There were seven of them once. Seven men corrupted into monsters ,who became the iron fist of that blighted individual known as the Immortal.
The strong right hand of the Immortal was the being known as Archangel, whose majestic white wings concealed a soul of darkest night. He was the mightiest general in the East and Commander of the Legion.
Thirty thousand strong, the cream of all the armies of the Immortal.
Few who would see it would forget the demise of Archangel, word of his destruction would travel faster than a speeding arrow.
And so was it thus...

There were few left alive following what would be called a battle, but was really annihilation.
The Legion in all its war glory marched forth to combat the spreading menace of the rebels, thirty thousand men strong and at their head was Archangel.
Facing a foe many times its inferior in numbers, the rebel horde charged hard and fast to meet their fate and all they met was doom.
Archangel was the first to meet them, wings unfurled as he swept down amongst the foe. The iron gauntlets he wears releasing arcane energies as warknives in hand he cuts and kills all those with the audacity to attack him.
“Legion to me!” he roars, voice feral and powerful as his men surge through the enemy to his side. “Seize the command group. Ensure no harm comes to them. The Master will require information.”
He unfurls his wings once more, surging into the sky. His knives disappear into hidden sheaths as he begins to rain down death upon the heads of his foes, glowing orbs of energy shattering anything they come into contact with.
He spots the command group surrounding a chained man and his curiosity is peaked, so he angles his wings and drops in a steep dive, all the while dropping orbs of energy.

“Do it now,” growls the rebel commander, his face contorted in rage and not a little fear. “Do it now, or so help me we will not die alone.” He looks the chained man firmly in the eye as he pulls his sword free, plunging it point first into the soft ground as he then hefts his crossbow.
The chained man merely looks beyond him, ignorant of his threats, to the brightly glowing figure as it plunges to the ground. He looks away at the last moment, forcing his body rigid as the shock wave hits.
“What have we here?” asks the haloed figure, as his warknives clear their sheaths and lance into the chests and throats of the command party. “And why are you trussed up, boy?”
The figure looks up, his mind clearing in the presence of a being that radiates evil. He does not hesitate as Archangel spins the blades of his knives on his palms.
With a thought his chains begin to glow and then burst apart, causing Archangel to take a step back and grin widely. “A pretty trick boy, my Master would wish to see it.”
“You master may continue to wish, for no man tells me what to do.” The words are softly spoken, without hint of emotion or menace yet the grin drops from Archangel instantly.
“I am no man!” The sound shakes the very substance of the ground as Archangel rises gently above the ground, his gauntlets glowing brightly as his side. “You will do as commanded.”
A smile broaches the face of the man, though it does not reach his eyes. Eyes that smoulder and begin to burn, as flames cloak his form.
“Meet the Burning Man.”

On that day thirty thousand men slaughtered the rebels to a man and then were wiped from history by a single man. Such a thing denied by the agents of the Immortal.
Thirty thousand men burnt so that not even ashes remained, and of their commander there was no sign but a few singed feathers and the echo of a deathsong.