The pull toward Haven's walls grows stronger with each step. My bones move, stepping between ancient weapons and fresher corpses. The shadows between me and the fortress deepen.

A glint catches my eye—a fallen supply pack half-buried in the blood-soaked earth. I retrieve it, finding dried meat and hard bread within. The patrol died trying to bring this back to their people.

The weight of the pack settles against my spine as I secure it. My sword remains ready. More red eyes gleam in the darkness ahead. Unlike the shadow hounds, these glow with intelligence and hunger.

Dark shapes detach themselves from the gloom. They move on two legs, but their forms twist wrongly. It is as if their bodies remember being human but chose to abandon that shape.

Rusted weapons drag behind them, leaving trails in the soil.

I advance without hesitation. These bones know no fear, and my blade remembers its purpose. The first creature lunges, its weapon aimed at where my heart should be. Then it falls apart at the swing of my blade.

Two more circle wide, trying to flank me.

Their movements suggest military training, corrupted by whatever darkness has claimed them. They attack together.

My blade meets theirs. Steel rings against steel, the impact sending vibrations through bones that feel nothing.

I pivot between their attacks, letting their own momentum carry them past.

My sword takes one's head while my armored fist crushes the other's throat, tearing out fleshy sinews.

[Victory! Corrupted Scavengers defeated!]

The way to Haven lies open now, but more shadows gather ahead.

Shadows thicken. Boots crunch on shattered shields and scrape against rusted sword hilts. The sound draws attention. Red eyes ignite in the darkness ahead.

Not shadow hounds this time, nor scavengers. These shapes rise taller, broader. Corrupted knights, with armor fused to whatever darkness fills it. Steam leaks from their visors, and their weapons drag furrows in the blood-rich soil.

[Encountered: Fallen Vanguard (Level 4)]

[Warning: Elite enemies detected]

Three of them block the path to Haven. Their armor bears the same markings as the fallen patrol. These were once Haven's defenders.

Now they hunt those they once protected.

The nearest knight raises a corrupted halberd. Recognition floods through my borrowed bones—the weapon's reach, its striking patterns, its weaknesses. This body remembers fighting alongside such warriors. Fighting against them.

Its first strike should have cleaved me in half. Instead, I step inside the blade's arc. My sword slides between armor plates, finding gaps this form recalls. The knight stumbles, black ichor seeping from the wound.

Its companions attack together, centuries of drill and discipline corrupted but not forgotten. A mace shatters my ribs, and a sword takes my leg at the knee. I fall, but falling is meaningless to the dead. My blade continues its work from the ground.

The first knight collapses, armor empty as whatever powered it bleeds away into shadow. I drag myself toward my scattered ribs, using my sword and remaining leg. Bones skitter across ancient graves, pulled by the same force that first assembled them.

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The mace-wielder's next strike pulverizes my shoulder. No matter. The sword arm remains, and that is enough. I drive the blade up through its visor. It falls, corruption seeping into thirsty soil.

The last knight hesitates. Perhaps some fragment of its former self recognizes what I am. Why I rise. Its sword shakes in gauntleted hands.

I gather my broken pieces. Ribs snap back into proper alignment. My leg reattaches, bones fusing seamlessly. Armor settles over my reconstructed frame. I advance on the remaining knight.

It turns to flee. Duty cannot allow that. These shadows would only return to threaten Haven's walls. My blade ensures it falls beside its corrupted brothers.

[Victory! Fallen Vanguard defeated!]

[Level Up! You are now level 3]

The knights' empty armor lies scattered across freshly disturbed graves. I kneel beside the nearest set, studying the markings. Haven's sigil remains visible beneath corruption's stain—a sun rising over walls. The sight tugs at fragments of memory that refuse to surface.

A cold wind carries sounds from Haven's direction. Horns. Shouts. The clash of steel. The patrol's deaths were not an isolated attack.

I leave the fallen knights where they lay. Haven's walls draw closer with each stride, their ancient stone reflecting the perpetual twilight. More shadows mass ahead—shapes both bestial and armored, moving with clear purpose. They converge on a section of wall where torchlight reveals figures fighting on the battlements.

The living need steel and walls to survive. I need neither.

I move faster, sword ready. Haven faces its own darkness. These borrowed bones remember their purpose.

Shadows mass for an assault on the walls. The living require protection.

Protection requires direct action. I charge into the mass of shadows gathering beneath Haven's walls. My blade rises and falls, tracing death through corrupted forms. There is no need for stealth or strategy—let them see death approaching.

The first rank turns at my attack—a mix of shadow hounds and corrupted knights. They recognize the magic that drives these bones. Hatred burns in ember eyes. Good. Better they focus on this frame that cannot die than the living flesh above.

A hound's jaw splinters my sword arm. The knight beside it drives a spear through my ribs. No matter. I grasp the spear shaft, pulling myself closer, dragging my impaled form along its length. My sword continues its work. The knight falls, armor empty.

More shadows converge. A mace reduces my leg to splinters. Claws tear armor from bone. Still, I strike. Still, I advance. Each piece they tear away is dragged back by dark purpose. They cannot understand—this body is a weapon, every broken piece a chance to strike from new angles.

Above, Haven's defenders watch from the walls. Their torchlight catches on exposed bone, on rusted armor reforming around remembered shapes. Some cry out in fear. Others simply stare. They see a monster fighting monsters. Let them. Fear serves protection too.

My sword arm goes flying, torn free by shadow-teeth. The blade continues its arc, still gripped by bone fingers, cutting through three hounds before landing. I crawl toward it, my other arm already stretching, pulling scattered pieces in its wake. A knight's blade takes my skull from my spine. Vision splits—the skull rolls free, the body fighting on by memory alone.

The shadows press closer, thinking to overwhelm with numbers what they cannot achieve with force. They do not understand. This form cannot be overwhelmed. It cannot be stopped. Each broken piece fights on. Each scattered bone remembers its purpose.

My skull watches my headless body retrieve the sword arm. It watches legs reassemble beneath rusted armor. Dark magic pulls all pieces home. Purpose rebuilds what darkness breaks.

The shadows fall. Not quickly. Not easily. But they fall. One by one, they dissolve into wisps of black mist that sink into blood-soaked soil. When the last one fades, I stand whole once more beneath Haven's walls.

[Victory! Multiple enemies defeated!]

Silence falls. Haven's defenders stare down from their walls at the bone warrior that fought off their attackers. Their torches cast long shadows that twist like the creatures they just watched me destroy. None speak. None lower their weapons.

No matter. Their fear means little. Their safety means everything.

I grab the pack from where it had fallen nearby, feeling the weight of bread and dried meat within from wherever they had managed to find it. A simple thing, yet they died trying to bring it home, and to home I return it, throwing it to the top of the wall.

The supplies arc through the air, landing with a thud on Haven's battlements. The defenders scatter from it, startled. Their fear means nothing, the food means everything. Children hunger behind these walls.

I turn from the walls, scanning the battlefield for more threats. The path I carved through shadow ranks has created a temporary clearing, but darkness still masses at the edges of my vision. More will come. They always come.

So be it. These bones will meet them all.

The dead remember duty longest.