Infinite Chapter 3

Infinite Chapter 3

The year was 452, and the plains outside Mantua stretched flat and endless under a pale autumn sky. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and the distant murmur of the Hun encampment. The Huns had come like a storm, their horses churning the earth, their tents rising like dark mushrooms across the horizon. King Attila the Hun sat astride his warhorse, a beast as broad and unyielding as the man himself. His armor was polished to a dull sheen, and his eyes were sharp, calculating, like a wolf sizing up its prey. Around him, his warriors stood in loose formation, their faces hard, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.  

Pope Leo I approached on foot, his white robes stark against the muted browns and greens of the landscape. His retinue trailed behind him, their heads bowed, their hands clasped in prayer. The Pope’s face was lined with the weight of his office, but his eyes were steady, unafraid. He walked with the deliberate stride of a man who had faced down emperors and barbarians alike.  

The two men met in the middle of the field, the wind tugging at their clothes, the silence heavy between them.  

Attila dismounted, his boots crunching on the dry grass. He adjusted his bandana, the gold rings on his fingers catching the light. His voice was low, rough, like gravel underfoot.  

"Yo, Leo," he said, his tone casual, almost mocking. "You come all this way to bless my sword or somethin’? Cuz’ I’m about to turn Rome into a pile of rubble, ya feel me?"  

Leo crossed his arms, his Brooklyn accent cutting through the stillness like a knife.  

"Listen here, Attila," he said, his voice sharp. "You think you’re hot stuff with your fancy horse and your little crew? Lemme tell ya somethin’, pal. You ain’t messin’ with no ordinary city. You’re messin’ with the Holy See, capisce? You keep this up, and you’re gonna have more problems than a guy who double-parked in Bensonhurst."  

Attila laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed across the plain.  

"Fool, you talkin’ like I ain’t got the whole world shakin’ in their boots. I’m the Scourge of God, Leo. The OG conqueror. You think your little prayers gonna stop me? Nah, homie. I’m about to drop the hammer on Rome like it’s a piñata at a quinceañera."  

Leo sighed, his breath visible in the cool air. He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing.  

"Alright, listen up, knucklehead," he said. "You’re gonna sit your behind down and hear me out. I didn’t come all this way to bust your chops—well, not entirely. I’m here to drop some truth bombs on you, Attila. You ready? Cuz’ this ain’t no confession booth. This is real talk."  

Attila crossed his arms, his expression unreadable.  

"Hit me," he said.  

Leo took a deep breath, his voice steady but firm.  

"You think you’re all high and mighty, ridin’ around, conquerin’ this, pillagin’ that. But let me tell ya somethin’, Attila. You ain’t no Scourge of God. You’re just a guy with a big ego and a bigger sword. And lemme tell ya, God’s got a sense of humor, pal. He’s up there, watchin’ you strut around like you’re the king of the world, and He’s probably laughin’ His holy butt off."  

Attila raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t interrupt.  

"Now, you wanna talk about consequences?" Leo continued. "Let’s talk consequences. You keep this up, and you’re gonna find yourself face-to-face with the Big Man Himself. And let me tell ya, He ain’t gonna be impressed with your little conquests. Nah, He’s gonna be like, ‘Attila, my son, what’s with all the drama? You couldn’t just chill for five minutes?’ And then what are you gonna say, huh? ‘Sorry, God, I was too busy bein’ a badass’? Puh-lease."  

Attila chuckled, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—doubt, maybe, or curiosity.  

"And another thing," Leo said, his voice rising. "You think conquerin’ is gonna make you happy? Nah, fool. It’s gonna leave you emptier than a church on Super Bowl Sunday. You’re out here chasin’ glory, but what you really need is a little somethin’ called grace. You ever heard of it? It’s like God’s way of sayin’, ‘Hey, I know you messed up, but I still love ya.’ And let me tell ya, Attila, you need a whole lotta grace."  

Attila tilted his head, his expression thoughtful.  

"Grace, huh?" he said. "Sounds soft."  

Leo shook his head.  

"Nah, it ain’t soft," he said. "It’s strong. Stronger than any sword, any army, any empire. You wanna know what real power is? It’s knowin’ you don’t gotta prove nothin’ to nobody. It’s knowin’ you’re loved, no matter what."  

Attila was silent for a long moment, his gaze distant. Then he looked at Leo, his eyes sharp.  

"Alright, Leo," he said. "You got my attention. But here’s the thing—I ain’t just doin’ this for me. I got a people to lead, a legacy to build. You think I can just walk away from all that?"  

Leo nodded, his expression softening.  

"I get it," he said. "You got responsibilities. But here’s the thing—you can lead without destroyin’. You can build without tearin’ down. You wanna leave a legacy? Leave one that lasts. Leave one that’s about more than just blood and gold."  

Attila frowned, his brow furrowed.  

"You talk a good game, Leo," he said. "But the world ain’t that simple."  

Leo smiled, a small, knowing smile.  

"Maybe not," he said. "But it could be."  

The two men stood there for a long time, the wind tugging at their clothes, the sun dipping low on the horizon. Attila’s warriors shifted uneasily, their hands still on their swords, but the king didn’t move. Finally, he nodded, a slow, deliberate nod.  

"Alright, Leo," he said. "I’ll think about it, fool. But don’t go gettin’ all preachy on me again, ya hear?"  

Leo chuckled, the sound warm and genuine.  

"Deal," he said.  

And with that, the two men parted ways, the plains of Mantua stretching silent and endless behind them.

********

The year was 2032. The New York Comic Con panel for ‘Bandits on Mars’ was packed to the brim, fans spilling out into the aisles, all eager to hear from the legendary graphic novelist Ramon Atila. The room buzzed with excitement as Ramon took the stage, his signature leather jacket and silver-streaked hair giving him an air of effortless cool. He flashed a charming smile, thanked the crowd, and began discussing his latest volume in the MARS series, a gritty, mature tale of rebellion and survival on the Red Planet.

But the Q&A session took a sharp turn when a man named Gaspard stood up. He was pale, with unkempt hair and a trench coat that seemed too heavy for the convention center’s climate. His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried an unsettling intensity.

“Mr. Atila,” Gaspard began, his tone dripping with faux politeness, “your work is… fascinating. But don’t you think your excessive use of obscenity and graphic violence is… problematic? Aren’t you worried about the moral decay you’re spreading to your readers?”

The room fell silent. Ramon raised an eyebrow, his smile never wavering. “Well, Gaspard,” he said smoothly, “art has always been a reflection of life, and life isn’t always PG-13. My goal is to tell honest stories, even if they make people uncomfortable.”

Gaspard’s lips curled into a smirk. “Honest stories? Or just an excuse to shock and offend? You do realize your work is a gateway to moral corruption, don’t you?”

Ramon chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “If my book is a gateway to anything, it’s to critical thinking and empathy. But hey, if you’re looking for something less… intense, maybe try Marvel or DC.’

The audience laughed, but Gaspard wasn’t deterred. He leaned forward, his voice growing louder. “Do you even care about the damage you’re doing? Or are you just trying to be edgy, like some kind of… modern-day Attila the Hun, like your namesake?”

Ramon’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Well, my name is Ramon Atila. Maybe I am out to conquer Rome. Who knows?”

The crowd erupted in laughter and applause, but Gaspard’s face darkened. He wasn’t done. “Do you believe in hell, Mr. Atila?” he asked, his voice trembling with barely contained rage.

Ramon paused, his expression thoughtful. “Hell? Well, if I had to do Comic Con panels every year for all eternity, I’d consider that hell.” The audience gasped, then burst into laughter again. Ramon continued, “But seriously, I think Walt Disney had the right idea—freeze yourself and hope you wake up in a better world. Though, I doubt even he could’ve predicted Comic Con.”

The room was stunned into silence. Ramon’s jokes had crossed a line, and the tension was palpable. Gaspard sat down, his face a mask of fury, but Ramon simply shrugged and moved on to the next question.

After the panel, Ramon stepped into the hallway, still basking in the adrenaline of the event. But his teenage son, Lucas, was waiting for him, arms crossed and face flushed with anger.

“Dad, what was that?” Lucas demanded. “You can’t just say stuff like that! People are already calling you controversial, and now you’re joking about hell and Disney? You’re ruining your reputation!”

Ramon sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Lucas, I’m an artist. I’m not here to be everyone’s favorite person. I’m here to tell stories and be honest. Sometimes that means pushing boundaries.”

“But you don’t have to *embarrass* yourself!” Lucas shot back. “You’re better than this.”

Ramon looked at his son, his expression softening. “Maybe I am. But sometimes, you have to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Life’s too short to take everything so seriously.”

Lucas shook his head, clearly unconvinced. “Just… try to be smarter about it, okay? For me?”

Ramon nodded, pulling his son into a hug. “Alright, kid. I’ll try.”

As they walked away, Ramon couldn’t help but smile. The world might see him as a provocateur, but to Lucas, he was just Dad—flaws and all. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

To Be Continued….

AtilA