[Using the power of the Fifth Magic Fragment, "Time," has already become second nature to you at this point. But using it on yourself—this is still the first time.]
[Even though this seems like a fairly common application. In your impression, "the original" Aoko had summoned her future self more than once. However, what you are doing is closer to a reversal of that act—you are temporarily accelerating your body of the present into the form of yourself ten years later.]
[As if traversing through time, yet more like briefly "borrowing against" your own future.]
[This is by no means a simple feat. Fortunately, you had already made full preparations.]
[It is not a risk-free "operation." In the process of "borrowing ahead," consciousness itself is the most likely point of failure—but under your thorough preparations, and under the protection of those two hundred and seventy-two "thought circuits," you are still yourself. Your consciousness is light, without distinction between past and future.]
Feeling this moment in his adolescent form, Lucan smiled as he looked toward the figure stepping through the leather curtain—Attila.The girl-war god's honey-colored skin peeked faintly through the white, gauzy battle-dress, the graceful curves visible only to his eyes.She stared blankly at Lucan before her, her golden eyes flickering strangely.
"Su… is it?"
She spoke Lucan's name.The words seemed doubtful, yet the tone was entirely certain.
Though his appearance and form had grown into that of a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old, Attila could still instantly recognize the "foundation" of Lucan—see his identity.
"It's me."Lucan nodded.
The very next second after his words fell, Attila's golden pupils contracted sharply, her muscles beneath honey skin instantly tensed.
In her right hand, there suddenly appeared a sword woven of three colors of light—the blade flaring without warning with prismatic brilliance.
Lucan could feel the sword-body wrapped in a dense swirl of magical particles.The blade rose—and in but an instant, it carved a comet's tail through the air.
This was truly an attack without prelude—simplified to the point it seemed every intermediate step had been omitted.
Such is the essence of practical martial technique: not seeking flourish, not seeking aesthetic display. The visual effect may exist, but it is never required. More often, it only serves to distract the enemy's attention.
And clearly, that was not Attila's style.
As the "Scourge of God," who galloped across the battlefields of Europa, her martial arts consisted only of "Simplicity" and "Force."
The lifting of this sword was her purest opening move.
Within that same instant, she advanced with near-teleportation speed to within one meter of Lucan, the very range to be swept by the blade.With her left foot stomping down as an axis, the girl whirled, her wrist rotating with it—the sword slashed out horizontally, ripping the air with a shriek.
Her martial prowess was beyond question, but equally so was her physical might—the highest rank of "Innate Physicality," the "Divine Body" belonging to warriors.
"The war god's martial art?"
To call it "martial art" is not wholly precise. More accurately, within this strike resided not only Attila's skill and strength, but also the "mana" of the sword she wielded.
The tri-colored light forming this sword was itself the convergence of three spiraling torrents of concentrated mana.
Its name: Sword of the War God.
The divine blade said to have once been wielded by Mars, Rome's most exalted deity of war—and also the very source of Attila's title of "War God," beyond merely "Scourge of God."
With this divine blade in hand, her strike was as though raising a "rainbow bridge."
And once the girl invoked it, it was always with full power.
With every ounce of strength—
"Civilization… destruction!"
In but one glance, Attila's heart was stirred with her most instinctive desire: to destroy "civilization."
Facing this oncoming sword, Lucan felt no surprise. In fact, he had intended this.
Amidst the gale blowing upon him, he even had the leisure to think.He watched the prismatic radiance burst forth before his eyes, gazing at the athletic honey-skinned girl—yet he did not dodge, did not evade—
Having "borrowed" his state ten years ahead, he could feel that this body still carried no "martial art" to support it. But as a magus who had reached above multiple Divine Realms, with the "triple circulation" as his foundation—an infinite learning, infinite growth trait—tempered by ten years, he was only stronger than in his childhood.
In the infinitesimal gap of a ten-thousandth of a second before the War God's blade descended, endless magical radiance blossomed upon his body.
Layers of basic and advanced defensive formulas overlaid upon him.
A magical palace instantly constructed upon and within his body, overlapping with the natural exudation of True Ether from a Divine Body, forming a mystical barrier.
Physical reinforcement. Muscular reinforcement. Nervous reinforcement—Time acceleration!
Lucan's "speed" became near-instantly overwhelming.
The prismatic arc of the War God's sword was abruptly halted at the barrier and palace, even rebounding back.Through the gap of the rebound, a hand shot forth, grasping at Attila's body.
Attila twisted, retracted her blade.Lucan's fingers brushed against her abdomen, rippling across her athletic honeyed contours—his fingertip briefly pressing, lifting—yet in the same sudden, unheralded manner as before, Attila withdrew, leaping back several steps.
"Su… strong. Fast."
The girl spoke.
Her words were barely uttered, the rainbow light not yet scattered—when suddenly everything froze.
Her figure blurred in the air, and in the next instant, she was upon him again.
Her speed was almost unreasonable. Before the War God's sword-edge even reached him, her honey-colored body pressed against Lucan's chest.
Her battle-dress flared in the surge of mana, faintly outlining her waistline.Her knee struck against his abdomen, pinning him harshly to the ground.
"Su… has grown stronger," she whispered.Her golden pupils narrowed, the rainbow light transformed into invisible bonds, pinning his wrists into the earth. Her breath was hot, honeyed skin pressed to him, battle-dress trembling with the pulse of True Ether, as if their body heat had blended.
Lucan could feel the strength in her thighs, taut and crushing, as though intent on grinding his bones.Her fingertips traced his collarbone, carrying a destructive urge—yet paused faintly at the moment of touch, as though confirming something.
"But still not enough." She leaned down, rainbow light spilling from her hair, shadows of the two overlapping together. "Too many unnecessary movements."
This truly was… an unreasonable "martial art"!
Looking at the girl pressing him down, feeling her softness, Lucan exhaled and grinned.
In close combat, as a magus, he could never be a "match" for such heroes. If martial art and magecraft were graded alike, Attila's martial art would not lose even to Lucan's "Triple Crown" dual-linkage—an ability fit to rival middle-ranked Divinities.
And yet—
"No matter how many movements, you cannot 'destroy' me, can you, Attila?"So said Lucan, in the form of a youth.
Attila's thighs tightened, the honey-colored contours of her muscles standing out beautifully. As the pressure increased—in that instant, chaotic True Ether whirled like a vortex. No matter how great the force, in that moment, it sank like a bull into the sea.
Under the screen of True Ether,even Attila could not impose damaging "force" upon Lucan.
The earlier blow that toppled him was precisely so—because the power that felled him was not enough to inflict true harm.
Of course, this too was merely the natural rhythm of True Ether running on instinct.
But if Lucan willed it, he could repel all contact whatsoever—though that was inconvenient for normal life. This was not a true life-or-death battle, after all.
Attila confirmed this, loosened her force, lowering her gaze upon the grown Lucan—and suddenly dazed.
"The grown Su truly is a beautiful civilization…"
"So can you let me go now?" Lucan cast her a sidelong glance. The outcome of the fight was already plain—neither could overcome the other.
Yet Lucan instinctively felt something was amiss.…The touch of her honeyed skin pressed against him was hotter than he'd expected!
Attila seemed oblivious. Not only did she not pull away, she pressed even closer. Her knee still on his abdomen, silver hair spilling against his neck, she suddenly rubbed her nose against his Adam's apple. The Sword of the War God dissolved into light particles, her arms tightening around his shoulders.
"The scent… stronger than in childhood."
At that, Lucan abruptly sat up. "No matter how strong the scent, you cannot destroy."
"What cannot be destroyed, only remains to be 'protected,' isn't it?"
The spiral of contradiction between destruction and protection, solved through "force," was indeed most fitting.
Hearing this, Attila again paused briefly, then narrowed her eyes—showing a faint, light smile.
"Mm." She nodded softly.
...
[Attila's self-awareness grows stronger.][It is already the year 453 CE.][The year recorded by history as the death of the "Scourge of God."][You know Attila's time is short. Perhaps half a year, perhaps months—she will die as a "warrior."]
[Yet you once asked her if she liked such a life.][And she once answered, if possible, she would like to try a life not lived for battle.]
[This is all you can give her now.]
[This year, this month, this day.][In the form of a youth, you ride with her across the steppe—not for migration of war, not for battle, only to behold nature.]
[Attila said this place was good for "ambush."][You said it was better suited for sleeping.]
[You lay with her gazing up at the blue sky, thinking nothing of war or empire.]
[You also brought her to the lake's edge. Attila said it was good for defense. You splashed her with water.]
[Attila froze, then only at your urging did she counterattack.]
[You are childish.][But you want to be childish with Attila.]
[Because you have always thought that childishness is a symbol of "peace."]
[So you wandered together until the sun set.]
[...]
"Su still has too many unnecessary movements. Though a fine civilization, full of openings…"
"No matter the openings, you still cannot break my defense."
In the last glow of the sunset, Lucan looked askance at Attila seated by his side, so speaking.
The girl's silver hair fluttered, her golden eyes sparkling in the dusk. Yet the sunset dyed her hair honey, like her skin. Her gauzy dress clung to her waist's curves.
She sat with knees bent, the fabric stretched at her hips and thighs in full arcs. Her honey thighs pressed together by posture, shining like satin in the rainbow glow.
Beside her, the Sword of the War God was planted in the ground, reflecting the same rainbow glow as her skin.
She looked at the boy beside her, and once more gave a faint smile.
"Su, truly no openings?"
Of course not.
Lucan, full of confidence, was just about to answer.Weaknesses, of course, he had—but they were not simple technique. They were more like "bricks hurled by brute force"—only overwhelming output could breach his True Ether. Such existences were rare indeed.
Yet before his words fell, a moist touch landed suddenly on his forehead.
Attila, who had been at his side, suddenly leaned close, red lips falling softly upon his brow.
Lucan froze at the figure so near.
After that fleeting kiss, Attila lowered her gaze, golden eyes dim, and said only:"This is Su's opening."
"The 'flaw' of the most perfect civilization."
No honor among warriors!
The youth was speechless.
Attila only held him lightly, whispering at his ear:
"Su is a fine civilization, but still a small one.""Su still has openings.""Next time we meet, I will pierce that opening with my sword's tip."
"Don't boast."
Lucan said: "That doesn't count as 'breaking my defense.'"
"But Su didn't even notice my simplest move," Attila replied, like a murmur, her voice softening in the evening wind, fading away.
"That was tactical feint." Lucan protested, loudly, at the sudden empty space before him. "Next time you return, I won't be so unskilled in martial arts!"
As a magus, skilled in "crafting," he did indeed have that confidence.
As his words fell, Lucan slowly lowered his hand.
Upon the vast and barren steppe, he stood calmly, gazing into the distance.
Gazing at the Sword of the War God left behind.
...
[The "dream" of the White Giant ended.]
[Attila, after spending her last day not as a warrior, not as a weapon, but as a "girl," departed.]
[You do not know what thoughts the White Giant will have upon waking.][You only know you did what had to be done.]
[Though still somewhat beyond expectation.][Though you had not thought it would be so soon.]
[Unexpected, yet within reason.]
[You think.][You say to yourself.][You tell yourself—]
[Damn it, Counter Force!]
[Though you have no proof, by instinct you know—this was another move of the "Counter Force," maintaining the course of human history.]
[You feel no resentment, no anger.][Only dissatisfaction.]
[Utter, utter dissatisfaction!]
...
In a very short span, a vast empire had been established. Yet at the very height of its prosperity, the "Scourge of God" suddenly perished.
The death of the figure feared by the West for over a thousand years remains a mystery of history.
He who with savagery crushed the civilized Roman Empire.Who with few against many, at the fore himself, shattered legions with mere thousands.
The conqueror of the West, the scourge wielded by God—Attila, King of the Huns.
After Attila's death, the grand empire inevitably declined.The sole heir of that empire, after forging a brief brilliance greater still, vanished before assuming the burden.
Vanished together with the empire's elite troops.
It is said that for centuries after, the world sought that youth named "Subutai."
"Attila the Hun: The Eastern Nomadic Leader Who Swept Across Europe"
...
[After Attila's departure—][You, naturally, became the empire's sole legitimate heir.]