Within the dying West Roman Empire, countless people collapsed like stalks of wheat, lifeless and silent. The Huns galloped through the land like the legendary Wild Hunt, bringing with them a tide of blood and terror.
They crossed Orléans, broke through Milan, and shattered the heart of the Empire. West Rome was finished, its vast dominion torn apart by the savagery of the Huns.
At this moment, outside the Eternal City of Rome, the noon sun was smothered by a sky of iron-black clouds, the world drowned in a suffocating shadow. The earth groaned beneath the trampling of iron cavalry, and lightning split the heavens with thunder that shook the soul.
Each flash of lightning revealed the jagged silhouette of storm clouds, while a bitter wind swept in from the ends of the earth. Yet, within the suffocating air, an unnatural silence fell—only the hollow whistle of wind across desolation remained.
"Rome… how could there be no one here?"
"Did they all flee?"
"But just days ago, wasn't the city overflowing with people…?"
The soldiers muttered anxiously.
Avia stood silent, not listening to the chatter. His thoughts were not on the Rome he had not seen for centuries. Instead, he found himself gripped by a strange déjà vu.
It was as though he had seen this scene before—an environment he should have grown used to, yet had never once noticed. Something familiar was being forced upon him, as though what belonged to him had been twisted and applied by another.
"Quiet."
Avia's voice cut through the noise.
All eyes fell upon him, though he did not look at anyone in return. His gaze remained fixed upon the walls of Rome ahead.
"I'll go in and see."
Memories stirred the moment he stepped toward the city.
His first arrival, when he was captured by the nobles of the Roman polytheists.
His triumphal return, after annihilating the Judean province.
The great ecumenical council, three centuries before its time, where he bade farewell to friends of the faith.
Rome should have been as ever: glorious, bustling, unshaken. Yet now, only a lonely stillness greeted him.
And then he understood why—
"…An illusion?"
The words left his lips in disbelief.
Above him, the black clouds twisted like countless mirrored panes layered atop one another. And then, the spell—powerful enough to deceive the world itself—shattered. The false sky fractured like broken glass and fell away.
It was like waking from a long dream. He blinked and realized he had never truly entered Rome at all; he was still standing outside its gates. Around him, Typhon and Meili remained trapped within the sorcery, their bodies still, eyes glazed. Soldiers and phantasmal beasts alike stood frozen, lost in the same nightmare.
The real sky was unveiled at last.
It was impossible to tell whether it was day or night. The heavens had torn open, leaking only pale remnants of light. Below, the earth burned crimson, flames and smoke rising into the suffocating air. No rain fell from the clouds, only ashes drifting downward, mingling with the dust that rose from the scorched ground.
"…So in the end, I couldn't be of use to you."
The voice startled him. It was Eltruce, her call having stirred him awake. Avia turned, blinking at her in surprise.
"I thought I could help you… but now, when it matters most, I can't. I don't know what I should do. Forgive me… I sound pathetic."
"No. It's normal," Avia said softly. "Everyone has moments of helplessness. Don't worry—I'll protect you."
He gazed into her crimson eyes, eyes that trembled with fragile resolve.
She had to tell him—here and now, if nothing else.
"…I love you. I want you to live. I want to see wonders beside you, to share in your smile as you behold them. I want to share my heart with you—in joy, in sorrow, in hardship. If possible… forever."
Her words fell with trembling weight, and then her black hair brushed against him as she raised herself on her toes, her hands trailing across his neck, and pressed her lips to his.
Avia did not push her away. He embraced her gently, as if she were something fragile, encircling her shoulders and waist.
Her lips pressed tightly, breaking skin, and he tasted faint iron—the taste of blood. To him, it was the taste of tears.
Tears shed only for him, never for another.
So he kissed her again, as though to wipe them away.
It was said that once a True Ancestor tasted blood, they became addicted, descending into corruption until death claimed them.
But this kiss, this vow sealed in blood, brought Eltruce no such corruption—only overwhelming joy.
The dark princess had given him her kiss, and with it invoked something—an oath born at the edge of despair.
"You must not die. I have drunk your blood, and you mine. This is our eternal covenant. As long as you draw breath, you must fight to live. No matter what, you must return."
Until death do us part?
No. She did not want happiness with limits. Her heart whispered: not even death will separate us.
"So I will wait for you. I will never leave your side."
For one human and one Dead Apostle, such a wish was nearly impossible. They were natural enemies, their bond fragile, reliant on miracles. Yet still—
"You must come back to me."
No matter what trial awaited, no matter what abyss he walked through.
"You must return safely."
"…I will."
A vow spoken, a vow received—thus it became an oath.
And so he walked on.
Passing through the encampment, he glimpsed a single warm fire.
"Fitting, that the one chosen by Zeus should be you."
A deep, weathered voice spoke. At the flames sat an old man Avia had once met before—the Norse All-Father, Odin.
"…How long was I caught in the illusion?"
"From a mortal's perspective—barely half an hour." Odin answered casually.
"Yet who would have thought—the final crisis is not Typhon, nor the Giants, but a human. That man's power now blocks the very path inward to the planet itself. If this continues, the world faces its end… It is a matter for humankind, but since I alone still manifest, let me resolve it. You need only wait."
"You, Odin?" Avia glanced at the god's empty hands. "No… you're not even here in truth. At most, a fragment, a spirit. Old man, you've done enough. Return and rest. I'll go."
"Avia… you must know. There are places mortals were never meant to tread. I do not wish for you to die—I want you to live."
"I'm not dead yet."
"And do you believe you can win?"
The All-Father's single eye lifted to the broken sky. A roar thundered from the darkness above.
The shadows trembled, thinning—and from within came a mocking laugh.
"Leave it to me, Odin. Just as you left the Giants and Typhon to me."
Avia seized the All-Father's shoulder, holding him back.
"You sound confident. Do you think yourself irreplaceable?"
"Not at all. I don't believe no one else could do this. I simply believe I must."
"…Strange," Odin murmured, his expression conflicted. "I've always wondered how you won the Greeks' favor. For them to unite so wholly is no small feat."
"Because…" Avia's expression softened, as if recalling something dear. "Rome."
Odin arched a brow. "And yet, you now march upon Rome's destruction."
Avia shrugged lightly. "Some things cannot be helped."
"You're not afraid this is yet another illusion?"
"True or false, it doesn't matter. I've already said such gallant words—if you were fake, that'd be disappointing."
The silver-haired youth shook his head, smiling.
"Either way, I've decided."
His laughter rang bright, unburdened.
And Odin, seeing that blazing resolve, could not help but laugh as well.
"…So be it. I believe you. This is your final trial—surpass it, and you will find reward. In fact, take this reward now."
Avia rose, flexed his fingers into a fist, and nodded.
"Thanks, Odin."
The All-Father looked into those unwavering blue eyes, and for the last time laid a hand upon his shoulder, brimming with approval.
"Do not die. Fight on. Earn your place in Valhalla."
"I will." Avia lifted his head calmly, a free and unrestrained smile on his lips.
Then, he strode toward the battlefield drawing ever closer in the distance—
the Eternal City, shrouded in endless smoke and raging flames.
Above him, a storm rose out of nothingness. Fierce winds howled, sweeping across the heavens.
Bolts of lightning tore through the clouds, thunder resounding like a drum that struck at the very soul.
Thus, the radiance of the full authority of the Norse pantheon revealed itself in the darkness—
in smiles, in anticipation, in blessings—
upon the one who never once looked back.
In that moment, boundless thunder and clouds wove around Avia's form, tightening inward,
condensing into a solemn crown.
At the same time, carried upon that power, Typhon—once bound within illusion—
broke free and awakened once more.
Now, in the dim world, only the echoes of thunder remained,
as though even the darkness itself had been devoured.
A vast torrent of fire and ice surged forth from the thunder,
spinning within the vanished domains of the Eight Divine Authorities,
and through the branches of the World Tree—Yggdrasil—
they became countless crowns upon his brow, gleaming cold and merciless with his will.
And so, the crimson sun and the silver moon rose anew—
from his eyes, from that very power of fire and ice.
The Germanic-Norse mythos, which once shared dominion over Europe with the Greco-Roman pantheon,
a divine lineage that met its twilight around a thousand years before Christ,
now reverberated once again in this sealed-off world,
casting the glory of its legend upon a realm trapped in illusion.
This was the endless cycle of tragedy and karmic retribution,
the primal force born from the harsh snows and brutal lands of the far North,
a grand mythology that takes destruction by fire as its destined end,
the embodiment of its every Authority.
Even with Ragnarök—the Twilight of the Gods—its essence was not diminished in the slightest,
for this was the rightful transformation of the Norse lands,
a change as natural as breathing.
One generation passes, another rises—
yet the guardianship endures forever.