A thousand years ago, in a small village nestled among the Northern Mountains, a pale, albino boy was born.
Nobody among the villagers could have known what gift, or, if I may, what curse, the heavens had bestowed upon that small creature.
The Boy's infancy obliviously went by, surrounded by kids who isolated him for his eerie, pale appearance; and so the years passed, in the lonely village where nothing ever changed, until, on a dreadful evening, the old Sorcerer arrived: having brought along a ferocious snowstorm, which had been following him for days, he asked to spend the night there.
It was during that brief stay that the Sorcerer noticed the Boy. Something, a glimpse, a scratch, a trifle: he saw it. He saw that, among those Malevolent Northern Mountains, in a filthy village, filled to the brim with ignorant, useless peasants, a miraculous creature was born. In the Boy's blood, the Sorcerer had seen it, was the power to do the impossible, something that disrupted the natural order of things: the power to resurrect the dead.
So, what did the Sorcerer do, you ask? Naturally, he bought the Boy as a slave – Sorcerers are quite wealthy, you know? After all, the family had very little money, and another five children to feed.
After bringing the Boy home with him, in his manor on the hills just outside of the Old Capital, the Sorcerer studied him, doing all kinds of magical and medical experiments on him. His intuition was right. That blood could, indeed, bring back the dead.
In the years that followed, the Boy lived secluded in the depths of the manor, where light never reached him. The Sorcerer, on the other hand, gained great fame: everybody, from farmers to kings, knew about the Great Sorcerer and his Miraculous Potion, a mixture so incredible it could bring back those who'd passed, and all of them wondered about its recipe.
Now, you may be wondering: didn't the Sorcerer earn himself many enemies? Well, you would be perfectly right. But not one, not a single one of them, was brave enough to challenge the one who defeated death itself.
And so, for many years, nothing changed.
But as time went on, the Sorcerer grew older, and he grew afraid. Sure, he could bring others back from the dead, but what about him? Who would bring him back? The Boy?
No, it couldn't be him: not only had that creature developed a terrible hatred towards him; he couldn't even speak, and understood almost nothing aside from food! "Who would leave their life in the hands of such a filthy brat?". He had to do something about it himself.
And so, the Sorcerer tried to extract the Boy's gift, performing some experiments so terrible I dare not report them. For days, screams, tears and pain filled and echoed through the manor. Then, in a tremendous agony, the Boy, who'd spent his life in a jail which never saw the light of day, exhaled his last breath.
No hope was left for the Sorcerer.
He extracted what blood remained, and sealed it, planning to use it somehow, but Fate had other plans for him.
That very night, the Grim Reaper paid him a visit, and the Great Sorcerer was no more.
What happened to the blood, you ask? Well, nobody knows for sure.
You see, in those last few years, a war had broken out. Many incredible Mages and Knights had passed, and the conflict had left behind a mountain of corpses. That very night, a fierce battle between the two Great Mages of that era, the two last Great Mages, was infuriating in the hills near the manor. On that fateful night, the manor, hit by a raging explosion of dark energy, was blown up - and the Sorcerer along with it. And since then, mages were no more, and what happened to the blood is a mystery.
Well, so goes the legend. Mages! Imagine that! But most importantly, nothing brings back the dead. Right?
A thousand years later, long after the world had forgotten about magic, another albino boy was born.