So… this is it.

Great plumes of virulent, blackened smoke darkened the sky. The source of this flourishing biome of poisoned fog lay in the rampant fires that consumed great swaths of forestland in the distance, kilometers away from the barren plateau of the Aszod shipbreaking yard. Even further into the distance, past an endless wasteland of perpetual devastation, lay the blazing wreckage of a once great city, its towers long since reduced to molten cinders, the bones of its residents smoldering slag in the wake of callous devastation.

Reach, the last, greatest, bastion of mankind, had been sundered by the overwhelming might of alien hatred and religious fervor.

Noble Six, seated within the magnetic accelerator cannon that had saved not just a halcyon cruiser, but the hope for a human future, at least as he understood it, gazed up into a sky no longer made sovereign by mankind. Their claim had been usurped, and they were left with less than nothing, just the shattered hulks of broken starships and the fractured skeleton of a once indomitable orbital defense grid

His stargazing, an idle activity led on by the finality of his existence, had been obstructed as his visor polarized, his indolent focus drawn now by the detonation of something in low atmosphere. The blinding flash, mitigated by his VISR, allowed him to peer into the active corona of a dying starship. He then watched, in numb apathy, as the last UNSC ship, the mighty Trafalgar, was split from stem to stern by a lance of projected energy jutting from the prow of a colossal Covenant warship. The supercarrier, once the pride of the Epsilon Eridani fleet, and the heart of Reach's defense, was torn apart by a cascade of rapid detonations originating from deep within its hull, likely the cook-off of stored munitions, Noble Six theorized as he watched the ship begin its slow, but inevitable orbital decline.

The spartan calculated the seconds, an offhand project fueled by his dispiritedness, his count reaching twenty-three before the shockwave hit. He felt the force, even from the surface, as the wave of sound crashed into him, pushing him into the cushioned upholstery of the operating chair. The unclasped buckles of his seat fluttered in the stirred winds and upturned grit of the desert sands.

A whirlwind of debris fell upon the plateau in a heavy blanket thick enough to darken the light from the local star, his shields erupting into a flaring collage of golden colors under the barrage of loose stones and dirt. He endured the assault in silence, letting the environmental fury wash over him as his thoughts wandered, aimless and without bearing.

He was going to die here.

There was no use in entertaining any other possibility, and he had no desire to ignore the obvious inevitability of his situation. He had no means to make it off planet, and even if he did he'd be killed before he could even escape the atmosphere. The surface was swarming with legions of Covenant infantry, and entire continents had already been cleansed by the fleet in orbit. He doubted it would be long before their plasma projectors were turned towards this place. For the first time in his career, Noble Six was entirely out of options. Nothing he could do would get him out of this one alive. For once his brute strength and martial cunning would not afford him the means of survival.

A small, infinitesimal part of the spartan, wondered that even if he had the opportunity, would he take it? Survival had never really been a primary concern for him. As far as he was concerned, he had no greater expectations than what was right here, in this very moment as he looked out upon a burning world once more revealed as the dust settled. If this was to be his final hours, his last moments as a human being, then so be it. This was always the way it was going to be, and he was honestly surprised that it had taken this long. His only concern was on how many of these alien monsters he could take out with him before he punched out. After all, even if this was to be his end, he would not go quietly.

This time, there was nothing left to hold him back.

Something closely akin to a sigh slipped past his lips as he slowly rose from the operator's chair of the cannon, once a device of menial labor, used to eject the unsalvageable refuse of decommissioned ships from Reach's surface, had been appropriated for noble purpose before its end, responsible for the destruction of not only eight phantom dropships, but two Covenant corvettes.

He brushed a gauntlet across the metallic finish of the command console, a terse nod of appreciation passing through him as he jumped down to the gantry below. His boots made contact with the metal walkway with a deep clang that reverberated through the floor as he spent a moment to adjust himself, taking stock of the inventory that he'd need for his final push.

Out in the distance he could see the sloping profiles of several ships as they approached Aszod, no doubt drawn by the recent battle that had taken place. He counted four phantoms, and after a quick calculation, factored the chances of success against a platoon's worth of Covenant infantry.

The number 14 stared mockingly at him from his HUD's ammunition counter, and he looked down to the MA37 rifle in his hands, the weapon nearly as battered and scarred as the armor of its wielder. A glance further down revealed the barren magnetic holster where his sidearm should be, and the faintest trace of a frown crossed his face. The fight to secure the MAC emplacement has been fierce and brutal, leaving him in his current predicament with little means of maintaining a ranged offensive.

Just have to make it count. He decided as he ejected the magazine, examined the brass cartridges within, and slapped it back into place.

Musing on his plan of attack, the spartan was momentarily surprised when a friendly IFF pinged his nav system. A waypoint appeared in front of his vision, the blue arrow situated somewhere down a flight of steps to his left. Almost entirely confident in the fact he was the last human left alive on this planet, but seeing no reason to decline solving this peculiarity, Noble Six decided to humor himself and followed the marker, taking the stairs down to the lowest level of the construction gantry. Underneath the crenelated boardwalk of iron girders below the MAC cannon, he passed a string of broken corpses, the shredded forms of the Covenant's elite infantry intermixed with the heaps of dead that were little more than chaff to the alien empire's unrelenting military machine.

Kicking the bullet riddled corpse of a grunt off the walkway during his idle inspection, he paused, surprised at the revealed source of the IFF marker.

The spartan slowly moved to the figure hunched against the wall, coming to a soft kneeling position beside the armored form arched against the rock face pressed against the gantry. Noble four, despite all expectations, was not dead. Having written him off the moment the elite's plasma sword punched through his breastplate, Six was astonished to see that Emile was still alive… for the most part.

"Glad…" The other spartan-III coughed violently, a shudder wracking his frame as he struggled to speak. "Glad to see you made it to the party." His inflection was wet and ridden with airless gasps, bereft of the usual roughened wit so synonymous with his name. Six did not need to see the man's face to know the truth. The center of his breastplate had caved in, the rim of torn metal still a dull cherry red from the confined plasma that had cleaved effortlessly through the heavy titanium armor. Blood pooled around his legs, the crimson fluid taking a slight bluish hue from the amalgamated hydrostatic gel that oozed from the gashes in his suit.

Noble Four was a man not long for this world, and no manner of battlefield first aid could change that. It was a miracle that he had survived this long, and still been able to fight; judging from the bodies around him that Six knew had not been there before he manned the surface MAC. If anything, it spoke of the true tenacity of the man before him.

The spartan nodded to his squadmate, the can of biofoam in his hand slowly returning into one of the kevlar pouches sewn in his supply vest. "Wouldn't have missed it." He chuckled softly as he set himself down next to Noble Four, his armored bulk hitting the ground heavily. The man let loose a substantial sigh as he turned his gaze out into the ashen sky of the doomed world they had all fought so hard to defend. He would not have to wait much longer, and the spartan decided there was little reason to concern himself with the inevitable.

The inescapability of his demise was, in a way, somewhat of a liberating sensation. There was no reason to dwell on a future he would not be part of, no point on thrashing against the certainty of the path ahead of him. And that allowed Six to, for the first time in his career, practice the freedom of acceptance, to embrace fate on his own terms.

He only found it unfortunate that it would be a singular experience. His death would be the first, and last, thing he could call his own.

"One hell of a show, ain't it?" Noble Four asked quietly, the tenuous strength in his voice fading as he also partook in observance of Reach's broken skyline, populous as it was by the invading craft of a merciless alien empire. The Covenant armada clouded above the fallen world, uncountable in number, a matchless horde immune to any human opposition. They had won this day, struck a devastating, perhaps irrecoverable blow against the forces of mankind, but not without sacrifice. The Covenant had bled heavily for their victory, deeper than any battle previous. The wreckage of their warships littered orbit in the hundreds, and their armies had been blunted by the tenacity of human perseverance.

The fall of Reach would not go forgotten, not by mankind, nor her enemies.

Dwelling upon such musings, Noble Six nodded silently in agreement.

It was indeed one hell of a show.

"Do you….."

A long pause of silence stretched between them, and Six's expression hardened, softening only when Emiel's voice came back, cold and tired.

"Do you think…. do you think they'll remember us?"

The spartan thought deeply upon Emile's words, upon the unrecognized nature of their innumerable heroics, and the hopelessness of their cause, even as the IFF flickered into nonexistence, and the steps above him thundered with the marching force of a ravening horde of spiteful aliens, vying for human blood.

So it was, that Spartan B312 came upon his answer as the first elite charged down the stairs, its head snapping back as a flurry of bullets scythed through its shields and blew out the back of its skull. As the alien leading the advance tumbled down the steps, the warrior behind it, bedecked in bright crimson armor, let loose an infuriated roar as it sprayed the gantry with a fusillade of blue energy.

The empty rifle that was launched across the expanse and cracked against its skull, hit with enough force to shatter its shield. And before it could grunt in surprised exclamation, an armored fist punched through its throat. Shattered teeth clattered onto the spartan's bulky vambrace as he pushed up the stairs, dragging the alien at his forefront, the hulking saurian choking on its own blood in the process. Several plasma bolts struck the back of the elite before it made contact with the next alien in line, who crumbled as a knife was buried to the hilt in its forehead.

Stringing himself seamlessly into his next action, the spartan rolled over the spent bodies of his adversaries, retrieving the discarded weapons of the fallen as he spun across the floor, his spinal plate skidding off the ground as he unloaded the dual plasma rifles, the enemy retaliation that tracked after him leaving molten craters in the corrugated walkway. The preceding exchange of weapons fire as he vaulted into the fray, dropped his shields by several percent, but gave him the push he needed to close with his enemy. Here, in the blood-soaked brutality of close quarters, was an environment in which B312 excelled.

Burning sapphire bolts splashed against his towering physique as he weathered the alien barrage. The pair of stolen sangheili weaponry clutched tight in his gauntlets, thundered in return with twice the ferocity.

The fury of both, aimed against a singular target, was more than enough to overload his opponent's shield. The sangheili officer, its armor once a pristine silvered hue, withered under the fusillade, rivulets of molten metal running down its form as it was thrown upon its back by the violence of his guns.

The blue bar above the spartan's HUD, rapidly in decline since the onset of the engagement, finally emptied beneath the wealth of directed energy arrayed against him. A loud snap struck his hearing, as his shields flared mightily before vanishing in a cloud of dispersed particles. His helmet ringing with alarms, Noble Six threw himself forwards, into the rushing figure of a charging elite in dark blue armor.

The two combatants clashed with the deep reverberation of metal striking metal, and the sangheili barked a surprised exclamation as half a ton of spartan crashed into its chest. The human supersoldier ended its surprise abruptly, ramming his combat knife into its upper palate and out the top of its skull. In the same motion, with his free hand, the spartan rifled with the waist belt of its combat harness. The spartan's gesticulation fluid and coordinated; he curled an arm across its torso and dropped once more to the floor. Flipping the corpse over his chest, and utilizing the inertia he had gathered, the supersoldier hurled it a full eight meters across the platform that had devolved into an open warzone.

The dead alien flopped loudly against the gantry, the clatter of armored plates drawing the attention of the squad of Covenant infantry that had been, until that moment, charging down the steps to enter the battle, a ragtag mix of species that usually formed the expendable vanguard for Covenant armies.

The creature at the forefront, an increasingly startled kig-yar, glanced down to the body at the bottom of the steps, although its eyes were more so drawn to the cluster of glowing orbs attached to its belt.

Before it could react, the jackal, and everything in a five meter radius around it, was consumed in a swirling conflagration of molten plasma. Searing light emanated from the heart of the discharge, bearing an intensity rivaling the initial flash of a nuclear detonation.

The spartan's visor polarized, and he reaffirmed his grasp upon the combat knife as he bounded into action under the cover of the fallout. He could feel the faint heat left in the wake of the makeshift bomb, could smell the odor of sweat and blood lingering within the confines of his helmet, sensations that stirred old, unpleasant memories inside the spartan. And in that moment he recalled so many things that he struggled endlessly to contain under his awareness, what he had lost, and what had been taken. The ensuing attempt to banish the tide of thought and remain focused was futile, and a familiar, dark rage overcame him.

The Covenant soldiers blindsided by the explosion attempted to recover their wits amidst their disorientation, only to find that death had come to reap its vengeance. Noble Six was as a wraith amongst them, gliding across the platform with augmented lethality and grace, his combat knife flashing violently as it glinted in the sunlight, delivering the freedom of release upon the creatures that had destroyed everything he had ever loved, empowered by the singular drive to kill. Fountains of arterial spray and inhuman cries of pain were ousted upon the open air as cold steel parted both flesh and armor with equal ease.

The satisfaction that seized its hold over him as he butchered the foes of mankind was… euphoric.

All the fragments of personality left in the wake of his training, all his memories, all his fears and anger, all the dreams and youthful aspirations that had died the day his planet did, everything that made him what he had become, was honed for this express purpose. The entirety of his being existed for the sole purpose of inflicting grievance upon the enemies of man. This was his retribution, and once more he raged at the austerity of his providence.

He gave no consideration to any weapon other than the blade, no care for higher cognition or tactical reasoning. A gun could not offer to him the same gratification as he carved his knife deep into the toughened hide of a squealing unggoy. The utterance of primal agony that tore through the rawness of its esophagus as his weapon bit deep… that… was something he could only produce with the intimacy of a blade. Yet, even as he took pleasure in its suffering, he was not entirely without clemency. His gauntlet enfolded over its breathing apparatus, moments before he ripped the mask from its face, the breathing tubes spewing the sour stench of methane into open air. He therein left the creature to die, whether from asphyxiation or the gaping wound in its torso, he cared little, only that its end was brought upon in ignoble sufferance.

For him, that was an unusual act of kindness.

His next target was a kig-yar, the alien hiding behind its energy phalanx, raptorial eyes wild and panicked, hunting, searching for some means to escape the slaughter. None was provided as the spartan's greave lanced forward, shattering its defense, as well as its forearm. He dashed in close, the edge of his knife glancing off its beak before plunging deep into the sickly yellow gleam of its left eye. Its death was lenient in that it was short, if not brutal, as the avian creature shuddered before becoming limp against his torso.

The spartan flung its spent form from his body in disgust, his anger burning hot and potent inside him. More voices entered the fray, another contingent of alien warriors honing in upon the sounds of combat. This group was smaller, a handful of elites and their fodder, ready to claim his life.

He would not allow this.

A flaring blue sphere sailed towards him, and the spartan, leaped forward, caught the grenade with the barrel of a plasma rifle, and flung the explosive back at its owner like a metal Frisbee. The sight was darkly comical, the elite grunting in pained confusion as both the grenade and the rifle collided with, and stuck to the center of its forehead. The alien, mercifully, did not have to endure the indignity long, before it erupted into a superheated fireball.

The spartan's shields, now fully recovered, flared as he charged through the detonation, his shoulderplate slamming into the torso of his next opponent, taking them both to the floor, a tactic that almost always proved to be effective. The walkway shuddered under the weight of the two combatants, and Six's helmet whipped backwards as a fist crashed into his visor.

Not to be outdone, he returned the sentiment with twice as much enthusiasm, hitting the creature so hard its helmet caved inwards and its brains were plastered outside of its skull, liquefied grey matter seeping from the ruptured plates of its armor.

A high pitched yip filtered through his exterior radio, and the spartan shifted his ire to the stubby creature that stood half a dozen meters away. The grunt squealed as his helmet turned to it, and the charging bolt of plasma contained by the pistol in its stumpy, clawed grip, launched from the barrel and impacted against the crook of his arm. The spartan grunted in discomfort as his shields flared and popped, the residual irradiated heat searing his skin through his powered exoskeleton.

The little alien quivered in its skin as the lumbering form of the spartan supersoldier rose from the corpse of its squad leader, killed like the rest of its sangheili masters. Its paralysis did not linger however, and it turned to flee after issuing a short bark of terror. But its flight did not last long, as it turned a corner and bowled into the huddled cluster of its clueless brothers.

The spartan barely gave them a thought as he hosed them down, clutching the trigger of another captured plasma rifle until its cooling vents flared. The weapon whined and hissed, ejecting the superheated exhaust in a broiling cloud of pale blue vapor.

Just as quickly as it started, the sounds of battle faded into the wind, and the spartan stood silent sentinel over his work, more tallies to strike on his combat record, though he would not live to do so. He was, in that moment, struck by a sense of potent futility. What was a few dozen, in the face of the incalculable infinitude of the Covenant's zealous legions? He could kill every alien on this dying planet and still only scratch the surface of his foe's number.

Noble Six entertained the notion of defeat, only for a brief interlude, before reality asserted itself, before the measure of his training and dogged tenacity reassumed control.

The numbers of his enemy did not matter. The power and agency of his foe was inconsequential, their aims and desires, irrelevant. All that mattered, all that he cared to dwell upon, was the fierceness of his resolve and the swift distribution of his wrath.

He would make the Covenant bleed, for however much blood he could spill from the corpses of their warriors, whatever destruction he could wreak upon their armies and fleets. He would avenge the fallen, and secure in interest, the cost of his own demise. He would show them, as had all his brothers and sisters, the price they would have to pay to have him.

And he would ensure they paid in full.

A voice shouted across the gore strewn catwalk, surprising him in the fact that it was voiced in fluent English.

"Demon! Look upon me!"

The warrior turned, his gaze traversing the culmination of his work, the manifested reward of his artistry. There was little in the way of blood, the fluid having slipped between the corrugated iron bars of the platform, but the bodies, the lingering accolades of his ability, remained for his appreciative purview. Butchered and mutilated beyond recognition, even by their peers, it was a soothing balm upon the tormented memories these creatures had given him. Not enough. Never enough. But at least in this moment, deemed… adequate. There was much a spartan could do with an iron will and a short length of sharpened steel.

His moment of self-gratification spent, the spartan looked upon the owner of the voice that addressed him, and first noticed the eyes, two gateways into the soul of a creature whose hatred burned nearly as passionately as his own. It was of course an elite, no other Covenant foot soldier ever seemed to match the sangheili ethos for religious fanaticism. Deep maroon armor, patterned with intricate forerunner glyphs that bloomed with shinning radiance, a zealot in appearance, and entirely unsurprising to see at the end. The usual honor and untamed bloodlust of their race was often tempered by age and familiarity, in time tactics changed, their machinations shrouded in obscure convolution. Experience made them cunning, and all the more dangerous for it.

The spartan watched its approach, as the alien paced slowly down the only staircase not reduced to molten slag in the fighting, its steps weighted heavily with stately bearing and martial pride. It held a gleaming sword in one hand, the blade illuminant in regal gold, a color he had not yet seen even among the most influential of sangheili warriors.

Perhaps this one was more than a zealous tool.

Perhaps this was something… new.

The hulking saurian's eyes studied the conclusion of the spartan's destruction, its mandibled expression bereft of tangible emotion, at least as a human might understand. But eyes were universally decipherable. Within there was pity, sadness… and righteous indignation. The elite stopped its advance to crouch beside one of the many corpses of its brethren, brushing a four digited hand across the scorched plating of its helmet. Mandibles guttered as it intoned a quiet benediction, before rising slowly from its haunches to regard the human supersoldier across the carnage.

The fullness of its attention, and the power in its restrained emotion, was leveraged against the spartan. "You…" It whispered hoarsely, its unarmed hand twitching with impotence as it witnessed cruelty that it had never seen before, not from the most sadistic warriors of its enemy. "You are no demon. You are profane… an abomination."

The spartan, with all the eloquence he could care to muster, wiped his blade clean with a cloth he had taken from a fallen sangheili warrior, the lingering dredge of an old memory resurfacing in that moment, a gift from a pious father he had never had the chance to know. "He hath utterly destroyed them, he hath delivered them to the slaughter. Their slain also shall be cast out, and their stink shall come up out of their carcasses, and the mountains shall be melted with their blood."

The zealot did not at first speak after the proclamation, the humming energies of its sword the only noise to break the overbearing silence as it saw fit to linger.

Noble Six found this to be an unusual curiosity from his customary dealings with any member of the sangheili race. Such control was uncommon to associate with their brood. Their species thrived on conflict, almost more than the spartans who had been created for that sole purpose. In so he had not expected this. What he had expected, was for the alien to engage immediately upon the discovery of its peers.

This new act of ponderous reserve, was somewhat of a novelty in his eyes.

The sangheili would yet again surprise him.

"So it is as written… the Book of Isaiah, chapter 34, verse 3." It muttered thoughtfully to itself, the glimmer of rage in its eyes subdued as it mused slowly. "How… appropriate." The zealot looked back to the spartan, its mandibles twitching in what was perhaps amusement. "Are you surprised, abomination? Do not be. I have studied your people well, your most prominent religions, your greatest scholars and master strategists."

The elite made a strange noise, a sound that was somewhere between a chuckle and a cough. "You should know this. It is as your Sun Tzu proclaimed centuries ago. If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles."

"And I… I know my enemies very well."

The spartan studied his foe circumspectly as the large alien sighed weightily, removing its crested headdress to cast it upon the corpse strewn gantry, the heaviness of the armor piece issuing a resounding crash as it struck the catwalk. Thus revealed, was the myriad of ancient scars set deep in its flesh. Six could see the sangheili's age in its darkened hide, and the paleness of its healed wounds spoke of battles fought long ago. Yet its eyes still shone with vitality, and its movements were lithe and practiced, not the ricketiness of feeble geriatrics. This was a foe very much still in its prime.

"Come then…" It spoke softly, but no less bearing the aura of command, as it shifted its blade into a guarded position. "Let us put an end to this."

The spartan nodded carefully, offering the sangheili a respect rarely given. Perhaps this elite would be the one to claim what so many others had died attempting to take. And there was but one way to find out.

Noble Six reversed his hold on the bloodied hilt of his combat knife, his stance widening to evenly distribute his balance for the impending conflict. His lips pulled back as he barred his teeth, and the spartan grunted a soundless snarl as he leaped forwards.

He was joined not soon after by the zealot, who roared an oath in its own language as he thrust his blade at the human before him.

It was his reflexes that saved him from meeting an end reflective of Noble Four. As the spartan entered melee range, he, in a spiral of back breaking gymnastics, twisted to the side. The energized tines of the plasma blade brushed against his shields, and that alone was enough to shatter them completely.

Alarms screaming in his ears, Noble Six bent low as the sword arced upwards, a seamless transition of movement that showed him a glimpse of his adversary's boundless swordsmanship. And in that moment the spartan knew he was outclassed.

His reasoning was simple. As much as he thrived in close quarters, he was not a swordsman. He had training in the art, just as he had been taught a hundred different disciplines across a hundred fields by his ONI masters, and with his augmentations he was perhaps one of the best of any human to ever wield a sword. But it was obvious, even in the next moment where he threw himself in close to avoid the sweeping slice of a horizontal slash, delivering a righteous uppercut that staggered the hulking beast, that this sangheili's skill surpassed anything he had ever come to face before.

Noble Six had skill.

This zealot field marshal, had mastery.

He was fighting a battle he could not win, at least not like this. The sangheili warrior recovered from its stagger in seconds, blade already soaring towards its foe with the intent to cleave his head from his shoulders, but the spartan was if anything, quicker than this saurian blade master.

His gauntlet shot forward like a piston, his fingers wrapping around the wrist of the elite's sword arm, and halting the impending swing before it could cut into his shoulder. In turn, he thrust his knife towards the unarmored flesh of its throat, and issued a terse grunt of frustration as the gleaming sharpness of his weapon did not find its target. His shields sparked and his armor creaked under the merciless grasp of his adversary.

The alien growled and reared back, and the spartan felt his center of gravity begin to shift. Noble Six leaned away, reasserting his balance, moments before he pushed forwards, the flat visor plate of his helmet smashing into the sangheili's face. Under the force of the impact, his shields shimmered and died, but the satisfying crunch of bone was reward enough, and the spartan was quick to press the momentary advantage.

The human supersoldier drew even closer, out of effective reach from his opponent's blade, and sprang his knee up, the point of his greave slamming into its torso armor. The artfully decorated plates crumped under several hundred pounds of pressure, and an airless huff erupted from the zealot's throat, a squirt of purplish blood splattering across his vision.

Intending to assert his position further, the spartan prepared to strike again to force his enemy to release its hold, but recoiled at the searing pain in his arm. His momentum stunted, Six's range advantage was lost as the elite planted a cloven hoof against his breastplate and forced him back with a surprising feat of strength.

The spartan struck the ground hard, but continued rolling, only to just miss being impaled by the energy dagger protruding from the field marshal's gauntlet. Aware that he was in very real danger of defeat, the last member of Noble threw out his free hand, his fingers brushing across something hard and solid, his grip tightened, and the spartan came out of his roll, plasma rifle spewing blue bolts at his enemy.

The sangheili zealot raised his blade, protecting its unarmored head as it jumped to the side. In a moment, the alien unclasped the weapon at its hip, and returned the fusillade in kind.

The spartan's shields, constantly under assault and unable to recover more than a few percent, were swiftly overwhelmed by the plasma repeater. Several shots connected with his chest and left arm. The heat of the liquid energy boiled at his surface plating, a tangible sensation that caused the spartan to grit his teeth as he reached down and dragged the mauled corpse of a kig-yar from the ground to intercept the barrage. Dull impacts thumped repeatedly into the flesh buffer, and the spartan worked with swift assurance, stripping its point defense gauntlet and hastily attaching the Covenant device to his forearm.

Flinging the corpse at the zealot, he bought himself enough time to activate the energy barrier while the elite shuffled to the side. Springing to life, the circular aegis glimmered a robust orange as it absorbed the storm of shots spewing from his enemy's weapon. However the coverage of the shield was not enough to fully protect him, and the spartan felt a number of hits to his exposed extremities. Yet it was certainly better than the alternative, and the spartan was able to reduce the incoming damage quite effectively as he hurried to close range once more.

Extending his shield arm out, he slammed the energized particle barrier into the field marshal, knocking the plasma repeater out of its grip, and conversely overloading his stolen gauntlet. The spartan retracted his arm, only enough so that he could shoot it forward, smashing his fist into the side of the elite's skull. The strike, focused with all his might, broke its shields and sent the hulking alien to the ground in a crumpled heap. Noble Six immediately fell upon his adversary, unwilling to give it any more chance to recover, and thrust his blade against its breastplate. Yet its armor, a perk afforded by esteemed position and elevated status, deflected the titanium carbide blade. The combat knife snapped, and the jagged length protruding from the hilt skimmed across its armor until the broken weapon lodged into the crease between the sangheili's neck and shoulderplate.

The giant alien shuddered under him, and sputtered a garbled mess of syllables through the blood rushing into its throat, sword raising halfheartedly. Nevertheless, even restrained and near death, the alien's strength was not insubstantial, and the sizzling tines of its weapon etched a superficial furrow in the side of the spartan's helmet.

Such an action was ignored as Noble Six focused upon the alien under him, watching as its struggles slowly ceased, and ensuring that in its final moments, it would fully understand the totality of its defeat.

Slowly, the zealot's struggle waned, and its arm fell limp onto the gantry.

Six leaned off the fallen alien, his armor smoldering and awash in the multicolored fluids of his enemies. In that moment the sky once more called him away from the inhuman bloodbath around him, the orange haze of sunset falling upon the desolate wasteland of Aszod, ending the last day Reach would see under the supervision of mankind. And he knew.

There was nothing left here for him but death.

The spartan departed, leaving behind the corpse of the field marshal and the mutilated remains of the hunter killer teams that had been sent to claim his life. The reprieve he had secured for himself would be brief. Once the fate of this detachment would be learned, more would come, and in far greater numbers.

He would not prevail a second time.

So it was he decided to end his stay in Aszod. Noble Six did not feel it a fitting location for what would be his end. His part in the predominant order of the war may have ended, but he still calculated and strategized, making preparations for his last effort.

The spartan scoured the length and breadth of the shipbreaking yard, gathering what supplies and materials he could, repossessing scattered UNSC and Covenant weapons from the dead, anything and everything that might prove useful. Eventually, under great reluctance, he revisited Noble Four's final repose. And after uttering a solemn, if terse, eulogy, appropriated the fallen warrior's equipment. He worked studiously, and with suitable reverence, as he repurposed what Mjolnir parts could be salvaged, the man's shotgun, and… with greater averseness, Four's kukri.

The idea of stealing from the dead was perhaps in ill-taste, but if anyone could understand the need for disregarding taboo's to gain advantage, it was a spartan. Ultimately, he left Four to his eternal rest and after securing his excess baggage in a carryall rucksack strapped to his back, input a destination in his navigational system. He did not know what awaited him.

But he hoped Lake Farkas would have the answer.

Ju'das Rasumai returned to the conscious world, consumed by pain. While not an unfamiliar sensation, this was the first time he had felt it in such potency since he had been a youngling training with Uncle Kar'tos in the garden courtyards of their keep. The soreness he felt was much alike the condition Kar'tos had often left him in after a day on the sparring field.

A quiet growl emerged from deep in his chest as gathered his strength and sat up from his supine repose. The effort took a surprising amount of determination on his part, and the sangheili's growl deepened as he brushed a four fingered hand across the cool textile weave wrapping around his throat, the fabric was a soothing, if impotent balm for the pain, and a crested brow raised curiously when he recognized the synth-flesh healing patch.

His next glance, aimed at the chamber he had awoken in, conjured forth familiarity, though he could not remember when he had returned to his quarters aboard the Journey's End. Another attentive inspection, of the patch at his throat, and the ensuing spike of pain, served as a trigger to spark his memory, and the clouded miasma confusing his thoughts was shattered by the clarity of his last waking moments.

The demon….

No, Ju'das dismissed the title as he recalled the sight he had come across as he arrived to do battle with one of the legendary warriors of their foe. What had occurred there had transcended beyond the boundaries of war. What Ju'das had seen was not honorable, but sacrilegious. This human was unalike the other demons he had dueled on their fallen fortress world. He had fought and bested many of their kind, in many colors and permutations of armor, and the varied skill that followed. This one had been different.

This creature was an abomination.

His grasp tightened on the wrapping around his throat, and his mandibles flexed in silent indignation as his recollection was sullied by the bitter sting of defeat. Ju'das had never encountered such a demon before, not one as fast, or as resourceful as his most recent adversary. And he would admit, to some small amount, that he had been impressed by its ruthless cunning. Turning the very bodies of the dead into a weapon, while an unorthodox and detestable tactic beyond the consideration of most sangheili warriors, was not to be disregarded.

After all, he could no deny its effectiveness.

He had not lived this long by deafening himself to other methodologies that some of his honorbound brothers might ignore. Ju'das had learned at a young age that an opponent would not always meet you on an equal field, but this had been the first time he had felt that so keenly.

Ju'das Rasumai, snorting disdainfully, tore the patch from his body and forced through his lethargy to get away from the prison of his sleep pod. He would not endure the indignity of the infirm for a moment longer. His pride carried him through the pain as he made his way to the farthermost wall. Clutching at his throat and waiving a hand across the haptic interface, the bulkhead hissed and shifted as plates retracted to reveal the storage unit within.

The sangheili warrior worked quickly and with diligence, removing his charred, battered and blood-soaked combat harness, exchanging the damaged armor for a simple robe of dark blue. The formless mantle fit easily around his bulk, and did much to conceal the true nature of his injuries, and he hoped it might assuage the shame of his condition.

Ju'das wondered, as the storage unit closed and he studied the sparse decorations ornamenting his private quarters, if it would have been better to not wake up at all. Doubtlessly his standing amongst his brothers had suffered severely. To think, a warrior of his lineage, to be bested so blatantly, it was a wonder they had bothered to take him back and heal his wounds.

His surprise was significant, and he did indeed wonder at his curious benefaction, though the answer was apparent. His salvation had come at the behest of the hierarchs. Truly they could see beyond the wiles of their protectors. The prophets did not care for honor in the way of the sangheili. Warriors of his rank were valued resources, and the San'Shyuum would not see such tools be wasted for such inconceivable notions. The realization that he still had a part to play on the path did much to relieve his doubt, and Ju'das felt the flicker of confidence return to a full blaze inside him.

He would find the abomination, and this time he would not fail.

The sangheili was quick to visit the lavatory and fight to return some of his proud bearing to himself. But the task was not an easy one. His loss at the hands of the demon had turned his hide sallow, and the further paleness made his old scars far more prominent. He had lost not an insignificant portion of his lifeblood, and Ju'das struggled to reconcile with his honor.

But he was swift to banish such futile wonderings. To dwell would not bring his pride back. Only the death of the one that had tarnished his reputation would return his honor back to him. And for that, he would need a sanction of pursuit, and to receive that he would need an audience with the hierarchs.

Ju'das returned to his pod, and made to retrieve his sword before departing his chambers. He realized then in that moment that he had lost far more than he had at first realized. His ancestral blade was not slotted into its proper aperture. A jolt of disbelief struck him fiercely as he gazed at the emptiness before him. The dawning understanding of the theft burned more acutely than any of his previous despairs. The blade of Rasum, a relic of his keep that had persisted for a thousand years in service to the right hand of the kaidon, a symbol of the honorable lineage of his ancestors, had been taken from him.

The shame he felt was crushing. Ju'das fought the overpowering need to succumb to the pressure and sink to his knees. He had not ascended to his position, overcoming countless trials and bloodshed, to wallow in despair. He was better than that, his pedigree was better than that.

The solution to this conundrum was readily apparent in his eyes.

Ju'das would simply have to take it back.

AN: So, remember the huge update I hinted towards earlier? Well yeah... this is it. So what is for like the forth time, Legacy will be readdressed, although I had promised not to, things change I suppose. Now I imagine there are many of you who may be surprised, and irritated at this sudden shift. Hopefully the majority will understand. After all, as many might note. The first significant portion of its predecessor does not quite match the quality of its later chapters, and there are multiple inconsistencies throughout the plot and fairly blunt leaps in logic. The beginning itself was rather rushed, and I believe it a mistake on my part to have so much occur on the first chapter alone. And so I have, after a great many hours and countless days of deliberation, decided to revise Legacy in its entirety. The majority of plot elements will remain untouched, however their handling will be done with a more appropriate pacing and there will be new arcs included that I feel will be of great benefit to the story. Certain things will be redacted, or otherwise altered, and over all I hope to vastly improve what I had started so many years ago. One of the greatest detractors of the thus far has been, in my opinion, the interaction between Six, Miyu, and Krystal later on in the work.

I believe it could be handled much better, for all parties. In full I am just not able to reconcile the way the story started with the way it was ending, and I want to change it for the better. Simply improving earlier chapters, while possible, would not be a seamless integration, and I feel to do that would be to take the cheap way out. I also want to focus more on characterization, not only for the whole cast, but Noble Six especially. As one might notice by this chapter alone, there is a heavier focus on what lingering emotional effects the spartan program might have on its subjects, and some of the more emotional extremes of the human condition. I feel there is a lot of potential in the spartan ethos and I want to do a better job at portraying the concept of man v man.

Anyways this probably sounds like a bunch of nonsensical drivel. In conclusion I just wanted to leave a proper explanation for the radical shift, and I hope that my readers will be understanding of my decision.

DrakeTheTraveller

Keep the faith