Attila the Hun… it really was that monster!
Meanwhile, the Roman centurion guarding the rear glanced toward the figure on the low rise, then instinctively looked away. Wariness filled his eyes. His cheek twitched, and even the scabbed-over scar on his face seemed to ache again.
In the past, when the Roman legions formed their hedgehog formations, their infantry could check cavalry and carve their way across the continent.
Even the old Huns had struggled to gain any advantage. More often than not, they'd smashed headfirst into Rome and walked away bloodied.
But ever since that slender silver-haired girl was chosen as Great Khan of the Huns, and the Omen of the Blue Wolf and White Deer descended, the wolf cubs had grown terrifyingly strong.
No fortress wall could withstand a single swing from that monster. The Roman legions were hard-pressed against the wolf riders, and the Pantheon's accompanying priests—once so confident—no longer held the upper hand against the Huns' rising shamanic sorcerers.
From then on, the Huns swept in with their wolf packs, striking like the wind. They kidnapped people, razed cities, and came more and more often, turning into a blade driven deep into the Roman Empire's vitals, bleeding it day after day.
And now they'd gone so far as to detour thousands of miles to Britannia, a backwater wilderness. The centurion couldn't make sense of it.
Then again, with that person in the carriage, the road was never going to be peaceful.
Fine. They'd already ended up fighting shoulder to shoulder with these Celtic barbarians. At this point, what was left that was impossible?
The centurion glanced back at the savage crimson Red Dragon banner behind them, then sighed and shook his head.
Now, as scattered gray-blue giant wolves began to appear across the wasteland ahead, circling wide to envelop them, the centurion's expression hardened. He rapped his shield, murmuring as he prepared to offer a devout prayer of war for his men.
But before he could speak, a clear, high chant rang out from the front of the carriage.
"Great Mars, King of Kings who founded the nation upon the seven hills, Lord of War, Father of our people, with the blood of Rome we offer this sacrifice. Let calamity pass our legion by, and shelter our warriors…"
The centurion spun around, stunned. His gaze dropped to a petite blonde girl standing atop the axle, a laurel wreath on her head. She was climbing out of that splendid prison of a carriage and praying with surprising seriousness.
On either side, the three remaining priests—soft, sheltered men—followed the blonde girl's lead. They swallowed down their nausea at the sight of blood, forced themselves to focus, prayed for the soldiers, and cast divine rites that granted only the faintest of blessings.
"Hey, you over there! Hand me a Short Blade. I'm going to the battlefield too!"
The blonde, blue-eyed girl planted one hand on her hip and thrust the other forward. She lifted her chin at the centurion with a huff, her small face drawn into a stern frown.
Unfortunately, the little cowlick bobbing on top of her head in the wind made her look more cute than intimidating, puncturing the authority she'd just managed to build.
"Your Highness, the battlefield is dangerous. Children should stay hidden in the carriage. Leave this to us."
The centurion refused flatly. His tone still wasn't particularly respectful, but it was a touch less harsh than before.
No matter how willful she was, she was still just a child caught up in a power struggle. Blaming the impending attack on her would be going too far.
"Don't treat me like a child—I'm a genius! There's no such thing as absolute safety right now. I'd rather take up a weapon and go to the battlefield than be dragged out and butchered. Do you intend to disgrace the dignity of an Imperial Marquis?"
The blonde girl huffed like a seasoned statesman, brows knit as she pressed her demand, emerald eyes glinting with sharp intelligence.
Hearing the half-threatening, half-imperious tone, the centurion casually tossed her a dagger.
She looked down at the bronze blade in her hands—barely three inches long, more toy than weapon. Her face darkened. Gritting her teeth, she sliced open her left palm, letting blood spill as she completed the sacrificial oath with a pained frown.
"This thing is dull and tiny. Let alone killing an enemy—if I used it on myself, it would just hurt…
Hey, don't underestimate me! I've fought a lion before! Give me a proper weapon. We'll hold out together until the Seventh Legion arrives!"
She lifted her chin, eyes flashing with cunning. What she didn't mention was that the "lion" she'd fought hadn't even been weaned yet.
"You two, escort Her Highness back to the carriage."
The centurion refused to engage further. He gestured for the priests to stuff the troublesome little noble back into the carriage and keep watch over her.
"If the line collapses, take her and run toward those Celtic barbarians…"
The words came low and flat as he tightened the straps of his crested helmet, raised his shield, and drew his Short Blade, stepping forward toward the giant wolves nearing the slope.
More than twenty Roman soldiers moved in measured steps, shoulders nearly touching as they locked shields into a tight wall. On the crest of the lonely hill, an iron barrier took shape.
The blonde girl froze for a moment, as if she understood something at last. She stopped protesting and quietly climbed back into the carriage, letting the accompanying priestess bandage her wound. She sat there in a daze.
Outside, the sounds of battle surged—shouts, arrows punching into flesh, bones cracking.
Curled in a corner with her knees hugged to her chest, the girl trembled uncontrollably. Her eyes were dull, unfocused.
Mother… did you truly want me dead?
Thud!
The centurion slammed his shield forward, knocking aside a slashing scimitar. His Short Blade darted through the gap and buried itself deep into a giant wolf's abdomen.
At the same time, a cold arrow struck his back. He stumbled forward.
Damn those Hun bastards—cowardly as ever!
He sliced upward with his blade, snapping off the arrow shaft, then wiped blood from his face and scanned the chaotic battlefield, cursing inwardly.
If they had only been facing these giant wolves, they wouldn't have crumbled so quickly.
But this assault brought more than beasts. Hidden behind the wolves' flanks were mounted archers—skilled riders exploiting blind spots, bows already drawn.
The Roman side fared slightly better. Their tower shields and leather armor had carried them through the first sudden barrage.
The lightly protected Celts had not been so fortunate. Nearly a hundred had already fallen.
Even so, under the charge of hundreds of elite wolf riders, the already disadvantaged defenders were swiftly split apart and picked off. The Roman contingent, few in number and bearing the brunt of the assault, was on the verge of collapse.
Damn it. Twenty men is too few. If I'd had even a full century, we wouldn't have been broken so easily!
He watched his comrades cut down and hunted for sport, fury burning in his eyes as he barely fended for himself.
Thud! Thud!
A chariot hurtled down from higher ground, the blades mounted on its axle carving through the air. Two giant wolves lost their heads in sprays of blood.
The centurion swayed, vision dimming. Severe blood loss left his face a sickly white.
"How many do you have left?"
Boudica surveyed the battlefield strewn with severed limbs and torn flesh. She tossed aside a potion prepared by a Druid and fended off another wolf's charge as she demanded the answer.
"Breathing? Including me… five."
"Hold on. I've sent for reinforcements. They'll be here soon."
"Take my advice. Don't wait. The Seventh Legion isn't coming. We've been abandoned."
He tipped back his head and swallowed the potion in one gulp. After a brief silence, he looked at the queen who had come to their aid and spoke bluntly.
"Perhaps… there's still a chance…"
Boudica watched the wolf riders regroup and sweep forward again from both flanks, murmuring the words under her breath.
She didn't believe them herself.
They had already tried consolidating their forces and charging downhill with the advantage of terrain. They had even attempted to strike at the enemy commander.
The slope below, littered with the corpses of Celts and Romans alike, had long since proven that to be nothing more than a fantasy written in blood.
As long as that fearsome figure stood across the battlefield, barring their path, escape was impossible.
Unless someone could hold her back.
But how could that be? They were nothing more than the discarded of fate.
A chorus of howls tore through the air.
Hundreds of wolf riders surged forward again, beginning a merciless slaughter atop the hill. Celts and Romans were forced into a corner, pressed together with barely any room to move. They could only endure the rain of arrows or be dragged screaming from the line by giant wolves.
One by one, the figures around them dwindled.
Despair filled the eyes of the survivors awaiting death.
As a group of shamans chanted in harsh, obscure tones, a tide of Ether gathered overhead, staining the sky itself.
The blow of annihilation was about to fall.
Gods who watch over the Celts… have mercy on your people. If a miracle can descend, I will offer any price.
Boudica looked back at her two pale-faced daughters, grief shining in her eyes.
Boom!
At the very brink of destruction, a crimson-black streak like a falling meteor tore down from the sky and smashed into the densest cluster of wolf riders, blasting limbs and bodies apart.
"Roar!"
Through the swirling dust emerged a colossal dragon, its scales blazing with scarlet flames. Vertical serpentine pupils narrowed and widened as it cast a cold gaze across the battlefield.