129 — 13 (10)

The wooden buildings were burning, and screams burst out from every direction. Corpses rolled across the ground, and the barbarians who had surrendered were being made to kneel and bound one by one. Through the roaring flames, barbarian women were being dragged away without end. Among them were also citizens of House Pontina—many of the women Louis had lost back then. The barbarians looked at Louis, trembling with fear.

They had never had this place conquered. They had firmly believed that this core region, guarded by the ancient gods, was always under divine protection. Louis was the first to smash that belief. So the barbarians’ shock could not help but be extraordinary. In a sense, they had been lucky. The main host was away campaigning in Gaimer, and Louis had not even faced a proper battle.

Still, the gains here were not bad. Even the sheer number of slaves alone meant the purpose of raising an army had been more than achieved. Women lined up in front. They were women taken long ago by the barbarians. Perhaps that was why they wept as they looked at Louis—not tears of blood, but tears of gratitude.

The citizens who had been lost. At a glance, they were clearly a different race from the barbarians. Whatever hardships they had endured, there were two kinds: women who had aged into ruin despite their youth, and young girls with healthy breasts browned by the sun. Some women were nursing infants. Mixed blood. They had borne children here. Louis took a child from a woman who was squeezing out tears at the thought of returning home. The child’s pure eyes met his. What could be so pleasant to him? The screams and flames seemed not to reach the child at all. Louis handed the child back to the mother. He muttered to himself that he could not claim to bear no responsibility.

A commander came to report, and slaves were being marched in like a long chain. All of them were barbarian slaves, and all of them were women. They had only taken the young and the youthful; their skin looked so fresh it seemed ready to burst. According to the commander’s explanation, they were daughters of warriors with relatively high status here. Perhaps because of that, they stared with eyes full of hostility and fear. Yet not a single woman openly showed hostility. Louis left no opening. No matter where you looked, there was not even an inch that seemed easy to exploit. These were women of high standing within the tribe, and many of them had seen Atila up close. Yet none of them dared to say Louis was beneath Atila.

Louis’s reputation was absolute even among the barbarians. When the pope had visited, many merchants had come and gone through Louis’s territory, and some had been seized by barbarians or forced through tribute. The rumors spread then had become so popular they were etched deep into the barbarians’ minds.

Last to be dragged in was a one-eyed man in torn clothing.

It was Gijik, the barbarian chieftain who had ruled this place. His face had always been fierce, but after not eating, he looked beyond gaunt—utterly ruined. He looked ten years older. Gijik lifted his eyes to Louis. Overwhelming mana crushed down on him. Only now, seeing it directly, did he understand. Too late. Regret. A man he should never have faced. The lion the ancient shaman had warned of—the one Atila and his brothers had uniquely feared—there was no doubt.

Even when hunting the twin-headed ogre everyone feared, he had not feared death. But now, Gijik’s complexion was poor. If he died, so be it. But the man looking down at him might be able to cut off his breath right here and now.

No—according to prophecy, Atila was the Final King. If he died, the Huns would end. A chance to flourish like this would never come again. The thought plunged him into despair. He had been confident in close combat. He had never even imagined he would be crushed this thoroughly.

If Atila’s main host returned, it would outnumber Louis’s troops by about three to one, but even then, he doubted they could defeat the lion’s army. That was how high the quality of Louis’s force was. And beyond that, there was something he still could not understand.

The horn bow. The weapon he had only just begun to grasp, now that he was a prisoner. Archers carrying bows that looked anything but ordinary were everywhere. The moment he saw them, he was certain that was what had perfectly ruined their plans. Could anyone have made such a thing if the gods had not revealed it? In that moment, it became certain that Louis, like Atila, was a man blessed by something. But everything was too late.

Among the soldiers—especially the new recruits—there were quite a few who had carried fear about this campaign. It was understandable. Pantalist had long been one of the remote lands that could not be easily attacked. A victory like this over barbarians was an honor that likely had never existed even in the past. And who had made it possible? Louis. Most of the new recruits began to revere Louis. Their morale was so full it was on the verge of bursting—so much that if Louis told them to die, they would pretend to die.

Gaimer’s capital could not withstand Atila’s ferocious assault and burned to the ground. The king committed suicide, and Atila stormed the palace and carried out a massacre. Blood ran thick. Women were raped. The capital was perfectly plundered. This was not the simple raiding of before. If it had been, he would have left. Atila did not permit long plunder. It was because he was taking the first step of an old plan—to establish a new foundation in Gaimer.

He intended to erase Gaimer and raise a nation called Hun in its place. While intoxicated by the joy of victory, cold information came to him: Louis had turned his homeland into scorched earth. He had expected Gijik to be routed, but he had not expected him to collapse so utterly. Gijik had been one of the brothers Atila trusted.

Atila asked himself whether he could produce the same result, and the answer was a firm no. He could not even begin to sense what he would have to do to crush Gijik like that. Louis’s military losses were close to zero, so even if Atila turned back, he doubted he could reclaim it easily.

‘Besides, now is not the time to clash with Louis…’

He had only taken one capital. To topple the other lords one by one, he had to handle his army carefully. If he fought Louis and ended in mutual ruin, his grand dream would turn to foam. But could Atila truly make a rational judgment?

To be honest, Atila envied Louis’s ability, envied Louis’s army, envied Louis’s status. The quality of the army especially was beyond comparison. Its branch composition even included mages, showing a perfect balance. Atila wanted his own unruly force to change into something more professional. He needed time.

He needed time—absolutely. Yet Atila himself could not clearly distinguish whether these judgments were made to choose the most rational path, or whether he had long feared House Pontina and, now that the fear had become reality, he was simply trying to avoid prophecy by avoiding collision.

Before dying, the prophet had told him to beware the lion. And he had added that Atila might flourish, but he might also end up “preserved” forever. With those final words, the prophet’s life ended. Only Atila had heard that last counsel. A Final King who could become preserved—was that not an alluring yet unsettling phrase?

Atila looked down at the woman pinned beneath him. A pale naked body—one he would never have seen in his life if he had not conquered this place. She was the daughter of Gaimer’s king. The king and his sons had already been beheaded and hung in the square. Flies were likely swarming them by now. That shock treatment had contributed greatly to calming the capital’s order in an instant. People, terrified of infamous Atila’s violence, could not even muster the nerve to resist.

He squeezed her breast. The woman let out a strange, muffled moan—whether from pain or pleasure, it was impossible to tell. Tear tracks were vivid, and from the day Atila began taking her to now, they showed no sign of fading. Her breasts were pathetically small compared to the women he had held before, but her hips were wide enough to satisfy him.

Atila flipped her over, pressed her down with a thick arm, then lifted a hand to clamp her throat. Each time he moved violently, hot breath spilled from beneath him. This woman would bear him a good child. That was enough. After the messy rut, Atila gathered the chieftains.

Bone Lord, Gorgon Butcher, Thunder Fist, Half-Homeland Warhammer. All of them looked healthier, as if they had fallen deep into the taste of the women here. But they also seemed to know why Atila had called them. The moment Atila looked at them, he spoke.

“Our brother was struck by the lion.”

“Damn it. To ignore our advice—when we go back, we should crack his skull, shouldn’t we?”

“He died well. I knew it from the start when that bastard started acting up.”

“He isn’t dead yet. He was captured.”

“He’s as good as dead. Do you think Duke Louis will leave him alive? More importantly, we’re stuck here. If we go back… it’s goodbye to the women too.”

“You bastard… you’re saying we should just leave our homeland? Shouldn’t we go back and avenge our brother?”

“Brother my ass. I swore brotherhood with Atila, not with that guy. He’s got nothing to do with me.”

As expected, Thunder Fist and Half-Homeland Warhammer had already split in opinion. Atila, of course, sided with Thunder Fist. To put it plainly, Atila had no intention of returning. Louis might have taken the homeland, but he had only seized one village among the many Atila possessed.

“Hmph. We must remain here. From now on, we revive the Huns with this place as our center. If we cling to the lands of the past, we will gain nothing.”

“Atila. Then you mean we leave it like that?”

“For now, we can only keep sending him offers of peace. The direction we must continue is north—downward is not our path.”

“I cannot believe it, that you would say such a thing.”

Killing intent burst out before the sentence even ended. Knowing Atila’s temperament, everyone tensed as the atmosphere turned instantly savage. What Atila had shown until now was cruelty so extreme that if something hindered his plan, it would not have been strange for him to kill even his own parents. Half-Homeland Warhammer immediately tucked his tail and spoke.

“My apologies, brother. I will follow your opinion above all else. Let your anger go.”

“Not now… not now. Just remember that, all of you.”