And to top it off, Llamrei, the phantom steed, had softly neighed and rubbed its muzzle against Leonel's shoulder in a gesture of acceptance. Even the horse agreed. According to a later comment from Artoria, winning Llamrei's approval was difficult; the steed only accepted riders of great spiritual fortitude or those whose hearts were sincere in purpose. That Leonel had obtained its blessing without even trying was a coup de grâce to any possible objection.
Since then, the travel dynamic had become a cold war of caresses and glances. Every time they halted to camp, the truce was broken. Artoria would dismount Leonel with her own hands, gripping him by the waist, and before his feet touched the ground, a reception committee was already there. Tamamo would wrap him in her tails and drag him to a shade. "Goshujin-sama, you must be exhausted from so much sun! Let me prepare a revitalizing drink for you!" Jeanne Alter would sit beside him with crossed arms. "Don't think you're special, idiot; I'm just checking that you haven't fainted." Mash, more subtle, would sit nearby and fan him with her palm. Xuanzang, not understanding the tension, would approach to offer spiritual advice on patience in the face of adversity, which conveniently involved touching him a lot to "channel his chi." Serenity, who had joined the expedition without asking permission, would materialize in his shadow. The order was clear: keep Artoria Lancer Alter away from the interactions. They had monopolized him in an unjust but necessary manner. And Artoria, for her part, would observe the scene from a distance, leaning on her lance, with a half-smile on her lips. She was not offended. On the contrary, she seemed to enjoy the war she had unleashed. Each caress from the others was a confirmation that her strategy was working. She had already had Leonel all to herself the entire day. She was a chess player on a board of passions.
Now, in the middle of the march, Artoria inclined her head slightly, her breath grazing Leonel's ear. "I see you have grown accustomed to Llamrei's rhythm," she said in a low voice. "Your breathing is more stable. Your pulse, calmer."
"It's a good horse," Leonel replied, his throat dry. Not just because of the desert.
"It is. But it is not just the horse." Her tone was neutral, but her arms tensed slightly around him. "Your body trusts me."
Leonel did not answer. Any word would feed her. Any silence as well. He was in an inescapable trap. It was then that Mordred's voice rang out from the vanguard, breaking the tension.
"Bah, how boring! We've been at it for hours and not a single enemy! Looks like those golden knights ran out of fight!"
A gust of hot wind swept the nearest dune. Leonel felt a chill on the back of his neck. Tezcatlipoca issued a warning in his mind. «Hostile energy pattern detected. Large size. Approaching slowly.»
"Mordred," Leonel said aloud, with a calm he did not possess. "Never, ever say that out loud."
In the depths of the sandstorm rising lazily on the horizon, an enormous silhouette began to materialize. At first it was a blur, a heat smear. Then, an outline. Lion's paws. Extended wings. A humanoid torso. And a face that combined the ferocity of a beast with the solemnity of a monument. It was a Living Sphinx, a creature of legend, of colossal size. Its claws sank into the sand as if it were water, and its golden eyes reflected the sunlight like bronze mirrors. All the Servants immediately went on guard. Mash raised her shield, Tamamo unfurled her tails, Jeanne Alter summoned her black fire. Mordred, the allied Servant, drew Clarent with a fierce grin. "Yeah! That's what I asked for!"
But the creature did not attack. It advanced with regal calm, leisurely, like a cat approaching a group of mice knowing they cannot escape. And on its head, sitting with legs dangling over the beast's forehead, was Nitocris.
Leonel saw her and his mind, despite the tension, took a second to process the image. The pharaoh's attire was, once again, a tribute to disinhibition. A white loincloth that barely covered the essentials, and a pair of crossed bands over her chest that, from her elevated position and the angle of the slope, were not fulfilling their function. The bare breasts of the pharaoh were visible, of an exotic beauty that the game hinted at with the design but that three-dimensional reality made impossible to ignore. The Ancient Queen of Egypt, a Saint Graph of incalculable power, was there, half-naked and waving.
Before he could appreciate more of the historical-cultural panorama, a black-gloved hand grabbed his jaw and turned his head with a force that brooked no argument. Leonel's world became a wall of dark fabric, a pillow of firm flesh, and a scent of citrus and metal. Artoria had buried his face against her enormous breasts, holding him with one arm as if he were a wayward kitten.
"Protecting your concentration, Master," Artoria said aloud, her tone completely serious. "The sight of an enemy pharaoh could contain visual curses. Better to prevent."
"Mmmfph!" was Leonel's only muffled response.
Nitocris, oblivious to the hormonal drama that had just erupted before her, had her sphinx kneel slowly, lowering its head until she could dismount with a graceful jump. Her bare feet touched the hot sand unfazed. She saw Artoria Lancer Alter holding the Master against her bust, and though her eyes narrowed in slight confusion, she decided it was better not to ask. Chaldean mages were strange. And that particular Master, whom she had already met, was very strange. There was an unwritten rule in the world of Servants: do not question the fetishes of the living. So Nitocris, with the elegance of one who has ruled an empire, simply chose to ignore what she did not understand and proceed with what she had to do.
"Welcome, travelers of Chaldea," she said, with a clear and melodious voice. Her manners were those of a hostess receiving guests in her palace. "I am pleased to see you again. Ozymandias, the Divine Pharaoh, King of Kings, awaits you."
By that time, Artoria Lancer Alter, seeing that her Master would no longer be distracted for the moment by another woman's anatomy, decided to release him. She withdrew her hand and Leonel emerged, dazed and gasping for air, his face slightly flushed.
"Thank you, Nitocris," he said, trying to regain his dignity, though the blush on his cheeks betrayed him. "We appreciate you guiding us."
The pharaoh nodded and raised her staff. "Before we continue, allow me to clear the way." From the tip of her scepter, a white glow like the marrow of a star began to emanate, pulsing with a gentle frequency. The sandstorm roaring in the distance seemed to receive an order. The winds calmed, the dust particles settled as if an invisible hand were crushing them to the ground. The curtain of sand slowly dissipated until it vanished, revealing a clean horizon.
And right before them rose a solar temple that defied logic and gravity. An Egyptian pyramid built entirely of what seemed like solid gold, though Leonel knew it must be some kind of impossible magical cladding. The structure captured the light of the sun and reflected it in a million glints that hurt the eyes. Lapis lazuli obelisks flanked a monumental entrance adorned with hieroglyphics that shone with divine energy. It was an oasis, yes, but not one of palm trees and water. It was an oasis of power, of civilization, a punch of a pharaoh's will in the midst of desolation.
Nitocris gestured for them to follow. "This is the Great City of the Solar Temple, the domain of His Majesty Ozymandias. Only those he allows can see it." There was pride in her voice, but also a genuine warmth.
Leonel, with a sigh, had to dismount Llamrei. Artoria helped him, her fingers grazing his waist a second longer than necessary, before dismissing her mount. The Master felt a pinch of frustration, not from the dismount, but from the obvious satisfaction in Artoria's golden eyes. She had won another battle.
But the war was not over. As soon as he set foot on the sand, his other girlfriends materialized around him. Tamamo grabbed his right arm. "Careful with the stones, Goshujin-sama, the ground is uneven." Jeanne Alter, scoffing, grabbed his left arm. "Don't wander off, idiot. If you get lost in this golden city, I'm not going to look for you." Mash, not wanting to be left behind, placed herself in front, her shield in one hand and the other brushing the back of Leonel's hand. Even Xuanzang, with her usual innocence, hung onto his shoulder. "Disciple, this architecture is fascinating; do you not feel the telluric current?" Serenity, invisible, was just a shadow grazing his heels. They were jealous. Jealous of what had just happened with Artoria Lancer Alter. And their way of reclaiming him was to grab any part of Leonel without impeding his advance, a tangle of bodies and possessive affections. Leonel walked like a tree besieged by vines. Artoria, behind, crossed her arms and smiled to herself. Her monopoly on the horse had caused the desired effect: the others were desperate to make up for lost time. It was almost endearing.
They entered the city and the sight left them breathless. It was not a mere accumulation of ostentatious buildings; it was a miniature civilization. Cultivation fields perfectly irrigated by canals that shone like ribbons of silver lined the main avenues. Adobe houses with palm-thatched roofs, solid and cool, housed hundreds of people who moved with the vigor of those who have a purpose. There were markets, smithies, even a school where children recited hymns to the sun. An advanced maintenance system, far above anything the year 1273 could offer. It was an oasis, in the most literal and metaphorical sense of the term. A miracle in the middle of the desert.
The people, upon seeing Nitocris, did not prostrate themselves in fear. They greeted her with warm smiles and respectful bows. A woman ran up, carrying a basket of fruit. "Lady Nitocris! Blessings of the sun upon you! Please accept this tribute for your sustenance." An older man approached limping, offering a papyrus scroll. "I have written a hymn for the Pharaoh; could you see that it reaches him?" A child handed her a blue lotus flower, the sacred flower of the Nile. Nitocris accepted each offering with both hands and thanked them with a tender smile on her face, a smile that transformed her kohl-lined eyes into two crescent moons of kindness. It was not the haughty gesture of a queen collecting a tax. It was the gratitude of a servant receiving a gift. Leonel observed everything with growing admiration. In the game, Nitocris was presented as an insecure pharaoh who spoke with the spirits of the dead and worried about not measuring up to Ozymandias. But seeing her in person, seeing how her people loved her, how she herself took charge of the offerings with such pure humility, was something else. He understood why Ozymandias held her in such high esteem. She was not just a tool; she was the heart of his kingdom.
When they reached the base of the staircase ascending to Ozymandias's throne, a staircase of a hundred steps guarded by obsidian sphinxes, Nitocris stopped. She called a servant waiting in the shadows, a bald man dressed in a linen tunic. "Take all this," she told him, handing him the fruit basket, the papyrus, the flower. "Whatever is food, have the cooks prepare it for the banquet tonight. And the rest, whatever has utility, distribute it among the people who require it. Let there be no need in my kingdom while the sun shines." The servant nodded with a bow and hurried off.
Mordred, who was beside Leonel, whistled under her breath. "Wow. That pharaoh is different. Any other king would have kept the credit."
"She is a true ruler," whispered Bedivere, who walked in respectful silence. "Her power does not reside in her crown, but in her service."
Now, the real challenge began. They climbed the stairs. With each step, the pressure changed. The air became thinner, more charged with divine energy. It was not a malevolent energy, but it was overwhelming, like being exposed to the radiation of a small sun. Leonel sweated. As he ascended, his rational mind, that of the transmigrator who knew the game, began to act up. He knew Ozymandias was egocentric, proud, and self-assured. But he was also a just ruler. He prioritized the lives of his subjects, though he treated people of low birth as insignificant. He was, in strict comparisons, an Egyptian Gilgamesh. The same arrogance, the same power, the same spark of genius.
And then, his memory played a dirty trick on him. The voice actor. In the game, Ozymandias was known for having a very famous voice actor. An actor who voiced Dio Brando in the JoJo's Bizarre Adventure anime. It was an absurd piece of trivia, a fan nod that in his previous life he had found very funny. But in this world, where the voices, personalities, and stories of the Servants remained eerily faithful to their portrayals, that became an existential problem. Leonel began to pray mentally as he climbed the last step. "Philemon, Igor, Selene... whoever brought me here. Please, do not give him Dio's voice. I beg you. I can endure the end of humanity, but I will not be able to negotiate with a pharaoh who speaks like a bisexual vampire who shouts 'Muda' every five seconds. Seriousness, please... a little seriousness..."
They reached the top. Before them, the entrance to the inner sanctum was a colossal archway guarded by two standing Anubis statues. They crossed the threshold. And what they saw defied description. The interior of the temple was not a dark chamber, but an open courtyard where sunlight fell in golden cascades, filtered by magical crystals that turned it into solid beams. Columns of gold rose toward an open sky. At the center, on an elevated platform, a throne of ebony and ivory, inlaid with turquoise and lapis lazuli, shone like a divine seat. And on that throne, sitting with one leg crossed and his cheek resting on a fist, was Ozymandias, the Divine Pharaoh. His skin was bronze, his black hair tied in a high ponytail, his eyes, now closed, radiated a presence that filled the hall. At his side, a golden scepter rested. He wore the royal Egyptian regalia, but on him, it seemed the armor of a god. His very existence screamed: "I am the pinnacle of creation."
As was customary with kings, everyone knelt. Leonel did so with genuine respect. Artoria Lancer Alter, who knelt before no one, made a sufficiently deep bow of her head. Bedivere, on the other hand, did place a knee on the ground, his silver arm resonating against the marble. The other Servants followed suit. Only Xuanzang, perhaps due to her Buddhist faith, pressed her palms together in a greeting. The silence was absolute. The sun was at its zenith, and a single ray illuminated Ozymandias like a celestial spotlight.
Then, the Pharaoh opened his eyes. They were golden, unfathomable. And he spoke.
"So you have finally arrived. The last Master of Humanity, the heir of Chaldea... crawling before my throne seeking a favor."
The voice that came from his throat was deep, musical, and charged with an impossible-to-ignore dramatic vibrato. It was exactly, one hundred percent, the voice of Dio Brando. Leonel choked on his own saliva. It was a spasm in his throat, a coughing fit that he tried to disguise by lowering his head. Tamamo, at his side, shot him a worried look.
"I hope you understand the magnitude of what you request," Ozymandias continued, oblivious to the internal torment of his interlocutor. "You do not ask me to lift a finger. You ask me to incline my empire, to put the power of the sun at the service of foreigners who fight against a crowned corpse. What reason, what excuse, what divine argument could you offer me so that I, Ozymandias, King of Kings, might fight for your cause? I am waiting... a valid reason. Something befitting my glory. For if your words are as insignificant as your existence... I will turn you to dust."
Every phrase was a declaration of superiority. His tone was so pompous, so theatrical, that Leonel's mind, treacherously, began to superimpose images. "Have you gone mad, JoJo?", "I reject my humanity, JoJo!", "Your fate is sealed." He was fighting with all his strength. Mordred, from behind, had understood the situation. She knew her Master's references, because he had explained them to her on some campfire night. She was wide-eyed, making a "no, please, no" gesture with her index finger over her lips. Jeanne Alter was looking at him with contained fury. "Leonel, if you laugh, I'll kill you," she hissed in a whisper. Xuanzang, completely lost, asked quietly: "Who is Dio Brando?" "Shut up, nun," Jeanne Alter replied without taking her eyes off Leonel.
Ozymandias continued. He lowered the hand that held his face and extended it forward, in a gesture of power. "Your silence begins to irritate me, Master of Chaldea. Do you have nothing to say? Is your tongue as useless as your cause?" And then, the word came. The pharaoh, in his infinite wisdom, let it out with an emphasis that resonated throughout the hall. He said: "Useless!" But he did not say it in the common language they were all understanding thanks to the gifts of the Throne of Heroes. He said it in Japanese. He pronounced it exactly as Dio Brando pronounced it. "Muda!"
And it was like a hammer blow to the last barrier of Leonel's self-control. The image of Ozymandias on the throne merged with the image of Dio in his castle. The pose, the voice, the word. The parallelism was so perfect, so absurd, so wonderfully stupid, that reason abandoned him. He began to tremble. His shoulders shook. A guttural sound escaped his throat. "Muda... he said Muda...", he muttered through his teeth.
"Leonel, no!" Mash pleaded.
"Idiot, control yourself!" Jeanne Alter growled.
"Goshujin-sama, think of humanity!" Tamamo wailed.
But it was too late. Leonel collapsed onto the marble floor and began to writhe with laughter. An uncontrollable, pure, liberating laughter that sprang from the deepest part of his being and that no fear of death could repress. Guffaws echoed through the solar temple, bouncing off the golden columns. He clutched his stomach, tears rolling down his cheeks. "He said Muda! The Divine Pharaoh said Muda! My God, yes!"
The silence that followed was sepulchral. All the Servants accompanying him were as pale as marble. Mordred brought both hands to her head. "We're dead. He's going to fry us with a solar ray." Bedivere was paralyzed. Hassan of the Cursed Arm, hidden in a corner, cursed under his breath. Nitocris stood with her mouth agape, her eyes shifting from her king to that madman writhing on the floor. The atmosphere was that of an imminent funeral. Even the sun seemed to dim momentarily.
Ozymandias, on his throne, blinked. His haughty expression froze. He lowered his gaze to the human convulsing with laughter. For an instant, a muscle in his cheek twitched. A single drop of sweat, perfectly drawn in anime style, appeared on his temple. It was not fury. It was... bewilderment. And, perhaps, a spark of something more.
"...Does my pronunciation strike you as amusing, mortal?" Ozymandias asked, and his tone was no longer that of an offended god, but that of a king unaccustomed to having his protocol broken in such an absurd manner.
Leonel, panting, barely propped himself up on one elbow. Tears still ran, but his gaze, meeting Ozymandias's, held no malicious mockery. It held an irreverent joy. "No... it's not that, Your Majesty. It's just that... I was afraid you'd talk like a certain vampire. And you did. It's too perfect. I'm sorry, truly. It's just that I didn't expect my prayer to Philemon to be so twisted." He dried his tears with the back of his arm. "I'm not laughing at you. Well, yes, a little. But mostly I'm laughing at the situation. A divine pharaoh with the voice of a meme god. It's too much for my transmigrated brain."
Seconds passed like centuries. The Servants remained pale. Nitocris seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown. "P-Pharaoh... shall I execute him for heresy?" she asked, her staff trembling.
Ozymandias raised a hand, stopping her. And then, to everyone's surprise, he smiled. A broad, sovereign, but genuine smile. He closed his eyes and reclined on his throne. "I see." His voice returned to that of a monarch, but now with a shade of amusement. "I knew you would laugh, Master of Chaldea."
Leonel froze. "Huh?"
"From the moment I saw you, I knew you were not one of those trembling mortals who prostrate themselves before divinity and lose their speech," Ozymandias continued, opening his eyes again, which now shone with a mischievous gleam. "You eradicated Medb and Cu Chulainn Alter in America. You faced Goetia in London and survived. Such a being does not present himself as a lamb before a god. You were a lion. And I was looking for a reason to join your strength without losing my pride."
He paused, toying with his scepter. "If you had begged me, I would have set you an impossible trial to destroy you. If you had flattered me, I would have despised you like an insect. But you... you laughed. To my face. Without fear. Without malice." He pointed his scepter at Leonel, and his smile widened. "That proves you respect me, but do not fear me. It proves you acknowledge my power, but do not blindly prostrate yourself before it. A king needs allies who complement him, not subjects who fan him. With that laugh, you have passed the test. It was not even necessary to apply it. You are an interesting human being."
Leonel slowly stood up, dusting off his knees. He still had a silly smile on his lips. "So... you're not going to kill us?"
"On the contrary." Ozymandias rose from his throne and extended his arms toward the sun bathing the temple. "I myself, Ozymandias, the Golden Pharaoh, will join your cause. But not out of charity. I will fight the Lion King at your side for one very simple reason." He lowered his gaze to Leonel, and his expression turned serious. "That woman, the Artoria who became a goddess, is judging my subjects. She is killing those I should protect. Worse yet, she is creating her own 'Camelot,' a cheap copy of a city, while my Solar Temple is the true wonder of the world. Her kingdom is an offense to my aesthetic. And you, Master of Chaldea, are the only one who can give me the opportunity to show her who the true king is."
The tension dissolved. Tamamo's shoulders relaxed. Mordred let out a sigh of relief. "Damn... I almost had a heart attack," she murmured. Jeanne Alter, however, punched Leonel in the arm. "Idiot, we almost got killed because of you!" But in her voice there was more relief than real anger. Mash, with moist eyes, simply grabbed her Senpai's hand. Xuanzang clapped softly. "What an uplifting ending! Laughter, truly, is the middle path to enlightenment." Bedivere breathed deeply. "So... we will have all of Ozymandias's army on our side?"
Ozymandias nodded. "My sphinxes, my sorcerers, and even this timid but loyal pharaoh," he said, inclining his head toward Nitocris, "will be under your strategy, Master. But remember: I am an ally, not a tool. My decisions on the battlefield will be my own. You draw the plan, I choose how to execute my part."
"That's more than I could ask for," Leonel responded, sincerely relieved. "Thank you, Pharaoh."
"Call me Ozymandias. Or 'King of Kings,' if you please." The pharaoh snapped his fingers. "Now, Nitocris, order a banquet. This Master and his Servants must be hungry after their journey. And I wish to hear more about this story of the 'vampire' I supposedly resemble. It intrigues me."
That night, under a starry sky reflected on the golden walls, the Chaldea retinue sat at a banquet table that could well have been the envy of any palace. Egyptian delicacies filled the tables: barley bread, thick beer, dates stuffed with almonds, roasted meats with spices that did not exist in their era. The tension had dissipated. The civilians from the Hassan settlement, whom Leonel had sent for with a messenger, would begin arriving in the coming days, placing themselves under the protection of the golden city. It was a better refuge than the mountains.
Leonel, surrounded by his girlfriends, who now took turns feeding him in a silent competition of "who tends to him best," watched Ozymandias, who was debating the art of war with Mordred while Bedivere and Artoria Lancer Alter shared a pensive silence. Everything seemed to be going well. But in the back of his mind, the echo of the divine lance in the sky continued to rumble. They had won an ally. The most powerful one in the singularity. But the storm had not passed. It had barely begun. As he looked at the satisfied face of the Pharaoh, Leonel remembered the word "Muda," and an involuntary smile formed on his lips. Fate was strange. Sometimes, the salvation of humanity depended on a comic wink from the universe. And he, a simple transmigrator, was the only one who could fully appreciate it.