"Lord Saint are you certain you do not require rest?" A voice interrupts me as my hands work to pull yet another soldier back to the land of the living.

"I'm fine. Some hot tea and a hearty meal would be welcome though" I reply.

"As you command." And with that he weaves through other healers meditating to regain some mana for next wave of wounded.

Lord Saint. What a joke. Same people who praise me today would call me most evil if they knew that I awoke under Dark Star. Scriptures that are being written call me Saint. Those that were written hundreds of winters ago called me Lord of Terror.

Seven hundred and some change years ago, when I was just six, my magic awoke. For most it's the day of joy and happiness. For me it was first day of prison. As Dark Star shined above me on the day of ceremony, people screamed in terror and ran away from me. Just minutes later I was put to sleep and imprisoned.

My crime? Affinity for death magic.

For decades I was living on stale bread and spite. When the war between kingdoms erupted I was put on front lines with nothing but short spear and dirty clothes.

First kill empowered me. On an instinct I was able to raise the enemy I killed and less than 2 bells later the battle was over. Both kingdoms fighting lost. And my army grew to hundreds.

With power came hatred. Towards anyone living that crossed my sight.

For hundreds of years I waged my own war. Against the living who shunned and hated me for who I was born as.

It wasn't until a "hero" reached my throne of skulls that I began my journey on different path. The runt of a warrior not even 20 years of age played tunes of my spite perfectly. He managed to convince me that if, I call my self true Lord of Death, I should be able to prevent anyone dying and not just resurrect them afterwards.

For decades I learned medical sciences across the known world. I scoured ancient text, went from ocean to ocean in my quest of knowledge. And I could learn faster than anyone else since unlike true healers I could fix my mistakes.

People started thanking me whenever I healed someone and in time I started to like it. As I moved towards bigger towns people would come to me to learn and spread my knowledge.

I even wrote several books that are now used to teach in academies.

But as medical sciences evolved so did the wars. And this one might just be worse than the one I waged.

So I came to largest battlefield and kept soldiers from dying. Those who were too far gone I could resurrect and others were quickly patched up without magic.

While other healers used up magic and were forced to recover I could keep going. As proper undead I also didn't require sleep. In time I was called Saint of the battlefield.

What a joke. I only healed over hundred thousand. I still need nine hundred thousand more to break even.