The northern front of the Sassanian Empire.
Under the onslaught of the half of the Hunnic host led by Avia, the empire—still reeling from the death of its king and the upheaval that tore through its politics, society, and religion—mounted resistance, but exhaustion of supplies and collapse of morale meant its armies faltered step by step.
The northern provinces shrank day by day. Villages were overrun, cities captured. Whether it was key strongholds along major trade routes, regional centers of commerce and culture, or the sacred sites of religion, all alike were drowned in rivers of blood.
Having crossed the seemingly impassable barrier of the Caucasus, the Huns shattered the empire with thunderous speed. Alongside the Hephthalites in the east, they tore apart what was once the unquestioned hegemon of West Asia.
"So many dead already."
The voice of a black-haired girl—cold, distant, as merciless as the moon—spoke faintly.
"Fuu."
At her side, Elterlüchi stepped over the collapsed gates and into the broken city. The sound of rubble sliding down echoed through empty streets and hollowed buildings.
As a Dead Apostle princess, she was long accustomed to the stench of blood. From beneath the ruins, thick red liquid seeped out and pooled into dark puddles.
No war comes without death. How many had the Hunnic host slain by now?
Countless. Enough that simply by walking, she was treading upon corpses, upon blood, pressing forward on the slain.
Victory in war is nothing more than standing atop the bodies of the defeated.
The prosperity of one people is always built upon the sacrifice of another.
The rancid, congealed blood reeked of yin energy—of hatred, envy, and resentment. Voices of the dead lingered within.
Death is always near. At any moment, anyone might die—suddenly, easily, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
It is only ever a matter of whose turn comes next. He who kills must be ready to be killed.
Death alone is fair—brutal, indiscriminate, and abrupt.
And strangely, this gave the princess a measure of ease. For in the midst of battle and slaughter, one need not think. Thus all the entanglement, regret, mourning, and lamentation she had borne since the incident with Van-Femm lay frozen, buried in the depths of her mind.
Her frozen heart felt quiet. At ease.
In battle, she could think of nothing. Forget everything.
That was simplest. That was lightest.
And perhaps—just perhaps—that was why she could begin to understand those who had gone mad with slaughter and struggle.
Yes—because once one becomes like that… there is release.
"Ah, I nearly forgot to tell you, Princess. I've had your Black-and-White Knights and Royal Guard redeployed to deal with the magi."
The Sassanian Empire's state religion was Zoroastrianism, and its sorcerers, steeped in that faith, stood as natural foes to the Roman Holy Church.
"…Avia. Why do my knights and guards obey your commands so readily?"
"Perhaps because of our alliance. They are cooperative, aren't they, Fuu-Fuu?"
The girl—appearing no more than fourteen—tilted her head in faintly reasonable doubt. His answer was curt.
"They all said as much to me themselves: 'We are our mistress's sword and shield. Our supreme honor is to guard her to the last. If even a single strand of Her Highness's hair is harmed, to us that is the greatest disgrace.' Cathy was especially loud about it."
"Fuu! Fuu, fuu, fuu!"
The white hound at her feet barked proudly, though its master did not so much as glance at it.
"So, truthfully, it is not I who ought to command them. It is you. But—since I am nominally the supreme commander—well…"
The silver-haired youth—already hailed as another "King of the Huns"—spoke in an even, detached tone, as though the collapse of an empire were a matter of no great weight. With that merciless yet curiously tender voice—the voice that had already dragged a centuries-old dynasty to its knees—he continued:
"Because this is my responsibility. …Elterlüchi, are you ready?"
"Of course. Since I am allied with you, I am ready at any time."
Her crimson eyes turned toward him as she answered.
By this time, the entire northern frontier of the Sassanian Empire stretching from the Caucasus had been shattered by Avia's host.
In the original course of history, Attila's invasion would have been repulsed in Armenia, forcing him to abandon Persia and turn instead toward East and West Rome.
But now, Attila's other army swept through Armenia almost unopposed, while the Eastern Roman Empire even seized the chance to snatch several key cities.
Before parting, Avia had warned her: "Do not annihilate the Sassanian forces in Armenia completely. Leave them a path of survival."
For if Eastern Rome were to take the entire region, it would ultimately weaken the Huns.
Avia had no interest in occupying the lands he conquered. Once the crisis-ridden Sassanians submitted to his terms, he could still turn them against the Hephthalites, driving them out.
In this way, he would both strengthen the Hunnic Empire's resources and ensure that, when the time came to strike West Rome, the Sassanians would tie down the Eastern Romans.
The reason the Sassanians could not spare forces for the north was simple: the Hephthalites were savaging the province of Pars itself—the very cradle of the empire, its "dragon's rising land."
Two millennia ago, it was from Pars that the ancient Persians had first stepped onto the stage of history. From there rose the Achaemenids and now the Sassanians, powers that had ruled the fate of West Asia. Even under foreign domination—the Hellenistic kings, the Parthians—the native roots of Persian culture had endured, unshaken.
Thus, no faction in the Sassanian realm would ever abandon Pars. And so they bled endlessly in their struggle against the Hephthalites, who bore their own hatred for a slain king.
Yet before Avia marched further south, one task remained.
For in recent days, strange events had haunted the Hunnic camp: at nightfall, there would come the sound of bells—and with it, the visage of a mask that heralded death.
The silver-haired youth knew it could not be the Hashashin—their sect would not be founded until the 11th century, centuries too late for this 5th-century world.
But the one known as their "Founder"… that one was not bound by time. A being who might well have endured since the Age of Gods.
And by rumor, deep in the nearby mountains, there lay a sacred temple.
The locals had never entered it, nor even seen it closely, but they whispered its names: the Belfry of Doom, where fate is tolled to its end.
Or else—the Gate of the Underworld.