Now I see why.

  The chamber's darkness parts around its form, segmented body coiled against earthen walls, chitin plate like obsidian.

  Multiple limbs unfold from its segments, too many joints clicking as they reach for huddled villagers.

  The tunnel walls bear deep grooves where it has shaped its hunting grounds, widening passages for its bulk while leaving others deliberately narrow.

  But it's the face that draws these hollow sockets.

  A village elder's face stares from above mandibles that click beneath stolen skin, worn by something that should have no face at all. Eyes flat and wrong watch from skin pulled too tight. The first to feed its hunger.

  The skin shows no decay, no rot, preserved through means these fragments have no memories of.

  Fresh marks score the walls, desperate tallies counting days since it began its hunt. Two weeks of villagers vanishing into the dark. The destruction of Haven's corruption must have drawn it from deeper slumber, ancient evil waking to ancient evil's death.

  Children huddle against parents in shallow alcoves. A young boy steps forward, entranced. The creature's stolen lips move. No sound emerges, yet somehow words form in the air.

  "Come, child," it beckons in the elder's voice, perfect, human, any but. "It's me. I'll lead you home."

  The boy takes another step. His mother reaches for him, fingers clutching empty air.

  My shield settles. The sword rises. The harvest ends here.

  Between me and the villagers writhes corruption given form. Its body resembles a massive centipede, pale segments glistening with mucus that smells of rot and strange spices combined. Six limbs per segment end in razor-sharp appendages, part blade and part claw. Its head turns toward these borrowed bones, revealing not eyes but sensory pits that pulse with recognition beneath the elder's sagging face.

  The creature rises higher, revealing rows of legs beneath its bloated form. Not a simple centipede, but something worse - a harvester of flesh and identity.

  The villagers press tighter against the wall, pulling the entranced boy back. They expected death from above. They never anticipated salvation from a walking skeleton.

  The wyrm-bone plates across my chest expand, preparing for battle. The shield settles more firmly against my arm. The sword pulses with blue light, recognizing corruption that must be cleansed.

  The monster lunges.

  The battle begins.

  My shield meets its charge with ancient metal forged for exactly this purpose. The impact shudders through borrowed bones. The Harvester's front segments compress, absorbing the shock. Three scythe-limbs slide around the shield's edge, seeking vulnerable joints.

  I pivot, bones scraping against packed earth. The sword slices forward, severing the nearest limb at its second joint. Black ichor sprays across tunnel walls. The creature recoils, segments bunching together in momentary retreat.

  The severed limb continues thrashing on the ground. Still dangerous. Still deadly. My boot crushes it, grinding chitin to dust.

  "Run!" A father drags his children toward the tunnel entrance.

  The wrong choice.

  The Harvester's segmented body ripples with sudden motion. It flows across the chamber ceiling, using hundreds of smaller legs to defy gravity. The elder's face watches upside down as its form blocks the exit.

  "Stay with me," it whispers in the elder's voice.

  Another mouth opens beneath the stolen face, dripping venom that sizzles on stone.

  A mother screams as acid drops sear her shoulder. My shield rises, catching the next spray. The metal hisses, blessed alloys fighting corruption.

  I move, following, the sword moves upward, striking where the creature anchors itself to stone. Steel finds a leg cluster, severing dozens in a single sweep. The Harvester drops, segments crashing to earth.

  No time to press advantage.

  I move and motion for villagers to follow.

  They need no second urging. They rush behind these borrowed bones as the sword carves a path toward a different exit.

  The chamber leads to three tunnels. Tooth marks score the left passage entrance. Claw marks frame the right. The center path bears no signs. These fragments choose center.

  The Harvester flows behind, chitin plates scraping stone in rapid pursuit.

  Its stolen voice calls from darkness: "Come back. That's the wrong way! Come back to safety."

  The tunnel narrows, forcing villagers to proceed single file. The ceiling lowers until borrowed bones must crouch to advance. Perfect ambush point. The mission demands perseverance.

  Halfway through, a side passage reveals its grim purpose. A pit lined with sharpened stakes holds the remains of earlier victims. Bones picked clean share space with fresher corpses. The Harvester's larder. A skull stares upward, a golden medallion still hanging around neck, a missing guard captain, sent to investigate some days past.

  The creature's clicking mandibles echo closer.

  No time to mourn the fallen. The sword leads onward, guiding villagers through.

  The tunnel opens into another chamber. Relief turns to horror. Cocoons hang from the ceiling, wrapped figures suspended in threads. Some still move. Some have been still for days.

  A girl points upward, voice broken with terror. "My brother!"

  Above, a fresh cocoon twitches frantically.

  The Harvester had been busy .

  No time to free him. The creature flows into the chamber behind us, segments compressing to fit through the narrow passage. Its mass expands as it emerges, limbs unfolding from hidden joints. The elder's face now shares space with another, the blacksmith's, newly harvested, skin still flushed with lingering blood.

  Two faces. Two voices.

  "Come to us," they speak as one.

  The villagers press against the far wall.

  No exit visible beyond. These fragments stand between prey and predator.

  My shield braces against stone as the sword points toward the abomination.

  The Harvester splits, segments dividing into two smaller horrors, each crowned with a stolen face. They circle in opposite directions, trying to flank.

  My shield tracks the elder's face while the sword follows the blacksmith's. The creatures coordinate their attack, striking simultaneously from both sides. Scythe-limbs scrape across wyrm-bone plates and find purchase between ribs. Borrowed bones crack, but purpose remains unbroken.

  The sword sweeps low, severing leg-clusters on the blacksmith-horror. It stumbles, balance lost.

  The shield slams upward, catching the elder-horror beneath its stolen face. Mandibles crack against Haven's shield.

  A child screams. Above, cocoons swing wildly as the chamber ceiling cracks. A new horror drops through the opening, a third segment, wearing the guard captain's preserved face.

  Three enemies. Three fronts. These fragments divide resources accordingly, a will that splits and guides bones that move separately.

  My leg launches upward, shattering against the newcomer's underside.

  No matter. The mission continues. The shield blocks the elder-horror's renewed assault while the sword pins the blacksmith-segment against stone. Borrowed bones fight on, even as they scatter.

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  The third horror grabs a child.

  My severed leg bone flies through air, thrown with purpose. Strikes the creature's sensory pit. The child drops, scrambles away.

  The guard-horror turns its attention to these fragments, recognizing the greater threat.

  Three segments converge, flowing together once more. The Harvester reforms, now crowned with three faces staring from different angles. Its mass swells as hidden chambers in its segmented body flood with ichor. Preparing for something worse.

  One chance. These fragments scan the chamber, seeking advantage in stone and shadow. There, a thin crevice behind the villagers. Too small for the horror's bulk, but perhaps large enough for humans to squeeze through.

  A crack. I point with sword.

  The mother hesitates, looking up at her suspended son. "We can't leave them!"

  The sword angles toward the crevice.

  Kin will follow after.

  The Harvester senses the plan.

  Its segments surge forward, trying to block escape. My shield meets its charge, ancient metal against chitin plate. The impact shatters bone, sending fragments skittering across stone.

  The sword slashes upward, severing support threads. Cocoons drop. The shield, now held by a severed arm, positions to break their fall. Villagers grab their cocooned kin, dragging them toward the crevice.

  The Harvester floods the chamber with webbing, sticky streams that harden on contact. The fluid catches several villagers, binding limbs to torso. These fragments focus purpose. The wyrm-bone plates expand, cracking hardened silk.

  "Leave me," a man cries, webbing hardening around his legs. "Save my daughter!"

  No one left behind.

  These bones remember older oaths. The sword slices through hardened strands, precision cutting bonds without harming flesh. The father stumbles free, scooping his child as he runs.

  The Harvester towers overhead, segments stacking until it scrapes the chamber ceiling. All three faces turn toward borrowed bones. Voices emerge from multiple mouths.

  "Whatever you are," they speak in unison. "You'll join our collection."

  Its segments part, revealing the remains of warriors embedded in its flesh. Ancient armor, blessed weapons, bone fragments preserved as trophies. These fragments recognize kindred purpose in their remains.

  Not the first guardian to fall opposing this horror.

  A knight's helm, still containing a skull. A priestess's staff, clutched by preserved hands. A dwarf's axe. All claimed by the creature's hunger.

  The last villager squeezes through the crevice. The mission narrows to pure combat. These fragments need no retreat, no respite. The sword hums with purpose, recognizing prey that has feasted on too many worthy opponents.

  The Harvester attacks with everything at once. Scythe-limbs slice from multiple angles. Acid sprays from secondary maws. Webbing erupts from specialized segments. The shield catches what it can, but borrowed bones shatter beneath overwhelming assault.

  Ribs crack. Arms separate. Skull fragments scatter across stone. But purpose endures beyond physical form. The sword continues its attacks, even gripped by fingers no longer attached to hand or wrist.

  The Harvester flows toward the crevice, intent on pursuing easier prey.

  These fragments will not allow it. My scattered bones pull together through will alone. The shield drags itself forward, positioning to block the narrow passage. The sword strikes at passing segments, drawing the creature's rage back to broken bones.

  Shattered jaw faces ancient hunger.

  The horror turns, segments compressing with what might be rage. It abandons pursuit, focusing full attention on these stubborn fragments. Fresh limbs unfold from segmented plates, each tipped with barbed hooks designed to tear bone from bone.

  Let it try. These fragments have faced worse.

  The Harvester surges forward. My shield meets its charge, braced against stone. The impact drives blessed metal into the floor, cracking rock. But the barrier holds. The sword circles around, striking where segments meet tunnel walls.

  Black ichor paints stone as steel finds vulnerable flesh. The creature recoils, segments bunching to protect the wound. These fragments press forward, relentless in pursuit. The sword traces patterns older than this cycle of death and duty, cutting through natural armor with purpose honed across countless battles that build on old wounds.

  The horror retreats toward the chamber's far side, its segments leaving trails of ichor across stone. A hidden passage reveals itself as the creature backs into darkness.

  These fragments follow, undeterred by growing shadows.

  The tunnel beyond winds downward, walls slick with secretions that glow with faint bioluminescence. The ceiling rises, then falls, passing through chambers clearly designed for ambush. The Harvester leaves its mark on walls and floor, not just ichor, but discarded armor. A trail of trophies from challengers who came before.

  A crusader's gauntlet, fingers still curled around a broken sword hilt. A ranger's leather helm, split open like its wearer's skull. A mage's staff, crystal shattered but still pulsing with fading power.

  Each tells a story of failed opposition. Each marks a spot where the creature killed a worthy foe. Each serves as warning for what awaits these fragments.

  No matter. The mission tolerates no hesitation.

  The passage opens abruptly into vertical space - a shaft descending into darkness. The Harvester clings to the far wall, segments spread wide across stone. Three stolen faces stare across the gap, watching as borrowed bones assess the obstacle.

  No simple crossing. Platforms of stone jut from the shaft walls, irregular and treacherous. The creature waits, knowing few pursuers survive this challenge. It expects hesitation.

  It misunderstands the nature of these fragments.

  My shield secures to back plates. The sword angles downward. Borrowed bones launch across the gap, legs driving with purpose that transcends physical limitation. The leap falls short, but hands find purchase on the nearest platform edge.

  The Harvester's segments ripple with what might be surprise. It hadn't expected continued pursuit. Scythe-limbs slice toward extended arms, seeking to send borrowed bones tumbling into darkness.

  The sword flashes upward, parrying strikes meant to dislodge this frame. These fragments swing to the platform's underside, avoiding the main assault. Momentum carries borrowed bones to the next outcropping, then the next, circling the shaft in rapid descent.

  The creature flows down the wall in pursuit, movements no longer measured and precise. Urgency drives its segments faster than caution warrants. It slips, several segments losing purchase. Not falling, but no longer in control.

  These fragments continue their spiraling path downward. The shaft widens into the creature's true lair. A vast chamber carved from bedrock, walls lined with preserved faces arranged in grotesque tapestry. Hundreds of victims stare with empty eyes, skin stretched over stone in mockery of life.

  Ancient banners hang between the faces, tattered remnants bearing sigils of kingdoms long fallen. Weapons rust in piles, armor decays in heaps. The Harvester's collection spans centuries of opposition. Champions, heroes, ordinary defenders - all ultimately food for ancient hunger.

  And in the chamber's center, a pit descends into true darkness. The source of corruption.

  The Harvester flows toward the pit's edge, segments rearranging to form a defensive ring. All three stolen faces align toward borrowed bones, watching with flat, wrong eyes. Its segments split, revealing the true horror beneath natural armor - a pulsing mass of organs that glow with unnatural light.

  "You are not the first," the three faces speak in unison. "You will not be the last."

  Its segments part further, displaying embedded trophies from favored kills. A paladin's cuirass, holy symbols still glowing faintly. A witch hunter's mask, eyes replaced with gleaming gems. A king's crown, bent and broken around the skull that wore it.

  Each trophy pulses with fading power. Each represents a worthy opponent consumed by endless hunger.

  Knowledge transfers between dead things. Their final strikes guide my sword arm. Their discovered vulnerabilities become targets. The collective memory of failed attempts becomes strategy.

  The Harvester senses the change. Its segments compress, trying to protect spots where others had struck before falling. Too late. These bones remember what they never personally learned.

  My sword traces patterns discovered by fallen champions. Steel slides between chitin plates they died testing. Black ichor fountains as blessed metal finds ancient flesh. The Harvester thrashes, limbs striking wildly as borrowed bones press the advantage.

  Scythe-limbs catch my shield arm, tearing it from socket. No matter. The sword needs no defense. My leg shatters beneath concentrated assault. No matter. The mission continues. Ribs splinter as barbed hooks find purchase between plates.

  No matter. Purpose endures.

  The creature rises to its full height, segments stacking until it towers overhead. A desperate gambit. It exposes previously hidden vulnerabilities, sacrificing defense for overwhelming offense.

  The sword exploits the opening. Steel drives upward into pulsing organs. Black ichor floods the chamber floor. The Harvester's segments convulse.

  Light flares from blessed steel, burning corruption from within. The creature's segments thrash, then grow still. Its stolen faces crumble to dust, returning to the elements that bore them. What remains settles into the pit from which it emerged, generations of horror returning to darkness.

  Then reform. Bone finds bone with purpose that transcends physical form. The shield arm reconnects. The leg straightens. Ribs align to proper position. The mission continues, but this threat has ended.

  The vertical shaft presents no obstacle to ascent. These fragments find a different path upward, following trails left by the creature's past hunts. Each chamber passed reveals new horrors, and new survivors. Cocoons line walls and ceilings, some still containing living victims.

  The webbing parts beneath my blade. Another survivor falls free, caught by shield arm before striking stone. Her eyes fix on these hollow sockets, seeing death but sensing purpose. No screams now. Terror gives way to desperate hope.

  The chamber holds more cocoons than first sight revealed. They hang in layers, some fresh, others bearing weeks of dust. The horror stored its food carefully, preserving what it could not immediately consume.

  Steel cuts through ancient strands, releasing bodies one by one. Some breathe. Others rot. The shield catches the living, guiding them to solid ground. My blade continues its work, memories of other rescues guiding each cut.

  A child's hand twitches in translucent silk. The webbing parts. He falls into waiting bone arms, chest rising with shallow breaths. His sister, found moments before, reaches for him with trembling fingers.

  Layer by layer, the harvest reveals itself. Bodies wrapped in different stages of the horror's process. The freshest cocoons pulse with life. Others hang still, faces frozen in final terror. The shield guides survivors toward the chamber entrance while steel frees more victims.

  The horror's preservation methods become clear. Deeper cocoons show signs of careful feeding - precise cuts where it extracted sustenance while keeping prey alive. These fragments recognize efficiency in its cruelty. The dead remember such tactics.

  Black ichor stains the webbing near the chamber's peak, marking where the horror dragged struggling victims. Steel reaches higher, parting strands thick with age. More bodies. More faces. The horror's larder spans generations of Haven's missing.

  Borrowed bones stretch toward the highest layers. The sword cuts through support strands, letting ancient cocoons fall to waiting shield. Dust-covered silk crumbles at the slightest touch. What remains inside speaks to years of patient hunting.

  Hours pass as the last cocoon yields its occupant. The tunnel system floods with torchlight as villagers from above, emboldened by the creature's death, venture down to find their missing kin.

  They stare in silence as a skeleton leads their lost back to the light of torches. Some will recover. Some already stand beyond mortal aid. The mother clutches her son, now freed from silken prison. Her eyes meet hollow sockets, understanding passing between living and dead.

  "What are you?" she asks, voice thick with wonder and lingering fear.

  These fragments have no answer she would comprehend. The sword cleans itself of ancient corruption. The wyrm-bone plates seal cracks through will alone.

  The mission resumes. Other threats await. Other horrors hunt in darkness.

  The dead remember duty longest. Some oaths outlast even death itself.