And as it was said, that from six would rise one... One left, and one to face the End with a grim smile and a readied weapon.
So when he awoke, alone in the cave, he stood and he stared at the trail of blood leading further away. He sobbed and didn't even follow it, not wanting to see the foul, defiled body he knew he would find.
His sword in his left hand, his rifle in his right, he left the cave and walked through the forest once more. The Last Sentinel lay waste to everything in it's path, not too far away from the forest. The soldier knew his job, his purpose. It wasn't his choice; someone else had decided his fate before he could. But purpose is what drives some men, what keeps them going. The soldier needed this purpose more than anything.
He reached the end of the forest, stepping slowly over the few corpses at first, and then the piles of them, as he gazed upon the outcome of recent and past wars.
There. The fortress, once more. The wall had bent and buckled on one side, allowing him to crawl through. The streets are empty, but the sound of fighting isn't far off. His legs move for hours and then he's there, inside the main chamber, deserted but for the twenty armed men at one end, and the Thrown behind them.
The Last Sentinel breathes death, with his eyes of flame and gauntlets of ebony black. A monolithic being, he tilts his head, almost bored with the hell that he has caused.
'But did he cause it?' The soldier thinks. But he pushes the thought far out of his mind. Because that's all he's ever been. A soldier.
Sword in his left hand. Rifle in his right.
He smiles grimly and starts walking towards the Last.