Prelude
He was powerful. He was great. Peak after peak of advancement he climbed, growing to heights once thought unimaginable and then conquering what laid beyond anyway. Mastery of conventional magics was just the start, and his beloved Ianthe, once mentor, now student, often joked that he was blessed by the very gods he sought to dethrone. They shared a mirthless laugh once they discovered just how right she was. It was fitting that the great councilmen of Sidith branded him the Seventh Overlord, the Orpheus Returned, when they had to pick a scapegoat for the chosen Heroes and Auspice Death refused to answer. Vajar grew to be more than capable enough to fill the role.
He always knew that the path to realizing his ambitions would be paved in the blood of innocents. The Sixth, unknowingly or not, left a stigma on his magic that even a century of time's passage wasn't able to erase, and many still lived who would see necromancy as nothing but a monstrous tool of death and pain, even if Vajar's goal was noble and his means benign. Always would he and his people be attacked for the crime of reaching beyond their station; the crime of denying the Gods' commandment that men had to die. There would be no peace, unless and until he broke those standing against him over his knee.
So he did his duty. It was painful beyond words to stand against those he deemed dear friends, yet he still did it. It was painful to see his army damaged after every skirmish against the inquisitors of the One Temple, eternal lives of his subjects extinguished forever for daring to defend him, yet he still did it. There was no change without blood, and even though Vajar strove with all his considerable might to challenge this proverb, it proved to be beyond him.
It was with relief that he accepted Yazata the One Prophet's plea for help. It was with horror that he learned that his path was not just a reflection of Orpheus' life, but a repetition of something much grander; that he was but an heir to the Sorcerer-Kings' effort to defeat mortality. Still, he persevered. Many times he accomplished something previously thought impossible. Was it hubris, to think he would succeed in something unthinkable once again?
When Vajar strode against the Auspice 0, Mahasidi, in secret from all but his most treasured and trusted allies, he was unquestionably the most powerful being in the world. Grandmaster of Light and Life and Death, the new founding father of necromancy, clad in items of power that were enough to shake the foundation of the world, ready to battle the gods themselves and win.
It still wasn't enough.
Arrival
He decided to treat this life as his second chance. While he accomplished much in his first one, still he was filled with many regrets, remembering many paths he closed to himself in ignorance and arrogance. This time, there would be no great war until he was ready, and no tearful betrayals. Secrecy was its own weapon, and it was a much more powerful shield.
When he arrived in this world, he was but a shadow of himself, torn apart by the strike that sent him across times and dimensions and by perils of the travel itself. Yet thankfully, his greatest advancements weren't stripped from him, not fully. His mind remained blessed with the true understanding of mana, and still he was hidden from the gaze of Mung, immortal and unchanging. It had to be enough.
The initial period was full of disorientation and confusion, but Vajar quickly learned the ways in which this world was special. His birthplace and the nameless city of Anadsila still stood whole; the Seventh Overlord was yet to rear his head, and the world was peaceful. He knew, however, that this peace was transient. Vajar needed allies.
He needed his army.
A short conversation with Sappho, confined entirely within the hypothetical future of his Divinations, showed that she never knew him, not as himself, nor as her childhood friend. Vajar, it seemed, never existed in this world, and there never was a bond between them. It hurt. He decided to leave in peace, for now he was a decade older and more experienced than this version of his once dearest friend, and there wasn't much he could do to reverse this skewed dynamic. She never longed for his war, anyway. It would be a mercy.
There were people much more suited to his plans. Ianthe, in the ruins of Karkhedon. Medasi, once more walking the earth.
Other heroes like him, who appeared in this world from thin air, bearing great powers and hiding great histories.
A Day of His Life
Necromancy was the art most delicate. Far from grotesque, unnatural depictions of the Undead Overlord's monsters, the initial raising of the dead was a quiet, solemn affair. Peering into the past with Light to search for the body that was still whole, the spirit that was yet undispersed. Warping the spool of time to connect past and present, bringing the facsimile of life to the rotten corpse and binding it with Darkness to persist eternal.
Flesh grew over the skeleton he unearthed, infused with the Truth of Life to regain color and bearing, and spirit manifested over it, ready to be bound to his old body. Using the art taught to him by his lover, Vajar carefully stitched body and soul together until the man was indistinguishable from the living, absurd precision required by the magic provided by years of practice and natural genius.
The man opened his eyes, making his first breath in centuries.
"What… what happened? Who are you? I... I-" started the man, naked but for the respectfully placed piece of clean cloth. Powerfully muscled and visibly used to combat, he searched the grave earth around for his weapon, dismayed when his search proved fruitless.
"Calm, Melanthos. Fear not." Vajar said peacefully, projecting his calm with deftness honed by practice. The tall elf was pale and slender, with long black hair and piercing pale green eyes; together with his sharp features, he made for an eerie figure, a fact that was ruthlessly exploited by his political enemies, quick to portray Vajar as an ominous dark lord in spiky black armor on a draconic mount of rotting bones. Now, however, he was dressed simply and modestly, in pristine white robes with green ornament that made him look like a kindly healer. "It is the future, and I brought you back from the cold grasp of death. There is no payment, nor is there a catch: I am performing a public service. You are free to do as you wish."
"What?" the man repeated dumbly before catching himself, his eyes growing sharp with swiftly returning intellect. "I see. What magic is this? Are you a miracle worker?"
"No, Melanthos. My name is Vajar, and in the interests of discretion, the magic I used to return you to life is called necromancy, manipulation of the dead," Vajar replied, still projecting calm so forcefully that even the score of people standing behind him found themselves faintly reassured. "Let me assure you that I am a master of the field, and there are no side-effects common to such claims. Your flesh is as living as it can be, you are still capable of siring children, and pleasures of taste and bed are not barred from you. In fact, and this is related to the goals I will state shortly after, you are better than before. Old age will not claim you, strength won't leave your limbs. You are immortal as gods are."
"But," Melanthos blinked, his expression growing skeptical, "no, this sounds much too good to be true. What's the catch? Do you require a century of service? What if I refuse and just walk out here? Will I turn into a monster without your oh-so-needed assistance?"
"There is no such thing. It is as I said: you are free to do as you wish. You are but one lost soul I intend to save from the greedy grasp of Death. I desire to make the whole world free from illness and aging." Vajar proclaimed, his voice suddenly full of sincere fervor. "And what would it serve to replace one tyrant with another? No, this is a gift given freely."
"Oh," he blinked, his gaze turning to the people trailing behind Vajar, every single one of them young and vibrant with health. "Then who are these?"
"I'm Khoros," said one of them, turning to Melanthos. Vajar allowed him to speak with a nod. "Master Vajar saved me as he saved you. I died of old age, you see, three decades before you. I found the gift of youth priceless, and pledged my service to him of my own will. Every single one of us did so after seeing his measure. Master Vajar always speaks truth, and I have seen with my own eyes how many he allowed to go free, or laid to rest after they expressed a wish to remain dead. And he does need our help."
"It is true." Vajar nodded. "Necromancy is reviled by the wider world as a forbidden practice after a gross misuse by its progenitor, the Sixth Overlord, and there are many who would wish to see me and you dead due to our association with it. They are mistaken, but it is hard to change the mind of people who do not wish to see it changed. Should you leave to join the living, I urge you to keep your nature a secret, lest you become a target of this hatred and endanger us all. I only want to see you safe."
"We do need some working hands, though," added Khoros. "There's no man more deserving of support than this one, let me tell you. And if the inquisitors of Sidith find us, who'll protect our women and children, if not us?"
Melanthos grew quiet, metaphorical gears spinning in his head. Finally, he looked up at Vajar with sudden urgency in his eyes.
"What about my wife and children?"
Vajar smiled.
"Where are they buried?"
New Horizons
The world was vast, and the world has changed.
His mortal and immortal agents brought him news from all over the world. Many more heroes were walking the earth than in his age, heroes of suspicious origin and unclear motives. Vajar suspected that at least some of those shared his own origin, unwitting worldwalkers diminished by the arduous travel.
Many of them, he decided to contact immediately. An elf minstrel named Carmen reportedly hid great power, and his divinations showed her both amenable to reason and pleasant in character. A healer and bard of her magnitude was certain to save many lives when the time would come.
"Oh. I accept, of course. What a noble goal you have, young man."
Divinations were an uncertain business, speaking in probabilities rather than certainties, capable of being clouded by gazes of gods and turbulent fates of heroes. Still, he was confident in this one. Almost never did she refuse to come to his aid when he reached out to her directly, and rare glimpses of other outcomes ended in agreements rather than violence.
A beastman warrior Kin'ike Uesugi was another promising candidate, if harder to recruit. Most divinations of their negotiations ended in a polite, but firm refusal, as the vagabond had his own duties and troubles. Still, he was a swordsman of rare skill and even rarer honor, and securing his aid would be instrumental in the coming war.
"Hm-m. Perhaps. Should we fall in battle- ah, forgive me. This fly was tempting."
Similarly, Ugoki Ayagi showed rare potential. The troll proven himself to be both powerful and selflessly kind, and in the futures where Vajar managed to convince him of the righteousness of his cause, the former Wanderer — what surprise it was, to see his suspicions confirmed in a vision — was a dependable and treasured ally. Alas, the stain of necromancy's reputation haunted every Divination.
"Is that so? The Sixth was silver-tongued as well, and look where it led him to."
With Amara Sarya, matters were simpler. He simply had to amass enough resources to fund her research, which he intended to do regardless of whether she agreed with his goal or not, and propose a partnership. It was possible to ally with her on ideals alone, but he needed to gather money anyway, and this was a surer course.
"Right, of course. Just repeat these words from the tallest mountain, I'm sure the whole world will fall to their knees to let you make them immortal free of charge. Ha!"
Finally, he had much compassion for Lona Willow, another mage that, he suspected, transmigrated from another timeline. The girl's proficiency was undeniable, yet when he divined her future, it was darkened by a great shadow threatening to swallow her whole. It was his moral duty to help, and she seemed agreeable enough.
"Oh. So it's the Sea that causes this? I... alright. What do you need of me?"
Still, there were many more, promising or not, agreeable or hostile. His spies told him of warriors named Caligula and Mahapapapurusa, of priestesses of End called Unmei and Jahi. Even such people as Potion Pete and Caniara were within his sight, though he decided to go to them last. A long road was ahead of him, and his failure or success would be decided not just by power, but by the allies he gathered and enmities he avoided.
And he intended to win.