13 (12)

Before long, the general’s head was hanging from a pike, his tongue lolling out. Fresh blood ran down the shaft in thin streams. His troops, already in retreat, now began hacking down their own allies who blocked the way, bursting in every direction in a desperate attempt to escape. But there was nowhere to run. Atila’s army won. What followed was nothing more and nothing less than a slaughterhouse.

“Gold trinkets are overflowing everywhere.”

“I’m looking forward to collecting the spoils tomorrow.”

“Chieftain Atila’s tactics are incredible. But did you hear the rumor?”

“What rumor?”

“The rumor that the chieftain is avoiding Duke Louis. They say he even sent another ceasefire offer this time.”

“House Pontina was always a troublesome opponent. If the enemy is Duke Louis, even Atila has to be cautious, don’t you think? I heard his army was impressive enough that even the Pope acknowledged it and left. You never know. Those ‘white-robed’ types send allied forces for the strangest pretexts. If the Pope sends an allied army, we might end up coughing back up the land we just took.”

Because the battle was so one-sided, a fair number of troops were simply watching. They were that sort of rabble—shabby-looking, the lowest warrior class, yet survivors of harsh land, so they could handle almost any task better than ordinary miscellaneous infantry.

Atila’s strike was like lightning, and by devouring the two forces the lords’ coalition had separated for operational reasons, the coalition’s defeat was essentially decided. Even the rabble admitted it: the movement speed of the cavalry Atila personally led was almost beyond comparison.

If even the rabble talked like this, then the chieftains of each tribe were certainly whispering as well. The biggest topic, of course, was Louis. Even after their “homeland” had been invaded, the barbarians did not want to return there—they wanted to settle on new land.

Before Louis, a crude makeshift table stretched long. A large map lay spread across it, and several red and blue lumps—like chess pieces—sat on top. Above Gedria in Pantalist, which Louis had recently occupied, another boundary line had been drawn.

From here onward, it became a place where subjugating the barbarians was markedly more difficult. A vast grassland plain spread out—absurdly, with no cover at all. It was a flat expanse where only grass grew, a land that was simply hard to use.

The Gedra—no, the Huns—were nomads, so the barbarians were scattered in every direction. Truly suppressing them was a different problem from merely occupying this place. And connected to that grassland was the Kingdom of Gaimer. The red figurine representing Atila sat at Gaimer’s capital: a burning city, a murdered king, barbarians marching—Atila at the center of every rumor.

Opposing him was a coalition of dukes. Gaimer had one king and five dukes dividing a vast territory, and three of those dukes were resisting Atila. The king and one duke were dead, and another had surrendered in terror. Each of those remaining dukes held territory and citizens comparable to Louis’s. On paper, their military strength was the same.

“Sir Louis. Would it not be best to keep subjugating the barbarians as we are?”

Ferdinando, who had cooperated at Louis’s request, seemed delighted by the previous battle where they had crushed the barbarians overwhelmingly, and he wanted to keep pushing forward. Officially, it was Louis’s territory, but in effect it was the Duchy of Eron expanding—so for Ferdinando, loyal to the duchy, it was only natural to want to advance.

Akiteia, the blond man with curly hair, lit up and spoke without waiting for an opening.

“We must calculate profit and loss clearly. Even if Gaimer’s king was killed by Atila, Gaimer has not fallen yet. That would be impossible until all the lords are brought down. Pendoes is a duke I have connections with. I know his tactics quite well. Two lords of comparable scale have united around Pendoes, so retaking the capital is not impossible. If we follow Sir Ferdinando’s opinion and push into the Pantalist grassland, the lords will not forget this after the matter ends. Considering that the Duchy of Eron has been diplomatically cut off from Gaimer, this could become the thread that begins good relations. However—”

Spessart of House Orsini touched the bridge of his nose, cut in, and continued.

“That is precisely the problem, Akiteia. Duke Louis—now that Atila has proclaimed a nation, they will settle there. If we advance further, we can no longer hope for an alliance with the new nation of Hun. Most Hun men have already gone to the battlefield. The grasslands are effectively defenseless.”

That was true. It would no longer feel like “military conflict” so much as hunting for prey. It was a chance to sweep up Hun women and children completely—and at the same time, the Huns would never forget it. Atila was such a powerful ruler that the System itself had introduced his abilities. In Louis’s view, the lords’ coalition would not be able to defeat him.

Even if an exception occurred, Louis would welcome it. But even if it did not, Louis was confident. Atila was not merely an international nuisance. If Louis could use him, he could even execute a two-front strategy—simultaneous attacks on the nations Louis wanted.

The real question was whether Atila would form a firm alliance with Louis. Louis had already learned, through separate investigation, why the barbarians looked at him with such a peculiar gaze. Atila feared him because of the most authoritative prophet’s prophecy. The recent negotiation attempt showed as much. What mattered was whether, while Louis was stationed here, Atila would send an envoy again with the intention of a ceasefire.

“The lords’ coalition will probably… lose.”

Ferdinando and Akiteia looked at Louis at the same time. Their expressions demanded an explanation, but Louis continued calmly.

“I will halt our advance here and wait again for Atila’s envoy. For the time being, everyone should understand that, and live as usual.”

Once Louis made the decision, there was no one who could truly object. Kaban Ferdinando was a guest participant and had no standing to protest, and the heirs of the other two houses were of a different rank and could offer only advice.

Besides, Louis’s power had reached the point where he could proceed while ignoring even the Prince-King’s opinion, so there was no need to ask permission. He could act first and report later procedurally—there was no authority the Prince-King still held that could meaningfully restrict Louis’s actions. The meeting had been fairly noisy, but as soon as Louis rendered judgment, it became seriously quiet, and everyone began preparing their movements accordingly. Kaban Ferdinando, as if he had a doubt, asked Louis a question.

“Still, we killed every envoy Atila sent last time. Will they truly send another?”

Louis smiled.

“Probably. This is only my prediction, but if I must give an opinion, then yes. They are not like us—they are barbarians filled with ill will even toward one another.”

Akiteia thought she would need to look at Louis anew.

‘What did he see—how many moves ahead—when I could not?’

He was close enough now, yet it was not merely closeness—there was awe. Spessart was also lost in thought, but his interest was less in alliances than in dissecting and researching the shamans they had captured, and in the paper he meant to submit to the Mage Tower.

It was another brutally hot afternoon. A horrific scene lay strewn about, as if hell itself had been summoned into the mortal world. Countless soldiers had died, proving that a miserable massacre had taken place here days ago. The stench of rot was so vile that even Atila, camped nearby, clicked his tongue.

Even so, Atila’s warriors were frantic to grab the gold necklaces and gold bracelets the nobles had carried, and only hours earlier, Atila had given his approval. His instinctive yet meticulous operation detected a troop column moving covertly, and using their speed, he ground that force into nothing.

It should have been a happy time for the warriors, but the chieftains were sharply divided over Atila’s stance. Atila wanted to avoid Louis whenever possible—no, he wanted to avoid him absolutely. He was prematurely convinced that if he collided with Louis, the ancient gods’ blessing granted to him would break.

He worshiped the ancient gods and was ready to offer human sacrifice for them without hesitation, but he had no intention of ignoring the prophet’s final words. He gathered his most capable shamans and ordered them to observe Louis from afar, but most of them failed—and when they chose an astronomically “best” day and managed to spy on Louis, what they saw was a colossal lion.

After receiving that report, Atila completely abandoned any thought of “trying something” with Louis. Until a better prophecy appeared, until he was forced into a dead end, he had no intention of clashing with Louis. But that was only Atila’s view. The other chieftains indirectly criticized Atila’s behavior like enraged dogs.

They were drunk on victory. They believed Louis would be no different from these lords. But they could not voice it openly, because Atila was too terrifying. If they stepped wrong even slightly, Atila would kill them or cripple them—officially.

Even chieftains were not exempt. The most dissatisfied chieftains were already rotting underground, and the chieftains who now shared power were friendly to Atila and accepted him as the true hero of their people—so they stood where they did. Atila ignored everyone’s opinions and pointed at Thunderfist.

“This time, my brother will send the envoy.”

“…………”

Thunderfist was the most dissatisfied, but he knew that if he refused to Atila’s face, the corpse rotting in the yard might become his. Atila was a ruler, and also one of the strongest warriors among the Huns—so even if Thunderfist staked his life to fight him now, he would end with his head cut off. In any case, Thunderfist nodded without complaint.

Normally talkative, he strangely held his tongue. The other chieftains wore faces that said, “Of course—like you’d defy Brother Atila.” Barbarians were not a people who endured humiliation well, but Atila was the exception. He was their Final King. And so Atila sent a second envoy to Louis.

Word of this spread even among the barbarian warriors scavenging spoils. They looked as if they did not even want to imagine how much more terrifying Duke Louis must be, if even Atila feared him. As they wandered among rotting corpses collecting loot, a preconception about Louis slowly settled deep into the barbarians’ instincts. How it would manifest later was unknown—but at least for now, it was not something that would happen immediately.

Six warriors with faces that screamed they would rather die than go. The barbarians liked six. Even in war, they divided themselves around groups of six. So the envoys became six again. The other barbarian warriors looked at them with pity. Plenty of them even gambled on how Louis—more frightening than Atila—would execute them.