Chapter Text
The universe is filled with countless mysteries, from its numerous galaxies to the myriad systems they contain. Among these galaxies, one remained hidden and largely unknown—or perhaps it was simply overlooked, deemed unimportant. Regardless, this galaxy harbors a seemingly ordinary solar system, unremarkable at first glance, centered around a typical yellow sun that illuminates its planets, including a special Goldilocks world. Yet, a closer look reveals something unusual: the planet’s moon.
This moon, a natural satellite, deviates strikingly from the norm. Unlike the near-spherical moons commonly seen, it appears partially shattered, as though some enraged entity had viciously broken it apart. Its bizarre, irregular shape affects its rotation around the planet, a consequence of the irreparable damage it has sustained. As a result, the planet’s inhabitants can periodically glimpse its fractured side. For the residents of this strange world, however, this peculiar moon is likely the least of their oddities.
This world is called Remnant.
Remnant is an extraordinary place, home to a futuristic and fantastical society boasting powerful vehicles, weapons, and other remarkable inventions. At the heart of its technology and culture lies a dynamic, crystal-like substance known as Dust, the planet’s primary energy source. Three distinct races inhabit this unique world.
The most numerous are the humans, who have built kingdoms, developed advanced technologies, and shaped the planet’s society. Humans possess a remarkable ability called Aura, a power derived from the manifestation of their souls. Aura’s applications vary widely depending on an individual’s innate talents or honed skills. It can shield them from harm, enhance their abilities, and, when combined with Dust, grant them significant advantages. Moreover, Aura is the key to unlocking a Semblance—a unique, superpower-like ability tied to each person’s soul. While semblances differ, some bear striking similarities. They can be used to combat threats, defeat opponents, or serve practical, everyday purposes. A semblance evolves with its wielder, growing stronger as they push their limits, and is deeply influenced by emotions—sometimes manifesting more easily in moments of intense feeling. Dust, too, synergizes seamlessly with semblances, amplifying their effects.
The second major race on Remnant is the Faunus. Though resembling humans, Faunus are distinguished by animal traits that vary from individual to individual. Some have extra animal ears alongside their human ones, while others possess only animal ears. Depending on their lineage, Faunus might sport horns, tails, or aquatic features reminiscent of mermaids from ancient myths. In some cases, these traits remain subtle, hidden unless intentionally revealed. The origins of the Faunus remain a mystery, even to themselves, a riddle yet to be solved.
These animal traits can be seen as a third layer of power, complementing the Faunus’ ability to wield Aura and semblances. Common traits include heightened senses—such as superior hearing or innate night vision—while others are more discreet, like retractable claws. Specific examples include winged Faunus capable of flight, arachnid Faunus who secrete venom or silk, or chameleon Faunus who can alter their skin color for camouflage. These abilities proved invaluable during conflicts with humans.
Despite their similarities to humans, Faunus have faced severe discrimination due to their distinct traits, which manifest in both appearance and behavior. Early rumors demonized them, leading to exclusion, segregation, and even exile from human settlements. While some humans pragmatically accepted Faunus during times of necessity, many viewed them merely as tools rather than equals. A notable example followed the Great War that shook Remnant. In recognition of the Faunus’ contributions, they were granted the continent of Menagerie. Reactions were mixed: some saw it as a generous reward, while others viewed it as a ghetto island—a convenient way to isolate the “beastly race” and sidestep broader racial tensions. Ultimately, it was accepted, though many interpreted it as a means to make the Faunus someone else’s problem.
Prejudice against the Faunus persisted into the present day, varying in intensity from rare subtle biases to overt hostility. Even in tolerant kingdoms, bigotry lingered, fostering distrust among Faunus toward humans. This tension gave rise to the White Fang, a group that began as a noble protest against racial injustices but evolved into a violent, supremacist organization. Feared by humans for its aggression and willingness to kill, the White Fang also alienated many Faunus, who saw its actions as reckless lashing out rather than a genuine push for change.
Surprisingly, the White Fang matured over time. Initially a chaotic band of human-hating Faunus, it transformed into a more structured militant force. A council emerged, reflecting diverse perspectives on achieving respect on Remnant. Some advocated a balance of violence and diplomacy, others adopted a more reasoned approach with minimal aggression, though a few extremists still slipped through. This evolution softened some Faunus and even human opinions toward them, though the group remained a clear threat to its enemies.
One such enemy was the Schnee Dust Company (SDC), the planet’s leading Dust producer and exporter. To many Faunus, particularly White Fang members, the SDC epitomized oppression, notorious for its poor treatment of Faunus workers. Though conditions have improved somewhat, the scars remain, and suspicions persist that the company has simply become adept at concealing its abuses. In its early days, the SDC’s mistreatment drove some Faunus to join the White Fang.
Yet, one enemy united all—humans, Faunus, and even the White Fang—in hatred and fear: the Grimm.
Described as creatures of pure destruction, the Grimm have terrorized humanity and Faunus alike since time immemorial. Soulless, they lack Aura and semblances but compensate with natural abilities. Emerging from dark pools in the Land of Darkness, they spread across Remnant like a plague. Fortunately, humans and Faunus have harnessed Dust, Aura, and semblances to fend them off, enabling the rise of the four main kingdoms. Still, Grimm linger in the outskirts, preying on unwary travelers and villagers. Their origins are murky—some believe they hail solely from the Land of Darkness, others suspect a guiding force, and a few consider them monstrous animals. Some theories hold more truth than others.
The Grimm are defined by two key traits. First, they are drawn to negative emotions—sadness, anger, pain, fear—targeting only humans and Faunus while ignoring other animals. This creates a vicious cycle: an attack sparks fear and suffering, attracting more Grimm, escalating panic until entire areas are wiped out. Even then, they linger, drawn by the residual emotions. Second, Grimm evolve rapidly, with survivors growing into stronger variants. They come in diverse forms, from small threats to towering, kaiju-like beasts. With age, they gain experience and intelligence, enhancing their lethality. Some adapt to harsh environments or wield powers akin to semblances—fire, electricity, or emotional manipulation—making them a persistent danger despite Remnant’s growing stability.
This threat birthed the Huntsmen, an elite force trained to combat and kill Grimm while also defending against other dangers to maintain Remnant’s stability. Established after the Great War, Huntsmen Academies train aspiring huntsmen and huntresses, ranging from basic combat schools like Signal Academy to prestigious institutions like Beacon Academy. These academies teach theory, field skills, and combat against Grimm and foes. Graduates earn licenses to operate legally across Remnant, though the system has flaws. While huntsmen can choose their kingdom, this freedom allows some to act as mercenaries, serving criminals for Lien, Remnant’s currency. In one kingdom, the military integrated huntsmen, sparking debate—some see it as a vital defense, others as overreach.
Nevertheless, Huntsmen are widely beloved, undertaking missions like search and rescue, Grimm extermination, perimeter defense, village security, bounty hunting, and civilian escorts. Veteran huntsmen and huntresses often become celebrities, admired across Remnant.
One such admirer was Ruby Rose, a rookie huntress-in-training inspired by heroic tales and her family. Following in their footsteps, she attended Signal Academy, where she crafted her signature weapon: Crescent Rose, a sniper-scythe. Ruby adored weapons—perhaps more than cookies or strawberries—constantly tinkering with Crescent Rose to perfect it. Though this left her hand-to-hand skills lacking, her Semblance, which let her move at blinding speeds to disorient foes, kept her competitive in battle.
Her talents drew her into the schemes of Roman Torchwick, a notorious criminal. During one of his Dust robberies, Ruby thwarted his henchmen with ease, unaware they faced more than an ordinary girl. Her victory caught Beacon Academy’s attention, and its headmaster, impressed by her skill and character, admitted her two years early. There, she joined a team of three other students: the frosty Weiss Schnee, the enigmatic bookworm Blake Belladonna, and her spirited older sister, Yang Xiao Long.
Weiss Schnee carried emotional baggage from a tumultuous family life, manifesting in a sharp, often rude demeanor. Beneath her icy exterior, however, lay a capacity for kindness, waiting to emerge. Blake Belladonna was a mystery, her past largely unknown to her teammates. Though they knew her true nature as a Faunus, it raised more questions than answers, with only the headmaster seeming to hold some insight. Yang Xiao Long, Ruby’s half-sister, was the team’s powerhouse—cheerful and protective, yet smarter than her occasional ditziness suggested. Like Ruby, she grappled with maternal loss, their father devastated by the deaths of both Yang’s mother, who abandoned them, and Ruby’s mother, killed on a mission.
Ruby’s journey took a surreal turn when she found herself on a dark subway, unable to speak or move. A female announcer’s voice echoed: “We are now reaching the Templar Tunnels, please remain seated.” The lights flickered on, revealing multiple versions of Ruby—each distinct, yet unresponsive to her presence.
One Ruby sported a longer hairstyle, still black with red tips, wearing a white blouse, a corset, and a tattered cloak. Another had spiky hair and a lace-up corset over a mesh top, paired with a red skirt and steel-toe boots. A third wore a casual hoodie and red sneakers, geared for snowboarding. An older Ruby stood taller, clad in a sleek unitard with a red scarf. The strangest was a wooden Ruby, overgrown with plants, eerily motionless.
As Ruby fixated on these doppelgängers, a dark green vapor coalesced before her, forming a towering, humanoid figure. Glowing eyes—one red, one blue—pierced through a greenish robe, shard-like fangs glinting as it loomed over her. Clearing its throat, it spoke with surprising formality.
“Well, well, why isn’t it the young huntress herself? Apologies for the unconventional meeting—technical difficulties, you see.”
Ruby trembled, speechless.
“Ah, of course, you can’t talk. No matter—I’d rather not be interrupted.”
It brushed her face with a massive hand, making her pale.
“Relax, everything’s fine. Working with your world has been delightful, though I’ve taken breaks for other projects.” It grinned—or tried to. “Your world, your many incarnations, your universe—all brimming with potential. And you, huntress, have a role to play. Your hour has come again: the right girl, in the wrong place and time, poised to change this world, for better or worse. So wake up, Ruby Rose. Wake up and smell the roses.”
______________________________________________________________________
Ruby jolted awake with a sharp gasp in her dorm room bed, her heart pounding as she glanced around, disoriented. “Wha—what?” she stammered, blinking rapidly to shake off the haze of sleep. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she tried to piece together what had just happened. Her mind grasped at fleeting images—a dark figure, maybe?—but the details slipped away like sand through her fingers.
She sat up, still in her girlish pajamas, when a familiar voice broke through her fog. “Hey, Rubes! You’re finally awake!” Yang Xiao Long’s cheerful tone snapped Ruby out of her reverie, though she still felt dazed.
“Oh, hey, Ya-Yang,” Ruby replied, her voice shaky as she swung her legs over the edge of her hammock-like bunk bed.
Yang tilted her head, grinning. “I was wondering when you’d get up. You okay? You kinda woke up… well, rough.”
“Yeah, of course,” Ruby said, forcing a nervous smile, though her fidgeting hands betrayed her.
Yang wasn’t buying it. She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Nice try, sis. Come on, spill it to your cool big sister.”
Ruby sighed, relenting. “Alright, well… I had this weird dream.”
“Dream?” Yang prompted, leaning closer.
“Yeah, but here’s the thing—I can’t remember anything about it,” Ruby admitted with a helpless shrug. “Like, I know I dreamed something, and it felt real, but… zilch. Nothing sticks.”
“Hmm,” Yang mused, tapping her chin. “Maybe you saw something big?”
Ruby furrowed her brows, climbing down from her bunk. “Well, um, I think I remember a dark fig—”
“Ruby, you dolt! Stop daydreaming—we’re going to be late for Professor Port’s lecture!” Weiss Schnee’s sharp voice cut through the room as she stormed in, already dressed in her black-and-red skirted uniform, her arms crossed impatiently.
Blake Belladonna followed at a calmer pace, her own uniform neatly in place. “Relax, Weiss. We’ve got time.”
Weiss huffed. “Well, it’s not ‘share your dreams with the team’ hour.”
“You act like Ruby takes all day to get ready,” Yang shot back, slipping into her own uniform with practiced ease.
Ruby smirked, seizing the moment. With a burst of her Semblance, she dissolved into a flurry of rose petals, zipping toward her pile of clothes. Spinning dramatically, she emerged fully dressed in her uniform—or so she thought. “Ta-da! See? Easy, Weiss,” she declared smugly.
Her teammates stared, dumbfounded. Ruby frowned, confused, until she glanced down and realized her uniform was on backward. Her cheeks flushed crimson, and with another whirlwind of petals, she corrected it. “I meant to do that,” she insisted, pointing at Weiss before the heiress could comment.
Weiss opened her mouth, but Yang cut in, twirling a lock of her golden hair. “Sooo… can we get going now?”
“Yes,” the other three replied in unison.
The four girls hurried down the hall, their footsteps echoing in the corridor, until Ruby skidded to a halt by a window. Her teammates paused, puzzled.
“Uh, what’s wrong, Rubes?” Yang asked, stepping closer.
Ruby pointed outside. “Are you guys seeing what I’m seeing?”
They crowded around the window and gasped. There, dangling precariously from the building’s exterior, was a boy about Ruby’s age, gripping the wall for dear life.
“What the—?” Blake muttered, wide-eyed.
“What is he doing?” Weiss demanded, her brow furrowing.
“I think he’s stuck,” Yang said, leaning toward the glass for a better look.
“I’m gonna peek out,” Ruby decided, popping the window open and carefully leaning out, mindful not to tumble after him. The wind whipped her hair as she studied the stranger. He clung tightly to the wall, his face oddly calm despite his perilous situation, though his white-knuckled grip told a different story.
He wore a grey sweater with a long green stripe across the chest, paired with grey pants that had white stripes at the cuffs and sturdy grey boots. Bright green gloves covered his hands, and his messy, scraggly grey hair fell over his eyes, obscuring them entirely. The wind tousled both their hair as Ruby ventured a greeting.
“Uh… hey there,” she said, her voice tinged with nervous curiosity.
The boy turned his head slowly, his tone flat but steady. “Hey.”
“So… what are you doing?” Ruby asked, tilting her head.
“Hanging here,” he replied matter-of-factly, his fingers digging into the stone.
Ruby facepalmed. “No, I get that. Why are you hanging here?”
“Er… I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice still eerily calm. “I woke up here. I think I can get down, though.” His foot slipped slightly, and Ruby’s breath hitched. She nearly activated her Semblance to catch him, but he steadied himself.
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” she said with a hint of sarcasm. “So—”
“Gray,” he interjected blankly.
“Gray?” Ruby echoed, blinking.
“Yes. Gray.”
She bit back a laugh—his name matched his grey hair and outfit perfectly. Then again, she thought, glancing at her own red-themed huntress attire and Semblance, a girl named Ruby Rose didn’t exactly have room to judge. “Well, I’m Ruby, and these are my friends and sister,” she said, gesturing as Weiss, Blake, and Yang poked their heads out. “Weiss, Blake, and Yang—my awesome, cool sister. We’re Team RWBY.”
“Bazinga,” Blake whispered under her breath, earning a smirk from Yang.
“Hi,” Gray said, unfazed. “I’m sure I have enough tactical skill to get—” He shifted again, nearly slipping, “—to the window.”
Ruby frowned, puzzled. Weiss and Blake exchanged deadpan looks, while Yang chuckled, reminded of Ruby’s clumsier childhood moments. “Okay, Mister Tactician, stay right there,” Yang said, waving a hand.
Ruby turned to her teammates. “Well?”
“Yeah, he needs help,” Blake agreed, nodding toward the window.
Ruby took charge. “Okay, Gray, come over and grab me and Yang’s hands,” she said, pointing to her sister as they both extended their arms.
Gray hesitated, his head tilting slightly as he glanced between their outstretched hands and his own grip on the wall. He seemed to weigh his options—maybe he could make it on his own—but Weiss’s sharp voice interrupted his thoughts. “We don’t have all day!”
Ruby giggled. “Yeah, we’re not gonna drop you.”
Gray tilted his head again, as if processing her words, then glanced down at the drop below. His shoulders slumped, almost sulking, and he muttered, “…Okay. But… drop me.” His voice was quiet, resigned, like he didn’t fully trust them—or anything—though Ruby’s earnestness seemed to sway him slightly.
He inched forward, but the ledge beneath him cracked suddenly, startling all five of them. With a split-second decision, Gray lunged, and Ruby and Yang caught his arms, yanking him inside. The momentum sent them tumbling—Ruby landed on Blake, Yang on Weiss, and Gray hit the floor face-first with a dull thud.
“See? Not hard at all!” Ruby chirped, brushing herself off.
“Easy for you to say,” Blake groaned, clutching her stomach where Ruby had landed.
“Can you get off us?” Weiss snapped, shoving Yang away.
Yang blushed, scrambling up alongside Ruby. They helped their teammates to their feet, and Yang rubbed the back of her head sheepishly. “See? No harm, no foul.”
Ruby noticed Gray still sprawled on the floor. “Hey, you okay?”
Gray stumbled to his feet, dazed but unhurt, and gave a thumbs-up. Quick as a flash, he snatched a sword-like object from the floor—where had that come from?—and hooked it onto his sweater. He moved with an odd, quiet efficiency, his expression unreadable beneath his messy hair.
Ruby clapped her hands together. “Guys, I think we should take him to one of the professors—maybe even Ozpin.”
Blake raised an eyebrow. “You’re just saying that to skip class, aren’t you?”
“Yup,” Ruby admitted with a grin, utterly shameless.
Yang laughed, slinging an arm around her sister. “That’s my Rubes. Alright, let’s go—Gray, you’re with us.”
Gray didn’t respond, just nodded faintly and fell into step behind them, his sword clinking softly against his side as Team RWBY led the way, their newest mystery in tow.
_____________________________________________________________________
To say Jaune Arc led a normal team would be a gross understatement. His squad, Team JNPR, was a whirlwind of quirks and contrasts. There was Nora Valkyrie, a pint-sized dynamo of chaotic energy—cute yet cataclysmic, her enthusiasm barely contained. Her closest companion, Lie Ren, was her polar opposite: a near-silent, stoic huntsman whose calm demeanor anchored her storm. And then there was Pyrrha Nikos, the Invincible Girl of Mistral, a huntress whose reputation as one of Remnant’s finest preceded her. Together, they were an odd bunch, but Jaune wouldn’t trade them for the world.
They’d even helped him unlock his Aura—a feat that revealed he had an unusually vast reserve of it. Things were starting to look up for the scrappy blonde leader. So, the everyday chaos of Team JNPR’s dorm room? That was just another Tuesday for him.
Jaune stood before the room’s small mirror, wrestling with his red tie. His damp blonde hair stuck out in wild tufts from a hasty shower, and his black-and-gold armor clinked faintly as he shifted. “Okay, left over right… or is it right over left?” he muttered, squinting at his reflection. His hoodie still hung over a chair, leaving him half-dressed and increasingly frustrated. He yanked the tie loose for the third time, groaning. “Why is this so hard?”
Nearby, Pyrrha Nikos—ever the morning person—adjusted her golden circlet, her crimson hair gleaming as she brushed it with swift, expert strokes. She glanced at Jaune, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Need help with that?” she offered, setting her brush down on her immaculately made bed. Her polished armor, stacked neatly beside her, caught the light, reflecting the room in its flawless surface.
“N-No, I’ve got it!” Jaune stammered, cheeks reddening as he somehow tangled the tie around his pointer finger. “I mean, uh, maybe later.”
Across the room, Nora Valkyrie burst out of the bathroom, a towel draped over her shoulders like a superhero cape. Toothpaste smeared her cheeks, but she didn’t care, tugging on her pink skirt and white top with reckless speed. “Ren! Ren! Did you make breakfast yet? I’m starving, and we’ve got Goodwitch’s combat class today—I need fuel!” She leaped onto her bed, her stomach growling like a Grimm on the prowl, and rifled through her dresser for socks.
Lie Ren emerged from the corner where he’d been quietly folding his green tunic, his expression serene despite Nora’s whirlwind. His hair was tied back, and he wore his uniform minus the jacket, which hung neatly on a hook. “Pancakes are on the hot plate,” he said evenly, nodding toward a stack of fresh flapjacks. “But if you keep jumping, you’ll break the bed again, and I’m not explaining that to Professor Ozpin this time.”
Nora gasped, clutching her chest with mock drama. “Betrayed by my own team! Fine, I’ll sit—for the pancakes.” She plopped down, legs swinging impatiently, and laced up her boots with exaggerated care.
Pyrrha chuckled, stepping over to Jaune. “Here,” she said softly, taking the tie from his hands before he could object. Her fingers moved with graceful precision, tying a perfect knot in seconds. “There. Now you look ready to lead.”
Jaune stared at the tie, then at her, an awkward grin spreading across his face. “Thanks, Pyrrha. I’d be lost without you—er, all of you—”
BOOM!
A sudden crash rocked the room, splattering cyan, magenta, black, and yellow gunk across the walls and floor. The four teammates froze, unharmed but stunned. Nora clung to Ren comically, Ren blinked in bewilderment, Jaune tripped and sprawled onto the floor, and Pyrrha instinctively dropped into a combat stance, eyes scanning for threats.
From the wreckage of their chairs stumbled a young kid, coughing and disoriented. He wore a black sweater matching his dark hair, with a shirt beneath it streaked in horizontal cyan, yellow, and magenta stripes. His bright cyan eyes darted around, wide with confusion, before landing on Team JNPR.
An awkward silence stretched between them.
“A-ah!” the kid yelped.
“Ah!” Jaune echoed, still sprawled on the floor.
“Wh-who ar-are you?” the kid stammered, clutching at the air as if for balance.
Another beat of silence. Then Nora booped Jaune on the nose, snapping him out of it.
“Uh, hey! I’m Jaune, and this is Pyrrha, Nora, and Ren. We’re Team JNPR,” Jaune said, pointing to his teammates as he scrambled to his feet. Nora waved with manic enthusiasm, Ren offered a subtle nod, and Pyrrha gave a polite wave, though her brow creased with concern.
“Hi!” Nora chirped.
“Hello… again,” Pyrrha added, her tone cautious.
Ren just waved, silent as ever.
The kid’s nervous expression softened slightly. “I-I’m Casey. Oh—wait—” He fumbled for a paintbrush-like object, which glowed briefly. With a flick, the colorful splatter vanished, leaving the room spotless again.
Nora’s eyes widened. “If I may ask—WHERE DID YOU COME FROM? YOU JUST WOOSHED AND BOOMED RIGHT INTO OUR CHARACTER-BONDING MOMENT! Pretty please?!” She lunged forward, her excitement knocking Casey back into the wall with a thud.
Pyrrha darted over, gently lifting the dazed boy to his feet. “Nora, please—he’s already terrified.”
“N-No, she’s right. I did crash into your place,” Casey admitted, rubbing his head.
Jaune stepped closer, his tone gentle. “We don’t want to pressure you, but… what happened?”
Casey shrugged helplessly. “I dunno how I got here. I was in class at Lumise Academy, training, when a portal opened up, and—poof—I landed here. I just hope Ven and Prism are okay.”
“Lumise Academy?” Pyrrha asked, tilting her head curiously.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Ren said, his voice steady but puzzled.
“Wait, which academy is this?” Casey asked, glancing around.
“Uh… Beacon Academy. Why?” Jaune replied, scratching his head.
“Wha—what?!” Casey’s voice cracked. “I’ve never even heard of this place. I must be way off from Lumise.”
“Lumise? Sorry, this is Vale,” Pyrrha said, resting a reassuring hand on Casey’s trembling shoulder.
Casey paled, sweat beading on his forehead. “Uhhh… this might sound weird, but… what planet is this?”
“Remnant,” all four JNPR members answered in unison, their voices earnest.
Casey’s eye twitched. “Okay… okay, just breathe. In, out—don’t pass—eh…” His knees buckled, and he would’ve hit the floor if Pyrrha hadn’t caught him, cradling the unconscious boy in her arms.
“Well, that was something!” Nora exclaimed, bouncing on her toes. “Is he okay? Should I wake him up with my super-electricity powers?!”
“Er, thanks for the idea, but no,” Jaune said quickly, waving her off. “We should take him to one of the professors.”
Pyrrha nodded, adjusting her grip on Casey. “Agreed. Let’s go.”
And so they did, with Pyrrha carrying the mysterious newcomer as Team JNPR set off, their morning chaos taking an unexpected turn into the unknown.
_______________________________________________________
To say Ozpin had endured a difficult life would be a monumental understatement. As the headmaster of Beacon Academy, he bore the weight of countless secrets and an unending struggle against a shadowy force threatening Remnant. This dark inner circle—a relentless, malevolent power—clashed with his allies as fiercely as he opposed them. Yet, Ozpin clung to hope. For now, he held this sinister society at a stalemate, and with time, he might uncover a way to vanquish its puppetmaster: Salem, the manipulator lurking in the shadows. But optimism was a fragile thing, and for a man like Ozpin, whose past stretched further than anyone knew, the horizon rarely brightened.
At this moment, he sat in his office atop Beacon Tower, the soft ticking of the clockwork gears overhead filling the silence. Across from him stood Glynda Goodwitch, his trusted deputy and one of the few who understood the gravity of their work. She adjusted her glasses, her posture rigid as always, while Ozpin cradled his ever-present mug of cocoa.
“Funny,” he remarked, taking a sip, “I haven’t heard much from their group lately.”
“Odd,” Glynda replied, her tone clipped as she straightened her cape.
“I suspect they’re plotting something precise—and dangerous,” Ozpin mused, his gaze drifting to the window overlooking Vale. “We must remain vigilant.”
“I agree, Professor, but we can’t afford rash moves either—not like some of our associates,” Glynda said firmly, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“Qrow?” Ozpin chuckled softly. “Don’t worry. He’s reckless, yes, but he knows what he’s doing.”
Glynda huffed, a rare flicker of exasperation crossing her face. “Fine, I’ll grant him that.”
“Speaking of which,” Ozpin said, setting his mug down and adjusting his scroll, “he’s due to update me on the situation out there.” A large holo-screen flickered to life behind his desk, its purpose unclear for now but clearly tied to his preparations.
A faint ping sounded from the scroll. Ozpin glanced at it, his relaxed demeanor shifting—first to confusion, then to a steely seriousness. The message from Qrow read: “Land’s gone haywire—new towns, shifted rivers, new landmasses. Grimm are loving it. Heading to Beacon ASAP. Worse, the queen’s got pawns.”
Glynda, who’d received the same message on her own scroll, gaped slightly, more rattled than Ozpin. “New landmasses? Ozpin, how is that even possible?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice low. “This doesn’t feel like Salem’s handiwork. It’s too erratic, too… chaotic. It reminds me of—” He cut himself off as Glynda’s sharp, questioning stare pinned him. “Never mind. It’s not important right now.”
Her eyes narrowed, arms crossing. “Reminds you of what? Some ancient legend or artifact scattered across Remnant?”
Ozpin sighed, sipping his cocoa to buy a moment. “Legends carry meaning, Glynda, but let’s not chase shadows just yet.”
She adjusted her glasses, clearly unconvinced but letting it drop—for now. “Fine,” she said, straightening. “I suggest you contact the other headmasters immediately. We need to verify Qrow’s report and see if this is widespread or isolated.”
Ozpin nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Of course.”
The holo-screen hummed fully to life, its sleek design reminiscent of the one he used to announce huntsmen teams—sharp, secure, perfect for private calls. A soft blue glow bathed the room as the semi-circular projector activated, revealing the faces of the headmasters from Atlas, Haven, and Shade Academies.
Masking his unease, Ozpin spoke evenly. “Gentlemen, Qrow’s uncovered something troubling—landmarks shifting, new settlements appearing. Check your regions immediately.”
General James Ironwood leaned forward, his stern features etched with concern. “Actually, Ozpin, I’ve already confirmed it. Our Mantle outposts shifted overnight. I thought it was a survey error at first, but it’s not.”
“Well, I’m glad you checked,” Glynda interjected, leaning in. “If your outposts are moving, it’s not just Atlas. This is bigger than your fleet can handle. Has anything changed on Atlas itself?”
“No,” Ironwood replied, his tone resolute. “As far as my allies and I can tell, Atlas remains unaffected.”
“And you, Lionheart?” Ozpin asked, turning to the Haven headmaster.
Lionheart fidgeted, his timid nature evident even through the screen. “Uh, nothing drastic here… yet. I’ll look into it.”
Glynda’s voice cut like a whip. “Lionheart, ‘not yet’ isn’t an answer. Mistral has eyes—use them. We need facts.”
“Easy, Glynda,” Ozpin said lightly, raising a hand. “I’m sure Lionheart will get us clearer answers. This is uncharted territory for all of us.”
She relented, though her expression remained taut. “Fine. Theodore?”
Theodore of Shade leaned back in his chair, his lively demeanor a stark contrast to the others. “Vacuo’s a mess—new dunes swallowing roads, an oasis town popped up yesterday. Weirder still, a massive forest sprouted between Vale and Vacuo overnight. What’s stirring this up?”
Ozpin shrugged, a rare admission of uncertainty. “For once, I’m at a loss. I’ve theorized it might be an old power—older than Salem, perhaps tied to her ambitions. The tales of the Two Brothers, creation and destruction… they may not be as fanciful as we thought. Something’s awakened, reshaping Remnant.” His voice dipped, hinting at more, then steadied. “We need to confirm the vaults are secure.”
Glynda’s eyes narrowed again. “As I asked earlier, Ozpin—is this the relics, some legend, or has Salem unleashed something new?”
“If it’s Salem, we strike back—vaults or not,” Ironwood declared, his fists clenching.
“The vault here’s fine… I think,” Lionheart said, straightening his collar nervously.
Theodore blinked. “Wait—‘Two Brothers’? You’re saying fairy tales are moving my dunes?”
Ozpin raised his hands, calming the rising tension. “I’m saying we’ve underestimated the forces at play. Qrow’s on his way back. Until he arrives, check your vaults and report any anomalies. Caution, not conjecture, will guide us.”
“I’ll keep Atlas on high alert and secure the vault,” Ironwood said firmly.
“Vacuo’s on it—students are scouting already,” Theodore added with a nod.
“I’ll… I’ll make sure to check everything,” Lionheart stammered.
“Good,” Glynda replied. “We’ll follow up when Qrow returns.”
“And we’ll assess the scope of these disturbances,” Ozpin concluded.
The holo-screen flickered off, leaving Ozpin and Glynda alone in the dimly lit office. Glynda sank into a chair with a heavy sigh, pouring herself a steaming mug of black coffee—no sugar, just the way she liked it. “One can only hope no new threats stumble into Vale,” she muttered, brushing a speck of dust from her sleeve with a faint hum of her Semblance. “We’ve got enough on our plate.”
Ozpin tilted his head, a glint of intrigue in his eyes as he studied a grainy photograph Qrow had sent. “Curious, though. It seems Qrow’s stumbled onto something… unexpected.” He slid the image across the desk toward her, his tone light but edged with mystery.
Glynda groaned, sipping her coffee. “Oh, great. Another problem.”
Ozpin tapped the scroll, enlarging the picture. “Apparently, some kind of mechanical prosthetic arm…”
“Like the ones from Atlas?” Glynda asked, draining her cup.
“No, it’s different,” Ozpin said, peering at the image. “Darker, more like a claw. It’s burnt and broken beyond repair, though. No telling who—or what—it belonged to.”
“Something of Salem’s?” Glynda pressed, setting her empty mug down with a faint clatter.
“Possibly,” Ozpin murmured, his eyes narrowing at the flickering screen. “It seems Salem may have gained new allies.”
Glynda rose, her cape swishing as she brushed off lingering dust with a flick of her Semblance. “Then we’d better find out who—or what—she’s recruited before it finds us.” With that, she strode out of the office, her footsteps echoing down the hall, leaving Ozpin alone to contemplate the claw’s ominous origins. He leaned back in his chair, mug in hand, the weight of Remnant’s shifting fate settling heavily on his shoulders once more.
___________________________________________________
Among the second-year students at Beacon Academy, Team CFVY stood out as one of the most eccentric groups, even amidst the quirky tapestry of teams that filled the school. But don’t let their oddities fool you—these four were anything but harmless. With a reputation for dispatching Grimm with effortless precision, they’d earned a well-deserved respect among their peers and professors alike.
In their dorm room, the morning routine was in full swing—chaotic, stylish, and distinctly CFVY. Coco Adel, the team’s fair-skinned leader and resident fashion maven, stood before a mirror, holding up two berets. Her signature sunglasses perched atop her head as she deliberated. “Okay, Velvet,” she said, turning to her teammate, “should I wear this beret or this one?”
Velvet Scarlatina squinted at the hats, her rabbit Faunus ears twitching slightly. “They look identical,” she said, her soft voice tinged with uncertainty.
Coco gasped dramatically, clutching both berets to her chest. “The same? Oh, honey, no. This one screams ‘team leader authority,’ while this one’s got my playful edge.” She tilted her head, inspecting them with the intensity of a jeweler appraising rare gems.
From his spot lounging on a chair, Fox Alistair rolled his copper-hued eyes. “Nope, Velvet’s right. They’re exactly the same. I don’t even need to see them to know that—and I’m blind.”
Yatsuhashi Daichi, the towering, athletic muscle of the team, glanced over from where he was polishing his massive sword. “He’s got a point,” he rumbled, nodding toward the berets. “They’re indistinguishable.”
Coco huffed, adjusting her shades with a flick of her wrist. “Hmph. Amateurs. Clearly, the one on the right has style and grace.” She plopped it onto her head with a flourish, striking a pose as if daring them to argue further.
“Nope, lady, they’re identical,” a new voice piped up, small but confident.
The team froze, turning in unison toward the source. There, sprawled across Coco’s bed like he owned it, was a white-haired kid with rosy cheeks and a shirt striped in garish red, green, and blue. His light skin practically glowed against the dark fabric of Coco’s throw pillows, which he’d shamelessly mussed up. He kicked his legs in the air, grinning up at the startled upperclassmen.
“Uh… who are you?” Fox asked, his tone a mix of suspicion and annoyance as he straightened up.
The kid propped himself up on his elbows, unfazed. “Well, who are you guys?” he shot back, flopping back down onto Coco’s bed with a bounce.
Coco adjusted her sunglasses, peering down at him over the rims with a blend of irritation and curiosity. “Okay, tiny critic, you’ve got five seconds to explain why you’re in my room before I accessorize you with a one-way trip out the window.”
He grinned wider, clearly unbothered by the threat. “Name’s Prism. I was just training in my classroom when—poof!—I popped up here.” He spread his arms wide, as if that cleared everything up, his smug smirk accentuating his rosy blush.
Velvet’s ears shot upright, her brown eyes widening. “Wait—popped up? Like, from nowhere? That’s not… normal.”
“Normal’s overrated,” Prism said, rolling onto his stomach and resting his chin in his hands. “One minute I’m dodging spark blasts in my world, next minute I’m here critiquing berets. Cool bed, by the way—super bouncy.”
Fox snorted, crossing his arms. “Great. A trespasser and a comedian. You sure you didn’t trip over a Dust crystal and hallucinate your way in?”
“Sounds like a portal mishap,” Yatsuhashi mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. His deep voice remained steady despite the absurdity of the situation. “Or he’s lost his mind. Either way, he’s your problem now, Coco.”
Coco groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fantastic. I didn’t sign up to babysit some interdimensional clown. What’s next—rabbits with plungers storming the dorm?” She fixed Prism with a glare. “Spill it, Stripes. Where’d you come from?”
“Obviously Lumise. You know, that city?” Prism replied casually, as if it were common knowledge.
“Uh… no, we don’t,” Fox shot back, his snark dialed up to eleven.
Prism smirked. “Uh, yes you do. It’s, like, the biggest city in Remnant.”
“Actually, Vale is,” Velvet corrected nervously, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.
“Vale? Never heard of it,” Prism said, sitting up with a puzzled frown. “Wait—largest city in Remnant? Hold on… what world is this?”
Coco raised an eyebrow, her patience thinning. “Strange question, kid, but I’ll humor you. This is Remnant.”
“Remnant? So, not Spectra…” Prism’s eyes lit up with realization. “Oh, I’m on another world! Cool.” He tapped his chin, grinning. “Hmmm… wonder how I’ll find my friends.”
“Er… what?” Fox asked, slipping on his black gloves with a skeptical glance.
“I think we should take him to one of the professors,” Yatsuhashi suggested, his calm tone cutting through the confusion.
“Good point,” Velvet agreed, her ears drooping slightly. “I think this kid’s off his rocker.”
“I’m literally not, though,” Prism snarked as Yatsuhashi scooped him up with one massive hand, lifting him off the bed like a ragdoll.
Coco sighed dramatically, adjusting her beret one last time. “Why can’t we have normal days at this school?”
Velvet shook her head, trailing after her fully dressed teammates as they headed for the door. “Because we’re Team CFVY,” she muttered under her breath, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite the absurdity.
With Prism dangling from Yatsuhashi’s grip, still chattering about Lumise and spark blasts, the team marched out of their dorm, ready—or at least resigned—to hand this latest oddity over to someone better equipped to deal with it. Another day at Beacon, another detour into the bizarre.
___________________________________________________________
Cinder Fall was a woman of many facets. To herself, she was a figure of destiny, fated to claim the powers of all four Maidens—a prize she deemed hers by right, an ambition that burned in her core. To the world, she was a phantom, a shadow slipping through cracks of awareness, elusive and undefined. To her teammates, she was a leader—though only Emerald truly embraced the title with devotion, while Mercury tolerated it with his usual sardonic flair. To others, she was simply a striking brunette in a red dress and heels, a bombshell whose beauty she wielded as deftly as any weapon—an appraisal she didn’t entirely mind. Today, however, Cinder was something else entirely: inconvenienced.
For weeks, she’d spun a meticulous web around the Fall Maiden, tracking rumors and tremors through backwater villages, guiding her quarry into a trap with her loyal disciples at her side. Every move had been calculated, every thread tightened—until someone else snatched her prize from under her nose. The evidence lay scattered before her: ash coating the ground, scorched plants curling inward, the acrid scent of a battle she hadn’t orchestrated lingering in the air. Someone had beaten her to the punch, and Cinder was silently seething.
Emerald Sustrai shifted nervously at her side, her green eyes darting to Cinder for any sign of approval. “Maybe they didn’t get far?” she ventured, her voice tentative, almost hopeful.
Cinder tilted her head, a faint smile replacing the scowl she’d worn moments before. Her amber eyes gleamed as she surveyed the wreckage. “Perhaps,” she purred, her tone smooth as honey yet edged with a razor’s bite.
Mercury Black lounged against a charred tree, tracing a fresh boot print in the dirt with the tip of his prosthetic leg. “I mean, Em’s got a point,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Trail’s still warm. We could track ‘em down and call it a day—assuming you’re not too mad to multitask, boss.”
Cinder’s smirk widened, though her gaze turned icy. “Of course we can,” she replied, her voice silken as she clasped her hands behind her back and faced them fully. “A minor hiccup, nothing more. Let’s follow the trail, shall we? I’d hate to keep our new… friends waiting.”
Her heels clicked softly against the scorched earth as she traced the boot prints with her eyes, leading Emerald and Mercury deeper into the scene—until the trail vanished. The prints stopped cold, swallowed by a patch of pristine grass, untouched and unmarred.
Emerald crouched, frowning as she ran her fingers over the ground. “It just… stops? No scuffs, no trampled blades—nothing. Did they disappear into thin air?”
Mercury snorted, crossing his arms. “What, they sprout wings and fly off? Come on, Em, even you’re not that gullible.” He tapped his metal leg against the dirt, testing for hidden mechanisms. “Maybe they’re just pros at covering their tracks.”
Cinder’s gaze lifted to the smoky sky, a faint breeze stirring her dark hair. “Or perhaps they did take flight,” she mused, her voice calm and unruffled, though a spark of intrigue flickered in her eyes. “No matter. If they’ve slipped through our fingers, we’ll simply cast a wider net.” She turned to her team, her smile tightening just enough to hint at her simmering frustration. “Emerald, scour the nearby villages for whispers of… unusual travelers. Mercury, sweep the perimeter—see if our winged friends left us a feather to follow.”
Mercury shrugged, already sauntering off with his usual lazy swagger. “Bird hunt it is. Hope they’re dumb enough to crash-land nearby.”
Emerald nodded eagerly, her hands fidgeting with her twin firearms, Thief’s Respite. “Right away, Cinder. They won’t escape you—not for long.”
Cinder watched them depart, her expression serene but her mind a storm of calculations. Whoever had stolen her quarry was sharper than she’d anticipated, and that only fueled her interest. This was no longer just a hunt—it was a game.
Then, without warning, she froze. In one fluid motion, she spun, summoned her obsidian bow, and loosed a massive arrow into the dense foliage behind her. The projectile sliced through leaves with a sharp thwack, startling Emerald and Mercury into whipping around.
“Er… what was that for?” Mercury asked, his voice a mix of confusion and wary amusement.
“I’m sure our leader has her reasons,” Emerald muttered, her eyes darting to where the arrow had vanished.
Cinder didn’t respond immediately. She strode forward, pushing aside branches with deliberate grace until she reached her target. Pinned to a tree by her arrow—caught through his cape—was a tar-skinned teenager with black-and-green hair and a single glowing green eye. His black-and-red shirt was rumpled, and he struggled against the restraint, panting.
“F-free me from this at once!” he huffed, only to freeze as Cinder conjured a sleek, fiery blade and pressed it to his throat. “I—er… wait?!”
“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice low and lethal. “Answer quickly—my patience is thinning.”
Emerald stepped closer, glaring. “Did you steal our leader’s Maiden?”
“Maidens? Wha—what?” the teen stammered, his glowing eye widening in genuine bewilderment.
A dark figure emerged from the shadows, yellow eyes glinting faintly. “Ahh… Cinder, I see you’ve met my minion, Ramixe,” it rasped, amusement dripping from its tone like venom.
Mercury snorted, sizing up the newcomer—a wiry teen in a red coat over a red-and-blue shirt, with messy blackish-blue hair and those eerie yellow eyes. “Oh, great. Another weirdo. What is he, fifteen?”
Emerald snapped Thief’s Respite up, barrels trained on the stranger’s face. “Alright, who are you two?” she barked, her glare cutting.
The boy—Ramixe—flailed his yellow-gloved hands, black inky goo oozing from them. “Whoa, easy, Minty! We’re all pals here, right?”
“Abbonox!” he yelped, glancing sideways. “Get this scary lady’s guns off me, dude!”
A second figure stepped forward, shorter but brimming with swagger—a spiky-haired kid with a toothy grin. “Chill, Ramixe, she’s just saying hi.” He turned to Cinder, bowing with exaggerated flair. “Miss Fall, you’re looking at Abbonox, leader of the Marauders. Pleasure’s all mine.”
Cinder’s eyes narrowed, her towering presence looming as she studied him. “How do you know my name?”
Abbonox chuckled, unfazed by her intensity. “My boss, Antag, said to get cozy with you. Seems your dark benefactor and him hit it off—thought we’d team up, y’know? Bigger chaos, bigger fun.”
“Benefactor?” Cinder’s composure flickered, her voice tightening.
Emerald’s grip on her weapons tightened, her gaze flicking between them. “The one you keep mentioning?”
Mercury arched an eyebrow, smirking. “Yeah, Cinder, spill it. Who’s bankrolling this circus?”
Cinder shot them a glare that could’ve ignited the forest. “Not important.” She refocused on Abbonox, her tone icy. “Why are you here?”
Abbonox yanked the arrow from the tree with a casual tug, freeing Ramixe, who stumbled but stayed upright. “Well, our goals line up, right? More hands, more havoc. Figured you’d like that.” His grin sharpened, a glint of menace in his yellow eyes. “Plus, I’ve got a knack for making things… messy.”
Emerald didn’t flinch, her guns steady. “Why’s that?”
Abbonox shrugged, tossing the arrow aside. “Haven’t you noticed? Random folks, random places—boom, gone. Chaos popping up everywhere. I’m good at that kinda thing.” His grin turned predatory. “Stick with me, and I’ll show you a real party.”
Mercury crossed his arms, unimpressed. “No clue what you’re yapping about. And why should we trust you anyway?”
Abbonox laughed, a bit too loudly. “Trust? Aw, c’mon, I’m harmless—‘til I’m not. Look, I’ve got tricks your crew can’t touch. Need muscle? Manpower? Join up, and you’ll get it.” He winked at Cinder. “Boss says you’re chasing big power. I can make that hunt way more fun.”
Cinder stepped closer, her voice a dangerous whisper. “If you’re wasting my time, you’ll regret it.”
Abbonox met her gaze, his smirk unwavering. “Oh, I don’t waste time—I wreck it. Gimme a shot, and I’ll prove it. Deal?”
Cinder exhaled sharply through her nose, a faint sigh of concession. “Fine. Deal. Now, where’s that manpower you promised?”
Abbonox snapped his fingers with theatrical flair, and a tall figure emerged from the shadows—a young man with periwinkle-white hair cascading over his face, leaving only the glow of his white pupils visible. His presence was quiet, almost ghostly.
Before Cinder could comment, Abbonox’s brow furrowed, and he snapped again. A second figure trudged forward—a heavyset brute in black armor, with dirty pale blonde hair and a lumbering gait. He grunted, scratching his head. “Was that my cue?”
“Yes, of course it was—no, it wasn’t, you fat oaf!” Ramixe snapped, rolling his glowing eyes.
“Ahh… sorry,” the newcomer mumbled, looking sheepish.
Abbonox waved it off with a grin. “Anyhow, ignoring that, meet the muscle and skill of my group—Galileo here, and Pythos.” He snapped once more, and a lean, shadowy figure slunk forward, all sharp angles and quiet menace, a stark contrast to Galileo’s bulk. “More on the way, too—they’re just, uh, sorting some development hiccups. You’ll love ‘em.”
“Great,” Mercury drawled, sarcasm dripping as he leaned against a tree. “More clowns for the circus.”
Emerald lowered her weapons slightly, but her eyes stayed locked on the newcomers. She leaned toward Cinder, whispering, “Cinder, is this a good idea? They seem a bit… ehhh.”
Cinder’s gaze swept over Abbonox’s crew—Ramixe’s chaotic ink, Galileo’s bumbling strength, Pythos’s eerie stillness—before settling back on Abbonox. Her lips curved into a faint, predatory smile. “Competence outweighs polish. If they deliver the chaos they promise, they’re useful—for now.” She fixed Abbonox with a piercing stare. “Prove your worth, and we’ll discuss terms. Cross me, and I’ll burn your little Marauders to cinders myself.”
Abbonox’s grin widened, a spark of excitement dancing in his eyes. “Oh, you’ll see chaos, lady. I’ll make it a blast—literally. Deal’s on!”
And so, the seven-strong band set off, following Cinder’s lead toward her next calculated destination. Some marched with eager strides, others with wary steps, their goals as varied as their temperaments. Their target: the bustling City of Vale, a stage ripe for the havoc they promised—and the power Cinder craved.
________________________________________________________________
In a dimly lit metal chamber, a young woman stirred from a restless slumber, her senses dulled by an unnatural fog. She had a light brown complexion and straight, shoulder-length brown hair that framed her face, a distinctive beauty mark beneath her left eye catching the faint light. Her attire was striking yet practical: an off-white blouse with frilled shoulders and a pleated, split lower half, layered beneath a brown vest adorned with three straps and golden collar trim. A dark brown corset cinched her waist, matching her trousers, while thigh-high brown boots—complete with large cuffs and golden armor plating up to her knees—grounded her look with a warrior’s edge. An amber pendant gleamed on her vest, a gold bracer hugged her left arm, two gold bracelets jingled on her right wrist, and a golden spaulder capped her right shoulder. A brown shoulder strap with pouches hung diagonally across her chest, completing the ensemble.
This woman was Amber, the current Fall Maiden of Remnant. And right now, she was trapped in a place even she couldn’t name. She grumbled as consciousness clawed its way back, her eyes fluttering open to a blurry, unfamiliar world. “Wha—where?” she stuttered, her voice thick and slurred, weighed down by a lethargic haze that felt like poison seeping through her veins. Whatever she’d been dosed with was slow, cruel, and unrelenting.
She stumbled to her feet, the metal floor oddly warm beneath her bare soles—her boots, she realized with a pang, were gone. Her breaths came shallow and labored, sweat beading on her brow as she shuffled forward, nearly slipping on the slick surface. A hulking steel door loomed ahead, its surface cold and unyielding. Amber grunted, shoving at it with trembling arms, her muscles quaking under the effort. The door didn’t budge. Her strength faltered, and she dropped to her knees with a hacking cough, the air heavy in her lungs. Maybe I’ll just… stay here, she thought, exhaustion sinking into her bones as she slumped against the wall.
A voice slithered through the chamber, smooth and smug, laced with a mocking cheer that made her skin crawl. “Well, well, look who’s awake! Took you long enough—I was starting to think I’d dosed you too hard, sweetheart.”
Amber blinked, her head lolling as she squinted into the shadows, searching for the source. “Wh-who—” she croaked, her throat raw and dry.
“Who am I?” the voice interrupted, sharp and amused, as if savoring a private jest. “Oh, don’t bore me with that tired line. Let’s keep the spotlight where it belongs—on you, darling.”
“Why?” she rasped, forcing the word out through gritted teeth, her voice scraping against the silence.
“Why?” He laughed—a low, patronizing sound that echoed off the metal walls. “Simple, really. That little spark inside you? It’s positively fascinating—power just begging to be cracked open and claimed.”
“Mai—wait,” Amber managed, hauling herself upright on shaky legs. She squared her shoulders, trying to muster defiance despite the quiver in her stance. “Why do you care about what I’ve got?”
“Oh, you know why,” he purred, his voice curling with smug certainty. “Don’t play coy—it’s not a good look on you, and frankly, it’s a waste of my time.”
Her fists clenched weakly at her sides, nails digging into her palms. “I’m not letting you have it,” she snapped, her tone fierce despite the tremor in her words.
He tsked, the sound dripping with theatrical disdain. “Silly girl, I don’t need your permission. You’re just another toy on my table—meant to be taken apart, studied, and maybe—if you’re lucky—put back together when I’m done playing.”
Amber opened her mouth to retort, but a groan escaped instead as blinding lights flared overhead, searing her vision. A thick, acrid vapor flooded the chamber, stinging her eyes and clogging her throat. Her knees buckled, her body folding under the assault as her vision swam. She sank back to the floor, consciousness slipping away like sand through her fingers. The last thing she heard was his voice, smug and chillingly casual, cutting through the haze: “Sleep tight, little firefly—dissection starts tomorrow.”
Darkness swallowed her again, but not for long. When Amber stirred next, the haze had lessened, though her limbs still felt leaden. The chamber was unchanged—cold steel walls, a faint hum vibrating through the floor, and that oppressive warmth beneath her feet. Her head throbbed, a dull ache pulsing behind her eyes, but her mind was sharper now, clawing for clarity. She pushed herself up, wincing as her bare feet pressed against the floor, and steadied herself against the wall.
The memory of that voice—smooth, taunting, dangerous—gnawed at her. Whoever he was, he knew about her power, the Fall Maiden’s mantle she carried. And he wanted it. Amber’s jaw tightened. She’d fought too hard, endured too much, to let some shadowy creep strip it from her without a fight.
She scanned the chamber, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. No windows, no visible seams—just the steel door, a slab of metal that mocked her with its stillness. She shuffled toward it again, her breaths shallow but determined. Bracing herself, she slammed her shoulder against it, grunting at the jolt of pain that shot down her arm. Nothing. She tried again, harder, desperation creeping in—still nothing. Her fists pounded the surface, the sound ringing hollowly, but the door remained a silent sentinel.
“Come on,” she muttered, her voice hoarse. “There’s got to be a way out.”
A soft chuckle rolled through the room, raising the hairs on her neck. “Oh, I do love that spirit,” the voice drawled, closer now, as if he’d slipped inside the chamber. “It’ll make breaking you so much more entertaining.”
Amber whirled, her back pressing against the door as she searched the shadows. “Show yourself!” she barked, her hands balling into fists. A faint shimmer of amber light flickered at her fingertips—her Maiden power stirring, weak but present.
“Patience, firefly,” he teased, his tone lilting with mockery. “You’ll see me when I’m ready. For now, let’s just enjoy this little prelude, hmm?”
Her eyes narrowed, the flicker at her fingers growing into a steady glow. “I’m not your toy,” she growled, stepping forward despite the tremble in her legs. “And I’m not waiting around for your sick games.”
The chuckle deepened, echoing around her. “Bold words for someone who can barely stand. But go ahead—try your little tricks. It’ll only make the inevitable more delicious.”
Amber grit her teeth, thrusting her hands forward. A burst of flame erupted from her palms, roaring toward the shadows where his voice seemed loudest. The fire illuminated the chamber briefly—steel walls, a high ceiling with vented grates—before dissipating into smoke. No figure emerged, no cry of pain sounded. Just silence, then a slow, mocking clap.
“Adorable,” he said, his voice now behind her. “But you’ll need more than parlor tricks to impress me.”
She spun, hurling another fireball, but it met only empty air. Her breaths came faster, frustration and fear warring in her chest. “Coward!” she shouted, her voice cracking. “Face me!”
“Oh, I will,” he replied, his tone dropping to a chilling whisper. “But not yet. You’re not ripe enough—still too much fight in you. Don’t worry, though—I’ll carve that out soon enough.”
The lights flared again, brighter this time, and the vapor returned, thicker and more suffocating. Amber staggered, her flames sputtering as her knees hit the floor. “No… not again,” she gasped, clawing at the air as her vision darkened. Her pendant swung wildly, the amber stone glinting like a dying ember.
“Sweet dreams, little Maiden,” he crooned, his voice fading into the void. “We’ve got a big day ahead.”
As unconsciousness claimed her once more, Amber’s last coherent thought was a vow: I’ll burn you down before you break me. The chamber fell silent, save for the faint hum of machinery and the distant drip of something unseen—a countdown to whatever twisted fate awaited the Fall Maiden in captivity.
__________________________________________________
Somewhere in Saunus, a small faction were setting up operations. The crew had a name for themselves, The Emissary. Granted, they didn’t really plan to end up in a random place, and for now was one there on their own. And thus many were debating what to do since at the end of the day they were while they were dangerous criminals…they were just a six man band.
And at the end of the day while they had a name for themselves they were still unknown to the populace themselves.
The Saunus Forests loomed alien and stifling, a humid snarl of moss-slick trees and twisted roots sprawling under a sky just too off to feel familiar. Sinister Blackheart shoved a dripping frond aside, his red coat brushing wet leaves, mask glinting under his wide-brimmed hat. His orange-yellow shirt clashed with dark red pants as he turned, voice sharp with irritation. “Fantastic. Our base is toast—probably flattened when this landmass smashed into Spectra. I mean maybe I’m not sure how far this land change goes. Anyone got a clue where we even are, or are we just gonna gawk like morons?”
Varos clanked forward, his steampunk cyborg frame hissing steam from a warped joint, brass eye flickering as he snapped back, metallic voice grating. “A clue? Oh, sure, Blackheart—like I’ve got a map of this freakshow planet handy. Everything’s shifted since the merge—I’d have built a scanner if you weren’t busy whining.”
The Convict swaggered up, his energy-metal body shimmering faintly, wrecking balls swinging with a low hum. His tone oozed smugness. “Who cares where we are? Old base smelled like Xal’s armpits anyway. I say we find some lights, crash whatever party’s going, and grab some muscle.”
Kanos trudged beside him, hazmat suit wrinkling, his fogged glass dome pulsing with an orange glow. His muffled voice rasped out, dry and reckless. “Yeah, genius—let’s wander blind ‘til we hit something. Burn it, loot it, get some grunts. This forest’s giving me the creeps.”
A rumbling thud shook the ground as Xalidanus lumbered in, his hulking space-suited frame dented, massive helmet showing only a toothy maw. “Uh… where home?” he mumbled, pawing at a tree and snapping it like a twig. “Smash stuff?”
Sapphire Sovereign exhaled sharply, stepping over a root with measured grace, her blue-tinged suit glinting, cape trailing her corseted form. Her voice cut through, calm but firm. “No, Xalidanus, we don’t smash random trees on a world we don’t know. The shift trashed our base—fine, we adapt. Look—” She nodded toward a break in the canopy, where a distant city’s skyline flickered, smokey and alive. “That’s civilization. People, chaos, maybe allies. Our move.”
Sinister Blackheart squinted at the lights, a dry smirk tugging his lips. “Civilization, huh? Looks like a decent sandbox—assuming the locals aren’t as brain-dead as this lot. We roll in, stir some trouble, and snag whoever’s worth a hair.”
Varos’s gears whirred as he crossed his arms. “Great plan—stumble in blind and hope we don’t get scrapped. I’ll scan whatever tech they’ve got, but don’t blame me when it goes sideways.”
The Convict twirled his wrecking ball, sparks flaring. “Sideways works—smash in, make noise, convince some fools to tag along. They’ll join or bleed.”
Kanos’s helmet glowed brighter, a sharp laugh crackling. “I’ll torch a wall or two—see who panics. New world, new minions, same game.”
Xalidanus thumped his chest, grinning wide. “Smash lights! Fun. Me go.”
Sapphire Sovereign’s eyes narrowed, voice steady. “Enough. We don’t know this place, but that city’s our shot—hit it, scope it, build a crew. Whoever’s running things there, we deal or dismantle. Move out. And keep things under profile.”
The Convict rolled his eyes, “Uhhhh, and how do you supposed we do that, with tall, dumb, and crasher here.”
“We did it before,” stated Varos smugly.
Sinister Blackheart shot her a sidelong glance, nodding faintly. “Yeah, what she said. Let’s not die before we figure out what hit us.” The six shuffled toward the distant glow—a snarky, scrambled pack from Spectra, lost on Remnant, itching to carve a niche in a world they couldn’t name.
______________________________________________________________________
Elsewhere in Anima…
The Bridge of Shadows was a shadow of itself—practically defunct. Once a terroristic cult from Spectra, obsessed with bending the hopeless into their ranks via shadow magic, they’d been crushed by do-gooders back home. Now, stranded on this merged world—Remnant, though they didn’t know it—their grand dreams of domination felt like a bad joke. Worse, they were lost, the dense forest around them a maze of towering pines and creeping mist, the air heavy with unfamiliar scents.
Vonix led the trio, his tall frame cutting through the underbrush, purple robes snagging on thorns. His golden sash gleamed faintly at his waist, shiny yellow shoulder pads curving upward like horns, tethered to a billowing dark purple cloak with a black hem. Golden boots clicked against roots as he clutched his Tome of Shadows, its pages whispering faintly. He wore a white-ish garment tied at his neck, a light purple brooch pinning it—a relic of better days. His sharp eyes scanned the trees, affable grin masking a growing frustration.
Behind him, Eternos stomped silently, a hulking figure in Penumbra Armor—shadows woven into a sleek, dark carapace that hugged his broad frame. His face was a grim mask, loyalty radiating as he followed Vonix, every step deliberate, a coiled threat ready to snap.
Merlo, meanwhile, bounced along, his patchwork outfit a poor man’s echo of Vonix’s—faded purple robes, no gold, just a scruffy enthusiasm. He hummed off-key, tripping over a root but catching himself with a grin. Vonix tolerated him—potential in that goofy spark, and frankly, they needed bodies.
“So, where are we heading?” Merlo piped up, voice bright with curiosity.
Vonix paused, glancing at a distant glow through the trees—a city, hazy and alive. “For now, I don’t know. I’m thinking that big cluster of lights over there,” he said, tone sullen but edged with dry humor.
“For more recruits?” Merlo asked, head tilting.
“Brilliant observation,” Vonix shot back, sarcasm dripping as he rolled his eyes. “Yes, Merlo, recruits—or at least someone who knows what this blasted place is.”
Eternos grunted, breaking his silence, voice low and gravelly. “Could be trouble. Lights mean people—people mean fighters. We’re not exactly at full strength.”
Vonix waved a hand, affable but firm. “Trouble’s fine if they’re useful. We’ve got shadows—they’ve got numbers. Fair trade.” He smirked, tapping his tome. “Besides, Eternos, you’re worth ten of whatever they’ve got.”
A rustle snapped their attention—a figure dropped from the trees, landing in a crouch. Tyrian Callows, tail swaying, grinned wide, purple eyes glinting with manic delight. Blood flecked his coat, a Huntsman’s blade dangling broken in his claws. “Oh, what’s this? Lost little ducklings in my woods?” he purred, giggling bubbling up. “And here I was, just finishing a snack—some fool with a spear. You’re not Huntsmen, are you? No… too shiny.”
Vonix stepped forward, unfazed, sizing Tyrian up with a raised brow. “Not Huntsmen, no. Just travelers with a knack for shadows. You’re a messy one—name’s Vonix. Who’re you, bloodstain?”
Tyrian cackled, twirling the broken blade before tossing it aside. “Tyrian, your new best friend—or worst nightmare, pick fast! I’m hunting a slippery girl with spring in her step, but I’ve been… pruning the locals too. You lot look fun—what’s your game?”
Eternos tensed, shadows rippling over his armor, voice a growl summoning a sword. “We don’t play games. State your purpose, or we’ll make you.”
Merlo blinked, then grinned, stepping forward. “Okay, he’s got a tail! Hello! We’re the Bridge of Shadows—well, what’s left. Looking for friends, maybe? You seem… uh, lively!”
Vonix shot Merlo a piercing look—shut up—then turned back to Tyrian, affable grin returning. “What he means is, we’re rebuilding. Lost our world, landed here. That city’s our next stop—recruits, chaos, the usual. You’re clearly good at chaos. Ally, or obstacle?”
Tyrian’s grin widened, tail flicking as he leaned in, voice a sing-song tease. “Oh, I love chaos! My goddess might like you too—shadows, huh? Handy. I’m trimming Mistral’s pests—Huntsmen, nasty bunch. Join me, and maybe we’ll carve a path to that city together. Or…” He giggled, claws flexing. “I’ll prune you instead.”
Vonix chuckled, dry and unfazed. “Tempting. I’d rather not be mulch today. Let’s say we tag along—shadows and claws, could be a party. What’s this goddess of yours want?”
Tyrian hopped back, eyes gleaming. “Power, pain, the end of boring things! Stick around—I’m hunting a Maiden, but these Huntsmen keep popping up. Help me snip ‘em, and we’ll see what that city’s got. Perhaps, you may meet my goddess. Deal?”
Eternos glared, but Vonix nodded, tapping his tome. “Deal. For now. Lead on, tail-boy—let’s see if you’re worth the mess.”
Merlo clapped, oblivious. “Finally, a chance to make it to the big leagues.”
The four turned toward the distant lights, an odd pact forming—Tyrian’s mania meeting the Bridge’s scrappy ambition, all oblivious to Remnant’s stakes.
________________________________________________________________
The continent of Solitas, the northernmost landmass on Remnant, cradled the tense cities of Mantle and Atlas within its icy embrace. Its frigid climate and sprawling tundras posed a challenge even to the Grimm, yet the region thrived with resilient winter wildlife and formidable Grimm uniquely adapted to the harsh environment—creatures like the Megoliath and countless others. Amid the unforgiving terrain, beauty pierced the desolation: auroras, or polar lights, shimmered across the dark night sky, a vivid counterpoint to the frozen expanse below.
A mystery hung over this ice-clad region. The Grimm had adapted to Solitas’s brutal conditions at an unnaturally swift rate, evolving into some of Remnant’s most powerful entities—a phenomenon that perplexed its inhabitants and fueled endless speculation. Unknown to all, the sudden emergence of new landmasses had awakened something deep beneath the continent. Drawn by the potent energy of these enhanced Grimm and an enigmatic force that had jolted Remnant, a long-dormant presence was stirring—something that might have remained asleep forever under ordinary circumstances.
Change had swept across Remnant, and it was gaining momentum. Beneath the Tumak Ruins, rocks trembled where Grimm gathered, some disappearing as if the earth itself had swallowed them. Whatever was awakening there cast a shadow over the nearby settlements, its mercy their only hope—and luck, their fragile shield against an uncertain fate.
Unfortunately, the people of Solitas had more immediate concerns occupying their attention.
________________________________________________________________
Meanwhile, in a warmer corner of Remnant lay Menagerie, a vibrant yet rugged continent that served as a sanctuary for the Faunus. At its heart stood Kuo Kuana, the largest settlement and the seat of power for Chieftain Ghira Belladonna and his wife, Kali Belladonna. The island’s desert regions, however, were perilous—treacherous sands and lurking dangers kept most Faunus from settling there, confining the beastly residents to the dense, foliage-rich areas along the coast. Modern technology was scarce here; communication beyond the island lagged due to the absence of a CCT tower. Still, Kuo Kuana boasted enough architectural charm and industrial grit to sustain its people, offering a modest but livable existence.
Despite its challenges, Menagerie was a refuge for Faunus—a haven carved from hardship. The crown jewel of the settlement was the chieftain’s house, a sturdy symbol of strength and resilience that bolstered the island’s morale. From its balcony, Ghira delivered announcements that kept spirits steady, if not soaring. The populace remained largely neutral, content to care for their home and one another, though their dedication ran deep. For Kali Belladonna, it could have been a perfect life—had it not been for what was missing.
Her daughter.
Kali stood on the wooden balcony of the chieftain’s home, her bare feet resting on a pale yellow rug adorned with dark blue, zigzag lines along its edge nearest the railing. The balcony itself was framed by simple wooden railings, weathered yet sturdy. To the left of the sliding glass door leading to Ghira’s study sat a wooden platform, home to a small flower bed blooming with maroon flowers amid lush green leaves, flanked by a pair of tall white candles. Beside it sprawled a dull brown couch, worn but inviting. Above, large wooden birdcages hung from the roof, their cheerful occupants chirping melodies that clashed with the heaviness in Kali’s heart.
She closed her eyes, and the memory of one of Menagerie’s darkest days washed over her like a tide.
Years ago, when Ghira had stepped down from leading the White Fang to take up the mantle of chieftain, he’d walked into a tempest. Menagerie’s dense settlements, particularly Kuo Kuana, were overcrowded—housing disputes, shortages of food, water, and building materials, and relentless Grimm incursions from the deserts demanded his immediate attention. A beloved leader like Ghira didn’t get a grace period; Faunus flocked to him with grievances, expecting the man who’d once fought for their rights to mend their daily struggles. The island’s previous chieftains had faltered under the influx of refugees seeking a better life, leaving Ghira to inherit a fractured community.
His past with the White Fang was a double-edged sword. Supporters hailed him as a returning hero, but others—those still loyal to Sienna Khan’s militant faction—grappled with his shift to peaceful leadership. As a revered figure, Ghira’s days were flooded with demands: pleas to address Menagerie’s unforgiving terrain, improve living conditions, and perhaps even secure a CCT tower to connect them to the world. Yet, despite the chaos, he remained gentle yet firm, his calm resolve a beacon for his people.
With Kali’s unwavering support, Ghira forged a rhythm to stabilize the island:
Morning: He met with Kuo Kuana’s merchants, untangling trade disputes born from the lack of easy contact with Vale or Mistral.
Afternoon: He led a militia to repel Grimm attacks on the outskirts, proving he was as much a protector as a speaker.
Evening: He addressed crowds with his vision of peaceful Faunus pride—neither isolation nor war—deftly handling hecklers tied to the White Fang.
Over time, stability took root. The bond between Ghira and Kali, forged in the fires of their White Fang days, deepened into romance, then marriage, and finally the birth of their daughter, Blake. For a fleeting moment, everything felt right.
But fate had other plans.
Kali snapped back to the present, her gaze drifting to the shimmering water encircling the island. Menagerie’s early instability had made it a target for those who despised the Faunus—and they’d struck when the Belladonnas least expected it.
It had been a routine day, the usual rhythm of leadership humming along, when a resident spotted ships on the horizon. Some welcomed the sight, hopeful for trade or aid under Ghira’s reign; others grew wary, noting the rarity of outside contact. Their suspicions proved correct.
The Picotee Pirates, hired by Faunus-hating supremacists, launched a devastating raid on Kuo Kuana. Their ships, bristling with Dust-powered weapons and red lightning tech—like the gloves their captain wielded—slammed into the coast with ruthless precision. The supremacists sought not just destruction but terror and humiliation, aiming to prove Menagerie couldn’t shield its own. The Pirates, driven by greed and the promise of plunder, cared little for the politics—they wanted loot, and they’d take it by force.
Ghira, still new to his role, rallied the Menagerie Guard and every able-bodied Faunus to fight back. The battle was ferocious: palm trees blazed, the boardwalk splintered into the sea, and the submerged market for aquatic Faunus crumpled under cannon fire. The Pirates’ lightning tech gave them a brutal advantage, frying defenses and scattering the Faunus ranks.
The invaders didn’t claim victory—Ghira’s raw strength and unwavering leadership turned the tide—but they left devastation in their wake before retreating. As the dust settled, the Faunus gathered to rebuild. Ghira, battered but relieved, took stock: the island was scarred, but no lives had been lost. The damage could be mended.
Unbeknownst to them, the raid had a ripple effect. It fueled the White Fang’s radicalization, swelling their ranks with Faunus who saw peace as weakness. Even so, the White Fang’s growing militancy paled in comparison to the loathing reserved for the Pirates and their supremacist backers.
Then came the true blow. When Ghira and Kali returned to their home—a fortified bastion that had sheltered the vulnerable during the attack—they found it ravaged. Most of the structure stood intact, its occupants shaken but safe. But one room told a different story: the family nursery. Blood smeared the walls, furniture lay in splinters, and Blake—their infant daughter—was gone.
Kali jolted from the memory, her breath catching as she stared into the now-restored nursery. The repairs had smoothed over the physical scars, but the wound remained—a blanket draped over an unhealed pain. To the Belladonnas’ frustration, Menagerie had since settled into a complacent neutrality, its people content to rebuild and move on. But for Kali and Ghira, moving on felt impossible without their child.
Ghira stepped out from his study, his broad frame filling the doorway as he joined her on the balcony. His deep voice softened with concern. “You okay up here?”
Kali turned, her smile faint but warm as she met his gaze. “Of course, my love. Just… mulling over a few things.”
He glanced down, his expression clouding. “I hope you’re doing alright, considering… everything.”
“I am,” she said, her sad smile lingering. “I know I can’t keep dwelling on what happened. Besides, more importantly—how’s everything else holding up?”
Ghira leaned against the railing, peering at the bustling populace below. “Things have been smooth since the attack. Everything’s at peace now—wonderful, really. But I do worry about the Menagerie Guard.”
Kali tilted her head, her ears twitching slightly. “Oh? I know it’s been calm, but I’ve been wondering if they’ve grown too complacent.”
“I get it,” Ghira said, his tone measured. “But we can’t force these things. We don’t want… well, you know.”
“I know, I know,” she replied, her voice softening. “I just worry that if something happens…”
“Trust me,” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll be ready if it does. But we can’t turn neutral bystanders into a militia on a whim.”
Kali nodded, exhaling slowly. Ghira was probably right—she was being paranoid. Nothing threatened them here, not now. The island hummed with life below, its people weaving through their daily routines, blissfully unaware of her fears.
But in the barren wastes beyond Kuo Kuana, a shadow stirred. The desert stretches of Menagerie were sparsely populated by Faunus, leaving them a haven for Grimm—and a blind spot for the island’s defenses. Amid the dunes, a lone figure had taken refuge. A girl, cloaked in darkness, crouched atop a sandy rise, her eyes glinting with ambition as she surveyed the distant settlement through a makeshift scope.
“Venith’s Legion,” she mused aloud, a smug smirk curling her lips. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
Venith—she hadn’t shared her name with anyone here yet—summoned a portal, its edges crackling with a demonic red glow. She intended to call forth her second-in-command, but for now, she’d bide her time. Her mission was clear: gather resources, recruit allies, and await fresh orders from her unseen leader. Menagerie, with its dense population and untapped potential, was ripe for the taking.
She adjusted her perch, the wind whipping sand around her as she muttered to herself. “This place’ll do nicely. Power’s here—I can feel it. Just need to dig it out.” Her smirk widened as the portal pulsed, a promise of chaos to come. For now, she’d wait, a predator in the wastes, watching the unsuspecting island below.
______________________________________________________________________
Salem sat upon her throne of jagged obsidian, her pale fingers drumming idly against the armrest as she gazed out over the desolate expanse of her domain. The Evernight Castle loomed in perpetual shadow, a fitting reflection of her own dark heart. Her lieutenants—those wretched, grasping souls she’d bound to her will with promises of power and vengeance—were scattered across Remnant, carrying out her bidding. She cared little for their loyalty; they were tools, nothing more, and she’d wield them until they broke. Just as she had before, when she’d dared to challenge the so-called gods. A bitter smirk twisted her lips at the memory of that defeat. No matter. Time was her ally now, and she would wait.
Her musings were interrupted by an unfamiliar ripple in the air—a disturbance she hadn’t summoned. Her crimson eyes narrowed as she rose, her black robes trailing like liquid shadow. She wasn’t expecting visitors. Her Grimm patrolled the borders, and her minions knew better than to approach unbidden. Yet, as she descended the steps of her throne, two figures emerged from the gloom of her hall.
They were not human—she could sense that much immediately. Nor were they Grimm, though their presence carried a faint echo of her own creations’ malice. The first stepped forward, a tall, lean figure cloaked in a garish wizard’s robe, black as pitch, adorned with faint silver runes that shimmered in the dim light. His face—or what passed for it—was a void, save for glowing yellow eyes and a jagged grin of sharp, gleaming teeth. He moved with a theatrical flourish, bowing low before her.
“Greetings, dark one,” he intoned, his voice smooth and measured, carrying an odd blend of deference and confidence. “I am Maw, second-in-command to my… esteemed leader.” He gestured behind him to the second figure—a hulking, mechanical contraption, its surface a tangle of wires and pulsing lights. Within it, a shadowy form stirred, though it remained silent for now, save for a low, rhythmic hum.
Salem tilted her head, her expression unreadable. “You trespass in my domain uninvited,” she said, her voice cold and sharp as a blade. “Speak quickly, before I decide your fate.”
Maw straightened, his grin widening as if amused by the threat. “Oh, I assure you, great mistress, we come not as foes but as… kindred spirits. You see, the world as you knew it is no more. A force—something beyond even your considerable reach—has woven two realms into one. Spectra and Remnant, fused into a single tapestry of chaos and opportunity.”
Salem’s eyes flickered with interest, though her tone remained icy. “A bold claim. And yet, I sense no lie in your words. Tell me of this… fusion.”
Maw clasped his hands behind his back, pacing slightly as he spoke, his robe swishing dramatically. “Imagine it, if you will: two planets, their lands and peoples stitched together like a madman’s experiment. Cities uprooted, forests bleeding into alien plains, and souls—heroes and villains alike—scattered across this new crucible. My master and I found ourselves here, far from our own dominion, and we’ve taken it upon ourselves to… adapt.” He paused, his glowing eyes locking onto hers. “And we believe you, with your ambition, might find common cause with us.”
From the machine, a deep, resonant voice rumbled, cutting through the air like distant thunder. “The game has changed, dark queen.” The figure within shifted, though its features remained obscured by the machinery. “My new vessel is nearly complete—a form worthy of my will. Until then, I leave the details to Maw. He speaks for me.”
Salem’s gaze shifted to the machine, studying it with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “And what do you offer me, shadow in a cage? I bend to no one’s will but my own.”
Maw raised a hand placatingly, his tone still affable despite her edge. “Nor would we ask you to. Think of it as… a partnership. This new world teems with threats—meddling do-gooders, rival powers—but also with those who share our… appetites. My master seeks to rally such forces, to carve order from this chaos. And you, with your command of the Grimm and your unyielding spirit, could be a linchpin in that design.”
Salem crossed her arms, her lips curling faintly. “Flattery will not sway me, Maw. But I am listening. What do you propose?”
Maw’s grin sharpened as he produced a small device from his robe—a sleek, metallic orb that hummed faintly. “First, a demonstration of our reach.” He pressed a rune on its surface, and a crackling voice emerged, distorted but audible.
“Report in, marauders,” Maw said into the orb. “Wherever this new world has spat you out, make yourselves known.”
A moment later, a chorus of replies filtered through—gruff, eager voices from unseen corners of the merged planet. “Northern wastes, Maw—freezing our hides off!” “Some blasted desert, but we’ve already found prey.” “Jungle thick enough to choke a man—perfect for an ambush.”
Maw silenced the orb with a flick of his wrist, turning back to Salem. “Our forces are scattered, yes, but they endure. With my powers to move them safely it shall be easy enough. With your guidance, and my master’s vision, we could turn this upheaval into a banquet of power. The heroes of both worlds will scramble to restore their precious balance—let us feast on their failure.”
The machine whirred, and the dark leader spoke again, his tone cryptic yet laced with amusement. “Chaos is a forge, dark queen. Will you wield the hammer with us?”
Salem regarded them both in silence, her mind turning over the possibilities. She had no love for allies, but this new world intrigued her—and the prospect of bending it to her will, with or without these strangers, stirred something within her endless hunger. At last, she stepped forward, her voice low and deliberate.
“I will consider your words, Maw. But know this: I serve no one’s ambition but my own. If your master’s vision aligns with mine, then perhaps we shall… collaborate. For now, tell me more of this fused world—and what threats we might crush beneath our heels.”
Maw bowed again, his yellow eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “As you wish, mistress of shadows. Let us begin.”
______________________________________________________________________
Mantle.
The city of Mantle was a shadow of its former self, teetering on the edge of a massive crater where the gleaming metropolis of Atlas once floated. A towering barrier wall loomed around it, ostensibly to shield the city from Grimm and other threats, but it did little to lift the oppressive gloom brought on by relentless dust mining. With Atlas having monopolized the kingdom’s military and government, Mantle’s economy and living conditions had crumbled in comparison. The disparity was stark, and it showed in the cracked streets and hollow faces of its people.
Hard times had hit the former capital like a sledgehammer. An economic downturn left many of its Faunus residents struggling, their promised opportunities from Atlas-based companies vanishing like smoke. The corporations had dangled benefits in front of them, only to yank the rewards out of reach once the ink dried on their contracts.
The rift between Atlas—the kingdom’s shiny new capital—and Mantle had widened into a chasm. Atlas thrived, its citizens basking in wealth and security, while Mantle festered below, neglected and resentful. The growing divide sparked bitterness among Mantle’s people, and some were beginning to take desperate, drastic measures to claw their way out of the mire.
Someone, naturally, saw an opportunity in that desperation.
Ziron had arrived in this dreary wasteland, seeking a low-profile foothold—some unremarkable corner where suspicion wouldn’t follow. For now, he’d settled in an old supply warehouse, its walls untouched by time but coated in dust and neglect. He loathed the archaic, rundown vibe of the place, but it would suffice. Discretion mattered more than comfort.
His heavy suit clanked faintly as he moved, the purple glass dome of his helmet gleaming under the dim light, revealing little of the face beneath. The armor, a mix of deep green and violet, was bulky and imposing—hardly subtle. He’d considered swapping it for something more in line with Atlesian or Mantle designs, or at least keeping it hidden. But in the slums, where apathy reigned and anything not stamped with an Atlas insignia barely raised an eyebrow, he didn’t need to bother. Besides, he had bigger plans. A toothy grin spread across his unseen face as he imagined the recruits he’d soon gather from Mantle’s downtrodden masses. Desperation, after all, was a fine motivator.
Ziron tapped a switch on his gauntlet, activating the holo-screen with a flicker of light. “Venith,” he called, his voice carrying the weight of command laced with a touch of dry amusement.
The screen flared to life, revealing Venith’s pale face framed by a cascade of purple hair. Her sharp eyes glinted as she tilted her head, smirking faintly. “Yes, my liege?” she replied, her tone crisp but edged with a playful bite.
“Tell me you’ve started setting things up for our little scheme,” Ziron said, leaning back against a rusted crate as if he owned the place already.
Venith’s smirk widened. “Oh, I’m way ahead of you, my liege. Everything’s in motion. How’re you holding up after the scattering? That dimensional hop didn’t ruffle your precious timeline too much, did it?”
Ziron chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that echoed inside his helmet. “Please, Venith. Dimensional exploration’s old hat to me. It’s not as if I’m some wide-eyed native of this backwater mudball. I’ve conquered worse than a little planetary shuffle.”
“Glad to hear it,” she shot back, twirling a strand of hair around her finger with mock nonchalance. “I’ve got my minions scurrying around as we speak—rounding up supplies, sniffing out recruits. Mantle’s ripe for the picking, trust me. These saps will jump at anything that smells like a way out.”
“Good,” Ziron said, his tone shifting to something colder, more calculating. “Keep them moving. This world’s chaos is our canvas, and I intend to paint it in my image. Starting with this forsaken pit.”
Venith gave a mock salute, her grin sharp as a blade. “Consider it done, oh mighty one. We’ll have Mantle eating out of your hand before they even know what hit ‘em.”
The holo-screen winked out, leaving Ziron alone in the shadowed warehouse. He flexed his gauntlet, the grin beneath his dome widening. Mantle might be a crumbling relic, but it was his now—or soon would be.
______________________________________________________________________
Atlas.
Atlas stood as the pinnacle of technological advancement on Remnant. Unlike the other Kingdoms, its government, military, and Huntsman Academy operated as a single, seamless entity—a true military state. It also housed the headquarters of the Schnee Dust Company, a titan of industry that cast a long shadow over the region.
The Kingdom boasted two key cities: the current capital, Atlas, and its predecessor, Mantle. Thanks to a mysterious power that allowed it to float, Atlas had risen—literally and figuratively—above Mantle to claim its status as the new heart of the Kingdom.
In a grand gesture to the world, Atlas developed the Cross Continental Transmit System, erecting its towers on the campuses of each Huntsman Academy. This innovation linked the four Kingdoms, fostering communication across vast distances. To benefit its own people, Atlas poured wartime techniques and technologies into enhancing its Academy’s campus, expanding the school grounds and fortifying the surrounding areas. Over time, the military and research facilities merged with the government and education systems, eclipsing Mantle entirely. The old capital faded into obscurity as Atlas churned out innovations—like the fortress of Arrowfell, a competitive project designed to bolster the city’s defenses.
The Schnee Dust Company seized the opportunity to establish a stronghold here, raking in profits with ruthless efficiency. But beneath the gleaming surface of Atlas, a stark class divide festered. The elite—like the Schnee family—lived in opulent comfort high above, while those in Mantle scraped by in hardship below. The SDC’s mistreatment of its Faunus workers fueled the rise of the White Fang, a militant response to systemic injustice. Elsewhere, figures like Madame, the owner of the Glass Unicorn, and her daughters exploited a young Cinder Fall, adopted from Mistral to serve as a hotel servant. Years of abuse pushed Cinder to her breaking point, culminating in their deaths at her hands. After witnessing the Fall of Beacon firsthand and returning to Atlas, both Weiss Schnee and General James Ironwood recoiled at such cruelty, though their disgust did little to mend the Kingdom’s fractures.
The capital’s nightlife glittered with opera houses, exclusive clubs, and upscale dining—playgrounds for the wealthy. Yet mobsters and thugs lurked in the shadows, eyeing the city’s riches. Beyond the urban sprawl, settlements banded together to survive, sustaining a massive ice-fishing operation that kept the region alive.
The Tumak Ruins, meanwhile, held a deeper significance. A Remnant heritage site predating the Great War, they offered a glimpse into humanity’s ancient past through relics and forgotten stories. Conservation efforts vied with scavengers hunting for anything of value, leaving the ruins a contested treasure.
But something—or someone—new had just crash-landed into this frigid, orderly world.
In a cramped janitor’s closet at Atlas Academy, a boy hit the floor with a thud. He wore a black shirt, dark cyan pants, and sported a mop of bright cyan hair that matched his gleaming eyes. “Where am I?” he muttered, scratching his head. “Maybe Aur—oof!”
A girl with vibrant magenta hair landed squarely on top of him, cutting him off. “Ahh—ow! Oh, sorry, Cyane!” she chirped, scrambling to her feet with an apologetic grin.
Cyane smirked, brushing himself off as he sat up. “Hey, Astra, you’re alive. Good to know,” he said, his tone easygoing, his cyan eyes glinting with amusement.
Astra beamed, clasping her hands together. “Cyane! I’m so glad you’re okay! But, uh… where are we?”
“Dunno,” Cyane replied, kicking the closet door open with a casual nudge. He peeked out, then let out a low whistle. “Woah.”
The hallway beyond buzzed with students darting in every direction, rushing to classes. Their uniforms—crisp white shirts, gray vests, dark ties, and gloves—looked straight out of a rulebook, complete with berets for some. Cyane and Astra, with their colorful, mismatched outfits, stuck out like graffiti on a blank wall.
“Woah indeed,” Astra echoed, wide-eyed. “Seriously, where are we?”
“Reminds me of Lumise Academy,” Cyane said, leaning against the doorframe with a shrug. “But, like, way more uptight and fancy.”
“Maybe we can—” Astra started, but a sharp voice cut her off.
“Who are you two?” A tall, fair-skinned woman approached, her long white hair flowing behind her like a banner. Slate-blue eyes narrowed as she sized them up, her posture radiating authority.
Cyane waved lazily, unfazed. “Yo, I’m Cyane, and this ball of energy here’s Astra. You got a name, tall lady?”
“Winter,” she replied curtly, her gaze flicking between them. “You don’t look like students here.”
Astra piped up, hands on her hips. “Well, guess what? We’re not! So, where are we anyway?”
“Atlas Academy,” Winter said, her tone clipped as she stepped forward with military precision. “Come with me. We’re sorting this out.”
Astra glanced at Cyane, fidgeting. “Should we follow her?”
Cyane shrugged, pushing off the wall with a grin. “Eh, beats standing around in a closet. Not like we’ve got a better plan.”
“Please keep up,” Winter called over her shoulder, already striding ahead.
“On it, bossy!” Astra chirped, bounding after her. Cyane chuckled and followed at his own relaxed pace, hands stuffed in his pockets.
______________________________________________________________________
High above the sprawling wilds of Mistral, Hemlock zipped through the sky in his pride and joy: the Stormracer, a handmade plane he’d poured his heart into. He’d only meant to take it for a quick test flight around his school, but now, peering out from the cockpit, he saw nothing familiar. The landscape below was a patchwork of towering cliffs, snow-dusted mountains, dense forests, and murky swamps—an untamed sprawl he’d never laid eyes on before.
“Gosh, where the heck am I?” Hemlock muttered, his green hair flopping as he adjusted his goggles. He tapped the crystal scanner mounted on the dashboard, frowning. “Aw, nuts—the scanner’s on the fritz. That’s not good…”
The Stormracer hummed beneath him, cutting through the clouds as he scanned the horizon. “Hmmm… maybe I should land somewhere,” he said, nibbling his lip. “But where—”
BOOM!
A jolt rocked the plane, and Hemlock yelped as flames licked the wings. The world spun into a blur of green and gray before the Stormracer plummeted, crash-landing with a sickening crunch into the swampy forest below.
When Hemlock came to, pain stabbed through his side, and he winced, blinking groggily. The crackle of a campfire snapped him awake, the air thick with smoke and a tension he could almost taste. He shifted, only to realize he was trapped—locked in a rickety cage surrounded by a rough-looking crew. They wore mismatched clothes patched together from leather and cloth, some hiding their faces behind masks or hoods. Most ignored him, too busy sharpening blades or muttering among themselves.
Hemlock patted his head, then gasped. “My goggles! Where’d they—” His eyes darted around, landing on a figure just outside the cage.
She was a young woman with tan skin, short brown hair, and icy blue eyes that glinted like frost. A tattoo of a bird rising from flowers curled along her left arm. Her outfit was a chaotic mix: a light brown vest over a torn, barely-buttoned white shirt, maroon jeans with one leg rolled up to show a pink lining, and mismatched fingerless gloves—one short, one long with a vambrace. A dark brown choker clung to her neck, and she twirled something in her hand—his blaster.
“Hey, flyboy,” she said, smirking as she leaned closer. “Name’s Vernal. Welcome to Branwen territory. Your junk’s ours now.” She gave the blaster a playful spin. “Nice toy. Think I’ll keep it.”
Hemlock gulped, his hands fidgeting against the cage bars. “Wh-who are you guys? What’re you gonna do with me?” His voice wobbled, but his wide eyes flicked to his blaster, a spark of worry flaring. I worked so hard on that…
Vernal straightened, planting a hand on her hip. “This is the Branwen Tribe. As for what we’re doing with you? Eh, that’s up to the boss. She’ll fill you in.” She shot him a grin that was equal parts friendly and feral, then turned to saunter off.
Hemlock shrank back, muttering to himself. “Branwen Tribe? Never heard of ‘em… Oh, man, this is bad. I’ve gotta figure a way outta here before—” He froze mid-thought, spotting a shadow moving through the camp.
A woman approached, her presence commanding silence from the scattered tribe members. She was tall, with sharp red eyes and wild black hair streaked with gray, tied back loosely. Her armor was dark and jagged, a sword hanging at her side like an extension of her will. This had to be the leader Vernal mentioned.
“Well, well,” she said, her voice low and edged with dry amusement as she stopped before the cage. “What’s this? A little bird caught in our net?” She tilted her head, studying Hemlock like a predator sizing up prey.
Hemlock swallowed hard but forced a shaky smile, his Tails-like optimism flickering through his nerves. “Uh, hi! I’m Hemlock. I didn’t mean to crash here, honest! My plane just… kinda went kaput.” He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at Vernal. “Um, that blaster’s mine, by the way. I built it myself—pretty neat, huh?”
Raven arched a brow, unimpressed. “Neat or not, it’s ours now. You’ve stumbled into our turf, kid. That makes you our problem—or our profit.”
“Profit?” Hemlock squeaked, then caught himself, puffing out his chest a little. “Look, I’m not some treasure haul! I’m just a guy trying to fix my plane and get home. Maybe… maybe I could help you guys with something? I’m good with machines!” His eyes lit up, hands gesturing eagerly despite the cage. “I could fix stuff, or—or build something cool for you!”
Vernal snorted, crossing her arms. “Cute offer, flyboy, but we don’t exactly run a repair shop. We take what we need and move on.”
Raven’s gaze lingered on Hemlock, her lips curling faintly. “He’s got spirit, I’ll give him that. But spirit doesn’t buy freedom here.” She stepped closer, her shadow falling over him. “Tell me, Hemlock—where’d you come from, and what’s a kid like you doing flying a contraption like that?”
Hemlock hesitated, then grinned nervously. “Well, I’m from… uh, somewhere not here. I go to a school where I tinker with stuff—like the Stormracer! It’s my best invention yet, or it was ‘til it crashed…” His ears drooped slightly, but he perked up. “I just wanted to test it out, y’know? See how far it could go. Guess it went farther than I planned!”
Raven exchanged a glance with Vernal, who shrugged. “He’s a chatterbox, boss. Might be worth keeping him around—for entertainment, if nothing else.”
“Or leverage,” Raven mused, her tone cold but calculating. She turned back to Hemlock. “Here’s the deal, kid. You’re stuck with us until I decide otherwise. Prove you’re useful, and maybe you’ll earn your wings back. Cross us, and…” She let the threat hang, her red eyes glinting.
Hemlock nodded quickly, his mind already racing. “Got it! I’ll be super helpful, promise! Uh, maybe I could start by fixing something around here? Camp gadgets? Weapons? Anything?” His voice was earnest, tinged with that Tails-like eagerness to problem-solve.
Raven smirked faintly. “We’ll see. Vernal, keep an eye on him. I want to know what he’s really capable of.”
“On it,” Vernal replied, twirling the blaster again with a grin. “Don’t try anything dumb, flyboy. I’d hate to test this thing out on you.”
Hemlock chuckled weakly. “No dumb stuff here! Just… uh, friendly tinkering!” But as the tribe dispersed and Vernal lingered nearby, he couldn’t help but wonder how he’d turn this mess into a way home.
_____________________________________________________________________
The city of Vale buzzed with life, one of the most vibrant hubs on Remnant. It was a sprawling mosaic of districts catering to every walk of life—commercial zones packed with shops, upscale neighborhoods dripping with wealth, agricultural patches feeding the masses, and residential streets humming with everyday folk. People of all classes found refuge here, drawn by its diversity and promise.
At its heart stood Beacon Academy, the crown jewel of Huntsman schools, where prodigies honed their skills under the glow of the Cross Continental Transmit tower—one of the four great pillars linking Remnant’s kingdoms. But beyond the academy’s gleam, Vale hid darker corners. Its neglected warehouses, abandoned and overlooked, offered perfect dens for villainous factions to lurk unseen. And so, the Prism Syndicate had slunk into one such shadowed hideout.
Inside a dusty warehouse, Runise, the leader of this ragtag crew, tipped back a bottle of sparkling water, the faint fizz cutting through the stale air. His piercing yellow eyes glowed beneath the hood of his long, flowing black cloak, its tattered hem brushing the floor. The cloak shrouded most of his form, but hints of a dark outfit peeked through—accented by glowing yellow lines along his chest and legs, suggesting armor or tech woven into his garb. A mask or scarf obscured half his face, lending him an air of mystery laced with menace. He surveyed his small band: Vasine, Johnnie, and Hothead.
Runise set the bottle down with a deliberate clink, his voice smooth yet edged with authority. “Gentlemen, we’ve landed in a city ripe with opportunity—or disaster. Vale’s a goldmine for alliances and plunder, depending on how we play it.”
Vasine lumbered to his feet, a towering brute with a scowl etched into his weathered face. “Heh, I’ve scrapped with worse in dirtier holes than this,” he rumbled, cracking his knuckles. “But I get it, boss—new turf, new muscle. We could use some extra hands.”
Hothead leapt up, his orange hair flaring like a torch as he bellowed, “And we’ll torch anyone dumb enough to cross us!” His fists clenched, practically sparking with eagerness.
Johnnie, sprawled lazily on a crate, rolled his eyes and waved a hand. “Dude, chill out already. We get it—smash, bash, blah blah. Ignore Hothead, boss, he’s just loud.”
Runise ignored the outburst, pulling a crumpled wanted poster from his cloak. He smoothed it out, revealing a smirking redhead in a bowler hat. “I’ll be meeting a man named Torchwick,” he said, tapping the paper. “He’s got a reputation here.”
Johnnie leaned over, grinning at the poster. “Whoa, dig that style. Guy looks like he owns the room before he even walks in.”
Vasine flexed his meaty fists, stepping closer. “Need me along, boss? I can loom real good—make sure he knows who’s got the muscle.”
Runise slid off the crate he’d perched on, shaking his head as the cloak swirled around him. “No, Vasine. We’re not here to flex—yet. This is about offering a partnership, not starting a brawl.”
“Sweet,” Johnnie said, taking a swig from his own mug of sparkling water. “More guys on our side means more chaos for everyone else.”
“Exactly,” Runise replied, striding toward the door. “Which is why you three will scout the streets. Find recruits—anyone hungry enough to join the Syndicate.”
Hothead bolted up, cackling as he charged for the exit. “And kill whoever gets in our way!”
Johnnie groaned, hopping to his feet. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll babysit him. Keep him from burning the whole city down.” He jogged after Hothead, tossing a lazy salute over his shoulder.
Vasine stretched, his bulk casting a shadow as he stomped toward the door. “Guess I’ll sniff out some tough ones. City’s gotta have a few worth a damn.” His heavy boots thudded against the floor as he disappeared into the night.
Runise lingered a moment, his yellow eyes glinting in the dim light. With a final glance at his temporary lair, he stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him. Vale awaited—ripe for the taking.
_____________________________________________________________________
Vex trudged through the dense forest of Patch, his purple hair plastered to his forehead like wet poison ivy. “Oh, great,” he muttered, kicking at a pile of leaves. “Of course I end up lost in this dump. I’m definitely not in Lumise anymore.”
He wasn’t helpless, though. Back at Lumise Academy, he’d trained hard to master his powers—good thing, too, because this place was giving him the creeps. As he waded through forest debris, a twig snapped behind him, followed by a low, guttural growl. Vex froze, his light green eyes darting around.
“Where—”
A massive black wolf-like creature lunged from the shadows, its skull-like head gleaming with menace. Vex yelped, stumbling back. “Maybe it’s friendly?” he squeaked, voice dripping with false hope.
The Beowolf roared and charged. “Okay, not friendly, not friendly!” Vex bolted, branches slapping his face as he ran. He didn’t notice how his panic was drawing more Grimm, their eyes glinting in the undergrowth. The forest stretched on endlessly, roots snagging at his feet—he nearly tripped over one, heart pounding. Were those shadows watching him?
Then he skidded to a halt, slapping his forehead. “Wait, why am I even running?” With a flick of his wrist, he flung a glob of purple goo at the charging Beowolf. It splattered across the creature, melting it into a puff of black smoke. Dead.
“Man, that was close,” Vex panted, wiping sweat from his brow. “Now where? This place feels like it goes on forever.” His relief evaporated as more Beowolves slunk out from the trees, their growls rumbling like thunder. Vex gulped. “Oh, come on…”
Suddenly, a muscular blonde man dropped from above, landing with a thud that shook the ground. He drove his fist into the earth, sending a shockwave that blasted the wolves into the nearest trees. They shattered into smoke on impact. Vex’s jaw dropped—this guy was strong. The man turned, his silhouette looming in the forest’s gloom, and Vex stammered, “I, uh—”
But then the stranger stepped into a patch of sunlight, revealing a rugged, friendly face framed by a wild mop of hair. “You okay, kid?” he asked, his tone warm but tinged with concern.
Vex blinked, still catching his breath. “Uh, yeah, I guess? Thanks for the save, big guy. Those things were about to turn me into a chew toy.”
The man chuckled, brushing dirt off his hands. “No problem. Name’s Taiyang Xiao Long—Tai for short. I live around here, and I don’t usually see kids wandering Patch getting chased by Grimm. You lost or just bad at picking vacation spots?”
Vex smirked, though his hands fidgeted nervously. “Lost, mostly. I’m Vex. And yeah, this isn’t exactly my idea of a fun hike. I’m supposed to be in Lumise, but I took a wrong turn somewhere—way wrong.”
Taiyang tilted his head, crossing his arms. “Lumise, huh? Never heard of it. You sure you didn’t hit your head back there? Patch isn’t exactly a hub for mysterious cities.”
Vex rolled his eyes, sarcasm kicking in. “Oh, trust me, I’d know if I was still in Lumise. It’s got way less killer wolves and a lot more, y’know, civilization. I go to Lumise Academy—train there, mess with my powers, the usual. Then poof, I’m here dodging skull-faced freaks.”
Taiyang’s brow furrowed, but his expression stayed open, curious. “Powers, huh? That purple goo trick was pretty slick—I’ll give you that. But Lumise… that’s not ringing any bells, and I’ve been around Remnant a bit. You’re not from some fancy Mistral district I missed, are you?”
“Nope,” Vex said, kicking a pebble. “It’s my home, though. Big city, bright lights, not this… tree-infested nightmare. No offense.”
“None taken,” Taiyang replied with a grin. “Patch grows on you—well, if the Grimm don’t eat you first.” He paused; eyeing Vex thoughtfully. “Look, kid, you’re in one piece, but you’re a long way from wherever Lumise is. How about you stick with me for now? I’ve got a place nearby—food, a roof, and no Beowolves. We’ll figure out what’s up with this city of yours.”
Vex hesitated, then shrugged. “Yeah, okay. Beats wandering around waiting for round two with the growly squad. Lead the way, Tai.”
Taiyang nodded, starting down a worn path. “Good call. Keep up, though—I’m not carrying you if you trip.” He shot Vex a teasing smirk before adding, quieter, “Lumise, huh? Might need to run that by Ozpin. Sounds like something he’d have a theory about…”
Vex trailed behind, muttering under his breath. “Great, now I'm some muscle-dad into the woods. What’s next, a talking dog?” But despite the snark, he stuck close, glancing warily at the trees as Taiyang led him toward safety—and maybe some answers.
______________________________________________________________________
Meanwhile, on the sunny island north of Vale, known as Vytal, a central hub had been established to foster peace between the nations. This island was the birthplace of the Huntsmen academies and inspired the name of the celebration commemorating the unity of the nations: the Vytal Festival on Remnant.
It hosted a diverse population: descendants of war refugees who stayed after the treaty, historians or caretakers maintaining the site, and a blend of people from all four Kingdoms—Vale, Vacuo, Mistral, and Atlas—reflecting its unifying legacy. The festival named after it celebrated cultural diversity, so a melting-pot community wasn’t out of place. Traders, artisans, and scholars were drawn by its symbolic significance.
Currently, a group of magic-wielding zealots had established a base there, led by Algos, the Alchemist of the Dark Wielding. Algos smirked, stirring the cauldron as he added ingredients with precise motions. Horkos, one of his lieutenants, carried more potions alongside Hysminai, his other trusted subordinate.
“Potions, my wistful master?” Horkos asked.
“Yes, my loyal cretin,” Algos responded.
“Truly, master, truly,” Hysminai snarked. “So, when are we going to make a move?”
“Patience, my sarcastic lieutenant. We must not act hastily as we find ourselves in a new world,” Algos said, dumping the new potions into the cauldron. He gazed into the murky vision of the land it revealed—even his powers couldn’t fully control it. “For now, we should focus on gaining a larger following.”
“Indeed, your plans are never wrong, my liege,” Horkos replied. “Should our crew take over the island?”
“Are you kidding me? That’s way too much right now,” Hysminai interjected. “When I said ‘make a move,’ I didn’t mean to stage a takeover of an island we barely know.”
Algos raised his golden-gauntleted hand to silence them before the lieutenants could argue further. “Silence. Hysminai has a point.”
Hysminai smirked, her blue-black hair contrasting with her pale skin.
“However, Horkos is also right,” Algos continued. “We and our followers should explore this island to get a better grasp of where we are—covertly, of course.”
“Of course. Thank you, master, for your wisdom,” Horkos said.
It wasn’t long before the golden-clad armor was left with his followers out the little cave.
______________________________________________________________________
For the exceptionally brave—or perhaps extraordinarily foolish—traveler daring to explore Remnant’s uncharted territories, stumbling upon Merlot Island could be a stroke of fortune or a fatal misstep. The island itself was a harsh, barren speck amid the sea, its rocky desert terrain dotted with sparse vegetation and scant trees. Yet, its uninviting landscape paled in comparison to the imposing centerpiece that dominated it: a sprawling, labyrinthine factory. This complex was a marvel of industrial design—its walls bristled with pipes, cameras, and flickering computer screens, while hexagonal floor tiles, some rigged with spike-filled traps, promised a swift end to careless intruders. Radio towers jutted skyward, linking the island to the CCT network, and metal fences encircled the perimeter, reinforced by towering wooden stakes driven deep into the ground. A weathered dock stretched along the shore, cluttered with crates and barrels, hinting at constant activity. Beneath the surface, an intricate network of underground bases and chambers awaited those bold enough to delve deeper—if they survived the journey.
Survival, however, was no small feat. The island teemed with perils: green-glowing mutant Grimm prowled the grounds, their eerie luminescence a warning of their enhanced lethality. Security bots, relentless and precise, patrolled alongside them, while toxic pools—brimming with Grimm essence or radioactive concoctions known only to the island’s master—lurked as silent killers. Few could withstand such a gauntlet, and fewer still would glimpse the figure behind it all.
High within the factory’s command center stood Dr. Merlot, a tall, elderly man with grayish, nearly pale-blue hair that betrayed his age. His sharply tailored suit clashed with the cybernetic enhancements that marked him: a dark, metallic right arm and a single robotic hand gleaming with cold precision. He swirled a glass of red wine, gazing out over the endless ocean expanse from a balcony as automated ships docked below, their holds brimming with caged Grimm.
Merlot took a sip of his vintage brew, a smug sigh escaping his lips. “Ahh, I do love it when plans come together.”
To the world, Dr. Merlot was a ghost—presumed dead after the collapse of Mountain Glenn. Yet here he stood, very much alive and thriving in obscurity. He smirked as he turned from the view and strode into his lab, the clink of his cybernetic hand against the glass a rhythmic counterpoint to his thoughts. Far from idle in his “demise,” Merlot had been a busy man—forging contacts, recruiting allies, and perfecting his craft. Truth be told, he hardly needed the help; his automated machinery and robotic minions handled most of the grunt work with ruthless efficiency.
Faking his death at Mountain Glenn had been a stroke of improvisation—not his original intent, but a setback he’d turned to his advantage. The disaster had been a failure, yes, but he’d had the foresight to establish this island stronghold beforehand. From here, he trafficked Grimm with ease, slipping beneath notice. Hidden automated ships ferried his captives across Remnant, sabotaging any system that threatened his operations, while mutant Grimm and robots baited wild specimens into cages for transport. It was a seamless, sinister machine—and Merlot was its proud architect.
Yet, as he settled into his chair before a massive computer console, typing with a mix of flesh and metal fingers, a flicker of bitterness crossed his face. One of his experiments had escaped, costing him an eye—a glowing cybernetic replacement now hummed in its socket as a permanent reminder. He leaned back, sipping his wine, and muttered, “I’ll find it again. It’s only a matter of time—my bots and Grimm are scouring the area.”
A sudden blare from the console jolted him, nearly making him spit his wine. He glared at the screen, where a stylized, curly “W” pulsed in red. Recognizing the signal of his elusive contact, he tapped it with a metallic finger.
A regal, smug voice oozed from the speakers. “Greetings, my favorite Grimm researcher. Have things been going well?”
“Well enough,” Merlot replied loftily, swirling his glass. “Thanks to the supplies you provided, Grimm production and the Erebus Solution are progressing smoothly.”
“Still no sign of your escaped pet?” the voice prodded, a hint of amusement threading through its tone.
“Unfortunately not,” Merlot admitted, his smirk tightening. “But my drones and mutagenic Grimm remain vigilant.”
“Fine, but keep it discreet,” the voice warned sharply. “We can’t afford prying eyes—not now. Time is a luxury neither of us has.”
Merlot waved a dismissive hand, his cybernetic eye glinting. “No need to fret. It’s still underdeveloped—likely to be drawn back by my other creations eventually.”
“Perhaps,” the voice conceded, “but the situation demands speed. Even with your industry at full tilt, we’re still banging our heads against a wall. I’m not entirely convinced your forces can handle it—though that could change with the new allies joining you.”
“I’m giving you facts,” Merlot shot back, his tone clipped. “We need more time, or this won’t work. I can only react up here—everyone thinks I’m dead, and I’m not stepping into the light until I deem it necessary.”
A pause, then the voice softened, calculating. “A sound observation. You’ve proven your worth—cracking the code of Grimm manipulation, a feat only my Master has matched. I’ll supply what you need for now. Give me more options, and I’ll try again.”
“Of course, of course,” Merlot twittered, his mechanical fingers tapping the desk. “On a brighter note, Project Obscura is underway—especially with that new lieutenant you connected me with.”
“Glad Lee’s drone expertise has served us both,” the voice said smugly. “I’m tied up at the moment, but I’ll call back soon. You’ll learn what we’re truly in for—and the role you’ll play.”
The screen blinked off, leaving Merlot alone with his machines and caged monstrosities. Before diving back into his experiments, he decided to check the base’s feeds—just to ensure everything was in order.
He flicked through the surveillance: the docks, where robots loaded Grimm into the factory’s depths—unchanged; the Emerald Forest, where his operations hummed flawlessly, earning a satisfied smirk; Forever Fall’s temples, where storage proceeded without hitch; the island’s exterior—nothing amiss. Then the perimeter feed flickered, and his eyes narrowed. Something was approaching—a bronze-armored figure streaking through the sky toward the island.
Merlot spat his wine, the red liquid splattering the floor as he slammed a command into his console. “All bots in the Northwest sector—shoot down that thing!”
He was confident in his defenses. His Dust-infused technology armored his robots beyond anything Atlas could muster. Bright white machines whirred to life, their chainguns unleashing a torrent of bullets at the flyer. The rounds ricocheted harmlessly off the bronze figure, which landed with a seismic boom, its fist cratering the ground and sending the robots scattering in pieces.
From the balcony, Merlot’s smirk faltered. He tapped his custom scroll, summoning reinforcements: tall, crimson androids stamped with the Merlot Industries logo, their neon-blue highlights glowing ominously. Thinner than their white counterparts but far deadlier, they charged with glaives gleaming. The intruder stood unfazed, yellow visor glaring as it tanked each strike. Then, with a sudden burst of impatience, it seized a bot by the head, crushed it to scrap, and swung the headless husk like a flail, smashing the others aside.
Merlot’s jaw tightened as the armor leaped forward, kicking a robot into its comrades with devastating force. This wasn’t going his way. With a snarl, he activated his trump card—a colossal Mutant Beowolf. Towering over its kin, it boasted a massive skull, a beefier frame, and a whip-like tail, its body pulsing with the green Erebus Solution. Its white skull gleamed with reinforced plating, blue-and-green eyes blazing where red and orange should have been. It roared, shaking the ground, and Merlot’s smirk returned.
If the intruder was intimidated, it didn’t show. The bronze figure dodged a tail swipe with fluid grace, then slammed a fist into the Beowolf’s skull, leaving cracks and dents. The beast retaliated, slashing and biting, sending the armored foe flying—only for its jets to stabilize it midair. Merlot chuckled gleefully. “Ah, this’ll be over soon.”
The intruder’s scratched armor gleamed under the island’s harsh lights, its visor flaring as its right arm shifted, deploying a massive lance-sword glowing yellow and orange. Energy surged along the blade, and with a single, charged slash, it cleaved the Beowolf in half, reducing it to dissipating dust.
Merlot gasped, his skin paling as one of his prized creations crumbled. Before he could react, the intruder leaped, landing on the balcony with a thunderous crash that sent the doctor sprawling. Wineglass shattered, Merlot scrambled back, staring up in shock.
“Have I got your attention now?” the bronze figure intoned, its voice resonant and commanding. “I must admit, your creations have merit—especially your bio-engineered ones.”
“W-what… who are you?” Merlot stammered, rising unsteadily.
“To many, I am the Bronze Sentinel,” it replied grandly. “Though I prefer Sovereign.”
“Interesting,” Merlot muttered, his cyber-eye whirring as it scanned the figure. “Are you some kind of robot? A mechanical lifeform?”
“Robot, no. Mechanical lifeform—technically, yes,” Sovereign said. “I was once flesh and blood, but I’ve bound myself to metal, achieving true synergy with the machinery that sustains us.”
“Once a man… intriguing,” Merlot mused, then paused. He’d been cavalier with an entity that had just demolished his defenses—replaceable, yes, but the point stood. “Why charge in like a threat? There’s a reason I sent my robots and that test Grimm after you!”
“To be frank, I wasn’t attacking you until you sicced your bots on me,” Sovereign replied evenly. “I came to discuss collaboration. Granted, I could’ve just explained that, but I fancied a bit of fun today—considering everything.”
Merlot’s lip twitched, half-annoyed, half-amused. “Fair enough. But why come here?”
“You may not realize it, but the world’s shifting,” Sovereign said. “New islands, lands, people, cities—they’re popping up everywhere. My fellow Sentinels and I are scouting these changes, seeking tools or allies. You’ve been on our radar, thanks to your… unique talents.”
Merlot preened slightly, his ego stroked. “Why, thank you. The pleasure’s mine—but what’s in it for me?”
“All the technology you need for your creations,” Sovereign offered, his tone enticing.
Merlot perked up, intrigued. “I may just take you up on that.” He fished a sleek card from his coat, handing it over. “Take my contact.”
Sovereign’s armored arm shifted, producing a metallic pad—a rugged, mechanical scroll compared to Remnant’s sleeker designs. “Why not take ours as well? We’ll meet again, Dr. Merlot.”
With a burst of jets, the cyborg soared off, leaving Merlot alone once more. The doctor studied the pad, his cyber-eye glinting as he read the inscription: The Metal Forge. “Hmm… perhaps indeed,” he murmured, a sly grin creeping across his face. New allies, new tech—oh, the possibilities were delicious. For now, he’d rebuild his defenses and await the next move in this ever-expanding game.
______________________________________________________________________
Elsewhere, on another island, lay Azure Island—a favored fishing spot among the Faunus. Its proximity to Menagerie made it an easy retreat, its tropical allure marked by swaying palm trees and sandy beaches. The waters teemed with tuna, drawing Faunus anglers to its shores in droves.
Lunera, an ally of Venith, prowled the island with keen intent, scouring the terrain for anything of value to their cause. A mass of spiky, jet-black hair—or perhaps a jagged cap—crowned her oversized head, where two small, pointed horns jutted upward, betraying her infernal nature. Her face, pale as bone, held a mask-like stillness, with hollow black eyes and a tiny, triangular nose lending her a melancholic air. Her slight, humanoid frame was cloaked in inky darkness, supported by thin legs that moved with quiet grace. A long, sinuous tail snaked from her lower back, curling upward to end in a vivid red, heart-shaped tip that matched the crimson patch emblazoned across her chest.
She stumbled slightly, nerves jittering, as her Daemon Gear buzzed to life. The device—a horned, winged creature with a sharp maw—snapped open, revealing a screen displaying Venith’s smirking face.
“Lunera, have you found anything worth noting?” Venith asked, her tone expectant.
“No,” Lunera replied flatly.
“Clearly not,” Venith snarked, her voice dripping with impatience.
Lunera shrugged, her tail flicking idly. “I dunno. Our benefactor wants us to recruit or scrounge up something useful, but this island’s got nothing to offer.”
“Of course,” Venith groaned, exasperation seeping through. “We’re never going to find anything decent on these backwater islands. We might have to head to Mantle.”
Lunera’s attention shifted as something in the palm-fringed forest caught her eye, triggering a pulse from her Daemon Gear. She crept into the dense foliage, her steps cautious, until she reached a spot where the device began to glow faintly. The Daemon’s claws extended with a whir, digging furiously into the sand and flinging it aside to reveal a glowing shard buried beneath. “Hmmm… looks like I found something after all,” she muttered, holding it up to the light.
The Daemon scanned the shard, and Venith’s face lit up on the screen with a sly smile. “Perfect. See if you can dig up any more around there. If not, bring it back—I want a good look to figure out how we can use it.”
Lunera nodded, her hollow eyes glinting with a flicker of curiosity as she turned back to the task, the shard’s faint glow casting eerie shadows across the beach.
____________________________________________________________________
This mountainous region bristled with jagged cliffs and was draped in a forest of red-leafed trees, casting a dusty crimson hue over the entire landscape—grass included. The trees were famed for their unique red sap, a substance that piqued the curiosity of researchers due to its natural properties, some even whispering of its magical potential.
Charcoal, however, couldn’t have cared less about the scenery or its secrets. The dark-wielding teen was lost, plain and simple. Having clawed his way out of a shadowy abyss, he’d been wandering this eerie red forest for days—maybe longer, time blurring into a haze of aimless steps. “Nice spot for a base, I’ll give it that,” he muttered to himself with a lazy shrug, his voice carrying a hint of Kaos-like bravado tempered by a calm edge. But cool aesthetics wouldn’t fill his empty pockets or muster him some minions. Besides his shadowy powers, he had zilch to his name, and allies were a must if he wanted to get anywhere.
The pale-skinned, dark-haired figure let out a bored sigh, kicking at a pebble. Then, a sudden rumble jolted him upright—a cargo train barreled through the forest, its wide rails slicing between the trees at breakneck speed. Charcoal’s lips quirked into a sly smirk. “Well, well, trains mean civilization’s close. Score one for me,” he said, his tone dripping with self-assured coolness. With a casual leap, he launched himself at the train, his sinuous tail whipping out to coil around a railing for grip.
He nearly slipped, claws scraping metal as he caught himself with a low chuckle. “Perfect, just as I planned,” he quipped, steadying his stance with a smug nod. “Now, where’s this thing headed?”
Bouncing around on a roof car wasn’t his vibe—too much hassle—so when he spotted an open door on one of the cargo cars, he darted inside with a smooth glide, settling into the shadows of an empty compartment. He frowned for a second, wondering why it was bare, then shrugged it off. “Whatever. Time to ride in style,” he said, sprawling onto the floor with a relaxed stretch.
“Glad you agree,” a gleeful voice chirped from the gloom.
Charcoal bolted upright, eyes narrowing as he scanned the dark. “Who’s sneaking around in my ride?” he demanded, his tone sharp but laced with a laid-back curiosity.
A short figure stepped into the faint light, flashing a wide, toothy grin. He sported a black shirt with an orangish-yellow stripe, his black hair tousled over pale skin. “Hey there! Name’s Levero, one of the top lieutenants of the Marauders,” he announced with a flourish.
Charcoal leaned back, crossing his arms with a slow, appraising smirk. “Alright, Levero, I’ll bite. What’s your deal? Why creep up on a guy like me?”
Levero’s grin didn’t falter. “Simple, pal—you look like you’re down on your luck, and we’re hiring. My boss has some massive plans brewing, and we need every man—or, uh, whatever you are—we can snag.”
“I’m listening,” Charcoal said, tilting his head with a flicker of interest. “What’s the big goal here?”
“We’re talking a major takeover,” Levero replied, his voice brimming with excitement before dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “Can’t spill too much—our leaders keep it all under wraps, y’know?”
Charcoal chuckled softly, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Fine, I’ll play your little game for now,” he said, extending a hand with a casual flair. Truth be told, he needed a crew—and while he had grand plans to build his own faction someday, hitching a ride with this lot seemed like a smart move. They clearly had a leg up already.
Levero grabbed his hand and shook it with unrestrained glee, his grin stretching ear to ear. “Welcome to the chaos, buddy!” he beamed, practically bouncing with delight.
______________________________________________________________________
Life as a Grimm Watcher in Vacuo was no picnic—hardly a shock given the sheer volume of Grimm prowling the region. The sprawling landscape was an unforgiving expanse of towering dunes, jagged rocky outcrops, and vast sandy plains that shimmered under the relentless sun. The job was brutal, reserved for only the toughest and most skilled, those capable of keeping the desert’s monstrous residents—Jackalopes, Dromedons, King Taijitus, Ziraphs, and Death Stalkers—at bay. Day after grueling day, the Watchers patrolled the drylands, ensuring not a single claw breached the fragile borders of civilization.
But even the best couldn’t catch every slip.
Nightfall brought the ritual shift change, a brief window where the Watchers swapped posts under the cover of darkness. It was a meticulous process—scanning the perimeter, clearing any lurking threats—but tonight, something went awry. A Grimm, perhaps, stumbled too close, yet it didn’t crash into the sand with the usual force to send up a telltale spray of dust. The transition proceeded as the new shift took over, their detectors suddenly blaring to life, pinpointing a disturbance. The team converged on the spot, weapons drawn, only to find… nothing. No tracks, no signs of struggle. Even the sand lay smooth and untouched, as if the alert had been a ghost in the system.
Perplexed, the Watchers exchanged shrugs and wary glances. “Freak glitch,” one muttered, holstering their blade. “Tech’s probably just fritzing again.” Another kicked at the sand, half-expecting a hidden trap, but found only silence. With no evidence to chase, they chalked it up to a false alarm and resumed their rounds, the incident fading into the rhythm of their endless vigil.
Unbeknownst to them, something far more sinister was stirring beneath the surface. Deep underground, a metal pod hummed faintly, its sleek shell cracking open as a shape began to form. The entity unfurled into a towering humanoid figure, its frame dwarfing any human below, its surface aglow with an eerie, pulsing light. It stood motionless for a moment, as if calibrating, then shifted—its purpose clear: it was hunting something, or perhaps someone.
With a slow, deliberate thud, it took its first step, the ground trembling faintly under its weight. Another step followed, then another, each one heavier and more resolute. The thing moved forward, its path unwavering, cutting through the subterranean dark toward an unknown destination. Whatever it sought, it carried an air of menace—a silent predator born from steel and shadow, unnoticed by the Watchers above who’d dismissed the night’s oddity as mere chance.
The desert night stretched on, the Watchers oblivious as they trudged across the dunes, their lanterns casting fleeting beams over the sand. One paused, squinting at the horizon. “You ever feel like something’s… off?” they asked, voice low.
Their partner snorted, adjusting a rifle strap. “In Vacuo? Always. Probably just the heat messing with your head.”
“Yeah, maybe,” the first replied, unconvinced, but they let it drop. Overhead, the stars glittered coldly, offering no answers as the unseen figure pressed deeper into the earth, its glowing form a harbinger of trouble yet to come.
______________________________________________________________________
Professor Leonardo Lionheart wiped his sweat, fidgeting with his necktie, and straightened up out of his chair. First Salem, now this. Everything seemed to be getting worse.
“Oh, Leo. We have got to work on your improvisational skills.”
Leo gasped and looked out of the corner of his office. Stepping from the shadows was the disgraced Atlesian scientist Arthur Watts, wearing a rather condescending smirk.
“Oh, it’s you,” responded Lionheart, his tone a mix of exhaustion and thinly veiled disdain.
Watts sauntered forward, hands clasped behind his back, his mustache twitching as if he were savoring the moment. “Yes, me. And I come bearing gifts—or rather, an opportunity you’d be foolish to refuse.” He paused for effect, then gestured grandly toward the doorway. “May I introduce my new associate?”
The floor trembled slightly as a figure entered, each step a deliberate, metallic clang. The Silver Sovereign loomed into view, his massive silver armor gleaming under the dim office lights. His frame was imposing—human-sized yet towering, a good head taller than Watts, reminiscent of the sleek, menacing Forever Knight from those old Remnant holo-tapes, though with a bulkier, almost Warhammer-esque design. The armor encased him completely, his face hidden behind a featureless helm that reflected the room in distorted shards of light. He stopped just inside the threshold, standing rigid, as if the very act of being there was a concession.
Lionheart’s eyes widened, his hand instinctively clutching the edge of his desk. “And… who might this be?” he asked, voice faltering.
Watts chuckled, clearly enjoying the reaction. “This, my dear Leonardo, is the Silver Sovereign. A rather… prominent figure from the Technological Empire. Think of him as a walking arsenal with impeccable manners—when he chooses to use them.”
The Silver Sovereign inclined his head slightly, the motion stiff and mechanical. When he spoke, his voice was a low, resonant growl, filtered through the helm. “Professor Lionheart. Doctor Watts has spoken highly of your… utility. I am here to discuss an alliance.” His tone was brusque, clipped, but carried a begrudging politeness, as if civility were a tool he wielded reluctantly.
Lionheart swallowed hard, glancing between Watts’ smug grin and the armored giant. “An alliance? With Salem’s faction, I presume? I’m not sure what you think I can offer—”
“Oh, come now, Leo,” Watts interrupted, stepping closer and tapping a finger against the desk. “Let’s not play coy. You’ve already bent the knee to Salem, haven’t you? This is merely an expansion of your commitments. The Silver Sovereign’s empire brings resources—technology, manpower, and a certain ruthless efficiency that even Salem would find… appetizing.”
The Silver Sovereign shifted, his armor creaking faintly. “My empire does not bend easily,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of irritation. “But Watts assures me this Salem has vision. I will not waste my time with fools or weaklings. If she proves worthy, my forces will bolster hers. If not…” He let the sentence hang, the threat implicit.
Lionheart sank back into his chair, rubbing his temples. “And what exactly do you expect from me in all this? I’m already stretched thin—”
“Details, details,” Watts said dismissively, waving a hand. “You’ll provide the access, the information, the little threads Salem needs to pull this all together. The Sovereign here handles the heavy lifting. I orchestrate the brilliance. And you, Leo, get to keep breathing. Everyone wins.”
The Silver Sovereign crossed his arms, the metal plates grinding together. “I care little for your theatrics, Watts. Get to the point. Lionheart, will you facilitate this, or do I need to find another way?”
Lionheart stared at the two of them—Watts with his insufferable confidence, and the Sovereign, a hulking enigma radiating barely restrained impatience. He sighed deeply, the weight of inevitability pressing down on him. “Fine. I’ll… cooperate. But if Salem finds out you’re bringing in outside players—”
“She’ll thank me later,” Watts cut in smoothly. “Trust me, Leo. This is the future. And you’re lucky to be a part of it.”
The Silver Sovereign said nothing more, merely nodding once before turning toward the door, his heavy footsteps echoing as he departed. Watts lingered a moment longer, flashing Lionheart one last mocking smile before following his new partner out.
Left alone, Lionheart slumped forward, burying his face in his hands. “What have I gotten myself into now?” he muttered.
______________________________________________________________________
Back at Atlas…
“Okay, who are you?” Ciel Soleil asked, her tone sharp but curious as she pointed her pencil at Ven’s face like it was a makeshift weapon.
“Ven,” he replied with a casual shrug, offering a warm, disarming smile.
“Where did you come from?” Ciel pressed, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“Lumise Academy.”
“Lumise?” Ciel echoed, tilting her head.
“Yes.”
“Never heard of it.”
“I mean, it’s owned by Aurum, one of the greatest innovators on Spectra,” Ven explained, his voice carrying a hint of pride.
Ciel lowered her pencil slightly, processing this. “Okay, where is he?”
Ven blinked, then scratched the back of his head. “Uh… good question.”
Elsewhere in Atlas…
“Ahhh… my aching head,” Aurum groaned, rubbing his temples as he came to. The cold, metallic walls of an Atlas holding cell greeted him, along with the stern faces of Elm Ederne and Harriet Bree of the Ace Ops. His golden-trimmed coat was slightly rumpled, a far cry from his usual pristine appearance.
“Rise and shine, rich guy,” Harriet said, arms crossed and a smirk tugging at her lips. “Care to explain how you just… popped up in the middle of a restricted zone?”
Aurum squinted at her, then at Elm, who loomed nearby with a raised eyebrow. “I’d love to, my dear, but I’m afraid I’m as baffled as you are. One moment I’m reviewing blueprints in my office, and the next—poof!—I’m here. Quite the teleportation mishap, eh?”
Elm snorted. “Teleportation? That’s a new one. You’re lucky we didn’t shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Lucky indeed,” Aurum muttered, brushing off his sleeves. “Now, might I inquire where I am exactly? And who I have the pleasure of speaking with?”
“You’re in Atlas, pal,” Harriet replied, stepping closer. “And you’re talking to the Ace Ops. General Ironwood’s gonna want a word with you, so don’t get too comfortable.”
Aurum’s eyes gleamed with interest despite his predicament. “Ironwood, you say? A military man, I presume? Oh, this could be quite the opportunity…”
Elm exchanged a glance with Harriet. “Opportunity? You’re in cuffs, old man.”
Aurum chuckled, undeterred. “My dear, cuffs are just a temporary inconvenience. Innovation, on the other hand, opens doors—sometimes literally.”
Back with Ven and Ciel…
“So this Aurum guy,” Ciel said, tapping her pencil against her clipboard, “he’s your… what? Boss? Teacher?”
“Friend,” Ven corrected cheerfully. “He’s brilliant. Builds things you wouldn’t believe. Airships, gadgets, even this little robot that makes tea!”
Ciel stared at him, unimpressed. “Tea robots. Right. And you just ‘showed up’ here too?”
Ven nodded. “Pretty much! I was on my way to class, and then—bam!—snow and big buildings everywhere. It’s kinda neat, actually.”
Ciel sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Great. Another weirdo. Look, Ven, you’re not under arrest—yet—but I’m taking you to the General. Maybe he’ll know what to do with you and your ‘tea robot guy.’”
Ven beamed. “Cool! I bet Aurum is already there, charming everyone.”
Ciel muttered under her breath, “He’d better not be…”
______________________________________________________________________
The forge at Signal Academy glowed with a steady hum, casting flickering light across the training grounds. Oscar sat on a bench, twirling his staff absentmindedly, while Jesse sketched nervously in her pad nearby. Alyx paced back and forth, tossing a small Dust crystal up and down, and Lewis leaned against a wall, nose buried in a book as usual. The air felt quieter than it used to—ever since Ruby Rose had left for Beacon a few months ago.
“Still no letter back from her,” Jesse muttered, her pencil pausing mid-stroke. “I thought she’d at least write by now.”
Oscar glanced over, his calm demeanor unshaken. “She’s probably busy. Beacon’s a big leap from Signal. You saw how excited she was when Ozpin scouted her.”
“Yeah, excited enough to ditch us,” Alyx said, catching the Dust crystal with a smirk. “Not that I blame her. Fighting robbers in Vale? That’s cooler than anything we’ve done here lately.”
Lewis lowered his book slightly, peering over his glasses. “She didn’t ditch us, Alyx. She got an opportunity. And she did try to write that night before she left—I saw her scribbling like crazy.”
Alyx snorted. “Yeah, well, good intentions don’t mean much if we never hear from her again. What’s she even doing up there? Fighting Grimm? Making new besties?”
Jesse hugged her sketchpad tighter, her voice small. “Maybe she’s forgotten about us. I mean… she’s Ruby. She’s probably got tons of friends at Beacon now.”
Oscar shook his head. “Ruby’s not like that. She wouldn’t forget us. She’s just… caught up in it all.”
Before anyone could respond, a sharp whistle cut through the air. A Signal courier—a scrappy kid with a satchel—jogged over, holding out a slightly crumpled envelope. “Uh, this just came in. Got held up in Vale’s mail system. It’s for… all of you, I guess?”
Lewis took it, raising an eyebrow as he read the front. “It’s from Ruby.”
Jesse’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Ruby? Really?”
Alyx snatched the letter from Lewis, tearing it open with a grin. “Well, well, look who finally remembered us.” She cleared her throat dramatically and began reading aloud:
“Hey guys! Sorry this took so long—I wrote it forever ago, but I guess airships and Grimm don’t mix well with mail. Beacon’s insane! There’s this girl who keeps yelling about dust, and my team’s awesome, but I miss you all so much. Signal feels like a lifetime ago. Tell me everything—what’s Taiyang making you do now? Jesse, did you finish that sketch of Crescent Rose? Alyx, stop blowing stuff up (kidding, don’t stop). Oscar, Lewis, keep them in line for me, okay? Write back soon—I wanna hear about you guys! —Ruby”
Alyx lowered the letter, smirking. “Guess she hasn’t forgotten us after all.”
Jesse’s face lit up, a rare smile breaking through her nerves. “She remembered my sketch…”
Oscar chuckled softly. “Told you. Ruby’s still Ruby.”
Lewis adjusted his glasses, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “She’s doing well, then. That’s good to know.”
The group fell silent for a moment, the clang of nearby students’ weapons mixing with the warmth of Ruby’s words. Her absence still stung, but the letter patched up some of the distance she’d left behind.
Alyx tossed the Dust crystal up again, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Okay, so she’s kicking butt at Beacon. We can’t just sit here looking pathetic when she finally sees us again.”
Jesse blinked. “Sees us again?”
Lewis closed his book with a soft thud. “I overheard Taiyang talking to Qrow yesterday. Something about ‘the next batch’ getting ready to move up. I didn’t connect it until now, but…”
Oscar tilted his head. “Move up? You mean… to Beacon?”
Lewis nodded. “They didn’t say names, but Taiyang’s been pushing us harder lately. And Qrow smirked when he saw me sparring last week. Said something about ‘Beacon material.’”
Jesse fidgeted, clutching the letter now in her hands. “Beacon? Us? But I’m not—I mean, Ruby’s the special one. I can barely handle sparring here without freaking out.”
“You’re tougher than you think,” Oscar said, offering her a small smile. “And Ruby believes in you—look at what she wrote.”
Alyx grinned, tossing the Dust crystal to Jesse, who caught it this time without fumbling. “See? Even Red’s rooting for us. If she can skip two years, we can catch up. I’m not letting her have all the fun.”
Lewis’s tone carried a rare spark of excitement. “It’d be logical. Signal’s a feeder for Beacon, and with Ruby already there, they might want to keep the momentum going. We just need to prove we’re ready.”
Oscar leaned back, gazing at the sky. “Guess we’d better step up our game. Ruby’s out there swinging that scythe like a pro. We can’t show up looking like amateurs.”
Jesse managed a shaky laugh, holding the letter close. “Yeah… I’d hate to let her down after this.”
Alyx clapped her hands together. “Then it’s settled! We train, we impress Taiyang and Qrow, and we get to Beacon. Ruby won’t know what hit her when we roll in.”
As the group exchanged determined looks, the distant roar of an airship echoed over Patch. Ruby’s late letter had lit a fire under them—and unbeknownst to them, their tickets to Beacon were already in motion, set to arrive later than hers but just in time to shake things up.
Unbeknownst to them, out the window was a strange purple-haired girl, she smiled a bit too widely, “Beacon? Perfect just as our master planned…and perfect for my spiders.”
For now the girl decided to scope out the Academy for anything important.
______________________________________________________________________
Deep within Vacuo, where the sun-scorched Wastelands swallowed any trace of mercy, the Crown’s Bunker lay hidden beneath shifting sands. Buried near a crumbling CCT relay tower, its entrance was a secret few dared to seek. Inside, the underground facility sprawled like a labyrinth—four paths once stretched toward the cardinal directions, though the southern tunnel had long since collapsed under the desert’s weight. The remaining hallways—north, west, and east—were cloaked in shadow, their dim lights flickering like the last gasps of a dying star. The eastern passage opened into a stone-carved throne room, Gillian Asturias’s sanctum, where she brooded over maps and plans. Adjacent to it, a hidden chamber loomed, its rows of beds cradling bodies—living Aura batteries—that fueled her ambitions.
Gillian stood alone in the throne room, her fingers tracing the edge of a worn table. The Crown, her and Jax’s delusional bid to resurrect Vacuo’s lost royalty, was fraying at the edges. Their followers, once loyal, were dwindling. Celadon’s arrest had been a blow—caught overreaching in some reckless scheme—and Carmine Esclados, their fiery enforcer, had sunk into a bitter funk, her drive snuffed out. Gillian’s jaw tightened. She hated admitting it, even to herself, but they were running low on manpower. She’d even considered Dust—filthy, wretched Dust—to bolster their forces, a betrayal of everything she stood against. But for Jax’s sake, her brother’s fragile dreams, she’d held off.
A heavy sigh escaped her lips, echoing in the cavernous room.
“Having trouble?” a voice rasped, low and metallic, slicing through the silence.
Gillian whirled, her bowstring taut in an instant, arrow nocked and aimed. Her breath caught as the shadows parted, revealing a towering figure. He—it?—was a nightmare forged in steel and malice. A massive suit of armor loomed before her, its gray-and-black plating segmented like an insect’s carapace, sharp edges gleaming faintly in the torchlight. Glowing eyes burned dark within a snarling helm, flanked by jagged, horn-like protrusions. Tattered wings, streaked in purple and gray, hung from its back, and long, ribbon-like tendrils flowed from its shoulders, swaying as if alive. Clawed hands flexed, and its broad chest seemed to pulse with a predatory stillness.
Gillian’s arrow wavered, but she didn’t lower it. “Who—what are you?” she demanded, her voice steady despite the chill creeping up her spine.
The armored figure tilted its head, a grating chuckle rumbling from within. “Name’s Darkus. And you… you’re Gillian Asturias, yes? The little queen scrabbling to rebuild a throne from sand and bones.”
Her eyes narrowed. “If you’re here to mock me, you’ll find an arrow does wonders for shutting mouths—even metal ones.”
Darkus raised a clawed hand, unperturbed. “Peace, girl. I’m not here to fight. I’m here to offer… assistance.”
Gillian hesitated, her bow still trained on him. “Assistance? From something that looks like it crawled out of a Grimm pit? Why should I trust you?”
“Because you’re desperate,” Darkus said, his voice cutting like a blade. He stepped forward, the floor trembling faintly under his weight. “Your brother’s dream is crumbling. Your followers are thinning. Celadon’s locked up, Carmine’s sulking, and you’re down to your last scraps of power. I’ve seen it before—kingdoms fall when the hands holding them weaken.”
Gillian’s grip tightened, her mind racing. He wasn’t wrong, and that stung worse than any insult. “And what’s in it for you? No one offers help out of kindness—not in Vacuo.”
Darkus’s glowing eyes flared briefly. “I lead a faction of my own. Warriors, outcasts, survivors—loyal to me and me alone. We’re strong, but we need purpose. You’ve got ambition, and that crown your brother clings to? It’s a symbol I can use. Give me a stake in your little rebellion, and I’ll lend you my strength—men, weapons, power. Enough to make Vacuo tremble.”
Gillian lowered her bow slightly, suspicion warring with intrigue. “You want a piece of the Crown? Jax won’t like that. He’s… particular about who he trusts.”
“Then convince him,” Darkus said, his tendrils curling like serpents. “Or don’t. Either way, you won’t find a better offer. I’ve got no love for Dust either—my forces run on grit and will, not some miner’s crutch. We’re a match, you and I.”
She studied him, this hulking enigma who spoke of alliances like a warlord bartering spoils. The Crown was her and Jax’s legacy, flawed as it was, and she’d be damned if she let it slip through her fingers. But manpower… power… that was something she couldn’t conjure alone. Not anymore.
“Prove it,” she said finally, lowering her bow but keeping an arrow in hand. “Show me your faction’s worth, and maybe—just maybe—we’ve got a deal.”
Darkus’s helm tilted, a sinister grin audible in his tone. “Oh, I’ll prove it. By the time I’m done, you’ll wonder how you ever managed without me.”
“Okay mister tough guy, how about you and your crew help me with something or well someone important,” Gillain asked, smirking.
The air thickened with the weight of their words, a pact teetering on the edge of ruin or triumph. Outside, the desert sands shifted, oblivious to the dark alliance forming beneath.
______________________________________________________________________
The ruins of Mountain Glenn stretched out like a graveyard of ambition, its crumbling towers and shattered streets swallowed by dust and shadow. Perry trudged through the debris, his dog-like ears twitching at every distant sound. The Faunus was busy—too busy—leading a decent-sized sector of the White Fang through this forsaken place. They’d set up camp in the hollowed-out shell of an old Merlot Industries facility, one of the defunct corporation’s abandoned outposts from its days of shady experiments. The White Fang had been raiding anything they could find—Dust caches, rusted equipment, anything to fuel their next move—but the pickings were slim. Most of the bases were stripped clean, either by time or scavengers bolder than they were.
Beside Perry strode the White Fang Lieutenant, a hulking figure with a chainsaw slung across his back and a sneer plastered beneath his custom Grimm mask. His voice boomed over the clatter of grunts hauling supplies. “I swear, if I get my hands on a Schnee out here, I’ll carve ‘em up slow—make ‘em pay for every damn thing their family’s done!” His metal-guarded forearms flexed as he gestured wildly, lost in his vendetta.
Perry sighed, adjusting his glasses over his own mask. “Yeah, yeah, Lieutenant. We get it. Schnee blood’s your holy grail. Can we focus on the job for now? These supplies ain’t gonna move themselves.”
Nearby, Deery—or Komodo Kaine, as some called him—shuffled along, his heavy boots kicking up dirt. The wiry Faunus with floppy deer ears glanced around nervously, his voice tinged with a faint Cajun drawl. “I’m tellin’ ya, Perry, somethin’ ain’t right. The boys been hearin’ growls—stalkin’ noises. Ain’t no Grimm we’ve seen yet, but it’s got ‘em spooked.”
Perry frowned, scanning the perimeter. The Grimm were supposed to be blocked off, drawn away by decoys they’d set earlier. “I doubt there’s anything out there,” he said, keeping his tone steady. “Probably just the wind rattlin’ through these old Merlot ruins. Place gives me the creeps too.”
Deery shook his head, clutching a scavenged rifle. “Naw, it’s more’n that. Some of the others heard it clear as day—growlin’, scrapin’, like somethin’ big’s watchin’. Point me where, and I’ll show ya.”
The Lieutenant snorted, hefting his chainsaw with a grin. “If it’s trouble, I’ll cut it down. Ain’t nothin’ gonna slow us up—not Grimm, not ghosts of Merlot’s freak experiments. We’ve got a train to load, and I ain’t lettin’ some fairy tale stop us.”
Perry rubbed his temple. “Fine. Deery, just point me where the fuss is comin’ from. I’ll check it out myself.”
Deery gestured toward a shadowed corner of the Glenn, where the skeletal remains of a Merlot Industries warehouse loomed. “Over yonder. That’s where they’re sayin’ it’s loudest.”
With a nod, Perry adjusted his White Fang hood and headed off, his boots crunching against the cracked pavement. The air grew thicker as he approached, the dim light barely piercing the gloom. Rusted pipes and shattered glass littered the ground, remnants of the corporation’s failed dreams. He strained his ears—nothing but silence now. Maybe Deery was jumping at shadows after all.
“At long last, I done run into one o’ dem special folks!” a voice growled, deep and guttural, shattering the quiet.
Perry gasped as the ground shook. A massive figure dropped from above, landing with a thunderous crash that sent a crater rippling through the pavement. Dust billowed around it, revealing a monstrous lizard-like creature—bigger than any Komodo dragon, with a jagged, toothy maw and gleaming yellow eyes. Its scales shimmered under a tattered coat, patched together like a scavenger’s prize, and its claws gouged the earth as it straightened. A sharp-toothed grin split its face, exuding menace and a twisted kind of charm.
Perry stumbled back, hand flying to his weapon. “What the—? Who are you?”
The creature chuckled, a low rumble that echoed off the ruins. “Name’s Komodo Kaine, cher. Been watchin’ y’all scurry ‘round this heap o’ junk. White Fang, yeah? Lookin’ a lil’ thin on the ground, if ya ask me.”
The Lieutenant stormed up behind Perry, chainsaw revving. “You got a death wish, lizard? Sneakin’ up on us like that? I’ll shred you into next week!”
Kaine’s grin widened, unfazed. “Easy, big fella. Ain’t here to tussle. I’m here to deal.” He shifted his weight, tail flicking lazily. “See, I know this place—Merlot’s old stompin’ grounds. Used to run wild here ‘fore it all went belly-up. I got a crew o’ my own—tough sons o’ guns, meaner’n a sack o’ Grimm. Y’all look like ya could use some muscle.”
Perry lowered his weapon slightly, eyes narrowing. “You’re offerin’ help? Why? What’s your angle?”
Kaine’s yellow eyes glinted. “Simple, mon ami. I want in. Y’all got plans—big ones, I reckon, with that train and all that Dust. I help you, you cut me a slice o’ the action. Power, territory, whatever ya got cookin’. I ain’t picky.”
Deery edged closer, rifle still in hand. “He’s talkin’ sense, Perry. We’re stretched thin—lost half a squad pokin’ ‘round these cursed labs. If he’s got fighters…”
The Lieutenant growled, chainsaw idling. “I don’t trust him. Looks like somethin’ Merlot cooked up in one o’ them vats. How do we know he ain’t playin’ us?”
Kaine laughed, a rough, bayou-edged sound. “’Cause I don’t need to, cher. I coulda picked y’all off one by one if I wanted. Nah, I like a good partnership. You give me purpose, I give ya teeth. Deal?”
Perry exchanged a glance with the Lieutenant, then Deery. The White Fang’s numbers were dwindling, and the Merlot ruins were proving more trouble than they were worth. This Kaine—whatever he was—could be a gamble, but one they couldn’t afford to pass up.
“Prove it,” Perry said finally, holstering his gun. “Show us your crew can deliver, and we’ll talk.”
Kaine’s grin stretched wider, claws flexing. “Oh, I’ll deliver, dawg-ears. Stick with me, and this ol’ Glenn’ll be ours ‘fore the Grimm even know what hit ‘em.”
______________________________________________________________________
The warehouse hunkered in Vale’s grimy depths, a fortress of pilfered Dust crates and flickering bulbs that barely pierced the gloom. Roman Torchwick paced beside a table littered with maps and cigar ash, his bowler hat tilted, Melodic Cudgel twirling in his gloved hands like a restless metronome. The docks heist had gone up in smoke—thanks to Little Red and her nosy crew—and now he was scrambling to keep his operation from collapsing. Cinder was off plotting in the shadows, leaving Roman to wrestle the White Fang into line and salvage what he could.
He’d hoarded enough Dust over months to weather the loss, but it was a razor-thin margin. The White Fang grunts—those “animals,” as he sneered—bristled under his human command, their loyalty as fragile as cracked glass. Still, he’d managed to herd Perry’s sector toward Mountain Glenn, a safer staging ground for Cinder’s next scheme. The train plot was coalescing, and Roman was hellbent on keeping it on track, even if it meant babysitting a pack of surly Faunus.
A creak at the warehouse door jolted him from his thoughts. He spun, expecting another griping grunt with tales of Grimm or short supplies. “What now?” he snapped, only to ease up when Neopolitan slipped into the light. Neo, his ever-faithful shadow, flashed a silent smirk, her Neapolitan-ice-cream hues glinting in the dimness. Her hair—half pink, half brown, once streaked with white on the pink side—now hung thicker, wavier since her Volume 6 restyle, the streaks vanished. Her eyes flickered between brown, pale pink, and white, shifting at her whim, a playful spark dancing in them as she waved.
She wore her signature ensemble: a white cropped jacket with a broad tail and pink lining, paired with skintight brown leather pants cinched by a dark belt with a gray buckle. A brown whalebone corset curved beneath, baring her hips, while black beaded necklaces dangled chaotically around her neck. Black-and-white spat boots tapped faintly on the concrete, and her black gloves gripped Hush, her parasol, propped against her shoulder.
“Oh, good, it’s you,” Roman sighed, tipping his hat back. “How’re our ‘residents’ holding up?”
Neo shrugged, her hands fluttering in a so-so gesture, lips curling into a wry half-smile.
“Fantastic. At least they’re not clawing each other’s throats—yet,” Roman muttered, adjusting his hat. “Any word from her highness?”
Neo shook her head, twirling a strand of pink hair with a bored flick.
“Trouble in paradise?” a voice rasped, oily and theatrical, from the warehouse’s shadowed corner.
Roman and Neo snapped into sync—Melodic Cudgel leveled, Hush unfurled in a blur of pink and white. “Alright, out with it!” Roman barked, his tone sharp as a blade.
The shadows parted, revealing a trio of bizarre figures. First strode Trollex, a troll-like menace with a goblin’s sneer and a flair for the dramatic—sharp-rimmed glasses perched on a bearded face, a toothy grin splitting his mug, all wrapped in a gaudy velvet suit crackling with faint green energy. He was a twisted echo of Ixis Naugus and Ultimate Green Goblin, oozing chaos and charm. Behind him loomed Dr. Batwidth, a hunched bat-doctor in a tattered lab coat, wings twitching, yellow eyes glinting with mad intellect—a chiropteran Ultra-Humanite with a sinister edge. Last lumbered Cotta-Arm, a hulking brute with one oversized arm of rippling clay, its surface shifting like wet earth, a Clayface-inspired monstrosity sculpted for destruction.
Roman blinked, lowering his cane a hair. “What in the Brothers’ name… You lot look like a fairy tale, got drunk and stumbled into a nightmare.”
Trollex chuckled, adjusting his glasses with a theatrical flourish, his voice a gravelly purr. “Aw, don’t be like that, slick. Name’s Trollex—king o’ chaos, spinner o’ hexes, at your service. Word’s out your little Dust empire’s wobblin’. White Fang slippin’ the leash, Cinder’s whip crackin’ your back. I reckon we’re the fix you need.”
Dr. Batwidth’s wings rustled as he stepped forward, fangs glinting in a crooked grin. “Indeed, Torchwick. I’m Dr. Batwidth—genius unbound. I’ve got experiments—grand ones—that crave resources. Your Dust, your connections… they’ll fuel my work. A scientific alliance, if you will.”
Cotta-Arm rumbled, his clay arm flexing into a crude hammer, his voice a low growl. “Me? I’m Cotta-Arm. I smash things. Heard you got pests—Red Riding Hood and her pack. Point me at ‘em, and they’re mush.”
Roman arched a brow, glancing at Neo, who tilted her head skeptically, twirling Hush with a flick of her wrist. “So, a troll, a bat, and a clay golem walk into my warehouse,” he mused, smirking. “What’s the punchline? You want a cut of my action?”
Trollex’s grin widened, green sparks dancing at his fingertips. “Sharp one, ain’t ya? Yeah, we want in. I’ll hex your enemies—make ‘em trip over their own shadows. You keep the White Fang marchin’, I keep the chaos flowin’. Win-win, slick.”
Dr. Batwidth adjusted his coat, eyes gleaming. “My intellect’s wasted without means. Give me Dust—say, a crate or two—and I’ll rig you gadgets to make those Faunus brutes unstoppable. Cinder’ll thank you later.”
Cotta-Arm thudded his clay fist into the floor, cracking concrete. “And I’ll pound anything that moves—Grimm, Huntsmen, whatever. You’re stretched thin, boss-man. I’m your muscle.”
Neo tapped Hush against her palm, eyeing Roman with a raised brow—her silent way of asking, You buying this? Roman twirled his cane, sizing up the trio. The White Fang were a headache, Perry’s crew was barely holding Mountain Glenn, and Cinder’s silence was a ticking clock. These freaks were a gamble, but maybe a useful one.
“Prove it,” Roman said finally, resting Melodic Cudgel on his shoulder. “Show me you’re worth the trouble, and we’ll talk shares. Mess this up, and Neo here turns you into a pincushion.”
Neo smirked, snapping Hush shut with a flourish, her eyes flashing pink in agreement.
Trollex laughed, a low, rumbling sound. “Oh, you’ll see, slick. We’ll make Vale shake ‘fore the week’s out.”
Dr. Batwidth nodded, wings folding. “A demonstration, then. Point us at a problem—any problem—and consider it solved.”
Cotta-Arm grinned, clay arm morphing into a spiked club. “Just say ‘smash,’ and it’s done.”
Roman exchanged a look with Neo, who shrugged with a sly grin. “Alright, freaks,” he said, tipping his hat. “Mountain Glenn’s crawling with loose ends. Impress me there, and you’ve got a deal.”
At least for now he had powers to keep those grunts in line.
_____________________________________________________________________
The tavern crouched in Mistral’s grimy underbelly, a den of vice marked by a spider emblem etched into its weathered exterior. Inside, the air hung heavy with smoke and whispers, the discolored brick walls and stone floors soaking up the din of clinking glasses and murmured deals. The bar sprawled across the first floor, surrounded by scattered tables, while a rickety staircase led to a shadowed second level. At the back, behind a fortress of loyal eyes, sat Lil' Miss Malachite—leader of this shadowy syndicate—perched at her usual table, flanked by her burly bodyguards. Heavyset yet striking, she radiated a dangerous charm, her affable tone masking the steel beneath.
“Ah, sweetheart, you’ve come to the right place,” Lil' Miss purred, a smug grin curling her lips. “I’m glad you enlisted my help.”
Her gaze flicked to the newcomers—a motley crew of strangers who’d stumbled into her bar, claiming ties to a lost criminal outfit and babbling about a strange world called Spectra. Her guards tensed, hands hovering near weapons, as the leader of this group, the so-called Venuse, stepped forward. Mister Vicious cut an imposing figure, his sharp suit and sharper grin evoking Cobalt Blue’s icy menace—a predator in tailored threads, radiating cold confidence.
“We’re not here to beg, Malachite,” Mister Vicious said, his voice smooth as a blade. “We’re here to deal. Your operation’s got legs, but it’s crawling when it could run. We’ve got the muscle, the tech, and the grit to make Mistral yours—and then some.”
Lil' Miss leaned back, folding her arms, her eyes narrowing with interest. “Big talk for a man I don’t know. You’ve got my attention, Vicious. What’s the pitch?”
From the shadows behind Vicious emerged Inke, a wiry figure with ink-black hands that shimmered like liquid night—Colonel Computron’s calculating precision in a sleek, fluid package. “We’ve scouted your turf,” Inke said, his voice clipped and mechanical. “Mistral’s lower districts are ripe—unorganized crews, untapped routes. We streamline your supply lines, crack their defenses. You expand; we profit.”
Electro Watt crackled into view next, a live wire of a man with sparks dancing along his fingertips, his grin wild—Comforter’s soothing aura twisted into chaotic energy. “And I’ll juice up your muscle,” he buzzed, static popping in the air. “No more skulkin’ in the dark—my volts’ll light up anyone dumb enough to cross you.”
Yeller lumbered forward, a towering hulk with a serpentine hiss, his scales glinting under the tavern’s dim lights—Copperhead II’s venomous edge in a bruiser’s frame. “Sssseen your rivals,” he rumbled, voice a low growl. “Sssmall fry. I’ll crush ‘em—make ‘em ssscream your name ‘fore they’re done.”
Charmstrik sauntered up, all sleek grace and sly smiles, her eyes glinting with hypnotic allure—Zaxxx’s charm dialed to deadly. “And I’ll handle the persuasion,” she purred, brushing a hand through her hair. “Your enemies? They’ll hand you their keys with a smile. Loyalty’s just a flick of my tongue.”
Curie hovered at the edges, a wiry figure in a patched coat, her fingers twitching with restless energy—Double Down’s gambling streak fused with cunning. “Got plans for your stash,” she said, smirking. “Dust, weapons, whatever you’re sittin’ on—I’ll double it. Risk’s my game, and I always win.”
Finally, Mr. Maximum loomed at the rear, a mountain of muscle radiating Fallout’s raw power, his voice a deep quake. “And I’m the hammer,” he growled. “Your bar’s a start, Malachite. I’ll smash this city open ‘til you’ve got a throne.”
Lil' Miss tapped a finger on the table, her guards exchanging wary glances. “Quite the lineup,” she mused, her tone teasing but sharp. “You’re offering me Mistral on a platter. What’s your endgame? Nobody gives this much for free.”
Mister Vicious’s grin widened, a glint of something darker in his eyes. “We’ve got… obligations. A master back in Spectra—someone you don’t need to meet yet. They want chaos, power, a foothold here. You get Mistral; we get a path to them. Simple trade.”
Inke leaned in, his ink-stained fingers tracing an invisible map. “Think bigger, Malachite. Your bar’s a hub—ours too. We’ll run routes through Mountain Glenn, Atlas, wherever. Your web grows; our master’s pleased.”
Electro Watt sparked, laughing. “And we’ll fry anyone who sniffs too close. Keeps it clean for ya.”
Yeller hissed, coiling slightly. “Sssspectra’s watchin’. We deliver, or we don’t go home. You’re our ticket.”
Charmstrik winked, her voice silk. “Trust us, darling. We’re your edge—and your secret’s safe.”
Curie flipped a coin, catching it midair. “Odds say we’re gold. Bet on us, and you’re rich.”
Mr. Maximum cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing. “Or don’t. We’ll take what we need anyway. But you’re smarter than that, ain’t ya?”
Lil' Miss chuckled, leaning forward, her grin matching Vicious’s. “I like you lot—crazy, but useful. Prove you can deliver, and we’ve got a deal. Mistral’s mine; your ‘master’ gets their cut. Mess me up, and my spiders’ll eat you alive.”
Mister Vicious tipped his head, a mock bow. “Done. You’ll see, sweetheart. The Venuse don’t play small.”
The tavern thrummed with tension as the pact took root, Malachite’s web stretching toward new horizons—and the Venuse’s hidden master lurking just beyond the veil.
______________________________________________________________________
To say Bertilak Celadon’s life was going well in Vacuo Prison would be a lie—it was borderline madness. The towering man grunted through push-ups in his cramped cell, muscles flexing under the strain. He’d bitten off more than he could chew, tangling with those Watchers too soon, and they’d trashed him before he could blink. Now, locked in this sun-scorched hellhole, freedom seemed a distant dream. The guards watched him like hawks, their eyes boring into him every hour. Sure, he’d scraped together a small following among the inmates—useful for later—but to most, he was still a pariah, a green-haired fool who’d gambled and lost.
Bertilak stood six feet six, broad and muscular, a wall of a man. His green mohawk and matching goatee—once his pride—had been shaved off by the prison’s razor-happy staff, much to his seething fury. He paused mid-push-up as a guard stomped by, tossing a dented tin plate through the bars. The slop inside sloshed, a grayish stew that smelled like regret.
“Eat up, rot,” the gruff guard snarled before lumbering off.
Bertilak glared at the mess, his jaw tightening. He wondered if the Crown—Gillian and Jax—would bother springing him. His semblance, potent as it was, couldn’t melt these reinforced bars; the cells were rigged with Dust-infused tech to neuter escapes. He’d tested it once, early on, and nearly fried himself. No, if he was getting out, it’d be through someone else’s muscle—or his own cunning.
“Hey, what are you—Ack!” A guard’s shout cut through the silence, followed by a muffled thud and a chorus of yells.
Bertilak shot to his feet as explosions rocked the prison, the walls trembling. Dust rained from the ceiling, and a sharp crack split the air. His cell door buckled, then blew inward, revealing a masked crew cloaked in dark gear—the Darkcrafts, he realized, underlings of that armored lunatic Darkus. The Crown had come through after all.
A figure stepped forward, sleek and dangerous—Limit Break, her movements fluid like Angel Breaker’s lethal grace, a smirk playing on her lips. “Bertilak Celadon, yeah? Darkus says you’re wanted. Crown’s orders—time to ditch this cage.”
Bertilak blinked, then grinned. “About damn time. Who’re you lot?”
Babblus emerged next, a wiry man with a manic gleam in his eye, words tumbling out like Babylon’s chaotic prophecies. “Name’s Babblus—voice o’ the storm, herald o’ ruin! We’re the Darkcrafts, mate, here to bust ya loose and raise hell. Crown’s waitin’, so let’s move!”
The wall behind him shattered as Destroyer barreled through, a hulking beast of muscle and rage—Bane’s raw power in a roaring package. “No more talk,” he growled, voice a landslide. “We smash, we go. Prison’s done.”
Vinox slunk in, agile and feral, his bronze skin glinting like Bronze Tiger’s honed edge. “Guards’re down,” he purred, claws flexing. “Path’s clear—mostly. Move fast, big guy.”
Copperhead followed, scales shimmering on his arms, a Copperhead II-inspired predator with a hiss in his voice. “Ssssweet freedom,” he rasped, tossing Bertilak a pilfered baton. “Sssstick with us, greenie. Crown’s got plansss.”
Kasino Kane sauntered up, all swagger and sharp eyes, a gambler’s grin flashing—Cain’s brutal precision with a twist of flair. “Heard you’re a hitter, Celadon,” he said, spinning a knife. “Good. We’re rollin’ the dice—big payout at the bunker.”
Kassnova Kane flanked him, silent and deadly, her movements a whisper of Cassandra Cain’s artistry, twin blades gleaming. She nodded at Bertilak, then gestured—move now, talk later.
“Who sent you?” Bertilak demanded, snatching the baton and stepping over the rubble.
Limit Break smirked, kicking a fallen guard aside. “Darkus, straight from the Crown. Gillian’s itching to get you back—says you’re too useful to rot here. Jax just wants bodies for the cause.”
Destroyer ripped another cell door off its hinges, freeing a wiry inmate who whooped and scrambled after them. “More meat for the grinder,” he rumbled. “Crown’ll like that.”
Babblus cackled, darting ahead. “Oh, it’s a riot now! Inmates loose, guards screamin’—Vacuo’s burnin’ tonight, lads! To the Wastelands!”
Vinox darted to a barred window, peering out. “Airship’s waiting—half a klik north. We cut through the yard, we’re gold.”
Copperhead slithered past, grinning. “Sssome chaos first. Let’sss wake this place up—give the Crown a ssshow.”
Kasino Kane laughed, hurling a stolen Dust grenade at a guard tower. It erupted in a crimson plume, alarms shrieking. “Jackpot! Let’s haul ass—bunker’s callin’.”
Kassnova Kane took point, slicing a lock off a gate, her silence a command. Bertilak followed, the freed inmates—thieves, killers, madmen—swarming behind, a tide of chaos. “Crown better have a damn good reason for this,” he muttered, cracking the baton against his palm.
Limit Break glanced back, her grin wicked. “Oh, they do. Darkus says you’re the spark they need. Gillian’s got a throne to rebuild—your fists’ll pave the way.”
The prison dissolved into pandemonium as the Darkcrafts carved a path, explosions lighting the night. Bertilak smirked—Vacuo Prison was history, and the Crown’s bunker loomed ahead, a dark promise in the Wastelands.
______________________________________________________________________
Fort Castle had a massive history.
Made sense since it was an important battle during the Faunus Rights Revolution. To the point it had been referenced in history classes many times.
The Battle of Fort Castle unfolded in the third year of the Faunus War, a clash etched into Remnant’s history as the conflict’s decisive turning point. Tucked within the rugged highlands of Mistral, the fortress stood as a defiant symbol of Faunus resilience—a prize the human forces could not resist.
General Lagune, commander of the human army, devised a plan steeped in arrogance. Under the cover of night, he marched his troops toward the Faunus encampment, intent on catching them off guard as they slept. But Lagune underestimated his adversaries. The Faunus, blessed with near-perfect night vision, saw through the darkness as if it were day. The ambush unraveled into a massacre—Lagune’s forces were routed, their banners trampled into the mud, and the general himself was dragged before his foes in chains. Some might jest that he earned a new title that night: General Failure.
This crushing defeat shifted the tides of the Faunus War. Emboldened by their victory, the Faunus began to claw back ground, turning a desperate struggle into a rallying cry that would echo into the present day. Historians argue the war’s outcome was a mixed triumph—freedom won at a steep cost, with scars that never fully healed. Yet Fort Castle remained, its stone walls a testament to that pivotal moment, whispering of sacrifice and defiance.
Now, in the daily present of Remnant, those echoes have found new life. Another group of Faunus revolutionaries has claimed the fortress as their stronghold, breathing purpose into its ancient halls. The White Fang, under Sienna Khan’s iron rule, has transformed Fort Castle into a hidden bastion—a nerve center for their operations. Its shadowed corridors and towering battlements conceal their movements, a fitting home for a cause born in the fires of rebellion.
On this day, the White Fang Council gathers within its depths, their voices rising amid the flickering torchlight. They convene not for nostalgia, but for the upheaval gripping Remnant: a phenomenon reshaping the world itself. New lands and cities—Spectra among them—have erupted across the continents, defying explanation and destabilizing the kingdoms. For the White Fang, this is no mere curiosity; it’s a chance to seize power from the chaos, to turn the shifting earth beneath their feet into a weapon against their enemies.
Sienna Khan stood at the head of a weathered oak table, her tiger-striped tail flicking with restrained impatience. Her amber eyes swept over the council, each member a pillar of the White Fang’s new order. Beside her, Adam Taurus leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his mask concealing all but the simmering rage in his posture. The council—seven Generals, each tied to an emotion and an animal spirit—awaited her command, their voices a chorus of conviction and chaos.
Sienna’s claws tapped the table, silencing the murmurs.
“The humans squabble over these new lands like children over scraps. Spectra, these cities—they’re cracks in their armor. We will not sit idle while they rebuild their cages. Speak your plans. How do we claim what’s ours?”
Adam stepped forward, his voice a low growl.
“We strike now. Spectra’s undefended—humans haven’t fortified it yet. We take it, hold it, and bleed them when they come crawling back. No mercy, no hesitation. It’s what the Faunus deserve.”
Sienna’s gaze sharpened, but she didn’t interrupt. Instead, she turned to the council.
“Adam’s bloodlust has its place. But we need more than blades. Perspectives—now.”
Morpho Insularise, General of Joy, rose first, their iridescent blue cloak shimmering like a Morpho butterfly’s wings. Their voice danced with a manic glee.
“Why settle for one victory? Spectra’s a spark—let’s ignite it into a blaze of Faunus pride! We infiltrate these new cities, spread whispers of liberation. The humans will cheer us as saviors before they realize they’re kneeling. Joy’s a weapon—let them choke on it.”
Adam snorted, but Sienna tilted her head, intrigued.
Atra Infrano, General of Hope, spoke next, their raven-black feathers rustling as they leaned forward. Their tone was steady, piercing.
“Hope binds us, High Leader. These lands are chaos—Faunus scattered across Remnant need a banner to rally under. We take Spectra as a symbol, ally with outcast tribes, build a network. The kingdoms can’t fight what they can’t see coming.”
Sienna nodded slightly. “Pragmatic. Go on.”
Cnidarise Aquarius, General of Hatred, slithered upright, their tendril-like hair swaying like a jellyfish in dark waters. Their voice dripped venom.
“Allies? Hmph. The humans will infest Spectra like rot. I say we poison the well—sabotage their water, their Dust, their hope. Let hatred be our tide; drown them before they root. No survivors.”
Adam’s hand twitched toward his sword, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Chorduse Vermillion, General of Rage, slammed a scaled fist on the table, their snake-like eyes blazing red.
“Enough talk! Rage won us Fort Castle—rage wins us Spectra! We march, we burn, we bury their cities under their own ashes. Allies slow us down—let the humans feel our fangs!”
Sienna raised a hand, silencing them. “Focus that fire, Chorduse. Blind rage loses wars.”
Varanus Verdant, General of Fear, lumbered forward, their monitor lizard bulk casting a long shadow. Their growl rumbled deep.
“Fear’s subtler. We haunt these lands—strike and vanish. Spectra’s theirs until they’re too afraid to hold it. Whispers of our claws in the night—no army, just terror. They’ll flee without a fight.”
Adam scoffed. “Cowardice.” Varanus hissed but said nothing more.
Strigise Spruce, General of Sorrow, perched at the table’s edge, their owl-like eyes hollow. Their voice was a mournful whisper.
“New lands, new graves. The Faunus have wept enough for human greed. Spectra’s a chance to end this cycle—but only if we’re ruthless. Ally with the broken, yes, but spare no one who resists. Sorrow teaches strength.”
Sienna’s expression softened briefly, then hardened again.
Rubro Starlet, General of Desire, lounged back, their starfish-red hair glinting as they smirked. Their tone was honeyed, ambitious.
“Desire drives everything, doesn’t it? Spectra’s ripe—resources, power, a throne for us. We charm the weak, bribe the greedy, ally with bandits and Dust smugglers. Why fight for what we can take?”
Sienna straightened, her presence commanding silence.
“Each of you has merit. Spectra is our foothold—a blade to the kingdoms’ throats. We’ll take it swiftly, as Adam demands, but with Morpho’s subversion and Atra’s alliances. Cnidarise and Chorduse, your fury will break their lines; Varanus and Strigise, your shadows will keep them running. Rubro, secure the wealth—Dust, weapons, whatever it takes.”
She turned to Adam, her voice steel.
“You’ll lead the assault. No reckless slaughter—control your blade. We’re building a legacy, not a pyre.”
Adam’s fists clenched, but he nodded. “As you command, High Leader. They’ll still bleed.”
Sienna’s eyes gleamed. “Good. The White Fang rises with these lands. Let the humans tremble—they’ll learn what it means to fear the Faunus again.”
______________________________________________________________________
The self-stated astounding Doctor Arthur Watts sat ensconced in his clandestine sanctum, a marvel of invention buried fifty meters beneath the shadowed foundations of Evernight Castle. The laboratory, a stark counterpoint to the castle’s candlelit austerity above, thrummed with the pulse of Victorian ingenuity melded with a steampunk edge—a testament to his intellect and a nod to the gaslit streets of an early English Britain he’d once studied with relish. Brass pipes snaked along the walls, hissing faintly with the steam that powered his contraptions, their polished surfaces gleaming under the flickering glow of ornate gas lamps. Crystal sconces, repurposed from the castle’s abundant reserves, cast a kaleidoscope of violet and amber light across the chamber, illuminating a sprawling desk of dark mahogany cluttered with papers, blueprints, and half-assembled gadgets.
The room itself was a cavernous oval, its ceiling arched like a cathedral’s nave, reinforced with riveted iron beams that echoed the industrial might of a bygone era. Shelves of aged oak lined the walls, groaning under the weight of leather-bound tomes, jars of bubbling Grimm ooze, and capsules filled with the viscous black ichor harvested from the pools above. The pools, he’d deduced, plunged deep—perhaps forty meters or more—into the Land of Darkness’ corrupted crust, their tar-like depths a wellspring of malevolent potential. Watts had tapped into them, siphoning the liquid through a network of glass tubes that fed into his experimental vats. These vats, towering cylinders of brass and frosted glass, bubbled and churned as he tested the ooze’s properties—seeking to bend it to his will, much as Salem did, but with the precision of science rather than the whims of magic.
At the chamber’s heart stood his pièce de résistance: a towering mainframe of gears, valves, and flickering screens, a steampunk monstrosity that whirred and clicked like a living thing. Its brass casing was etched with intricate filigree, reminiscent of a gentleman’s pocket watch scaled to grotesque proportions, while pistons pumped rhythmically, driving the machine’s ceaseless calculations. Before it, Watts sat in a high-backed leather chair, its upholstery worn but regal, his fingers dancing across a typewriter-like keyboard studded with ivory keys. The screen before him—a convex panel of smoked glass—depicted a fractured map of Remnant, its continents and cities pulsing with data points he’d painstakingly gathered. Anomalies blinked in red: strange new locations, distortions in the fabric of reality he couldn’t yet explain.
“Outstanding… but concerning,” he murmured, his refined accent cutting through the hum of machinery as he typed furiously, documenting each irregularity. Papers lay scattered everywhere—charts of Remnant’s ley lines, sketches of biomechanical limbs, and notes on a digital contingency he’d been perfecting. He’d rushed back to Evernight after a recent foray, his new allies—opportunistic smugglers, perhaps—having secured him a swift Mistral airship to hasten his return. The irony wasn’t lost on him: for all Salem’s timeless power, it was his tech that kept her abreast of the world beyond her violet-shrouded domain.
His investigations had unearthed more than just Remnant’s secrets. Probing the digital ether—his so-called “Domain”—Watts had detected faint traces of other presences, entities lurking beyond the veil of code. In the Land of Light, fleeting signatures flickered like ghosts, too elusive to pin down. More troubling still was the Land of Darkness itself: a signal had boomed across his sensors, a resonant pulse that shook the mainframe’s needles before vanishing as abruptly as it appeared. He scowled, adjusting a brass dial to retrace it, but the trail was cold. “Confounding,” he muttered, scribbling a note. “Something—or someone—stirs in this forsaken place.”
Above ground, another anomaly had manifested, this one flesh and blood. Reports had filtered down to him of strange, plague-masked figures clad in hooded robes, their faces obscured by beaked visors reminiscent of old pestilence doctors. They’d appeared in the Land of Darkness, kneeling in reverence before Salem, chanting her name in guttural tones. For now, she seemed content to let them linger—perhaps amused by their worship, perhaps biding her time. Watts cared little for their dogma; they were a distraction, though their presence hinted at forces aligning in ways he hadn’t anticipated.
Watts had also dispatched a cadre of sleek, mechanical sentinels—gifted by his allies, naturally—to keep a vigilant watch over the Vaults scattered across Remnant. Their gleaming frames, adorned with whirring gears and faintly glowing crystal cores, were tasked with tracking any shifts or disturbances in those ancient repositories, no matter how subtle. He’d been explicit in his orders, delivered with his characteristic clipped precision: they were to refrain from any sudden or impulsive actions, eschewing interference in favor of silent observation. For now, their role was to lurk in the shadows, gathering data and relaying it back to his subterranean sanctum, where he could analyze every nuance at his leisure.
Watts leaned back, adjusting the monocle-like goggles he’d taken to wearing—a theatrical flourish inspired by Sherlock’s meticulous Watson, though he’d never admit it aloud. His gaze drifted to a secondary monitor, its feed crackling with static as it mapped not just Remnant, but cyberspace itself. He’d been threading his consciousness through its labyrinthine depths, preparing two digital vessels: one, a backup of his mind should his frail body meet its end (a precaution born of Atlas’ fiery collapse or if one of teammates decided friendly fire was on), and another, a weaponized avatar to dominate the digital realm. The process was Frankensteinian in its ambition—stitched together from code and hubris, powered by the Grimm ooze he’d distilled into a volatile energy source.
Then, something caught his eye on his monitor. Amid the endless streams of data, a ripple—an unknown world shimmering beyond Remnant’s borders. It seemed to hold something ancient, magical. His lips curled into a thin smile. “A new frontier,” he mused. “Salem will thank me when I bend it to her will—ours, rather.” He scribbled a note, already plotting how this anomaly could amplify his schemes, perhaps a staging ground for an army unbound by Remnant’s laws.
But there was more. As he probed deeper into cyberspace, a signal flared—faint, erratic, but unmistakably alive. Not a mere program, but something sentient, pulsing with intent. Watts froze, his arrogance tempered by a flicker of unease. “What are you?” he whispered, adjusting a dial to sharpen the feed. He hesitated, then initiated contact, sending a coded ping into the void. A digital copy of himself—his ultimate creation—might already be out there, but this was different. This was unknown.
Across the lab, a capsule hissed, releasing a wisp of steam as a prototype stirred—a biomechanical Grimm, its frame of brass and steel infused with the ooze, its eyes glowing a sickly yellow. Watts glanced at it, satisfied. His experiments were bearing fruit, and soon, he’d have an army to rival Salem’s own. For now, he turned back to his screens, the signal’s response flickering into view, a challenge he couldn’t resist.
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Nestled deep in the rugged wilds of southern Anima, the Arc House stood as a bastion of weathered stone and timber, its walls steeped in the legacy of Huntsmen past. Recently, word had come from old allies—the elusive Grimm Guardians—bearing troubling tales of lands twisting and growing beyond their natural bounds. Inside, the Arc family convened, a rare assembly shadowed by unease. Saphron Cotta-Arc couldn’t join in person, tethered to her life in Argus with Terra and young Adrian; instead, her voice flickered through a Scroll, a distant echo amid the gathered siblings—Scarlette, Indira and Iona, Viridia, Minerva, Rosalind, and Meg Scarlatina—whose eyes darted between one another in silent debate.
Lancel Arc, Jaune’s father, stood at the head of the room, his calloused hands resting on the edge of a worn table etched with the scars of countless family councils. Beside him, Adelaide Arc paced slowly, her gaze fixed on the flickering firelight as if it held answers to the chaos creeping across Remnant. For years, they’d chosen peace over the world’s endless strife, content to raise their eight children far from the clash of Grimm and ambition. The Arc lineage had weathered storms before—Evrard’s wars, Reynard’s quiet vigilance—but this felt different. The Guardians’ messages spoke of forests sprawling unnaturally, of mountains rising where plains once lay, and the couple knew the ripples would reach their son, Jaune, now fumbling through his days at Beacon.
“We’ve stayed quiet too long,” Lancel said, his voice a steady rumble that silenced the room. “Jaune’s out there, unprepared for what’s coming. These changes—whatever’s driving them—won’t spare him just because we’ve turned our backs.”
Adelaide stopped pacing, her hand slipping into her coat to retrieve her Scroll. “The Grimm Guardians aren’t strangers, Lancel. They’re echoes of our past—friends who walked the edges when we chose this hearth instead. If anyone understands what’s shifting out there, it’s them.” Her fingers hovered over the screen, a flicker of resolve hardening her features. “For Jaune’s sake, we start talking again. Now.”
Lancel nodded, pulling his own Scroll from a pocket worn thin by years of use. The Grimm Guardians weren’t a name spoken lightly in the Arc House—not since the days when Lancel and Adelaide had fought beside figures like Shion Zaiden or the Berbere kin, before the group scattered to watch over Remnant’s forgotten corners. This wasn’t a full alliance, not yet—just a thread reconnected after years of silence, a lifeline to those who might see what Ozpin and Salem could not. As Lancel typed a curt greeting, Adelaide’s message followed, her words veiled in the cautious tone of a Huntsman’s wife reaching into the dark.
Scarlette leaned forward, her brow furrowed. “You’re sure they’ll answer? It’s been ages—half of them could be dead for all we know.”
“They’ll answer,” Lancel replied, his eyes never leaving the screen. “Debts don’t die that easy.”
Adelaide glanced at the Scroll in her hand, the faint hum of its signal a lifeline cast into uncertainty. “And if they don’t,” she added quietly, “we’ll find another way. Jaune’s not facing this alone.”
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The golden light of late afternoon spilled through Beacon Academy’s towering windows, casting long shadows across the polished stone floors of the main hall. After weeks apart, Teams RWBY, JNPR, and CFVY converged near the grand staircase, their footsteps echoing in a chaotic symphony of reunion. Ruby Rose, her silver eyes wide with excitement, nearly tripped over her own scythe as she skidded to a halt. Beside her, Weiss Schnee adjusted her ponytail with a huff, while Blake Belladonna’s amber gaze flickered warily over the group. Yang Xiao Long grinned, cracking her knuckles as if ready for a spar—or a hug. Across from them, Jaune Arc scratched his head, Pyrrha Nikos offering a warm smile, Nora Valkyrie bouncing on her heels, and Ren Lie nodding calmly. Team CFVY rounded out the crowd—Velvet Scarlatina clutching her camera, Coco Adel lowering her sunglasses, Fox Alistair tilting his head, and Yatsuhashi Daichi looming like a quiet mountain.
The air crackled with surprise as they all froze, eyes darting to three unfamiliar figures standing awkwardly among them. Ruby’s jaw dropped first, her voice squeaking out, “You guys have one too?”
Velvet’s ears twitched, her soft brown eyes widening as she clutched her camera tighter. “Wait—you too?” she asked, her tone a mix of disbelief and curiosity.
Nora, practically vibrating with energy, thrust a finger into the air. “Us three!” she bellowed, her grin stretching ear to ear. Beside her, Prism—a wiry figure with a mop of dark hair and an oddly confident gleam in his eyes—nodded in sync, flashing a peace sign like some self-appointed hero of the moment.
The clamor drew a sharp click of heels against stone. Glynda Goodwitch strode into view, her stern silhouette cutting through the hallway’s warm glow. Her glasses glinted as she adjusted them, her emerald eyes narrowing at the gaggle of students. “What, precisely, is going on here?” she demanded, her voice crisp enough to slice through the chatter.
Ruby spun on her heel, nearly toppling again, and pointed at the trio of newcomers with a shaky finger. “I, uh—err—this!” she stammered, gesturing wildly. Casey, a jittery boy with tousled brown hair and eyes darting like a cornered animal, flinched awake from whatever daze had gripped him. “H-h-hi! I-I’m C-Casey!” he sputtered, each word a stumble, his hands wringing together as if he might bolt at any second. Grey, lean and shadowed with a hood pulled low, merely waved—a single, slow motion, his face blank as stone, betraying nothing. Prism, by contrast, leaned forward with a grin, his peace sign unwavering, exuding a charm that felt both earnest and oddly theatrical.
Glynda’s brow arched, her lips pressing into a thin line as she surveyed the scene. “Actually,” she said, her tone dry as dust, “I find myself unsurprised. Let me guess: these three… individuals randomly appeared in your dorms?”
“Yes!” came the chorus—Ruby’s squeak, Weiss’s clipped affirmation, Blake’s quiet murmur, Yang’s laugh, Jaune’s hesitant nod, Pyrrha’s polite agreement, Nora’s shout, Ren’s soft confirmation, Velvet’s nervous chirp, Coco’s drawl, Fox’s grunt, and Yatsuhashi’s low rumble all blending into a single, bewildered harmony.
Glynda sighed, a sound heavy with the weight of countless student antics. “Come with me,” she ordered, turning on her heel with a flick of her riding crop. “All of you. Now.”
The group shuffled into motion, a tangle of capes, weapons, and muttered questions. Ruby darted ahead, circling Casey like an overeager puppy. “So, uh, Casey, right? Where’d you come from? Did you fall out of the sky or—oh! Did you teleport? That’d be so cool!”
Casey’s face flushed red, his hands flailing. “I-I-I d-don’t k-know! I w-w-was j-just—uh—s-s-sleeping, a-and then—bam! B-B-Beacon!” He looked ready to melt into the floor, his stutter worsening with every step.
Weiss rolled her eyes, her voice sharp. “Honestly, Ruby, give him space—he’s clearly a nervous wreck. Though I’d like to know why my room had to be the landing spot for—” She glanced at Grey, who trudged silently beside her, his hooded gaze fixed forward. “This one.”
Grey didn’t flinch, his voice a flat whisper. “Wasn’t my choice.” He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, his Kris-like stoicism a wall no one dared breach.
Prism, trailing behind with JNPR, chuckled—a bright, disarming sound. “Hey, at least I landed somewhere fun! Nora, you ever think about starting a hero duo? We’d be unstoppable—saving the day, cracking skulls, the works!” He mimed a dramatic sword swing, his demeanor a stark contrast to Grey’s gloom.
Nora’s eyes lit up, her hammer bouncing on her shoulder. “Ooh, I like you! Ren, can we keep him? Pleeease?” Ren sighed, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Nora, we don’t ‘keep’ people.”
Pyrrha glanced at Jaune, her tone gentle. “It is strange, though—three strangers appearing at once. Do you think it’s tied to something bigger?”
Jaune shrugged, scratching his neck. “Uh, maybe? I mean, I didn’t even notice Prism ‘til he started posing on my bed. Kinda thought he was a weird dream.”
Coco, sauntering beside Velvet, smirked over her sunglasses. “Well, I woke up to this Casey kid tripping over my wardrobe. Thought he was a thief ‘til he started apologizing to my boots.”
“I-I-I’m s-s-sorry!” Casey yelped, his voice cracking as he glanced at Coco, then at Velvet, who offered a shy wave. “I d-didn’t m-mean t-to—uh—b-break a-anything!”
Fox snorted, his voice low. “You didn’t break much. Just Coco’s patience.” Yatsuhashi nodded silently, his massive frame a calm anchor amid the chaos.
Blake, walking beside Yang, tilted her head at Prism. “You’re awfully chipper for someone who just… appeared. What’s your deal?”
Prism’s grin widened, heroic and a touch mischievous. “Oh, you know—destiny, fate, a dash of heroism! I’m here to help, probably. Or haunt you all. Haven’t decided yet.” Yang laughed, slugging his shoulder. “I like this one. He’s got spunk.”
Glynda halted at a classroom door, turning to face the motley crew with a glare that could freeze Grimm in their tracks. “Enough chatter. Inside. We’re sorting this out before Ozpin hears of it—and trust me, you don’t want that headache.” She pointed her crop at Casey, Grey, and Prism. “You three, front and center. Explain yourselves—if you can.”
Casey whimpered, Grey stared blankly, and Prism saluted with a wink. The teams filed in, their voices a buzzing mix of confusion, amusement, and curiosity, the mystery of the newcomers hanging thick in the air.
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In the Void, a being with one red eye and one blue eye gazed upon the planet Remnant. He smirked. "Ahh, the fusion was a success."
He was fairly certain this wasn’t his main project, but it had been an enjoyable break and detour while he planned the other one. He’d had to work carefully to weave all the places and people of this universe together, safely fusing his own worlds and universes into it. It had taken numerous attempts, but this time, it hadn’t ended in a chaotic dimensional mess.
"Ahh… now we wait for our champions and pieces to fall into place. Both of them."
Another being laughed, his green teeth glowing faintly in the dimness.
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