The city of Pharsas, now under the dominion of the Sassanian dynasty, had once been a colony of ancient Greece. It stood as the crucial crossroads between Asia Minor and the Caucasus mountains.
Bordered by the Black Sea, and with the river of the same name flowing through it, Pharsas became the only artery between the inland highlands and the vast seas beyond.
Once it had belonged to the Roman Empire. But in the chaos of Rome's division, the Sassanians seized it and fortified it as their Caucasian stronghold.
It was the bulwark against the Huns pressing down from the north. To its south stretched the harsh lands and brutal climate of Armenia, yet its strategic value was beyond measure.
Westward lay the heart of Anatolia. To the east, the Caspian Sea. To the south, the fertile cradle of Mesopotamia. Armenia was nothing less than a crossroads of empires—a dagger aimed into the heartland of whichever side lost it.
As night fell, starlight scattered across the infinite dome of sky above Pharsas. Silence reigned. Only the whisper of leaves in the wind and the distant murmuring of streams reminded the sentries of the world's depth and stillness.
Upon the ramparts, magi of the Sassanian court patrolled.
With most of the army drawn away, defenses were stretched thin, demanding constant vigilance. Yet the sentries trusted implicitly in their lords—noblemen celebrated as masters of rule, strategy, and cunning. They never thought to question orders.
And so the people of Pharsas carried on as always, confident that no "barbarian Huns" would ever dare strike here. After all, should they appear, the Caucasus would allow the Sassanians to descend upon them like hawks from the cliffs.
"…Why does it feel like there are more men than before?"
A magus muttered, lips pressed tight as unease crept in. Had the patrol of werewolves grown so suddenly?
"You there—what lord do you serve?"
"…Me? I'm not a werewolf."
"What nonsense is that? Don't jest with me. Undo your spell and return to human form."
"I am—"
The claws struck without warning. So sharp they tore through magical wards as if they were parchment, plunging straight through the magus's chest, ripping free his heart.
"…a man-wolf."
In that instant, all the surrounding sentries fell to the same sudden slaughter.
"So lax. Taking the gate was almost too easy. First squad, light the fires—report to the lords at once."
As flames rose into the night, far to the north in the Caucasus, Hunnic warriors swallowed hard, gazes fixed on their chieftain.
To them, this was no mere raid. It was the crossing of a barrier deemed insurmountable for generations.
"…At last, it begins?"
The white-haired maiden looked up. The sky ahead burned crimson with distant flames.
"Yes," Avia answered. "Once Pharsas falls, you will lead the werewolves, Gorynych, and Sinfjötli south into Armenia. I will take the Dead Apostles eastward, deeper into the Sassanian heartlands."
The crescent moon bathed Avia's face in cold blue light.
Attila frowned at him.
"Your side will bear far heavier pressure than mine."
Indeed, the Sassanians' elite—the Savārān, the Immortal Cavalry—were fearsome. Even Rome's legions, when braced in turtle formations, had suffered ruin at their charge. And though their king was dead, the Sassanian Empire itself remained strong, hardly weakened. Had he lived, their dynasty might have endured for centuries more.
"…Because I'm stronger than you."
"…That, I cannot deny."
The red-eyed girl turned her gaze forward. Her eyes narrowed, a gleam of cold killing light within.
"Then it is time. Advance."
And in that moment—
From beyond the horizon of Pharsas, shadows surged. White phantoms, countless as the tide, darker than night yet shining like ice, poured forth.
The endless horizon turned pale. Like a tsunami breaking upon the shore, wave upon wave of pale figures crashed across the Caucasus, engulfing all before them. In the moon's cold glow, the blue ridges of the mountains vanished into a storm of gray and white.
The thunder of countless feet became a sea of sound, an ocean without end. No matter how far the front surged, more poured from behind, as if the mountains themselves had birthed a boundless, inexhaustible tide.
White—only white as far as the eye could see.
A barbarian horde, but no horse cries, no thunderous shouts. Only that ominous, silent pallor spilling forward.
That was—Death.
That was—the collapse of the Caucasian defense line.
The Hunnic host swept across the mountains that had barred them for years, no longer fearing ambush or blockade. They poured into Pharsas unopposed—into the Sassanian realm that had grown fat and complacent on the illusion of eternal peace, even forgetting the duty of guarding its own frontiers.
For Pharsas—the fortress that once checked their advance—the Huns showed no mercy. They destroyed it utterly.
Screams and wails rang in Attila's ears. She narrowed her crimson eyes.
Whether laments or shrieks, they stirred neither fear nor pity.
For her, enemies existed only to be cut down.
She drew a long breath unconsciously, blood-red eyes radiating ruthless resolve.
When the Sword of the War God fell, its strike of magical force annihilated the fortifications in her path.
It was only after some time that the soldiers realized the dawn had come. Their weapons gleamed in the red glow of morning.
But the sun was crimson.
The heavens, meant to brighten with day, seemed instead aflame, locked within a burning scarlet cage.
That sight was no mere hell—it was worse than hell.
And in that inferno of red and black, some swore they glimpsed a fleeting nightmare of white.
A phantom. A memory from the planet's past.
A white calamity racing through history itself.
425 AD.
The Hunnic Empire crossed the Caucasus, annihilated the fortress of Pharsas, and left not a single survivor. The city was erased forever from the maps of men.
The Sassanian dynasty reeled in shock. Yet no matter how they cursed the governor who abandoned his post, nothing could undo what was done.
From that day forward, the gates of West Asia stood open. The Hunnic host and their Phantasmal beasts split into two great tides—one surging into Armenia, the other pressing deep into the Sassanian heartland.