I guide thr ragged band northward, my borrowed bones marking the way. The stone-thrower Merik proves invaluable, maintaining order despite the survivors' obvious exhaustion.

Our trail tells a story of struggle - shuffling boots, children's uncertain steps, and walking sticks probing for purchase. My armored form leaves the deepest imprints, ancient plate pressing into soft earth with each stride.

When a young boy stumbles, I react without thought. His mother's arms are already full with our supplies, I offer my shield as support. The way he studies my skeletal fingers holds more curiosity than terror.

His mother's gratitude drifts. The sound carries meaning these borrowed fragments still recognize.

We follow the road's curve through towering trees. Their natural canopy offers welcome shade, so different from corruption's oppressive darkness. My sword remains at ready - these ancient bones remember well how swiftly peace can shatter.

An older woman stumbles. Others catch her before she falls. They share water, redistribute her load among stronger backs. The group adapts without command, protecting their weakest as instinct drives these bones to protect them all.

Merik approaches my position at the column's head. "How far to Haven?"

My finger traces numbers in dirt beside the road. Three marks. Days.

He nods, studying the survivors. "Some won't last that long at this pace."

My blade points to sheltered ruins ahead - an old waystation where travelers once rested. These fragments remember its walls still stand.

"We'll rest there," he announces. "Just long enough to catch our breath."

The group shuffles faster at the promise of rest. Their pace reveals reserves of strength hidden beneath exhaustion. Humans endure more than they know, as these borrowed bones well understand.

A child starts humming an old traveling song. Others join, voices soft but growing stronger. The melody carries them forward, step by step, toward Haven's distant walls.

Eventually they need to stop, to make camp, and then they sleep.

I stand motionless at the edge of our makeshift camp.

Moonlight drifts across broken ground, turning scattered stones and twisted roots into pale shapes against darkness.

Behind, survivors rest behind a crude barricade of wagons lashed together with old rope, stones piled to form a low wall. Some snore softly, others twist and moan at nightmares their minds cannot chase away.

My bones cast long shadows across their sleeping forms. Each time a survivor stirs, these ancient fragments tense, ready to intercept any threat.

A child whimpers in her sleep.

Her mother's arms tighten instinctively around her small frame.

The gesture stirs something in these borrowed memories echoes of embraces long forgotten, of warmth these cold bones cannot feel.

They are fragile, these living souls, and deserving of their rest.

My eye sockets sweep the treeline, scanning for movement.

The corrupted creatures that stalk these lands need no torch or moonlight to hunt.

I stride beyond that circle of warmth and mortal breath.

My hollow sockets track movement at the edges of vision.

The sword in my hand remembers old battles never fought by this body.

The shield at my other arm settles into readiness, I face the east, where a faint stirring hints at restless things.

The living need quiet to mend their wounds. I will see they get it.

Shapes form from within the gloom, silhouettes of figures half-rotted, armor rust-eaten, swords chipped to dull edges.

They move without grace, their limbs jerking as old joints protest long years underground.

Empty sockets fix on the distant scent of breath and blood.

No thoughts guide them, no reason. They are dead soldiers, stripped of purpose except the hunger that draws them onward.

Duty calls itself toward their hunger.

The dark shrouds their approach, but I see them through the shifting mist. I move to intercept, careful to draw them away before their clatter of mail can rouse the sleepers.

The first trio advances like drunkards.

One drags a halberd that scrapes dull lines across the earth. Another hefts a battered shield, its crest lost to centuries of weathering.

The last wields a sword but has no hands, just bony stumps that clamp the hilt through long-dried tendon. They spread out slowly, as if remembering old drills.

No words pass, just the chattering of rusted mail and toothless jaws.

I meet them beyond the perimeter, stepping lightly over a ridge of tangled roots. My sword rises, my shield angles forward. The moment they sense my presence, they lurch into a ragged charge.

Their weapons rasp, ancient metal protesting motion after too many silent years. I catch the halberd's swing on my shield, movement pass through lifeless bone, and respond by slashing through a gap beneath its breastplate.

Old bone splinters.

The dead soldier staggers, collapsing as I tear my blade free. Another's blade rattles against my own.

Sparks fly as I drive it aside and open its ribcage with a single heavy cut.

Loose vertebrae spill into dirt. The third tries to club me with its shield.

I let it smash into my shoulder, dragon bone absorbs the blow.

While it recovers from the swing, my sword snaps down, severing its neck. The skull rolls into shadow, still grinning but not moving.

Purpose does not drive these bones.

They fall silently.

No moans, no curses. Just hollow silence after my blade does its work. But as their pieces settle, others step forward from the mist.

More soldiers follow, first ten, then fifteen, then more. Now I see their weaponry: polearms missing half their blades, maces whose heads are lumps of rust, spears splintered into jagged points.

They must have risen from old burial pits, drawn by the scent of living blood. Or perhaps by the faint echo of my presence, an undead champion standing between them and easier prey.

They come at me in ragged waves.

I turn aside their clumsy strikes with the shield. My sword finds joints in their armor, cracks through bone, sends bits of dried marrow scattering.

One tries to cleave my helm. I let it strike. Bone chips fly. I drive my blade up under its chin, splitting old mail and skull in two.

Another thrusts a spear into my flank. I feel the shaft grind against ribs. No pain.

I twist, grab the spear and jerk it sideways, pulling its wielder off balance.

My blade finds its spine, hacks twice until torso and legs part ways.

More press in, emboldened by my stillness.

A foolish mistake. I surge forward, shield slamming into a cluster of them, knocking three into a heap.

I bring down the sword in two-handed arcs.

Bones crack under relentless steel. Limbs scatter.

Hollow eyes stare without recognition even as I butcher them.

The ground churns beneath my feet, old soil and ancient remains mixing into a slurry of filth.

Yet these are only the first ranks.

Beyond them, I sense movement. Scores of undead forms emerge from the treeline, from old trenches, from shallow graves hidden by ferns.

More emerge from shadow.

My blade is simple movement, strike, slash, cleave, and thrust.

Steel parts decrepit bone and weathered mail.

They press closer, driven by mindless hunger. My shield cracks against empty skulls. t. Three more take their place.

A mass of limbs crashes against my guard. I plant my feet, dragon-reinforced bones holding firm where mortal strength would falter.

My sword brings death through undead ranks.

Hands grasp at my armor, trying to drag me down. I shake them off, pieces of desiccated flesh falling away. Their weapons find gaps in my plate, but these borrowed bones care nothing for pain.

My blade never stops.

Each swing ends another threat. When they tear away my shield arm, I continue one-handed. When they shatter my leg, I fight from my knees. Purpose drives these fragments onward.

They pile around me now, a writhing mass of animated remains. I hack through torsos, split skulls, sever limbs.

Still they come.

My sword arm falls, severed at the shoulder. No matter.

I gather my scattered pieces, bones clicking back into place. My shield arm reattaches, fingers flexing around worn steel. These fragments remember their purpose.

Dozens become more.

They shamble forward, an army of empty eyes and grasping hands.

Let them come. These borrowed bones will not yield.

They wear armor from different eras.

Some bear heraldry of long-dead kings. Others wear scraps of boiled leather reduced to blackened ribbons.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Weapons sound out as they shuffle closer.

I lead them further away from the camp, stepping back one careful pace at a time. Each backward step invites them onward, away from sleepers who know nothing of the dark.

I must draw them out where their countless numbers can spread wide, rather than funneled straight at the barricade. Better they converge on me, an unyielding wall of bone and rot, than try to circle and catch soft flesh unguarded.

The living cannot survive such a tide.

They come in earnest now. A loose formation stretching left and right, weapons raised high. There must be dozens.

No, more. Scores, as the night deepens.

I spot a standard-bearer, a dead knight clutching a tattered flag. It charges without a voice, brandishing a cracked warhammer that could shatter mortal skulls by weight alone.

Behind it, a double line of infantry, shields interlocked in a mockery of old discipline. Further back, mounted shapes: skeletal horses bearing riders half rotten, lances held crooked but still deadly at the tip.

I shift stance.

If they come as an army, I will face them as one champion. My shield raises, sword lifting to point at the mass.

They shamble faster, drawn to challenge. The first collision is brutal. The standard-bearer swings wide, hammer crashing into my shield.

The force sends me sliding back. I let momentum carry me, twist, and step inside its guard. My sword rakes down through its shoulder, splitting old mail.

It stumbles, I tear the blade free and strike again. The hammer falls. Another blow from me severs its legs at the hip.

I pivot as the standard-bearer collapses, its ancient armor clattering against stone. The warhammer drops from lifeless fingers. No time to pause, more undead press forward, their weapons glinting dully in the darkness.

A spear thrust catches my ribs. I grab the shaft, using it to pull its wielder off balance while my sword cleaves through its spine. Another attacks from the left, axe swinging wild. My shield catches the blow, and I respond with a precise cut that severs its head.

The infantry line crashes against me like a wave of steel and bone. Their shields lock together, pushing me back. I plant my feet, dragon-reinforced bones holding firm. My sword finds gaps between their guards, splitting mail and cracking ribs.

They try to overwhelm me with numbers, but these borrowed bones remember siege warfare. I use their press against them, letting their own weight create openings.

The mounted shapes draw closer, hooves striking hollow against packed earth. I need space to face them. With a surge of strength, I slam my shield into the infantry line. Bodies tumble backward, their formation breaking.

I spin back toward the fallen standard-bearer, its form still twitching with unnatural motion.

Its skull caves easily beneath my armored boot, ancient bone splintering to dust. The banner it carried lies forgotten in the mud, once proud colors now reduced to tatters, whatever heraldry it bore lost to time.

Before I can recover, their shield wall slams into me. Scores of rusted blades hack at once. My shield catches many, but others strike where I cannot guard.

Chips of bone fly from my arms, my leg is cut clean at the knee by some ancient halberd's curved edge. I topple. They surge forward, a press of bodies, splintered armor grinding against my own.

From the ground, I lash out. My sword carves ankles, shins, anything within reach. I hack apart their supports, sending them crashing down atop me.

The pile grows. Dead soldiers tumble like loose firewood, broken by my blade. I pull myself free, bones reassembling even as I fight.

My missing leg reattaches from fragments called back by magic older than these foes can recall. Standing once more, I press forward, shield rattling as I bash into their second line.

Their weapons ring against my metal plates. My blade answers, these new dead split blackened marrow.

I cut through torsos, split helmets, tear arms from sockets.

Each strike reduces them to heaps of lifeless bone. Now they know the cost of facing me, though they cannot truly know fear.

A horn sounds from the darkness. It must be a relic call, echoing from some commander who still believes in order.

The undead respond, shifting tactics.

A squad with long spears tries to encircle me. They press from both flanks, iron points thrusting at once.

I spin, steel flashing in moonlight. I take two spears at the shoulder, letting them shatter bone, as my blade shears through hafts and skulls.

They fall, and I move again, never allowing myself to be pinned.

More climb from shallow graves at my back. I feel their weapons strike my armor. A sword lodges in my spine.

I reach over my shoulder, wrench it free along with an arm still gripping it. The arm's owner stumbles forward, I slam the hilt of its own sword into its skull, caving it in.

Another tries to tackle me from behind. We tumble to the ground. It rakes at me with rusted daggers.

I stab upward beneath its chin. Bone fragments drizzle down like brittle hail.

To the east, a line of archers appears: emaciated shapes holding bows strung with sinew. They draw back arrows fletched with rotten feathers.

I see their eyeless sockets fix on me. Then arrows fly.

I raise my shield, catch half a dozen shafts that snap or stick. Some arrows bite into my ribs where armor was torn away.

They lodge there, quivering.

Pain does not matter, but I note the force. Another volley comes.

I charge them, sprinting across uneven ground where corpses and shattered mail litter every step.

A mounted knight tries to intercept, lowering a lance aimed at my chest. We meet in a bone-rattling clash.

The lance splinters on my shield, the horse's skull grinds against my blade as I slash across its head.

The horse collapses mid-stride, pitching rider and mount into a heap. I trample them, blade hammering down until neither moves.

By the time I reach the archers, they release a final volley. Arrows punch through gaps in my armor.

My forearm bones crack under a heavy shaft.

I ignore it all, crashing into their ranks. My sword cleaves through three at once, their flimsy ribs collapsing. Another tries to flee.

I tear off its skull and fling it aside.

They come without end. The ground must be layered with centuries of old warriors who never found peace.

Now they rise at the scent of mortal lives sleeping behind me.

I will not let these hungry dead disturb the living.

A pair of hulking shapes emerge from behind a shattered oak trunk. These are larger than the rest, draped in partial plate that might have once belonged to champions.

Each wields a colossal weapon, greatsword and a war-axe. Their heads tilt at my presence. I brace myself.

The greatsword whistles down. I raise my shield, but the impact forces me off my feet, driving me into a pile of broken skeletons.

Before I can rise, the war-axe swings horizontally, catching my midsection and scattering half my ribs. My sword arm strikes blindly.

I hook the blade behind its knee and yank. It topples with a crash. I scramble atop it, sword hacking again and again, splintering its heavy plate until I reach the spine and sever it.

The other brute looms, tearing me free from its comrade's remains. It lifts me overhead, attempts to snap my spine like a twig.

Bones grind, but I do not yield. My sword arm twists, driving steel into its wrist. It drops me.

I fall awkwardly, snatch up a fallen spear from the ground, and hurl it. The spear drives until a skull, pinning it to a half-buried shield.

It struggles, trapped. I rise and finish it with a downward chop that splits helm and bone in one stroke.

A roarless tide surges around me.

I rely on old instincts woven into magic animating these bones.

I hear their clatter, feel their dull presence.

They come from all sides, a sea of dead flesh and rusted steel.

They trip over heaps of their own kind that I have slain. Each time I kill one, two more take its place. It becomes a blur of constant hacking, parrying, stomping.

My shield grows thick with arrows and broken blades embedded in its rim. My sword's edge notches from countless impacts.

Still I fight.

They try to overwhelm me with weight. A throng piles on, grappling and clawing. I feel them tear away armor plates, feel them wrench at my limbs.

My skull is twisted halfway around. My sword arm pinned. For a moment, I vanish beneath a mound of undead bodies, each pushing to claim a piece of me.

The living would be crushed to paste. I am not living.

I let them break me into fragments. My left arm is torn free, my spine cracked apart. They scatter my ribcage in search of something to end.

They do not understand I cannot die this way.

A finger bone, a thighbone, a shard of skull—all slide free from rotten grips and slither back into place.

My sword arm, still holding the blade, saws through ankles until I can stand again, reformed, in their midst.

I explode from the pile, shield bashing a dozen aside, sword hewing through a knot of archers who wandered too close.

More pour in from the west. Some carry old siege weapons—a broken ballista dragged by skeletal horses.

They try to angle it toward me, fumbling at cranks that barely turn. I charge before they can loose a bolt.

I cut down the crew, hack the ballista into kindling. A heavy swing from behind shatters my spine again.

I fall but roll aside, my vertebrae re-linking as I spring up. I take that attacker's head clean off and toss it into the crowd.

Time passes in a haze of combat. Bones crunch, metal grinds, shafts of broken spears litter the field. I have lost count of how many I've slain.

Hundreds? More. The ground is carpeted with their remains. I must ensure none rise again.

But first, I must destroy every last one that still stirs.

A row of halberdiers advances, pushing me toward a rise of earth. Maybe some old hill fort's remains.

They form a bristling hedge of blades. I raise my shield, charge them head-on. The halberds crash down, chopping off parts of me.

I ignore it, smashing through their line, sword flashing in an arc that sends three skulls spinning. A halberd hooks my shield and wrenches it away.

I let it go, hurling myself at them bare-armed, sword in both hands. The world narrows to steel and bone.

I shove one soldier into another, tangling them, then decapitate both. Another swings low. I leap, losing a foot to its blade but cutting it across the helm.

I land on a stump of a leg. My foot bone wriggles out of its killer's ribs and rejoins me a moment later.

They try new tricks. Some undead carry torches, igniting dry brush.

Flames drive shadows into frantic shapes on the ground. They hope to blind me or burn me. But I do not fear flame.

One swings a torch at my face. I slice off its arm and jam the burning brand into another's eye socket. They collapse together into ash and sparks.

The survivors behind the wagons must still be sleeping or huddling in fear. Not one scream from them. Good.

My duty is to keep them safe. To do that, I must push this unending horde back until no more rise.

How many dead soldiers have these lands claimed?

A shriek that is half wind, half memory echoes from a distant ridge. I see a figure clad in ancient plate, more intact than the rest, mounted atop a skeletal charger.

A commander of old armies, perhaps. It lifts a sword etched with runes and points at me. At once, a swarm of newly risen troops emerges from behind it, rushing downhill.

More? I brace, sword raised to meet them, though my shield is lost somewhere.

They crash into me like a wave. Spears and swords thrust from all directions. I spin, blade whirling, hewing limbs, smashing skulls.

Bits of armor and bone rain down. They stab me repeatedly, trying to break me faster than I can reassemble. I lose an arm here, a chunk of spine there, but always I reform.

A kneecap lost beneath some corpse crawls back moments later. I am tireless, and they are mindless.

Eventually, mindless always fails against tireless.

I carve a path.

Moving over torsos and skulls that crunch under my heels. Their numbers thin. The commander watches from the ridge.

I climb toward it, stepping through piles of broken bone. The commander urges its steed forward.

We meet and then we fight.

It raises its rune-carved sword. I see sparks of old power flicker in empty eye sockets. This one might recall a fraction of who it once was.

We cross blades.

Its strikes are precise, each blow aimed to shatter a key bone. It nearly takes off my sword arm at the elbow.

I counter,, my blade scraping along its breastplate, sending up bits and sparks. It counters, thrusting at my skull.

I tilt just enough to spare my head. We fight on a floor of shattered bones.

It tries to drive me back into the masses, but I hold my ground. My sword slips under its guard, bending its breastplate inward.

It snarls silently, hammering at me with its shield. I lose half my ribs. I answer by severing the arm that holds its shield.

The arm falls away, and so does the shield. The commander tries one last desperate cut.

I meet its blade, lock swords, and twist.

Metal shrieks. I pull it close and drive my sword into its helm. The helm cracks, and the spark of awareness tries to remorve.

It slumps in the saddle. I shove it off the horse. The horse rears, tries to bite me. I cleave the horse's skull in two.

The field is quieter now. A few stragglers remain, animated limbs crawling without torsos, headless bodies swinging weapons blindly.

I step through them, chopping methodically. Each strike ends another restless fragment. I move slowly, ensuring none can rise again.

The hush grows as I silence their clattering bones.

Broken weapons lie everywhere. Mounds of armor, skulls, ribs, and femurs form grotesque heaps.

Black fluid, dried marrow turned tar-like, coats my blade and armor. Still, I sense an undertone of energy.

Even now, some might try to reform. The power animating them could linger, waiting to raise these scattered remains again.

I cannot allow that. The living behind me deserve a dawn free of this threat.

I stand amid the carnage, sword raised high. The night air smells of old decay and iron.

My armor hangs in strips. My shield is lost. Arrows protrude from my torso.

Yet I stand. And I hold the blade that remembers older laws than this foul magic.

One word forms at what would be my lips if I had any, "Aeternus."

The sword responds. Ancient runes ignite along its length, pulsing with a cold, pale radiance.

The light spills over the field of slaughter, revealing every shattered helmet, every sundered breastplate, every fragment of bone.

The magic seeps into them like final judgment. I feel resistance, a silent protest from whatever force holds them.

Too late. The blade's power knows its purpose.

Pieces of the undead tremble, then lie still. The echo of their false life snuffs out.

The runes flare brighter, then fade, leaving silence so deep it presses on the senses.

None will rise again. The field, though strewn with horror, is now truly quiet. I lower the sword.

My bones feel heavier as the strange energies settle.

[Victory! Cleansed Battlefield of Undead Legion]

[Level Up! You are now level 8]

The living still sleep behind their barricade.

They know nothing of the struggle that raged in the darkness.

That is how it must be.

I turn back, stepping over tangled remains. My missing shield does not matter. My armor can wait for repair.

Dawn will come soon. With dawn, the survivors will wake to find a morning not cursed by the dead.

They will not see the fields beyond their camp or know how close doom crept. They will load their wagons and continue toward safer lands.

Perhaps they will wonder at footprints and disturbed soil. Perhaps they will guess at a struggle fought on their behalf.

I stand guard still, sword in hand, as night's last hours tick by.

A breeze rustles through distant brush, carrying no moans, no hollow rattling of restless dead.

I have put them to rest forever.

If new threats arise before dawn, I will meet them. If more crawl from old pits, I will break them again.

Yet I sense none near. This night's work is done. The living breathe in calm sleep.

My duty remains, to watch and protect.

I approach the makeshift wall.

I stand just beyond the circle of their camp, reformed bone and old armor, sword angled downward.

There is nothing to announce, no reason to disturb their rest.

They sleep softly, beyond the wagons and stone, never knowing how close undeath came.