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

Since returning from Attila, through her own strength and that of her tribe, it took only a few short years for the once loosely scattered Hunnic tribes to grow into a massive power on the surface. In terms of territory, they now stretched from the Caspian Sea in the east to the Atlantic coast in the west; from the Danube River in the south to the Baltic Sea in the north — a domain worthy of being called an empire.

This vast land spanned from the Central Asian steppes to the region corresponding to present-day Flanders, from the Danube valley to the shores of the Baltic. It encompassed most of modern Germany, Central Europe, the Balkans, and Ukraine. To the west and southwest it bordered the Western Roman Empire, and to the southeast it touched the Eastern Roman Empire.

Every region within this expanse had its own tribal chieftains, all of whom Attila had already beaten into submission and tribute.

But as the old saying goes — conquering the world is easy; ruling it is hard.

Faced with such a vast domain, governance itself was already daunting, but ensuring that every person had enough to eat was an even greater problem.

After all, the Eastern and Western Roman Empires of today were nothing like the loose, patchwork entities of recorded history. The Huns could no longer simply live poorly and demand "peace money" whenever they wished. These Romes were armed to the teeth with true military might.

The Western Roman Empire, bolstered by its Holy Church, was virtually invincible. The Eastern Roman Empire, thanks to a century of vigorous development, had long since become the hub of trade, and its navy — backed by fervent faith — could not be underestimated.

Still, unlike the church-dominated West, the East ruled more through negotiation and consensus. Fortunately, several cardinals had remained in the East after the schism to maintain stability; otherwise, if the Church had outright declared the Eastern Empire heretical, many more troubles would have arisen. Spiritual power, after all, often outweighed the power of the sword.

Thus, even the Eastern Roman royal family — nominally supreme — was forced to bow to the Church during major ceremonies, however subtly.

In the classical age, once a nomadic people who did not farm could no longer win battles, they found it difficult to survive: they either fled to far-off lands or submitted to a unified dynasty. Lacking strong administrative structures, nomadic empires were almost always short-lived.

So it was in today's Hunnic Empire — there was no shortage of talent in military affairs, but almost no one truly capable of governing a state.

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Eastern European Steppe — Training Grounds of the Hunnic Royal Court

Here stood wooden practice dummies and light magical and sorcerous training aids — clearly a place the Huns used for regular drills.

Today, however, only one figure occupied it.

A white-haired girl stood with her eyes gently closed, her hand caressing the Sword of the War God, which shimmered with rainbow light beneath the sun. Faint white markings on her skin glowed softly.

Shhh—crack.

It was a breathtaking strike. A white arc tore through the sunlight, and for an instant, space itself seemed to split apart. A gust of wind burst outward, scattering like startled beasts before the sword's momentum. Only when the blade came to rest did the air return to its natural flow.

Such swordsmanship had surely reached the divine pinnacle.

Attila frowned slightly, gritting her teeth in faint frustration. Perhaps she had been off her game for some time now.

To an ordinary observer, that strike would have seemed flawless — a gift of unmatched talent. But such an imperfection could never be hidden from the swordswoman herself. No matter how cleverly one tried to deceive, the white-haired girl's naturally strong body could detect the tiniest flaw with ease.

Her body was in perfect condition — so the problem must lie in her mind.

And in Attila's view, the likely culprit disturbing her thoughts was none other than that man — Avia.

Since leaving Milan that day, the question of why he still hadn't returned had lingered constantly in her mind.

She sheathed the Sword of the War God with a smooth motion, her white hair swaying, then quietly closed her eyes to think.

Originally, she should have only needed to focus on swinging her blade, instinctively choosing whom to kill.

But now, she often found herself quietly asking:

What if… I were a free traveler, riding my horse across the world?

What if… I learned the thing called "writing," and recorded my journeys in books?

What if… I could shyly lean into his arms…?

Why was she thinking this way? Was it because, after being defeated by him, she had been subjected to his constant nagging?

Was this what people called "trouble"? Was this "frustration"? She didn't know — she couldn't tell why she thought these things.

And it wasn't just the mind of the "Giant God" that was puzzled. Even the true Giant God — sealed away on the moon, dreaming in the isolated unknown darkness, watching through a shared perspective — felt the same confusion.

For the existence called Sefal, the meaning of being was simple: to eradicate all civilization in this universe. That was the reason the destructive machine named Sefal operated.

Destruction for the sake of destruction — without malice, without profit, without emotion — as impersonal as a natural disaster.

Unlike the White Giant Sefal of fourteen thousand years ago, who destroyed purely for destruction's sake, the Attila of today had found a life with meaning. The key difference was whether one had a purpose.

The Star-Scout quickly understood the truth:

In essence, she was "nothing but destruction." And yet, she now wanted to "watch over that land forever," to "shyly rest in a human's embrace," to "leave behind the meaning of her existence" — just like the Attila now galloping across the beautiful steppe.

To live upon the earth as a human, as a living being — this new state gave the Star-Scout a sense of a purpose she had never known.

It puzzled her, yet she accepted it. Deep inside, there was an indescribable joy.

But with it came loneliness and emptiness — for now she knew what it meant to long for something.

And so, the Attila in the dream felt both yearning and guilt toward the countless lives she had destroyed in the past.

A machine born for destruction had somehow gained self-awareness — and thus…

The Giant God, imprisoned in a dark cell for fourteen millennia, felt the unending solitude — and the faint, stirring hope — roiling in her heart.

"I'm back, Attila."

Just as the white-haired girl on Earth was about to begin another round of contemplation, a shadow suddenly pounced from behind — not to attack, but to wrap an arm around her shoulders in a teasing gesture.

"Mhm. You're back."

As if nothing unusual had happened, the white-haired girl turned to greet the newcomer. Narrowing her eyes slightly, she continued in a calm voice:

"Avia — this time, you've brought back two people… and a werewolf."