Type-Moon: Does even a sneak peek make it official?

Avia's dwelling at this moment, in the eyes of someone born in the Roman Empire, would likely appear to be nothing more than a temporary tent.

That much was normal. On the great Eastern European steppes, the Huns had no fixed abodes. Their felt and sheepskin tents sufficed, the interiors dyed blue, with wool carpets spread across the floor.

Though years had passed since he left for the Western Roman Empire with Attila—returning only once in all that time—coming back here still felt like coming home.

Summer had fully arrived. The breeze drifting in through the open flap was warm and pleasant, cooled by the greenery that spread across the plains, carrying with it the fragrance of fresh grass.

The silver-haired youth let himself enjoy the wind for a moment, then drew his gaze back inside the tent.

The sounds of training, of rest, and of countless conversations melded together into the lively daily din, drifting in with the wind.

Before Avia lay a simple map of Europe.

Not long ago, he had received word: the "Bagaudae movement" in Gaul, which had lasted over a year, had finally been crushed. Casualties were estimated at hundreds of thousands. One of Gaul's most prosperous cities had been utterly razed to the ground. Avia could guess whose hand had wrought such devastation—surely Mabel Kiara.

It was hardly strange; a century ago she had dealt a grievous wound to Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg. With such power, her intervention was no surprise. The question was—why now?

Finding no answer, Avia set the thought aside and turned his focus back to the Hunnic Empire and the divided East and West Roman Empires.

In terms of economic power, the West was far inferior to the East. Ever since Constantinople had been founded, the East's flourishing commerce only deepened the divide. Silks, jewels, and grain flowed westward, but in return the West could offer only manpower and horses—and less and less gold each year. In the days before the Empire split, that imbalance could still be managed. But now… it could not.

From the third century onward, Europe had suffered famine, plague, and flood more often than before. At first, the Church's aid sufficed, but in time corruption crept in—supplies skimmed off in secret.

Though faith in Christ had forestalled major uprisings, and even converted many of the so-called "barbarians," the Church itself had grown increasingly prejudiced against them. Its upper ranks were almost entirely closed to these newer converts. Quietly, but unmistakably, a policy of exclusion took hold.

Worse still, the West's reliance on the Church had thrown its politics into chaos. The Roman Emperor still wore his crown—but the Roman Empire was no longer the empire it once had been.

Yet even in such decline, it was not a foe the Huns could face head-on.

After all, this was a world of sorcery.

Thus Avia had decided: he would not force the Huns, still bound by their tribal kinship ties, into the mold of a centralized state.

When all was done, the fate of Europe would lie with the choices of three peoples: the Romans without their empire, the Germans scattered across the land, and the Huns with their rising power.

First, though—he would wait. Wait until the Vandals struck at the lifeblood of the Western Roman Empire: its grain supply from North Africa.

Then, turmoil would engulf the West. That would be the moment to strike.

Though the Bagaudae had been crushed, that itself showed the truth: after centuries, Christianity was no longer enough to smother the fires of discontent. Uprisings would spread across the West. It was only a matter of time.

So Avia resolved: before the Vandals claimed North Africa, he would turn his gaze eastward—toward the Sassanid Empire. Perhaps, he thought, Persia could yet be taken.

"Oh? Someone approaches?"

Just then, as the silver-haired youth planned his future course, a presence made itself felt along the Dnieper River—open, unmasked, impossible to miss.

"A Dead Apostle's aura… so, it's for the Princess?"

Without thinking, Avia's lips curved into a smile. He shook his head.

"An uninvited guest. Still, I'd best go and see for myself."

---

On the Eastern European steppe, at the Dnieper River, a ship floated upon the waters.

Its scale was epoch-making: a hundred meters in length, twenty-one wide, displacing sixty-three thousand tons. Every figure spoke of its grandeur—a pure white castle upon the river.

Seven decks in all, capable of holding two thousand souls. Neither wind nor waves could unsettle it. Within, one would feel no trace of a ship's sway.

To look upon it was to lose all sense of distance. And so—

Beneath the noonday sun, a golden-haired man stood: the White Knight, Brad. His gaze was fixed on the ship's prow, where a cane-bearing figure stood. A derisive smile tugged at his lips.

"So it is you. But I've no interest in your blood, Van-Femm."

Even so, Brad did not take lightly one of the oldest Dead Apostles. Van-Femm, creator of the Seven Demon Castles—cursed fortresses whose concentration of malice could physically shatter all before them.

In the Second Great Adventure, Van-Femm had once repelled the Typhon-wielding Zagreus with nothing more than a castle's repulsion field. Later, with a single fortress, he had driven Zagreus—under the name Byron Long—into the sea, leaving him bloodied. And that without even opening the castle's gate.

The gods' weakening in the modern age played its part, but still—his power was formidable.

Yet Brad himself had once destroyed the Fifth Demon Castle with his own hands. He too had the strength to match.

"Exposed completely, are we? Not that I mind." Van-Femm's grin widened, unrestrained. "I come to pay my respects to the Princess. Tell me, White Knight—will you announce me?"

"The Princess will not welcome you."

Brad gave no deference to the Fourteenth Ancestor. Upon the Dnieper, even beneath the daylit sky, a ghostly blue light flared, taking shape as a spectral warship crewed by countless phantoms—his Reality Marble, Phantom March.

"I've come in sincerity. But I will not go quietly either. My daughter's vengeance—today, at last, I'll have it."

With a formal bow, Van-Femm declared war. The blue kerchief at his breast swayed like a rose in bloom.

And yet—just as battle was about to erupt—

"Brad. Who is this?"

The voice came unexpectedly. Van-Femm, startled, had sensed only a human presence. Yet the ancient White Knight, relic though he was, greeted this newcomer with respect—so much respect that he immediately dispelled his Reality Marble.

Could it be? Was this truly a vessel of the Princess's soul? Yet if so—why did he not recognize me…?

"Lord Avia," Brad said, "this is Van-Femm, ranked Fourteenth among the Dead Apostles by the Church."

His respect for Avia stemmed not only from gratitude—Avia had granted them a home, and the means to survive without preying upon beasts alone—but from something more.

For Brad remembered well: in Constantinople, he had seen with his own eyes his mistress Altrouge carrying this human upon her back. He had seen him lodged in her own chambers for months on end. He had even caught glimpses—fleeting, tender—of her leaning close, almost as if to bite him, only to pull away.

"I see."

Avia raised his gaze to the man upon the ship's prow.

"Van-Femm—would you do me the honor of inviting me aboard?"

"A rare opportunity indeed," the Ancestor replied, his grin sharpening. "I would be delighted."

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