"Grammar, rhetoric, dialectics, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, music…"
Lined against the wall, the small chairs sat quietly. Faint rays of light filtered in through the door crack—
Inside the courtyard where heretics were housed under guard in Western Rome, the white-haired girl murmured as she gazed out the window at the blue sky.
These were known as the Seven Liberal Arts, the core curriculum taught at church-run schools in this era. In terms of teaching method, they used the Socratic method. But the girl had never once let the Romans of the court question her—she simply memorized it all, then had that person listen to it once and repeat it back to her.
After all, to Attila, "learning" meant simply remembering things. Though she pretended to ponder in front of Avia, in truth, she never thought much about it.
Naturally, the subjects—arts, music, philosophy, and the like—seemed noble but were utterly dull. Though she begrudgingly committed them to memory, boring things were boring nonetheless.
Having withdrawn herself from the glittering royal halls and the oppressive desires that filled every corner of that space, she'd never liked studying to begin with. And here, where she was constantly looked down upon, her mood only worsened.
If Avia were here, she could at least vent her feelings a little.
But he had been gone far too long. In fact, the illusion he left behind had worn off much sooner than expected—it vanished shortly after he and Siegfried defeated Fafnir.
Although it was surprising he hadn't returned after so long, Attila had endured it. Or maybe… was she angry?
Unclear. As someone who grew up in a world that revered strength and honor, Attila had always felt out of place—alien to everyone and everything.
Even the phrase "I am Attila" had little meaning for her. Simply obeying her body's instincts and swinging her blade was enough.
Because she couldn't survive alone, humans gathered together—forming villages, cities, eventually empires. But Attila always felt like she was born to destroy all of that.
After all, there was neither heaven nor hell—only a far-off, uncertain future and an ambiguous, unknowable tomorrow. Nothing could be predicted.
Only death was fair and equal to all. And she was simply one who brought it a little earlier.
So she didn't care what reasons Avia might have had for being late—whether out of necessity or coercion.
When they parted, she said, "So you don't get into trouble." And Avia replied, "I'll be back soon."
Since he said it, he had a duty to return. And Attila would never permit him to die without permission.
More than that—if he really died alone…
A surge of overwhelming emotion suddenly welled up from deep inside her chest. To calm herself, the white-haired girl instinctively looked up at the sky. She didn't even know why this had become a habit.
Under the vast, clear, cerulean sky, she had been here—alone—for a full year.
Then, suddenly, the door opened.
Just as she'd hoped. Just as Avia had promised: "I'll be back soon."
She said nothing.
Her crimson eyes widened. The surge of emotion in that instant defied all speech or description.
Before she could think or speak, her body was already moving.
Because words would be too slow. Words could never be enough—
The Divine Sword of War in her hand shimmered faintly with the hues of a rainbow. Attila swung it down. Her movement was so swift that it was invisible to the ordinary eye.
Avia leapt backward instantly, narrowly dodging the blow. Then, grabbing his lance, he hurled it at the white-haired girl.
A shriek like shattering ice rang out—a clash of steel. The silver-haired youth's thrown spear was sent flying and lodged into the simple rooftop.
"Gone for so long, and you've gotten weaker instead of stronger?"
The girl now stood tall, sword raised horizontally, staring directly into Avia's eyes from barely three steps away.
Why did you leave for so long?
Attila almost said it—but swallowed the words.
Because, to her, those were words she couldn't let herself say.
"Atila, look around you."
Avia smiled at her with the same calm, composed look as ever.
If there were things that needed to be said, say them through battle. He knew her well enough to understand that. So he chose to answer in the way she preferred—with strength in his hands.
The next moment—
Though it was high noon, the brilliant sunlight outside vanished. The room became a cold, dim space filled with frost and mist.
Thunder cracked. Magical projectiles rained like a storm. Invisible pressure filled the air.
Having mastered the runes granted by Odin during this time, Avia had turned the room into a bounded field the moment he entered.
Yet the white-haired girl, with her exceptional reflexes and battlefield instincts, along with the Divine Sword of War, easily evaded the Nordic magic. She even hurled her sword onto the rooftop, pinning down the enchantments and the heavy pressure.
Now disarmed, neither of them dodged or defended.
They charged at each other—and began trading fists.
Two Hun warriors engaged in hand-to-hand combat—every punch strong enough to tear through a dragon's hide.
With fluid ease, Avia sprang upward, kicking off the ground like he was falling from the sky, aiming straight for Attila.
At the same time, the girl leapt from below. The two launched into their final strike.
The result, as always—Attila lost.
But this time, it wasn't due to an illusion.
"Well? I told you I'd hit you fair and square this time, didn't I, Attila?"
"…Yes."
No rebuttal.
Yet unwilling to stay silent, the white-haired girl managed that single word.
Seeing her like this for the first time, Avia couldn't help but burst into laughter.
She looked up at him as he laughed—and then, naturally, from deep within her, she smiled too.
Was it because he'd returned? Or because he defeated her?
She didn't know.
She didn't care which it was.
Because from the moment she saw him again, she'd wanted to say this.
She wanted to say it like this—with a smile—so that it could reach him properly.
"You're back."
Staring into those red eyes, Avia returned her smile with calm warmth.
"Yeah… I'm back."
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