North Africa under the Roman Empire referred to all the lands west of Egypt, divided from east to west into the provinces of Cyrenaica, Tripolitania, Africa Proconsularis, Numidia, and the twin Mauretaniae (Caesariensis and Tingitana)—corresponding today to Libya, Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco.
As far back as the Carthaginian era, this land thrived on its production and export of textiles, glass, weapons, pottery, perfumes, wine, and olive oil.
Its wealth, however, rested primarily on grain. Vast fields of wheat and barley stretched across what is now Morocco, Tunisia, and even Libya, alongside orchards, vegetables, and fruits.
North Africa was considered among the most fertile regions of the Mediterranean, rivaled only by Sicily and parts of Hispania.
Once absorbed into Rome, the region yielded over five million tons of grain annually—one third of it exported.
At the heart of this abundance stood Carthage, the provincial capital of Africa. Positioned centrally on the North African coast, barely three days' sailing from Rome itself, Carthage became the hub from which most of Africa's grain was shipped across the sea to feed Italy.
Thus, Carthage had long been the political and economic center of North Africa, an imperial demesne directly under the emperor. Whoever controlled Carthage controlled North Africa—and by extension, the food lifeline of Rome.
After the empire split, Africa's role became even more critical to the West, which lacked the wealth of the East.
And now, this lifeline had been severed—by none other than the Vandals, a Germanic tribe once settled as Roman subjects.
That the Vandals could succeed at all was almost unthinkable. Even divided in two, the Roman Empire forged by Novia and Nero remained one of the world's two unquestioned superpowers. For centuries, the migrations of Germanic tribes westward and southward had been checked and broken with relative ease.
Even now, though the city of Rome was no longer the capital, it remained the holy seat of the Church—an "Eternal City" in the eyes of countless faithful, untarnished and unfallen.
The reason for Rome's sudden disaster was shamefully simple: two Roman generals in Africa, each backed by rival Church factions, turned their forces against one another in a struggle for personal gain. This civil strife opened the gates for the Vandals, fresh from crossing the Strait of Gibraltar. And behind them, the long-oppressed Berber natives rose in anger against Rome's crushing yoke.
Thus, with treachery within and allies without—aid even from phantasmal beings hiding across the Mediterranean, hounded into the shadows by the Church—North Africa fell.
When news of this reached the Hunnic Empire, Avia wasted no time. He immediately ordered the mobilization of the Huns.
For Rome, reeling from the loss of Africa and its grain supply, this was the perfect moment to strike.
And to forestall Byzantine interference, Avia commanded the Sassanids and Hunnic forces in the Caucasus to fix their gaze on Armenia: should the Eastern Empire so much as stir in aid of the West, they were to launch a full invasion of the Armenian territories under Constantinople's control.
Meanwhile, across the channel, Britain—long weakened since Avia destroyed the Church's outpost there with his Lunar Construct—was collapsing further. Between the Mage's Association, the last surviving phantasmal races, and Beowulf, whom Avia had personally invited to unite the land as "Kiteland," the British Isles were cut off. Rome's rule there disintegrated entirely.
On the Hunnic frontier, tens of thousands of soldiers stood, their stern gazes fixed on the distant border of Western Rome.
Alongside them marched magi, curse-weavers, three-headed wolves, werebeasts, and the royal guard of vampiric Dead Apostles—beings of phantasm as much as men.
The horizon shook with foreboding: the sun seemed to quiver within the smoke, as though it feared what was to come; the earth groaned under the hooves of horses, as if lamenting the sorrow pressed upon it.
At their head rode Avia himself, clad in crimson armor wrought from Typhon's mutable form. In his right hand he bore the sorcerous blade True World, fused with Typhon's essence; in his left, the primordial Holy Sword once torn from the avatar of a Giant God.
Behind him, Attila shook her head. She had no desire to fixate on the sword Avia now wielded—it exuded a presence she found simply detestable.
Suddenly, Avia halted. Like a tide receding, the countless soldiers behind him froze as one, their discipline absolute.
He sent thought-words to the leaders of his mage battalions, ensuring his voice and visage would project to every soldier's sight. Then, he spoke.
"To the soldiers of the Empire, and to the phantasmal kin who march with us—I am Avia, your commander.
I speak now because there is something you must hear, something that cannot remain unsaid."
The Hun-King's face was solemn, the look of a warrior bound for death.
"I know—no one believes it. That vast empire, enduring for ages untold, crushing all who opposed it... that such a power could be challenged!
Many of you must think: Is this not certain death? To stand against Rome, none would dare claim victory. It is true—I know it. What I demand of you is, without doubt, a summons to die."
The silver-haired youth fell silent. He made no further arguments. He simply stood before his army, ready to accept any fear, any curse, any resentment they might cast his way.
The silence that followed spoke volumes: discipline among the Huns, but also the shadow of dread, for Rome's strength was the weight of centuries.
Among the phantasmal and magi, however, the mood was different. Their hatred for the Church's tyranny had long since boiled over; they had no doubts.
Time passed—seconds, minutes perhaps—until at last one soldier broke the silence.
"...Even if we die, you will carry us with you, won't you, my King?"
With that, voices began to ripple through the ranks.
"Yes... thanks to you, to our two kings, we have food on our tables. We are not starving."
"Even in death, our King will march with us still. If that is so, then perhaps death is no curse."
They knew death was certain in war. They always had. But their respect and love for the king who fought unceasingly for their prosperity needed no further words.
The murmurs rose, then quieted once more.
Then, Avia raised his voice.
"If that is so—then let us march without hesitation. The burden of infamy, I will bear alone."
"Uoh! Uoh! Uoh! Uoh!"
The entire host roared, a war-cry that shook the earth itself.
Avia turned his head skyward. His ocean-blue eyes, once warm, were now frozen still—cold, merciless, serene as glacial ice.
He was a drawn blade, an icy scythe poised over a deep-blue battlefield, the death-god who would reap the far shore.
"Begin the slaughter."
The Hunnic horde surged forth. From the Danube they crossed the Rhine, thundering into Gaul. Cities already weakened by uprisings fell in turn, ravaged with no strength left to resist.
In Western Rome, when the cold wind howled and fog thickened by night, people woke in terror, bolting every door and window. They knew: the Wild Hunt was near.
So terrible were the killings that the people named Avia "the Wild Hunt King"—a death-lord from some distant land of the dead, clad in a monstrous helm, his heart frozen like iron, who would slay all who wailed in fear.
Within weeks, the Huns had taken Metz and swept across northern Gaul. In less than a month, they stood before the walls of Orléans.
At last, Western Rome stirred. Under the command of Flavius Aetius, Master of the Imperial Guard, the empire began to muster its counterattack.
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