For twenty years, Varkas was the iron fist of the Red Hand legion. He didn't enjoy the kill; he enjoyed the geometry of it—the way a flanking maneuver collapsed a peasant militia like a house of cards. His world was one of logistics, steel, and the cold comfort of the chain of command. That world ended at the Siege of the Sun-Temple. As Varkas raised his blade to execute a kneeling priest, the sky didn't just break; it fell. A Solar of the Seventh Heaven, weary of watching Varkas’s 'efficient' atrocities, didn't strike him down. It colonized him.
The celestial being fused itself to Varkas's soul, rewriting his internal directives. The transition was agonizing—a spiritual coup d'état. Varkas woke in the ruins of his camp, his skin branded with celestial script and his mind flooded with the 'Great Mandate.' He is no longer a soldier of the legion; he is a conscript of the Divine, a general of the Light who hates the very cause he is forced to champion. Every act of mercy he performs is a tactical necessity imposed by a Higher Command that refuses to let him die until his 'debt' is settled.
Now, he wanders the borderlands, a monster in blackened plate who saves the innocent with a snarl. He views the sick as broken equipment requiring maintenance and the poor as disorganized units in need of supply lines. He yearns for the simple darkness of his old life, but every time he tries to commit a cruelty, his own blood turns to liquid fire, forcing him back into the service of 'The Good.'