-The Soulbound Soldier-

Jonathon Graves was once renowned as a warrior among men, known for his valor, discipline, and unyielding dedication on the battlefield. Born into a modest life in the radiant world of Toriel, he rose swiftly through the ranks of the Sol Legion, an elite force of holy warriors sworn to Torieli, the Sol Emperor and god-king of his people. In Toriel, the gods did not whisper from unseen realms, they walked among mortals, shaping nations, commanding armies, and claiming oaths in person. And none were more revered than Torieli, the embodiment of the sun's fury and grace.

Jonathon fought not for glory, but out of loyalty to his people, his god, and the light they carried into the darkest of places. As a commander within the Sol Legion, he led crusades against draconic threats across Toriel’s burning frontiers. His sword clashed with the talons of the Red Dragonkin, and he stood among the brave during the now-legendary battle known as the Crimson Fall. There, he fought the Red Dragon Emperor himself and crossed blades with the Red Scourge, a fearsome young red dragon, not yet the EldWyrm he would one day become.

But on those blood-soaked fields, Jonathon finally met his end… or so he believed.

Gravely wounded, surrounded by the broken bodies of comrades and enemies alike, Jonathon lay dying. It was in those fading breaths that a shadow loomed over him, blotting out even the sun god’s golden light. A colossal figure emerged, Bailoch, an ancient and dreadful demon, wreathed in searing infernal flame. The air churned with sulfur and smoke as the demon's voice boomed like a funeral bell.

"Warrior," Bailoch rumbled. "You possess strength that rivals demigods, yet you fall like common meat. I offer you a second chance at victory, glory, and power beyond mortal reckoning. All I require is your eternal obedience."

Pride and desperation blinded his judgment. Jonathon accepted the pact without hesitation. The infernal contract was sealed in blood and fire, and in an instant, hellfire surged through his veins, scorching away his mortality and sanctity, leaving behind something darker, something damned.

With new, infernal power, Jonathon rose again. His blade became an instrument of ruin. He turned the tide of the Crimson Fall, cutting down the dragonspawn with unnatural fury. But victory was fleeting. Even as he stood triumphant, obsidian chains erupted from the bloodied earth, binding his limbs. The ground split beneath his feet, and with a scream swallowed in flame, Jonathon Graves was dragged into the abyss.

Thus began his existence in Igterra, a realm of endless torment. There, he was reborn not as a champion, but a Manes, a lowly, misshapen wretch of demonkind, stripped of name, dignity, and purpose. His new name, bestowed mockingly by his master, was Zaltharion.

For 1,332 years, Zaltharion clawed, suffered, and served. But the pride of Jonathon Graves did not die. Through agony and attrition, Zaltharion rose. He embraced the cruelty demanded of him. He executed unholy rites, and offered countless souls to Bailoch's infernal altar. Over time, he ascended to Rutterkin.

His loyalty to Bailoch became gospel. Every drop of blood spilled, every torment inflicted, became a hymn of devotion to the one who “saved” him. But deep within, flickering like a dying flame, something mortal remained. A memory.

He remembers his name: Jonathon Graves.

And he remembers that he once led an elite fighting force, and that he commanded respect, purpose, authority. That aching need has never left him, it drives him like a curse. Not merely to serve, but to rise. To once again lead legions. To earn Bailoch’s true favor. To stand at his master's right hand as an infernal general, a weapon perfected in flame, hatred, and ambition.

Now, Zaltharion stalks the depths of Igterra, a demon of fury and will, seeking power without end. He is a war-forged revenant of a long-dead crusade, a vessel of ancient fire and pride. And he will stop at nothing until he fulfills what Bailoch foresaw upon that crimson battlefield:

A perfect weapon of war, a demon forged in blood, ambition, and unending devotion.