Enlightenment's Edge

The arena crackled with residual energy as Attila and Robespierre faced each other once more.

The landscape around them had become a surreal blend of their respective eras, ancient steppes merging with revolutionary Paris in ways that defied logic.

Attila's chest heaved with exertion, his armor rent in places where Robespierre's Sword of Enlightened Justice had struck.

Yet his eyes burned with undiminished fury, his grip on his massive axe white-knuckled and sure.

"You fight well, philosopher," Attila growled, a note of grudging respect in his voice. "But pretty lights and clever tricks won't save you forever. The Horde always triumphs!"

Robespierre stood calm amidst the chaos, his posture relaxed but alert.