I leave Haven's walls behind, shield settled against borrowed bones. The Field of Broken Banners stretches silent beneath open sky. The ancient weapons thrust from cleaner soil now that the heart's corruption fades.

Each step carries me further from walls that shelter life, toward lands where elves once dwelled. A crude barricade of wagons marks where Haven's scavengers dare not pass. Beyond it, ancient cobblestones emerge from wild grass - the old king's road. League markers rise, their surfaces worn but legible. Twenty leagues to the Watchtower of the Dan. Forty to the monastery. Sixty to where Elfheim's spires once pierced clouds.

The first dead appear near sunset. They wear Haven's colors, armor rusted through. These were patrolmen once. Now they walk their routes without purpose, flesh long rotted away.

They turn at my approach, empty sockets fixing on the shield. Recognition sparks nothing in them. Weapons rise. They attack without skill or thought.

My sword meets the first blade. Steel parts ancient bone. The second swings a mace that would crush living ribs. My shield turns the blow. These fragments remember warfare the dead have forgotten. My blade continues its arc, separating skull from spine.

They fall without sound. These are simply dead things, moving without purpose. The shield pulses against my frame, memories of similar battles surfacing through steel.

More shambling forms emerge along the road. Their weapons drag furrows in earth. Their armor hangs in tatters. Some wear Haven's colors. Others bear emblems of kingdoms these fragments almost remember.

None speak. None think. They attack.

My blade ends their wandering. When they press close, the shield creates space. When they swing wild, my sword finds opening. They fall in pieces across stone that remembers busier days.

The road curves between ancient hills. League markers count distance in fallen kingdoms. The grass grows wilder, untouched by living feet for generations.

A patrol of six approaches, weapons held in stripped bone hands. They wear matching armor, moving in formation after centuries of death. The shield catches a blade meant for my skull. My sword removes the arm that wielded it. They press forward, untroubled by loss of limb.

When the last falls, I study their remains. Regular soldiers, not champions. Their weapons show combat against armored foes, but nothing else remains to tell their story.

The Watchtower of the Dan appears near midnight, moonlight catching broken battlements. It rises from the highest hill. Dead things walk its walls - Haven guards mixed with older corpses, moving through patrol routes embedded in decaying memory.

The gate hangs open, rust claiming its hinges. Inside, boot steps echo against stone. The dead fill corridors, continuing duties death should have ended. My sword creates space in narrow halls. The shield pushes them back. When they cluster too tight, I drive through their formation. Ancient steel remembers how to end death's mimicry of life.

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The tower's peak offers clear view across moonlit lands. The road continues north into deeper wilderness. Haven's walls stand distant. Ahead, the first signs of the Endless Rot taint the horizon - trees growing too tall, too twisted.

A bell tolls below, rung by hands that should have rotted centuries ago. Dead things climb the tower, drawn by movement they no longer truly see. The first wave stumbles up spiral stairs, ancient weapons raised.

My sword takes the first skull. The second loses arms still gripping a spear. The third I drive back with the shield, sending it tumbling into those behind. They fall like scattered pins, bones cracking against stone steps.

The dead fill the stairwell. Shields overlap as they march upward, remembering formations they no longer understand. My blade finds gaps their decay creates. The shield breaks their press.

An axe takes my shoulder. No matter. The sword continues its work, gripped by bone fingers that need no joint to swing true. A mace shatters my ribs. The shield compensates, turning blows from a core that needs no protection.

Steel parts bone. Shield breaks stance. They fall in pieces around borrowed feet that never stumble. My shoulder reattaches mid-swing, bones pulled together by purpose they lack.

The stairs grow slick with ancient marrow. A halberd takes my leg at the knee. I fall among them, but falling means nothing to the dead. My sword continues its arc from the ground. The shield pushes me upright as bones snap back into place.

They press into the tower's peak. Archers draw bowstrings with skeletal fingers. Swordsmen advance in broken formations. Camp followers turned soldiers by death's final democracy.

Arrows strike borrowed bones. The shield catches what it can. The rest pass through empty ribs, finding nothing vital to pierce. My blade answers, cutting through archer and swordsman alike.

A sword catches my skull, sending it rolling. The body fights on, guided by purpose deeper than sight. My separated head watches blade and shield continue their work until magic pulls bone back to bone.

Their numbers work against them. The dead tangle with their fallen as they press forward. My sword finds endless targets. The shield creates space their mindless charge instantly fills.

Hours pass. The bell tolls on. The dead march upward without end. My sword arm separates a dozen times. The shield cracks but remembers its shape. These borrowed bones break and reform as battle demands.

When the last one falls, hundreds lie scattered across the tower's peak. They twitch with lingering motion, trying to rise on shattered limbs. Hands grip weapons they no longer recall how to use.

I plant my blade in ancient stone. Power pulses through borrowed bones - something older than the magic driving this frame. Purer.

"Aeternus."

Light erupts from the sword's edge like dawn breaking. It passes through dead flesh and hollow bone. Ancient enchantments shatter like frozen grass. Their remains settle into true death. Weapons fall from fingers that finally release their grip.

The bell falls silent.

The tower stands empty, guardian to a road where only memory walks. Dawn breaks across abandoned battlements. The dead sleep in borrowed halls, their endless march finally ended.

My blade slides home. The shield settles against borrowed bone. Ahead, the road continues north. Behind, Haven's walls rise distant but safe. This tower will serve as waypoint now, cleared for living feet that might someday dare the path again.

These fragments sense the changing air. North, corruption grows stronger. The rot spreads through elder forests. But here, for a space of leagues, only clean death walked.

And now, not even that.

I descend empty steps. The road calls, and these bones remember their purpose.