The ground trembles beneath borrowed bones. Heat pulses through ancient soil, turning corrupted moss to ash. These fragments remember similar tremors, when demon lords walked the Field of Broken Banners, when hope broke against darkness.

My sword rises as shadows gather south. The air splits like torn fabric, reality parting around a form too large for mortal understanding. Wings of smoke and flame spread across the twilight sky.

[Ancient Evil Detected]

[Warning: Duke of Hell Approaches]

[Threat Level: Far Exceeds Current Capabilities]

The demon lord emerges, a tower of burning darkness wearing armor forged in hell's deepest pits. Its weapons are hunger and despair given form. Each step scorches earth that already been scorched before.

These fragments know this being, or one like it. Memories surface of the final battle, how such creatures broke the 13th Army's lines, how mortal steel melted before their touch.

The Duke's burning gaze fixes on my frame.

Its laugh shakes loose stones from ancient graves.

"A skeleton thinks it's a guard?" it speaks in voices that crack stone. "Your borrowed bones cannot bar my path."

My sword answers for me. The blade scrapes a line across black soil, here I stand.

"Aeternus."

The word carries no weight here. Holy light flickers from the blade, nothing against an inferno. The Duke's gauntlet closes around the beam, crushed and then forgotten.

It moves and strikes with massive form. My armor shatters on impact, ancient steel turned to vapor by hellforged weapons.

The next blow scatters these bones across scorched earth. No matter. This frame pulls together, fragments seeking fragments. I rise again as the demon's blade descends.

Sword meets black steel with a sound like worlds ending. My frame explodes apart once more. The Duke's power tears through magical bonds that hold these bones as one.

But purpose drives each piece to reform.

Again I stand.

Again I raise my sword.

"Persistent echo," the demon mocks. "You face a fraction of the strength that broke armies. What hope have these borrowed bones?"

Hope belongs to the living. These fragments know only duty.

I need not hope to stand my guard.

My sword meets hellforged steel again. The impact shatters both arms, sends ribs scattering like thrown sticks.

The Duke's blade burns with fires that burn away the bones of the wyrm.

No matter.

These fragments pull together, magic drawing splinters from scorched soil.

Each piece remembers its place, driven by purpose deeper than death.

"You persist." The demon's voice cracks more stones. "Yet you understand, this frame you wear, these borrowed bones, they cannot match my strength."

My reformed hands grip on the blad tighter. The blade remembers older magics, but even its light seems dim against hell's fire.

The Duke moves like burning smoke. Its next strike tears my skull from spine, sends it rolling across battlefield soil.

My headless frame fights on, sword guided by memories of countless warriors.

The body knows its purpose even when scattered.

Black flames wash over borrowed bones. Armor meant to turn mortal steel melts like wax. The other bones that reinforced this frame crack under infernal heat.

Still these fragments fight. Still they reform.

"Fascinating." The demon lord's burning gaze follows my bones as they crawl together. "I have no been this entertained in an age. Do you know why you rise? What compels you forward? Unusual, to find such prey wandering the unclaimed lands. Most mortals know better than to travel outside their protected territories."

I stand again, slower now. Each reformation comes harder, the magic binding these bones stretched thin by hellfire's touch. But stand I must. Each moment here is another moment for the refugees to flee.

The Duke's blade takes my sword arm at the shoulder. Before I can recover, its gauntlet crushes my ribcage. Bones spray outward, charred black by its burning touch.

My skull watches from where it fell as pieces of this frame struggle to rejoin. Some fragments crumble to ash, destroyed by power beyond their bearing.

Still enough remain. Still duty drives them to rise.

"Small guardian," the demon's laughter shakes more stones loose. "I could end this farce with a thought. Yet your persistence intrigues me. What drives death to defy its betters?"

The last intact pieces of this frame pull together. Not enough now to form a complete skeleton, but enough to grip a sword. Enough to stand.

Sword feels heavier, its steel marked by hellfire. But it rises once more against the dark.

The Duke's next strike will likely scatter these bones beyond recovery.

Yet they rise. Yet they stand.

Some duties transcend even death's limitations.

These borrowed bones remember what they were called to do, delay, protect.

Each reformation serves that duty.

My incomplete frame lurches forward. Aeternus cuts through empty air as the Duke flows aside like burning smoke.

Its counterattack removes both legs at the knees. No matter. These arms drag ruined bone across scorched earth. The sword remembers its purpose even as this form fails.

"Such desperation." The demon's voice cracks more of my bones. "For what? The living you guard will burn all the same."

The hellforged blade descends. I roll aside, losing more ribs to its burning edge. Black flames eat into ancient bone, turning marrow to ash.

Still these fragments fight. Still duty drives them.

What remains of my frame swings upward. Sword meets hellforged steel. The impact shatters my remaining arm, sends bone shards flying like broken stars.

My skull watches from blood-soaked soil as the last pieces try to crawl together. The magic that binds these borrowed bones stretches thinner with each reformation.

Yet still they answer duty's call. Three ribs. Half a spine. One arm missing fingers.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Not enough left to stand, barely enough to grip a sword. But enough to fight.

"Remarkable." The Duke's burning gaze follows my fragments' struggle. "Even now you resist. Tell me, little guardian, what memories drive these bones? What echoes of life give them such purpose?"

I cannot answer. These borrowed bones remember too many last stands, too many final charges. Each fragment carries the weight of ancient oaths.

The demon's blade comes down again. What remains of my frame raises the sword one final time.

Steel meets steel. The impact scatters my last fragments to ash and ember.

Only my skull remains, hollow sockets watching as hell's champion strides north toward those I swore to protect.

The magic pulls weaker now, trying to draw new bones from battlefield soil. But the Duke's power has burned too much.

Not enough remains to reform this frame.

Yet still duty calls. Still purpose drives these fragments.

Even a skull can remember its oaths. Desperation knows no shape. The compulsion drives what remains of this consciousness through soil rich with ancient death.

My skull's empty sockets seek any fragment that might serve.

A rat's spine, curved wrong but strong.

A raven's hollow bones, corruption-touched but still sound.

Ribs from creatures that died when darkness first claimed these lands.

The magic pulses desperate now, pulling fragments never meant to join.

A serpent's vertebrae. A wolf's jaw beneath my human skull.

Things that crawled and flew and stalked, all dead, all answering duty's final call.

Purpose cares nothing for proper form.

My new frame rises, a horror of mismatched bones.

Limbs bend at impossible angles, joints move wrong against nature's law.

Borrowed wings spread tattered between reaching claws. A tail of fused finger bones lashes soil.

[Warning: Unstable Form Detected]

[Emergency Reformation Complete]

[Caution: Structure Highly Volatile]

The Duke turns away from the North to once more face me, burning eyes widening enjoying what he sees. "What manner of desperation drives you to this?"

I care not for his mockery. This monstrous form launches forward, faster than human bones could move.

Wingclaws slash while serpent-spine coils.

The demon's blade burns through corrupted bone, but there are always more fragments waiting in ancient soil.

I am no longer death's champion, but death itself reshaped by need. Horror turned against horror, wrong against wrong.

The compulsion screams through every twisted piece. North. The refugees. Duty.

Some duties are worth any cost.

This new form moves.

Wolf-jaw snaps at hellforged steel while raven-wings scatter burning ash.

Each strike that destroys twisted bone only drives these fragments to pull more from cursed soil.

"Abomination," the Duke's laughter cracks stone. "You remake yourself into corruption to fight corruption?"

My serpent-spine coils as rat-claws scrabble through dirt. A deer's ribs cage my core, already blackening from hell's heat.

No matter.

More bones wait in ancient graves.

The demon's blade sheers through makeshift wings. Black flames consume borrowed fragments. But the compulsion drives this consciousness deeper into battlefield soil, pulling anything that might serve.

Bat bones replace burned wings. Foxes' teeth line reformed jaws. This shape holds no pride, no purpose but necessity.

The Duke's power floods the field, turning bone to ash faster than this frame can rebuild. Yet still fragments answer duty's call. Still twisted pieces rise to replace what burns.

"More!" hell's champion mocks. "Yet even this corruption-form cannot stand before me."

My answer comes in desperate motion. Scorpion-tail assembled from finger bones strikes at burning armor. Claws built from a hundred small creatures tear at wings of smoke.

The demon's count k scatters this patchwork frame across scorched ground. But blood-soaked soil offers more fragments. Always more.

What rises now barely remembers shape. A writhing mass of bone and purpose, held together by desperation and dying magic.

But still it fights. Still it stands between darkness and those it must protect.

The Duke's blade burns through a spine formed from countless small things. No matter. These fragments pull a centipede's skeletal segments from ancient soil.

Anything to keep moving. Anything to stand.

"Why persist?" Hell's champion asks as flames consume borrowed wings. "What drives death to such depths?"

If this twisted frame could speak, would it tell of Emmy's small fingers clutching rusted armor? ?

But these fragments have no voice. Only purpose.

A hundred rabbits' bones form new legs as the old burn away. A bear's skull joins my human one, giving two sets of snapping jaws.

The magic binding these pieces stretches thinner, failing under hell's power. Yet still they answer need's call.

Still they rise. Black flames wash over this horror-shape. The Duke's laughter shakes more bones loose from battlefield soil.

"Look at what you've become, guardian. This twisted thing of desperate parts."

My answer comes in motion - eagle talons tear at burning armor while snake fangs strike at smoke-wing joints. Each piece burns away instantly, replaced by whatever fragments the soil offers.

A constant reformation of wrong things serving right purpose. The compulsion screams through every borrowed bit.

North. Always north. The refugees need time. Need distance. Need hope.

Let this frame become abomination. Let it break every natural law. These fragments remember only duty, even as they forget proper shape.

The demon's blade descends again. What rises to meet it now bears no resemblance to anything that lived. Just bone and purpose twisted together, held by desperation and failing magic.

But still it fights. Still it stands. For Emmy. For Sarah. For seventeen souls who need more time, and the hundreds more beyond them.

"Such corruption to save so few," the Duke's voice shatters more borrowed fragments.

But it's not just seventeen. These twisted pieces remember Haven's walls. Remember children playing in sunlit streets. Remember hope that still lives because darkness hasn't won everywhere.

My horror-frame reforms again. Owl bones for better sight. Wolf spine for stronger strike. A thousand tiny fragments from creatures that died defending their own, now joined in desperate unity.

"They'll burn regardless," hell's champion promises as flames consume this makeshift form. "Haven will fall. All realms fall."

Not today. Not while any fragment remains to rise. The magic stretches impossibly thin now. Each reformation pulls weaker pieces from cursed soil.

Bird hollows splinter. Rat bones crack. The demon's power burns through faster than this consciousness can rebuild.

But beyond these seventeen souls, beyond Haven's walls, life continues. Children grow. Gardens bloom. People remember how to laugh.

Worth any price. Worth becoming horror. Worth breaking every natural law.

The Duke's blade descends again. This time what rises is barely more than crawling bone-truth: that some purposes transcend proper form, that duty knows no shape, that even corruption can serve protection's cause.

"What are you?" Hell's champion demands as flames consume another desperate shape.

Not champion now. Not knight. Just borrowed pieces given purpose by need. Just duty twisted by desperation into forms that never should exist.

Another twisted form burns away. The soil offers fewer fragments now - too many turned to ash by hell's flames.

What rises barely holds shape: a crawling mass of mismatched bone held together by fading magic and raw need.

"Fascinating." The Duke's burning gaze follows each desperate reformation. "You know you cannot win. Cannot delay me much longer. Yet still these fragments defy their better."

A crow's wing. A snake's ribs. A fox's jaw. They join in ways nature never intended, driven by purpose that transcends proper form.

"Perhaps that's the revelation." Hell's champion muses as flames consume another shape. "Not what you are, but what drives you. These fragments remember something older than corruption, don't they?"

Black fire burns away borrowed legs. No matter. A scorpion's segments provide new motion. Always forward. Always between darkness and those who need protection.

"I've broken armies," the demon lord continues. "Shattered champions. Corrupted the pure. But you... you're already broken. Already shattered. Yet somehow more pure in purpose than any living knight."

More bones burn to ash. The magic pulls weaker now, scraping battlefield soil for any fragment that might serve. A rat's spine. A raven's claws.

A child's finger bones, centuries dead.

"Tell me, little horror," the Duke's voice cracks stone. "How many times will you rebuild? How many wrong shapes will you wear? What price will these fragments pay for duty?"

If this twisted frame could answer, it would say: Any. All. Every shape. Every fragment.

Until no bone remains in blood-soaked soil. Until the last spark of magic fades.

Until they're safe.

The last coherent shape burns away. Only scattered fragments remain now - tiny bone splinters dragging themselves through ash-choked soil.

The magic flickers weaker with each passing moment, barely enough to animate these desperate pieces.

"Such dedication," the Duke muses as flames consume another attempt at form. "To reduce yourself to this... this crawling desperation. This thing of pure purpose."

Can't reform properly anymore. Can't rise. Can't fight. Just mindless motion forward, forward, always forward.

Duty stripped to its barest essence.

My human skull lies sideways in scorched earth, watching through hollow sockets as the last bone fragments twitch and spasm. The magic stretches impossibly thin, trying to pull anything useful from battlefield soil.

But there's nothing left unburned.

Still these pieces try to move. Still they answer purpose's call.

A horn sounds in the distance. Deep. Resonant. Wrong.

The Duke's burning gaze turns north, beyond Haven's walls. "Ah. It seems I have overstayed."

Hell's champion steps over my scattered remains. "Rest now, little horror. You've earned that much. Few things surprise me anymore, but this... this determination..."

The demon's wings spread, smoke and flame painting twisted shadows across ruined ground. "Perhaps we'll meet again, when you've found new bones to wear."

Darkness sweeps over battlefield soil as the Duke takes flight. But these fragments can't track its departure. The magic fades rapidly now, purpose dimming like a guttering candle.

The last bone splinters stop twitching. The final spark of animation flickers out.

Consciousness fragments, scatters like the bones it tried to hold together. Borrowed memories fade into darkness.

Emmy's face. Sarah's nod. Merik's quiet strength. Haven's walls...

The compulsion pulls one final time, then...

Nothing.

[Status: Magical Energy Depleted]

[Warning: Critical Damage to All Systems]

[Emergency Shutdown Initiated]

Darkness claims what remains of borrowed purpose.

The battlefield grows still.

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