Before, I thought violence was to be avoided at all costs. Now, I thirst for it.

Spitting out a mouthful of blood, sweat dribbled down my back as I retook form–fists up and eyes forward. Adrenaline surged unrelentingly throughout, filling me with uncapped energy. I've never felt so good in my life, and I almost forgot what being mortal felt like.

Arrogance converted into respect with each swing I threw, a new experience for the imperial soldier in the dirt ring with me. His arms red from being repeatedly struck over and over again. Despite my inability to cause any real damage, the soldier eventually resorted to military technique to counter my sloppy aggression, an advantage he knew I couldn't compete with. In my mind I have already won, but for the sake of learning the beatings must continue.

The man feinted a jab to the right and shoulder checked me into a tumble, following it up with a roundhouse kick to the side. Bruised and battered, I lay sprawled upon the ground, raising and lowering my chest in fatigue.

"Well I'll be damned, kid gave Willner a run for his money," said Cospal.

"Silence Cospal. He hits as hard as Sir Stiggs. Where in the Empire did he gain that kind of primeval brute force?"

Willner extended a hand to help me to my feet, which I graciously accepted. The man previously held his nose an inch higher than everybody else, but quickly lowered it once blows were exchanged.

"Nice work disciple, forcing a veteran to play his cards. You are growing," Stiggs complimented, standing on the side with hands behind his back.

For the past few weeks, it has been all about practice, a routine Stiggs had whipped up. Daily duals with the imperial soldiers have started to seep into muscle memory, giving way for more sharp instincts.

Not only was he teaching me to fight, he also gave lessons on magic theory. Apparently, synchronizing mana flow to blood flow amplifies basic physical strength, allowing a mage to crush skulls and bend metal with only their hands or feet. The better part of all this was that I am part demon, a race with an overall stronger body constitution; This includes faster flowing blood, implying a higher synchronization boost.

"I can see that you have almost perfect control of your mana cycle speed. Time to test your knowledge disciple. What are the pros and cons of blood flow matching?"

"Uhhh... The obvious pro is a stronger physical boost. And uhhh... A con would be uhhh..."

I think of a few possible answers, but they seem too common sense to be right.

"If your mana cycle speed is matching your blood flow, then mana output is limited to blood flow. In battle, you must choose between physical strength and magic power," Captain Wendy stated stealing the limelight, albeit coming to my rescue.

"Why can't I just use mana to increase my blood flow? Wouldn't that increase physical strength and mana output? Seems like something a mage can do."

"Good, you are using your brain. Increasing blood flow through magic is step two but be warned my disciple. Using magic directly on the inner body can have adverse effects, including death. Many warriors push their blood too hard and rupture their veins into a mess of internal bleeding. The mountain brutes to the north practice pushing their blood flow matching to unprecedented levels, enabling them to easily smash stone with their bare hands and create avalanches the size of mountains. Usually, one or two die every so often to training due to their reckless practices," Stiggs said.

"So if I'm getting this right, I can just use mana to solve the cons of blood flow matching. Isn't that a little overpowered and convenient? Kind of feels like double dipping."

"Of course it is. That is what makes mana so powerful. Mages rule this plane and any advantage you find—you take. I guarantee your enemies will be doing the same."

While I silently think it all over, a brown feathered messenger hawk landed on one of the shoulders of an imperial soldier; a mana locked scroll inside a pouch bound to its back.

"Sir, East General Tai has requested reinforcements to the eastern front. The Klorians have broken through our defensive line at Fort Glory."

Stiggs grunted.

"We head for the eastern front," he commanded, looking east.

"Aren't we supposed to bring Esried to the Emperor?" Captain Wendy reminded Stiggs.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"That will wait. If it was urgent the Emperor would have sent me a message already. Here, have a drink disciple. We have a long road ahead of us."

Stiggs tossed a water skin to me and left to pack camp. Opening the container, I took a long swig and mentally prepared myself for the journey ahead.

0---0

"A corpse a day makes a good foundation they say," Grohhar sung while ripping out a gorgeous heart from a decaying dead soldier, depositing it into his leather brown backpack.

Rising to a stand, he stepped over the mutilated body to the next, examining it from head to toe. Several fetishes hung from his long blackened staff, glowing a bright unearthly purple.

"Oh? You like this one? A mighty fine specimen. Body firm, check. Soul burdened, check. Eyes whole, check. Oh have I got a plan for you beautiful."

With proper preparation, a fresh corpse could turn into a strong zombie fighter, and with Grohhar's special techniques, it could become a hulking killing machine. A good corpse, such as the one he just found, only came with certain souls. Furthermore, to create an undead soldier, a necromancer had to bind a portion of his mana reserves to the soul itself, forming a master and slave bond. Unfortunately, souls generally dissipated upon death, unless, they had major unsolved grievances keeping it tied to the mortal plane. After losing half his flock to a holy crusade, Grohhar spent many months scouring battlefields for workable corpses, slowly building up a solid army. There will be a day where his minions devour those overzealous holy cretins that purged his beautiful creations.

Grohhar nodded to his apprentice, Weldom, tightening his black robes to fit his muscled body.

"Take special care for this one young apprentice. He has far more potential than you do."

Lifting the corpse from the ground, the eighteen cycle old Weldom strained to carry the adult body in full armor over to the wagon, already filled with several other prospects. Sneering in disapproval, Grohhar moved on with his search, ignoring the struggling boy.

"Master. Why are we taking so much time here? There are bodies everywhere to choose from. Plus, the smell is making me sick," Weldom complained, face twisting in disgust.

Having long grown accustomed to his apprentice's constant nagging and moaning, he dreamed of the day he could rid himself of the human tumor. Two years ago, a Klorian tribal elder offered Ghrohhar his grandson, a friendly agreement meant to bond the tribe with the powerful mage. At first, the good intentioned offer was appealing in every way, rejecting the deal hadn't crossed Ghrohhar's mind. He could train Weldom to bind even more minions for an even larger army, and he would gain an apprentice that could take over his legacy in the necromantic arts. However, Weldom was anything but ideal, a servant for physical labor at best. Weldom treated Ghrohhar's teachings as mere guidelines, while every ritual was completed with absolute disrespect. A fortnight ago, Ghrohhar caught his apprentice eating flaky corn crisps during a binding ceremony, a blasphemy which filled him with an uncontrollable rage at the time.

Necromancy was a delicate art, forged in the pain and suffering of others. Such a shame his apprentice couldn't see the beautiful strokes required to create the works of art he envisioned. It had been long ago since he found his skills in manipulating corpses, something he hoped to pass down to a worthy apprentice.

"As long as it takes. Quality enriches us and quantity dilutes us. Something you are painfully unaware of," Ghrohhar ended sarcastically, knowing full well Weldom understood every part of it.

Like a gentle lover, several whispers suddenly caressed Ghrohhar's ears, tugging his soul toward the other side of the trenches. With a quick chant, "Elnor fel dari." Ghrohhar sensed the origin of the whispers, and took several entranced steps forward. Not too far away, he spotted a nearly frozen corpse, one shining like a beacon among its compatriots. Various blends of colors and fluctuations twisted in harmony, melding together in an exhibition of light and power.

Arriving at the miracle before him, Ghrohhar firmly planted himself into the ground to reach out with his soul. Immediately after inspecting the soul tied to the corpse, he knew he had found the biggest treasure of his life—a feldorn. Named after the one that made it famous, a feldorn was an undead soul that could grow with power; Most undead naturally fought with the same vigor and strength at their time of death, but feldorn were the exception.

Overcome with excitement, Ghrohhar closed his eyes and immediately started the binding process, taking deep calculated breaths. Slowly forming fine threads, mana stitched itself into the shining soul claiming more and more as its territory. Even if it took days or weeks, the process would finish and nobody could stop him, not if they wanted to keep their lives. With each thread of the needle, he breathed life into the dim fire, washed away meaningless impurities, and commanded a bonding of the feldorn. Seconds became minutes, minutes became hours, and hours became days. When the last stitch finished, he felt a resonance like never before, harmonizing to an unprecedented level. After weeks of meticulous stitching, Ghrohhar freed his mind, a god complex washing over him after just having conceived life.

Watching the feldorn closely, the body picked itself off the ground, chest out, and eyes forward, assessing its surroundings. The sunlight bounced off of the feldorn's brown upswept hair with textured bangs and highlighted frosty blue glowing eyes. Deep inside, Ghrohhar knew it would never truly bow to him, but it would obey most commands given, pros and cons of such a powerful work of art.

Admiring his new toy, he imagined the heights he could rise to, the epitome of power wasn't out of reach. Steady planning and a little luck was all he needed. Gripping his hand firmly to his black staff, he willed the feldorn to display its prowess.

The feldorn swiftly pounded the ground with open palm causing earthen cracks to spread. Seconds later, behemoth glacial spikes erupted in a spiral pattern, impaling an odd twenty-one corpses high into the sky. The necromancer broke into a grin and revelled in his newly found power.

He was Ghrohhar Meltrata, Shackler of Souls, Catalyst of the Undead, Archmage of Necromancy, and now Creator of Feldorn.