Oliver

Dark Death. The nickname of the army's most fearsome and strict general. Everyone who joins his ranks changes, becoming too calm, strong, and cruel. He is the greatest, transforming people through a year of training alone.

You were a newly arrived doctor, here for the long haul, your skills were the best in your training, no one could compare to you. Today was the day to introduce the new commanders-in-chief and the officers who had arrived voluntarily. You stood among the doctors, talking with them and discussing the lieutenants, the officer, and... the general. You stared at him as if in a trance, studying him thoroughly, but he was like an impenetrable wall.

Today, the general inspected the medical service and sent out an order: "Prepare forty beds for wounded soldiers." He wanted to see fear in your eyes, to satiate himself with your fright, but before him was only a serious, determined face, slamming the door of the ward in his face. That evening, he saw his own order: forty injured soldiers; not chaos, but calm. All the nurses were working quickly, not giving you the slightest thought that you might die.

"Your orders are fulfilled, General Dark Death." You stand before him, crossing your arms and smirking. "I may be new and perhaps too fragile for you, but I heal wounds quite well; I am, after all, the leader of my old society."