At the same time, the vast continent stretched into the distance beneath a leaden sky choked with heavy clouds. A biting gale swept across the wasteland, whipping up withered grass and sand, lowering visibility with every gust.
The thick scent of blood lingered in the air. Severed limbs and mangled remains lay half-buried beneath the drifting grit, the carnage only barely concealed by wind and dust.
Not far away, atop a low, solitary hill, shadowy figures—several hundred in total—formed two loose lines, front and rear, blocking off the small clearing at the summit in a crude defensive formation.
Yet a closer look revealed a stark contrast between the two groups.
The force at the front numbered around five hundred. Most wore their long hair loose, dressed in dirty, tattered linen tunics. Their weapons were a hodgepodge: axes, short swords, yew bows, spears—whatever they could muster. Some didn't even have proper weapons and made do with sharpened wooden stakes. Their shields were mostly round, roughly carved with crude beast motifs.
Around their necks hung rune-carved wooden charms, animal fangs, and, for the wealthier few, bits of gold or silver jewelry.
The chaotic mix gave the entire army a distinctly shabby air. Their loose formation and constant murmuring only reinforced the impression of a rabble.
Only a dozen or so chariots fitted with side-blades, along with several dozen relatively fine warhorses, barely elevated the army's overall impression.
The group behind them, however, was entirely different. Fewer than thirty in number, each wore leather armor and domed iron helmets, carrying square shields and equipped with short swords, javelins, and longbows. Their gear was polished and uniform.
At their head stood an officer wearing a red-crested iron helmet. A vicious scar cut across his face, yet his expression remained calm and composed.
His men stood in disciplined ranks, their bearing unified and sharp, clearly elite. They guarded a lavish carriage built from fragrant wood, inlaid with gemstones and carved with laurel leaves.
At the front, fierce red dragon banners fluttered atop the chariots of the "minimalist" army. At the rear, a gold-trimmed flag embroidered with a red rose snapped atop the ornate carriage.
On this small hill, the two sides kept a deliberate distance from each other, their lines clearly divided. They were allies in name only.
From time to time, both sides cast wary, hostile glances over their shoulders at one another. The distrust was obvious.
"Bang!"
"Mother! Why won't you let me wipe out these Roman barbarians first before we break out?"
A tall, athletic red-haired girl in leather armor drove her chariot up beneath the crimson banner, glaring back at their so-called allies with naked hostility in her eyes.
"At least two thousand light cavalry are scattered around us. Leave this hill, and it's open ground on all sides. Can two legs outrun four? Where exactly would you flee?"
The queen, her red hair bound beneath a golden crown, clad in a red-and-white cloak over tight leather armor that emphasized her imposing figure, frowned and rebuked her daughter.
"I'd rather die out there than stand shoulder to shoulder with Romans! They're nothing but bastards who want to seize our land and enslave our people! Have you forgotten Father kneeling before them? Have you forgotten why we came here today? And now you want me to rescue the enemy's carriage?"
The eldest daughter turned away stubbornly, fury etched across her face.
"Sister, please stop. Mother must have her reasons."
The second daughter—blonde, blue-eyed, gentler in temperament and slightly shorter—tugged at her sister's sleeve and whispered her plea.
Noticing that the raised voices had begun to stir the soldiers at the front, the red-haired queen frowned and raised her hand. The elderly Druid beside her understood at once, unfolding a magecraft barrier before retreating aside.
"Those monsters below the hill could charge at any moment. Rome is no longer our target. Only by joining forces do we have even the slightest chance to survive.
As for that girl—she may die. But she must not die by our hands, and not now. Otherwise, you will not only doom everyone here, you will bring disaster upon our tribe."
The queen drew a deep breath and glanced back at the rose banner behind her before speaking to her eldest daughter with grave emphasis.
Fate truly had a cruel sense of humor.
They were native Britons. But as the Roman Empire expanded, her husband, King Prasutagus, had been forced to submit in order to preserve the royal house and their tribe, accepting Rome's harsh conditions in exchange for a fragile peace.
Even so, fate showed them no mercy.
Her husband died early, worn down by fear and humiliation, leaving only her and their two daughters behind. With no legitimate male heir, she had taken the throne herself as queen.
Claudius I, the Roman emperor overseeing this land, seized the opportunity. He pushed forward the annexation of Britannia with force, turning it into the Seventh Province—Britannia.
Facing the well-armed Seventh Legion and the vast Pantheon behind it, she had exhausted every means of negotiation, yet still could not stop her people's lands from being devoured piece by piece.
Fortunately, the Roman emperor governing the region had died mysteriously not long ago, buying them a brief reprieve.
And now, a newly appointed governor with no real power had the audacity to wander into Celtic territory with barely a hundred men.
If they didn't seize this heaven-sent opportunity for a raid, it would be a waste.
And yet…
They had only just spotted the Roman party and hadn't even had time to make a move when both sides were driven like prey by those demons.
Forced out of hiding, the Celts had no choice but to flee toward the lone hill. By sheer coincidence, the Romans—who had nearly been surrounded and wiped out—had the exact same idea.
And so, in an awkward and delicate atmosphere, the two forces who had been at each other's throats found themselves trapped together atop the hill.
To survive, they had to bury their grudges and form a temporary alliance. That was how the current situation came to be.
"Mother, the Romans have sent over medicine and dispatched several priests to treat our wounded. What should we do?"
"If they're showing goodwill, we accept it. The more people who stay alive, the better our chances of holding out."
"But there's no water on this hill, no fortifications. We only brought two days' worth of dry rations, and we're already short on medicine. The monsters below fired just three volleys and we've lost nearly a third of our men. We won't be able to hold this hill much longer."
The gentler second daughter reported the situation to Queen Boudica, voicing her concern with a furrowed brow.
"Not necessarily. Have you forgotten? The Roman Seventh Legion is stationed nearby. The man in that carriage already ignited the Sacred Flame of the Pantheon. Hold on a little longer. Reinforcements should arrive soon."
The queen smiled faintly, offering reassurance to her daughters and officers.
But the moment Boudica turned her head to glance behind her, the light in her eyes dimmed.
By now, the Roman Seventh Legion should have arrived. So why hadn't they appeared?
Could it be…
She recalled the mysterious death of Claudius I, the Roman emperor and governor of the Seventh Province, and the rumors surrounding the child inside that laurel-adorned carriage. A quiet sigh escaped her lips, tinged with helplessness and pity.
To be born into an imperial household was both fortune and misfortune.
At that instant, seven-colored brilliance cleaved through the sky. Sand and dust were torn apart like ripped cloth. Piercing wolf howls rose and fell, abruptly shattering Boudica's thoughts.
Gray-blue wolves, each nearly two meters tall, surged forward like a tide. Their claws and fangs gleamed sharply, their crimson eyes burning with feral hunger.
Behind the wolf pack, a line of light cavalry advanced at an unhurried pace. Cruel, bloodthirsty smiles hung on their faces as they looked toward the hill. To them, it was nothing more than a fattened lamb awaiting slaughter.
On a nearby rise stood a female swordswoman with silver hair cascading over her shoulders. Her build was strong and athletic, her wheat-colored skin catching the dim light. In her hand she held a seven-colored long sword, her gaze calm and indifferent as she surveyed the battlefield.
At her feet lay a massive white wolf, four or five meters tall, resting on its side with surprising docility.
The sight made Boudica's heart sink. Her expression stiffened.
The Wolf Riders had arrived.
And Attila the Hun—that monster—was here as well.