.
Alright
The rifle in his hands was old, battered, and scavenged from the ashes of a world long dead. But it fit in his grip like it had always belonged there.
The corpses of the Fallen lay strewn around him, their alien blood steaming in the cold night air. The ruins whispered with the voices of the dead. Somewhere in the distance, the Traveler loomed — a dying god, half-crippled, hanging over a broken city.
And he?
He was reborn.
"We need to keep moving," his Ghost urged. The little machine flickered nervously, darting side to side. "The Fallen won't give up. There's a ship nearby — an old jumpship. If we can get to it, we can reach the Last City."
The Sanctuary.
That's what they called it now. A desperate nest of humanity clinging to what scraps of hope the Traveler still offered. A place of Light and safety.
For him, it would be a hunting ground.
"Lead on," he rasped.
They moved through the shattered streets. Towering skeletons of skyscrapers reached for the blood-red sky. The ground was littered with bones, rusted weapons, and forgotten memories.
He moved like a shadow — silent, predatory, always watching.
The Ghost babbled as they went, explaining fragments of the world.
"The Traveler came centuries ago… uplifted humanity… then the Darkness followed. Most of the system's dead. But the Guardians protect what's left. You're one of them now. You have a duty to—"
"Stop talking," he said flatly.
The Ghost flinched but obeyed. Good. It was learning.
They reached a courtyard choked with ash and scrap. A massive, rusted barricade barred the way ahead.
The Fallen were waiting.
A dozen of them, at least. Dregs, Vandals, and one towering Captain — its armor stitched together from scavenged gold and scrap metal.
The Ghost flickered in alarm.
"We can't go around them. You'll have to fight."
He smiled.
"Good."
The first shot took a Dreg in the throat, spinning its corpse into the dirt. Before the others could react, he was already moving — a blur of death.
His hands were steady. His aim unerring.
Fallen screamed as their blood misted the air.
He didn't fight like a Guardian.
No flashy, reckless bravado. No calls for Light or mercy.
He fought like a butcher.
Efficient. Ruthless. Absolute.
He sidestepped a burst of plasma fire, drove a boot into a Vandal's chest, and blew its head off before it hit the ground. Another charged, twin blades raised — he dropped his rifle, caught the thing by the throat, and squeezed until cartilage cracked.
The Captain roared, energy sword crackling to life.
He bared his teeth.
Finally… a challenge.
They clashed in a blur of motion. The Captain was strong — but he was stronger. He caught the blade on his vambrace, ignoring the searing pain as the energy bit into his flesh. Then drove his fist into the creature's jaw, snapping its head back with a sickening crunch.
One shot to the heart ended it.
The courtyard fell silent.
The Ghost emerged from cover, visibly shaken.
"I… I've never seen anything like that. Even seasoned Guardians don't move like you."
"I'm not like them," he said.
The Ghost hesitated.
"You… should probably learn your name. The records might still hold it when we reach the Tower."
"I don't care what they called me before."
He crouched beside the Captain's corpse, prying a jagged insignia from its armor. A crude sigil. He turned it in his hand, a new idea forming.
"I'll choose my own name."
The Ghost chirped nervously.
"Well… the ship's just ahead. An old jumpship. If we can power it up, we can leave this graveyard."
"Good."
He shouldered his rifle and moved on.
---
The hangar was a tomb.
An ancient, rusted bay buried beneath a collapsed skyscraper. Dead ships hung like carcasses from shattered racks. Oil and dust coated everything.
But there, at the far end — a battered jumpship. Scarred, patchwork, barely functional. But its frame was intact.
"There it is," the Ghost said, almost breathless with relief. "If we can get her flying—"
The sound of distant chatter cut him off.
More Fallen.
And worse — a Skiff was descending. Reinforcements.
"We don't have time for subtlety," he said, moving toward the ship.
The Ghost zipped ahead, scanning its systems.
"Power's shot. I'll need a few minutes to reroute the arc conduits. Keep them off me."
"I planned to."
He took position near a pile of wreckage as the Fallen advanced.
They came in waves.
He killed them in turn.
It was almost elegant — the rhythm of violence. A dance. Each shot precise. Every movement deliberate. He fought with the cold detachment of a predator.
A few times, he let one get close. Close enough to see the flicker of fear in their alien eyes before ending them.
The Ghost worked frantically.
"Halfway there!"
A bullet grazed his shoulder. He barely noticed.
The Skiff's cannons opened fire, tearing through the hangar. Shrapnel rained like metallic hail. Dust filled the air.
He laughed.
For the first time in this new life… he laughed.
This was what he'd been reborn for.
Not to protect. Not to serve.
To rule.
And when the last of the Fallen lay dead, and the Skiff fled into the night, the Ghost chirped.
"Got it! She's flyable. Get in!"
He climbed aboard. The interior was worse than expected — rusted, reeking of decay. But it would serve.
He took the pilot's seat as the ship's systems flickered to life.
"Course set for the Last City," the Ghost announced.
"Not yet," he murmured.
The Ghost hesitated.
"What?"
He adjusted the controls, setting a new vector.
"We make a stop first. An old site, deep in the wastes. Before the Sanctuary sees me, I need to gather something… special."
The Ghost hesitated, but the ship lifted off.
The dead earth fell away.
The broken world stretched beneath them.
He watched the distant Tower on the horizon.
Soon.
But not yet.