Juro Takahashi squinted through the smoke-choked air, the acrid tang stinging his nostrils.
The once-lush plains of North America were a destroyed tapestry of craters and smoldering debris.
Explosions echoed from a distance, punctuated by the metallic rattle of gunfire.
His two Servants stood flank-to-flank with him.
"A little intel would be nice," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the chaos.
Witnessing the carnage wasn't exactly a wonder for a Master like him.
He'd seen countless battlefields, each a grim testament to humanity's capacity for destruction. But here, the weight of the sheer amount of carnage brought on by what seemed like more modern weaponry shook him a little.
A deafening boom shattered his thinking.
Juro lunged for cover, his heart hammering in his chest. He stumbled, adrenaline coursing through his veins, as the ground shuddered beneath him.
Arrows zipped through the air. Reacting on instinct, he barked orders.
"EMIYA, take out those archers!"
The stoic Archer materialized a void black bow in his hand. With practiced ease, he began to project swords as arrows, each one a deadly projectile launched with pinpoint accuracy.
The whistling hiss of the improvised arrows found their mark, striking the figures covered in chainmail and decorated with strange, furred pelts. They took a savage similarity to Celtic warriors from legends, their fierce faces etched with battle fury.
EMIYA's relentless volleys kept the archers at bay, but Juro wasn't out of the woods yet.
A new wave of soldiers, this time clad in ragged brown uniforms, rushed towards them.
Juro's stomach lurched. He expected them to be instantly cut down by Jeanne Alter, but she was busy glaring daggers at him from beneath her crimson visor, which wasn't really the picture of obedience.
"Jeanne!"
Her golden eyes narrowed further.
"Tch."
Juro could almost hear the gears grinding in her rebellious core.
He could tell that she loathed taking orders, but now was not the time.
With a smirk that sent shivers down his spine, Jeanne materialized her weapon – a black blade, wrapped in strange thorns.
Without a word, she launched into a whirlwind of violence. Her blackened form danced a deadly ballet, each swing of her unholy blade a crimson arc that cleaved through flesh and bone with horrifying ease.
She was swinging the blade with utmost precision, slicing her opponents to pieces.
Blood splattered across her armor, a decoration she seemed to relish.
Juro watched, a cold knot of unease tightening in his gut.
This truly was an Alter servant.
A complete opposite to the dance he witnessed by Jeanne d'Arc.
He hadn't quite grasped the full extent of Jeanne Alter's capabilities. Her fighting style was a whirlwind of fury, bordering on berserker-like savagery. There was undeniable power in her movements, but it felt raw and uncontrolled.
He had to figure out how to utilize her strength without succumbing to the chaos she personified.
Panic began to gnaw at him. He was a Master thrust into the middle of a warzone, completely clueless about the situation.
Who were these combatants? Who was the enemy? His gaze darted across the battlefield, landing on a group of soldiers clad in dusty uniforms, their faces grim beneath wide-brimmed hats.
They wielded long-barreled rifles, firing sporadically at the ferocious Celtic warriors who charged them with spears and broadswords.
Juro couldn't help but observe the stark contrast.
The 'modern' soldiers, with their superior firepower, seemed to fear their enemies.
Maybe it was the undeniable bravery of these celt-like warriors who fought for glory and an ideal, not just at a distance. Modern warfare, with its clinical efficiency, may have been effective, but it lacked the raw courage and martial prowess displayed by these figures of legend.
Yet, the gun-wielding men still possessed a courage that seemed absent in their 21st century counterparts.
Juro moved slowly across the battlefield, his two servants fighting fiercely but staying close to him.
He needed to find a way out.
EMIYA was ruthlessly shooting arrows at soldiers, while Jeanne Alter sliced through the crowds with relentless fury. They created a neutral bubble amidst the chaos, a small haven in the middle of a nightmare, driving away any potential enemies.
Takahashi Juro's eyes traveled from side to side, surveying the chaos around him.
His brain fired rapidly, his sense of hearing, taste, smell, and touch, all spiking up.
He saw warriors with spears impaling soldiers, blood splattering the ground, savagery etched on their faces.
The clang of metal and the screams of the dying filled the air.
He heard the soldiers' pleas, their legs mangled by explosions, begging for death to end their suffering. Some crawled away, their faces twisted in agony, hoping for a mercy that would never come.
He watched heads explode into gory messes as bullets hit moving targets, turning them instantly into lifeless sacks, collapsing to the ground as if their strings of life were cut. The ground was littered with bodies, and the stench of death was overwhelming.
This was the reality of war.
But Takahashi Juro was almost unfazed by it.
Almost.
A few months ago, he would have screamed and ran, hiding in the nearest hole, awaiting a slow, agonizing death from a nearby soldier.
Now, the most terrifying thing was witnessing modern weaponry tearing both sides apart. Bombs and bullets showed no mercy, ripping through flesh and bone with ease.
He was used to witnessing medieval combat, Romans tearing each other apart, but that didn't compare to seeing someone standing one moment, then instantly turning into a shower of gore, fat, and blood, raining from the sky.
The brutality of modern warfare was a new kind of horror.
As Juro continued his advance, he noticed that EMIYA had drifted too far from him, now engaging in close combat with soldiers using his Kanshou and Byakuya blades.
Jeanne Alter, on the other hand, was savagely slicing through soldiers, impaling one with her banner as she smirked. They were both too far from him now, their protective presence starting to fade.
Before he could call out to them, he felt something strange.
A large shadow covered the ground, and an inexplicable heat surged through the top of his head. It felt like a fireball.
Looking up, he saw exactly that—a massive fireball in the sky, as large as a football stadium. It looked like the sun itself was descending to earth, intent on ending the bloodshed.
The fireball boiled and flamed, its surface shifting like molten lava, radiating intense heat.
His eyes widened in horror. He was frozen, unable to move, as the fiery mass approached.
Before it could make contact with him, he felt a heavy thud against his chest. A musket-wielding soldier had tackled him to the ground.
Opening his eyes, Juro found himself sitting up with the soldier lying face-down beside him. The soldier's back was a flaming mess, His clothes had melted into his skin, fusing with the flesh in grotesque patterns.
The burns were severe, the skin charred and blackened, scattered across his body like a gruesome mosaic of death.
Tufts of bright red flesh patches stood out against the black of the burns, indicating areas where the heat had been less intense. These patches, though less damaged, were still severely injured, the skin looking angry and inflamed.
Blisters had formed around the edges of the burns, bubbling up grotesquely and adding to the horrifying tableau. The flames had not only charred the skin but also left it cracking and peeling, exposing the raw, sensitive tissue beneath.
The charred flesh assaulted Juro's nose with a pungent, acrid smell.
"He saved me…"
He needed to help this man.
Practically stumbling, forward, Juro lifted his sleeve.
Placing his hand on the soldier's back, he activated his mystic code.
"Activating mystic code: First aid: Flow repair!" he yelled, his voice filled with urgency.
His new mystic code allowed him to heal, or at least stabilize others by stopping the flow of blood. He knew that burns didn't usually cause much bleeding, but he still felt compelled to help.
But that was the wrong move.
The soldier's face contorted in agony.
"AHHH!!! GRRAGGHHH!! IT HURTS!! IT HURTS SO MUCH!!!"
Juro was hurting him even more.
The sudden pathetic screams of the silent man startled Juro. It was so loud, he felt his eardrums would rupture.
"STOP IT!!! PLEASE!!! GGWAHHHH!!!"
The pathetic screaming of the dying man began to scare Juro further.
It was like a pig squealing before being put to death to satiate the hunger of a human being.
Juro's mind felt like a shape puzzle, where one had to place a shape corresponding to the hole. But right now, it felt like he was slamming a triangle against a square, again and again.
This stress.
Pump, Pump, Pump, Pump.
Panicking, Juro searched desperately for something, anything, to help the soldier—a medic, a first aid kit.
Pump, pump, pump.
His heart raced, his mind a blur of frantic thoughts, but his moment of tension was alleviated when he found a first aid kit.
It was just a box of bandages, but anything.
ANYTHING to stop the screaming.
Pump.
He grabbed it, hope surging through him.
But turning around, his relief turned to horror. The man lay presumably dead, a dagger embedded in his backl, blood trickling from the top of his head like a spout.
The sight was brutal, final.
He had failed to save him.
This happened so often.
He witnessed death constantly.
Takahashi Juro felt his teeth grind against each other as his eyes narrowed at the cloaked soldier in front of him. So why…
WHY…
Why did he feel so angry?
WHY?!
Juro mentally touched the box in his head, his face turning stoic.
In a swift motion, he unsheathed the large knife from his arm pouch, ready to face the enemy who had taken another life in front of him.
The cloaked soldier stood there, unfazed, almost daring Juro to make his move. Juro's grip tightened on the knife, his knuckles white.
Juro wanted to call out to Emiya and Jeanne Alter, but he knew that doing so risked being cut down immediately by the soldier in front of him.
The knife in his hand was from Chaldea, a specialized weapon akin to a drop-point knife. It had a curve on the handle and a slight curve on the thin blade. The blade itself was a dark black with white highlights, while the handle was a bright white.
Juro began to slowly circle the man in front of him.
The warrior pulled the dagger out of the dead soldier's head with a loud, fleshy sound, sending a shiver down Juro's spine. He flipped the bloodstained dagger in his hand and brandished another one in his left.
With a smirk, the warrior began circling Juro.
Their eyes locked onto each other, the tension thick in the air despite the chaos of the battlefield around them. It felt as though they were in their own bubble, engaged in a deadly duel.
Juro had no idea who this man was, nor what his fighting style entailed. Judging by the other Celtic warriors he had seen, he guessed that this one fought with a frenzied, chaotic style—dangerous but unpredictable.
For about two seconds, they circled each other.
'Wait for your opponent to attack first…'
"Fwoosh!"
The Celtic warrior dashed forward, his body low, daggers poised at his sides. He swung in a wide arc from the left.
"Clang!"
Parry.
Another swing from the right.
Parry.
A swing from the top.
Wait, from the bottom?!
"Shit!"
"Schlk!"
The blade sliced into Juro's arm, leaving a trail of blood behind.
He had moved his arm in place of his torso, which was the target.
But there wasn't enough time to block the hit fully. While his arm wound rendered him less capable, it was better than a fatal wound.
A powerful burning feeling began to force its way into Juro's mind.
Despite the pain, he managed to focus. Every burning, aching sensation coursed through him, but he ignored it, honing all his intentions on the man before him.
The warrior was about to launch another swing, but Juro quickly parried that one.
"Clang!"
All he could was to simply parry the attacks away, to hopefully wear down the stamina of his opponent. Trying to attack himself would only lead to him being punished.
Dropping to his knees, Juro tried to sweep at the man's legs, but the warrior leaped over it with agility.
Their blades clashed again.
One thing began to become clear to Takashi Juro—this guy was on another level.
The warrior's eyes were full of excitement, rage, and a burning killing intent.
He seemed to thrive on the battle, each strike filled with lethal precision. Juro could see the thrill of the fight in his opponent's eyes, a wild, unrestrained ferocity.
Juro's arm throbbed with pain, but he couldn't let it slow him down. He gripped his knife tighter, his mind racing for a strategy. This opponent was fast, unpredictable, and skilled. He had to find a way to turn the tide.
Switching his stance, Juro slid his leg to the side and flipped the knife backwards, the bladed side now facing towards his right.
https://i.imgur.com/jnzu9Pk.png
(Please open the image above to enhance the scene.)
It felt strange, honestly. He was swinging as if he had a sword in his hand, but this was not a sword. It was a knife.
Perhaps—
Juro's thoughts were interrupted as the assailant stabbed his left arm with the dagger, hooking him. The warrior pulled him close and slashed at his stomach.
Ah, right.
A majority of dagger fighting involved actually getting close to your opponent and grabbing them.
Agile opponents tended to rush with strikes, while experienced warriors would wrestle you.
"KH!"
Juro, unable to move his left arm, had only a split second before getting cut down.
Using his right arm, which was still free and held the knife, he flicked the blood still spurting out of it with speed, aiming for the warrior's eyes. The splatter momentarily blinded the warrior.
As the warrior's eyes closed, Juro quickly flipped the knife in his right hand to the side, pulling it back with a swift motion.
He managed to slash at the warrior's shoulders, forcing him to back off.
However, the warrior pulled the dagger out of Juro's left arm as he faltered back, reigniting the pain.
Ignore it.
Focus.
Focus.
Takahashi Juro's arms felt like they were on fire.
He bounced on his heels, flicking his arms back and forth, trying to push the pain to the back of his mind.
The warrior grinned, clearly enjoying the fight.
Juro took a deep breath, his focus narrowing to the enemy in front of him. He knew he couldn't afford another misstep. The warrior's grin was infuriating, a silent taunt that Juro was determined to answer.
With a quick glance around, Juro noted the terrain. The ground was littered with debris from the battle, providing potential obstacles and opportunities. He needed to use everything to his advantage.
The warrior lunged again, daggers gleaming, thrusting his right dagger forward.
Juro sidestepped, using his agile movements to stay just out of reach. As the warrior passed, Juro kicked up a cloud of dirt, aiming to blind him once more. It was a small trick, but it bought him a moment.
In that moment, Juro struck. He moved in low, aiming his knife at the warrior's side. The blade connected, drawing a line of red across his opponent's flesh.
The warrior hissed in pain but didn't falter, instead swinging both daggers in a vicious arc.
Juro parried one, but the other nicked his side. The pain was sharp, but he didn't let it distract him. Instead, he used it to fuel his resolve.
He had to outthink his opponent, using strategy where brute strength wouldn't suffice.
Every time the warrior attempted to get closer, to get a surefire hit and wrestle him over, Juro simply stepped away. Sure, it was cowardly, but he was outlasted by the sheer physical prowess of the warrior.
"Clang!"
Slash from the right.
"Clang!"
From the left.
"Clang!"
Sparks flew in the air.
Kick incoming.
"Thock!"
Then… it happened.
Presumably tired of Juro shuffling away, the warrior hurled a dagger at him, which embedded itself deeply into his shoulder.
"Gragh!"
Crimson blood filled the air as Juro staggered.
He looked around desperately for his servants. Where were they?!
The entire fight had lasted only around four minutes. He couldn't blame them for not being there instantly.
Wait.
A familiar figure was just a few meters away, fighting fiercely. Jeanne Alter was cutting down soldiers, her movements swift and deadly.
She could have reached him.
She could have helped. She looked fine.
Takahashi Juro felt a shiver go down his spine.
She was losing herself in the fight, like an animal.
Struggling to get the dagger out, Juro half-removed it before remembering the imminent attack.
Snapping his head up, eyes wide, he was met with the cloak of the warrior, blinding his face.
In the brief darkness, he felt a slash across his stomach. The burning sensation traced a line of agony, flaring his pain sensors.
Despite ignoring the pain, his body began to give up. His eyelids grew heavy.
They closed.
They opened.
They closed again.
Time seemed to slow down for him. He felt his body slowly falling back, the sky becoming clearer.
"Well, it's been a while since I've gotten hurt…" Juro muttered.
"...Well, at least this time I didn't instigate it…"
He dropped to his back, his head beginning to feel lightheaded.
There were about six wounds on his body.
Looking up, his eyes met with the warriors.
Despite not exchanging a single word, the soldier smiled, seemingly acknowledging Juro as a worthy opponent. He raised his dagger, ready to deliver the final blow.
Wait.
"Splat!"
Juro watched in horror as the front portion of the warrior's face exploded forward, a grisly spray of blood and bone.
The impact sent a gruesome shower of gore splattering across Juro's face, warm and sticky.
The top half of the soldier's head was obliterated, leaving a gaping, ragged wound where his features had been. Shards of skull jutted out, jagged and stark against the raw, pulsing red of exposed flesh.
The remnants of his brain matter dangled grotesquely, splattered and shredded. His tongue flailed around uselessly, a ghastly remnant of what had once been a living, breathing human.
The entire bottom half of his face remained disturbingly intact, the mouth twisted into a final, grotesque expression of shock and agony. The soldier's body swayed for a moment, as if not yet realizing it was dead, before collapsing lifelessly beside Juro.
Unable to move, Juro's eyes fell on someone who looked utterly unfitting for committing such an act.
Her eyes were a bright red, paired with bright pink hair that surprisingly complemented her intense gaze. She had a serious and focused look, almost serene in the chaos around them.
She looked like a nurse, someone entirely unsuited to such brutal violence. Yet, despite the blood and carnage, she held a certain grace. There was a flicker of pain in her eyes, as if the act had cost her dearly.
But she shook it off as she looked at Juro.
"...you a servant…?" He barely breathed.
He could barely make out those words. They felt like needles prickling his tongue.
"No, I am a nurse. Florence Nightingale."
"Well… I'm about to pass out… so please take care of… me…"
Takahashi Juro's eyes slowly closed, surrendering to the darkness.
_____________________________
Takahashi Juro's eyes slowly opened to the blinding light from the morning sun, filtering through a small window beside his bed.
"Ahah, stop it… that tickles…" He muttered.
His eyes fluttered open a little more, adjusting to the brightness.
"...Stop ittt…"
What he was met with, however, was Nightingale, the stern-faced nurse, holding a large, gleaming medical hacksaw dangerously close to his arm.
"GYAAAHH!!"
Immediately backing away, he almost fell off the bed he was on.
"Please do not scream, there are other patients trying to rest."
"Why would I not scream after seeing something like that!?"
Please relax," Nightingale replied, her expression remaining stoic. "I am simply attempting to amputate your arm due to the very possible chance of infection, extensive tissue damage, or uncontrolled bleeding."
"Don't say that so casually!! Also, possible?!"
"Yes, I say that because I had tried to remove the strange clothing on you multiple times, but it did not seem to budge," Her face was almost downright emotionless. "So, I ruled on it having about an 80% chance of the issues I listed earlier."
"Were you at least going to give me anesthetics?!"
"I don't know what you are talking about, but we have this log."
She nonchalantly lifted a small, rough-hewn log, clearly meant for him to bite down on.
Takahashi Juro feared for his arm.
"Ah! I'm fine, see?" Desperation laced his voice as he quickly raised his arm and lifted his sleeve all the way up to his shoulder, demonstrating by opening and closing his hand vigorously. "No need for amputation!"
Nightingale examined his arm, gripping it with her gloved hands and moving it side to side, up and down, seemingly checking for any underlying damage.
"Interesting. Most of your wounds are deep, but they seem to have turned into scars. They still look fresh, but are mostly healed."
Juro simply nodded, trying his utmost not to scream like a little girl as she moved it around. The pain he had been forcing back now surged to the forefront.
It was because of his mystic code that gave the notion that he was in good condition. The clothing didn't outright 'heal' him but rather regenerated the skin over the wound.
"Hm, it seems as of now, you are in better condition than I anticipated."
Nightingale swiftly opened a nearby metal box, revealing a neatly organized array of medical supplies. With practiced efficiency, she extracted a roll of crisp, white bandages.
Juro noticed her face. She seemed extremely engrossed and serious. Her eyes were focused.
Taking hold of his injured arm gently yet firmly in her gloved hands, Nightingale began the meticulous task of wrapping the bandages around his forearm. Each movement was deliberate, her fingers working with utmost precision.
Her brow furrowed slightly in concentration, her eyes focused intently on ensuring the bandages were applied evenly and securely.
Juro couldn't help but look around the dimly lit room as Nightingale worked.
Rows of beds lined with injured soldiers filled his view, each occupant resting quietly, some groaning softly in discomfort.
The scene underscored the gravity of their situation – wounds of war tended in the shadows of uncertainty and sacrifice.
Despite the bustling quietude around him, Juro's thoughts returned to Florence Nightingale, a name etched in history.
As an American, he had learned about her legacy in school, her pioneering efforts in nursing that transcended medical care during those times. She was famous for her unwavering dedication, tending to soldiers tirelessly, even at great personal risk. A mother of modern health if you will.
Watching her skillfully wrap his arm, Juro felt a deep respect for the woman in front of him.
Her movements were swift and practiced, putting front the countless times she had performed this routine of healing.
As Nightingale completed the task, she turned her attention back to Juro with a calm but authoritative expression.
"Please avoid moving your arm in various positions; it could strain your muscles. Also, you have two visitors waiting to see you outside. But, for now, you appear to be in good condition."
With a nod of acknowledgment, Juro watched as Nightingale gathered her medical kit.
As she stood up, Juro raised his hand.
"Wait, could you tell me what exactly is going on here?"
"..."
"Why's she staring at me like I just asked the dumbest question ever?!"
"I apologize, but I must tend to the other patients."
With that, she left a jaw-wide-open Juro sitting by himself.
She most probably had others to tend to.
A medic was extremely important. They were the sole reason an army could keep going, the sole reason the family of a soldier could feel happy.
They were entangled in the world of both morality and war. So many lives were in the palm of their hands, sometimes barely hanging by a thread. A medic's job was to grasp that thread no matter what and pull it back.
Lowering his sleeves, Juro swung his legs off the bed and stretched, feeling a sense of relief wash over him.
As he moved, he suddenly felt a pang of concern on his side – his knife. Before panic could set in, he felt around and was pleased to find it safely tucked away in its pouch on his shoulder.
Navigating through what appeared to be a repurposed church, he pushed open the doors to be greeted by the blazing heat of the desert sun.
Descending the steps, he spotted EMIYA standing with his arms crossed, looking visibly displeased, while Jeanne Alter sat nonchalantly on a nearby staircase.
Before Juro could utter a word, EMIYA noticed him and immediately bowed.
"Master, I deeply apologize."
"It's fine," Juro replied, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I just got caught off guard, that's all. It's not your fault."
Jeanne Alter responded with a disdainful scowl, prompting Juro to click his tongue in mild irritation.
Turning to EMIYA, he asked, "So, what's the situation?"
Suddenly, Juro's watch flickered to life, and a hologram of Romani emerged from it.
"Well, according to the information EMIYA managed to gather, you're definitely in America."
Juro flinched slightly at Romani's voice.
"You saw that back there, huh?" he nervously chuckled.
Romani sighed. "Yes, but this time it wasn't your fault, so I can't really be mad at you. Still, it's impressive how you manage to get into these situations and come out unscathed."
"Yeah, well–"
Cutting him off, Romani continued.
"Right now, we're in the closing stages of the American War of Independence. As you know, the United States emerged from this conflict as a national superpower, gaining independence from Great Britain."
"But wait," Juro interjected, frowning in thought, "there weren't any British soldiers. Weren't they supposed to wear red coats?"
"Yes, typically," Romani confirmed. "From what we understand, the country is currently divided in a civil war between East and West. The American forces are battling in the West, while the East is…"
"Those spear-wielding guys," EMIYA added. "Or warriors, rather. They weren't human, as their bodies faded away once they died."
"Are they Heroic Spirits?" Juro asked, intrigued.
"Not exactly," EMIYA replied. "They seem similar, but they're not on the same level of strength or origin."
"Huh, They reminded me of Celtic warriors," Juro mused, taking a seat next to Jeanne Alter, who remained visibly displeased.
"From what I've read, Celtic warriors were known for their fervor in battle and were just generally known to be batshit crazy."
"Their objective seems to be to prevent the formation of the United States of America," Romani added.
"I can see how that would drastically alter human history," Juro said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
"So, should we team up with the American army?"
"Maybe…?" Romani replied tentatively. "See, they puzzle me a bit."
"How so?"
"Well, for starters," Romani began, his tone uncertain, "I noticed in your broadcasts that a lot of soldiers seem to be equipped with weapons that shouldn't exist for at least a few hundred years. Things like machine guns, and they seem to have them in substantial quantities."
"Hmm, that is unusual."
"Also, take a look at this."
Juro's watch screen changed to an image of a large, bulky robot adorned with American stripes. The robot's head resembled a top hat with the brim missing, and its body was massive and mechanical, with visible wires and machinery.
"Is that a robot…?" Juro asked in disbelief, staring at the image.
"That thing was seen operating alongside the American soldiers," Romani explained.
EMIYA leaned in to get a closer look.
Even Jeanne Alter, trying not to show interest, leaned over slightly, her curiosity piqued.
"Haah... so both sides are equally suspicious?" Juro asked.
"Yep. Because of that, I wanted to ask a servant what they knew…"
Juro shook his head and raised his hand.
"Nah, I tried asking, and all I got was a blank stare from her."
A practically chibi version of Nightingale popped into his head, a dead expression on her face.
Romani placed a hand on his chin. "Hmm... I think the reason she's so engrossed in taking care of others is that she's probably a Berserker-class servant. That's usually an attribute of Berserkers—being so obsessed with a certain thing that they'll ignore others."
A certain ROME came to Juro's mind, causing him to shudder.
"Well, I'm glad she's on our side," Juro said, stretching his arms. "I saw her fight a while back, and wow, she is terrifying."
Romani sighed. "Given the fact that she's a Berserker, I think we should quit trying to recruit her. She seems too engrossed."
Juro looked at the church. "But—"
"You."
Juro practically jumped at the voice behind him.
The familiar red eyes bore into him.
"You," Nightingale said. "A patient says he wants to see you."
A patient wanted to see him? Juro didn't exactly know anyone here, so he was a bit confused. Who wanted to see him?
Shrugging, he followed after her, walking up the stairs and entering the church once again.
For some reason, even though he had been there earlier, the feeling felt more dreary.
As the group followed her through the corridor, the patients' conditions became worse. At the start, it simply men with a few cuts or in casts. But over time, it shifted into men missing a hand, then an arm, then both arms.
Then...
He saw the same man he had failed to save earlier.
His face morphed quickly into shock. But slight relief began to pour into his mind.
He was alive?
Juro couldn't exactly catch a glimpse of his face, given that a bandage covered most of it.
His limbs were all amputated, save for one leg. His left arm from the elbow upwards was gone, his entire right arm was missing, all wrapped in a cast.
He looked positively in despair.
Juro bit his tongue.
This time, the watch on his wrist was on and actively broadcasting the sight, earning a few gasps from Chaldea members in the control room, all of whom were presumably shocked at the sight.
"Sometimes, you need to amputate limbs to save someone..." EMIYA said solemnly.
The one most affected right now, however, was Juro himself.
This man...
The last vision of him was him screaming at the top of his lungs, flailing around on the ground. This man was here as a result of Juro's actions.
It wasn't the sight itself that disgusted him, but his own actions.
It was the fact that he could have MOVED back then, rather than staring at that giant fireball.
It was the fact that he could have MOVED faster and helped him, rather than panicking.
It was the fact that he could have DONE something.
Juro clenched his fist.
"Ngh..."
"Sorry... I can't see very well, sorry..."
The man's voice was weak and pathetic, like a dying instrument.
"...I'm glad you're okay, so please, sit."
Juro nodded and sat on a nearby seat.
"I heard that men from the west were getting conscripted, but I didn't think they'd be as young as yourself."
Juro simply nodded, his mind twisting and turning from the utterly calm demeanor the man had now.
"See, my father runs a farm, and there's a kid over there who looks an awful lot like you who works there. When the soldiers came to grab us, I took his place, thinking that he was just too young. I owe him a lot too, hah."
The man chuckled weakly.
Juro simply nodded again with a fake smile, his heart threatening to crush.
"But..."
The man's voice began to crack.
"But..."
"How can I... How can I do anything anymore... with this body?"
Takahashi Juro's eyes widened like saucers.
The man looked at his missing arms.
"How can I go home and hug my wife? How can I pick up my daughter? How can I take over my father's farm?"
"Maybe if I didn't save you... I'd be fine..."
Tears began to stream from the one eye hole in the bandages.
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry... I didn't mean that..." He began to sob. "Forgive me..."
Takahashi Juro's heart felt like it was going to explode any second.
He felt his hand close to touching the box, but hesitated.
____________________________________________________________________________
As Juro stepped out, he stared at the sun for a moment, basking in its glory.
"Hey, doc?" He asked, his voice monotone.
"Juro, I'm sure you tried your best to sa-"
"Let's stop this war, yeah?"
Romani simply nodded.
"Well, you guys should rest, then set off tomorrow."
Juro simply nodded.
____________________________________________________________________________
Takakashi Juro sat in the dead of night, leaning against the wall of the church. He wanted to at least give his goodbyes to the man prior to leaving, given that the man had saved his life.
But he still felt conflicted.
Did he truly mean those things? Was he just speaking from shock?
Before his thoughts could linger any further, Juro heard a voice from a nearby window.
"You're still awake?"
"Yes, sorry, head nurse," the same man's voice from earlier replied.
"I can't sleep, you see. Not after saying something terrible like that to that boy."
"I'm such a terrible person, saying things like that..."
"I do not think that's true."
"Huh?"
"You've lost most of your limbs. If anything, it's understandable. It makes sense that you would lash out from the anxiety in your mind. None of this is your fault."
"If anything is to blame, it is the war itself."
"That was the thing that made you say those things."
"You are carrying a burden that no one should have to bear," Florence continued, her voice soft yet firm. "War has a way of stripping us down to our rawest emotions. The pain, the fear, the anger—it all becomes too much to contain."
"You are not a bad person; you are kind. You went out of your way, risking your life for another. It may not be something to be constantly praised in this war."
"But not everyone can do that."
Takahashi Juro smiled, a deep appreciation blooming within him. This woman wasn't merely obsessed with taking care of her patients physically; she genuinely cared for their mental well-being as well. She went out of her way to help this man who was suffering emotionally. She could have just administered a drug and walked away, but she didn't. Instead, she listened to him, offered advice, and praised him, providing comfort and hope where there was despair.
Nightingale was not just a nurse; she was a compassionate caregiver who truly cared about the people she looked after. Her dedication to her patients was evident in every action, every word she spoke. She was a beacon of hope in the midst of chaos and suffering.
With newfound resolve and admiration, Juro stood up as the front door of the church creaked open. He walked over to Nightingale, his steps filled with purpose. She turned to face him, her eyes calm and attentive.
"I have a request," he said simply, his voice steady.
__________________________________________________
"You sure you've got it? Make sure the wounds are all sanitized, and the beds are not knit too tightly." Nightingale instructed, her tone firm yet caring as she scribbled notes on a piece of paper.
She was briefing a doctor who was going to take over the responsibilities of the makeshift clinic.
Amazingly, Juro had managed to convince Nightingale to join their group. It had taken some time and a great deal of persuasion, but he had succeeded. His people skills had worked wonders, and now she was preparing to leave the clinic under new management.
As Nightingale continued her instructions, Juro turned to Jeanne Alter. She met his gaze with a scowl, clearly displeased.
"You mad that I brought you along here?"
"Tch," Jeanne Alter responded, looking away.
"Listen, I'm sorry that you feel that way but I—"
"Just say you wanted to see me in action." she interrupted, her tone exasperated.
"Ah."
Jeanne Alter rolled her eyes and groaned.
"Hey! What did I do to elicit that response?" he called after her as she walked away.
"Edgelord…"
EMIYA, who had been observing the exchange, crossed his arms. "She seems like a feisty one, huh?"
"Tell me about it."
"Anyway, I'm surprised you managed to convince a Berserker of all people to actually go along with us. What kind of magic did you use?"
"Magic, there's no such thing." Nightingale's voice said from behind suddenly.
EMIYA shuddered slightly in surprise.
"Finally… it happens to someone besides me… Thank you, God…" Juro whispered, clenching his fist.
"I simply only received new information," Nightingale said with a straight face. "Honestly, had you told me that this war was not normal, I would have joined earlier. Effective treatment requires accurate information."
"Now, let's go," she added, grabbing both EMIYA's arm and Jeanne Alter's as she began to walk.
Before she could go any further, she turned back. "Takahashi! Let us go! You're coming as well, aren't you?"
Juro stood at the entrance of the church, his eyes closed in silent gratitude. He hoped the man who had sacrificed so much to save him understood his sincere thanks, even if he couldn't express it directly.
"He's really taking this to heart, huh?" EMIYA observed.
Juro turned around and caught up to the group. "Sorry, got caught up in the moment. Thanks again for coming, Nightingale."
"It is my pleasure. However," she paused, causing Juro to flinch slightly, "I will only be conducting myself as a nurse, not as a heroic spirit. My role remains unchanged."
Ah right, Berserker.
"I understand. I don't need any of that. I just want the power of 'Florence Nightingale,' if that's alright with you."
He extended his hand for a handshake. "Pleasure to work with you," he said with a smile. "And thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for helping the man who saved me."
Nightingale hesitated for a moment, her expression softening.
"Nightingale?"
"It's nothing. You'll understand someday."
"Understand what?" he asked, curious.
"The joy of helping others," she replied, smiling brightly.
Takahashi Juro felt a warm blush creep onto his face
___________
Somewhere in Chaldea, a certain Kiyohime felt a disturbance
_______
H-Hey, doc, quit staring and give us some orders!" Juro said over the watch, snapping Romani out of his trance.
"Ah, sorry," Romani replied, his voice flustered.
The group headed to a nearby carriage that had been prepared for them. Emiya took the reins in the front alongside Juro, while Jeanne Alter and Nightingale settled in the back.
"We head west! From there, we'll try to make contact with the leaders of the human side, the West American army!" Romani announced.
The carriage creaked and groaned as it began its journey, wheels crunching over the dry, dusty ground. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the landscape.
As they traveled, the atmosphere in the carriage was a mix of anticipation and tension. Emiya kept a watchful eye on the road, his senses alert for any sign of danger.
Juro, seated beside him, couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement and responsibility. He had a team depending on him, and their mission was crucial.
In the back, Jeanne Alter stared out at the passing scenery, her expression a blend of annoyance and contemplation. Nightingale was already preparing mentally and physically for the challenges ahead, her medical supplies organized and ready.
"Let's go! The Fifth Singularity trail!"
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Inside the prosperous room of the President of the United States, a large, imposing figure sat in silence.
His presence exuded an air of authority and mystery, his body decorated with a steampunk-like aesthetic, complete with strange, glowing bulbs ingrained in his red and blue suit.
The most striking feature, however, was the giant lion head that crowned his shoulders.
A firm but sly voice broke the silence from the shadows behind the lion-headed man. "It is time to head out now."
"Very well!" boomed the lion-headed figure, his voice resonating with power. "It is essential that a leader shows himself before his troops! And I've heard that Miss Nightingale is here as well. I am looking very forward to meeting her."
"I see," the other voice responded, its tone dripping with a mix of curiosity and menace.
The speaker stepped into the light, revealing a tall, slender figure that seemed to balance beauty and horror. His face was unnervingly pale and handsome, framed by large, swept-aside white hair. His bright green eyes, accented by dark eyeliner, glimmered with a dangerous intelligence.
The man's attire was equally striking: two large golden earrings dangled from his ears, a spiked collar encircled his neck, and his chest was partially exposed, showcasing a black, skin-tight suit adorned with intricate golden jewelry.
"Then we should head off, President King Thomas Alva Edison," the enigmatic man said, a chilling smile playing on his lips.
The lion-headed figure, now identified as President King Thomas Alva Edison, stood with a sense of grandeur. The room seemed to hold its breath as the two mysterious figures prepared to step into the unfolding drama of their time.