What is the fate of great leaders? Allow me to enlighten you. Their destiny is as contrasted as day and night. The flattery from their lackeys is deafening. Regardless of whether they deserve it or not, legends will be built around their names. On the other hand, the coward and the jealous whisper dark tales lurking in desolate corners. Someday, my king, you will doubtlessly find yourself wondering: “Who am I, really?”
Like the shades from his past, a deep, ominous voice boomed up from the depths of the pit, “Who are you, Attila?”
On their way home from battle, the Hunnic King and his entourage were ambushed. Attila had only a small group of bodyguards with him because they were not in enemy territory. He was anxious to return home. A new bride was waiting for him.
Neither elderly nor young, he was exhausted nonetheless. The king of the Huns lived through close to fifty winters, so he was at that age when old age knocks, but you still think yourself as young. Age took its toll on his beard, waist, and arms. His boasts of youth persisted even though he could no longer keep his posture for as long while mounted.
“Do you call yourself a man? Then get down and face me Attila!”
There was such a terrible storm that one couldn’t even see hand in front of face. Suddenly caravans at the front veered and slid down the side. At the bottom of the pit human, animal, debris, soil and mud jumbled together.
Attila had given orders for his men to shoot the bandits in the pit, but one of them would not be silenced by the arrows.
Attila squinted, but in the midst of the storm, he saw a lone stark silhouette shouting through the shroud of the rain. He was a small, slender thing. Attila could easily take him out. In the old days he would go down there in two steps and return with that guy’s head. But now his back was soaking, cold and his knees aching.
Who was he? He was not even someone who deserved to die with his sword. He gestured to two of his men.
The voice from the pit asked, “Did you also have your men murder your brother? You coward!”
At this point Attila’s gaze met with one of his men. A hint of uncertainty flashed through the boy’s face, which caught his attention. The King, having had enough, dismounted his horse, and unsheathed his blade.
He ordered his soldiers to stand down with a severe gesture, and then he jumped into the pit, which looked more like an abyss now that he might never emerge.
It felt like he had landed right in the middle of a hurricane; he was so dizzy he could hardly keep his balance. His face was pelted with rain as a thick fog descended upon him. He looked for his adversary as he scoured the area with his sword drawn.
“Are you trying to find me?”
Attila grinned, whirled to face the source of the voice, and prepared to launch an attack but he froze. Bleda, his dead brother, was standing right in front of him grinning menacingly. King’s grip on the sword loosened. Bleda burst out laughing.
“So, you’ve already given up, huh? Come, take my head off…”
In fear, Attila raised his sword. “You demon seed!” he yelled. Bleda took a step back. He was close by, but somehow Attila couldn’t get to him. Once more he swung, but Bleda dodged easily. Attila tumbled over by the impact of the maneuver.
“What’s the matter, Attila? Don’t you have the desire to kill me again?”
“I do… if you return a thousand times… a thousand times…” he leaned against his sword and muttered.
“I will kill you!”
As soon as he stood up, he swung wildly and stabbed Bleda in the stomach. But his cheerful demeanor persisted. He reached and tightly gripped the wrist of Attila’s sword hand.
“Are you sure? Have you got a thousand more ways to kill me?” he asked, his gaze sinking into an eternal darkness filled with thousands of stars. Then his face trembled and faded away. In the hollows of his eyes, he saw a reflection of his father. The one who hates, the one who looks down.
“Do you have the heart, my son? Would you… really…”
In shock, Attila withdrew his sword and stabbed again.
“I would!”
Then, one by one, the faces of Attila’s foes the past began to pour out of the man’s face.
“Tell me how many times!”
“As much as it takes…” he bellowed and sunk his blade right to the hilt, yet there was not a single drop of blood.
The dark figure’s face revealed a grin, but it was hollow and unfeeling.
In a deep voice that sank to a whisper as though ripped from a million mouths, he whispered, “Then…”
“You will keep battling till the end of time, never let your hatred subside, and keep your passion burning bright. Everything you could have hoped for and more…”
Thus, Gallusar’s cursed lips spoke… 
In Attila’s grasp, the body crumbled like dust, disappearing like a shadow struck by sunlight. As the mist around him lifted, a new world appeared before him like the parting of a curtain.
As if awakening from a dream, he shook his head. He looked at his surroundings. He had no idea where he was, but the view was becoming more and more stunning every second. The land was framed by enormous forests and smoky mountains, and the steppe was teeming with prey. The world was as bright as day, even though the sky was a sea of stars.
Attila examined his own appearance. His legs were full of strength, and if he ran, he would run like a leopard, his huge lungs would not get winded. He took a deep breath, stretched. His arms were thick like an elephant’s leg, his waist was thin, youthful. It was as if he was always like this. However it was as if he wasn’t himself, but that hero who had come out of the epics sang in his honor. He burst with strength.
He puffed out his chest like an ox’s rump, let out a roar rattling the mountains opposite.
“Where am I? Did I die and come to heaven?” he said to himself. When he raised his head, he saw a beautiful tribe before him.
On a lush green meadow, surrounded by tall men and slim women, were a collection of tents with shimmering golden canopies. They broke out into broad smile upon seeing him. They surrounded him with lutes and drums, serving juicy meats.
As Attila drifted away in amazement, he saw a friend there, an ancestor here, an old love there. Those people were all deceased. But now they were alive and praising their king.
A wise old Shaman came forward, Attila asked, “What is this place?”
“This is your tribe.”
“This place reminds me of the tribes from ancient epics,” Attila remarked. The shaman gave him a friendly nod and grabbed his shoulder leading him to a grand feast.
Epics poured forth in honor of Attila. One after the other, under the starlight, feasts and wonderful hunts followed one another. Every day was just as full of life and excitement as the last.
One day the booming sound of a thousand horns echoed the skies. Everything froze, the stars became red, and the ground shook like a drum skin beneath his feet.
For the first time, it was night. The songs went silent.
The tribes people surrounded him, and although Attila wanted to walk away, they did not allow. They brought forth his weapons. Built a pyre. Shaman tossed some powder into the fire. Flying sparks illuminated the night.
The Shaman replied, his eyes glowing strangely, “Remember your promise, Attila.” Attila recalled the day the caravan was ambushed and saw that the shaman’s eyes, like the man in the pit, were filled with stars.
“To fight every day, forever…”
Attila tried to get to his feet, but he froze. The smoke from the fire engulfed him like a veil and carried him away as he lost consciousness. As night fell, Attila faded into the darkness.
When he opened his eyes, with his weapons in his hands, his companions by his side, was at the Edge of Dawn.
There was a voice in his mind other than his own, a will born out of epics… As it flowed through an ominous pyramid, made him run towards the battle ahead. He had to fight enemies lurking in the shadows, cross forked roads, and face his opponents.
Only when he had passed the Edge of Dawn did he know what had happened to him. His opponent was unlike any he had ever faced before. An eternal archenemy.
Its face, his own face; its hands, his own hands; its words, his own words…
