Across the northern reaches of Gaul lay nothing but burned-out wastelands and battlefields stripped bare.
In the endless clashes with the overwhelming hosts of the Huns, what remained behind were uncountable heaps of Roman corpses—skeletons strewn across the blood-soaked soil.
Bereft of supply lines and reinforcements, the Roman legions, battered and scarred, fought on despite exhaustion. Yet the disparity in strength was despair itself. Even fighting to the death brought no change; one by one, soldiers fell, until the last survivor stood alone, ringed round by swarms of Huns, only to be torn apart into a wretched scattering of flesh.
Broken and shattered swords, like nameless gravestones, jutted from the earth, surrounded by rivers of blood that flowed unnaturally thick.
But the tragedy was far from over. Wherever the Hun-King's host swept through, guided as if by the Wild Hunt itself, there followed only desolation.
Slaughter begot terror, and terror begot madness. Thus it was that the faithful of Western Rome claimed the Hun horsemen wore ghostly armor, appearing in the guise of the Wild Hunt.
Even upon the English Channel, ships under their command were said to be forged from the fingernails of the dead.
Like the surging of the sea itself, the great horde lay encamped before Orléans in Gaul, their presence blackening the moonlit night like a shadow upon the heavens.
"...So, Aetius has brought with him the Spear of Longinus."
Avia, gazing long upon the dark silhouette of the city, withdrew his eyes and murmured.
Perhaps to rally hearts, Flavius Aetius, commander of the Imperial Guard, had spread word ceaselessly along the march that he bore with him a holy relic granted by the Church—the Spear of Longinus.
"But still... Lucius has trained them well. It was not in vain that I invested so much time. Rome's last elite, its Praetorian Guard... I suppose I should claim some credit for that as well."
From the Hunnic camp upon a high ridge, one could look down upon the sea, the port, and the city of Orléans stretching beyond.
In centuries yet to come, this very place would be remembered as the turning point of the Hundred Years' War—when a seventeen-year-old maiden, Jeanne d'Arc, lifted the siege of Orléans in nine days with only two hundred companions, shattering half a year of English gains. And that, when the city was on the verge of surrender—averted only because the English and Burgundians squandered time quarreling over who should claim its submission.
In that later age, it was held that if Orléans fell, the Duke of Burgundy, John, would fulfill Henry V of England's wish and deliver all of France on the continent into English hands.
But here and now, in the fifth century, history had named this place for another fateful clash: the Battle of Châlons, remembered as the battle that decided the destiny of Europe.
In the proper flow of history, it was here that Aetius defeated Attila, saving the crumbling Western Empire, if only for a time.
But the man hailed as "the Last of the Romans," who alone held the empire together for two decades, sparing its people from endless war, met a bitter end.
On one fateful day, fearing his general's prestige, the emperor himself drew a sword and stabbed him in the chest. At once, courtiers and palace officials rushed in, following their master's example, driving their blades into Aetius until his body bore a hundred wounds. Rome's last hero fell dead upon the spot.
The emperor sealed the news, luring Aetius's allies and confidants into the palace one by one under false pretenses, and slaughtered them all.
When word spread, all Rome spat curses upon the emperor. Months later, as he inspected the troops, one soldier struck him down before all, and none among the army lifted a hand to save him.
From then on, the empire's politics only grew more turbulent and unstable. Though the Hun menace had been repelled, the Western Empire, instead of recovering, hastened down the path of ruin.
Yet now, in this twisted weave of fate, the foe Aetius faced was not Attila—but Avia.
Indeed, Avia could have stormed Orléans long before Rome's reinforcements arrived. Yet he chose instead to remain, awaiting battle, determined to annihilate the Praetorian Guard in one decisive clash. Then nothing would remain to bar his way—he could march unopposed to Milan, and at last, to the Eternal Rome itself.
"Lord Avia, an alien god calling himself Zagreus seeks audience."
Thus spoke Sinfjötli, brother of Sigurd the warrior-king, appearing in wolf-form at Odin's command, as he ascended the slope to address Avia.
"So Zagreus still lingers... very well, send him up."
"Yes."
While awaiting the Prince of the Underworld, Avia released another companion who had been sulking: Typhon.
Though she said nothing, Avia understood well the reason. Zagreus had once devoured fragments of her essence. Small wonder the Primordial Dragon was displeased.
"Why summon me? I didn't want to come out."
The red-haired girl spoke coldly at first, then suddenly stopped short, eyes widening.
"This Zagreus... his aura carries Zeus—and... Persephone?! Does Hades not care that his 'auxiliary system' still holds the residue of another program?"
In Greek myth, Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, was both daughter of Zeus and Demeter.
"Well, it is Zeus, after all," Avia replied dryly.
"And speaking of which, you too... you carry those..."
The red-haired girl faltered, words caught in her throat. For though Avia bore none of the gods' power, his body overflowed with their essence.
All of them, save hers.
It left her vexed—an entire pantheon's breath within him, and yet she alone absent.
"No, no—you've misunderstood. That's not Zeus. It's Jupiter—Rome's name for the same god. Just a different face. More civilized branding, really."
"...Is there truly any difference?"
"None at all."
Avia's answer ended the matter. Typhon fell silent, an uncharacteristic hush.
"By the way—Zagreus devoured the fragments you shed when Zeus struck you down. Do you want me to retrieve them for you?"
Unlike Typhon's silence, Avia pressed on with ease.
"If I simply—"
"Lord Avia. Should Lady Typhon wish it, I, Zagreus, will return them at once."
A new voice interrupted.
Before them appeared a man with the complexion of mixed Asian and Middle Eastern heritage, his skin bronzed. This was Zagreus, first-born Dionysus, who by pact with the Wandering Sea walked still upon the earth of a vanished Age of Gods.
"There's no need," Typhon said curtly, withdrawing to the side, unwilling to continue.
"You're not well, Zagreus... your injuries are severe, aren't they?" Avia frowned, sensing wounds akin to those borne by the Primordial Gem.
"That one... was truly formidable." Zagreus did not deny it.
Since his defeat at the hands of Prayahara, he had felt his very essence burning unceasingly, as though aflame within. He ought to have returned to the Wandering Sea's Five Gates to recover, yet he had sensed faint traces of Typhon's aura lingering in the world. It had troubled him greatly.
For Typhon was the enemy of Olympus, a calamity that could one day end mankind itself.
Thus, upon at last learning of her presence, Zagreus came seeking the silver-haired youth called Avia.
At first shocked to find a mortal consorting with Dead Apostles, he was then nearly undone by the aura he felt upon a nameless white-haired girl—Cephalus! Could that one have revived again?
Yet his fear eased somewhat at the sight of Sinfjötli, whose aura rivaled even that of Zeus. Perhaps, Zagreus thought, Odin had prepared for this long ago.
And when he beheld Typhon herself, not as a dragon but in the guise of a girl... he felt only admiration for Avia, who stood so casually beside such a being.
All the more so as Avia bore not only the scent of Olympus but also of countless foreign gods, mingling with the Norse presence beside him.
"Let us set that aside," Avia shrugged. "Why have you come?"
Zagreus answered simply:
"The reason is no mystery. I sensed in this world a presence that should not exist."
"I see."
Though unspoken, Avia understood—the silver-haired youth knew he meant Typhon.
"It is a scent both nostalgic and terrifying. From deeper than the marrow rises that pure rage, molten and unfulfilled, roaring still. I thought to myself—human disputes are not my concern, save for the promises I have made. But calamities born of our pantheon—these we must end, lest mankind perish."
Then, smiling brightly, showing white teeth as if in relief, the Prince of the Underworld spoke earnestly:
"But I see now there is no need. My lord, you have already done what we could not. Therefore, I shall take my leave. May fortune walk beside you."
"Then farewell, Zagreus. Until fate crosses us again."
Avia did not seek to detain him, only watched as the Greek god departed.
Then he glanced to the side. Typhon, sulking, was stamping on the shadow of a tree, then wrapping her hands around it as if to strangle it.
"...Is that amusing to you?" Avia asked.
"...What if I were to discard part of myself? Would you approve, Avia?"
"So that's it. You were worried about me? I've told you before—"
The silver-haired youth smiled just as he had on the day they first met, his expression untroubled as he looked upon the red-haired girl who had walked with him for years.
"You are free, Typhon Ephymeros."
"Is that a wish? You only get one. Unless I consent, I can't be bound."
Her face was grave.
"Of course not. I made my wish long ago. Don't tell me you've forgotten already."
"...Tch! Why do you care so much? You're so annoying, Avia! Petty men like you are the worst!"
She flailed her hands wildly, but Avia simply caught her by the head.
Given their difference in height, Typhon's fists couldn't even reach him—and neither of them bothered to use magic.
From afar, Merlin, watching from the Rhinegold, rested his chin on his hand, smiling with amusement at the sight.