"I demand a proper explanation! How could the great Scourge of God suddenly perish—without even leaving behind a corpse!?"
In the Huns' camp, inside the largest central command tent, the bonfire burned brightly, its light flickering across the faces present. A tall middle-aged man, his gaze sharp like a hawk's, swept his eyes over those around him, his tone brimming with accusation.
"Wasn't that so-called prodigy right there at the time?"
"King Ardaric, you mean to say... you suspect His Highness Subotai, future empire's most exalted spiritual high priest, of assassinating the Great Khan?"
As soon as the middle-aged man finished, someone nearby frowned deeply and stood to speak.
"I never said that…"
The man addressed as King Ardaric's expression shifted, his peripheral vision catching the hunched, elderly figure sitting beside the now-vacant Khan's seat. He hastily added:
"I only want the truth confirmed!"
"Now the Western Roman Empire has signed a peace treaty with us, but everyone knows they only feared the great Attila. If something happens to Attila at such a critical juncture—who could avoid suspicion?"
"We Gepids and the Huns are of one mind. The 'Heavenly God' can testify to that!"
"You had better hope so."
The man who had spoken earlier was clearly a Hunnic legion commander. Attila's forces numbered nearly one hundred thousand—seventy thousand Huns in the main host, and thirty thousand Germanic warriors from allied western tribes.
These tribes submitted out of fear of Attila and terror at the Huns' unity. But if Attila were gone and internal strife emerged—what would follow was self-evident.
A weakened wolf of the steppe cannot withstand a pack of hyenas.
But fortunately… the Huns did have an heir. Even if something had happened to Attila…
"I 'saw' it."
At that moment, the hunched elder seated beside the Khan's throne suddenly opened his eyes and spoke in a raspy voice.
"The High Priest…?"
All turned their heads.
The Hunnic legion commander asked solemnly: "What did you see?"
This was the empire's grand spiritual priest, wielder of ancient mysteries—second only to Attila in status. None dared object when he spoke.
"I 'saw' the Heavenly God awaken beyond the distant sky. He reclaimed the scourge He once cast down, declaring His mission complete. Yet He left behind the divine sword He had bestowed long ago. He said: the empire's future lies in the hand that grasps that sword."
The divine sword…?
"The War God's sword of the great Attila?" Ardaric instantly perked up. "Where is it?"
"And what concern is that of yours?" the Hunnic general Onigeshius scowled.
"Don't be rash, Advisor Onigeshius," another man interjected, his thick beard betraying his Germanic origins. He was Valamir, leader of the Ostrogoths. "Surely King Ardaric only wishes to help find the sword's whereabouts—for the good of the empire!"
Onigeshius snorted but held his tongue. Even if he knew these men harbored schemes, this was no time to lay things bare. The empire could not afford internal fractures—though they seemed inevitable.
"But the solution to this problem is simple." Valamir stroked his beard, smiling slyly. "All we need do is ask His Highness Subotai, no?"
"You—"
Onigeshius' brows knotted—
"You're looking for me?"
But before he could continue, a soft yet resonant voice floated in from outside the tent.
The flap lifted, and a three-year-old boy stepped inside. Clad in a robe, his figure barely a meter tall, yet carrying an aura impossible to look directly at.
It was Lucan, returned to his usual form. He surveyed the gathered Huns and tribal leaders, speaking calmly:
"Or perhaps… you were looking for this?"
In Lucan's hand was a tri-colored longsword, longer than his small body.
"Ah! The great War God's sword!"
Valamir cried out: "It's him—it's him—"
"Do you want it?"
Lucan's face remained impassive.
Though but a child of three, when his eyes met Valamir's, the Ostrogoth leader's breath caught. His earlier excitement evaporated instantly. It was as if Attila himself stood before him again… cursed fate!
He gave a dry laugh.
"Don't want it?" Lucan turned his gaze toward King Ardaric and the other non-Hunnic commanders. "None of you want it?"
No one dared answer. No one dared nod.
"Since no one wants it, then it belongs to me." Lucan declared. "I am the new Great Khan."
He strode to the Khan's throne and leapt onto it. Raising the War God's sword high above his head—
"Long live the Great Khan!"
As the empire's sole rightful heir, none of the Huns objected. The allied tribes, though secretly resentful, also dared not defy what they had witnessed.
...
[As the sole legitimate successor, your ascension was natural.]
[Yet a part of you regretted that no one dared oppose you—denying you the slaughter you craved to vent your unease.]
[And so, as Great Khan, your very first command was—]
"The army will cease its retreat. Reverse course. March on Rome!"
"!?"
The tribal chiefs—and even the Hunnic leaders themselves—snapped their heads up, staring at Lucan in disbelief.
To tear up the treaty at this juncture and reignite the war—this stunned everyone present.
[But though confused and doubtful, in the end they submitted—not to you, but to the divine prestige of the War God's sword in your grasp.]
[The host turned once more toward Italy—]
[Catching the Roman Empire utterly unprepared.]
[In less than seven days, all of Italy had fallen. The Roman Emperor fled west again. The Pope of Rome was captured and forced to submit.]
...
Under the new Khan, the Hunnic Empire, thought doomed with Attila's death, shocked the world by reigniting its wars.
Iron hooves once more trampled the ancient Italian peninsula. Flames consumed the narrow land bordered by seas. In these campaigns, the military genius of the boy called Subotai astonished all. His sudden commands were not whimsy, but careful calculation.
The leaderless Huns desperately needed a new "medal" to unify the nomadic tribes. The Germanic tribes, too, had to be cowed by a stronger blade.
After Italy fell, within half a day, Gaul collapsed as well.
A pure cavalry raid spanning a thousand miles—an all-or-nothing gamble—was nothing less than the prototype of blitzkrieg. Nearly a millennium before the Mongol horsemen swept the world, this was the ancestor of long-range raids.
"Seven Hundred Years of the Hunnic Empire"
...
[For the next several years, you remained with the army, like the young, unawakened "Scourge of God" Attila once had. At three, you conquered Italy and crushed Gaul. At Chalons, where Attila once failed, you restored the Hunnic glory—yet were stopped there again.]
[Gaul was filled with mighty foes. Though the Age of Gods had ended less than five centuries prior, its remnants lingered in human physique and potential. Strength abounded; warriors flourished with only modest training. Magic-wielding fighters were not uncommon. Though no true knightly class yet existed—only "self-styled knights"—a powerful lord named Bane and his many champions resisted you. Even the Huns' iron hooves could not break the wall of corpses.]
[Your "blitzkrieg," born of nomads' innate horsemanship, was stopped east of Chalons, at what later would be Orleans.]
[At four, a year of relative calm, you turned to the northern ports—and began building "ships."]
[Some mocked you, saying the Huns building ships was like ants wishing to fly.]
[At five, you chained your great ships together, allowing Hunnic cavalry to ride upon them. You sailed along the coast, crossed the English Channel, and struck Gaul from the north in a sudden raid.]
[All mockery fell silent.]
[You mused: iron-linked ships, but here there were no Zhou Yu and Huang Gai.]
[At six, northern Gaul fell to your sudden assault. Bane retreated.]
[At seven, central Gaul fell.]
[At eight, all Gaul fell.]
[Rome, retreating again and again, finally withdrew into Iberia, today's Spain.]
[At ten, you led the Huns into Iberia, forcing Rome westward to the Atlantic.]
[At twelve, you halted—not from weakness, but by choice. You resolved that the next year, in Rome itself, you would be crowned.]
[At thirteen—]
[You styled yourself "Roma," Emperor of the Huns.]
[A barbarian crowned in Rome—shocking the entire world.]
[That year, you were hailed as "War God," the perfect heir to Attila, the Scourge of God.]
[You doubled the empire's lands, nearly annihilating the Western Roman Empire.]
[Your fame was undeniable.]
[Yet that same year—]
[The day after your coronation—you vanished.]
[As if you had never existed.]
[That year was 463 A.D., four hundred and sixty-three years after Christ.]
[The year you toyed with the Counter Force.]
...
As all believed the Huns' glory would last for decades, Subotai the "War God" disappeared—stunning the world. While all were still marveling at the coronation, the great emperor of the Huns vanished without a trace.
With him disappeared nearly ten thousand elite horsemen, sworn to him alone.
Some claimed the wrath of Roman gods struck them down. Others whispered of a palace coup, drenched in blood.
But a contemporary scholar's account wrote otherwise—that night in Rome was utterly calm. No killing. No noise.
Only the traces of departing ships at the harbor remained the next morning.
Afterwards, the scattered Hunnic tribes assimilated into Europe, their arms sparing them retribution, until they rose again generations later.
Like Attila before him, this sudden, dramatic ending shrouded the "Roman Emperor of the Huns" in legend.
Though rumors abounded afterward, none were ever confirmed—only multiplying the myths.
"The Emperor of a Single Day."
Without legitimacy, yet cloaked in a strange sanctity.
"Rome Among the Huns: The Second "War God""
...
[And in that moment of worldwide astonishment—]
[You finally carried out your true plan: boarding a ship bound for "Britain," that last land where the Age of Gods still lingered.]