A bolt of crimson energy lanced into Jason's lifeless form. His heart lurched violently, sending blackened blood searing through his veins like wildfire. Every nerve screamed as they flared to life, and his lungs ached and burned, gasping for air. The pain was excruciating, his stiff joints popping and cracking, resisting every movement.

Memories of his demise flooded his mind. He'd been betrayed by his fellow mercenaries, sold out, tortured, left to rot. The sick laughter of the man who had done this to him still echoed in his ears, the image of his maddened smile burning in the back of his brain. Hatred and terror warred within him as his mind relived the events over and over.

This was pure agony. Every part of him cried out in protest, his soul aching for the stillness of oblivion as his senses were assaulted from every direction. Death was better than this. Anything was better than this. Anything—

A pale green light enveloped him, soothing his body and mind. The flurry of torment faded, replaced by blissful, peaceful relief. A hoarse groan reverberated in his throat, the first sound he'd made in...how long? When had he died, again? Where even was he? An underground chamber of some sort, a stone table, glowing ritual runes...

"What...the." His rasp echoed in the dark chamber as a robed figure—a necromancer?—peered into Jason's ashen face. The ghastly gray of his skin was slowly taking on color as the spell worked to heal his battered form. "Who the hell...?"