600 years ago...

Blocking an overhand swing, Loth’Mel casually brought his ornate sword, its shining blade slick with blood, down on his opponent’s arm, severing it from the doomed infantryman’s elbow. Kicking back the now screaming enemy, he took a moment to take stock of the battlefield around him.

After the outer city wall had fallen, he’d ordered a full retreat, leaving the dead and dying to suffer at the hands of the foreign invaders. Their desperate wails for salvation fell on deaf ears. Expendable peons, all of them.

Though the inner city walls couldn’t compare in size or scale to the outer walls, Loth’Mel had commanded the soldiers to raze many of the stone houses and shops surrounding the walls to slow down the attackers. There had been protestations at this, some of the weaker men of the army bitterly refusing to damage their beloved city further. Loth’Mel had cared not for these petty weaklings and had threatened them with being charged for the crime of mutiny.

His plan, just as he’d known it would, had forced them to encroach over rougher terrain. Consequently, the enemy's tactical formation had crumpled, leaving them open to ambushes and surprise attacks.

Still, no matter how many attackers he ordered forth or how many clever tricks he used, it seemed like the approaching army continued its assault unabated. Worse yet, the enemy's ballista had been moved closer, allowing them to open deep cracks in the inner walls.

Even now, they poured into the courtyard through these newly opened fissures. Loth’Mel swore to himself he would sweep the rabble from his city like a sea of death and blood, pushing forward like an unyielding tide that would leave every one of his enemies rueing the day they tried to get the better of him.

Stepping forward, the old knight thrust his sword deep into a man’s throat, momentarily getting pleasure from the gurgling noises he made as he choked on his blood. Loth’Mel smashed his shield and his weight into another, instantly crippling him. Taking advantage of the opening, his army behind him pushed forward, stabbing forward with their spears.

With a wordless battle cry, Loth’Mel turned himself into the spear point of his formation, charging deep into the enemy's infantry brigade. Dealing lethal blows with one hand, and throwing off his opponent’s balance with the other, he killed and maimed until his pristine plate armor was coated red with the blood of his enemies.

Falling back and desperately choking down air, Loth’Mel and his men pulled back to catch their breath. There were calls across the battlefield, shouts of victory, and cheers from his men. Some were even clapping each other on the back and joking about the night they would enjoy in the tavern. Loth’Mel could barely contain his contempt for these lesser mortals. They would be nothing without him. Worse than nothing, he told himself. They would be dead. Every single one of them. After all, there was a reason he was in charge.

In this courtyard alone there were dozens of bodies, and many more wounded, groaning on the ground. Some crawled towards their more brutally wounded companions, only to succumb to their own injuries moments later. The slurry drains that bordered the courtyard, normally filled with the city’s waste and filth, were slick with blood. Loth’Mel breathed in heavily, his nostrils filling with the familiar iron stench of death.

The opposing army quickly regrew in size, as more of them spilled through the broken walls and into the devastated courtyard. None seemed eager to be the first to step into the charnel house that was Loth’Mel’s formation, however.

As the enemy faltered, only one individual boldly walked forward, leaning heavily on a gnarled staff. Despite his youth, he had the appearance of some poor cripple, one leg dragging behind the other. Loth’Mel heard the scattered laughter and derisive comments of his men as they watched the stranger advance. No doubt he fancied himself as some sort of hero. Loth’Mel would soon put paid to that pathetic idea.

Undeterred by the laughter and mocking taunts, the young man knelt in the blood, soiling the simple white garb he wore, and placed his free hand on the broken body of one of the infantry. With a single word, a wave of power erupted from him and began to infuse the bodies of his fallen countrymen.

Restore...

Broken bodies began to twist and rejoin, wounds disappearing visibly before the naked eye. The laughter of Loth’Mel’s men died down, replaced with shocked gasps and terrified exclamations as the fallen enemy soldiers became whole again before their very eyes. None of them appeared any the worse for their previous wounds, flesh mending with supernatural ease.

Brutally hacked off limbs knitted themselves back together, and organs pulled themselves back inside their shocked owners. Loth’Mel heard the distinct sound of one of his men vomit at the sight of a soldier’s spine fusing itself back together while his decapitated head, with its broken jaw, clicked back into place.

Standing once more, the mysterious young man looked towards his infantry before yelling out, “I am the White Mage, and so long as I stand, none of you shall truly die this day. Defeat our foes for the one true God, Order!”

With a blood-curdling scream, the fully healed and newly rallied infantry began to charge forward once more, throwing themselves at Loth’Mel's formation with no self-regard for their safety. But for every ten men, Loth'Mel and his fellow fighters slew, one of his own would fall. And each time they were pushed further and further back, a Word of Power would ring out.

Restore…

With the enemies returning to life, the tide of battle had completely turned against the defenders. With no other option, Loth’Mel once more charged forward, slashing and cutting his way forward as his companions died one after the other, sacrificing themselves to get their leader one step closer to the White Mage.

Piercing into the enemy’s formation, Loth’Mel cut through his foes like a man possessed. He would not taste defeat on this day. Even if every single one of his men were to be cut into pieces, he would emerge victoriously. Slicing through one man's shield and taking off the arm before bifurcating another in a shower of blood, Loth’Mel threw himself forward relentlessly.

Soon no one stood between him and the encroaching White Mage. Tossing aside his shield, the giant of a knight charged forward with his sword held high above his head, gleaming in his two-handed grip. Of all the souls he had banished to the Nine Hells, this would be the most glorious.

But even as he began to bring his blade down, once more the White Mage let out a burst of raw Mana. Raising his staff to point directly at Loth’Mel, the power shifted directly into his soul.

Restore...

Even as the aged knight slashed downwards, he felt his body begin to rip and tear itself apart. Each of his old scars, some blows he’d barely recovered from, seemed to burst anew. Worst of them all, a hole tore through his midsection, the ghostly remnant of a lance plowing through him.

The pain was immense, like nothing he’d ever felt before. His flesh split open, and he could feel the blood seeping out of every wound. He felt his ribs start to crack and constrict his lungs. His spine felt as though it were aflame, a conflagration that was spreading to every single one of his nerve endings and turning them to ash.

Letting out a wheezing cough and spitting blood all over his armor, he fell to the cobblestone, his sword clattering down beside him. Looking up in a daze, his head feeling as though it was being torn in two, he saw the blonde mage smiling down at him serenely.

“All things return to nothing”, The White Mage whispered, placing his staff under Loth’Mel’s chin. “Repent before your death, and know true Order.”

Closing his eyes in a moment of contemplation, Loth’Mel let out a weary sigh. “That’s the problem... with you religious lot... You’re... always so worried about... bloody souls.”

“If it was me, that had you under the knife?... I’d have gutted you right away.” With a blood grin, the knight threw himself forward, grasping towards the White Mage with both hands. But with a practiced thrust, the man stabbed forward with his staff, crushing Loth’Mel’s windpipe before attempting to step backward.

But even as he moved backwards, the White Mage felt a familiar pulse of magic coming out of Loth’Mel’s Core. Even with his body broken, blood dripping through the joints in his armor, he would Endure...

Stepping forward, the enraged knight slapped aside the young man’s staff, before grabbing him by the neck. Squeezing hard, Loth’Mel felt his foes spine shatter under the pressure, before snapping the surprised White Mage’s head around.

Lifting the now limp mage in the air with one hand, Loth’Mel’s casually tossed the corpse to the side. Turning to face all the invaders at once, he let out a bloody grin.

“Who’s next to step forward, now that Death’s back on the table”, he roared, raising his hands in defiance before his cowering foes.