Greater threats loom beyond Haven's walls. What I destroyed beneath the fortress was nothing, a servant's servant, a lesser darkness.

True monsters await in the corrupted realms, horrors that turn nature itself against life.

My purpose demands I face them, yet I cannot guard against what I do not understand. I need the living. Need their knowledge.

Need to know what terrors stalk the lands beyond this battlefield.

But how does death ask the living for guidance?

I clear black ichor from my blade. Ancient memory surfaces, not knowledge, but motion.

My arms move of their own accord, guided by countless warriors who knew this ritual. The sword rises, turns, presents itself across empty palms. Blade reversed, pointed back toward these borrowed bones.

A warrior's request for parley.

My skull bows over the offered weapon. It is a gesture.

Gasps follow from up on Haven's walls. The gesture strikes deeper than fear, it reaches into their own memories, their traditions.

"It makes the old sign!" A voice shouts out from the battlements. "The dead thing offers warrior's peace!"

"Impossible," another says. "It's a trick. Undead don't know the ancient ways."

But they do. These bones remember everything that matters. The ancient ways far more ancient than the oldest living still on the wall.

More figures appear along the walls. The morning sun, the first these people have seen in their lives, catches on spear points and drawn bows. They cluster together, uncertain whether to take hope in new light or retreat away from the skeletal warrior that brought it.

A figure moves through their midst. Her armor bears the marks of command - not fresh steel like the others, but battleworn plate that has seen true combat. Scars cross her face, but her eyes remain sharp, calculating.

"Lower your weapons," she orders. "If it meant us harm, we'd be dead already." Her gaze fixes on my offered sword. "It drove back the shadows. Now it offers parley in the old way."

The commander studies each aspect of my pose - the reversed blade, the bowed skull, the precise angle of presentation. Measuring not just the gesture, but the knowledge behind it.

"There's purpose in you, dead thing. More than simple animation."

I remain motionless, blade still offered. Waiting.

She makes a decision. "Open the sally port."

Protests rise from the defenders. She silences them with a raised hand. "Whatever drives those bones could have attacked us at any time. It chooses to stand outside. Chooses to follow the old forms."

Chains grind. The small door beside the main gate opens just wide enough for a person to pass. The commander descends, each step deliberate.

Others move to follow.

"Stay at your posts," she orders. "Keep watch on the field. The shadows may have fled, but darkness wears many faces."

She approaches alone, one hand resting near her sword hilt. Close enough now to see the blue-white pinpricks of light in my hollow sockets. To read whatever purpose shows in this fleshless face.

"I am Commander Serrah Ikert," she says. "Warden of Haven's walls." A pause. "You understand me, dead thing?"

I move my skull just once. Slowly. Precisely.

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"Can you speak?"

I straighten. My free hand rises to where a throat should be, gestures at the absence.

"But you comprehend. You reason. You remember the old forms."

Another nod.

"Then we must find another way to communicate."

I plant my sword in the earth, blade sinking deep into soil. My finger scrapes against black ground, leaving letters stark against darkness:

WHAT MONSTERS LAY BEYOND?

Commander Ikert reads the words, brows tilting. "You seek the greater horrors?"

MUST HUNT. MUST KILL.

"Why? What drives these bones to seek such darkness?"

PURPOSE. PROTECT. DESTROY.

She circles the writing, studying each word. Concerned, bothered by what she sees.

"The demons left worse than shadows when they claimed the realms," she says finally. "Things that should not be. Horrors that corrupt all they touch. Each land breeds its own nightmares now."

My finger presses deeper into black soil.

SHOW WAY. NEED MAPS.

"Maps?" She laughs, sharp and hollow. "Our maps end at Haven's walls. Few who venture beyond return to tell what they've seen."

NEED KNOWLEDGE TO FIGHT. NEED PATHS TO FOLLOW. WHERE?

"Why should we trust you, dead thing? What binds you to this hunt?"

I step back from my writing. The Commander puts hand on sword, readying to defend.

Another gesture rises from borrowed memory, ancient as these bones. I kneel beside my planted sword, empty hands spread.

A warrior's pledge, older than Haven's walls.

The commander watches each movement. Studies how borrowed bones align, how purpose guides each gesture. Others talk amongst themselves on the walls behind her, some fearful, some hopeful.

They see only a skeleton in ancient armor. She sees something else.

"You offer a warrior's oath," she says finally. "Yet you have no lips to swear, no heart to bind."

I trace one final line:

PURPOSE BINDS DEEPER THAN OATH.

Silence stretches across the battlefield. Wind catches torn banners along Haven's walls - the first true breeze many have felt. Commander Ikert's hand finally leaves her sword hilt.

"Return when the sun sets," she says. "I'll have what knowledge we possess gathered. Maps of the lands our scouts have seen. Reports of the horrors they've encountered." Her eyes narrow. "But know this, dead thing - betray Haven, and these walls still hold enough power to ensure your bones never rise again."

I stand, retrieve my sword. Her threat means nothing. Only the mission matters.

"What should we call you?" she calls as I turn away. "We need some name for our records."

I pause. My finger scrapes one last time in the dirt:

NAMES ARE FOR THE LIVING.

I move away from Haven's walls, toward the field of ancient weapons. Somewhere beyond this graveyard of battle, monsters greater than shadows.

The compulsion pulls. Purpose demands they fall.

Behind me, Haven's people still stare at sunlight they've never known. They do not understand, what I destroyed beneath their walls was nothing. A lesser servant of greater darkness.

The true monsters wait in distant realms.

Let them keep their sun for now. Let them taste hope. These bones have darker work ahead.

I move away slowly and the Commander does the same. The humans worry.

I station myself at the edge of the weapon-field. The sun crawls across the sky - the first true day these people have seen in their lives. They watch me from their walls as shadows lengthen.

Some brave souls venture out to gather supplies, always keeping their distance, always watching.

No matter. The dead can wait.

And I wait amidst the field of fallen weapons, power surges through borrowed bones. The lesser darkness I destroyed left something behind, not corruption, but potential. The magic that drives these bones pulses stronger, demanding change.

Ancient memories surface. Paths stretch before this hollow frame, each promising different means to fulfill purpose.

The first speaks of endurance. Bones that cannot break, armor fused to frame, an immovable shield between darkness and the living. The Bone Sentinel's path, to stand bulwark against the dark.

The second path is of the blade. Death's own warrior, blade of ancient battles and of forgotten wars.

The third offers subtler power. The ability to walk between worlds.

But these bones know their truth. What use is an unbreaking shield when darkness breeds faster than it dies? Why sense threats from afar when steel can end them now?

Let others fear death. These bones are death's own champion.

Power surges through hollow frame. Borrowed bones take in power. Ancient knowledge floods this hollow frame. Not memories, but something deeper - ritual and power older than the corruption itself.

Golden script crawls across my blade, runes in a language no living tongue remembers. They speak a name that makes borrowed bones resonate:

Aeternus.

A god of death's realm, forgotten when divinity fell. Not a demon wearing darkness, but something purer - a power that understood death's true purpose. Protection through final judgment. Mercy through swift endings.

The runes sink into ancient steel. The blade remembers this power, this name. It has carried such blessing before, in hands long turned to dust.

[Status: Grave Knight] [Level: 3]

[Core Skills: Undying Frame (Passive): You cannot bleed, feel pain, or suffer fatigue

Death's Grace (Passive): You move with unnatural precision

Soul Echo (Passive): Fragments of fallen warriors guide your blade]

[Combat Arts: Aeternus: Ancient god-blessed strike that traps enemies in spheres of judgment light. The blade remembers older laws than corruption.]