In Attila's hand was a sword forged from tricolor divine light—the famed "Sword of Mars." Once a symbol of Rome's supreme war god, Mars, it now served as the weapon of the Huns' own conqueror.
Its flamboyant design made it appear more like a toy than the fearsome war god's blade.
But this sword was crafted from a piece of the god of war Ares' body, a remnant taken by the White Giant Sefar. Ares himself, a weaponized god with a will of his own, had left this fragment behind, and it became Attila's birthright upon being unearthed from the White Giant's remains.
Romans believed it was a sign of Mars's blessing on their powerful enemy. Little did they know, it was a piece of Mars's most feared adversary!
In her unique attire and ornate weapons, Attila, the Hunnic queen, stood out unmistakably amid the throngs of soldiers. On the battlefield, the more distinct and extravagant the dress, the stronger the warrior. No weakling could dare dress this boldly—Tiberius's own armor bespoke his high status as well, even if it was modest compared to Attila's outlandish style.
Only the strong can claim such freedom—Kaelar himself never wore armor into battle, relying solely on his simple ranger's garb, a mark of his unshakable confidence.
And now, Attila, an unconventionally dressed warrior, stood unarmored on the field.
Eyes devoid of emotion, she gazed at the Roman army encamped before Rome and, in a voice stripped of feeling but laced with killing intent, declared, "Rome is a corrupt civilization. Such civilization deserves nothing but destruction!"
Tiberius met Attila's gaze. As Rome's final pillar of strength, he bore the Empire's last hopes on his shoulders. If Attila could bring him down, Rome would fall, and the Empire's demise would be assured.
He looked away, addressing his advisors with calm resolve. "As long as we can hold the Hun king here beneath Rome's walls, until their supply lines crumble, we will claim victory."
"These barbarians from the East have no grasp of governance, fixated only on war and ruin. I don't even need to defeat them outright; stalling them long enough will be enough to win."
He spoke in low tones, careful not to let the soldiers catch even a hint of doubt.
Underestimate the enemy strategically; respect them tactically.
But Tiberius's words carried no real confidence.
The generals around him nodded, sharing his unease. The sheer malevolence emanating from Attila—focused purely on killing, destroying, razing everything in her path—was deeply unsettling. They despised this twisted creature as men, yet as men, they were powerless to resist her monstrous presence.
They had once dismissed the Eastern "barbarians" as easy prey, but Attila's arrival shattered their pride, her mere presence answering why both the Christian and Roman worlds had given her titles steeped in godlike terror.
One Attila, and the spirit of Rome's six-thousand-strong army was shaken.
Though Tiberius had spoken softly, Attila seemed to have heard him. Calmly, she replied, "I destroy, therefore I conquer. I have never known defeat—and I never will."
True, Attila understood nothing of governance; her empire's strength lay solely in pillage and the myth of her invincibility. Should her army run out of plundered resources, the supposedly unbeatable Hunnic horde would collapse on its own.
But none of this mattered, because there was no one in Europe capable of defeating Attila.
It was incredible to think that such a leader, whose empire spanned continents, knew nothing of statecraft.
Her only answer to unrest was war, and indeed, her endless victories had brought the Hun Empire unparalleled glory, casting a shadow over Rome's millennia of civilization.
But hers was a rule that could only last as long as she did. Her successors lacked her power, and the moment Attila died, her empire would crumble.
For now, though, Rome's only hope was to resist her in battle.
The Hun Empire's situation was so precarious that even a simple stalemate could weaken them. But who could achieve such a thing, when no one in Europe could defeat the Hun King?
Attila raised the Sword of Mars and spoke a single word: "Attack."
Tiberius's face tightened. Until Attila's order, the Huns had maintained perfect silence—an unnatural stillness given their numbers. Ten thousand iron-clad riders stood like statues, awaiting the command of one woman.
Her single figure eclipsed the presence of ten thousand Hun cavalry.
Though dressed in a chaotic array of clothing, the Hun army was no mere rabble; it was the strongest force Europe had ever faced. Their discipline under Attila's rule was absolute.
In contrast, Tiberius's men, despite their disciplined uniforms and similar appearance, could barely look their enemy in the eye.
The Huns advanced, ten thousand strong, as if in a wild stampede, the fastest horses galloping ahead while others lagged. Soon, the front line was within striking range of the Romans, but several slower riders were still hundreds of paces away.
The Huns were less a single army than a motley coalition of tribes. They were not so different from the ancient Xiongnu, whose empire had once defied China for a century until Emperor Wu brought them to ruin.
Like their forebears, Attila's empire was a loose federation, with peoples of all ethnicities and backgrounds united under one fierce conqueror. They were a mix of White, Asian, and Central Asian origins, a chaotic patchwork with barely a trace of civilization.
The Huns had no writing, no art, no music, no medicine—only the primitive languages of the steppes.
To call them the heirs of the Xiongnu was a stretch; even that mighty empire would be insulted to be compared with this ragtag horde.
Attila herself had no use for any semblance of "civilization." She viewed the world's cultures, however crude, with absolute disdain and destroyed them wherever she went.
Watching the disordered Hun cavalry, Tiberius allowed himself a brief, contemptuous laugh. "These Eastern barbarians—lesser even than the tribes of Britannia! They're little more than savages."
"Change formation! Have the Triarii to the first line and move the Hastati back. Prepare to throw javelins!"
"Once the Hastati have thrown their javelins, move them to the third line and have the Principes step forward. When the Huns close in, order the archers to fire!"
Rome's military was organized into four ranks: light infantry, young soldiers, seasoned soldiers, and veterans. Outside the standard infantry were archers and cavalry, soldiers often wealthy enough to afford such expensive equipment.
The true backbone of any legion was the Triarii, experienced veterans armed in the Empire's finest armor.
Typically, lighter forces like the Hastati and Principes went in first to gain experience, while the Triarii stayed behind, ready to support and counterattack.
Taking a deep breath, Tiberius made a call even the Emperor had not authorized. "Hear me: whosoever kills Attila, the Hun King, shall be granted governorship of a province. Even should they fall in battle, their son, or even their brother, shall inherit the title. Rome shall honor all who serve it faithfully."
Nepos had issued no such decree, but Tiberius believed that slaying Attila would justify any reward.
With the promise of a provincial governorship, morale spiked, and the soldiers prepared for the impending clash.
A cry rang out as the Huns charged. "Mangu dai!"
The Huns called to each other in guttural sounds, beginning their assault with remarkable riding skill. At the last moment, the foremost riders steered their horses around the Roman Triarii, avoiding a direct clash with the heavy infantry.
Ordinary cavalry would be cut down by the Triarii's spears, unable to break a tightly packed phalanx. But the Huns were no ordinary riders—they expertly veered away and began firing arrows from horseback, peppering the Roman lines from a distance.
The Romans threw javelins in response, their archers returning fire, managing to kill some of the Huns.
But for every Hun who fell, the Romans suffered twice as many losses, their soldiers dispirited by this constant assault. Were it not for Tiberius's leadership, the Roman ranks would have broken already.
In feudal times, a twenty-percent loss often shattered a unit's will to fight. Should half their number fall, an entire army could disintegrate.
And so, the Huns wore away at the Romans with their "peeling" tactics, circling around the phalanx and shooting arrows to whittle them down bit by bit. Though frustrating for the Romans, such tactics were hardly enough to break their formation.
Tiberius held back his cavalry, waiting for the Huns' mounts to tire, planning a counterattack to sweep the exhausted riders away.
"Strange. If this is their strength, I can't see how the Huns managed to bring Rome to its knees."
Then he saw it.
With barely a gesture, Attila hefted an enormous bow, nearly as tall as she was, its string thicker than her arm. Without an arrow in hand, she placed her sword—the Sword of Mars—on the bowstring.
Attila's crimson eyes gleamed with an unearthly light, her inhuman divinity clinging to bow and blade. "Rome!" she called out coldly. "Catch this arrow!"
"Know this: this is barbarism encroaching on civilization."
Where Earth's gods embodied golden divinity, Attila's power was strange, an alien whiteness that glinted like death.
A colossal arc bent as she drew the bow. One glance at the stressed bowstring would convince anyone it was about to snap.
A skinny girl with such monstrous strength.
Seeing this, Tiberius's heart filled with dread.
When she released, the Sword of Mars, glowing in tricolored light, transformed mid-flight into a blinding pillar. Her soldiers scattered, having witnessed this attack before; they fled at full speed, unafraid to expose their backs to the Roman line if it meant escaping her reach.
---
T/N: GRTAHAHHH WHENS CHAPTER 80 COMI GNGGG
Thanks for reading! Let me know if you spot any mistakes or inconsistencies!
If you wish to support me or read ahead here's a link! [patreon.com/WiseTL]