That day, the city of Buda was livelier than on any day before—so much so that it surpassed even the bustle when winter had just passed, when ice and snow melted, when all things revived and countless people walked out of their yurts.
Not only did the people in the city come out of their homes.
Even those from dozens of li around all rushed over, eager to witness the majesty of the great King of the Huns—the Scourge of God who had conquered most of the European continent.
Whether they were herders or merchants, whether they were the warriors of the tribes or their elders—
Lucan was among these people.
Surrounded by numerous "guards" and "warriors,"
he stood upon a tall "moving tower," gazing into the distance.
He saw how the people packed the central area where the tents split to both sides, cheering wildly, colorful flags flapping in the wind.
The shouts of merchants mingled with the music of bards' lutes, the aroma of roasting meat blended with the scent of ale, filling the air.
In the distance, above the largest tent that symbolized the royal palace, banners gleamed blood-like under the sunlight, while closer by, a street performer spewed out flames like a dragon's breath, drawing wave after wave of cheers from the crowd.
And corresponding to this scene—
Outside this so-called "city," which could hardly truly be called one, with no solid foundations and no walls to mark its borders, far away on the endless steppe beyond Buda, banners began to appear.
They were banners of black, bearing golden wolves—the totems of the steppe.
And with them came men and horses clad in full armor, like moving walls of iron.
The horses' manes and the soldiers' long spears swayed with the march, undulating like the wild grasses all around, and in the very center of them was a pure-black warhorse in full barding.
Though there were not many of these cavalrymen, no more than thirty, each strike of their iron hooves resounded like the beat of war drums, giving the illusion of an army of thousands. And as they drew near, the once-bustling, noisy Buda began to fall silent.
Silent as winter frost, desolate as though uninhabited.
That is… the Scourge of God, the King of the Huns—Attila?
[You see from afar the figure riding upon that pure-black warhorse.]
Just as expected—
Atop that pure-black steed, Attila's posture was as stern as a sculpture.
Her short silver hair streamed with the white veil it held, flowing like moonlight in the wind. Her golden eyes reflected the barrenness of the steppe.
The tight brown cuirass pressed against her chestline, the curves of her waist drawn taut like a bowstring beneath metal straps; where the plates of her hip and thigh armor met, honey-colored skin was exposed.
Knee-high boots wrapped the sharp lines of her calves; with every stride, the armor of her mount chimed faintly in rhythm with her hips and legs.
Her face was exactly the same as the white giant in Lucan's memories.
Her bearing too was exactly the same as the Attila of "Mooncell World"—or perhaps one should say "Atīla."
This "Scourge of God" was, indeed, a woman.
And she made no attempt to conceal it—
"Quite a surprise, isn't it?" Octar, standing beside Lucan, said. Though still far away, and even standing high he could not make out the exact figure at the edge of the grasslands, he knew his extraordinary son could. "The great Scourge of God is actually a woman!"
"But isn't that what makes us even prouder?"
On the steppe, gender did not matter, nor lineage—only "strength" did.
Atīla's strength was absolute, so she could hold supreme authority, could reign as king, could dominate.
And thus could she be the pride of all the Huns!
"All right."
Octar clapped his hands. "Since the Great Khan has returned, let us go back to the palace and await her 'audience.'"
"As for the ceremonies of greeting outside, we can leave them to others."
"Mm."
Lucan withdrew his gaze and nodded.
From beginning to end, he had remained abnormally calm and composed—not the least bit surprised.
…
And shortly after,
Lucan, within the so-called royal palace—the largest tent in all Buda, many times the size of any other, its interiors covered with furs and carpets—finally found himself alone, meeting face-to-face with the returning "Scourge of God."
Yes, alone—
According to Octar, this was Attila's request.
She demanded that Lucan meet the "Great Khan" in person, alone.
If not for Octar's insistence that Attila's entire life was devoted only to battle, the most pure and greatest of warriors, and for the fact that Lucan's age was far too young to be reasonable, he might have suspected this was a summons to "share her bed."
But considering all of the above—
He believed that this private meeting was, with high probability, connected to the Huns' "divine being," the white giant, the Celestial Vanguard!
Thus, when footsteps sounded from behind, Lucan turned his head—and saw that same figure as before upon the black horse, but now with subtle differences.
He beheld Attila, now unarmored.
Her body half-veiled in silver gauze glowed honey-colored under the moonlight; the leather cuirass swelled slightly with the curve of her chest, trembling faintly with her breath. On her flat abdomen, the faint ridges of muscle were visible. Silk shorts clung tightly to her rounded hips, while her legs were long and powerful, the inner thighs gleaming under the firelight, her calves sculpted like works of art.
Her bare feet touched the furs and carpets spread across the floor.
Turning gracefully, she slowly lowered her head, meeting the eyes of the child who had long awaited in the "palace" at close range.
Those golden eyes still blazed brilliantly.
And Lucan's dark eyes seemed to behold the most immense, blazing furnace.
This was the same feeling as facing the "white giant."
Only on a smaller scale.
It was that same sense of intense "restraint" upon everything woven by "civilization."
Though he had been born in the Hun Empire, Lucan's education had come from the highly developed civilizations of later ages. He could not help but feel his hair stand on end.
Though he believed Attila would not strike him.
Though he was confident that, with his Triple Cycle complete, even without the Crown of Metatron and the Dragon of Arkalian, he was capable of opposing her.
Yet this instinctive restraint still stirred in Lucan the primal instincts of a living being—more still, the instincts of a god-tier existence—to resist.
However, after only one look, Attila withdrew that piercing pressure from her gaze. Though Lucan still stared back at her, he no longer felt targeted.
Lucan was taken aback.
Then he heard Attila, eyes cast down, her delicate brows lowering, her crimson lips parting.
Her voice was calm, without fluctuation, indifferent as though reciting words from a book rather than her own will.
She said:
"You—do you wish to learn my 'martial arts'?"
"…?"
In that instant, Lucan nearly thought he had misheard her