The battlefield at Concord Dawn was chaos. Death Watch descended in black waves, their jetpacks screaming across the sky, blasters spitting fire. The True Mandalorians fought valiantly, their new Mjolnir-inspired beskar armor giving them dominance in the air and on the ground.
But not all wore it.
At the center of the battlefield stood Jaster Mereel, the Mand'alor, his armor battered and traditional, refusing the innovations Shepard had offered. The older man fought fiercely, but Shepard's eyes never left him, even as he struck down Death Watch warriors with plasma blade and shield.
Then it happened. A rocket arced across the sky, too fast, too true. Shepard shouted, but it was already too late. The blast engulfed Jaster, hurling him to the ground. His armor cracked, his body broken. Shepard cut his way through the chaos to reach him, kneeling in the blood-soaked dirt.
Jaster's visor was shattered. His breaths came shallow.
"Shepard…" he rasped, voice weak but steady. "Do not… blame yourself. I chose this."
Shepard's brow furrowed beneath his helmet. "Why? You could have survived in the new armor. I offered it to you first."
A faint smile touched Jaster's lips. "And then what? The clans… would split. Old ways against new. Civil war without end. But if I fall… they'll rally to you. To your brother. To Clan Fett." His hand clutched Shepard's vambrace, weak but insistent.
"Lead them, Shepard. Protect Jango. And see Mandalore rise again."
His eyes closed. His final breath left him not in despair, but in hope.
Shepard bowed his head, grief tightening his chest. Rest, Mand'alor. I'll see it done.
Rage tempered by discipline carried Shepard through the battle. He fought with unmatched ferocity, cutting down Death Watch champions one after another, his shield glowing with fire, his blade searing through beskar. The elites followed him unquestioningly, and in hours, the Death Watch line shattered.
By nightfall, their leader Tor Vizsla was in retreat, his banners abandoned in the mud.
The Mandalorian Civil War was over.
But the real war the war for Mandalore's soul had just begun.
Days later, Shepard stood in the great hall of the Fett stronghold. Around him, representatives of every surviving clan gathered, their armor gleaming in firelight. Jango stood at his side, now grown into a warrior in his own right.
Shepard's voice carried across the chamber, deep and commanding.
"The war is over. Too long have Mandalorians bled each other dry while the galaxy watched and laughed. That ends now."
He pointed to the assembled warriors. "You are all leaders. You are all Mandalorian. But unity requires strength. And strength requires order. From this day forward, we are not scattered clans fighting for scraps. We are one people. One Mandalore."
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Some cheered. Others bristled. A few warriors stepped forward, challenging Shepard's right to lead.
They didn't last long.
Shepard defeated each in ritual combat, disarming them with precision, forcing them to yield. When the last warrior fell to his knees, the chamber thundered with cheers. The message was clear. Shepard was Mand'alor.
"The clans will have their council," Shepard declared, "but the final word rests here." He struck his chestplate. "With Mandalore. With me."
And none dared oppose him further.
With the clans united, Shepard turned his gaze to the future. Beskar was the blood of Mandalore, and it needed to be mined. But not at the cost of the planet's ruin. Mandalore would not fall into the same mistakes as others—strip-mined into dust and weakness.
Resources would have to come from beyond.
In the hidden forge, Shepard worked for weeks, feeding raw metals into the nanite printer. Slowly, piece by piece, a vessel emerged: sleek, predatory, almost invisible to sensors. A warship born of two worlds—part Mandalorian, part soldier's dream.
The Prowler.
Its hull was layered with beskar and exotic alloys, absorbing scans and bending light. Its drives were whisper-quiet, its weapons silent but devastating. It was the perfect ship for a shadow war.
At the naming ceremony, Shepard addressed the chosen crew elites drawn from every clan, their loyalty proven in battle. And at the center stood his brother.
"Jango Fett," Shepard said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You are Mandalorian, my blood, my brother. But you must become more. The galaxy will know your name. With this ship, with these warriors, you will strike where Mandalore cannot. You will steal, raid, kill if you must. For the good of our people. The galaxy's resources will be ours."
Jango's eyes burned with pride. "I won't fail you, brother."
"I know you won't," Shepard said. "The Prowler is yours."
The ship's ramp closed, engines humming as it lifted into the night sky. Shepard watched until it vanished among the stars.
For the first time in centuries, Mandalore was united. And under Shepard's rule, it would rise higher than ever before.