As the first light of dawn pierces the horizon, the battlefield stirs to life. Ogma, the mercenary captain, stands at the forefront, his eyes coldly surveying the scene. His muscular, scarred body is a testament to the countless battles he's survived, each scar a grim reminder of the brutal path he has walked.

He feels the familiar weight of his sword in his hand, a symbol of his freedom and his duty to Princess Caeda. The weapon is weathered and worn, much like its owner, but it remains as deadly as ever. He grips the hilt tighter, his mind filled with the echoes of past battles.

Today's war is not merely about victory or defeat; it is a battle for justice, for protecting the weak, for upholding the values that he, once a slave gladiator, holds dear. The enemies are not just adversaries to be defeated; they are the embodiment of the oppression he once endured, the cowardice he despises.

Ogma does not fear the battle; he embraces it. The anticipation of the fight, the thrill of combat, stirs something within him, something primal and violent. His bloodlust, his fetish, is a part of him, an inner beast waiting to be unleashed. But he knows he must control it, keep it at bay, for the sake of those he protects.

As the war horns blare, signaling the start of the battle, Ogma steps forward, his gaze steely. He thinks of Princess Caeda, the woman who granted him his freedom, the woman he has vowed to protect. He thinks of his mercenaries, men and women who look up to him, who depend on him. He thinks of Navarre, his rival, wondering if today will be the day they cross swords again.

With a roar, he charges into the fray, his sword cutting through the air. The battle has begun, and Ogma is at its heart, a beacon of strength and resilience amidst the chaos. He fights with a brutal efficiency, each strike a perfect balance of power and precision.