“They call us The Immortal Army.”

Kingdoms whisper it with dread. Historians with disbelief. And my enemies… just before their final breath. No matter the blade, the fire, the poison—my soldiers rise again. Wounds vanish. Death retreats. We do not fall.

I never questioned it at first. Power rarely breeds curiosity. Only conquest.

But when the miracle refused to wane… when even shattered bones reknit and slit throats drew breath once more… I had to see it for myself.

So I rode with my men—not to fight, but to watch.

The battlefield howled. Screams rang through the dusk. Blood painted the earth. And still, they stood.

Then, I saw it. A figure… cloaked in silence. Dragged in chains, face veiled in white. Brought forth like an offering.

One of my officers led them to the edge of a cliff, high above the slaughter. He turned to them, and with grim reverence, spoke something in the ear of the veiled figure.

That’s when the whole battlefield shifts… I had questions on the ride here… and now they would be answered.