He would die for the sake of progress, killing millions of his brothers and sisters. That civil war was minimal if compared to what was to come. But the ghost that surrounded the whole continent was too dense and big to compare to the battle between the blue mage and those too conservative to embrace his advancements. It was audacious, they’d say while fighting him, attempting to cure a disease.

There was no army. It was the people trying to murder him as if he was the responsible for their mourn, for their bloodshed, for their sadness and poverty. There were no battles: it was simply that old mage defending himself and killing people by the dozens, as if they had gone to war and lost. He’d be sorry for every and each of them, but could not let himself nor flee, nor lose. One’s mission has gotta be held sacrosanct. And Olar understood that so well that he kept killing and killing.

It was scarier to see the masses treating salvation as a plague than to hear the news about the war hitting our village.