Juro wiped the sweat from his face with his bandana, squinting at the relentless desert sun. "Man, whoo! I was thinking of getting a tan, but I guess I'm getting it now! Right, guys?"
No one responded.
The group stood on a dusty road, staring out at a town in the distance. The desert heat created a strange shimmering effect, making the buildings look distorted, almost unreal. It was midday, and the sun hung directly overhead, casting a harsh light over everything. Unfortunately for Juro, he was the only human among them, and the heat was absolutely cooking him.
"Alright, whatever. Where are we, Doc?" Juro asked, fanning himself.
"Right now, you're in Luna County, Deming City, in New Mexico," Romani's voice replied through the communicator.
"New Mexico!? How'd we get here so fast?!"
"Maybe because you fell asleep halfway through," Emiya said, his eyes focused on the distance.
"...What do you see?" Juro asked, curious.
"What, you can't?" Emiya raised an eyebrow.
"Aren't you reinforcing your eyes?"
"What's that?"
Emiya looked a little taken aback.
Juro had almost no experience with other types of magecraft, only his own technique.
How has he survived this long?
"I need to teach you a thing or two…" He muttered.
Geronimo chimed in, his voice calm and steady. "Typically, this territory would still belong to Spain, but after Edison's takeover, it's been rebranded as New Mexico, now part of the United States of America."
Romani's voice crackled through the communicator again. "I'm detecting two Servant mana signatures in this region. Maybe if we can make contact with them, we can recruit them."
Geronimo waved a hand dismissively. "No need. We've already sent allied Servants to make contact, and they weren't attacked. They're likely non-hostile."
While Geronimo, Emiya, and Romani discussed their next steps, Juro was crouched off to the side, poking at a rattlesnake with a stick.
Jalter watched him, arms crossed, her expression somewhere between mild amusement and annoyed.
"Wait, more importantly, what is that?" Geronimo asked, his eyes widening in disbelief.
Everyone in the group turned to look at Nightingale, who wore her usual calm, monotone expression. But this time, something was different—Rama was strapped to her back in a large backpack, his legs dangling out of specially designed slots.
"Rama bag."
"Rama bag…" Juro echoed in disbelief.
"She truly is a Berserker!!"
Nightingale remained unfazed. "Without my treatment, he would die quickly. Thus, I decided on this method to move him around with us while effectively treating him."
Rama looked utterly defeated.
"I want to stay alive… but I also really want to die."
His frustration boiled over, and he shouted, "I am Rama! King of Kosala! Why do I have to—!"
Before he could finish, Nightingale jerked her head back, knocking her own head into his with a loud thud.
Rama slumped forward, silenced.
"He's quiet now. Let's go," Nightingale declared, walking forward as if nothing had happened.
"And possibly dead…" Juro muttered.
Suddenly, a shrill voice crackled from his watch.
"My master!!"
Takahashi Juro felt a powerful urge to throw the watch as far away as possible.
Preferably into a bottomless pit.
"Ah, Kiyohime… what a pleasure to hear from you," he forced out through gritted teeth.
Ever since the events in Orleans, Kiyohime had been exceptionally clingy. He wasn't entirely sure why—probably something ridiculous—but she was constantly all over him.
Like, seriously, get a hobby, girl.
Alright, that was a bit harsh. She wasn't horrible to be around, but the clinginess was… overwhelming.
"Yes, it's me! ❤" Kiyohime chirped.
"The nice Chaldea operator let me on the console, so I'll be here to help!"
"Nooo!! Leave poor Meuniere alone!! He did nothing wrong!!"
"Ah, don't mind him. He's fine," Kiyohime reassured through the watch.
"...."
"...Hah… Hah…"
"...Kiyo, I can… I can hear you breathing. Could you, like, not do that?"
"Ah, sorry, my husband! Now, let us find those new Servants!"
"Don't call me husband!! It makes me really scared for my safety!!"
Jalter, clearly exasperated, turned her attention to the large billboard behind them.
"'Broadway in session,'" she read aloud in a monotone voice, hoping the group would take the hint and follow the signs leading to this so-called Broadway.
She really wasn't in the mood for the current conversation.
"'Broadway in session...?'" Geronimo repeated, confused.
"Wait, aren't we in Deming?" Emiya asked, his eyes narrowing at the odd sign.
Everyone turned to Juro, who was busy reading the fine print.
Noticing that he was the center of attention, he scratched his head.
"Oh yeah, sorry. Broadway's like a theater district—specializes in creative arts, musicals, movies, stuff like that."
Juro placed his hands on his hips as he looked up at the sign.
"Guess whoever put the sign here has zero sense of direction... or it flew all the way here from actual Broadway."
Wait.
"Zero sense of direction... Broadway... Musical... Idol... Music Idol... Idol Servant…"
"Wait, it can't be her!" Kiyohime yelled through the transmitter.
"Who exactly are you talking about?" Emiya asked, curiosity piqued.
Juro sighed.
"She's a Servant we ran into a couple times throughout different Singularities. "
"...Super eccentric. Super tone deaf, etcetera" he added as he moved his hand in a circle.
"She also looks like a rat snake," Kiyohime chimed in.
"Honestly, it was so weird running into her in the second singularity.
"Second singularity?" Geronimo asked.
"Rome," Juro explained. "Nero was there too. She helped us out."
"Emperor Nero of Rome? The tyrant? And, wait—'she'?"
"Yeah, 'She.'"
Juro smiled, glancing up at the sky. "While history might have her as a tyrant, meeting her in person was… different."
Juro raised his hand as if to emphasize his point.
"She really loved her country, with a smile as bright as a blooming rose. She loved her people, her empire, the world. She just... loved."
Nero Claudius was an emperor who cherished everything beautiful and everyone who loved her back, yet she was misunderstood by some, and even hated. Despite that, she continued to strive in her love.
Juro respected that. He wished he could love something as deeply as she did.
But alas, he did not.
"Sounds interesting," Emiya remarked, intrigued by Juro's recollection.
"I'll tell you more when we head back," Juro replied. "She had this silly voice tick too. Kept saying 'umu' after almost every sentence."
"Oh yeah, I'm aware," Emiya added with a smirk, recalling how Juro had unconsciously adopted the 'umu' habit for weeks, even though he initially mocked it.
It was embarrassing for the young master, none to say the least after some female staff pointed out how 'cute' it was.
Geronimo chuckled. "Maybe we'll find those two there. The stars tend to align like that sometimes."
"It's nice to think about, even if the odds are slim. But yeah, those two are absolute airheads!" Romani added with a laugh.
"Yeah, that's really ironic coming from you, Doc!" Juro laughed.
"Ohohoho!"
"Hahaha!"
"Ahehehe!"
"Gyahaha!"
Everyone stayed silent as they realized that the two men were laughing together, but for two completely different reasons.
"But seriously, If they've started a show like Broadway," Juro said, wiping a tear.
His face went dead serious.
"We'd be stuck there forever."
Geronimo smiled as he shook his head.
"If you say that, Takahashi, master mage, they'll really show up."
◈◆◈
In a small saloon somewhere in New Mexico, the air was filled with horrendous sounds—shrill, ear-piercing screams that barely passed for singing.
The noise reverberated off the walls, a death siren for those who possessed ears.
No music.
No harmony.
No talent.
It was just raw, chaotic sound—so bad, it could have been classified as an act of terrorism.
Who else could be responsible for this sonic disaster?
Emperor Nero Claudius and Elizabeth Báthory.
Nero was dressed in what could only be described as a hybrid of a wedding dress and a concert outfit—short, frilly, and with an aesthetic only she could pull off.
Elizabeth, on the other hand, wore a large hat and a dress adorned with flowers, looking more like an eccentric idol than a fearsome Servant.
At a nearby table, two other Servants sat in misery.
The first, a man with short, spiked brown hair covering one eye and a green sleeveless jacket, looked as though his soul had been drained.
He leaned back in his chair, staring blankly into space.
This was an archer class servant.
The second, a man with short blonde hair and a black cowboy coat, had his face buried in his arms on the table, clearly on the verge of death.
This was also an archer class servant.
The door to the saloon creaked open, and in walked Takahashi Juro, his expression one of utter despair.
He took a deep breath.
"IS IT NOT EMBARRASSING TO KEEP SHOWING UP!?"
One would think that after giving someone a long, heartfelt goodbye, you wouldn't run into them again so soon. Yet here they were.
"Ah! Long time no see, puppy! This must be fate!" Elizabeth chimed with a bright smile, oblivious to the discomfort she was causing.
Honestly, even if one were to tell her, she'd probably just nod it off and continue.
"What's with the nicknames today?! And I refuse to accept this as a coincidence!" Juro shouted back from across the room.
Nero perked up, her eyes lighting with recognition.
"So you're the Chaldea group Elizabeth has been talking about! I've heard that I met you once while I was alive, but now I can confirm it!"
Without warning, Nero rushed over and grabbed Juro by the shoulders, shaking him enthusiastically.
"Umu! Long time no see, my friend!"
"OH MY GODDD!!! She said the thing!!"
Yep, this was definitely Nero. Maybe not exactly like the one in Chaldea, but unmistakably her.
Nero then tilted her head, taking a long look at Juro.
"Wow, you're tall and good-looking—just my type!" she said with a grin, clutching his face and squishing his cheeks back and forth like he was a doll.
Juro's face clenched, and he barely restrained himself from shouting, 'Your type is solely based on looks?!'
Nero then turned to Emiya, a curious look on her face.
"You look quite familiar too!"
Emiya looked quite taken aback, but went back to being nonchalant.
"That I am."
Finally managing to push Nero away, Juro let out a heavy sigh.
"Yeah, nice to see you guys too… But, uh, mind explaining that?" he said, pointing with his thumb toward the destruction outside the pub.
The town was in complete disarray. Buildings were stripped of their paint, debris and wooden planks littered the ground, and several structures were on the verge of collapse.
A cow was perched on a roof, chewing on something that Juro prayed wasn't a bone.
As if to accentuate the scene, a lone tumbleweed rolled lazily by.
◈◆◈
"I can explain that…" The spiky brown-haired Servant weakly raised his arm.
The group was now gathered outside the pub. Juro stood in front of Geronimo and Emiya, while Jalter absentmindedly picked at her teeth with her pinky.
The two bedraggled Servants from inside the pub were sitting on the ground—the green-clad one slumped, while the blonde-haired one lay flat, looking as if he had narrowly escaped death.
"Who art thou?!" Juro yelled.
"Archer-class Servant. True name… Robin Hood," the spiky-haired man answered with a sigh.
Juro blinked in surprise.
The Robin Hood? The legendary outlaw who robbed from the rich to give to the poor of England? The hero whose tales were told to children across the West?
Before Juro could fully process the revelation, Geronimo stepped in.
"He's one of the Servants working alongside me."
Robin Hood continued speaking.
"We came here to recruit those two absolutely…" —he paused— "horrible singers to help us… but…"
"Guha! Guhah! GAHAH!!" He began coughing violently, clutching his chest dramatically.
"His organs are damaged! Stand back!" Nightingale rushed forward.
"The legendary Robin Hood! For a master of the bow to suffer such horrible wounds!" Juro cried, his face shadowed.
Emiya sighed, crossing his arms.
"There's not much you can do against terrible music with a bow."
"I'll continue.." The blonde hair servant said weakly.
"And thou!?" Juro yelled.
"Archer-class Servant. Billy the Kid," the blonde replied, his voice weak but steady.
"As a condition for them joining us, they decided to hold a recital… and forced us to listen to that."
Juro's eyes widened.
Billy the Kid?! The notorious American outlaw who had taken down over 21 men by the age of 21?
Billy managed a pained chuckle. "We prepared for the onslaught. We evacuated everyone from the town. But… we never imagined how bad it would be…"
"Guhah! Guhah! GAHA!!" Billy coughed, clenching his chest.
"Stand back! His organs are damaged too!" Nightingale yelled as she rushed to his side.
"The legendary Billy the Kid! For a master of the gun to suffer such horrible wounds!" Juro shouted, his face resembling The Scream, by Evard Munch.
Emiya shook his head. "Well, there's not much you can do against terrible music with a gun."
"It's just as they said, little puppy! The green mouse told us everything!" Elizabeth chimed in with a bright smile, completely unfazed by the destruction around her.
"Is green mouse Robin Hood now?!"
"Yes! But honestly, I wanted to sing more!" Nero added, equally oblivious to the chaos they had caused.
The two Servants struck a cutesy pose, holding hands and grinning as if they were performing in front of an adoring audience.
"Elizabeth Báthory! Lancer!"
"Nero Claudius! Saber!"
"Let's work together!"
"To restore human order!"
"YOU TWO ARE THE REASON THESE GUYS ARE LIKE THIS!!"
"Yes, master! Join the dark side!" Kiyohime's voice chimed in eagerly through Juro's watch.
"If you're on the dark side, I think I'll stick to the Grey Line!!"
Geronimo, wiping a sweat drop from his brow, gave a pat to Billy's shoulder. "Good job, you two. At least they're on our side, right?"
Elizabeth, completely unbothered by the chaos, perked up. "So, where do we start? What's the plan?"
"We're here to take out that 'king,' correct? Where is he staying now?" Nero added, her eyes gleaming with determination.
Geronimo was about to answer when Rama's voice interrupted him. "...Wait, there's something… I'd like to say first."
"Rama, was it? Please, go ahead," Nero said, her usual exuberance tempered with respect.
Geronimo looked concerned. "I can ask them for you. There's no need to push yourself."
"No…" Rama's voice was weak but resolute. "This is something I need to ask myself. Ha... Ha... There is someone... I'm searching for... Someone so precious to me that I would risk my life for them…"
Juro stared at the Heroic Spirit. Despite the gaping wound in his chest, Rama wasn't focused on his own survival but on the well-being of this person. This was the heart of a true Heroic Spirit. Whoever Rama sought must have held incredible significance to him.
"There's only one thing I'd… like to ask you…" Rama began, his voice trembling with emotion. "Have you—"
"UNDEFEATED VIOLET PRUNELLA: MAC AN LUIN!"
A thunderous voice boomed from above, cutting Rama off. In an instant, a colossal beam of water descended from the sky, its pristine blue color giving a deceptive sense of purity—a stark contrast to the devastation it unleashed.
All the Servants reacted immediately, leaping or dashing away from the blast zone. Emiya grabbed Juro by the collar, pulling him to safety as his weapons materialized in his hands.
The town floor and its buildings were obliterated in an instant, the ground fracturing into cubes as the earth beneath was laid bare.
Juro's breath came in quick gasps as he took in the scene. "A Noble Phantasm!" he shouted in disbelief.
The group was scattered. Geronimo and Billy were separated, as were Robin Hood, Elizabeth, and Nero. Juro, Emiya, Jalter, and Nightingale found themselves together, but too far from the others to regroup easily.
"This Noble Phantasm!" Geronimo yelled, recognizing it. "Our spy told us about it! It's from the Celts—!"
"Oh, so you know about my master?" A voice called from behind Geronimo and Billy.
◈◆◈
Elizabeth twirled around gleefully in the wreckage. "Ah, this destruction! It would make a great backdrop for our next concert!"
Nero nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, it's perfect for the atmosphere!"
Robin Hood, in disbelief, yelled, "We're under attack, you know!!"
A voice echoed from behind them, calm and smug. "Ah, to hear such praise after my attack… You ladies delight me."
◈◆◈
Juro stood up, shaking the mud from his clothes as he wiped his face. The water around them had become a murky mess, and he cursed under his breath.
"Damn it. They're trying to separate us from the others."
"Director, what's our situation?" Emiya asked Romani through the communicator.
"There's no point… They're too far to regroup," Romani's voice replied with urgency.
"There!" Juro shouted, pointing at a tall figure approaching through the haze of the destruction.
The figure had short purple hair, slicked back into an undercut, and an aura of overwhelming strength.
Juro clenched his fists and cursed under his breath.
"Ah, hell… Fergus!"
"Well, seems you know my name! Saber-class Servant: Fergus mac Róich!" Fergus called out, his voice booming across the battlefield.
Juro's fear spiked. Fergus was a formidable warrior, relentless in battle. He rushed enemies without giving them a moment to breathe, and now Juro was directly in his path. Things had gone from bad to worse.
"It makes sense he's on the Celts' side, given that he was the adoptive father to Cú Chulainn and a close friend," Romani's voice crackled through the communicator, tense with urgency.
Juro clicked his tongue, standing still as the group waited for the first move. Emiya stood poised, his Kanshou and Bakuya blades in hand, ready. Jalter gripped her sword at her side, eyes locked on Fergus, who stood atop the hill with his massive Caladbolg sword resting on his shoulders.
"Three, no, four Servants. That idiot Fionn, leaving all the work to the old man."
Fergus cracked his neck, a deadly smirk spreading across his face, his intent clear—he was going to fight them.
"Mana levels rapidly increasing!" Romani shouted through the communicator.
Suddenly, a voice interrupted the growing tension. "Wait!!"
Juro turned, startled. It was Rama who had shouted, his voice filled with urgency. He looked weak, but something inside him burned brightly.
"I'm sorry… but I can't stay quiet!"
Despite his weakened state, Rama had something important to say. Something deeply personal. "Celtic warrior Fergus! Do you know of my wife?! A girl named Sita?!"
Fergus turned his gaze toward Rama, confusion crossing his face. The young Heroic Spirit, draped across Nightingale's back, clearly didn't seem ready for battle.
"To think of it... I saw a girl with red hair like yours…"
"Really! She has red hair?! Please! Tell me where she is! I need to know!" Rama's desperation was palpable. This was more than a battle for him—it was his quest for hope, for a light in the darkness that had swallowed him whole.
"Please," Rama begged.
Fergus smiled, but something was off. What began as an innocent smile twisted upward, curling into something darker. Something sinister.
"Did you really think I'd tell you?" Fergus taunted, his sadistic grin widening. "If you want answers, you'll have to beat them out of your opponent, kid."
Juro flinched at the stark change in Fergus' demeanor. The cheerful, loyal Fergus he had once known now stood as a twisted warrior, his words filled with cruelty.
Maybe not twisted, but at least malevolent looking.
Fergus brandished his drill-shaped sword, Caladbolg, its menacing form glinting in the sun. "Can you even fight me in that state, kid?"
Rama coughed, his body trembling. "Look at you. You're so weak, you can barely hold eye contact with me."
Rama's voice trembled, but his resolve didn't falter. "Nevertheless… I won't…"
"Won't what?" Fergus sneered.
"Won't give up!"
Rama turned weakly to Juro. "Master of Chaldea…"
He shifted his gaze to Nightingale, his voice barely a whisper. "Miss nurse… please lend me your strength..."
Takahashi Juro turned to Emiya.
"Yoh, Archer."
"..?"
"Go."
In an instant, Juro pushed a surge of mana into Emiya, boosting his strength. The sudden surge propelled Emiya forward so fast it was nearly teleportation. Even Emiya was momentarily shocked at the boost in speed, but he adjusted quickly, swinging his twin blades in a wide arc toward Fergus.
Clang!
Fergus managed to block the strike with Caladbolg, but the force of the blow sent him sliding back several meters.
"Haha! What an aggressive Master! Even your own Servant is shocked!" Fergus bellowed, grinning as he dug his feet into the ground to steady himself.
Takahashi Juro rolled up his sleeves, determination clear in his eyes.
"Honestly, I was a little conflicted about fighting Cú… the guy's an absolute powerhouse."
He raised his right hand, tightening his fist.
"But seeing someone in front of me asking for help—that's something I can't refuse, no matter what."
"If it's fear that's holding me down, I'll let go of that weight."
Sadly however, Juro did not mean this fully.
Emiya narrowed his eyes as he listened to the boy's response.
"Alright, Archer, Avenger. Can I rely on you guys?" Juro asked, his voice steady despite the tension in the air.
Emiya gave a firm nod, while Jalter remained silent, but Juro could sense her resolve.
She wouldn't act on her own, not this time.
Juro bounced lightly on his heels, feeling the energy surge through his body as he began directing his mana flow toward the two Servants.
Being closer to them enhanced the connection, making the flow of mana more concentrated and efficient. The boost would give them the edge they needed.
He hadn't gotten a good cardio workout in a while, but now was the perfect time to get moving.
"Go!" Juro shouted, thrusting his hand forward.
At his command, Emiya, Jalter, and Nightingale all charged forward, their forms blurring with the force of their speed as they closed in on Fergus, ready to engage in the battle.
◈◆◈
Billy skidded across the pub floor, knocking over chairs and shattered glass as he stood on the bar, firing rapidly at the Lancer.
Each shot from his revolver cracked through the dusty air like thunder, the dim light of the pub casting shadows that danced with every flash from his gun.
The spiked bullets cut through the air, but the shirtless Lancer stood unfazed, twirling his lance like a whirlwind, deflecting every shot with the fluid grace of a seasoned warrior.
Billy flicked his revolver's hammer, expertly fanning the shots for rapid fire. The air around them pulsed with tension, the two figures darting and weaving through the chaos of upturned tables, broken bottles, and falling debris.
Just in the nick of time, Billy managed to block a blow from the lancer with his wristband.
Eventually, something became clear to Billy the Kid.
"He's real fa—"
Billy began, but before he could finish, the Lancer blurred, becoming little more than a streak of motion.
He appeared right in front of Billy, his spear raised.
WHAM!
The Lancer's boot connected with Billy's stomach like a sledgehammer, sending him flying out of the pub doors. He hit the dirt hard, rolling and tumbling across the desert ground, coughing dust as he finally stopped.
He groaned, barely managing to catch his breath.
Above him, Diarmuid was already soaring through the air, his spear glowing with sunlight as he prepared to end the fight.
This is it, Billy thought, his revolver slipping from his fingers as he stared up at the descending figure.
But before the final blow could land, a low growl echoed across the street. In a flash of silver and shadow, a wolf-like spirit lunged from the side, its jaws clamping down on Diarmuid's lance with a ferocious bite.
The Lancer's attack stalled, and he was forced to leap back, his gaze narrowing at the spirit as it bounded back toward Geronimo.
"An ancestral spirit..." Diarmuid muttered, lowering his lance as his eyes locked on Geronimo.
The spirit was an ancestral guardian, tied to Native American mythos. Many tribes believed in the spirits of nature, and some warriors were able to summon and control them for battle.
Geronimo was one such warrior.
The native american stood firm, the ghostly wolf growling beside him.
Billy, still panting, scrambled to his feet, giving Geronimo a thankful nod. "Thanks for the backup, Chief." He twirled his revolver with a flick of his wrist, trying to shake off the earlier encounter.
"That was a close one."
Diarmuid let out a hearty laugh, amused by the sudden shift in the fight. "Hah! I shouldn't have underestimated the warriors of this era!"
He spun his spear with a flourish, the tip slicing through the air with a sharp whistle. His battle-hungry grin stretched wider as he eyed the two of them.
"Lancer: Diarmuid Ua Duibhne! My luck in this world is strong. I expect you to give me a fight worthy of my name!"
Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, one of the legendary warriors from Celtic myth. Known for his prowess in battle, he had once vanquished over three thousand enemies. His combat skill was renowned, and he was not to be taken lightly.
◈◆◈
"Super Idol Tornado!" Elizabeth yelled, releasing a strange swirl of pink pulses from her mouth. The energy took on a tangible form, spiraling like wind—just as the name suggested, a tornado of sound and chaos.
The long-haired, blonde Lancer stood frozen in shock, his eyes wide, unable to process what was happening. The whirling pink tornado closed in on him, but he made no effort to dodge.
In that split second, Nero dashed forward, her sword gleaming in the light as she slashed at his stomach. The Lancer let out a pained cry as the blade struck home.
"Our combination attack was effective! We've won!" Elizabeth proclaimed triumphantly, puffing out her chest with pride.
"Wait," Nero said, her brows furrowed in confusion. She glanced down, expecting to see blood, but there was none. Instead, water trickled from the wound.
"…That was quite the impressive attack," came the Lancer's voice, much to their surprise. The water on the ground began to move, flowing back toward him and merging into his body.
"That was one of my expendable illusions," he said with a smirk, clearly unfazed.
Both Nero and Elizabeth stood there in shock, their victory celebration crumbling in an instant.
"I was really delighted by your attack," the Lancer continued, a hint of mockery in his tone. "Too bad I had to dodge at the last second."
"..."
Before either of them could react, the Lancer swung his lance without even looking, aiming at a shadowy figure behind him—Robin Hood, who had been silently creeping up for a sneak attack. Robin barely managed to dodge, quickly dashing toward Nero and Elizabeth. In a swift motion, he grabbed them both by the stomachs and pulled them out of harm's way.
"Guess you guys finally read the room, huh?" Robin Hood muttered, clearly frustrated by their carefree antics.
"We've been reading it!" Nero shot back defensively.
"Hey! Watch where your hands are!" Elizabeth squirmed in Robin's grip, her face reddening.
"Guh! Seriously! I save you, and this is the thanks I get?!" Robin snapped, his patience wearing thin.
The Lancer let out a hearty laugh, his spear spinning playfully in his hands. "Such companionship! It's as if you've all known each other long before this singularity!"
Robin Hood's expression hardened. He narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth. "Who exactly are you?"
The Lancer smiled with pride, raising his spear high.
Its tip caught the sunlight, gleaming menacingly as if announcing the arrival of something much larger.
"You already know me as one of the servants of the Celtic army, but allow me to give you my true name!"
He stepped forward, his aura radiating confidence and strength. "Lancer: Fionn mac Cumhaill! Now, let us finish where we left off!"
◈◆◈
Clang!
Whoosh!
Clang!
Emiya's twin blades flashed through the air, relentlessly striking at Fergus. But no matter how hard or fast he swung, the Saber-class Servant always managed to evade, parry, or block. Emiya quickly realized that Fergus wasn't like other powerhouses he had fought before—his strength wasn't monstrous like Heracles'.
Instead, it was his speed that threw Emiya off. Fergus moved with the agility of a seasoned warrior, reading every move and reacting instantly.
As the battle progressed, Emiya couldn't help but notice how Fergus seemed to anticipate his strikes. Every time Emiya expected an opening or a slower reaction, Fergus was already moving, adjusting to counter.
His skill... Emiya thought, his grip tightening on his blades. He's reading my movements...
Suddenly, Jalter lunged in from behind. Her sword was drawn back for a powerful thrust, aimed right at Fergus' exposed back. For a moment, it seemed like the sneak attack might succeed.
But in one smooth motion, without even turning to look, Fergus swung his massive sword backward, blocking Jalter's blade effortlessly.
Jalter Alter scowled, flipping backward to avoid a counterstrike.
"You all fight impressively!" Fergus called out, his booming voice carrying through the battlefield.
"Well done!"
But then, his expression shifted—his vibrant, battle-hungry grin faded, replaced by a look of boredom.
"However… this is honestly a little boring. I expected more. There's some semblance of coordination, but it's not enough."
Juro, standing a bit farther back, clenched his fists.
He knew Fergus was right.
Their attacks weren't landing, and despite their best efforts, Fergus was clearly holding back. Juro's eyes darted to Nightingale.
She's the reason... he thought, guilt rising in his chest.
Having a Berserker as a Servant was difficult. Commanding them required constant focus, patience, and repeated orders. Nightingale's mana drain was immense, and she had only fought alongside Juro once before. It wasn't her fault, but the lack of experience in fighting together was evident. It was dragging the whole team's coordination down.
Before Fergus could continue his taunts, Nightingale suddenly appeared in front of him, spinning with impressive agility. Her body twisted, and she unleashed a powerful kick aimed at Fergus' head, her eyes burning with a ferocious intensity.
But Fergus, faster than she expected, dodged the strike effortlessly.
"Not bad," he muttered, almost amused.
In the blink of an eye, Fergus caught her leg mid-air. With a grin, he effortlessly tossed her aside, her body slamming into the dirt with a harsh thud.
"Miss Nurse, please stop this!" Rama's voice rang out, strained with desperation.
Nightingale paused, turning her head slightly to glance back at Rama. Her expression was calm but resolute.
"You're far more wounded than I am," Nightingale replied softly. "Don't burden yourself with worry."
"But you're carrying a heavier burden than me!" Rama protested. His voice wavered, filled with frustration. "If you didn't insist on carrying me everywhere, we could've won by now!"
A sigh escaped from Fergus, who observed the conversation, lifting his massive weapon as though it weighed nothing.
His muscular form was tense with anticipation, eyes glinting with amusement.
"Looks like the nurse is a little more weighed down than the rest of them…" he muttered under his breath, the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
"But I still wanna have some fun."
Without warning, a wicked grin spread across his face as he raised the colossal sword, Caladbolg, its jagged edge gleaming in the dim light.
"Let's see if this motivates you all to do better!"
In a swift, thunderous motion, he slammed the blade into the ground.
The air crackled with energy as Caladbolg began to spin violently, the blade transforming into a whirling drill of multicolored light. Strange sparks erupted from the weapon, each one louder and more volatile than the last, crackling like a storm about to break.
On the fifth spark, the earth itself gave way. The ground split apart with a deafening crack, jagged fissures snaking across the battlefield. The tremors rippled through the terrain, causing the entire group to stagger. The floor shuddered violently beneath them, knocking Juro off balance.
He barely had time to react before something extraordinary happened.
Brilliant beams of rainbow-colored light shot up from the cracks, piercing the sky like vibrant shards of glass. The light formed a shimmering curtain over the chaotic landscape, enveloping everything in an ethereal, breathtaking glow that resembled the Northern Lights—beautiful yet filled with an otherworldly menace.
The ground beneath Juro trembled again, and without warning, the earth crumbled beneath his feet.
"Damn it!" Juro cursed as the floor gave way, sending him sliding helplessly toward the widening chasm. Dirt and debris scattered as his feet skidded across the fractured earth. His hands frantically clawed at the ground, desperate to find something to hold on to, but the soil was loose and unyielding, crumbling under his grip.
Just as his body began to slip toward the abyss, a strong hand reached out.
Seemingly in the nick of time, Emiya's hand grabbed Juro's wrist, pulling him to stable ground.
Juro gasped, regaining his footing as he was yanked to safety. His heart pounded in his chest as he surveyed the collapsing battlefield.
"We're losing ground at a crazy pace! If this keeps up, we'll have nowhere left to stand!"
Emiya turned to him, a serious look on his features.
"Are you familiar with this noble phantasm!?" He yelled.
"Yeah! Its Caladbolg! Pretty sure you're familiar with the sword yourself!" Juro yelled, his voice barely above the sound of the ground being destroyed.
"Anyways! It destroys the surrounding area around Fergus, as you could probably see!"
All around them, the battlefield was disintegrating, consumed by the relentless cracks and the dangerous glow of the rainbow energy that threatened to swallow them whole.
"Takahashi."
Juro turned, startled by the soft voice behind him. Nightingale stood there, her back to him, her posture as rigid and determined as ever.
"I'll leave Rama to you," she said quietly.
There was something different in her voice, though. It was still her usual monotone, but for the first time, there was an emotion laced within it—something he couldn't quite place. Was it sorrow? Regret? Juro wasn't sure, but he could feel its weight.
Before he could fully process her words, Nightingale had already leapt through the shimmering rainbow curtain that divided the battlefield.
Fergus stood frozen, disbelief etched across his face. "What the…?"
The rainbow curtain was an impenetrable defense, a deadly barrier that tore apart anything that dared enter. It reduced objects and people alike to chaotic fragments of their former selves, disassembling them into nothingness. Nothing could survive it—nothing should be able to cross it.
Yet, there she was.
The berserker, Florence Nightingale.
Fergus's eyes widened as he stared into the nurse's face, which had become almost unrecognizable. Her usually calm features now held a terrifying intensity. Her eyes—those once compassionate eyes—were now spirals, a rotating pattern that seemed to bore into his soul. The way they spun gave the eerie impression that they were alive, constantly shifting in a hypnotic, unnatural rhythm.
"Are you out of your mind, woman?!" Fergus roared, his voice quaking with disbelief.
Nightingale's response was chilling.
"tHe SAme cOulD bE sAiD FoR yOU."
Her voice was a contradiction: both quiet and deafening, monotone yet brimming with emotion. It was cold and menacing, but at the same time, oddly gentle. The duality made it even more unsettling, like two voices speaking as one.
"You've destroyed this entire city," she continued, her footsteps deliberate and slow as she advanced toward him. "For what purpose?"
Blood trickled down the top half of her face, staining it a dark crimson, but she seemed oblivious to the injury. Her uniform was shredded, her body battered and bruised, yet she moved with an unwavering purpose, as if the damage didn't matter.
Fergus couldn't tear his gaze away from those spiraling eyes. Something about them paralyzed him, a deep-rooted fear taking hold in his chest. His body refused to move.
He didn't want to admit it—but he was afraid.
He couldn't comprehend why.
"Do YoU fInD ThIs WaR EnJoYAbLe?" Nightingale's voice dripped with venom, her face mere inches from his now.
Fergus could feel her breath on his skin, yet he remained frozen, trapped in her gaze.
"Now I understand the true nature of the Celts," she whispered.
Finally, with a desperate grunt, Fergus snapped out of his trance and swung his massive blade. But Nightingale caught it—bare-handed.
"They are the pathogen of a disease," she said, her grip tightening around the sword. "A disease called war."
Her voice was resolute, as if she had made up her mind. "I will not allow this disease to spread any further."
She raised her other hand, pointing a finger at Fergus, her eyes gleaming with an unnerving intensity.
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"Thus…" she hissed, her voice rising, "THUS… I WILL CURE."
From the back of her torn uniform, a thick, blue smoke began to pour out, swirling around her like a storm. The mist twisted and took shape, forming into the figure of a giant woman clad in an old-fashioned nurse's uniform. The apparition had no eyes, no facial features save for a grim, expressionless mouth. In its hands, it wielded a massive glaive, the weapon gleaming ominously in the light.
Juro watched in stunned silence.
"What the hell is that?!"
Romani's voice crackled through the communication device on Juro's wrist. "That's… a Noble Phantasm."
Nightingale raised her fist, and the spectral nurse mirrored her movement.
"I WILL PURGE ALL THAT IS TOXIC! ALL THAT IS HARMFUL!" she declared, her voice rising to a crescendo. "FOR AS LONG AS I HAVE THIS POWER, I SHALL SEE EVERYONE TO THEIR WELFARE!"
The massive phantom swung its glaive down with devastating force.
"Nightingale Pledge!
Fergus tried to block the incoming strike, but his weapon fell uselessly from his hands. His arms went limp, his strength sapped from him in an instant. He stumbled back, realizing too late what had happened.
"This… This Noble Phantasm…" he muttered, his voice trembling.
"It's not an attack."
The rainbow curtain around them dissolved like mist, dissipating into the air.
Fergus collapsed to his knees, his hands trembling as they hit the ground. "It erased all combat abilities…"
His face twisted into an astonished grin.
"Impressive! But now… you have no way to kill me!"
"Wrong," came a calm voice from behind him.
Fergus barely had time to react.
He slowly turned his head, only to meet the cold, steely gaze of Emiya, who was already poised to strike, his arm raised high with deadly intent. His mouth was hidden behind his sleeve, but his eyes burned with a lethal focus.
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In a split second, the blade descended.
"Schlk!"
A spray of crimson erupted as Fergus's forearm was sliced clean off, blood spurting across the broken ground.
"Damn it!" Emiya cursed, frustration lining his features. "He's… he's still reacting!"
Juro couldn't believe what he was seeing. "He can still move after that?!"
Fergus clutched his stump, blood pouring down his arm, but his expression shifted to something like admiration.
"I've underestimated you all," Fergus admitted, backing away. His grin returned, though it was tinged with pain. "You're much stronger than I expected!"
"Fergus-dono!" a voice called from above.
Fergus glanced up to see Fionn and Diarmuid descending on two wyverns, their massive wings beating the air as they landed.
"It's time to retreat!" Diarmuid called. "The dragon is ready!"
With a sly grin, Fergus leapt onto one of the wyverns, ready to escape. Yet, before they could fly away, he looked back at Rama, who stood watching from a distance.
"I haven't forgotten, O Indian warrior!" Fergus yelled. "It was a pleasure fighting you! And by the way—let me tell you where your wife is!"
◈◆◈
As Fergus, Diarmuid, and Fionn soared through the sky on the backs of their three great dragons, the rhythmic beating of the phantasmal creatures' wings was the only sound that echoed in the silence of the retreat.
One might expect a somber mood after the loss of such a crucial battle, but their faces were lit with grins, filled with the infectious joy that only the Celts could truly understand.
For them, battle was not simply about victory or defeat—it was about the thrill of combat itself, the rush of blood and steel, the clash of wills. Win or lose, it was all in good fun.
"Are you sure, sir?" Fionn asked, a playful glint in his eye as he glanced over at Fergus. "You're giving information to the enemy."
He didn't seem too bothered by the implications of his words, a casual smile on his face.
Fergus let out a hearty laugh, his booming voice carrying over the rush of the wind. "I don't mind at all! It's not like I've ever been one for loyalty in the first place!" His laughter echoed across the sky, carefree and light.
The two men chuckled together, the seriousness of the battle long forgotten.
Fergus Mac Róich, in this moment of levity, was completely unaware of how much his current self differed from his version in Chaldea—where loyalty and honor were once guiding principles, his easygoing nature here seemed to contradict it all.
"Well, loyalty or not, those enemies were strong!" Fergus added, admiration clear in his voice. "Especially that berserker nurse and that odd archer in red. They put up one hell of a fight."
Fergus still couldn't shake the image of the nurse—bloodied, yet resolute—and the archer, who was surprisingly effective in close combat despite his class.
Fionn nodded.
"True enough! Though I must admit, I had my eye on that girl with the dark scowl on her face. She didn't do much in the fight, but you could sense her strength. It was like she was holding back, waiting for the right moment."
"Aye, she was impressive too!" Fergus agreed, his grin widening. "Tell you what, let's have a race and see who can fight her next time!"
Behind them, Diarmuid rode in silence, but Fionn's voice soon called out to him.
"Diarmuid! What about you? What did you think?"
Diarmuid's tone was thoughtful.
"I'm the same as you, my lord. That girl… she had a certain strength to her, like she was biding her time. She had plenty of chances to strike, but she chose not to. That restraint… it was curious."
Fionn laughed heartily. "Ahaha! What a pair we make! You and I always had the same taste in strength, didn't we? Just like with the women in our lifetimes!"
Diarmuid froze for a moment, a bead of sweat rolling down his brow at the comment. "Ah…"
Fionn immediately realized his blunder. "Oh no! Sorry! I didn't mean it like that! It was just a jest, Diarmuid, just a jest! Bwahaha!"
Diarmuid forced a smile, his eyes betraying his slight discomfort as Fionn's laughter roared through the sky.
Fergus chuckled at the banter between the two, the camaraderie between them as timeless as the legends they were born from.
And as the dragons carried them farther from the battlefield, their spirits remained high—each one already looking forward to their next encounter with the warriors they had just fought. Because for the Celts, battle was never the end.
It was just the beginning of the next great story.
Yet..
Yet they stayed oblivious to the damage they caused, blinded by their enjoyment.
◈◆◈
Juro stood at the edge of an enormous crater, his eyes scanning the destruction before him. Water from a nearby source swirled around the edges, pouring into the dark abyss at the center of the devastation.
What once had been a bustling town full of life was now a lifeless ruin—nothing but rubble, water, and the remains of shattered homes.
"This is terrible…" he muttered, his voice low, almost defeated. "How are these people supposed to come back from this?"
His fists clenched at his sides, the weight of the scene pressing on him. This town, filled with ordinary lives, had been utterly obliterated. Innocent people who wanted nothing more than to live peacefully had been caught in the chaos—victims of the reckless pleasure others found in battle.
Juro's thoughts wandered as he stared at the desolation. In movies, when the heroes fought villains, the aftermath always seemed glossed over.
Buildings were destroyed, cars lay in ruins, but the narrative rarely dwelled on the aftermath. The camera cut away from the broken lives left behind, the unspoken suffering that followed every clash of power.
But here he stood, face to face with the consequences of that very battle. The devastation was all too real.
He sighed, turning to look at his companions. They stood with him, silent witnesses to the destruction.
"Well," he said, a scowl forming on his face, "let's get going."
Billy the Kid adjusted his hat, his eyes still locked on the ruined landscape. "What now?" he asked.
"If this is what the Celts are capable of," Geronimo spoke up, his voice calm but laced with concern, "we'll need assistance from other Heroic Spirits. And we still have to heal Rama as soon as possible."
Juro's brow furrowed as he turned to Geronimo. "Fergus mentioned Sita—Rama's wife. He told us where she is."
Geronimo nodded. "He said she's in Alcatraz."
"But wait." Juro said, scratching his head.
"That place wasn't built until 1934."
Alcatraz, the infamous prison, known for holding America's most dangerous criminals. Originally, it had been constructed as a lighthouse in the mid-19th century, later converted into a military prison, and by 1934, it became a maximum-security federal prison. But this wasn't 1934—this was 1734. How could Alcatraz even exist in this time?
Juro's mind raced, trying to piece together the puzzle. Could Edison's influence have warped history in this singularity?
Behind them, Rama stirred weakly. "Alcatraz… is that where Sita… is?" His voice was strained, but his resolve shone through.
"She's not going anywhere for now, but I need you to endure this a bit longer," Nightingale replied softly, her hands glowing as she worked to heal his wounds.
Rama winced but nodded, clenching his fists. "Of course! I'll endure anything for Sita."
Geronimo watched the scene quietly. Even after everything, their resolve remained unshaken. The bond between Rama and Sita gave him strength, but Geronimo wondered silently if that strength would last.
As they prepared to leave, something on the ground caught Geronimo's eye. A small doll lay half-buried in the dirt, a remnant of the life that once flourished here. He knelt and picked it up, staring at the simple toy with a heavy heart.
Would these people—this land—survive until the end? Would they be able to save it before time ran out?
The last piece of information Fergus had given them echoed in his mind. If what Fergus said was true, then time was slipping away faster than they realized.
Geronimo clenched the doll in his hand, his gaze hardening.
◈◆◈
A grand building stood under the cover of night, its towering presence exuding both elegance and menace. Celtic soldiers patrolled the hallways, ready to guard their fortress.
The structure bore a resemblance to the White House, but the Celtic influence was unmistakable. Statues of ancient warriors and mythological figures adorned its halls, giving it an aura of myth and power, unique in its design.
Inside, in a throne room lit by flickering torches, a soft, feminine giggle echoed. Seated on an elaborate throne was a striking figure, a woman with long pink hair cascading down her back.
She wore a crown-like adornment on her head, and her attire—if it could be called that—was sparse, more decorative than practical. Her eyes gleamed with amusement as she painted her nails a glossy black, listening to the men kneeling before her.
"So, that's why you all came running back," she said, her voice dripping with mockery. "How pathetic."
In front of her, kneeling, were Fergus, Diarmuid, and Fionn—all formidable Celtic warriors, yet now humbled before the queen's throne.
"Hah, well, sorry about that," Fergus replied with a sheepish grin, scratching the back of his head. "I guess I was having a bit too much fun."
Even in defeat, his carefree attitude contrasted sharply with the severity of their situation. He seemed more amused than embarrassed.
The woman's gaze drifted lazily to another throne beside her, where a dark figure sat. "So, what should we do about it, Cu-chan?" she asked with a smirk.
Sitting on the adjacent throne, Cu Chulainn Alter lounged casually, his dark cloak draped over his muscular form. His skin was noticeably darker than that of the heroic Cu Chulainn, and his eyes glinted dangerously in the dim light. Sharper teeth flashed briefly as he twirled Gae Bolg between his fingers with a nonchalant air.
"I don't really care if they messed up," Cu said lazily, leaning on his right fist. "Until the next skirmish, do whatever you want."
"Aye, gotcha. We'll be enjoying ourselves next time for sure," Fergus responded, flashing a grin.
The girl on the throne pouted, clearly frustrated that her attempt to impose fear was met with such indifference. The atmosphere was far too relaxed for her liking, despite her role as the ruler.
"How boring," she muttered, her displeasure evident.
"Like I care," Cu Chulainn Alter retorted, not even bothering to look at her.
Suddenly, as if remembering something, Cu turned his gaze toward the pink-haired woman. His expression darkened slightly.
"Speaking of which," he said, his voice sharp, "those Western bastards have been cutting down our numbers. Go give birth again."
He waved his hand dismissively, as if the task were nothing more than a minor errand.
The girl laughed, though the edge in her smile betrayed her annoyance. "How negligent of you, Cu-chan. But no matter…" she mused, rising from her throne. "I'll give birth to as many as you want."
Without warning, her nail snapped.
Blood dripped from the wound, and with a calm expression, she let it fall to the ground.
The moment the blood hit the floor, it began to spread like wildfire, seeping across the entire room. A deep crimson flooded the space, and from the pool of blood, bubbling sounds emerged, grotesque and unnatural.
Celtic soldiers began to rise from the blood, their forms coalescing from the crimson mass. Hundreds of them crawled from the bloody pool, each one fully armed and ready for battle.
The air was filled with the sickening sound of flesh being formed, the soldiers emerging as if born from the very earth.
This endless army was made possible by the woman's possession of the Holy Grail, its infinite mana fueling the ceaseless production of soldiers. She smiled as more and more warriors came forth, her own Celtic army expanding by the second.
Yet, despite her power and command over life and death, she was neither a "Mad King" nor a "President King" like those who ruled elsewhere.
No, this woman had a different claim to infamy. She was the ruler of Connacht, a land from the Ulster Cycle, and the only woman to ever lead Cu Chulainn to his death.
The queen, with her alluring beauty and terrible power, was none other than the legendary Medb.
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