An army stands at the ready, 500 strong, banners flitting through the air as officers check their ranks.

These men are the future of the Empire, fresh out of training and on their first excursion to blood themselves in the ways of war.

Among their number of sculpted bodies, confident stances, and prideful glares, a man of average countenance stands shoulder to shoulder with them. Were it not for his uniform and equipment matching that of his neighbors, one would assume him to be a malnourished commoner rather than the son of a noble with his manner failing to elicit any connection to the word noble. With his lazy gaze across the barren land one could even call him to be closer to the word ruffian due to the complete indifference he's showing to what should be a respected honor, to serve in such a honorable battalion as he is in.

These men are indeed the Empire's future, as is so clearly shown in their training, their equipment, and their haughty nature. To put one such as this man into such a group sounds like an act of pure folly, a twist of fate that leaves those affected to only frown at such a situation. Alas, it is true, for even the man himself does not want to be here. He himself even working actively to avoid being here.

But the wishes of him and those he now serves under were trounced by the deep pockets possessed by the man's family, whom wished for him to garner some honor to them. Even if it meant dying honorably in battle.

To their credit, he is dying, lying in a pool of his own blood with an axe lodged in his shoulder, his pool of blood constantly added to by the stream pouring forth from said would.

The battle that was told to be easy, had been far from such. To the dismay and doom of this battalion of the future of the Empire. They had met a force of darkness that would make one cry out for a destined hero. An undead army, thrice their number descended upon them.

Even with the superiority that came from being alive and thinking, their foes sheer number as well as their ancient yet durable equipment, ended with their deaths.

Our average, ruffian man is lucky, however. Due to being less of a meal than his previously alive compatriots, the zombies left him to bleed out to death. How considerate!

Time passes, and the man yet lives, nothing to be said about his will to hold on for even a moment longer. Out of the corner of his eye, which has begun to grow bleary, he sees the cause of this army. A black robed figure, untouched by the horde around him yet invariably immersed in the death that is now this land's fate.

A necromancer.

And from his hands a dreadful feeling is felt for the man, as though death itself is coming for him faster than before. He's half right.

Before long the corpses closest to the necromancer begin to rise, men who had only previously been fighting for their lives now mere puppets on a string for this mage, given only semblances of autonomy in the way of base instincts.

Before long this miasma of death approaches the man, and he can feel it as it grows closer. Were it not for the utter lack of strength in his self, he would fight against it, struggling to edge even a inch away. But he has lost too much blood, and the wave washes over him.

Before he can even cry out, he is met with blackness.