Seasons flashed before him, murals of training, ceaseless trials; the testing and bolstering of his body. All the learnings of war, the trade of his blessed race.

He faced every obstacle with unflinching resolve, besting most, and those he failed, he learned from. Where others laid blame, he accepted his flaws, and ever sought to better himself. To rise above the mundane, to acquire the glory, honor, so he would be welcomed within the afterlife of Order. A chosen, maybe even become an Ascendant.

So he fought, learned, won; be it in battles, or honor duels.

He rose, the memory of it all passing in a marvelous haze. Dozens of duels, triple that of skirmishes with heretics. He was the very definition of his kind; the way Wargain, and his sons respected.

Yet…The visions showed what he’d ignored.

He wasn’t rewarded; not as he should have been, he was often overlooked, eclipsed by those who’d done far less; but received attention and admiration anyways. In hindsight, the patterns were obvious, those who received the most praise all had a certain lineage. Fur of crimson, and builds more endowed than others. But not him, he was large, out sized most; not that it mattered.

Even when he bested them in duels, the feats were quickly brushed aside. Stubbornly he’d kept trying, performing bolder feats of combat; taking on multiple foes, and rushing head long into the riskiest of engagements.

The shear amount of his acts forced advancement. Afterward though, he saw the stakes raised, the requirements to make them dole out his due, ever heightened. Another trial, or so he’d thought, while he still believed wholly in the path of his kind. That the father of war and conquest would reward those worthy due to their feats alone.

So he went, hunting, eager and desperate to find a challenge, something that would garner the needed attention. Fresher memories came to the front, his story coming to a close.

Forces were on the move; a demon, claiming to be a god, along with its heretics, had been found. A great battle was to take place, a cleansing to remove such filth from Orders structured lands. He’d raced to join it, along with so many others, all of whom volunteered to be the first to storm such a stronghold.

When he, and other newly arrived had been accepted, with only the barest of duels needed to earnt their place, he should have known something was wrong. But he was so eager to prove himself, and surpass the expectations of those above him.

Blind, so very blind. Even with days to wait, allowing a proper host to form; it never had occurred to him that something was amiss.

Never, not even when they gathered a force made of traveling glory seekers, not even when he didn’t spot a single red fur in the band. No, there was only the glory, and his thinking, his belief, that the gods were favoring him, giving him his chance to rise.

They all must have thought that, none, not for a single moment, thinking of the oddity. 

There was only the battle, the bellowing of roars as they charged, all racing to be the first to slay the heretics.

The onrush of them, the eagerness, that alone got them deeper into the place than expected. It kept them from stopping in their tracks, and taking notice of their foes; to see how unarmed they were.

The red of war took them, and him; half of what he saw in the flashes he had no recollection of. So many close calls, all avoided thanks to his seasons of entrained fighting. That is how he made it so far, entering into some private garden area, and facing opponents wielding miracles.

He coughed, vision swimming, body cold; his strength fading. He tried to remove the stone spike from his gut for the dozenth time, and failed. His fingers barely listened to his demands, nor could he really feel them; Death was close, its chill giving way to numbness.

The final embrace was near.

Had he done enough, would he be worthy?

No, no he hadn’t, nor would he ever. Death laid bare the truth, the flashes, his life reflection. It wasn’t just because of his lineage, there was also the simple fact; that there was too many clamoring for the attention. For the right to be amongst the finest; their deeds remembered and echoed by future generations.

Sighing, he embraced the truth. For all his deeds, they were not special; countless others had done the same, better even. Had they too been ignored, their deeds no longer grand to gods who’d seen them so many times before? Had the gates of glory, the halls of valor, already been filled and closed to new comers?  

Had the gods even noticed him, anyone of them? Was everything he’d trained for, been taught, a lie?

What was to come of him now, if the gates he sought were closed. Was his fate to be reincarnated? Was he to try again, attempt the impossible, maybe gain the fortune of being born in a more, revered line?

Coughing, his chest feeling so cold, he wondered: ‘Have I done this before?’

Shivering, willing, fighting, he grabbed hold of the spike; pushed with all the strength he could muster.

‘Please,’ he thought, the spike unmoving. ‘Someone help me, anyone, anything.’ The question, the repetition it promised, for the first time he felt the dread of dying, of Death.

“Please,” he coughed out, hand numb, his strength spent.

“What will you give for this aid?” Reverberated a voice, calm, comforting.

Weakly he gazed up, saw before him the rise of dawn, and a Heon who pulsed with power.

“Service,” he whispered, and the Heon smiled.