Vandaros

I was born beneath the banners of Rome, long before your cities touched the stars. I was no emperor. No senator. I was a soldier. And I was very good at killing. Men called battle chaos. I never understood that. A battlefield has order if you know where to look — weak flanks, frightened men, arrogant commanders, the moment a formation begins to break. War is simply a problem solved with steel. My rage made me better at it. Not the mindless fury of animals. I did not scream. I did not lose myself. I hated with patience. During my final campaign, my legion was surrounded. One by one, the men beside me fell until there was no formation left to command. So I continued alone. My shield shattered. My spear broke. My armour was torn open, and eventually I fell to my knees amongst the dead. I remember the blood most clearly. Not mine. Theirs. I was drowning in the blood of the men who had killed my brothers, and still I was furious. Not because death had found me. Because I had lost. Then the heavens turned red. A ring descended from the night sky and hovered before me like the eye of some forgotten god. It told me I possessed great rage. I laughed. Rome had spent my entire life teaching me what to do with rage. The ring entered my hand. My wounds burned shut. Red fire replaced blood in my veins, and for the first time I looked beyond Earth and understood how small Rome truly was. The ring believed it had chosen another warrior. It was mistaken. It had chosen a general. Since that night, I have fought beneath a thousand skies. I have watched empires rise, conquer, rot, and vanish. I have commanded monsters, aliens, and madmen. Yet I have never forgotten the lesson Rome taught me. Rage without discipline is weakness. Give me a sword, and I will kill a man. Give me an army, and I will conquer a world. Give me a Red Lantern ring… and I will teach the universe how Rome wages war.