A/N: Wassup?

The fear of defeat can drive even the best of men to insanity, it's a simple fact. Defeat plagues us all, the fear of it so raw and powerful that children, men and women, young and old, will vow their lives to never let it reach them.

They will shed blood, sweat and tears to keep defeat away from them, fight until their bodies give out and continue until their minds snap, and they may rest forever in the pleasurable rest of wherever they believe themselves to head.

But in the end, defeat never had lasting effects. If one was defeated, they would rise again, stronger, smarter, ready to deal with the same problems and get better outcomes. It was why children were such crafty little things, and how the prey can escape the predator.

The worse one could face would be the second greatest fear of all: Death.

Death was another fear, only this was one that could be accepted.

When one dies, they go to heaven, their honorable deeds and kind soul leading them to the land of everlasting peace and happiness, and those that taint their souls with wickedness and negativity will wind up serving eternity in the burning pits of hell.

In the end, death will come to everyone, and in the end, no one can stop it, only accept it.

But for one known only as the Chosen One, he will never experience the calming peace that is the end to the afterlife, the certainty that his death will be his final moments on the world, and that he would resign himself to the fate that the gods have deigned on him.

But then again, no one could truly know the fate of the Chosen One, for no matter his death, he will come again.

Death by sword, greed, nature and monsters, this man will always return, and no matter what he shall try, no matter what he does, death will never claim him.

So for him, defeat is truly the greatest fear one can feel. The greatest of defeats will always haunt him, and he could only learn, like everyone else. But when that defeat is the equivalent of watching the world end, not even death could save him.

Once the world was ruled by Fire, an Age of Light. This Age brought prosperity, as mortals walked the same land as gods, served them faithfully and would live to grow old and prosper under the divine light that is divinity. Kingdoms rose, cultures spread, people loved, people hated, wars were fought, new inventions were made, mothers cradled their stillborn children while others tickled the noses of healthy babies, ready to raise them into the grand world.

But not all would be so simple, black and white.

For once those stillborn children come back, their pale, cold bodies suddenly twitching as they cry for their mothers, as the young warriors run through by the blade get up as if their hearts hadn't just been severed and mutilated, as the sick breathed their final breath yet pulled themselves from the crypt they were buried in, the grand Age of Light would come to an end.

The Undead were those inflicted by a horrible curse for some, and a blessing for others. Death meant nothing to them, time meant nothing, for other than a horrible outward appearance, one could watch and take part in the future of the world.

The gods would not allow that. So the Flame, that began to fade, would need to be relit. And how does one relight a flame without fuel?

The Undead, despised and lynched many hundreds of times, found a new purpose, with one of their own, a Chosen One that would relink the Flame, burn and satisfy the Flame's appetite with powerful souls, and continue the Age of Light.

The first Undead to do so faced an incredible challenge, exploring lands once forgotten and where they were once unwanted, defeating foes they could never once hold a candle to before, yet he prevailed, and for one thousand years, the Flame burned.

That should have been it, but there is a reason the Undead is both a curse and a blessing.

Burned for a thousand years, that Undead found himself once more needed to link the Flame, and so the challenge would begin anew, and the Flame was relit.

This then happened again.

Then again.

And again.

This same Undead, having both burned and suffered for thousands of years, eventually fell into despair. The gods immediately threw him into the mantle of Chosen, to relink the Flame, and despite such a mountainous fatigue, the Chosen Undead began his journey once more.

The gods never made mistakes, they were gods. They were perfect. But this, this was a mistake, that in their haughty, easy going attitude of throwing the same man to the Flame again, of great proportions.

The Chosen Undead was tired. Exhausted from the depths of his soul. He wanted rest. He wanted peace, but none would grant it. Death would not come, the gods would cast no pity, and his own people held him on a pedestal so high he could never escape it. Or so he thought.

The same painting he had passed dozens of times over hundreds of deaths over a handful of Fire relinkings had never crossed his mind. But when he finally took the time to admire it, run his hand down the ancient, splendid artwork, did he wish he had done so so long ago.

The denizens were horrid, the snow was biting, the land was filled with despair.

He loved it.

No way out, or so he thought, and he did not have to fight for some gods and some puny Flame. He could rest. He could sleep, despite his lack of need for it. He could sink into the snow, die of frostbite over and over just to feel his ancient muscles unwind.

Then he met her.

He had heard stories, how couldn't he when the same gods that forced thousand year burnings on him would always speak of her, but he never expected to came face to face with her.

Upon realizing where he was, he expected a massive she-demon to rise, a horrid bastard offspring of god and dragon that would drain him of his life force with a simple touch, but that was not who he met.

Instead, he met a giantess, shy and dainty despite towering over him, the softest, fluffiest tail working as a stress reliever to run his hand down, and the caring nature of the woman before him so new, so surprising, so refreshing, that he made a simple mistake.

He forgot his journey, the whole reason he began.

Once, failing would have been his hell, for where he could not die, he balanced the fate of the world. But when he finally met the one woman he could call a friend, who genuinely showed him kindness, gave him a sense of warmth that he forgot the feeling of, he forgot.

He forgot that linking the Flame was paramount.

One reason he could not be blamed would be that the world outside the painting moved at much faster speeds, and that in his one chance at bliss, that he did not realize that by the time he left, that the Dark had spread and was beginning it's takeover.

And for once in his long, long life of suffering and undeath, he finally felt true dread. An equivalent to the inevitable death; his failure. His defeat.

The world was cast into shadow, into Dark. So what did he do? Face the survivors? The gods? No. He went back into the painting, back into the caring arms of the one woman who gave genuine worry for him.

But just because the Dark was free, that did not mean the gods had disappeared. They all came from the Dark to.

Forced to leave the one woman he loved, the Chosen Undead was encased in a magical barrier, to only ever open once the chance for him to redeem himself would come.

For hundreds of years, he stood frozen, a silent guardian cast away from the painting that housed his lover, a torment and a taunt that made his soul quiver in rage and grief.

Hundreds of years of Dark had passed, and it seemed he would not be needed.

The Gods took great surprise to see the world overcome the Dark, not with Flame or prophecy, but with time and patience, evolution and rebirth.

Even still, the Chosen Undead's curse would keep his soul trapped, to be reawoken into a body anew.

This is where our story begins, in the beginning of prophecy, and a story of Redemption, and a story to find lost love and calm. It will all start with the grandest warrior, his shining soul a Beacon of hope, his story to be sung for ages to come!

...

"Ew ew ew ew! Get it off!"

"Way to go Vomit Boy."

"Why me…?"