Chapter 430: Explosive Arrows and Pastoral Songs, the End

The massacre had ended. The earth was stained with a chaotic mix of blood, mucus, severed heads, organs, as well as scattered weapons and fragments of armor.

Some belonged to the resistance fighters of the Madrigal, while others belonged to the Sangheili.

Clank… Clank… Clank…

With each step, the weight of the armor kicked up clouds of dust. The azure-blue butcher extended his claws, still drenched in the blood of his kin. His powered boots came down with a sickening crunch, shattering the head of a brown-armored Sangheili. Blood and flesh splattered outward, and from the twisted, deformed skull oozed a chilling, viscous fluid.

“Ha ha…”

The Night Lords officer let out a low, cold chuckle, carrying with it an eerie undertone that defied description. Merely hearing it sent shivers down the spine, turning limbs cold.

“A duel… Ha ha ha, this alien wretch actually wanted a duel?”

“Hey, hey, did you all hear that? Am I dreaming?”

The World Eaters laughed heartily, making no effort to conceal their disdain for the alien scum.

Even the disciplined Punishers, trained under the strict command of Grand General Budo, could not suppress a burst of laughter. The barrels of their bolt guns all turned toward the remaining Sangheili warriors of the Covenant, now completely surrounded by Astartes in the southern sector of the drilling station.

Among them, the most terrifying were the Night Lords clad in blue, crackling power armor. Their chain-axes still bore the barely-alive bodies of Sangheili warriors, the low hum of the chainsaw intermittently flaring to life. With each rev, fresh blood gushed from the gaping wounds, staining the ground red and reflecting in the anguished, bloodshot eyes of the surviving Sangheili.

Amidst the feeble wails of the dying Sangheili and the grotesque squelching of torn flesh, the Night Lords’ hoarse, ghostly laughter sent chills even through those merely observing from afar. Even the Spartan-IV warriors, including the Master Chief, felt a creeping unease.

“Master Chief, does the United Nations Space Command have soldiers like these?” Spartan-125 voiced the question.

The appearance and actions of these Astartes warriors—by the standards of the blockbuster films and TV dramas produced under the UNSC’s propagandist lens—made them seem like nothing short of villains, antagonists in the flesh.

“Master Chief, we’ve got a problem. They are neither friend nor foe.” Leaning against the Master Chief, Spartan-028, a female soldier equipped with a communication pack, spoke in a low voice.

“Should we engage?” Another Spartan, numbered 134, asked.

“Hold fire for now.”

Standing back-to-back with the four members of Silver Team, the Master Chief remained vigilant. His eyes swept over the Astartes warriors, who, having just finished dealing with the Covenant elites, were now subtly but unmistakably watching them.

“We haven’t let down our guard against them, and they haven’t either. There are at least ten weapons trained on us right now. If we make a move, it could trigger an unnecessary conflict. I’ve already contacted the UNSC—Dr. Halsey is aware of the situation. We wait for negotiations.”

The explosions, the roar of explosive arrows, and the hum of chainsaws had largely subsided. The surviving members of the Madrigal resistance, taking refuge within the drilling station, cautiously peeked out from the various corners of the ruins as the sounds of battle faded.

“OMG, so the United Nations Space Command was telling the truth after all.”

“What was true?”

Hearing Janka’s muttered words, Kwan Ha, who was panting heavily behind the wheel of a large wheeled mining vehicle, swallowed hard and asked the Black woman crouched beside him.

“The war against the alien Covenant.”

Ignoring the dust and filth on the ground, the Black woman wiped her binoculars briefly before peering through them from a distance. “We always thought the United Nations Space Command exaggerated everything just to better enslave us on Madrigal and exploit our deuterium resources at ridiculously low prices.”

Conspiracy theories had always found fertile ground under the rule of the Unified Earth Government (UEG). Trust in the government among the lower classes was remarkably low—especially in remote colonies like Madrigal, far from the Solar System.

It wasn’t just a matter of distrust; outright rebellion had been the norm. Madrigal, like many other human outer colonies, had once been part of a massive armed insurrection that raged for nearly twenty years.

A significant reason the Spartan-II Program had progressed so smoothly was that the United Nations Space Command (UNSC) sought a faster and more effective means of quelling these uprisings.

As products of the Spartan-II Program, warriors like the Master Chief had participated in numerous colonial suppression campaigns.

This was precisely why, upon first sighting Spartans, the commanders of the Madrigal resistance had instinctively opened fire.

“Are they here to save us? Janka, are these the same Spartans you and ’Professor’ talked about—the ones who can take on a hundred enemies alone?”

A young man, still shaken, crawled over. He had narrowly escaped death thanks to the Astartes drop pod landing. If not for a gray-armored giant crushing the alien warrior who was about to skewer him with an energy sword, he would have been dead a moment later.

“I suppose… I can’t say for sure. But according to the UNSC propaganda videos, Spartans aren’t supposed to be this tall. These iron giants—OMG! They must be at least 2.8 meters tall. And their hands… ugh!”

“Maybe they’re the UNSC’s latest generation of super-soldiers.”

Janka put down the binoculars, visibly shaken. The sheer brutality of a warrior carrying a blood-soaked, half-destroyed head on his hip was simply too shocking.

“Are all the aliens dead?” Kwan Ha asked urgently as he gazed at the blue-, white-, and gray-armored giants.

“Not yet. Those iron giants have the remaining aliens surrounded over there… laughing about something.”

…

“A duel?”

The Night Lords officer, his skull-faced helmet’s voice amplifier crackling, let out another distorted, mocking chuckle.

“Human, this is a warrior’s honor. What are you laughing at?”

Although he could not understand their language, the undisguised mockery in the voices of these humans—their scornful, jeering tone—made it easy enough for him to grasp their meaning.

Glaring at the humans, the red-armored Sangheili commander shoved aside the blue-armored warriors standing in front of him. Since the attack began, this was the first moment he had to closely examine these newly arrived human warriors.

Their strength far surpassed that of the Jiralhanae (Brutes).

Though he had always looked down upon the Jiralhanae—brutish, primitive warriors who had been incorporated into the Covenant’s military forces—he could not deny that they were powerful, just like the Sangheili. However, the Jiralhanae were even more savage and bloodthirsty, making them easier for the San’Shyuum to control.

This was why the ruling caste of the Covenant had increasingly favored the Jiralhanae.

“Unworthy reptile. Kneel and surrender unconditionally, or die. You… have no right to negotiate.” The Night Lords officer spoke slowly and deliberately.

“The Sangheili do not surrender.”

Clutching a Type-1 Dual-Blade Energy Sword, the red-armored Sangheili commander strode forward from the protective formation of the blue-armored warriors, his voice rising in a defiant roar.

The Night Lords officer grinned beneath his skull-faced helmet and activated the disruptor field of his Lightning Claw.

According to Covenant records, the Sangheili, a species originating from the humid planets of the Urs system, were renowned throughout both the Covenant and the United Nations Space Command (UNSC) intelligence divisions for their warrior culture and deep-seated sense of honor.

“Humans—death in battle is an honor! You will never understand!”

Before his words had even fully left his mouth, the red-armored Sangheili commander lunged.

He was gambling—gambling that he could buy time for the other team in the forest, even if only for half a minute. As long as the Sacred Artifact was safely transported, their deaths would be worth it.

A scarlet blade streaked forward like a comet, tearing through the air with a mournful wail. The dual-blade energy sword thrust directly at the weak point between the Night Lords officer’s helmet and power armor.

But the azure-armored warrior sidestepped with unnatural speed—the energy sword stabbed through empty air. Seizing the brief pause as the blade shifted from a thrust to a sweep, the Night Lords officer’s left Lightning Claw slashed upward.

At that very instant, the Sangheili commander’s left hand, which had been charging a plasma pistol, was pressed directly against the Night Lords officer’s abdomen.

“He’s fighting with the resolve to die.”

But then again, weren’t all warriors?

The Night Lords officer was faster. With a cruel chuckle, he tilted his body ever so slightly—just enough to evade the plasma discharge.

Boom!

A burst of violet-hued energy erupted across his automated power armor, rippling outward.

Thunderous shockwaves surged back at the Sangheili commander, and in the next instant, his entire left arm exploded.

He stared in stunned disbelief as his plasma pistol melted into slag.

What is this? Energy discharge?

His armor was intact—yet it had somehow emitted a particle energy shockwave?

The realization came too late. Searing arcs of electricity left him no room to hesitate.

A moment later, his right arm—still gripping the energy sword—was severed.

The Night Lords officer’s right Lightning Claw, wreathed in purple lightning, crackled ominously. In a single, decisive stroke, it shattered the Sangheili’s energy shield with a resounding crack.

Then, in one fluid motion, the claw descended—

Cleaving through both of the red-armored Sangheili commander’s legs.

Brutal.

“Cough… cough… You… human… you are not human…”

“Bullshit. If I’m not human, then what? A Sangheili like you?”

Seeing the other blue-armored Sangheili warriors seething with rage, poised to fight to the death, the Night Lords officer simply waved his hand.

“Eliminate them. Hmm… but leave some alive.”

“Roar! Kill them all!”

Like bulldozers rolling downhill, the World Eaters, who had long been itching for battle, charged forward with frenzied howls.

“Medic, over here. Keep this one alive.”

Ignoring the agonized screams behind him, the Night Lords officer turned his gaze to the crippled Sangheili commander lying at his feet. The warrior’s limbs were severed, and his eyes were shut tight—yet the officer suddenly let out a chuckle.

“You’re looking for something, aren’t you?”

In an instant, the Sangheili commander’s eyes snapped open. His mandibles quivered as he rasped, “What do you mean?”

“Tsk, tsk, still pretending?”

Pausing for a moment, the Night Lords officer deliberately enunciated his next words:

“The ’Sacred Relic’—the Triangular Artifact.”

His voice was heavy with emphasis.

“So it was you…!”

Realization struck the Sangheili commander like a hammer. “The disappearance of the Jiralhanae’s transport ship… that was your doing!”

“Correct.”

The Night Lords officer, hands clasped behind his back, shifted his gaze toward the breach in the northern city wall, beyond which lay the dense forest.

“From the moment I started observing you, your eyes have glanced toward that forest exactly four times.”

“Your ’Sacred Relic’ is there, isn’t it? They won’t escape.”

The Sangheili commander stiffened, an ominous premonition crawling over his mind. A strange instinct urged him to lift his head and gaze toward the azure sky.

For a fleeting moment, his vision seemed to pierce through the clouds and atmosphere, reaching all the way to the titanic war machine stationed in orbit.

And then—

A flash of searing white light.

A pillar of superheated energy lanced down from the sky.

The Spartan Laser-class orbital weapon unleashed its high-energy beam, rupturing the atmosphere as it descended. Flames ignited in the sky, the sheer force of impact generating shockwaves that sent scorching winds rolling across the land.

All of it happened in an instant.

The forest—gone.

“No!!”

The Sangheili commander, propping himself up on what remained of his torso, let out a howl of despair.

The hellish light illuminated a single, brutal truth.

“According to our tests, that triangular object can withstand blasts exceeding ten megatons of TNT without so much as a scratch. Just in case you tried to deceive us—bait us into a trap—we had to verify its authenticity. Only the real artifact would survive intact.”

As swiftly as it had arrived, the sky-piercing beam vanished.

All that remained was the lingering heat in the air… and the obliterated forest.

The Night Lords officer gave a subtle nod to several nearby Astartes warriors.

“Understood.”

Immediately grasping his intent, the warriors advanced toward the blast zone.

“Make sure it doesn’t die.”

With that, the azure-armored warrior paid no further attention to the Sangheili.

His gaze turned instead toward the four Spartans standing in the distance.

From within his helmet’s built-in combat system, a stream of sharp, white data characters scrolled rapidly across his retinal display.

His focus locked onto one particular figure—

A 2.2-meter-tall warrior, clad in an unknown-model green power armor.

Among all the memories extracted from Covenant alien minds, this figure appeared the most.

They called him a demon, a devil.

It seemed that in this universe, he was a hero of human civilization.

The Night Lords officer glanced at the atmospheric data displayed on his power armor’s HUD:

Oxygen concentration: 21%

Atmospheric temperature: 42°C

Planetary surface gravity: ~1.08g

Alongside these readings, a direct message from the ship’s captain appeared:

“Maintain diplomatic relations. Do not engage in hostilities.”

Be diplomatic, huh?

Stepping forward, determined to uphold the dignity of a higher civilization and not disgrace the Angels of Selene, he executed a formal, noble-like bow and spoke in an oddly articulate manner:

“If the front wheel doesn’t turn, the back wheel will turn…”

“…Huh?”

Wait, hadn’t the loudest cries earlier been in Korean?

Seeing the four Spartans looking utterly bewildered, the Night Lords officer swiftly switched to English:

“Apologies for the delay, Sergeants.”

“Hello.”

The Master Chief gave a brief nod of acknowledgment.

“Commander, we are Silver Team of the United Nations Space Command’s Spartan Program, currently deployed on Madrigal. May I ask—who are you?”

They had no idea who these newcomers were or which faction they belonged to, but one thing was clear: judging by the elaborate gold-engraved embellishments on this giant’s power armor, he was certainly not an ordinary soldier. Addressing him as ’Commander’ was the safest bet.

“All you need to know is that we are human.”

“If possible, I would like to meet your superior. You may not have the necessary clearance.”

Though framed as a question, his tone allowed no room for negotiation.

Then, with a sudden hiss, the Night Lords officer removed his helmet.

His jet-black eyes and dark hair were unmistakably human. Though his pallid skin and unnaturally defined musculature made him appear disturbingly unnatural, there was no denying his human identity.

Under normal circumstances, no one would conduct a conversation while wearing a helmet. It concealed facial expressions, obscured emotions, and created an air of detachment, making it seem insincere.

“Master Chief 117.”

Aboard the Imperial Wrath, a colossal spacefaring fortress spanning over 300 kilometers in length.

At the heart of the command bridge, within a palatial chamber.

In the study, Selene, draped in a white-and-gold ceremonial robe, adorned with celestial motifs of stars and crescent moons, sat in a velvet-backed armchair.

One hand lifted a delicate porcelain teacup, the rich aroma wafting through the air, while her gaze remained fixed on the holographic display, watching the Astartes reconnaissance forces in action.

“The Covenant’s so-called ’Great Journey’ was flawed from the very beginning.”

Her voice was calm, but her words carried a weight of certainty.

“The Forerunners’ chosen inheritors were the neo-humans of Erde-Tyrene—Earth.”

“Not them.”

She gently placed the teacup down and continued, her tone unhurried.

“Perhaps the San’Shyuum have already realized this, which is why they have been frantically scavenging the remnants of Forerunner technology scattered across the galaxy—branding them as ’Sacred Relics’ to reinforce their own divine legitimacy, insisting that they, and they alone, are the true heirs of the Forerunners.”

“At the same time, they escalate their war against human civilization, seeking to annihilate us completely.”

“That way, there would be no question as to who the rightful inheritors are.”

“A rational choice, really.”

A holographic image of the Forerunner artifact—the Triangular Relic—appeared on the display.

Rising from her seat, Selene traced her fingers across the artifact resting on her desk.

“Only those with ancient human DNA are recognized as valid contacts?”

She murmured to herself, gazing down at the artifact as though it might answer.

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