The next day, the legions—led by the Roman Praetorian Guard—finally arrived at Orléans.
After a brief rest, as evening approached, a voice carried across the battlefield of Orléans through magical transmission.
"—I am Aetius. I now announce the commencement of battle."
"All legions, take heed. I repeat—combat operations begin now."
Ordinarily, given Orléans's treacherous terrain and towering, fortified walls, it should have been a simple matter for Aetius to hold fast in defense. He ought not to have sallied forth to meet the Huns in open battle.
But as one who understood the world of magecraft, Aetius knew the truth. The Huns—who had already crushed the three great empires beneath the shadow of the twin Romes—were not merely an earthly foe. Orléans was no natural bulwark like the Caucasus or the Alps, where sheer geography could halt an army. No—based on the intelligence he had received, Aetius was certain: Avia and Attila had the backing of the Mage's Association, phantasmal beasts, and… perhaps even Dead Apostles.
And so, Aetius steeled his resolve—
"Objective: the Hunnic Empire."
"North sector—Legio VI and the Praetorian Guard."
"East sector—Choir of the Holy Alliance."
"South sector—Executor Corps."
"West sector—Order of the Knights."
"Transmit to all legions: begin the advance at once."
At that same moment, high upon a hill, Avia stood bathed in the faint afterglow of dusk, watching the Roman army move.
"So… they've finally come?"
Eltluqi followed Avia's gaze toward the distant battlefield. Her crimson eyes narrowed with a cold gleam.
"Indeed. The Holy Choir is advancing against the Royal Guard and the Dead Apostles. The Order of Knights is charging against the phantasmal beasts. The Executors have set their sights on the magi. To be frank, it seems the Church has emptied its coffers entirely. Quite the display of honor."
The jet-black princess allowed herself a rare, sardonic smile.
"Then if we win this battle… does that mean victory is ours?"
The long-silent Attila spoke up suddenly.
"..."
Eltluqi did not answer. Her pale face was tinged with bloodless unease. She, who had once witnessed the Great War of the Millennium City, understood too well: mere victories against these forces were not enough. True victory meant slaying Mabuel, the Calamity of Famine itself.
But Avia—like a blade long hidden in its scabbard—only smiled faintly.
"Of course it counts."
The destruction of Western Rome was Attila's task. The defeat of Mabuel the Famine—that was his to resolve.
The Church, united too soon because of him, only to rot from within. The Holy Scripture, brought forth too early by a word of his.
Avia knew none but himself could unravel the knot he had tied. These glories were of his own making, and so too were the consequences his burden to bear.
On a fair battlefield, he could accept death in combat. But in this lopsided slaughter, he was still a king. He could not lead his people into pointless death. If he was a king, then even in death, he must ensure their survival. That was his duty.
"—Begin."
And so it began.
In the eyes of the Roman legions, the endless horizon suddenly bloomed with the banners and colors of the Hunnic host.
This was a sight that should not exist in the mortal world: magecraft and phantasm, the mundane and the arcane—two worlds that ought never to touch, colliding in blood-soaked frenzy upon the battlefield. Everywhere one looked, there was only death.
Battle cries rang, and with them the silent spread of ill-omened blood.
This was—known to history as the battle that decided the fate of Europe, and within the world of magecraft, as the battle that decided the fate of their entire age—
the Battle of Châlons.
In the distance, violet lightning flared—born of the gathered mana of hundreds of magi—clashing against the radiant brilliance of the Holy Choir.
Phantasmal beasts shrieked with sky-rending cries as they dove like hammers from above. On the ground, knights of the Church raised titanic shields that ordinary men could never lift to withstand the charge.
Men fell by the thousands. Yet still the tide of blood surged forward, unstoppable.
The roar of great spells shook the battlefield, staining the dusk with crimson, then drowning it in black. Explosions tore open the land. Mana storms raced across the earth, heedless of friend or foe, fusing all into rivers of blood.
And still they came. Wave after wave. Cataclysmic spells, each one capable of erasing a town—or even a city—rained down in the dozens, then hundreds. Screams, shouts, prayers—reduced to nothing beneath the endless barrage.
"Damn it! Hold the line! Even in death, do not falter! For the Church!"
"For Rome!"
"For Rome!"
The blood-drenched battlefield shook with defiant roars.
But Aetius, Roman commander, grew paler with every report from his magi. Casualties were mounting far beyond expectation. He had anticipated great spells, had prepared for them—but the slaughter was worse than his darkest fears.
From a military standpoint, even with their desperate resistance, he could not guarantee survival.
Was this, then, the day Western Rome met its end—?
Aetius raised the Spear of Longinus.
"General, what are you—"
"No, my lord, the Church only sanctioned its use for propaganda!"
"You'll be punished! We still have a chance—"
His officers cried out, aghast, but Aetius's back was already straight and unyielding.
"I know. I have received no orders to wield a relic. I will report to the Church myself—and accept whatever punishment follows."
The next instant, amidst the din of battle, a thunderous leap split the chaos. With a rushing gale, a lone figure soared high—Roman standard fastened to the holy lance. He flew over the werewolf vanguard, pierced through their ranks in a single charge, and pressed on without pause.
"...Aetius. May you accept this end."
From his vantage upon the hill, Avia moved.
"...The tide is against them. No choice—we must retreat—"
But Aetius's vision clouded red. Not from rage, but from a terror beyond words.
And then his eyes found him.
Avia—clad in crimson armor.
Once, they had known each other. Now, he was the harbinger of carnage, a brute force that annihilated all. For Rome, he was the enemy to be destroyed. Yet… he was no mere enemy.
Not an opponent. Not one they could ever hope to match.
Yes. Completely beyond them. Yet still—that was no reason to yield. No reason to surrender.
"It's been a long time, Avia."
And with those brief words, came a strike to decide life and death.
A blinding flash burst beyond Orléans. So fierce was the light that the vision of every soldier was seared to blank whiteness.
A thunderclap split the heavens, its roar too great for ears to comprehend—leaving only the illusion of silence. The shockwave that followed shook the soil of Europe itself.
And when it was over, Aetius lay fallen.
"...When I was a boy, my elders always told me: families like ours must strive for the sake of Emperor Nero, for Lady Novia, for the peace of the Empire, and for the Church, that its traditions might endure."
For some reason, in that twilight moment of death, Aetius thought he saw something.
The figure before him overlapped with the blurred image of a sacred icon.
Not a resemblance. An identity. As if this man was the very image itself.
"Ah… Is this a vision? A delusion? I must apologize, then—for I never truly believed, not since childhood… and yet—"
He raised his gaze to the sky. He knew Heaven and Hell had vanished with the end of the Age of Gods. But still, he narrowed his eyes in earnest devotion.
"Even so… one must fight until the last moment. Never abandon hope. Always search for a way. Struggle, even unto death, and uphold one's principles to the end—just as our honored forebears did. If, in the end, I am greeted by this figure… then perhaps that is enough…"
In the wavering, blood-red dusk, beneath the dying sun, the long-faded Spear of Longinus shimmered faintly with argent light.
"Yes, Aetius. I acknowledge it—you are truly the Last of the Romans."
With Aetius's death, the Battle of Châlons tilted at last toward victory for the Hunnic Empire.
And with that defeat, Western Rome had no power left to resist the Huns. Milan itself stood on the brink.
All that remained was the Eternal City—
Rome.
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