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Chapter Text

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In a distant world known as Remnant, echoes of countless lost civilizations lingered beneath a scarred and vibrant surface. This planet, rich with history, was besieged by the Grimm—malevolent, shadowy creatures driven by an insatiable urge to destroy. To combat these relentless threats, academies rose across the land, training the resilient people of Remnant to wield weapons, harness Aura, and defend their world from the encroaching darkness. Oh the academies existed one above the rest:

Beacon Academy

Beacon Academy stands as the foremost Huntsman Academy in the Kingdom of Vale, devoted to training teams of Huntsmen and Huntresses to confront the monstrous threats plaguing Remnant. Established in the wake of the Great War, Beacon, alongside the other three Huntsmen academies, focuses on equipping students to battle the Creatures of Grimm. For over 80 years, the academy has honed generations of skilled Huntsmen and Huntresses, producing numerous distinguished teams.

Aspiring Huntsmen, charged with safeguarding global peace, eagerly seek admission to Beacon. As a residential institution, the academy houses students in on-campus dormitories, providing comprehensive facilities such as hygiene, dining, and laundry services. Beyond class hours, students enjoy the freedom to explore Vale, frequently spending weekends in the city.

Entry to Beacon demands success in a challenging entrance exam, typically prepared for at combat schools like Signal Academy. Exceptionally gifted candidates may be invited to enroll based on demonstrated prowess. While prior combat school training is common, it is not a prerequisite; highly skilled individuals can gain admission without formal transcripts. Most students begin at around age 17, though prodigies may be accepted at younger ages, which has been more recent as of late.

The four-year curriculum at Beacon encompasses lectures delivered by faculty on critical topics, including the diverse monsters students may face. Practical exercises and field trips to locations like the Forever Fall Forest enhance classroom learning. Students undertake missions as part of their training, with first-years assigned lower-risk tasks, such as assisting detectives in Vale, and required to be accompanied by a professional Huntsman or Huntress on their initial mission. Upperclassmen engage in higher-risk assignments. Beacon distinguishes itself by offering more personalized mentorship from veteran Huntsmen compared to other academies.

Students enjoy considerable flexibility in their attire, often personalizing their uniforms with additions like capes or hoods. The dress code is relaxed, with students commonly wearing casual clothing during classes, assemblies, and field trips. Uniforms are generally not worn during combat training. The standard boys’ uniform includes a black suit with gold lining, a blue vest, a white shirt, and a red tie. The girls’ uniform features a red plaid skirt, stockings of varying lengths, a brown jacket, a tan vest, and a white shirt with a red ribbon at the collar.

In anticipation of the Vytal Festival, Beacon hosts an exchange program with Atlas Academy, Shade Academy (Vacuo), and Haven Academy (Mistral). Exchange students participate in activities like sparring matches and attend events such as the Beacon Dance.

Nestled along the eastern edge of Vale, Beacon Academy is bisected by a wide river. Vale Airships ferry new students to the campus, while a port at the base of the cliffs suggests the option of naval transportation. The academy’s expansive boundaries encompass the Emerald Forest, Beacon Cliff, and surrounding terrain, with field trips extending to areas like the Forever Fall Forest.

Perched just before a striking cliff overlooking the city across the sound, Beacon features several large, circular aerial docking bays at the cliff’s edge, accommodating airships and Bullheads. A docking bay for water vessels lies at the cliff’s base, connected by a path ascending to the top. New cadets arrive on a grand, tree-lined avenue adorned with flag-draped light poles, aqueduct-like structures, and archways, leading to the main academy buildings and their imposing entrance. This entrance opens to a vast amphitheater encircled by a double ring of colonnades, with the outer ring towering above the main doorway. Known as the courtyard, the avenue features a prominent statue and fountain depicting a Huntsman and Huntress standing triumphantly on a rock over a cowering Beowolf, alongside a circular pond and a garden of vibrant red trees.

The campus includes a notable statue of two robed, hooded figures—a male and a younger-looking female—standing on a rock outcropping, symbolizing the academy’s legacy of strength and unity.

Beacon Tower, the most iconic structure, is crowned with green spheres or lights, possibly the namesake beacon, and an intricate clockwork mechanism of interlocking cogs and gears. The headmaster’s office, located at the tower’s summit, incorporates similar clockwork designs in its furnishings, walls, and ceiling, offering panoramic views above the clouds. At the tower’s base, the Cross-Continental Transmit System (CCT) facilitates seamless communication with other kingdoms. The CCT’s interior houses video terminals operated by a holographic AI, connecting users to their desired destinations, with an elevator providing access to various levels. One could see this tower easily outside of Vale.

A prominent statue on Beacon Academy’s campus depicts two robed, hooded figures standing atop a rock outcropping, symbolizing valor and unity. The male figure grips a sword in his right hand, raised in a triumphant gesture, gazing forward. The younger female figure holds a double-edged battle-ax in her left hand, her gaze directed thoughtfully into the distance. At their feet, a Beowolf crouches, looking in the same direction as the male, reinforcing the theme of vigilance and strength.

The assembly area is a striking glass-domed amphitheater, designed to host gatherings of the student body. Raised bleachers encircle a central circular stage, which features a tall, ornate wooden backdrop adorned with blue lights. A spacious open area in front of the stage allows students to stand during events. The amphitheater serves multiple purposes, including dueling practice, with the stage transforming into a combat arena. Sophisticated lighting controls can dim the surrounding area, creating an immersive experience for duelists, isolating them from onlookers. This space also functions as the mission assignment hub, where multiple screens display mission details—type, location, start time, and additional notes—three at a time. Student teams self-assign by selecting a mission and registering their team name.

Beacon Academy boasts university-style lecture halls equipped for both theoretical and practical instruction. One such hall features detailed, antique-style drawings of known Grimm species adorning the walls, serving as a visual aid for students studying monster classifications. The hall’s spacious front area accommodates practical demonstrations, including combat training exercises. Another lecture hall, configured for history lessons, showcases a large map of Remnant on the wall, overlaid with an intricate network of notes and connecting strings, facilitating in-depth discussions of the world’s past and present.

Beacon’s dormitories are co-ed, allowing all members of a team to share a single living space, regardless of gender. While the rooms can feel compact, well-organized teams find them adequately spacious for their needs. Each dorm features two additional doors, likely serving as closets for storage. Doors are secured with electronic locks, accessible via a student’s Scroll—a handheld device essential for entry. Students risk being locked out if they forget their Scroll and the door closes. The dorm buildings are situated in separate blocks, a short distance from the main academy structures, with students often passing through the lush Academy Gardens en route to classes.

Beacon Academy’s grand dining hall, nestled within a cloister-like structure, embodies a gothic architectural style, with its walls proudly displaying the academy’s iconic crossed-ax logo. The hall is furnished with four long, sturdy tables, each flanked by benches, extending the length of the space. Wide walkways between the tables ensure ease of movement, fostering a communal atmosphere where students can dine with their teams or socialize with other groups. The flexible dining policy allows students to take meals back to their dormitories, accommodating varied schedules and preferences.

The library at Beacon serves as a vital repository of knowledge, housing an extensive collection of books and archived resources. Designed for quiet study and research, it features lofty ceilings and orderly rows of shelves that create a serene, scholarly environment. Beyond its academic purpose, the library doubles as a vibrant social hub where students gather to play board games, engage in lively discussions, or collaborate on projects, seamlessly blending intellectual and communal activities. Equipped with holographic computer terminals, the library offers students free access to digital resources and supports transcontinental communication, functioning similarly to the Cross-Continental Transmit System (CCT) for connecting with regions beyond Vale.

Beacon’s elegant ballroom is a versatile space, primarily used for formal events such as the Beacon Dance, where students and guests celebrate in a grand, festive setting. The room’s spacious design and refined decor make it ideal for large gatherings. Additionally, the ballroom serves as temporary lodging for new students, providing a communal sleeping area until they are assigned permanent dormitory quarters, ensuring a welcoming transition to academy life.

The academy features a unisex locker room equipped with washroom facilities, catering to the practical needs of students. Following their initiation, each student is assigned a rocket-propelled locker for storing weapons and extra armor. These lockers can be summoned to a specific location using a unique six-digit code, offering convenient and secure access to equipment during training or missions.

During major events like the Vytal Festival, Beacon’s campus transforms with the addition of expansive fairgrounds. Comprising temporary buildings, tents, and stalls, the fairgrounds create a lively hub where visitors from all kingdoms can mingle. Food stalls, shops, and seating areas with tables and chairs cater to diverse tastes and encourage social interaction. Encircled by a lightly wooded area, the fairgrounds offer a festive yet relaxed setting, though their precise location relative to other campus buildings remains unspecified.

Beacon maintains a small farm on campus, home to chickens and possibly other livestock, which students can freely visit. This agricultural area provides a unique opportunity for students to engage with rural activities, fostering a connection to the land and offering a tranquil retreat from their rigorous training.

Beacon Academy employs a diverse faculty with specialized expertise, ensuring a comprehensive education for its students. The staff includes instructors in combat, Grimm studies, military strategy, history, legends of Remnant, plant sciences, stealth and security, and weapon crafting and maintenance. At the helm is the rather young headmaster, supported by a headmistress who also serves as a seasoned combat instructor, guiding the academy with wisdom and authority.
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Of the many students located here…

 

The dorm room at Beacon Academy buzzed with the chaotic energy of Team RYMH settling in. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, glinting off the polished wooden floor and the four neatly arranged beds, each with a bare mattress begging for personalization. Shelves lined the walls, empty but brimming with potential for weapons, books, and whatever else the team might haul in. The air smelled faintly of dust and fresh paint, a blank canvas for their new life as Huntsmen-in-training.

Miko Kubota, her blue-violet hair bouncing in its hime cut, was a whirlwind of motion. “EEEEEEEEeeeeee! I’m finally here!” she squealed, darting from one bed to another, flopping onto each to test their springiness. Her magenta-streaked bangs flopped over her black eyes as she rolled onto her stomach, kicking her legs. “This is, like, the ultimate level-up! Beacon Academy! Dorms! Teammates! I’m gonna 100% complete this place, no walkthrough needed!” She vaulted off the bed, nearly knocking over a shelf, and started unpacking her bag, tossing out a handheld gaming console and a tangle of charging cords.

Ruby Rose, her silver eyes sparkling with equal excitement, bounced on her heels nearby. “I know, Miko, it’s awesome!” she chirped, her red-tipped black hair swaying as she spun to take in the room. She clutched the strap of her bag, which clinked with the weight of Crescent Rose’s collapsed form. “Our own dorm! It’s like a sleepover every night, but with monsters to fight! And cookies!” She paused, then gasped. “Oh no, I didn’t pack cookies! Gotta fix that ASAP!”

Across the room, Lie Ren leaned against a bedpost, his long black hair tied back in a low ponytail, a magenta streak catching the light. His magenta eyes scanned the room with a serene, almost meditative calm, though a faint, playful glint hinted at amusement. He wore a dark green, diagonally buttoned tailcoat with red lining, black and gold trimming, and pink cuffs, paired with a black long-sleeved shirt, light-tan pants, and black shoes. The lotus flower emblem on his sleeve gleamed subtly. “It’s… adequate,” he said softly, responding to Hyde’s earlier comment, his voice measured but warm. “A quiet space to grow. We’ll make it home.” He glanced at the shelves, likely picturing where to place his cooking spices or a small jade figurine.

Hyde Kido, standing beside him, scratched the back of his dual-toned hair—blonde in front, black in back—with a sheepish grin. His red, slit-pupiled eyes flicked nervously toward Miko’s chaos. “I suppose it’s nice, yeah,” he said, gripping the Insulator’s hilt slung across his back. The sword hummed faintly, as if eager to be drawn. “Kinda weird, though, being in a fancy place like this. I’m used to my own cooking and a messy apartment, not… dorm life.” He stepped forward, then yelped as he tripped over Miko’s discarded console, stumbling into Ruby’s bag. “Whoa—sorry, Ruby! Didn’t mean to—uh…” His face flushed as he caught himself, narrowly avoiding landing on her.

Ruby giggled, waving it off. “No worries, Hyde! You’re just breaking in the floor!” She darted to help him up, her enthusiasm undimmed. “We’re gonna be the best team ever, right? Team RYMH, ready to take on Grimm, bad guys, and maybe even a cooking contest!”

Miko, now sprawled across her chosen bed with her console in hand, snorted. “Cooking contest? Psh, I’d crush it if it was a game. But real cooking? That’s a hard mode I haven’t unlocked yet.” She tapped furiously at her screen, then looked up, eyes gleaming. “Hey, Ren, you’re all chill and zen. You cook, right? Make us something epic! No tutorials, though—tutorials are the worst.”

Ren raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I can cook,” he said, his tone calm but with a playful edge. “Pancakes, perhaps. But no promises if Miko’s chaos spills into the kitchen.” He moved to a shelf, setting down a small cloth pouch—likely filled with tea leaves or spices—his movements deliberate and graceful. “Let’s settle in first. Miko, try not to turn the dorm into a battlefield just yet.”

Hyde, still recovering from his stumble, muttered, “Yeah, let’s not break anything on day one.” He glanced at the Insulator, then at his teammates. “So, uh, how’s this team thing work? We just… live together and fight stuff? ‘Cause I’m not great at the ‘not breaking things’ part.” His hand brushed the sword, and a faint red spark flickered along its edge, making him wince. “Stupid Insulator, always itching for a fight…”

Ruby plopped onto her bed, kicking her legs. “It’s easy! We train, we fight Grimm, we become heroes! And we help each other, like a family! Right, Ren?” She looked at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

Ren nodded, his expression softening, though his calm demeanor held firm. “Correct. We support one another, like roots steadying a tree.” He glanced at Hyde, sensing his unease. “Hyde, you’ll find your balance. Just… keep that sword from challenging the furniture.”

Miko cackled, pointing at Hyde. “Ha! Furniture’s toast if Hyde’s sword gets bored! Bet I could glitch it into a boss battle, though. Wanna try, Hyde?” She waggled her console at him, grinning mischievously.

Hyde groaned, rubbing his neck. “Pass. I’d probably end up accidentally slicing the bed in half. Or, y’know, tripping into something worse.” He shot a wary glance at Ruby and Miko, half-expecting another mishap.

As the team continued unpacking—Ruby humming as she arranged her weapon parts, Miko ranting about game strats, Ren quietly organizing with methodical precision, and Hyde trying not to break anything—a shared excitement hung in the air. They were at Beacon, their dreams within reach, even if their powers were still raw and untested.

Ruby paused, looking thoughtful. “Oh! Did you guys hear about our new teacher? Cinder Fall. Everyone’s saying she’s super intense, like she could stare down a Nevermore without blinking.”

Miko smirked, not looking up from her game. “Cinder Fall, huh? Sounds like a final boss. Bet I could take her in a 1v1, no continues.”

Ren’s eyes narrowed slightly, his calm voice carrying a hint of caution. “Intensity can be a teacher’s strength… or a warning. We’ll learn more in her class.” He adjusted the lotus emblem on his sleeve, his posture relaxed but alert.

Hyde gulped, gripping the Insulator tighter. “Great. A scary teacher to go with the scary sword. This is gonna be a long year…”

Miko Kubota nodded, “Yeah, that’s the truth, but I wonder how Five’s doing?”
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In another dorm at Beacon Academy, the air crackled with tension thicker than a Grimm-infested forest. The room was a mirror of Team RYMH’s—four beds with bare mattresses, shelves waiting for gear, and tall windows letting in the golden afternoon light. But unlike the chaotic excitement next door, this dorm felt like a battlefield before the first shot. Team FWYB—Five, Weiss, Simi, and Blake—had barely unpacked, and already the sparks were flying.

Five, a lanky teen with dark tan skin and a puffy, galaxy-blueish-purple hairstyle, leaned against a bedpost, his slim arms crossed and his cheeks faintly flushed with nerves. His dark eyes darted between his teammates, a nervous grin plastered on his face. “Oh, nerds,” he muttered under his breath, his usual catchphrase slipping out as he tried to gauge how bad this was about to get. He’d faced glitches and game bosses, but this? This was a whole new level of hard mode.

Beside him, Simi slouched against a shelf, her stylish green hair catching the light, its vibrant hue matching the green-tinted gear strapped to her belt—a set of sleek throwing knives and a compact crossbow. Her pale Caucasian skin contrasted with the dark green jacket she wore, its pockets stuffed with Dust-infused bolts. Her green eyes flicked toward Five, a wry smirk tugging at her lips. “Well, this is off to a great start,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm but softened by a friendly undertone, like she was already half-resigned to the chaos. “Reminds me of my old crew at Bailey’s. Except, y’know, less coffee, more impending doom.” She adjusted a knife holster, her movements casual but precise, hinting at her ability to work smoothly with others.

Across the room, their two teammates faced off like Beowolves circling prey. Weiss Schnee, pale as snow with pale blue eyes, stood ramrod straight, her long white hair pulled into an off-center ponytail and pinned with a silver, icicle-shaped tiara. Her arms were crossed, her rapier Myrtenaster gleaming at her hip, and her expression was pure Ice Queen. Blake Belladonna, fair-skinned with wavy black hair and piercing amber eyes, matched her glare, her black bow twitching slightly atop her head, hiding her Faunus ears. Her hand rested near Gambol Shroud, strapped to her magnetic backpack, and her posture was all coiled tension.

“So, Weiss Schnee, heiress to the Schnee Dust Company: one of the largest producers of energy propellant in the world,” Blake said, her voice dripping with dry sarcasm. She leaned forward, her amber eyes narrowing. “The same company infamous for its controversial labor forces and questionable business partners.” The words landed like a Dust explosion, sharp and deliberate, cutting through the room’s uneasy silence.

Weiss’s pale cheeks flushed, her eyes flashing like a winter storm. “Ugh, of course you would care, Blake,” she snarked, her voice sharp enough to slice through steel. She stepped forward, her combat skirt swishing, and jabbed a finger at Blake. “Maybe if you spent less time skulking around with your questionable associates, you’d understand the complexities of running a global enterprise!” Her tiara glinted as she tilted her head, her tone laced with haughty superiority.

Blake’s bow twitched again, and her lips curled into a smirk. “Complexities? Is that what you call exploiting Faunus workers and cozying up to corrupt officials?” She crossed her arms, her black ribbons fluttering slightly. “I’ve seen the real world, Weiss. I know what your family’s ‘enterprise’ does to people like me.”

Five’s grin faltered, his hands shooting up in a placating gesture. “Whoa, whoa, let’s calm down, okay?” he said, his voice cracking slightly. He stepped between them, his lanky frame looking comically out of place in the crossfire. “We’re teammates now, right? No need to speedrun a boss fight on day one!” His Spanish accent slipped through as his nerves spiked, and he glanced at Simi for backup, hoping she’d have some of that team-player magic he’d seen in her steady demeanor.

Simi sighed, pushing off the shelf with a fluid motion, her green hair bouncing slightly. “Yeah, let’s not nuke the dorm before we’ve even unpacked,” she said, her sarcasm sharp but her tone warm, like she was coaxing an old colleague back from a bad day. She shot Five a quick, silent nod—her way of bonding without making a fuss, much like her quiet connection with Zahra. “You two wanna brawl, save it for the Grimm. I’m not cleaning up after your Dust-fueled tantrums.” She flashed a grin, her green eyes glinting with playful challenge as she bent to pick up a stray book that had fallen in the tension, tossing it lightly to Blake.

Blake caught the book, her amber eyes softening slightly at Simi’s gesture, though her glare at Weiss didn’t waver. Weiss let out an exasperated huff. “This is exactly what I expected from a team like this,” she muttered, turning to her own neatly organized luggage. “Utter chaos. I should’ve insisted on partnering with Pyrrha.” She began unpacking with precise, deliberate movements, each item placed on her shelf like she was arranging a museum exhibit.

Blake knelt to gather more of her books, her movements sharp but controlled. “At least Pyrrha wouldn’t lecture me about my ‘associates,’” she shot back, stacking a worn copy of Ninjas of Love with more force than necessary. “Maybe you should focus on your own family’s mess before judging mine.”

Five, still standing awkwardly in the middle, tried again. “Okay, but, like, we’re all here to be Huntsmen, right? That’s the main quest! We can work together, no problem. I mean, I’m great at strats—puzzle games, team plays, you name it!” His voice was earnest, but his insecurity crept in, his shoulders hunching slightly. He glanced at Blake, then Weiss, hoping for a sign they’d listen. “I… I know I’m not Miko-level at fighting, but I can help. Promise.”

Simi nodded, her smirk softening into a genuine smile as she leaned against a bedframe, her green gear clinking softly. “Five’s got a point. We’re a team, not a PvP arena. I’ve worked with worse—trust me, retail’s a nightmare. We can make this work.” Her tone was friendly now, her sarcasm dialed back to show she meant it. She glanced at Blake, then Weiss, her eyes lingering on each as if silently promising to have their backs. “Besides, I’m not half-bad with a crossbow. We’ll crush it if we sync up.”

Weiss paused, her hand hovering over a vial of Ice Dust. She glanced at Five, then Simi, her expression softening just a fraction. “Fine,” she said, her tone still clipped. “But only because I refuse to let this team fail on day one. I have a reputation to uphold.” She shot Blake a pointed look. “And I expect everyone to pull their weight.”

Blake stood, her amber eyes meeting Weiss’s without flinching. “I always do,” she said quietly, her voice steady but laced with conviction. “Just don’t expect me to bow to the Schnee name.” She turned to Five and Simi, her expression softening further. “Thanks for trying, you two. Let’s… figure this out.”

Five exhaled, his nervous grin turning genuine. “Sweet! Team FWYB, level one complete!” He fist-pumped, then caught himself, blushing. “Uh, I mean, cool. Let’s unpack.” He moved to his own bag, pulling out a dog-eared book on Advanced Bee++ Coding and a handheld console, his eyes lighting up at the familiar comfort of tech.

Simi chuckled, nudging Five’s shoulder lightly, her green hair swaying. “Nice save, nerd,” she teased, her friendly tone echoing her warmth with old colleagues. “Let’s not tempt fate with round two, yeah?” She glanced at the girls, who were now unpacking in tense silence, and lowered her voice. “Think we’ll survive Cinder Fall’s class tomorrow? Heard she’s got a vibe like a rogue AI with a grudge.”

Five’s eyes widened. “Cinder Fall? Oh, nerds, that’s the final boss vibe. My grandparents warned me about teachers like her—strict, intense, probably hates game breaks.”

Across the room, Weiss’s head snapped up. “Cinder Fall?” she said, her voice a mix of curiosity and caution. “I’ve heard she’s brilliant but ruthless. We’ll need to be at our best.” She glanced at her teammates, her tiara glinting. “All of us.”

Blake nodded, her bow twitching slightly. “Agreed. If she’s as tough as they say, we can’t afford to be at each other’s throats.” She met Weiss’s gaze, a silent truce forming, though they were far from friends. “Let’s focus on surviving her first.”

Weiss, standing by her meticulously organized shelf, arranged vials of Ice Dust with the care of a jeweler. Her pale blue eyes flicked toward Simi, her off-center ponytail swaying as she adjusted her silver tiara. “Surviving is hardly the standard,” she said, her voice crisp but less venomous than before. “We need to excel, especially with Cinder Fall as our teacher. I hear she’s… unforgiving.” Her lips pursed, as if the thought of failing under Cinder’s gaze was a personal insult.

Blake, kneeling by her own shelf, stacked books with quiet efficiency, her black bow twitching atop her wavy black hair. Her amber eyes were guarded, but a faint smirk played on her lips as she glanced at Weiss. “Unforgiving? That’s one way to put it. I heard she once made a student run laps for mispronouncing ‘Aura.’” Her dry wit cut through the room, a subtle challenge to Weiss’s intensity.

Simi grinned, seizing the chance to lighten the mood. “Yeah, well, at least her assistant, Mrs. Sustrai, seems chill,” she said, tossing a green-tinted bolt into the air and catching it smoothly. “Saw her in the hall earlier, all smiles, handing out schedules like it’s a coffee run. Gotta be better than Cinder’s death stare, right?” Her tone was playful, her sarcasm tempered by the same warmth she’d shown her Bailey’s crew, inviting the others to relax.

Blake paused, a book (Ninjas of Love, naturally) halfway to the shelf. “Who?” she asked, her brow furrowing. Her bow twitched again, and she leaned back slightly, her cat-like curiosity piqued. “Mrs. Sustrai? I don’t remember seeing her at orientation.”

Weiss rolled her eyes, her hands planting on her hips, the white snowflake emblem on her combat skirt catching the light. “Duh, the new assistant at the school,” she said, her tone dripping with exasperation, as if Blake’s ignorance was a personal affront. “She’s been working under Cinder for some time. She’s a bit nicer—bit being the operative word.” She flicked her wrist, adjusting a stray Dust vial. “I overheard some third-years say she’s got a knack for keeping Cinder’s temper in check. Which, frankly, we’ll need if we’re to survive her classes.”

Five looked up from his console, his dark eyes brightening. “Oh, neat!” he said, his voice earnest and a touch too loud, like he was grasping for any positive news. He set the console down, his slim fingers fidgeting. “A nice assistant sounds good. Like, maybe she’ll give us tips or… I dunno, let us take game breaks?” His grin was hopeful, but his shoulders hunched slightly, his insecurity creeping in. He glanced at Blake, then Weiss, adding, “I mean, we’re gonna need all the help we can get, right? Cinder sounds like a final boss with no checkpoints.”

Simi snorted, leaning back on her hands. “Game breaks? Five, you’re adorable,” she teased, her friendly sarcasm landing gently. “I bet Sustrai’s ‘nice’ is just a front before Cinder drops us into a training sim with no respawns.” She mimed firing her crossbow, then winked at Five, her teamwork instincts kicking in to keep him grounded. “But Blake’s right—Sustrai might balance things out. We just gotta play smart.” Her green eyes flicked to Blake, a subtle nod echoing her silent bond with Zahra.

Blake’s smirk softened into something almost amused. “You’re not wrong,” she said, sliding her book onto the shelf. “If Sustrai’s as good as Weiss says, maybe she’ll balance things out. Cinder’s intense, but no one runs a class like that alone.” She stood, brushing off her spandex shorts, the YKK zippers glinting. “We just need to stay sharp. All of us.” Her amber eyes flicked to Weiss, the truce from earlier holding, but with an edge of challenge.

Weiss huffed, but her expression softened as she met Blake’s gaze. “Obviously,” she said, her voice less sharp now. “I refuse to let this team falter under Cinder Fall’s scrutiny. We’ll be the best in her class—or at least, I will.” She paused, then added, almost reluctantly, “And I suppose you three can keep up.”

Five chuckled, his nervous grin turning genuine. “¡Vamos, equipo! We got this!” he said, slipping into Spanish with a burst of enthusiasm. He hopped off the bed, nearly tripping over his own console cord, and caught himself with a sheepish laugh. “Okay, maybe I need to work on my agility, but we’re a team, right? Like, co-op mode, not versus.”
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Elsewhere…

Nestled on the western coast of the former Kingdom of Vale, the sprawling city of the aptly named Vale thrived as a vibrant hub of culture, commerce, and Huntsman training. At its heart stood Beacon Academy, one of Remnant’s four prestigious Huntsmen Academies, its gleaming spires a beacon of hope and excellence. The school’s stellar reputation was a cultural cornerstone, drawing aspiring heroes from across the world and cementing Vale’s status as a city of opportunity.

Vale’s bustling port dominated the coastline, a sprawling network of docks where passenger and cargo ships from Vacuo, Atlas, and beyond anchored daily. Massive cranes loomed over the cargo terminals, handling towering stacks of containers with mechanical precision, a testament to the city’s role as a global trade nexus. The docks, bordered by sturdy metal railings, carried the unmistakable tang of fish and saltwater. Sailboats bobbed in the wide river estuary—its distant shores hinting at a connection to the mainland rather than the open ocean—while hulking transport ships ferried goods to and from the city. Across the water, the horizon shimmered with promise, but the port’s gritty charm grounded Vale in its hard working roots.

The city unfolded in distinct sectors, each with its own pulse. The upper-class district gleamed with manicured estates and opulent manors, while the residential areas housed families in cozy, tightly packed homes. The agricultural district sprawled with fields and greenhouses, feeding the city’s diverse population. The industrial sector hummed with factories and warehouses, some quiet enough to harbor shady dealings among Vale’s underbelly. The commercial district, however, was the city’s beating heart, a kaleidoscope of shops catering to every lifestyle. Here, well-kept brick façades and holographic street lamps illuminated upscale boutiques, while grittier corners—like certain clubs—sported bare concrete, metal shutters, and tangled power lines, hinting at socio economic divides.

Vale City Square offered a tranquil contrast, a sunken park encircled by buildings where grass and trees softened the urban sprawl. At its center, a raised platform served as a stage for gatherings, speeches, and announcements, its steps worn by years of public life. The square buzzed with energy during festivals, a fitting prelude to the upcoming Vytal Festival, which promised to flood Vale with visitors and celebration.

High above, one of Remnant’s four Cross-Continental Transmit (CCT) towers loomed on Beacon Academy’s campus, its sleek silhouette a symbol of Vale’s technological prowess and global connectivity. Yet, not all of Vale’s ambitions had succeeded. To the southeast lay a mountainous, uninhabited expanse, home to the ruins of Mountain Glenn. Once a bold attempt to expand the city, the settlement lacked Vale’s natural barriers and relied on aggressive perimeter defenses and a subway system to shield commuters from Grimm. The defenses held only briefly; Grimm overran the outpost, forcing Vale to seal off the subway and abandon the ruins, now a fenced-off reminder of hubris.

In the early days of Beacon’s new academic year, Vale’s streets carried an undercurrent of unease. Crime had surged, driven by the notorious Roman Torchwick, whose distinctive silhouette—bowler hat, cane, and smirking confidence—sent citizens scurrying when he strode through the commercial district with his henchmen. Years earlier, the Xiong Family had subtly controlled the city’s police, their influence a quiet shadow. Torchwick, however, operated with brazen flair, his schemes casting a pall over Vale’s vibrancy. Still, hope glimmered on the horizon. The Vytal Festival’s preparations promised unity and spectacle, a chance for Vale to shine despite its darker corners.

For many, Vale was a city of dreams, where Beacon’s legacy and the festival’s promise fueled ambition. But beneath its bustling surface, the city simmered with challenges, waiting for its next heroes to rise.

The abandoned warehouse stood silent on the edge of the city, its rusted walls swallowing the faint hum of distant airships. Dust motes drifted in the slivers of morning light that pierced the cracked windows, illuminating a lone figure pacing the concrete floor. Gray, a young boy with tousled gray hair—not silver, as he’d firmly correct anyone—clutched a worn metal sword in his right hand. His footsteps echoed softly, each step deliberate as he muttered under his breath, trying to anchor himself in the unfamiliar city.

“One o’nine,” he whispered, glancing at his cracked wristwatch. “Unknown city. That tower… it’s a beacon. If I can reach it…” His voice trailed off, low and measured, as if speaking to an invisible companion.

“Who’re you talking to?” A voice cut through the quiet, clear and curious.

Gray froze, his sword slipping slightly in his grip as he spun toward the sound. His heart thudded, but his face remained impassive, eyes narrowing. In the doorway stood a woman with a light brown complexion and shoulder-length brown hair. A beauty mark sat just below her left eye, catching the light as she tilted her head. She wore a long, green hooded cloak over an off-white blouse with frilled shoulders and a pleated, split lower half. A brown vest with three straps and golden lining hugged her frame, cinched by a dark brown corset that matched her pants. Thigh-high brown boots with golden armor plating gleamed faintly, their large cuffs swaying as she stepped forward.

An amber pendant dangled from her vest, glinting softly. A gold bracer adorned her left arm, while two gold bracelets jingled on her right wrist. A golden spaulder rested on her right shoulder, and a brown strap with pouches hung diagonally across her body. She carried a staff, its ends capped with fire and wind Dust crystals, which she leaned on casually.

Gray’s grip tightened on his sword, but he didn’t raise it. “Who’re you?” he asked, his voice flat, barely above a murmur.

The woman smiled, warm but cautious. “I asked first.”

He hesitated, his pale eyes flicking over her. “Gray.”

“Amber,” she replied, her tone softening. She took a step closer, her boots clicking against the concrete. “So, Gray, why’re you pacing in an empty warehouse, talking to yourself?”

His expression didn’t shift, but his shoulders tensed. “Thinking,” he said simply, his words clipped. He wasn’t one for explanations—not because he didn’t have them, but because words felt heavy, unnecessary.

Amber raised an eyebrow, her smile faltering slightly. “Thinking, huh? About what? You don’t exactly look like you’re from around here.”

Gray’s gaze drifted to the floor, then back to her. “That tower,” he said, nodding toward the distant silhouette of Beacon Academy, visible through a broken window. “It’s where I’m going.”

Amber’s eyes widened, and she straightened, her staff tapping lightly against the ground. “Beacon? Really? That’s… actually where I’m headed, too.” She paused, her voice tinged with curiosity. “Why’re you going there?”

Gray didn’t answer right away. He shifted his weight, his sword now resting at his side. “To learn,” he said finally, his tone carrying a faint edge of determination. “To… control things.” He didn’t elaborate, but the weight of his words hung in the air, hinting at something deeper—something he kept locked away, like the monstrous power he feared within himself.

Amber tilted her head, studying him. She was kind, perhaps too kind, as Qrow had once warned her. Her instincts told her to trust the boy, despite his guarded demeanor. He reminded her of a lost child, not unlike the illusion she’d once fallen for. But Gray’s eyes held no deception, only a quiet resolve.

“Well,” she said, her voice brightening, “that makes two of us. I’m going to Beacon for… reasons of my own.” She hesitated, her fingers brushing the amber pendant on her vest. As the Fall Maiden, her journey was tied to duty, to protecting powers she was still learning to wield. But she didn’t say that. Instead, she offered a gentle smile. “Maybe we could go together? It’s a long walk, and I wouldn’t mind the company.”

Gray blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t used to offers like that. People usually kept their distance, unnerved by his silence or the faint chill that seemed to follow him. “Why?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

Amber shrugged, her cloak rustling. “You seem like you could use a friend. And besides, I’m not great with directions.” She chuckled, a little self-conscious. “That tower’s hard to miss, but knowing me, I’d still get lost.”

Gray stared at her, his expression unreadable. Her kindness felt… strange, like a warmth he wasn’t sure how to handle. But Beacon was his goal, and traveling alone hadn’t been easy. “Fine,” he said at last, his voice as curt as ever. “We go together.”

Amber’s smile widened, and she gestured toward the door. “Great! Let’s get moving, then. The sooner we get to Beacon, the better.”

Gray nodded, sheathing his sword with a quiet clink. He fell into step beside her as they left the warehouse, the morning sun casting long shadows behind them. Amber chatted lightly, her voice filling the silence with stories of her travels—tales of dusty roads and kind strangers. Gray listened, saying little, his responses limited to nods or single words. But his eyes (if they could be seen from under his hair obscuring his face) stayed sharp, scanning the horizon, always watching.

As they approached the towering spires of Beacon Academy, Amber glanced at him, her expression thoughtful. “You don’t talk much, do you?” she said, not unkindly.

Gray’s gaze flicked to her, then back to the path. “Don’t need to,” he replied, his voice steady but soft.

Amber laughed, a warm sound that echoed in the crisp air. “Fair enough. But I bet you’ve got some stories, Gray. Maybe you’ll share one someday.”

Thus the duo left to head to Beacon in this new world.
____________________________________________________________________________

Chapter Text

____________________________________________________________________________
The dorm room of Team JNPH at Beacon Academy was a cozy, if cramped, space, alive with the morning hustle of four Huntsmen and Huntresses in training. Jaune Arc stood before a mirror, grappling with his red tie, which seemed to have a mind of its own. His black suit jacket, lined with gold, hung lopsided, and his blue vest was misbuttoned, giving him the look of a rookie rather than a team leader.

“Come on, come on…” Jaune muttered, tugging at the tie like it was a Beowolf’s claw. His sword, Crocea Mors, leaned against the wall, its sheath catching the faint morning light streaming through the window.

Pyrrha Nikos stepped forward, her red hair glowing softly in the sun as she adjusted Jaune’s tie with gentle precision. Her uniform—a red plaid skirt, tan vest, and brown jacket with a red ribbon—was immaculate, radiating her natural poise. “Here, let me help,” she said, her voice warm and reassuring.

“Jeez, thanks, Pyrrha,” Jaune said, his cheeks reddening as he scratched the back of his neck. “This tie’s gonna take me out before any Grimm does.”

Haneesh Jyoshi chuckled from his bunk, where he fiddled with a Dust-infused Scroll, its screen flickering with code. His uniform was mostly on, though he’d skipped the tie, leaving it slung over a closet door. “You’d think a guy who can outsmart a Grimm could handle a tie,” he teased, his fingers tapping away. As a Huntsman with a flair for hacking Dust-tech, Haneesh was always tweaking some gadget to boost their gear.

“Eh, I’ve got my own issues with Dust syncs,” Zahra Rashid said, her tone dry as she leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Her white hijab framed her face, and her brown jacket was slightly unzipped, revealing a heart-shaped pendant. Her Dust gauntlet, a sleek Hinobi design, hummed faintly on her right arm, marking her as the team’s support expert. “So, leader, what’s the deal? We just stumbled into breakfast, or you got a real plan?”

Jaune blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… breakfast, then classes?” he offered, his voice pitching up like he was seeking approval.

Haneesh snorted, eyes still on his Scroll. “Groundbreaking strategy, Jaune. You’re rewriting the Huntsman handbook.”

Pyrrha smiled, adjusting her weapon’s strap. “Breakfast sounds like a good start. We’ll need energy for today’s classes. Nora mentioned she’d be in the training sims later, cranking up her hammer for some explosive drills.”
“Oh yeah, Nora,” Haneesh said, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Bet I could hack her gear mid-spar. Make her swings glitch into a wild dance party.”
Zahra rolled her eyes, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Keep dreaming, Haneesh. She’d have you sprinting laps for an hour.”
“Hey, that was said to be a bonding experience!” Haneesh protested, throwing his hands up. “At least, that’s what Mitch told me..”
Jaune chuckled, his nerves easing slightly. “Nora’s been a solid sparring buddy. Maybe after classes, we can team up with her to test our Aura-tech syncs.”
Zahra nodded, pushing off the wall. “Smart call. But let’s move before the cafeteria’s out of coffee. I’m not dealing with a decaf Jaune.”
Jaune smiled sheepishly.
Jaune squared his shoulders, seizing the chance to lead. “Alright, here’s the plan. Breakfast first—Haneesh, no hacking the cafeteria’s menu again. Then we hit classes, and after, we check in with Nora later okay?”
Haneesh gave a mock salute. “Aye, aye, Captain Vomit Boy.”
Jaune groaned, but Pyrrha’s soft laugh lifted his spirits. “It’s a good plan, Jaune,” she said, her green eyes warm with encouragement. “Let’s get going.”
Zahra headed for the door, pulling out her Scroll to unlock the electronic lock. “If we’re late, it’s on you, leader. Move it.”
Jaune paused for a moment, watching Pyrrha sling Miló over her shoulder. Her quiet confidence steadied him, and Haneesh’s teasing, Zahra’s sharp pragmatism—they were his team, quirks and all. Classes, Grimm, or Nora’s explosive energy, they’d tackle it together. He grabbed his Scroll, double-checking it to avoid a lockout, and followed them out, ready for the day.
____________________________________________________________________________
The dorm room of Team NYMN at Beacon Academy was a riot of feathers and laughter, a far cry from the disciplined aura of the Huntsman training grounds. Pillows soared through the air, and the morning sunlight spilling through the window lit up the chaos within.

Nora Valkyrie, a fair-skinned young woman with fiery orange hair and turquoise eyes glinting with mischief, swung a pillow with the same zeal she’d bring to her hammer, Magnhild. Her Beacon uniform—black sleeveless vest with a blue front, white t-shirt with a heart cutout, and pink skirt—was slightly rumpled, her pink fingerless gloves clutching the pillow like a weapon. “Woohoo!” she cheered, hurling a feathery projectile across the room.

Yang Xiao Long dodged with a grin, her long, thick, wavy golden hair swaying as she retaliated with a pillow strike. The tall, fair-skinned Huntress’s lilac eyes sparkled with excitement, her tan jacket, yellow crop top, and black shorts creased from the scuffle. Her Dual Ranged Shot Gauntlets, Ember Celica, rested on her bunk, leaving her fists free for the fight. “I gotcha now!” she called, smacking Nora with a pillow that sent feathers flying.

Adam Michael Nix, known as Nix, stood by the closet, sidestepping stray feathers with a weary sigh. The red-haired Huntsman, with a slightly darker complexion than Nora, tugged at his maroon blazer, part of Beacon’s standard uniform. His Dust gauntlet, a Hinobi model modded for tactical Dust manipulation, hung at his belt. “Guys, could we stop?” he asked, his voice carrying the exasperation of someone used to being the team’s voice of reason. His strategic mind preferred plans over pandemonium, though his “Scorekeeper” ego occasionally surfaced.

Mitch Williams leaned against the wall, facepalming with theatrical flair. The dark-skinned Huntsman, medium height with a slim, triangular build, sported platinum-blonde hair swept into a pompadour. His Beacon uniform was accented with a dark blue jacket, a nod to his veteran status. His Dust gauntlet, paired with a pink-tinted visor and silver-soled boots, marked him as a Dust-tech ace, though his ego outshone his gear. “Great, I have to deal with these noobs,” he grumbled, eyeing Nora and Yang’s antics with disdain.

“Lighten up, Mitch!” Nora called, lobbing a pillow his way. It bounced off his chest, and he didn’t budge. “You’re just mad ‘cause you’d lose in a pillow fight!”

“Yeah, c’mon, Mr. Top Dog,” Yang teased, dodging another of Nora’s swings. “Show us those ‘veteran Huntsman’ moves. Or are you scared of a little fluff?”

Mitch rolled his eyes, flicking a feather off his jacket. “Please. I’d crush you two, but I don’t waste my skills on rookies. I’m saving my energy for the real fights—like the Grimm sims you’ll probably flub in class today.”

Nix shook his head, grabbing his Scroll from a desk littered with Dust cartridges and training manuals. “Speaking of, Phil sent a ping about today’s combat class. They’ve amped up the Grimm sims—Beowolves with boosted Aura resistance. We’re supposed to prep for it after breakfast.”

Nora paused mid-swing, her eyes shifting to jade with excitement. “Ooh, tougher Beowolves? Magnhild’s gonna turn ‘em into Grimm pancakes!” She mimed a hammer smash, nearly toppling a lamp.

Yang laughed, tossing her pillow onto her bunk. “Now that’s my kinda class. I’m ready to punch some Grimm into next week with Ember Celica.” Her eyes glinted, her Semblance stirring at the thought of action, though she kept it reined in.

Mitch snorted, pushing off the wall. “You two? Handle upgraded Grimm? Good luck. Last time Nora swung that hammer in a sim, she took out half the arena and our score.” He smirked, adjusting his gauntlet. “Stick with me, and maybe you’ll learn how to actually hit something.”

Nix shot him a look, his tactical mind already at work. “It’s not about hitting harder, Mitch. It’s about strategy. My Dust-craft can pin the Beowolves’ movements, but we’ll need Nora’s strength and Yang’s firepower to break through their Aura.”

“Aw, Nix, you’re the best!” Nora chirped, ruffling his red hair as he swatted her hand away, flustered. “Don’t worry, I’ll smash, Yang’ll blast, and you’ll do your nerdy Dust thing. Team NYMN’s unstoppable!”

Yang grinned, slinging an arm around Nora’s shoulders. “Damn right we are. But first, breakfast. I’m starving, and if we’re late, I’m blaming Mitch for dragging his feet with that attitude.”

“Attitude?” Mitch scoffed, strutting toward the door. “Keep up, noobs. I’m not babysitting you through classes and Grimm fights.”

Nora grabbed Magnhild, slinging it over her shoulder, while Yang snapped Ember Celica onto her wrists, the gauntlets clicking into place. Nix pocketed his Scroll, checking the dorm’s electronic lock to avoid another lockout fiasco. As they stepped into the hall, feathers still drifting behind them, Yang glanced at her team—Nora’s infectious energy, Mitch’s grating swagger, Nix’s quiet strategy—and felt a surge of confidence. Grimm or exams, they’d tackle it with their usual chaotic spark.

“Alright, NYMN,” Yang said, cracking her knuckles. “Let’s grab some pancakes and show those Grimm who’s boss.”
____________________________________________________________________________
Far from the charted lands of Remnant, where only the determined or foolhardy dared to venture, lay an uncharted island shrouded in mystery, absent from any map. Those who stumbled upon it rarely returned, deterred by its formidable security—a labyrinth of metal fences, wooden stakes, and a dock cluttered with crates and barrels. The island’s heart was a sprawling laboratory complex, its walls lined with pipes, cameras, and computer screens. Hexagonal floor tiles, some hiding spike-filled traps, gleamed under harsh lights. Radio towers pierced the sky, linking the island to the Cross Continental Transmit System (CCT), while automated ships delivered caged Grimm from across Remnant to its shores.

Within the complex, the air thrummed with the menace of Grimm—not ordinary ones, but Mutant Grimm, engineered by their creator to surpass their kin. These abominations, with glowing green eyes and crystalline spikes, could explode or unleash waves of bone-like shards. Creeps, Beowolves, and even a lone Death Stalker had been transformed, some twisted into grotesque amalgamations. Robotic guards, products of advanced artificial intelligence, patrolled the laboratories, guiding the Grimm into testing chambers where they were subjected to Merlot’s experiments.

Dr. Merlot, the mad genius behind Merlot Industries, presided over this operation. Once a respected scientist, his obsession with Grimm biology had led to the fall of Mountain Glenn, where his experiments drew a fatal Grimm swarm. Officially, Merlot Industries collapsed, but Merlot had merely relocated, using stolen wealth and robotic minions to rebuild on this isolated island. Here, he perfected a mutant serum—a blend of Dust, Grimm essence, and proprietary compounds—that birthed his deadly creations. Unchastened by past failures, Merlot’s god-complex fueled his ambition to craft a species superior to Grimm, humans, and Faunus alike.

In the central chamber of his laboratory, Merlot sat at a sleek table, surrounded by screens displaying maps, data, and capsules containing shadowy figures—some nearly humanoid. Two allies joined him, their presence a testament to shared resentments and ambitions. Arthur Watts, a tall, middle-aged man with a slim build, slightly tanned skin, and short black-and-gray hair, adjusted his yellow dress shirt and gray overcoat. His green eyes gleamed with calculation, his fingers adorned with rings that could hack Atlesian systems. Fort Lee, a bearded man in a business suit with a half-black, half-white shirt, sported a cybernetic left eye and an arm-mounted cannon with a spatula-like guard and rake-like claws. His theatrical flair belied a venomous hatred for Faunus.

Merlot sipped a glass of red wine, his disheveled gray hair catching the light, his robotic eye glowing red amid claw-marked scars. “Glad you gentlemen made it,” he said, his voice smug yet eerily calm. “The projects are progressing splendidly.”

“Quite,” Watts replied, his refined accent clipped as he tapped his Scroll, sending encrypted data to Salem’s network. His strategic mind was already dissecting Merlot’s words.

“So, why the summons?” Lee asked, leaning back with a dramatic flourish, his cannon arm resting on the table.

Merlot’s lips curled into a smirk. “I believe it’s time to make our move. One of our experiments has escaped—nothing critical, mind you. It seems to have lost its memories, but it’s surfaced in Vale.”

Watts arched an eyebrow, intrigued. “And this is good… why?”

“It’s made contact with the Maiden you’ve been tracking,” Merlot said, his mechanical eye glinting. “A fortunate coincidence.”

Watts perked up, his fingers pausing over his Scroll. “Can you track them?”

“Yes, but they’re near Beacon,” Merlot admitted, his tone souring slightly.

Lee sighed, exasperated. “Great. Ozpin’s backyard.”

“Actually, this is perfect,” Watts said, a cunning grin spreading across his face.

Lee’s cybernetic eye narrowed. “How, exactly?”

“My associates have operatives working to undermine Beacon,” Watts explained, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “This escape experiment could be the spark we need to accelerate their plans.”

“Perfect,” Lee said, flashing a toothy grin, his hatred for Faunus simmering beneath his theatrics. “Let’s see those beasts and their allies squirm.”

Merlot clicked a remote, and a screen displayed a row of capsules, their contents obscured by mist. One, dark purple, held a humanoid silhouette. “The other experiments remain secure—dormant or still in progress. I’ve also prepared more serum for your… enforcers.”

Lee chuckled, his cannon arm twitching. “Feels like my birthday came early.”

Watts leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with ambition. “With these resources, we can destabilize Vale and weaken Ozpin’s grip. My virus is already primed to infiltrate their systems. Add your Grimm and Lee’s drones, and we’ll have chaos on our terms.”

Merlot nodded, his god-complex swelling. “My creations will reshape Remnant—a world where my Grimm reign supreme, unburdened by the flaws of nature. You, Watts, crave vengeance on Ironwood and Polendina. And you, Lee, want the Faunus crushed. Our goals align.”
____________________________________________________________________________
The dorm room of Team NOCA at Beacon Academy buzzed with the chaotic energy of four Huntsmen-in-training, its walls adorned with weapon racks, Dust cartridges, and a cluttered bulletin board pinned with class schedules and combat sim scores. Sunlight streamed through a tall window, glinting off the polished wooden floor, where a stray sock and a half-eaten apple lay forgotten. Four bunks, each personalized—books stacked on one, a dagger-sharpening kit on another—crowded the space, leaving just enough room for the team’s morning antics.

Ellinort, known to all but teachers and family as Nameless, stood at the center, adjusting his Dust gauntlet with a grin. His white Glitch Tech-inspired uniform, emblazoned with a blue “H” symbol, hugged his lean frame, accented by black sleeves, grey knee pads, and sturdy boots. A sleek helmet with glowing digital eyes concealed his face, its synthesized voice modulator giving his words a playful, robotic edge. His shoulder coverings, rigged to deploy Dust-powered cannons, clinked as he moved. “Alright, Team NOCA, let’s hustle! Combat class starts in thirty, and I’m not eating Professor Goodwitch’s detention again.”

Oscar Pine, shorter and tanner, leaned against his bunk, polishing Bladed Quarterstaff — “Windwake, his inherited staff. His unkempt black hair with green undertones fell over his hazel eyes, freckles dotting his cheeks. His Beacon uniform—maroon blazer, white shirt, and grey pants—was slightly wrinkled, a nod to his farmhand roots. A green Aura shimmered faintly as he tested the staff’s balance. “I’m ready, Nameless,” he said, his voice calm but eager. “Heard the sim’s got Ursai this time. Bigger than the ones back on the farm.”

Ciel Soleil, standing ramrod straight by the door, checked her silver wristwatch, her dark teal bob swaying under her blue beret. Her dark skin contrasted with her off-white button-down and blue combat skirt, gold trims gleaming. A gold marking—an oval with four circles—adorned her forehead, catching the light. “Twenty-nine minutes, forty seconds,” she announced in her near-monotone voice, blue eyes narrowing. “Punctuality is critical, Ellinort. Professor Ozpin expects precision.”

“Chill, Ciel, we’ll make it,” Alyx drawled, lounging on her bunk, one leg dangling. Her dark brown skin glowed under the sunlight, her wavy hair spilling past her navy headband with rabbit-ear knots. Her baby blue collared shirt and navy dress, trimmed with gold and tulle, were pristine despite her casual pose. A colorful sash—navy, red, cyan, gold, magenta—cinched her waist, a golden rabbit pin glinting. Bandages wrapped her right leg, hinting at a recent scrape. She twirled her dagger, hazel eyes glinting with mischief. “Unless Oscar trips over his own staff again.”

Oscar flushed, gripping The Long Memory tighter. “That was one time, Alyx. And I still took down that Beowolf.”

Nameless’s digital eyes curved into a smile, his synthesized voice warm. “Ease up, Alyx. Oscar’s got more grit than half the first-years. Besides, we’re a team—NOCA’s gonna crush those Ursai sims.” He clapped his gloved hands, the Dust gauntlet humming. “My cannons are charged, ready to blast some Grimm to pixels.”

Ciel glanced at her watch again. “Twenty-eight minutes. Nameless, your optimism is noted, but we must account for variables. The sim’s difficulty has increased. Ursai with enhanced speed, per Professor Port’s briefing.”

“Enhanced speed?” Alyx sat up, smirking. “Good. I’m itching to outsmart some overgrown bears. Bet I can trick ‘em into charging each other before you fire a single shot, Nameless.”

Nameless chuckled, his helmet tilting. “You’re on. Loser buys waffles at the cafeteria.”

Oscar slid The Long Memory into his belt, his farmhand strength evident in his steady grip. “I’m not betting, but I’ll keep ‘em busy while you two show off. Ciel, you got a plan for the sim?”

Ciel nodded, producing a Scroll with a tactical diagram. “I’ve analyzed the Ursai’s patterns. Their speed makes frontal assaults risky. Nameless, deploy your pause blast to immobilize them. Alyx, use your dagger to flank and disorient. Oscar, your staff’s reach can disrupt their charges. I’ll provide cover fire and monitor our Aura levels.”

“Always the strategist,” Alyx said, rolling her eyes but flashing a grudging smile. “Fine, but don’t cry when I steal the kill count, Miss Stopwatch.”

Ciel’s expression didn’t shift. “Efficiency, not ego, wins battles, Alyx.”

Nameless raised a hand, his digital eyes glowing brighter. “Alright, team, save the sass for the Grimm. We’re NOCA—named for kicking butt and eating waffles. Let’s gear up and show Port how it’s done.” He grabbed his Scroll, double-checking his gauntlet’s Dust reserves, his leadership easygoing but firm.

Oscar slung a satchel over his shoulder, his hazel eyes determined. “I’m not losing to fake Ursai. Not after wrestling goats back home.”

Alyx hopped off her bunk, sheathing her dagger with a flourish. “Keep up, farm boy, or I’ll leave you in the dust. Nameless, you owe me a rematch from last week’s sparring, too.”

“Anytime, Alyx,” Nameless said, his voice buzzing with amusement. “But focus on the sim first, or Ciel’ll have us running laps.”

“Twenty-seven minutes,” Ciel intoned, opening the door. “Move.”

As they filed out, Nameless glanced back at the dorm—Oscar’s books, Ciel’s neatly folded spare beret, Alyx’s scattered sash ribbons, his own Dust tech manuals. Team NOCA was a mess of personalities, but they meshed where it counted. The Ursai sim loomed, a test of their fledgling teamwork, but Nameless felt a surge of confidence. With Oscar’s grit, Ciel’s precision, Alyx’s cunning, and his own Dust-fueled firepower, they’d carve their name into Beacon’s legacy—one Grimm at a time.
____________________________________________________________________________
The dorm room of Team ACBJ at Beacon Academy was a cozy chaos of Huntsman gear and personal quirks, its walls plastered with Dust charts, a singed Vale street map, and a glowing green lantern sketch pinned above a bunk. A narrow window spilled morning light onto a hardwood floor littered with stray Dust vials and a half-finished card game. Four bunks, each a snapshot of its owner—wand holsters, chain-scythe links, tech tools, and a crumpled sage jacket—jostled for space, mirroring the team’s vibrant dynamic.

Azule leaned against his bunk, twirling a sleek wand between his fingers, its indigo crystal pulsing faintly. His standard Beacon uniform—maroon blazer, white shirt, grey pants—hung loosely on his lean frame, indigo hair falling over matching eyes that sparkled with easygoing charm. Cooler than Vale’s breeze and nicer than a free Dust refill, he radiated a Fred-like chill, his Aura shimmering as he tested a construct: a translucent indigo hawk that soared briefly before dissolving. “Yo, Team ACBJ, sparring’s in twenty. RWBY’s our matchup, so let’s not eat mat today, cool?”

Cassidy, slouched on his bunk, tinkered with a chain-scythe, its Fire Dust links glowing faintly orange. His orange hair, messy as his mood, stuck out under a black beanie, his freckled face set in a scowl. His modified Beacon uniform—maroon jacket unbuttoned, black shirt, ripped jeans—screamed defiance, matching his grumpy vibe. His Semblance, Temper Flare, sparked when his temper did, and right now, he was all embers. “RWBY’s a pain,” he muttered, voice rough. “Blake’s stealth’ll dodge my scythe, but I’ll burn her shadows if she tries.”

Bergy, also known as Cecil Bergoch, hunched over a desk, tweaking a Dust-infused gauntlet with a screwdriver. His curly red hair bounced, his slim frame dwarfed by his Beacon uniform, modified with tech patches. A gap-toothed grin lit his face, his kind but timid nature shining through. His gauntlet, a mechanical-style reimagining of his tech gear, hummed with low-level Dust circuits—safe but effective, like his approach to Grimm. “Got your wand’s output stabilized, Azule,” he said, voice eager. “And I boosted Cassidy’s scythe for extra heat. Jessie, want me to check your tokkosho?”

Jessie sat cross-legged on her bunk, clutching her collapsed tokkosho-like weapon. Her lightly tanned skin and short brown hair, streaked with green, framed anxious green eyes. Her black-and-white turtleneck with a green emblem peeked from under a sage jacket, paired with green shorts, black leggings, and sneakers. Her Semblance, True Sight, was still new, its green glow absent without her ring, which lay on Ozpin’s desk for “study.” “I’m good, Bergy,” she mumbled, then perked up, Jaune’s encouragement echoing in her mind. “I’ll try focusing my Semblance today. No ring, no problem… right?”

Azule flashed a grin, wand spinning. “That’s the spirit, Jessie. You’ve got more willpower than a Grimm horde. Picture that your oath, and you’ll be slicing Yang’s punches in half.”

Cassidy stood, slinging his chain-scythe over his shoulder, its links clinking. His Aura flared orange briefly, Temper Flare simmering. “Jessie, you bailed Jaune out of that sim trap. Don’t choke now. I’ll keep Weiss’s glyphs busy—my fire’s louder than her ice.”

Bergy clipped his gauntlet on, its Dust circuits glowing. “I’ll hang back, keep our gear running. My low-level blasts aren’t flashy, but they’ll trip Ruby if she zooms too fast.” He chuckled, nervous but game, his gamer grind mindset translating to Beacon’s teamwork.

Jessie stood, gripping her tokkosho, its green light flickering as her Semblance stirred. “Okay. ‘In brightest day, in blackest night…’” she whispered, eyes glowing faintly. “I can do this. Let’s show RWBY what ACBJ’s got.”

Azule tucked his wand into his belt, his indigo hawk construct reforming briefly as a fist-bump gesture. “That’s my team. RWBY’s got speed, but we’ve got tricks. Cassidy’s fire, Bergy’s tech, Jessie’s light show, and my constructs—we’re a vibe. Let’s hit the arena and make Port cheer.”

Cassidy smirked, scythe sparking with Fire Dust. “Yang won’t see my flames coming. Azule, got a construct to mess with Ruby’s scythe?”

“Bet,” Azule said, snapping his fingers. An indigo wolf flickered into existence, snarling playfully. “This’ll keep her chasing shadows.”

Bergy slung a satchel of Dust tools over his shoulder, gap-toothed smile wide. “If my gauntlet jams, I’m blaming Port’s mustache. Jessie, if your Semblance flares, aim for Weiss’s summons—they hate green.”

Jessie nodded, her cowlick bouncing, a spark of confidence igniting. “Got it. I’ll rewrite their game plan—literally, if my True Sight kicks in.” She recited softly, “‘No evil shall escape my sight…’”

Azule led the way to the door, his chill aura steadying the team. “Team ACBJ, let’s roll. RWBY’s waiting, and we’re serving looks and knockouts.” The dorm’s clutter—Cassidy’s scythe links, Bergy’s tech scraps, Jessie’s lantern sketches, Azule’s Dust vials—felt like home, a testament to their bond. As they headed to face RWBY, the sparring match loomed as a chance to prove their mettle, each member ready to shine in Beacon’s brutal spotlight.

____________________________________________________________________________

The dorm room of Team SWPR at Beacon Academy was a whirlwind of organized chaos, its walls lined with Dust circuit diagrams, a half-built gauntlet frame, and a chartreuse scarf draped over a chair. Morning light filtered through a tall window, glinting off a hardwood floor strewn with tools and a stray energy ring that fizzled out. Four bunks, each a snapshot of its occupant—neatly folded uniforms, twin tech kits, a pile of comic scrolls, and a polished staff—crammed the space, buzzing with the team’s pre-class energy.

Serue stood at the room’s center, hands on hips, his dark blue-gray hair swept back from a stern brow. His light blue eyes, sharp as a winter sky, scanned his teammates. At twelve, the pre-teen’s Beacon uniform—maroon blazer, white shirt, grey pants—fit snugly, his dark skin contrasting the crisp fabric. His staff, a sleek Dust-channeling rod, leaned against his bunk, its tip glowing faintly. Taking things comically serious, he spoke with a clipped, by-the-book tone. “Team Swooper, Dust mechanics class is in fifteen minutes. Professor Peach expects functional circuits. No excuses, no explosions. Understood?”

Wes, lanky and dark-skinned, lounged on his bunk, tweaking a Dust gauntlet with a stylus. His bald head gleamed under the light, his Beacon uniform modified with a green-tinted visor clipped to his belt. His dark eyes twinkled with mischief, his tech hacking skills now Dust-tech finesse. “Chill, Serue,” he drawled, voice smooth. “Ray and I got the circuit specs locked. We’ll hack—er, tweak—those Dust flows like pros.” He flashed a grin at his twin sister, their half-identical synergy tight as ever.

Ray, nearly Wes’s mirror save for pink lipstick and a tuft of pink hair, sat cross-legged on her bunk, her own gauntlet humming with Dust. Her green goggles rested on her forehead, her uniform matching Wes’s down to the black sleeves and grey knee pads. She smirked, tossing a Dust vial to Wes. “Speak for yourself, bro. Last time, you crossed the Fire Dust and nearly toasted Perrie’s scarf. Serue’s right—Peach’ll bench us if we blow the lab again.” Her voice carried the same playful edge, their twin banter echoing Jetfire and Jetstorm’s teamwork without the names.

Perrie, the team’s chartreuse comet, bounced between bunks, his blaster gauntlets sparking with energy rings that popped like firecrackers. His chartreuse hair, clothes, and even his Beacon tie screamed vibrancy, his infectious grin pure comic relief. “Boom? Nah, that was a feature, Ray!” he chirped, voice high and Smokescreen-bright. “My rings’ll make our circuit the flashiest in class. Right, Serue?” He fired a harmless ring that looped around Serue’s staff and fizzled out, earning a sigh from the leader.

Serue pinched his nose, stern but fair. “Perrie, your ‘flash’ cost us a week’s detention. Focus. The assignment’s a multi-Dust relay—Fire, Lightning, Ice. Wes, Ray, your tech better sync the flows. Perrie, your rings stabilize the output. I’ll calibrate the staff to anchor it.” His Aura flared briefly, a cool blue ripple, as he grabbed his staff, its Dust core humming.

Wes leaned forward, visor now over his eyes, analyzing a Scroll with circuit schematics. “We’re golden, boss. Ray and I rigged a bypass to smooth the Lightning Dust. No surges, no drama.” He nudged Ray, their twin rhythm seamless, like Safeguard’s fusion without the mech.

Ray nodded, slotting an Ice Dust crystal into her gauntlet. “Yeah, but Fire Dust’s tricky. Perrie, keep your rings tight, or we’ll melt the relay. Again.” She shot him a teasing look, her pink hair tuft bobbing.

Perrie spun, gauntlets glowing. “Melt? Pfft, I’m the king of cool! Watch this!” He fired a ring that split into three, orbiting his bunk before vanishing. “See? Total control. We’ll ace this, and I’ll draw a smile on Peach’s face!”

Serue’s eyes narrowed, but a ghost of a smile betrayed his seriousness. “Perrie, save the comedy for lunch. Wes, Ray, double-check the bypass. If we nail this relay, we’ll outshine Team CRDL’s shoddy wiring.” He tapped his staff, its glow steadying, his leadership grounding the team’s chaos.

Wes and Ray exchanged a glance, their twin instincts clicking. “On it,” Wes said, syncing his gauntlet to Ray’s via a Dust-link. “We’ll make CRDL’s circuits look like candlelight.”

Ray chuckled, adjusting her goggles. “And if Perrie doesn’t spark a fire, I’ll eat my goggles.”

Perrie gasped, mock-offended. “Rude! My rings are art! Serue, tell ‘em!” He fired another ring, which accidentally bounced off Wes’s bunk, scattering tools.

Serue sighed, stern but fond. “Fourteen minutes. Gear up, Team Swooper. We’re not just passing—we’re setting the standard.” He slung his staff over his shoulder, leading the way. The dorm’s clutter—Wes and Ray’s tech scraps, Perrie’s energy ring scorch marks, Serue’s neatly folded spare uniform—felt alive, a testament to their bond. As they headed to face Peach’s Dust challenge, Serue’s blue eyes gleamed with resolve, Wes and Ray’s twin tech hummed, and Perrie’s rings lit the way, ready to prove Team SWPR’s spark in Beacon’s halls.
____________________________________________________________________________
Beacon Academy’s cafeteria thrummed with the morning pulse of Huntsmen-in-training, its vaulted ceiling bouncing back the clatter of trays and bursts of laughter. Long oak tables, etched with old sparring bets, groaned under piles of waffles, scrambled eggs, and pitchers of Dust-spiked juice. Sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows, glinting off weapon racks where swords, scythes, and gauntlets hung like trophies. The air was thick with the scent of syrup, bacon, and a faint whiff of Dust from the nearby training arena.

Miko Kubota slouched at a table with her team, her plate stacked with waffles swimming in syrup. Her purple hair, tied in a loose ponytail, swayed as she chewed, her Beacon uniform—maroon blazer, white shirt, grey skirt—sporting a Dust-tech gauntlet that hummed softly on her wrist. Her brown eyes lit up with mischief, her tech-savviness now funneled into crafting Dust-powered gadgets. Swallowing a sticky bite, she spotted a familiar face across the room. “Mmmm… ohhhmph, lmmk, Ruby, my best friend Five’s here. Can I go get a little talk with him?” she mumbled, syrup smudging her grin.

Ruby Rose, polishing Crescent Rose’s handle, looked up with a smirk, her silver eyes glinting. “Sure, Miko,” she nodded. “Just don’t start a waffle war. Glynda’s still fuming from the pie incident.”

Lie Ren, sipping tea beside Ruby, raised an eyebrow, his calm voice cutting through. “Keep it brief. We’ve got combat sims later.” His green eyes flicked to Hyde, who was quietly sharpening a pair of daggers, his short brown hair and standard Beacon uniform unremarkable but his focus intense.

“Got it, boss!” Miko chirped, grabbing her tray and dodging a first-year juggling juice cups. She weaved through the crowded cafeteria, her gauntlet clinking, and plopped down at Five’s table with a grin. “Hey, Five! What’s good?”

Five, or High Five, looked up from his own waffle stack, his warm brown skin catching the light. His Beacon uniform was crisp, a Dust-tech bracer on his arm glowing faintly, his skills now Dust-circuit mastery. His short black hair was tousled, and his easy smile widened. “Yo, Miko! Just chowing down before Weiss drills us on formations. You ready for the sims? Heard it’s team vs. team—us against you guys, maybe.”

Weiss Schnee, seated beside Five, sipped coffee with prim precision, her white ponytail gleaming. Her blue eyes narrowed over her rapier, Myrtenaster, propped nearby. “If it is your team, Miko, I expect competence, not chaos,” she said, voice sharp but teasing. Her pale blue combat skirt and white bolero were spotless, her Dust pouches organized.

Blake Belladonna, opposite Weiss, sliced her waffle with Gambol Shroud’s sheath, her amber eyes soft but alert. Her black bow twitched, hiding her Faunus ears, and her dark outfit hugged her frame. “Miko’s chaos works,” she said quietly, a rare smile tugging her lips. “But Five’s right—sims are coming. Ruby’s team’s fast. Got a plan?”

Simi, lounging at the table’s end, tossed her stylish green hair, her green-tinted Dust gauntlets matching her vibrant vibe. Her Beacon uniform sported green accents, and her sarcastic grin flashed as she leaned in. “Oh, Miko’s got plans—probably involving syrup bombs,” she quipped, her friendly edge warming the jab. “Five, you sure your bracer’s up for Ruby’s scythe? I tweaked mine for extra zap.” Her green eyes glinted, her game teamwork with Zahra now a knack for Dust synergy.

Miko laughed, spearing a waffle chunk. “Syrup bombs? Tempting, Simi, but I’m thinking Dust traps. Five, your team’s fancy, but Ren’s got moves, and Hyde’s daggers are sneaky. Ruby’s, well, Ruby.” She winked, syrup dripping. “Bet I can out-tech your bracer before Weiss finishes her coffee.”

Five chuckled, tapping his bracer. “Challenge accepted. My circuits are tight—Simi’s tweaks got me covered. But you’re dreaming if you think you’ll outrun Blake.”

Weiss huffed, setting her cup down. “Focus, both of you. If we’re matched in the sim, I want precision. Blake, you’ll flank; Simi, cover with ranged blasts; Five, disrupt their center. Miko’s team is scrappy, but we’re disciplined.”

Blake nodded, her bow twitching. “Miko’s fast, but I’ll shadow her. Ruby’s the wildcard—her Semblance is a blur.”

Simi smirked, twirling a Dust vial. “I’ll pin Ruby with a Lightning burst. Miko, your gauntlet better not jam, or I’m stealing your waffles.” Her sarcastic tone hid a warm camaraderie, her green gear humming.

Miko leaned back, grinning. “Jam? Never. I rigged my gauntlet to overload yours, Simi. Five, you in for a waffle bet? Loser buys the next stack.”

Five raised his fork, eyes gleaming. “You’re on. Those other teams got nothing on us—right, Weiss?”

Weiss sighed, but her lips twitched. “Don’t embarrass me, Five. Miko, prepare to lose.”

As the cafeteria buzzed, students from other tables—the other teams—cast curious glances, sensing the brewing rivalry. Miko’s tray, now a syrupy mess, sat beside Five’s, their banter a spark in the morning chaos. The rumored combat sim loomed, a chance for Miko’s scrappy crew to clash with Five’s polished team. With waffles fueling their fire, the cafeteria felt like the calm before a Beacon storm.
____________________________________________________________________________
Vale’s industrial district sprawled under a moonless sky, its warehouses looming like silent sentinels along the city’s western coast. The port’s distant cranes creaked, unloading cargo from Vacuo and Atlas, but here, in a shadowed alley off the docks, the air was still, heavy with the tang of rust and Dust. Inside a derelict warehouse, crates stacked haphazardly formed a maze, their faded labels hinting at forgotten trade. A single flickering bulb cast jagged shadows, barely illuminating the concrete floor strewn with broken glass.

Carmine Esclados leaned against a crate, her long, wavy auburn hair with its single silver streak catching the dim light. Golden eyes glinted beneath goggles perched on her head, her freckled face framed by a tattered crimson scarf. Her dark navy cropped shirt, chained top, and crimson shorts—torn from desert treks—clung to her dark complexion, a black tattoo snaking down her torso to her thigh. Thigh-high black boots, laced and folded, concealed compact blades, while her sai sheaths hung low on her belt. A hooded cloak draped her shoulders, shrouding her Mistral-bought outfit to avoid prying eyes. She tapped the crate with a gloved finger, her bored smirk hiding a rattlesnake’s cunning. “Where’s that contact?” she muttered, her voice smooth but edged, claiming Mistral roots few believed.

A soft rustle broke the silence. Through an open window, a diminutive figure floated down, her parasol twirling like a silent propeller. Neopolitan,, or Neo, landed lightly before Carmine, her half-pink, half-brown hair—wavy and thick, sans white streaks—swaying. Her heterochromic eyes, one brown, one pale pink, flickered with controlled mischief, green eyeshadow sharp against her pale skin. Her white cropped jacket, pink-lined, flared over a brown corset and skintight leather pants, black necklaces dangling. Hush, her bladed parasol, rested in one gloved hand, its gray buckle glinting. Neo tilted her head, a mute question in her gaze, her sadistic streak veiled by a playful pout.

Before Carmine could speak, shadows pooled at the warehouse’s edge, coalescing into a dark figure. Abbonox slunk forward, his ink-soaked form rippling, yellow eyes glowing like Grimm. His yellow gloves dripped viscous black, leaving smears on the concrete. A smirk curled his lips, his voice oily yet confident. “Good, you’re both here. Where’s your boss, Neo?” he asked, tilting his head toward her.

Neo rolled her eyes, producing a Fire Dust crystal from her jacket and tossing it idly, her silence louder than words. Roman Torchwick, her partner, was elsewhere—likely scheming. Her deadpan stare screamed impatience, loyal to Roman but contemptuous of delays.

Carmine smirked, her golden eyes narrowing. “Still busy, huh? Understandable.” She straightened, her cloak rustling, her tone dripping with calculated charm. “Tell Roman to move to the next phase. My contacts slipped me fresh intel—Maiden-related, if you catch my drift.” Her voice lowered.

 

Neo nodded, pocketing the crystal, her pink eye flickering white—a silent acknowledgment, her Semblance ready to disguise or strike if needed.

Abbonox’s smirk widened, his inky form shifting. “What about my part in this grand plan?” he interrupted, gesturing with a dripping glove. “Don’t leave me hanging, Carmine.”

Carmine’s gaze sharpened, her cordial mask slipping. “Abbonox, I was getting there before you butted in,” she snarked, her rattlesnake bite cutting through. Neo’s deadpan deepened, her parasol tapping the floor, unimpressed by his theatrics.

Abbonox chuckled, undeterred, spreading his arms. “Come on, we’re all friends here!” His yellow eyes gleamed, but Carmine and Neo exchanged a glance—silent, skeptical, their alliance pragmatic at best.

“Friends?” Carmine drawled, stepping forward, her sai glinting. “Let’s stick to business. Your Marauders are in play, Abbonox. They’ll hit Beacon’s defenses when we signal. Neo, Roman’s crew, handles the chaos. The White Fang’s a pain, but they’ll cooperate if we dangle enough against the Purity Alliance.” Her voice was cold, strategic, her telekinesis Semblance itching to stir the dust around them.

Neo’s lips curved into a cruel smile, her fingers miming a throat-slit—her ruthless streak aligning with Carmine’s plan. Abbonox’s grin didn’t falter, his ink pooling at his feet. “We’re on the same page, then. Beacon won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Carmine adjusted her goggles, her cloak billowing as she turned. “Good. Stick to the plan, and we all get what we want.” She strode toward the warehouse door, her boots clicking. Neo twirled Hush, floating upward to the window, her eyes flashing pink. Abbonox melted into the shadows, his yellow gaze lingering.

As they parted, the warehouse stood silent, Vale’s port humming in the distance. The plot against Beacon tightened, a web of Maiden-chasing ambition, mute vengeance, and inky schemes, ready to unravel in the city’s heart.

While a certain maiden and gray-haired kid made their way to the doors of Beacon.

____________________________________________________________________________

Chapter Text

Deep within the sprawling Forest of Hinoki in Mistral, a vast expanse stretching hundreds of miles, the air hung heavy with an eerie calm. Towering trees cast long shadows over rugged mountains and labyrinthine cave systems, home to chattering wildlife and the ever-present menace of Grimm—Beowolves, Manticores, and Lancers prowling the underbrush. For a fleeting moment, the forest seemed peaceful, its serenity belying the bloodshed that had just unfolded.

Scattered across a clearing lay a grim tableau of bodies, their forms marred by violent ends—sliced by blades, battered by blunt force, or choked by unseen hands. Yet these were no innocent victims. The glint of a shattered White Fang mask among the carnage told a different story: a brutal skirmish between Faunus rebels and their human foes.

A hooded figure, cloaked in dark fabric, stepped into the clearing, his masked face scanning the devastation. This was Starlon, a seasoned operative of the Purity Alliance. He knelt beside a fallen comrade, tracing the emblem of four crossed arrows etched into their armor. The Purity Alliance—a sprawling coalition of Faunus-hating humans—was infamous for its relentless cruelty, its members driven by motives ranging from outright extermination to subjugation or exile of Faunus. Despised by all Faunus, the Alliance frequently clashed with the White Fang, their sworn enemies.

“My fallen brothers,” Starlon murmured, his voice thick with regret, “what a waste of good lives.” His gaze fell on the broken White Fang mask, its jagged edges a testament to the ferocity of the fight. “Forgive me, brothers and sisters, for my failure.”

Though not the Alliance’s supreme leader, Starlon was a key figure on the ground, answerable to his superiors. The Purity Alliance’s greatest weakness was its lack of raw power compared to the White Fang, whose ranks swelled with Faunus, mutants, and other “inhumans” wielding formidable Semblances and Quirks. The Alliance, despite its numbers, often found itself outmatched in direct confrontations.

Earlier that day, Starlon had received a cryptic message from his commander, promising change—new recruits, enhanced resources, stronger allies, and restructured factions. These orders had delayed his team’s arrival, leaving him to face the aftermath of this slaughter alone. He accepted the Alliance’s underdog status, but his resolve to make the White Fang suffer burned brighter than ever.

Stepping out of the clearing, Starlon froze, his breath catching in his throat. “What in the—”

Before him floated an elderly man, his frail frame suspended unnaturally in the air. Wrinkles creased his face, a long white beard trailed from his chin, and a faint trickle of blood seeped from his nose. His pupil-less eyes glowed with an unsettling blankness, lending him the aura of a prophet touched by madness. His attire was a chaotic blend of a magician’s robes and a monk’s simplicity: a tattered, dark cloak draped over light garments, bracelets jangling on his wrists, and a tall, cylindrical cap adorned with a trailing cloth perched atop his head.

“Flee! Flee, good king!” the man intoned, his voice a fevered chant. “The dark lord’s lips curl into a wicked crescent! The Goddess is at hand!”

Starlon blinked, gripping his weapon tighter. “What are you babbling about?”

The strange figure bowed low, his cloak billowing around him. “I am Starservant, herald of the Radiance Coalition,” he declared, his voice both reverent and unhinged. “A leader of those who serve the Radiance Goddess.”

Starlon’s eyes narrowed, recognition dawning. “So you’re the new allies my boss mentioned.”

“Indeed,” Starservant replied, a manic glint in his sightless eyes. “And we bring a new force—experts in purging the dark creatures that plague our broken world: the Creature Rejection Clan.”

A smirk tugged at Starlon’s lips. The Purity Alliance desperately needed such muscle. “Good. We’ll root out the riffraff and beasts together.”

Starservant’s grin widened, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “With us come the Brotherhood of Silver, pirates of the Picotee, and the starlit might of other new allies. The Faunus, the mutants, the White Fang—they shall tremble before the Goddess’s light.”

Starlon nodded, his mind racing with the possibilities.

“Let’s make them pay,” Starlon said, his voice cold with purpose. He turned back to the clearing, the fallen emblem of the Purity Alliance glinting in the dim light. With these new allies, the White Fang’s days were truly numbered.
____________________________________________________________________________

The culprit faction, an unseen force orchestrating a brewing storm, was drawing nearer to the Vale continent. That force was the White Fang.

Once envisioned as a beacon of peace after the Faunus Rights Revolution, the White Fang had, over decades, twisted into various forms under different leaders. What began as a movement for unity between Humans and Faunus had, through iterations, been branded as subversive and criminal. Yet, despite their shifting tactics, each leader shared a singular, relentless aim: to carve out a better world for the Faunus, no matter the cost or means.

Adding a new, volatile dimension to Remnant's social landscape was the growing presence of "Mutants." These strange semblance users, often called "Heteromorphs," possessed abilities that didn't just grant power, but permanently altered their physical form. Unlike powers that could be activated or deactivated, these were an inescapable part of their being. While some manifested prehensile appendages or enhanced existing limbs, others bore more profound transformations, making it impossible for them to blend seamlessly into society. This inherent, visible difference often subjected them to intense discrimination, sometimes even from other Quirk users, simply because of their 'abnormal' appearances. Their passive, undeniable nature made them easily identifiable, yet also partially immune to Quirk-disabling effects, a double-edged sword in a world of increasingly powerful abilities.

However, the White Fang was not alone in its endeavors. Another ancient, formidable group had recently stepped out of the shadows, offering its support: the Inhuman Dominion. This potent mutant rights organization passionately championed those whose Semblances, Quirks, or extraordinary abilities rendered them visibly inhuman or societal outcasts. While sharing an ideological kinship with the White Fang, the Dominion carved a distinct path, representing not just Faunus but the broader spectrum of "mutants"—individuals whose powers irrevocably set them apart from Remnant’s human majority.

Born roughly seventy years ago from a crucible of marginalization after the Great War—a time when kingdoms sought to regulate Semblances and suppress "non-standard" abilities—the Dominion offered a radical alternative to the Faunus-centric White Fang. Mutants, often mistaken for Grimm-tainted or cursed, faced institutional discrimination, from forced registrations to exploitation and exile. Disillusioned with existing movements, a splinter group of mutant scholars and activists founded the Dominion to address these unique grievances. It operated with a fluid, almost anarchic structure, eschewing rigid hierarchies for decentralized cells spread across Remnant and Menagerie. Its members ranged from disillusioned scholars and rogue Huntsmen to street-level agitators, all united by a shared sense of alienation. Their ideology blended righteous anger with pragmatic militancy, advocating for mutant equality through protests, sabotage, and, when necessary, violence. Their rallying cry, “We Are Not Monsters,” encapsulated their dual mission: to reclaim mutant identity and demand a place in Remnant's societies.

Despite its smaller size, the Dominion wielded outsized influence through strategic alliances, particularly with the White Fang. As benefactors, they provided crucial resources—Dust supplies, weaponry, and tactical expertise in guerrilla warfare. They funneled financial support, especially during Sienna Khan’s militant era, and in return, received vital intelligence on human institutions. As allies, they coordinated joint operations, most notably against the Schnee Dust Company, with Dominion mutants using their elemental Semblances to collapse tunnels while White Fang fighters secured perimeters. Their shared history of post-Great War marginalization reinforced their ideological kinship, uniting them against human supremacy and corporate exploitation, though differing priorities—Faunus rights versus broader mutant inclusion—occasionally fueled internal tensions.

At the heart of the Vale faction's camp stood Adam Taurus, their appointed leader. His tall, lean frame was cloaked in a striking, asymmetrical black blazer, adorned with crimson lining and the ominous red thorn sigils that mirrored the "wilting rose" emblem emblazoned over a deadly nightshade sigil on his back. Auburn hair, streaked with brown, spiked back from his head, but it was the stark, whitish-tan mask that truly defined him, obscuring his face above the nose with its Mistral-style, horn-like symbols. Behind it lay a brutal secret: a scarred Schnee Dust Company brand searing his left eye, leaving it bloodied with a grey iris and a singed eyebrow—a mark only he knew hid beneath the unsettling facade. His other eye, a piercing blue, remained a stark contrast. The mask itself was a redesigned, more refined version of the Grimm masks typically worn by his subordinates, symbolizing his elevated status.

He wore long black dress pants, black shoes with striking red soles, and black gloves marked with red sigils resembling the Greek letter Omega. A black belt with white domino marks completed his attire. Adam was a bull Faunus, his heritage evident in the two reddish-black horns that slanted back from his head.

Having recently returned from Mistral, Adam had presented his report to High Leader Sienna Khan in the White Fang Throne Room. There, Sienna had lauded him as an extraordinary asset to the organization, sending him back to Vale as the new leader of the kingdom's branch. As he took his leave, Sienna had promised him that if he continued on his path, he would one day find himself alongside her in the throne.

This prospect filled Adam with quiet satisfaction, especially now that new allies, like the one he had just been introduced to—Spinner—were joining their cause.

The lizard bowed

The lizard-like man, known as Spinner, bowed low, his voice a gravelly murmur of genuine awe. "I thought... I'd never get to be anyone. But by following you... Maybe... I can really be somebody."

Adam Taurus watched him, a faint, almost imperceptible curve playing at the corner of his hidden mouth. He extended a gloved hand, not in a demand, but an invitation. "Stand, Spinner. There are no followers here, only equals united by a common truth." His voice was a smooth, resonant baritone, laced with a subtle warmth that belied his usual stern demeanor. "Your desire to 'be somebody' is a powerful one, a flame that burns within all who have been cast aside. The world, in its blindness, calls you 'mutant,' a 'heteromorph,' an 'abnormality.' It is a lie."

He stepped closer, his presence commanding yet not overbearing. "They fear what they do not understand, and they discriminate against what they cannot control. You, Spinner, embody the very strength they demonize. Your unique form, your inherent power—these are not burdens, but badges of what you are capable of." Adam gestured around the camp, a strategic flicker of his exposed blue eye taking in the weary but determined faces of the Faunus gathered. "Look around you. Here, among the White Fang and the nascent cells of the Inhuman Dominion, you are not merely tolerated; you are celebrated. You are understood."

Spinner lifted his head, his reptilian eyes fixed on Adam, a spark of hope igniting within them. "But... what can I do? I'm just..."

"Just a man with a vision, Spinner," Adam interjected, his voice firm but encouraging. "A vision for justice, for a world where our kind—Faunus, mutants, all who are 'different'—are not only safe but respected. The White Fang fights for our Faunus brethren, yes, but our cause intertwines with the Inhuman Dominion. We stand for all who have been oppressed for their very nature. Your passion, your understanding of true discrimination, is invaluable. It is a bridge between our struggles."

He lowered his hand to Spinner's shoulder, a gesture of unexpected solidarity. "You have seen the injustice firsthand. You have felt the sting of societal scorn. That makes you not just a warrior, but a voice. A symbol. Together, we can show them that 'monsters' are not those born with unique forms, but those who wield hatred against the innocent."

Adam's gaze intensified, locking with Spinner's. "Do you wish to truly 'be somebody,' Spinner? Then be the architect of a new dawn. Be the hammer that shatters the chains of prejudice. Join us, not as a subordinate, but as a crucial pillar in the coming revolution. We are heading to Vale, where the next crucial step in our liberation will be taken. Your strength, your conviction, will be instrumental."

Spinner looked from Adam's unwavering gaze to the quiet resolve of the surrounding White Fang members. A deep breath filled his chest, a resolve hardening in his own eyes. "I... I will," he finally said, the words solid, certain. "I will be somebody. For us all."

A faint, satisfied smile touched Adam's lips. "Excellent. Then let us make our preparations. Vale awaits."
____________________________________________________________________________
The flickering light of the Holo-screen in Fort Lee’s private office did little to penetrate the gloom that settled around him. His cybernetic eye, usually sharp and analytical, was unfocused, replaying a scene burned into his memory. Not from the Scroll feed he constantly monitored, but from the raw, visceral data of his past.

The idyllic afternoon had shattered. The laughter of his son, a bright, eager boy of seven, echoed for a cruel second before it was choked by a scream. Lee remembered the terror, the blinding panic as figures, faces obscured by Grimm masks, burst from the tree line, their movements swift and merciless. They were White Fang. He had known, intellectually, the risks of his... endeavors. The business he conducted. But never had he imagined the price would be so utterly, brutally personal.

He’d tried to shield them. His wife, frozen in terror. His daughter, Iona, a tiny figure clutching her mother's leg, wide eyes reflecting the horror unfolding. But the Faunus, cloaked in their self-righteous fury, were too fast, too many. One, a hulking bear Faunus with eyes burning with cold rage, had seized his son. Lee could still feel the phantom ache in his arms where he'd reached, uselessly, hopelessly.

"This is for the cages! For the chains!" the bear Faunus had roared, his voice laced with the collective suffering of a thousand enslaved souls. But Lee heard none of it then, only the high-pitched shriek of his son, pleading for his 'Papa'.

Then, the glint of steel. A sickening thud. And silence. An absolute, deafening silence that swallowed the chirping birds, the rustling leaves, even the pounding of his own heart. His son... his vibrant, innocent boy... lay still. A small, crumpled heap on the vibrant green grass, a blossoming crimson stain spreading across his small chest.

He remembered little after that, only a roaring in his ears, a primal scream tearing from his throat. The faces of the White Fang were blurs, retreating into the forest as quickly as they had appeared, leaving behind only death and an indelible scar on his soul. His wife's keening cry. Iona's silent, uncomprehending tears. And the cold, unyielding reality of a life extinguished.

Fort Lee blinked, the present bleeding back into focus. The hum of his office. The cold metal of his arm cannon. The ghost of a small, warm hand in his own. His jaw tightened, a muscle throbbing beneath his cybernetic eye. That day had forged him, reforged him into something harder, colder. His hatred for the Faunus, once a calculated disdain rooted in superiority, had become a molten, consuming inferno. Retribution. Extermination. Whatever it took to ensure no other human knew the agony he had endured.

"A waste," he whispered, the word hollow in the quiet room. A waste of a good life. But this time, he wouldn't fail. This time, the Faunus would pay. They would all pay.

Fort Lee walked out of his office, his finger pressing a concealed button. A section of the wall silently receded, revealing a hidden room known only to him and a select few. Within it sat a sleek, powerful machine. He pressed another button, and it glowed green, its surface opening as he stepped inside. In moments, he found himself in Merlot's clandestine base.

“Burning the candle at both ends, are we?” Merlot smirked, acknowledging his companion.

Fort Lee chuckled, a dry sound. “Not quite, but tell me, have your projects been going well?”

“Why, of course,” the mad doctor mused, a glint in his eye. “They are far beyond the test phase now.”

The two men's gazes fell upon a massive support tank, its presence dominating the dimly lit chamber.

The chamber was a symphony of pulsating violet light and the soft, rhythmic hum of advanced machinery. In the very center, bathed in an ethereal glow, stood a figure encased within a translucent, cylindrical tank—a vessel of life support, or perhaps, a prison of amplified power.

This was a mysterious man, with mysterious goals, a man teetering on the precipice of humanity, his existence sustained by the very technology that sought to harness his overwhelming sembalance. Tubes, thick as a man's arm, snaked from the walls of the chamber, plunging into the tank, their purpose a mystery of nutrient delivery, fluid exchange, and perhaps, a constant influx of whatever volatile compound was needed to keep his fractured body from self-destructing under the immense strain of his abilities.

The liquid within the tank shimmered with the same unsettling purple as the chamber's lighting, obscuring the precise details of the man’s form, yet hinting at a lean, powerful physique. His silhouette was distinct, but his face was an indistinct blur behind the rippling surface, a ghost of a man kept alive by the cold embrace of science. Control panels lined the sides of the chamber, blinking with an array of lights and complex readouts, a silent testament to the meticulous monitoring of every vital sign, every energy fluctuation, within the powerful individual suspended before them.

It was a place of sterile, controlled power, where life hung by a technological thread, awaiting the moment its immense, destructive potential could be unleashed.

After their observation of Nine, Fort Lee turned his attention to Merlot. “Now, about the other project?” he inquired, a hint of impatience in his tone.

“G-23?” Merlot replied, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Oh, he’s been set free. I’m quite pleased you have him on the field, even if he doesn’t fully comprehend his role just yet.”

“Excellent,” Lee smirked, a dangerous glint in his cybernetic eye. “And have my requested weapons arrived?”

“Of course, and I’ve also managed to secure more… personnel for my industry,” Merlot gestured vaguely around the sophisticated lab.

From the deepest shadows of the room, a figure emerged. He was encased in a hazmat-like suit, his presence made all the more unsettling by the eerie, pulsating green light that emanated from within his helmet, hinting at glowing eyes and perhaps even skin beneath the protective gear.

“Greetings,” the green-tinged professor stated, his voice calm and precise. “I am Professor Uranium, Doctor. Your visitor is here.”

“Wait, truly marvelous!” Merlot exclaimed, his usual composure giving way to an eager, almost childlike enthusiasm. He practically sprinted towards the main entrance of his base, Fort Lee following close behind, a hint of his own curiosity piqued.

The two men looked around the entrance hall, searching for this anticipated visitor. Then, their gazes snapped upwards. From some unseen orifice in the ceiling, copious amounts of black, viscous Grimm Liquid—or Grimm Ooze—began to drip onto the polished floor. A massive blob of the substance detached and splatted into the center of the antechamber, quivering and expanding. Slowly, with a grotesque, unnatural animation, it began to coalesce and form into some type of Grimm.

The being was a large, unsettling Grimm with a short, wide snout, its teeth overlapping menacingly over its jaw. It possessed no visible eyes, yet its two canine ears twitched, one noticeably scarred, as if sliced off in a past, brutal encounter. Quill-like spines jutted from its tar-like back, and Grimm Liquid constantly oozed and dripped from its primary mouth and body. What truly set this creature apart were its dual sets of jaws: the main maw on its face, and a second, equally terrifying pair located on the back of its neck. The creature’s form, at first resembling a massive, predatory canine, began to shift. Its legs rearranged themselves, allowing it to rise to a bipedal stance, transforming into a humanoid, werewolf-like nightmare.

“Errrrr… hello?” Merlot ventured, his robotic eye gleaming with an almost manic curiosity as the colossal Grimm stood, its unseen gaze fixed upon him.

The monstrous Grimm, now fully transformed into its bipedal, werewolf-like form, regarded Merlot with an unnerving stillness. Its dual mouths remained closed, yet a low, guttural growl vibrated through the air, seeming to emanate from its very tar-like body, before words, clear and resonant despite their alien timbre, filled the space.

"Doctor Merlot," the Hound's voice rasped, a sound like grinding stone and ancient, forgotten whispers. "Your reputation precedes you. Your obsession with perfecting my kind... it is intriguing."

Merlot's robotic eye widened, a genuine gasp escaping him. This was not merely a powerful Grimm; it was sentient. And it knew him. His scientific mind, usually so composed, raced, piecing together the implications. His vision of controlling Grimm, of guiding their evolution, suddenly seemed within reach in a way he had only dreamed.

Fort Lee, however, stiffened beside him. His hand instinctively went to his arm cannon. While the prospect of a controllable Grimm was alluring, the inherent unpredictability and raw power of such a creature made him deeply uneasy. This wasn't merely a brute force ally; it was something far more dangerous, far more intelligent.

"You seek to understand, to control," the Hound continued, taking a slow, deliberate step forward, its form oozing and reforming with each movement. "I offer you that understanding. I offer you a partnership, Doctor." It paused, its eyeless face seeming to bore into Merlot. "My goal is the ultimate dominance of the Grimm. A world where my kind reigns supreme, cleansing Remnant of its imperfections."

Merlot's grin stretched wider, a manic delight in his features. "Grimm dominance, you say? A fascinating concept! To truly bring forth a new era... But a partnership? What could you possibly offer me that I cannot achieve through my own tireless research?" He knew the answer, or at least suspected it, but he wanted to hear it, to taste the validation.

"My very essence," the Hound replied, its voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble that resonated deep within the chamber. "My body. My abilities. My unique biology. I am a living laboratory, Doctor. A testament to what Grimm can truly become. Imagine the secrets you could unlock. The serums you could refine. The power you could wield, not just over isolated specimens, but over the very nature of Grimm themselves."

Merlot’s breath hitched. A living Grimm, one capable of articulate thought and a clear agenda, offering itself for study? This was beyond his wildest fantasies. He imagined the possibilities: not just mutated Grimm, but intelligent Grimm, loyal to him, bending to his will, reshaping the very ecosystem of Remnant.

Fort Lee, though still wary, felt a tremor of interest. "Dominance of Grimm," he repeated slowly, his mind turning this new variable over. "And humanity...?"

The Hound's head tilted, an almost mocking gesture. "Humanity will find its place, whether by adapting or by succumbing. But our immediate interests align. You wish to purge those you deem unworthy—the Faunus, the mutants, those who corrupt your world. We seek to purge all who stand in the way of our natural order. A temporary alignment of goals, perhaps, but a mutually beneficial one."

Merlot took another step forward, practically vibrating with excitement. "A truly magnificent proposal! The intricacies of your physiology alone would revolutionize my work! To have such a specimen... the potential is limitless!" He extended his robotic arm, not in greeting, but as if to already begin a dissection, a study.

Fort Lee, watching the interaction, suppressed a shiver. He still didn't trust this creature. Its objectives were far too grand, far too aligned with utter destruction. But the power it offered... the potential to eradicate the White Fang, the Inhuman Dominion, all the 'unnatural' elements that plagued Remnant... it was a temptation he couldn't easily dismiss. He would be cautious. Very cautious. But intrigued, nonetheless.
____________________________________________________________________________

The warehouse was derelict, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of a single hanging bulb. Dust motes danced in the sparse light, disturbed only by the soft click of Carmine’s heels as she surveyed her new acquisitions. She exuded an aura of effortless grace, her long, wavy auburn hair—streaked with a single silver strand—cascading down her back. Golden eyes, framed by a scattering of freckles, held a sharp, appraising glint that belied her seemingly kind and supportive demeanor. Her dark navy cropped top, adorned with metal chains, shimmered slightly, and the silver shoulder cape with its crimson trim gave her a regal, almost theatrical air.

“Welcome, welcome,” Carmine purred, her voice a smooth, inviting melody. “I trust your journey was… illuminating.” Her gaze swept over the three figures before her, two new faces, one familiar.

Abbonox, the leader of the Marauders, already stood with an air of casual confidence. The teen, with his striking blue-black hair, blood-red clothes, and a vibrant yellow cape, offered a trollish, affable smirk. He merely nodded, a silent acknowledgment of Carmine’s presence.

Her golden eyes then settled on a young woman with light brown hair falling just below her shoulders. This was Camie, her plump, glossy lips and curvaceous figure noticeable even in her sleek, black catsuit, designed with subtle blending lines and a zipper that dipped tantalizingly low. A Shiketsu High hat sat perched atop her head, a stark contrast to the shadowy setting. Camie met Carmine’s gaze with a confident, almost playful glint in her large, dark brown eyes.

“And you must be Camie,” Carmine said, her smile widening. “Such… potential. I’ve heard whispers of your unique talents. They will be most… useful.” Her tone was laced with an undertone that suggested ‘useful’ meant something far more sinister than simple utility.

Camie’s plump lips curved into a wide, beaming smile. “Oh my gosh, so psyched to get a chance for this do-over! It’s, like, totes awesome. Cheers!” She twirled a stray strand of hair around her finger, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Like, I’m all about making a splash, you know? Whatever you need, Carmine, just point me in the right direction, and I’m, like, totally on it. I mean, this is gonna be, like, the ultimate vibe, right? Big chaos, big fun, big everything! Let’s make it pop!” Her words tumbled out with an easy, almost ditzy confidence, her enthusiasm bordering on obliviousness to the manipulative depths of the woman before her. She gave a little bounce on her heels, her catsuit catching the dim light as she clapped her hands together. “Oh, and I’m super good at keeping things chill and sneaky-like. You want distractions? I’m, like, your girl for that!”

Next, Carmine’s eyes landed on a skinny young man whose face was entirely obscured by a green gas mask. Mustard, as he was known, stood with a posture that suggested shyness, though the two oxygen tanks strapped to his back hinted at a formidable, if unusual, ability. His short, wavy, light brown hair was visible beneath the mask’s rim, and his teal gloves seemed almost out of place.

“Mustard,” Carmine acknowledged, her voice softening just a fraction, feigning empathy. “Such a… sensitive nature for such a powerful Quirk. Do not worry. Here, you will be understood. Your gifts will be appreciated, not feared.”

Mustard offered a small, hesitant nod, the gas mask making his expression unreadable, though a slight tension in his shoulders betrayed his discomfort.

Finally, Carmine turned her attention to the last newcomer: Levero. He had dark grey-black hair, a light black shirt with stark orange stripes, and dark khaki pants. One of his eyes was a normal brown, but the other glowed a vibrant, unnatural yellow—a striking asymmetry. Levero carried himself with a shrewd, calculating air, reminiscent of a salesman assessing his next big deal.

“And you, Levero,” Carmine purred, her smile now a predatory, knowing curve. “The Marauders needed a… specialist. Someone who understands the true value of… resources.” She paused, allowing the implication to sink in. “You strike me as a man who appreciates a good deal. And I assure you, joining us offers the very best.”

Levero’s single yellow eye glinted, a matching shrewdness in his gaze. He offered a sly, almost conspiratorial grin. “A good deal is always welcome, Carmine. Especially when the returns are as promising as yours appear to be. I’m always open for new partnerships that… maximize profit. And it seems you have quite the inventory.”

Carmine’s smile became genuine, a flash of her true, ruthless nature. She reveled in their unwitting complicity, their perceived gains aligning perfectly with her own dark ambitions. “Indeed, Levero. Indeed. Welcome to the team. Let’s discuss how we can all… benefit.” The word “benefit” hung in the air, a silken thread of deceit.

“Blah, blah, I get it, I get it,” Abbonox interrupted, a dismissive wave of his hand accompanying his words. His yellow cape swished with the motion. “So why are we here, then? I’ve got, well, most of the Marauders under my beck and call, you know.”

“Yeah, he’s right,” Levero chimed in, his single yellow eye narrowing in shrewd assessment. “So? What’s the big play?”

Carmine’s smile didn’t waver, her golden eyes holding a cunning glint. “Well, you see, I need good distractions.” She paused, letting the words hang in the dusty air, building a subtle anticipation.

“Oh, I’m good at that!” Camie chirped, her wide, enthusiastic smile spreading even further. “Like, really good. Totes my specialty! I can make things go, like, boom in all the best ways—without actually blowing stuff up, unless you want that, obvs!” She giggled, twirling another strand of hair and tilting her head playfully. “I’m thinking, like, some super cool illusions to mess with everyone’s heads. Get ‘em all turned around, running in circles, while we grab the goods. It’s gonna be, like, a total party! You just say the word, Carmine, and I’ll make it so extra nobody’ll know what hit ‘em!” Her voice bubbled with excitement, her hands gesturing animatedly as if she were already picturing the chaos she’d unleash.

“And what else, and why this as well?” Abbonox pressed, leaning forward, intrigued despite his feigned nonchalance.

Carmine finally revealed her hand, her voice dropping slightly, laced with an almost silken command. “For the first phase, I need you to assist the Torchwick faction in acquiring Dust. And, of course, to cause a bit of a ruckus while you’re at it.” A predatory gleam entered her eye, reflecting the dim light.

Mustard, still silent behind his gas mask, simply nodded, his understanding conveyed through the subtle inclination of his head.

“Oh, awesome! What should we steal first? Like, which kind of Dust?” Camie asked, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, already energized by the prospect of chaos. “I mean, do we go for the sparkly fire kind, or the icy-cool kind, or, like, all the kinds? Oh, oh! Can I make it look like the Dust is, like, floating away in a big glittery cloud? That’d be so dope!” Her eyes sparkled with mischief, her playful tone barely masking the dangerous potential of her Quirk. “Just imagine the looks on their faces when they think their precious Dust is, like, poof! Gone! I’m, like, so ready to make this the best heist ever!”

Carmine’s smile stretched, a silent confirmation of her approval. “All of it, my dear Camie. All of it that causes the most delightful disruption.” She turned, her crimson-trimmed cape swirling around her. “Now, go. The night is young, and Vale awaits its first taste of our… influence.”

With that, she gestured towards a discreet exit. Abbonox gave a theatrical bow, Levero offered a knowing smirk, and Camie, practically skipping with excitement, hurried after them, her Shiketsu High hat bouncing slightly. “This is gonna be, like, the most lit night ever!” she called over her shoulder, her voice echoing in the dim warehouse. Mustard followed, a silent, ominous shadow. Carmine watched them go, her golden eyes gleaming in the dim light. Phase one was about to begin.
____________________________________________________________________________
The circular conference table in Ozpin’s private office at Beacon Academy gleamed under the soft glow of the overhead lights. Glynda Goodwitch stood beside him, her posture as impeccably stern as ever, while Qrow Branwen leaned against a far wall, nursing his ever-present flask, his red eyes scanning the complex array of screens that dominated the wall opposite them. This was no ordinary faculty meeting; this was a rare, crucial convocation of the world's most powerful academic and military leaders.

"Are we all connected?" Ozpin's voice, calm and measured, resonated through the room, its timbre carrying a weighty authority. His thin, brown eyes, usually alight with a mischievous spark, were serious, reflecting the gravity of their purpose.

On the largest central screen, the face of General James Ironwood, Headmaster of Atlas Academy and General of its formidable military, appeared. He was a man of stern countenance and unyielding resolve, his gaze direct and unblinking. "Beacon, Atlas is online and ready, Ozpin. Glynda, Qrow." He offered a brief, curt nod to each. Unlike the fractured relationship they once held in another life, in this iteration of Remnant, Ironwood remained Ozpin's steadfast ally, a pillar of strength and pragmatism.

To Ironwood’s right, another screen flickered to life, revealing Theodore, the Headmaster of Shade Academy in Vacuo. He was a man who, despite his age, exuded youthful energy, his dark, close-cut hair and chiseled frame testament to his active lifestyle. Behind him, almost obscured, stood Xanthe Rumpole, a woman of short stature but immense presence, her long sandy-brown braid trailing down to her ankles, her golden eyes sharp and observant.

"Shade is present, Ozpin. Ready to get to business," Theodore announced, a boisterous enthusiasm in his tone. "The sands of Vacuo never rest, and neither do we!" Xanthe offered a quiet nod of acknowledgment.

Finally, the last screen activated, revealing Leonardo Lionheart, Headmaster of Haven Academy in Mistral. Lionheart was a man with a mane of tan-gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard, his usual polite and jovial persona visibly strained. He fidgeted with a pocket watch, his eyes darting nervously, avoiding direct contact with the others. He was Salem’s informant, a fact known only to his true mistress, and the weight of his treachery made every such meeting a tightrope walk over an abyss of fear.

"Haven... Haven is here," Lionheart stammered, his voice a little too high-pitched, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple. "All is... well enough here in Mistral. Quiet. For now."

Ozpin allowed a beat of silence, letting the tension settle before speaking. "Thank you all for making time for this. As you know, these gatherings are not taken lightly. The stability of Remnant depends on our collective vigilance." He leaned forward, his green-glowing cross pin catching the light. "For generations, our world has been safeguarded by a delicate balance. The Grimm, a constant threat, yes, but one we have largely managed through the Huntsman Academies and the power of the Maidens. And for a great many years, the direct influence of Salem, the true architect of much of Remnant's suffering, has been… contained. Sealed, for all intents and purposes, from direct intervention."

Qrow grunted, taking a long swig from his flask. "Yeah, 'contained' like a dust bunny under a rug. You know she's always stirring up trouble, even if she ain't showing her ugly face."

"Precisely, Qrow," Ozpin agreed, not missing a beat. "Her minions, her machinations, they persist. But what concerns me now is a rising tide of unrest, a confluence of factors that threaten to unravel our fragile peace far more rapidly than anticipated. We're seeing an unprecedented rise in what our intelligence networks are calling 'Grimm beings'—creatures exhibiting atypical behavior, intelligence, and even... unique adaptations. And alongside this, a volatile new 'crime underclass' is forming, exploiting the shadows, fueled by desperation and a growing contempt for established order."

Ironwood straightened, his robotic components whirring softly. "Atlas has noted similar patterns, Ozpin. My forces have encountered Grimm with unsettling tactical awareness, almost as if... guided. And the criminal elements, particularly those involving advanced technology or unusual abilities, are becoming more coordinated, more audacious. They operate with a disregard for collateral that suggests a deeper, more insidious agenda. We've had increased incidents of Dust theft and resource acquisition that are far beyond the scope of mere opportunists." His blue eyes hardened. "I've deployed additional security measures, but brute force alone won't suffice against an enemy that adapts."

Lionheart flinched at the mention of rising crime. "Mistral… Mistral has its challenges, of course. But our Huntsmen are diligent. We are… managing. The… the common criminal element is always present, but nothing truly… unusual to report." His gaze flickered nervously to the side, then back to the camera, a forced smile on his face. "Just the usual bandits and petty theft, really."

Xanthe Rumpole, speaking for the first time, her voice dry and pragmatic, cut through Lionheart's assurances. "Vacuo's desert poses its own unique challenges, but even here, we've observed an uptick in resource skirmishes. And my own investigations into certain criminal activities suggest a level of organization far beyond 'petty theft,' Headmaster Lionheart. There are threads connecting disparate groups, movements of illicit Dust and contraband that point to a larger network. It is not 'quiet' everywhere." Her golden eyes seemed to pierce the screen, making Lionheart squirm slightly.

Theodore clapped his hands together, undeterred by the underlying tension. "Precisely, Xanthe! The students of Shade are being rigorously trained for these evolving threats. We believe in preparing them for the worst, making them self-sufficient, vicious when they need to be. No one's going to catch Vacuo unprepared! We're running drills, stress tests, pushing them to their limits. We've even detected some unusual energy signatures far out in the wastes, though nothing conclusive yet." He then paused, his expression turning serious. "But these Grimm... the 'Grimm beings' you mention, Ozpin. Are we talking about something truly new, or just more evolved versions of what we know?"

Ozpin nodded slowly. "Truly new. Intelligence suggests some are even… engineered. Not merely evolving naturally. And this brings us to another critical component of our discussion: the Maidens." He picked up his Beacon Academy mug, taking a sip of cocoa. "As you all know, their powers are vital to maintaining peace, holding back the darkest of forces. We have, thankfully, located and secured the Winter Maiden. She is under the vigilant protection of Atlas."

Ironwood gave a tight, almost imperceptible nod. "The Winter Maiden is safe within Atlas, under the highest levels of security. Her training continues, and she understands the gravity of her responsibilities."

"Which is fortunate," Glynda added, her voice calm but firm, "given the escalating situation. However, the whereabouts of the Spring, Summer, and Fall Maidens remain unknown. Our operatives have been diligently searching, following every lead, no matter how tenuous." She glanced at Qrow, who merely grunted again.

"Indeed," Ozpin continued, his gaze sweeping over the faces on the screens. "And this is where our challenge intensifies. The Maidens often manifest in unexpected ways, in unexpected places. They are not easily found, and their powers, when awakened, can be volatile. We cannot afford for these powers to fall into the wrong hands, especially with this rising tide of unrest and the emergence of these... 'Grimm beings'."

A sudden, sharp buzz echoed in the room. Qrow pulled out his Scroll, his brows furrowing as he read a message. His usual nonchalant demeanor evaporated, replaced by an urgent intensity that immediately drew all eyes to him. Even Lionheart seemed to forget his fear for a moment, staring.

"Oz," Qrow said, his voice low, a tremor of disbelief in it. "You're not going to believe this." He looked up, his red eyes meeting Ozpin's. "I've been tracking a lead... a very faint one... in Vale. There's been a surge in localized Aura discharge, highly concentrated, unusual energy signatures... I dismissed it at first, thought it was just some amateur Huntsman gone wild, or a dust accident."

He took a step forward, the Scroll still clutched in his hand. "But then I got a confirmation. A reliable source, a contact I’ve cultivated for years in the criminal underworld, just sent me a coded message. He witnessed it himself, some kind of freak power surge during a Dust shipment robbery gone wrong."

Ozpin leaned further forward, his expression unreadable. Glynda took a small, quick breath, her hand unconsciously tightening on her crop. Ironwood's posture became even more rigid, his gaze locked on Qrow.

"Spit it out, Qrow," Ironwood urged, his voice devoid of his usual 'Jimmy' endearments, now purely the General.

Qrow’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, but in the sudden silence of the room, every word was clear. "The Fall Maiden. She's in Vale. And she just awakened her powers."

A palpable shock ran through the virtual conference. Lionheart visibly blanched, a small whimper escaping him before he clamped his mouth shut, his eyes wide with fear. The Fall Maiden, in Vale, now? The implications were staggering. If Salem's forces got wind of this, or worse, were already involved...

Theodore’s energetic demeanor shifted to one of immediate readiness. "The Fall Maiden? In Vale? That complicates things... but also simplifies them! A direct target! We can move!"

Xanthe Rumpole, ever the strategist, interjected calmly, "Complicates the secure transfer, Theodore. A newly awakened Maiden is a volatile force, especially if she's untrained or unaware of her power's true nature. And if she's involved in a criminal incident, that compounds the risk. We need to ascertain her identity, her disposition, and her current situation before making any rash moves."

Ironwood nodded in agreement with Xanthe. "She's right. A raw Maiden is a liability until properly guided. Ozpin, we need a rapid deployment plan. Atlas can send a specialized retrieval team, discreetly, of course, to assess the situation and secure her." His proposal was efficient, military-precise.

Ozpin held up a hand, a gesture that commanded silence. "Thank you, Qrow. This changes everything." His eyes, however, held a flicker of something deeper, a weariness perhaps, at the relentless dance with destiny. "James, your offer is appreciated, but a direct Atlas intervention in Vale, without extreme subtlety, could provoke more unrest. The populace is already on edge with the rising crime and Grimm activity."

"Then what do we do, Oz?" Glynda asked, her concern evident. "If Salem's operatives are already aware..."

Ozpin rose, moving to the large map of Remnant displayed on another part of the wall, illuminated by the conference screen's glow. "We adapt. Qrow's presence in Vale is already established. Glynda, you will coordinate directly with Qrow, using local resources. We need to identify this individual, understand her situation, and extract her safely. The priority is to prevent her power from being exploited by either the new criminal elements or, more critically, by Salem's own operatives."

He turned back to the screens, his gaze firm. "This accelerates our timeline. The rising crime, the Grimm beings, and now a newly awakened Fall Maiden in an unstable environment—these are not coincidences. Salem's sealed state may limit her direct hand, but her influence, through her agents and the chaos she foments, is clearly growing. We must tighten our defenses, share intelligence more rapidly, and prepare our students for a world far more volatile than they currently perceive."

Lionheart, who had been listening with a clammy pallor, swallowed hard. "A... a newly awakened Maiden in Vale? That's... that's concerning. I will, of course, double Haven's patrols. Be vigilant." His voice was barely a whisper, filled with unfeigned terror. He was already imagining Cinder Fall, or someone like her, already on the move, and the horrific consequences of failing Salem.

"Double your vigilance," Xanthe echoed, her voice pointed. "And perhaps consider sharing any 'unusual' criminal reports, no matter how minor they seem, Headmaster Lionheart." The implication was clear: she suspected his omissions.

Theodore, oblivious or perhaps choosing to ignore the underlying tension with Lionheart, thumped a fist on his desk. "Then Shade stands ready! Vacuo's might is at your disposal, Ozpin, for whatever needs doing. Just tell us when and where to strike!"

Ozpin offered a faint, tired smile. "Thank you, Theodore. For now, vigilance and discretion are our greatest weapons. James, continue your efforts to secure Atlas and monitor the rising 'Grimm being' threat. Theodore, Xanthe, keep Vacuo's defenses strong and your students sharp. And Leonardo... remain watchful. This threat, as it draws closer, will demand more from all of us than ever before."

He pressed a button, and the screens flickered, then went dark, leaving only the three figures in Ozpin's office. The hum of the machinery was now the only sound, a stark reminder of the global web they were all entangled in. Qrow ran a hand through his hair, his earlier casualness completely gone.

"Fall Maiden in Vale," he murmured. "That's one hell of a hand we've been dealt, Oz."

Ozpin turned to the window, looking out over the peaceful grounds of Beacon, a heavy sigh escaping him. "Indeed, Qrow. Indeed. And the game has only just begun."
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Evernight Castle, a twisted monument of Grimm bone and obsidian, pulsed with an unholy silence that stretched across the Land of Darkness. Within its grim, cavernous council chamber, only the rhythmic drip of unseen liquid and the low, distant growls of captive Grimm disturbed the air. Unlike other Headmaster meetings, this one was not a gathering of flesh and blood, but a convergence of wills, orchestrated by a mistress who was, in this iteration of Remnant, tragically sealed.

In the center of the vast, circular table, formed from obsidian as dark as a nightmare, a single, grotesque Grimm known as a Seer pulsed with malevolent energy. From its central orb, an ethereal, shimmering form began to coalesce: the astral projection of Salem. Her deathly pallor, jet-black sclerae, and glowing crimson irises were unmistakable, a stark contrast to the shadowy chamber. Though her magic was contained within the castle’s ancient seals, preventing her from directly manifesting or unleashing her full power lest it cause her Grimm vessels to explode, her mind, cunning and insidious, remained utterly unbridled.

"My loyal servants," Salem's voice resonated, not from the Seer, but from everywhere and nowhere at once, a chilling whisper that echoed with the weight of millennia. "The gears of fate turn, and our path forward becomes clearer."

Arthur Watts, ever the picture of refined disdain, stood apart from the others, meticulously polishing a gold ring on his finger. His black and greying hair was neatly combed, his green eyes sharp with analytical thought. "Clearer, perhaps, mistress, but not necessarily simpler. Ozpin and his ilk remain annoyingly vigilant. The Winter Maiden, as anticipated, is secured within Atlas. A predictable move, yet one that demands a measured counter."

Next to him, Hazel Rainart, a colossal figure of quiet power, stood with his arms crossed, his scarred physique radiating a suppressed strength. His hazel eyes, usually calm, held a flicker of grim determination. He wasn't Salem's minion out of loyalty to her ultimate, destructive goal, but driven by his own warped sense of justice and his unending grief for his sister. He sought the destruction of the old order, a path he believed Salem could provide, even if their final destinations differed. He remained silent, a formidable, watchful presence.

Tyrian Callows, the very embodiment of manic devotion, twitched excitedly, his scorpion tail lashing gently against the stone floor. His pale red eyes gleamed with psychotic glee, and his usual unsettling smile seemed wider than normal. "Oh, my lady! The hunt is ever so invigorating! Their struggles, their petty hopes... it all makes their despair so much sweeter!" His loyalty to Salem was absolute, a deranged reverence bordering on worship.

Then came the new faces. Vermillion Raddock, leader of the Hana Guild, a tall, dark-skinned man with red hair, stood with an air of cold calculation. He wore a dark grey pig mask, his red leather jacket a striking splash of color in the gloom. His flail, though sheathed, was a visible promise of the brutal force he commanded. He wasn't a fanatic like Tyrian, but a shrewd opportunist, his own power-hungry agenda aligning neatly with Salem's destabilization efforts, at least for now.

Dictator, a short, hunched figure, his body seemingly stitched together with wires and his face obscured by crosshair-like markings around his small, beady eyes, remained silent, his long, lanky arms hanging by his side. His Quirk, Despot, allowed him to puppeteer others, and he thrived on control and the chaos of mass manipulation. He was here because All For One had freed him, but Salem represented a grander stage for his particular brand of dominance.

Kunieda, tall and skinny, with inverted eyes—black sclerae and white irises—and a face half-hidden by a long, dark mask, gave off an aura of chilling pragmatism. He was a serial killer, his unnamed plant growth Quirk feeding on corpses. He too was bound to All For One, but Salem's power and influence offered even greater opportunities for his sadistic 'gardening'. He remained impassive, his silence far more unsettling than Tyrian's ramblings.

Finally, Gashly Eijiju, a tall, slender man cloaked in dark, shadow-like clothing, complete with a top hat and a white mask with empty eye holes. He held a black umbrella, an oddity in this lightless realm, and a book clutched in his arm. His Quirk, Puppet Infants, caused widespread devastation and hysteria. He was a creature of chaos and despair, and Salem’s goals aligned perfectly with his own insidious nature.

And then there was Adachi. The former police detective, clad in his dark suit, had an unkempt quality about him, a hint of lazy cynicism in his gray eyes. His mouth, usually prone to an unfunny joke, was currently set in a neutral line, observing the proceedings with a detached air. He was a nihilist, a man who saw the 'reality' of the world as dull and annoying, seeking to escape its boredom. He didn’t care for Salem’s grand designs, but her destructive path offered a means to wipe away the reality he despised. He was a wildcard, motivated by apathy more than malice, yet just as dangerous.

"The Maidens," Salem continued, her ethereal form shifting slightly. "Ozpin's persistent reliance on them is a weakness we shall exploit. The Winter Maiden is secured, yes, but the others remain elusive. However..." Her crimson eyes intensified, fixing on no one in particular, yet holding the gaze of all. "Qrow Branwen, that perpetually drunken crow, has just sent a message. The Fall Maiden has awakened, and she is in Vale."

A ripple went through the group. Tyrian let out a delighted cackle. "The little bird finally sings! Excellent! Another toy for my lady to break!"

Watts stroked his beard, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his face. "In Vale? That is... inconvenient for Ozpin. But supremely advantageous for us. A raw, untrained Maiden in a populated kingdom. The chaos potential is immense."

Hazel grunted. "A new source of power. If she can be swayed, or taken." His loyalty to Salem's ultimate destruction of the old order, however, did not extend to causing unnecessary pain to innocents, though he wouldn't shy from it if it served the larger purpose.

Vermillion Raddock's mask tilted slightly. "The Hana Guild has resources in Vale. Smuggling routes, connections. If a discreet acquisition is required, we are... amenable." He was already mentally calculating the value of a Maiden’s power.

Dictator's head, hunched forward, seemed to nod imperceptibly. The idea of controlling such a powerful vessel, adding a Maiden to his puppet army, was a tantalizing prospect.

Kunieda remained impassive, but a flicker of something akin to interest crossed his inverted eyes. A Maiden. A new source for his horrific "gardening." The idea of seeing a powerful human consumed by his plants held a dark allure.

Gashly Eijiju, surprisingly, gave a soft, almost appreciative chuckle from behind his mask. "More... subjects for the grand tapestry of despair."

Adachi, however, allowed himself a small, cynical smirk. "The magic ticket, indeed. Always appearing where it causes the most delightful mess. More boredom for me to escape."

"Indeed," Salem acknowledged, a faint, almost satisfied hum in her voice. "Ozpin will attempt to secure her. He will send his pawns. This is our opportunity to not only acquire a formidable asset but to further destabilize Remnant. Whether she is brought to us, or her power is simply denied to Ozpin, either outcome serves our purpose."

She paused, her ethereal form becoming sharper, more focused. "Watts, you will continue to monitor Atlas. Ironwood's paranoia is a weakness we can still exploit, even in his 'good' state. Look for opportunities to sow distrust, to exacerbate the 'Grimm being' threat he frets over."

Watts bowed slightly. "As you command, Mistress. My digital fingerprints are already embedded deep within their networks."

"Hazel, your unique abilities will be invaluable in confronting Ozpin's direct interference. Be prepared to deploy where needed to counter his 'champions'."

Hazel nodded, his expression resolute. "Their protectors will fall."

"Tyrian, your enthusiasm is... appreciated. The hunt for this new Maiden falls to you. Find her. Observe her. If possible, bring her to us. If not, ensure her power is... redirected." Salem’s tone implied a redirection through utter devastation.

Tyrian practically vibrated. "Oh, my lady! To taste the power of a Maiden! The thrill, the ecstasy! I shall not fail you!" His eyes glowed with anticipation.

"Vermillion, Dictator, Kunieda, Gashly," Salem's gaze swept over the remaining figures. "Your varied talents for sowing discord and commanding loyalty from the fringes are crucial. Integrate with the existing criminal underworld in Vale. Amplify the chaos. Create opportunities for our direct agents. The Fall Maiden is a focal point, but not the only one. Any act that drives humanity further apart, that forces them to betray their own, serves our ultimate liberation."

Vermillion gave a curt nod, his thoughts already on the illicit gains and increased influence that this new directive promised. Dictator's posture remained rigid, but the wires on his coat seemed to subtly hum with an eager energy. Kunieda’s inverted eyes held a gleam of dark amusement, imagining the sheer scale of the terror his plants could inflict in a panicked city. Gashly, still holding his umbrella, gave another low chuckle.

"And Adachi," Salem's voice softened, a hint of something manipulative entering her tone. "Your unique perspective, your understanding of human despair, will be… enlightening. Observe the fallout. Report on the cracks in their 'reality'. How quickly their carefully constructed world descends into chaos when pressed."

Adachi merely shrugged, a faint, almost bored smirk on his lips. "Whatever amuses you, mistress. The world is a stage, after all. And I do enjoy a good show, especially when it involves... deconstructing the set."

"Remember, my children," Salem concluded, her ethereal form beginning to fade back into the Seer, "our goals intertwine. Destabilize Remnant. Free me from this confinement, or find a vessel capable of containing my true magic. The exact order is irrelevant. The outcome is inevitable. The age of humanity's dominion over Grimm is drawing to a close. Embrace the chaos. Let the darkness rise."

The projection shimmered, then vanished, leaving only the pulsing Seer and the chilling silence of Evernight Castle. The Umbral Circle remained, each contemplating their mistress's words, and their own, often divergent, paths to fulfilling her grand, destructive vision. The stage was set.
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Deep within his secure, technologically advanced laboratory, nestled within a forgotten corner of a desolate continent, Arthur Watts tapped a sequence of glowing runes on a console. The air hummed with the soft whir of machinery, reflecting his meticulous order. His green eyes, usually cold and calculating, narrowed slightly as a holographic projection shimmered into existence before him. One of the screens showed a hazard sign, more like a sign on what’s to come.

Carmine Esclados appeared, her image vibrant and sharp, even across the vast distances. She seemed to be in a dimly lit, richly decorated room, perhaps a temporary hideout. Her long auburn hair with its silver streak framed a face that, even in holographic form, exuded a chipper, almost overly sweet aura. A subtle smile played on her lips, but Watts knew better than to trust it.

"Carmine," Watts began, his voice a crisp, cutting baritone, entirely devoid of warmth. "I trust this isn't an inconvenience. My reports indicate a distinct lack of progress on the most critical objective. The Fall Maiden. Has Ozpin's idiocy truly rendered you incapable of a direct engagement?" His tone was laced with his characteristic arrogance and condescension, a familiar jab at perceived inadequacy. He made no effort to hide his disdain for anything less than perfect execution.

Carmine's smile remained fixed, though her golden eyes held a flicker of something sharper, quickly masked. "Doctor Watts! Always a pleasure to hear your dulcet tones." Her voice was light, airy, almost playful. "And as for the Fall Maiden, my dear Doctor, progress is being made. One must remember that true artistry lies in the setup, not merely the immediate, blunt application of force. A Maiden, freshly awakened and untrained, is a wild tempest. To simply 'engage' her, as you so crudely put it, risks scattering her power, or worse, losing her entirely."

She leaned forward slightly, her silver shoulder cape shimmering. "No, no. Our approach is far more... refined. Think of it as cultivating the perfect storm. The Fall Maiden is in Vale, as our Lady confirmed. But Ozpin’s precious Vale is also a powder keg, primed to explode. Why risk a direct confrontation when the entire kingdom can be made to dance to our tune?"

Watts scoffed, a dismissive wave of his hand. "Dance? We require results, Carmine, not a theatrical performance. Your flair for the dramatic, while... present, does not directly secure Maidens. Salem's objective is clear: destabilization, yes, but ultimately, a vessel for her power. The Maiden is the key, not some mundane Dust theft operation."

"Ah, but the 'mundane' Dust theft is merely the opening act," Carmine countered smoothly, her chipper facade unwavering. "My new associates, the Torchwick faction, are proving to be surprisingly adept at causing ruckuses. And the resources they acquire are quite useful for funding further... endeavors. We are currently orchestrating a series of highly visible, high-impact Dust robberies across Vale. Creating a 'crime underclass' as our Lady desires. It spreads fear, drains Ozpin's resources, and forces his Huntsmen to scatter their attention. It's a marvelous distraction, wouldn't you agree?"

She gestured vaguely, as if presenting a grand design. "While Ozpin's hounds chase their tails after common criminals and skirmishes, the true prize ripens. The Fall Maiden is still an unknown quantity. We are letting her emerge, letting the chaos around her define her. When she is ready, truly desperate for a guiding hand, then we shall strike. A strategic opening, rather than a brute-force assault. It’s far more stylish, wouldn’t you say? And less prone to... complications." The last word was delivered with a subtle, veiled jab, referencing Watts's own past failures.

Watts’ eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He despised her casual dismissal of his input, her thinly veiled critiques. "Complications, Carmine, often arise from unnecessary theatrics. Focus on the objective. The Fall Maiden. The Relics. The ultimate freedom for our Lady. These petty skirmishes, while superficially disruptive, are a diversion of your own making. Do not mistake minor annoyances for true strategic victories."

"But they are all pieces of the same puzzle, Doctor," Carmine insisted, her voice retaining its saccharine sweetness, a subtle challenge embedded within her words. "Each 'minor annoyance' creates a ripple, a wave, that will eventually crash upon Ozpin's shores. And when it does, the Maiden will be ours. Trust in the process, Doctor. After all, style is substance, isn't it?"

She gave a final, knowing smile, the subtle cruelty in her eyes momentarily breaking through her amiable mask. "I have everything well in hand. And when the time is right, the Fall Maiden will be delivered. Just as the chaos in Vale will blossom into something truly... beautiful."

With a flourish that Watts found utterly irritating, Carmine's projection flickered and then vanished, leaving him alone in the sterile hum of his laboratory. He slammed his fist on the console, a rare display of outward frustration. "Style over substance," he muttered, shaking his head. "Amateurs. All of them." Despite his irritation, however, a part of him acknowledged the twisted logic in her plan. The chaos in Vale would serve their larger agenda. He simply preferred a more efficient path.
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The frigid winds of Solitas howled around Fort Arrowfell, a decommissioned Atlas Military base now serving as a chilling stronghold. Inside, the ancient bronze-colored hallways, relics of Mantle's past, hummed with a renewed, sinister energy. In the deepest section, a lab bathed in a cold blue light, Bram Thornmane, the mastermind of the Arrow Fell Conspiracy, stood before his co-conspirators. His red jacket, a splash of aggressive color, seemed to pulse with his resentment.

"General Ironwood's paranoia is a gift," Thornmane began, his voice a low, confident growl, echoing slightly in the sterile space. "He tightens his grip, and the populace chokes. They yearn for a savior. And we, my friends, shall provide one." His smile, though unseen, was clearly in his voice, dripping with self-satisfaction. He had been rejected by Ironwood for his 'weak' Semblance, cast aside from the Ace Operatives, and now, revenge was a sweet, lingering flavor on his tongue. He believed himself worthy of glory, a hero in the making, and this elaborate plot was his stage.

Hanlon Fifestone, Mantle's former union leader, shifted uneasily, his torn white shirt and red bandana a stark contrast to the others' more deliberate attire. His face, marked by a vertical scar over his left eye, was etched with a grim weariness that betrayed his conflicted ideals. He had once championed workers and Faunus, but Thornmane's threats, the whispers of what would happen to his family, had forced him into this dark alliance. He was here, providing the core mechanism of their plan: his Semblance, Raw Emotion, which could extract fear to power the Grimm-attracting orbs. He was a betrayer, and he knew it.

"The fear harvested from Mantle," Fifestone murmured, his voice hollow. "It fuels the devices. They are... potent. Already, the initial tests have proven effective in drawing the creatures." He omitted the forced extractions, the kidnapped workers, the terrifying efficiency with which he had drained their very essence. The thought of those he had once protected, now victims of his unwilling complicity, was a dull ache beneath his chest.

Amoncio Glass, an overweight, middle-aged Atlas elite, adjusted his black glasses, a smug, avaricious expression on his face. His slicked-back light brown hair glinted under the blue light. "My distribution network is impeccable, Thornmane. The orbs are being spread across Solitas. The criminal factions, armed with the technology Lieutenant Harper provided, are primed. They believe they are simply expanding their territory. Foolish pawns, serving a much grander game." Glass, driven by profit and an inherent arrogance, relished his role in empowering the underworld. He knew only parts of the conspiracy, codenames obscuring the full scope, and he preferred it that way. Less to worry about.

Lieutenant Colonel Olive Harper, poised and meticulous even in her sleeveless Atlas Military uniform, watched Glass with a subtle frown. Her short black hair framed olive eyes that held a hint of internal conflict. She had supplied the stolen military technology, believing Thornmane's lie that this conspiracy would ease the tensions between Atlas and Mantle, bridging the gaping chasm of inequality. Her remorse was a seed, slowly growing, but for now, her duty to the 'cause' still held her. She had even set a trap for Team RWBY, believing them to be the true thieves of the orbs, manipulated by Thornmane's cunning deceptions.

"The frame-up of Team RWBY is proceeding as planned," Harper stated, her voice calm and professional. "Diversion is key. While Ironwood wastes resources chasing phantom criminals and 'rogue Huntsmen,' our operations deepen their roots. The train incident should have solidified their guilt in the General's mind."

Thornmane’s grin widened, a silent, cruel triumph. "Excellent. Let Ironwood chase phantoms. Let him believe his 'Ace Operatives' are sufficient. He will be so preoccupied with his internal failings that he will never see the true threat until it is too late." He walked to a large holographic map of Solitas, touching various points, "Simultaneous Grimm attacks across the continent. Overwhelming their defenses. Exposing his incompetence to the world."

The plan was a meticulous, brutal tapestry of manipulation and chaos. Access Fort Arrowfell, steal the dangerous Grimm-attracting orbs, extract fear from Mantle's workers to power them, distribute these devices across Solitas, arm criminal factions with stolen military tech, frame one of the members, and finally, retreat to Fort Arrowfell as their unassailable stronghold.

"And when the dust settles," Thornmane continued, his voice rising with a zealous fervor, "when the people are truly desperate, when Ironwood's image is shattered beyond repair... then I will emerge. The true hero, the one who cleanses Atlas, who restores order. The one worthy of their admiration." His endgame, though clear in its glory-seeking, lacked a mechanism to restore his military rank, revealing his personal vendetta truly overshadowed any strategic gain for Atlas itself.

Meanwhile, far above the tundra, in the pristine, polished halls of Atlas Academy, a different kind of training was underway. The central tower, the former CCTS tower, hummed with the quiet efficiency of a military installation integrated with an academic institution. Students in their crisp white long-sleeved shirts, gray vests, and black berets moved with disciplined precision.

In one of the vast training rooms, where Hard-Light Dust grids generated and stacked blocks for combat simulations, Akatsuki moved with a fluid, almost ethereal grace. His short indigo hair was damp with sweat, and a single pupil, shrouded in black sclera, glowed red with the exertion of his Blitz Motor. He sparred against a dozen Atlesian Knight-200s, his "Imperial Karate" a blur of strikes, each movement economical and devastatingly effective.

Akatsuki was calm and stoic, his focus absolute. He prioritized his mission above anything else, training relentlessly, preparing for whatever dangers Remnant could throw at him. He liked training, relished the opportunity to hone his skills, and his disciplined form reflected his desire to prevent absolute power from corrupting humanity. He was a man of justice, albeit a rigid, old-fashioned one.

He landed a final, precise kick, shattering the last Knight-200. Its Hard-Light remains dissolved into shimmering particles. Akatsuki paused, taking a deep breath, the subtle whirring of his internal machinery the only sound.

His mind, however, was not entirely on combat. A faint, almost imperceptible ache resided in his chest. A memory. A face.

Ciel. Ciel Soleil.

He remembered her meticulousness, her unwavering punctuality, her precise movements as she operated her specialized equipment. She had been his teammate, a beacon of order in his sometimes-displaced world. He missed her quiet competence, her unshakeable presence. Training without her, even with the advanced technology of Atlas, felt... incomplete. He would never admit it aloud, of course. His mission came first. Always. But the quiet companionship, the unspoken understanding they shared, was a rare comfort he hadn't realized he relied on until it was gone.

He ran a hand over his face, clearing the sweat. The academy was a marvel of technology, a fortress of humanity, but it also felt cold, sterile, and distant from the world he was meant to protect. He pushed the personal thoughts aside. There was work to be done. Grimm to fight. Missions to complete. And perhaps, one day, a world where he and Ciel could cross paths on friendly terms, free from the burdens of war. But not yet. Not while the shadows of individuals like Thornmane, and the unseen architects of greater chaos, still loomed.
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Deep beneath the shattered remnants of a forgotten industrial complex, far from the prying eyes of Beacon's Huntsmen and Atlas's military, the Metal Forge hummed with a dark, purposeful energy. This was no mere workshop; it was the nerve center of a faction once thought crushed in the Great War, a testament to their metallic persistence. Their ambition remained grand, if currently constrained: to blanket Remnant in metal, transforming organic life into the next evolutionary stage—the perfection of the cyborg.

The cavernous space was a controlled chaos of whirring drills, sparking welders, and the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of heavy machinery. Arc lights bathed the scene in harsh, artificial brilliance, revealing a tableau of chrome and steel. Here, the Metal Forge pursued its singular, unwavering vision: a world where flesh was merely a temporary casing, a stepping stone to superior, unyielding metal.

In the heart of the main assembly chamber, amidst the clang and hiss, an illegal arms fair was in full, clandestine swing. This was no ordinary market. Here, shrouded figures negotiated in hushed tones over crates of automatic weapons and rocket launchers, their shadows dancing on the gleaming surfaces of tanks and helicopter gunships. Fighter jets, sleek and deadly, sat silently under tarpaulins, waiting for their next destructive purpose. Pallets of bombs and missiles lay stacked, ready to ignite small wars or hasten their end. But it wasn't just lethal hardware; nonlethal military gear, advanced communications systems, and naval navigation tools were also traded, a complete arsenal for the insidious spread of metallic doctrine. This was a criminal convention, a secret bazaar attracting the grimiest elements of Remnant's underbelly: criminal gangs, terrorist cells, and mercenaries, all eager for the technological edge the Metal Forge provided. Its isolated, hidden hangar location was a necessity, a constant evasion of the authorities who perpetually hunted these illicit armories.

Yet, the true spectacle lay at the central forging station. Here, under the watchful gaze of the Metal Colour Sentinels, a new era was being painstakingly crafted. The Sentinels—Red, Pink, Green, Blue, and Yellow—were the elite, the vanguards of the Metal Forge's ideology, already enhanced cyborgs whose bodies hummed with concealed metallic components.

Red Sentinel, authoritative and impatient, stood at the forefront, his posture rigid. "The next generation of plating must exceed all previous iterations," he commanded, his voice metallic, amplified slightly by internal comms. "Our goal is not merely resilience, but integration. The flesh must yield to the inevitable." His focus was on dominating alliances and prioritizing results, and his impatience bordered on a sneering dismissal of any delay.

Pink Sentinel, with her neon-pink hair contrasting sharply with her stern expression, surveyed the process with a sarcastic flick of her wrist. "Ensure the aesthetic is not… barbaric," she drawled, her tone aloof. "Even destruction requires a certain theatricality. I refuse to have our masterpieces look like crude scrap metal. Professionalism, even in conquest, is paramount." She was clearly annoyed by any inefficiency or lack of flair, despite her seemingly disdainful demeanor.

Green Sentinel, calm and disciplined, meticulously reviewed holographic schematics projected from his forearm. "Precision is key. The nanometal infusions must be perfectly calibrated for optimal limb replacement. Too much, and the subject rejects; too little, and the desired augmentation is incomplete." His steady tone and emphasis on control revealed him as the pragmatic anchor of the group.

Blue Sentinel, quiet and analytical, observed the flow of liquid nanometal through intricate tubes, his reserved gaze missing nothing. "The integration protocols for the new neural interfaces must be flawless. Our goal is a symbiotic relationship, not mere puppetry. The consciousness must accept the metallic upgrade, not merely be consumed by it." His focus was entirely on logistics and contingency, already planning for potential failures.

Yellow Sentinel, leaning against a stack of freshly forged weapon chassis, radiated a laid-back optimism. "Looking good, guys! We'll have 'em all shining like new pennies, eh? Nothing beats a fresh coat of chrome!" His casual language and supportive tone provided a strange counterpoint to the intensity of his comrades. He valued morale, a bridge between the cold pragmatism and the chaotic ambition.

The focus of their attention was the production of Nanometal, a marvel inspired by the legendary kaiju, though scaled down for the realities of Remnant. This wasn't the planet-consuming "gray goo" scenario of its mythical predecessor; here, the nanometal was primarily designed for limb replacement and enhancing existing biological structures, rather than covering entire landscapes. It could regenerate, self-repair, and mold itself, but its current limitations meant that areas protected by Aura or powerful magic still resisted its full assimilation. It was enough, however, to graft seamlessly onto flesh, creating powerful, integrated prosthetics and cybernetic enhancements.

Engineers, themselves a mix of human and augmented cyborgs, meticulously supervised the crafting of "upgrades to the vessel." These "vessels" were not just weapons but future converts, willing or otherwise. Severed limbs, damaged organs, and even entire skeletal structures were slowly being replaced by shimmering, almost liquid metal. Surgical lasers hummed as they excised damaged tissue, replaced by the self-assembling nanometal, flowing like mercury before hardening into seamless, functional prosthetics. The air was filled with the faint, metallic tang of new constructs.

At a separate station, a team worked on refining weapon systems. Laser sights were being integrated directly into ocular implants, ballistic armor was woven with self-healing metallic fibers, and Dust chambers were being retrofitted with nanometal components for enhanced output. Their goal was a truly integrated soldier: flesh and metal, perfectly melded, each enhancement designed to push the boundaries of combat.

The Metal Forge was not merely manufacturing; it was evolving. It was a crucible where the dream of a metallic future was being forged, one replacement limb, one upgraded weapon, one willing or unwilling cyborg at a time. The Great War may have crippled them, but it had not extinguished their ambition. The fires of the Forge burned bright, fueled by a singular, unyielding belief: that the future of life on Remnant was not organic, but metal.

One could believe they could come back.
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The frigid air of Mantle bit deep, a stark contrast to the luxurious warmth of Atlas high above. The city was a sprawling, beleaguered urban expanse, its worn buildings patched with makeshift repairs, its streets frequently dusted with fresh snow and the lingering grime of industry. A permanent tension, a mix of resilience and weary resentment, hung over the populace.

In a surprisingly cozy, though still utilitarian, safe house tucked away in one of Mantle's less-trafficked districts, the Happy Huntresses gathered. The warmth from a sputtering space heater battled against the pervasive chill. Robyn Hill, their unofficial leader, a woman whose strong will and protective nature for Mantle radiated from her, leaned over a battered map spread across a crate, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Beside her, Joanna Greenleaf, tall and stoic with her short, dark green hair and beige eyes, listened intently, her hand resting on the hilt of her crossbow staff. Joanna, a former Atlas Academy graduate, was fiercely dedicated to Mantle, often displaying a silent aggression towards Atlesian personnel, a stark contrast to her supportive demeanor among her teammates. Her stance was always "Either you're helping, or you're baggage."

Fiona Thyme, a Faunus with soft sheep ears and short, messy white hair, hovered nearby, her olive eyes wide with a mix of optimism and concern. She clutched a small, worn satchel, ready to activate her Pocket Dimensions Semblance at a moment's notice. Fiona's bleeding heart meant she prioritized helping her people above all else, and she was fiercely loyal to Robyn.

May Marigold, with her striking blue hair tied in a long ponytail, leaned against a wall, her amber eyes scanning the room. May, the most direct and outwardly confrontational of the group, held a deep distrust for the military, but her loyalty to Robyn was unwavering. Her Invisibility Field Semblance made her invaluable for covert operations, a stark contrast to her "least happy" demeanor.

“Alright, team,” Robyn began, her voice firm but tinged with the familiar weight of their responsibilities. “General Ironwood has been… less abrasive since the last council meeting. He’s still focused on Atlas and its defenses, and the rising Grimm activity has him preoccupied, but he’s not actively stonewalling us on aid like he used to. That’s a small win, but a win nonetheless.” She tapped a point on the map. “However, the increased crime activity Ozpin mentioned in his last briefing is hitting Mantle hard. The Dust thefts are escalating, and the gangs are getting bolder. It's putting our people at risk.”

Joanna grunted. “The authorities are spread thin. Too busy looking up at Atlas, not down here where the real fight is. We need to step up. What’s our priority?” Her resolve to aid Mantle above all else was paramount.

Fiona piped up, her sheep ears twitching. “We could try to intercept some of the Dust shipments before they reach the black market. My Pocket Dimensions can, like, totally hide a lot of it. For Mantle, of course!” Her eyes sparkled with the eagerness to contribute.

May scoffed, though without malice. “Intercepting is one thing, Fi. Holding onto it is another. These gangs aren’t playing nice. We need to hit them where it hurts, make them think twice about targeting Mantle. And that means a bit more than just a quick grab-and-go.” Her disdain for easy answers was evident.

Just as the Happy Huntresses delved into their strategy, a subtle shift occurred in the shadows of an abandoned supply warehouse across the street. Ziron, the villain with the heavy, deep green and violet armored suit and a purple glass dome for a helmet, watched through a discreet, almost invisible holographic screen projected from his gauntlet. He had found this "dreary wasteland" of Mantle to be a perfect low-profile foothold, where apathy reigned and his imposing, hardly subtle armor barely raised an eyebrow.

"Venith," Ziron called softly into his comm, his voice carrying the weight of command laced with a touch of dry amusement. He watched the Huntresses intently, a toothy grin spreading 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.

"The Happy Huntresses," Ziron mused to himself, his internal thoughts broadcast through the comm to his unseen subordinate. "Noble fools, trying to patch a dying city. They're making the ground fertile for us." He saw their struggles not as a challenge, but as an opportunity.

Back in the safe house, a new voice, unfamiliar to the Happy Huntresses, cut in from the corner where she had been quietly observing. Bullet, a mercenary with short, spiky gray hair, golden eyes, and a scar across her nose, had been hired by a third party for "observation and tactical assessment" of Mantle's local resistance. Her black jacket with gold trim and denim hot pants were distinctly un-Atlesian. She moved with the candid, no-nonsense attitude of someone who had spent her life on battlefields. She didn't sweat small details, and her honesty was blunt, a byproduct of her upbringing in an all-male mercenary squad, which left her slightly ignorant of "the ways of the world."

"Intercepting supplies is inefficient," Bullet stated, her voice a low, gravelly timbre that commanded attention, startling the Huntresses. "You need to disrupt their logistics. Find their storage, their transit points. A direct hit on their infrastructure causes more lasting damage than merely 'absorbing' a few trucks." She picked off an imaginary piece of lint from her fingerless glove, her amber eyes scanning the map with military precision. "You cannot simply put out fires; you must destroy the arsonists' source."

Robyn looked up, surprised but intrigued. "And who might you be?" she asked, her hand instinctively going to her own weapon.

Bullet met her gaze without flinching. "Bullet. Mercenary. My current objective aligns with yours: a more... stable operating environment. Which means less petty criminals causing unnecessary complications." She wasn't here for altruism, but for pragmatism.

Joanna narrowed her eyes, assessing the newcomer. "A mercenary huntress? In Mantle? Ironwood’s increased security should have caught you." Her disdain for Atlesian personnel extended to those who seemed to slip through their nets, though her curiosity was piqued.

“The Ironwood security is… robust,” Bullet conceded, a hint of something unreadable in her voice. "But not infallible. My methods are... direct. And effective." She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "This city needs a stronger hand against these parasitic elements. The 'General' is too focused on the heavens, when the rot is on the ground." Her assessment of Ironwood, while less abrasive, was still critical, seeing him as distracted from the immediate threats to Mantle.

“Also technically I checked she’s a legal huntress,” snarked May.

Robyn exchanged a glance with Joanna, a silent communication passing between them. A mercenary, perhaps, but one with useful tactical insight. And a common enemy.

"Alright, Bullet," Robyn said, a slow smile forming on her face. "You've got a point. So, what's your plan for taking out these 'arsonists'?" She gestured to the map. "Show us how you'd hit their source."

Bullet stepped forward, her finger tracing a decisive line across the map. "We identify the largest supply caches, the main distribution hubs. Then, we hit them hard. Simultaneously. Eliminate their leadership. Cut off their supply lines. It's not about being 'nice.' It's about victory." Her words, blunt and unyielding, promised a different kind of justice for Mantle.

From his hidden perch, Ziron’s grin widened, a silent, malicious delight. A mercenary, precise and ruthless, joining the local resistance? This was even better than he'd hoped. Such alliances, formed out of desperation, were ripe for exploitation. More chaos. More despair. More recruits for his own dark designs. Mantle was indeed a fertile ground.
____________________________________________________________________________
The world of Remnant, unknowingly balanced on the precipice of a new era, harbored secrets far deeper than the Grimm-infested wilds. Four women, scattered across the continents, unknowingly held fragments of an ancient power, a magic distinct from Dust or Aura, passed down through generations. These were the Maidens, and their identities, once shrouded in myth, were slowly, terrifyingly, coming to light.

The Spring Maiden: Sienna Khan - The Burning Heart of the White Fang

The meeting hall in Mistral’s White Fang stronghold was a stark, functional space, stripped of opulence, designed for purpose. Sienna Khan, the High Leader of the White Fang, sat at the head of a heavy, unadorned table. Her tiger-stripe tattoos rippled subtly beneath her form-fitting dark gray dress, and her amber eyes, usually burning with fierce conviction, held a new, almost volatile glow.

Around the table sat her Marshals, the hardened commanders of the White Fang’s various divisions. Morpho Insularise, with his almost ethereal, butterfly-like aura, embodied the 'Joy' of their cause, a stark contrast to the grim realities of their fight. Atra Infrano, a figure shrouded in dark fabric, seemed to emanate a quiet 'Hope,' perhaps from her raven or crow-like traits. Cnidarise Aquarius, his movements fluid and unsettling like a jellyfish, represented the 'Hatred' of their people, a visceral embodiment of the suffering they endured. Chorduse Vermillion, radiating a controlled 'Rage,' his reptilian eyes (like a snake or lizard) glinting with barely contained fury. Varanus Verdant, whose monitor lizard-like features conveyed a profound 'Fear' – the historical dread of their oppressed race. And finally, Strigise Spruce, solemn and owl-like, embodied the 'Sorrow' that had long burdened the Faunus. Rubro Starlet, a more flamboyant figure with starfish-like embellishments, pulsed with 'Desire' – the yearning for true liberation.

"The recent skirmishes in Vale have been… productive," Sienna began, her voice a low, resonant purr that carried a new, underlying power. Her dual Faunus ears, a testament to her tiger lineage, twitched subtly. "Ozpin and his pet Ironwood are distracted. Their attention is fragmented by petty crime and manufactured chaos. The perfect cover for our true objectives."

Her amber eyes, however, glowed with an intensity that had little to do with strategy. It was the fierce, elemental power of the Spring Maiden, a recent, sudden awakening that had coursed through her during a particularly brutal clash with an Atlesian convoy. The knowledge of this ancient magic, now hers, was a profound secret, known only to a select few, and she wielded it with a primal, instinctual force. She had always believed violence was necessary, a retaliatory measure for Human prejudice, but now, with magic, her belief had solidified into an unshakeable conviction. This was the means to truly demand respect, to push back, not just with swords and Dust, but with the very forces of nature.

"The time for subtle pushes is over," Sienna continued, a faint, almost imperceptible green aura shimmering around her. "Our Faunus brethren are tired of complacency. They yearn for true freedom, for the dismantling of the systems that oppress them. And I, as their High Leader, will provide the path. This power... it is a blessing. It allows us to accelerate our righteous retribution."

Morpho Insularise nodded, a serene understanding in his eyes. "The winds of change are indeed blowing, High Leader. We feel the surge of new purpose among the ranks."

"The 'distractions' in Vale are merely a prelude," Sienna stated, her voice rising slightly, echoing with the nascent magic she commanded. "While the world focuses on the noise, we consolidate our strength. And when the time is right, Spring will bring forth not new life, but a cleansing fire." Her amber eyes burned, promising retribution, a new season for the Faunus, born from the raw power of the Spring Maiden. The marshals, though unaware of the source of her amplified presence, felt the unwavering conviction in her words, a promise of a future forged in steel and elemental might.

The Fall Maiden: Amber - A Fated Encounter at Beacon

The air in Beacon Academy’s deserted courtyard was cool, crisp with the scent of ozone and distant rain. Qrow Branwen, his perpetually disheveled form silhouetted against the grand, illuminated clock tower, nursed his flask, his red eyes scanning the perimeter. He’d followed a lead, a faint whisper in the criminal underworld, of an unusual power surge, something far beyond a mere Semblance, radiating from the heart of Vale.

Then she appeared. Amber, a woman with shoulder-length brown hair and a light brown complexion, her features kind and earnest, though currently etched with a profound weariness and confusion. She wore a simple, travel-worn outfit – an off-white blouse, brown vest, and dark pants, and carried a staff that, even from a distance, Qrow could tell hummed with an unusual energy. Her brown eyes, though, occasionally flickered with an unnatural, fiery yellow-orange glow, the tell-tale sign of raw, untamed Maiden magic.

Beside her, a figure unfamiliar to Qrow materialized from the shadows – Gray Briers. He had blue-black hair, mixed skin, and wore a gray shirt with green stripes and gray pants. His demeanor was introverted, a quiet presence, but his eyes, two pools of intelligent gray, keenly observed his surroundings. He carried himself with a subtle air of mischievousness, a hint of snark in his otherwise detached aura.

“Amber,” Qrow said, stepping forward, his voice a low rumble, devoid of his usual sarcastic edge. This was a delicate situation. “My name’s Qrow. Ozpin sent me. We need to talk.”

Amber flinched, her fiery eyes flaring for a moment before dimming. “Ozpin? How… how do you know my name? And what is this?” She gestured vaguely at her glowing hands, which occasionally sparked with tiny, uncontrolled arcs of electricity. Her kindness, so evident in her offering an apple to an illusionary crying girl, had led her into a confrontation with shadowy figures she barely understood, igniting the power within her.

Gray stepped forward, a protective, if detached, presence beside Amber. “He speaks of the old wizard, the one who meddles with fate,” Gray said, his voice quiet, but with a surprising depth. He was an introvert, a loner, but his love for building and understanding mechanics made him incredibly smart, capable of hacking into complex systems with ease. He had his own mech, though currently unseen, a testament to his inventive nature. “She’s… had a difficult time. Unfamiliar forces. Chaos. She’s not fully in control.”

Qrow nodded, his gaze assessing Gray. An unexpected variable. “I understand. She’s the Fall Maiden, isn’t she?” he stated directly, cutting to the chase.

Amber gasped, her brown eyes widening. “The… the Fall Maiden? What are you talking about? I… I just felt this power… explode. After that robbery. I don’t understand.” Her innocence, her inexperience, was palpable. She was clearly unaware of the true nature of the power she now possessed.

“An ancient magic,” Qrow explained, patiently, something he rarely was. “Passed down through generations of women. You’re its current wielder.” He glanced at Gray. “And you are…?”

Gray gave a slight, almost imperceptible shrug. “Just a… companion. Drawn to the anomaly. I find myself intrigued by… unconventional energies. And the interplay of magic and mechanics.” He paused, a hint of a snarky smile playing on his lips. “Ozpin, you say? He’s certainly not shy about his meddling. And this 'Maiden' business… it has a certain dark, magical flair, doesn't it?” He was drawn to the unknown, a dark, mischievous curiosity driving him.

Qrow ignored Gray’s commentary, focusing on Amber. "We need to get you somewhere safe. Somewhere you can learn to control this. There are others who seek this power, and they won't be as... cordial." He thought of Salem's operatives, knowing they would already be sniffing for this.

Amber looked at Gray, then back at Qrow. Her kindness, though leading to naivety, also drove her to help. If this power was real, and it was dangerous, she had a responsibility.

"Safe?" she whispered. "From what?"

Qrow’s expression hardened. "From everything that seeks to twist it, or steal it. And believe me, there's a lot out there." He extended a hand. "Come with me. Beacon is the safest place for now."

Gray, ever the observer, nodded. "A logical course of action. A fortress of learning, and a prime location for… unraveling mysteries." He gave a slight, almost imperceptible smirk, perhaps already plotting how to hack into Beacon’s systems. The Fall Maiden had arrived, and with her, a new, volatile piece on Remnant's chessboard.

The Winter Maidens: Winter Schnee & Lady Nagant - A Shared Burden

In a secluded, high-security wing of Atlas Academy, where the air hummed with pristine technology, Winter Schnee moved with practiced elegance. Her long white hair, tied in a high bun, framed her pale, serious face. Light blue eyes, usually cold and disciplined, flickered with intense concentration. She was practicing with her newfound power, the elemental force of the Winter Maiden, flowing through her. She manipulated ice with astonishing precision, summoning powerful blizzards within contained chambers, her Glyphs augmenting her control. She was the Winter Maiden, having received the powers from Fria in a moment of tragic sacrifice, a destiny she had accepted with grim determination.

"Focus, Specialist," her own voice echoed in the training room, a recording playing back her internal monologue. "Every particle. Every chill. Control. Discipline. The power is yours." She paused, her breath visible in the frosty air as she lowered her hands, the swirling ice around her settling into a delicate frost on the chamber floor. Her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the patterns of ice, searching for any imperfection. "Not enough," she muttered, her voice sharp with self-criticism. "Precision is not enough. It must be flawless. The Maiden’s power demands nothing less."

She raised her hand again, a Glyph spinning to life beneath her feet, its intricate design glowing with a pale blue light. The air grew colder, the hum of the chamber’s climate controls straining as she summoned another blizzard, this one sharper, more controlled. Shards of ice formed in midair, rotating in a deadly, elegant dance before she directed them to strike a series of reinforced targets with pinpoint accuracy. The targets shattered, but Winter’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Too slow," she said aloud, her tone clipped. "Salem’s forces won’t wait for me to perfect my aim. I need to be faster. Stronger. Unbreakable."

She stepped back, her boots clicking against the frost-covered floor, and closed her eyes, centering herself. The weight of Fria’s sacrifice pressed against her chest, a constant reminder of the responsibility she now carried. "You gave me this power, Fria," she whispered, her voice softening for a moment, almost reverent. "You trusted me to wield it, to protect Atlas, to protect everyone. I won’t fail you. I won’t fail them." Her eyes snapped open, burning with resolve. "But this power… it’s wilder than I expected. Like trying to tame a storm. I will master it. For you. For all of us."

Winter activated another Glyph, this one larger, its edges crackling with energy as she channeled the Maiden’s power through it. A gust of icy wind roared through the chamber, forming a towering spire of ice that gleamed under the sterile lights. She tilted her head, assessing her work. "Better," she conceded, though her voice carried a trace of frustration. "But it’s not enough to be better. I need to be unstoppable. Salem won’t hesitate, and neither can I." She clenched her fist, the ice spire fracturing into a thousand shimmering fragments that hung suspended in the air before dissolving into a fine mist.

She turned to the control panel, where a holographic display tracked her performance metrics. "Run the simulation again," she commanded, her voice firm, authoritative. "Increase the resistance by twenty percent. If I’m to face her, I need to know my limits—and surpass them." The system beeped in acknowledgment, and Winter squared her shoulders, her light blue eyes glinting with unyielding determination. "This is my duty," she said to herself, her voice low but resolute. "This is my purpose. The Winter Maiden doesn’t falter. I won’t falter."

As the chamber hummed to life, preparing the next round of tests, Winter took a deep breath, the cold air filling her lungs. The power within her surged, a restless, elemental force that felt both foreign and intrinsic. "One day, Salem," she murmured, her voice a quiet vow as she raised her hands, ice already forming at her fingertips. "One day, I’ll show you what this power can do. And you’ll wish you’d never crossed Atlas."
____________________________________________________________________________

Miles away, in the stark, concrete confines of a maximum-security prison cell, Kaina Tsutsumi, known to the world as Lady Nagant, sat in a solitary, almost meditative pose. Her short, clumpy deep indigo hair, streaked with vibrant pink, fell around her scarred face. Her purple eyes, usually sharp and direct, were distant, reflecting the cold, hard reality of her confinement. She wore a simple, dark violet prison dress, her once-muscular frame now covered in bandages from the self-destruct Quirk All For One had secretly planted within her.

The cell door slid open with a metallic groan, revealing two grim-faced agents from the Hero Public Safety Commission. They were her former masters, the architects of her disillusionment, the ones who had twisted her rifle into a tool for their so-called 'fragile peace.' Nagant didn’t bother to look up. She knew their type—pressed suits, polished lies, and the stench of bureaucracy clinging to them like cheap cologne.

"Nagant," the first agent began, his voice clipped, as if her name was just another item on his checklist. "A new development. Classified, of course."

She snorted, her lips barely moving. "Classified. Naturally. You lot never tire of your little games, do you?" Her voice was low, laced with venom, each word a bullet aimed at their sanctimonious facade. Her purple eyes remained fixed on the sterile wall, tracing the cracks in the concrete as if they held more truth than the men before her. She’d been pardoned months ago, but she’d chosen this cell—her self-imposed cage—as a middle finger to the system that had chewed her up and spit her out. Let them squirm, she thought. Let them see what their 'hero' had become.

"It concerns the Maidens," the second agent said, ignoring her jab. His tone was flat, but there was a tension in his posture, like he was bracing for a storm. "Specifically, the Winter Maiden. The transfer from Fria to Schnee worked. But… there was an unforeseen complication. A split."

Nagant’s head tilted slightly, just enough to show she was listening. A split? Her curiosity piqued, but she kept her expression guarded, her voice dripping with mockery. "A split. How poetic. Your shiny Atlesian toys finally break something you can’t control?"

The first agent’s jaw tightened, but he pressed on. "Due to the nature of the transfer machine, and the sheer power involved… a portion of the Winter Maiden’s power was… diverted."

Her purple eyes snapped to them, sharp and unyielding, a flicker of something rare crossing her face: surprise. She leaned forward slightly, the bandages around her arms crinkling. "Diverted," she repeated, the word heavy with disbelief. "You’re telling me your glorified science project fumbled ancient magic? And you’re here because… what? You need me to clean up your mess again?"

The second agent’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t take the bait. "During the process," he said, his voice tight, "when the original Winter Maiden’s power was channeled through that experimental Atlesian machine… a fraction, a significant portion of the elemental magic, was drawn to the most unlikely of places. To a recipient who, at that very moment, was undergoing a powerful, traumatic energy discharge of their own."

His gaze locked with Nagant’s, and the weight of his words hit her like a sniper’s shot. "To you, Nagant. When you were… 'detonated' by All For One. The machine, seeking a viable female vessel for the excess power, registered you. You are, in essence, a co-Winter Maiden."

The air in the cell seemed to freeze. Nagant stared, utterly speechless—a rarity for someone who’d always had a retort locked and loaded. Her? A former assassin, a disgraced hero, a prisoner by choice, now tethered to some ancient, mystical power? The absurdity of it was almost laughable, if it weren’t so utterly insane. She felt it then, a faint, alien hum deep in her chest, like a winter wind trapped inside her ribs. It was cold, sharp, and utterly foreign—a power she hadn’t noticed until this moment, masked by the pain of her injuries and the weight of her guilt.

"You’re joking," she said finally, her voice low and dangerous. "You’re telling me your little experiment turned me into… what? A magical girl? Do I get a tiara and a sparkly dress to go with it?" Her sarcasm was a blade, cutting through the tension, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. She leaned back against the wall, folding her arms. "This is rich, even for you vultures. What’s the catch? There’s always a catch."

The first agent’s face remained impassive, but his voice carried a warning. "This information is highly sensitive. The Commission is aware, but it must not become public knowledge. The ramifications for global stability, for the perception of Maidens… are too great. You will remain silent. You will never speak of this to anyone. Not a hint. Not a whisper."

Nagant’s lips curled into a bitter, humorless smile. "Oh, don’t worry. I’m real good at keeping your dirty secrets. Learned from the best, didn’t I?" She leaned forward, her purple eyes glinting with defiance. "But let’s get one thing straight. You don’t get to waltz in here, drop this fairy-tale nonsense on me, and expect me to play your obedient little soldier again. I’m done being your pawn."

The second agent stepped closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "This isn’t a request, Nagant. You may have chosen this cell, but don’t forget—you’re still in our world. You breathe because we allow it. This power inside you? It’s not yours to wield as you please. It’s a liability, and we will contain it."

She laughed then, a sharp, hollow sound that echoed off the concrete walls. "Contain it? You can’t even contain your own corruption. You think you can control this?" She tapped her chest, where that strange, cold power pulsed faintly. "You made me a killer. He wanted me made as a bomb. And now, what? Some cosmic fluke makes me a Maiden? You people are batting a thousand."

The first agent’s expression didn’t change, but his voice grew colder. "You’ll do as you’re told, Nagant. Or we’ll ensure you never see the outside of this cell again."

She tilted her head, her smile turning feral. "Threats, huh? That’s your play? Go ahead. Lock me up forever. Strip me of everything. You already took my pride, my purpose, my name. What’s one more cage?" Her voice dropped, low and cutting. "But if you think you can bury this—bury me—and keep your precious world from crumbling, you’re dumber than I thought. This power? It’s not yours. It’s not mine, either. It’s something else entirely. And if it’s half as volatile as I am, you’re in for one hell of a storm."

The agents exchanged a glance, clearly unsettled but unwilling to show it. The second one straightened, adjusting his tie. "This conversation is over. You’ve been informed. Keep your mouth shut, Nagant. We’ll be watching."

As they turned to leave, she called after them, her voice dripping with mockery. "Hey, tell your bosses something for me. Next time you play god with your fancy machines, maybe don’t leave the keys in the ignition. Sloppy work, boys."

The cell door slammed shut, the sound reverberating through the small space. Nagant leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. The cold power of winter hummed within her, unbidden, unwanted, but undeniably hers. She, who had seen the bloodshed behind the hero facade, was now entangled in another layer of supernatural deceit. Another secret to carry, another lie to uphold. But if they thought she’d stay silent forever, they were sorely mistaken. She’d play their game for now, but Kaina Tsutsumi wasn’t one to stay caged forever—not by bars, not by threats, and certainly not by some ancient magic she never asked for.

"Let them think they’ve got me leashed," she muttered to herself, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "They’ll learn soon enough. Ice breaks stone. Always has."
_________________________________________________________________________
The chamber, a cavernous, sparsely lit space, was illuminated by flickering torches on rough stone walls, casting long shadows that danced like specters. The air, cool and damp, carried a metallic scent, possibly from abandoned machinery, contrasting with the arid desert outside. A weathered table, scarred with maps and markings, stood at the center, where Beros, Flect, and two Bliss Ocean agents gathered, their faces lit by the unsteady light.

Beros, her sharp eyes glinting with determination, leaned forward, her voice steady and commanding. "The Maidens are a new breed of threat, one that neither of our organizations has faced before. But together, we can eliminate them. Starting with me—the Summer Maiden."

Flect, his luminous light blue skin glowing faintly, tilted his head, his yellow eyes burning with fanaticism. "Indeed, Ms. Beros. Your power as the Summer Maiden is volatile, a manifestation of uncontrolled magic that must be purged. Our Trigger Bombs, once deployed, will create the chaos needed to draw out your allies and enemies alike, making them vulnerable to our attack."

One Bliss Ocean agent, a stern-faced woman, spoke up. "Our intelligence indicates that Zora Salazar is approaching Humarise alone, seeking to join our cause. She’s a wildcard, with her Sundial Epithet capable of aging anything to dust. Her arrogance drives her to come without allies, but her skill makes her dangerous regardless."

Beros smirked, a flicker of fire in her gaze. "Zora’s got guts, I’ll give her that. Thinks she can waltz in here alone with that Sundial of hers? She’s powerful, but she’s no Maiden. If she joins us, she’ll need to prove her loyalty. My flames can burn through any defense, and I’m not afraid to test her if she steps out of line."

Flect’s lips curled into a rare smile. "Your power, combined with my Reflect Quirk, will make us unstoppable. I can neutralize any direct attacks, allowing you to focus your flames on our targets. But we must be cautious. The other Maidens—Winter, Spring, Fall—are not to be underestimated. Their magic is ancient, capable of elemental manipulation that rivals your own."

The other agent, a man with a scar running down his cheek, added, "Zora’s confidence is her strength and her weakness. She’s got no backup, but her skills as a bounty hunter and her Epithet’s raw power mean she doesn’t need it. If she’s not fully committed to our cause, she could turn on us."

Beros tapped her fingers on the table, flames flickering briefly at her fingertips. "Then we keep her on a short leash. My fire can reduce her to ashes if she betrays us. Her pistols, imbued with that aging Epithet, could be useful—provided she aims them at the right targets and doesn’t get cocky enough to think she can outshine me."

Flect nodded approvingly. "A sound strategy. But we must also consider the possibility of other Maidens intervening. If we target one, the others might come to her aid."

Beros’s expression darkened, a spark of fire flaring in her eyes. "Let them come. I’ll burn them all to cinders, one by one, until no magic remains but mine."

The agents exchanged glances, sensing the intensity of their leaders’ resolve. This alliance, born of mutual hatred for unchecked power, was fragile but potent, driven by a shared vision of a world free from Quirks, Epithets, and rival magic.

Beros leaned back, her voice tinged with disdain. "You know, Flect, I’ve always thought these so-called ‘gifts’—Quirks, Epithets, magic—they’re crutches. People lean on them instead of mastering true skill. Zora’s no different, strutting in here alone like she’s untouchable. Back in the day, it was about precision, strategy, and raw talent. Now, everyone’s hiding behind their fancy powers. It’s weak."

Flect’s gaze was unwavering, his voice cold and measured. "I couldn’t agree more, Ms. Beros. Quirks are a corruption, a deviation from true humanity. The Maidens, with their ancient magic, are no different. Zora’s arrogance, fueled by her Epithet, makes her a symptom of the same disease. We will eradicate them—starting with those who challenge your dominion as the Summer Maiden."

The stern-faced agent cleared her throat. "Our scouts confirm Zora’s approaching our base alone, likely banking on her Sundial to carry her through. Her intentions are unclear—join us or challenge us. Either way, her overconfidence could be our advantage."

Beros’s grin widened, flames dancing in her palms. "A lone wolf, huh? I like a challenge. If Zora’s here to play, I’ll show her what real power looks like. My flames can melt her Sundial to slag before she even draws it."

Flect’s eyes gleamed with a cold light. "And our Trigger Bombs are nearly ready. Once deployed, they’ll force the Quirked and the Inscribed to turn on each other, creating chaos that will allow us to strike at the other Maidens undetected."

The scarred agent leaned forward, his voice low. "What about the other Maidens? Winter, Spring, Fall—they’re still out there, and they won’t take kindly to us targeting their kind."

Beros waved a hand dismissively, a trail of sparks following her gesture. "One at a time. We’ll deal with Zora first—ally or enemy, she’s a stepping stone. Her arrogance makes her predictable. Then we move on to the others. By the time we’re done, I’ll be the only Maiden left standing."

Flect nodded. "A systematic approach. I approve. But we must also prepare for resistance from other factions. The heroes, the Huntsmen, even other terrorist groups who might see us as a threat."

Beros’s eyes narrowed, a fiery glow emanating from her. "Let them try. My flames will burn through their defenses, and with your Reflect Quirk, we’ll crush anyone who stands in our way. Zora thinks she’s unstoppable? We’ll show her what unstoppable really means."

Just then, a low rumble echoed through the chamber, causing the torches to flicker wildly. Everyone tensed, hands moving instinctively to weapons or preparing to activate their powers.

Beros’s flames flared brighter, her voice sharp. "What was that?"

Flect’s expression remained calm, but his eyes scanned the shadows. "Probably just the wind. This place is old, full of creaks and groans."

But Beros wasn’t convinced. She summoned a ring of fire around her, illuminating the chamber’s corners. "Or maybe Zora’s closer than we think, strutting in here like she owns the place. Keep your guard up, everyone. Trust is a luxury we don’t have."

Flect’s lips twitched into a faint smile. "Wise words, Ms. Beros. Even among allies, vigilance is key."

The tension lingered for a moment before the scarred agent spoke again. "We should finalize our plans. Zora’s coming alone, which gives us an edge. If she’s here to join us, we’ll test her loyalty. If she’s here to fight, we need to be ready to take her down."

Beros nodded, her flames dimming slightly as she refocused. "Agreed. Let’s go over the layout of this base. If Zora’s here to join us, we’ll make her prove herself. If she’s here to fight, I’ll burn her to ash. Either way, we need to know every entrance, every weak point."

The stern-faced agent spread out a holographic map on the table, its glowing lines illuminating the faces of the conspirators. "Here’s the layout of our base. It’s fortified, but there are weak points—here, here, and here. If Zora’s planning an attack, her arrogance might lead her to these spots, thinking she can overpower us alone."

Beros studied the map, her fingers trailing sparks along its edges. "And if she’s got any tricks up her sleeve? Her Sundial’s no joke, but neither’s my fire."

The agent nodded. "Our intelligence suggests she’s relying solely on her Epithet and her skills as a bounty hunter. No allies, no backup—just her overconfidence and those pistols."

Flect’s voice was calm but authoritative. "My Reflect Quirk can handle her bullets, aging or not, buying you time to unleash your flames, Beros."

Beros smirked, a blaze of confidence in her eyes. "And my fire will burn through anything she throws at us. Zora’s arrogance will be her downfall—whether she’s with us or against us."

As they continued to discuss their strategy, the alliance between Bliss Ocean and Humarise grew stronger, two fanatical groups united by a common hatred of rival powers, ready to wage war on anyone who threatened their vision.

But in the back of their minds, both Beros and Flect knew that their alliance was fragile, built on shared enmity rather than trust. Zora’s lone approach, driven by her arrogance and unmatched skill, only heightened the stakes.

Little did they know, however, that Zora’s arrival would set off a chain of events that would draw in heroes and villains from across multiple worlds, each with their own agendas, their own battles to fight.

But that was a story for another time. For now, in this dimly lit chamber, the seeds of a new conflict were being sown, one that would test the very fabric of reality itself.
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The evening fog, thick and laden with the scent of salt and old industry, rolled in from the sea, blanketing the port city of Argus in Mistral in a damp, chilling embrace. The city, a sprawling, historic nexus of trade and cultural exchange, now felt weighed down, its ancient stones absorbing the pervasive anxieties of the era. Beneath its veneer of normalcy, shadowy currents of power and ambition churned.

In a surprisingly well-maintained, if somewhat utilitarian, office perched on the higher floors of a building overlooking the bustling docks, Aquarius Vasilas sat at her polished mahogany desk. Neptune’s mother, she exuded an aura of unyielding authority. Her dark, severe business suit, meticulously tailored, bespoke a mind as sharp and unyielding as a freshly honed blade. Her black hair was pulled back in a severe, no-nonsense bun, and her sharp, intelligent eyes, though currently focused on a legal brief, missed nothing. She was a lawyer, and her professional demeanor was one of cold, ruthless efficiency, a stern and demanding presence that commanded respect, if not warmth. A shining katana, intricately crafted, was displayed on a wall mount behind her, a stark, silent warning that her capabilities extended beyond legal maneuvering.

The heavy oak door to her office, usually locked and guarded, opened with a soft click, admitting a figure who seemed to carry the very scent of distant battles and sterile laboratories: Cheng Lixue. She was an A-Rank Valkyrie of Schicksal, on a temporary assignment from a shadowy international organization, her presence a quiet testament to the escalating global anxieties. Lixue, with her dark blue hair pulled back, and sharp gray eyes that missed nothing, was clad in a dark blue coat with yellow shoulder pads, a picture of disciplined readiness. She moved with the quiet grace of a predator, yet her expression held a perpetual, underlying seriousness, tinged with a faint worry that belied her usually stoic demeanor.

"Madam Vasilas," Lixue stated, her voice calm and professional, "the Grimm Guardians are here. They claim to have critical intelligence regarding the recent incursions. I have verified their credentials, rudimentary as they are."

Aquarius Vasilas simply nodded, her expression unreadable. "Send them in." Her voice was low, clipped, and precise, a tone that brooked no argument.

A moment later, two more figures entered, their appearances as varied as the Grimm they hunted, yet united by an unspoken resolve. These were the vanguard of the Grimm Guardians, a specialized, independent group dedicated to investigating and neutralizing unusual Grimm phenomena, often operating beyond the conventional jurisdictions of Huntsmen and the military. They were outsiders, often viewed with suspicion, but their work was increasingly vital.

First, Arrastra Skye, a young Faunus woman with vibrant blue hair tied in a practical ponytail, her light blue eyes keen behind her glasses. Her most striking feature was her lithe, blue serval cat legs, ending in three sharp claws, giving her movements a subtle, restless energy. She wore a short, brown leather jacket over a black and blue shirt, a functional outfit for a Huntress constantly on the move. Arrastra was a loner by nature, slow to trust, but quick to action, possessing a strategic mind and an almost uncanny ability to detect subtle shifts in her environment due to her Equilibrium Semblance. Her very posture conveyed a readiness to spring into action, her eyes already taking in every detail of the lawyer's formidable office.

Beside her, with an almost ethereal quietude, was Shion Zaiden, a nonbinary individual whose long silver hair framed a pale, almost serene face, their lavender eyes holding a depth that suggested ancient knowledge, or perhaps, an intimate familiarity with dreams. They wore loose, light purple long sleeves and a large, floppy mage hat adorned with feathers, an unusual sight in a legal office. Shion was stoic and calm, a 'Nightmare Hunter' tasked with capturing Grimm that possessed people in dreams, possessing vast knowledge of dreamscapes and a disconcerting habit of taking naps in odd places. They clutched a Dream Catcher, its purple Dust-infused strings humming faintly, an almost imperceptible vibration, as if listening to the hidden frequencies of the world.

"Madam Vasilas," Arrastra began, her voice direct, her blue serval legs almost imperceptibly shifting on the polished floor, a faint scratching sound audible. "We are the Grimm Guardians. Our intelligence suggests the recent Grimm incursions in Mistral are far from random. There's a pattern, a coordination we haven't seen before. Something is... guiding them. Something new, and deeply unsettling."

Aquarius Vasilas raised an eyebrow, a flicker of skepticism in her sharp gaze. "Coordinated Grimm? A bold claim. General Ironwood's official reports from Atlas indicate similar abnormalities – increased aggression, unusual formations – but nothing definitive beyond an uptick in anomalous behavior. He attributes it to elevated negative emotions in Mantle. Independent groups, however well-intentioned, often lack the full scope of information available to established authorities, or the necessary evidence to act upon such... speculation." She was a woman of facts, of legal precedent, of verifiable data. Rumors and theories, no matter how intriguing, held little sway without concrete proof.

"The General's forces may observe the ripples on the surface, Madam," Shion interjected, their voice calm, almost ethereal, contrasting sharply with the grim topic. "But we delve into the currents beneath. These Grimm are not merely reacting to negative emotions; they are acting with purpose. A malice that transcends primal instinct. They move with strategy, with an almost... sentient malevolence. It is as if a conductor guides a symphony of destruction." Their Dream Catcher pulsed faintly, as if resonating with unseen horrors, making the small room feel larger, more connected to unseen realms.

Cheng Lixue stepped forward, her disciplined training evident in every controlled movement. "My own observations and data analysis support their hypothesis. The anomalous energy signatures we detected during the last incursion—the destruction of the cargo ship in Argus Bay—they were not typical Grimm manifestations. They bore hallmarks of… manipulation. And a faint, residual magical signature, distinct from any known Semblance or Dust. My organization, operating on a global scale, has been tracking similar phenomena with increasing frequency across Remnant."

Aquarius Vasilas folded her hands on her desk, her gaze piercing, unyielding. "Magic. A fairy tale, for many. A relic of the distant past. Yet, Ozpin and General Ironwood have been… concerned about such things in their private communiques. Very well. What, precisely, have you found? And what do you propose, if indeed, these are more than just escalated Grimm attacks?" Her tone dared them to offer anything less than irrefutable proof.

Arrastra pulled up a compact holographic projector from a pouch on her belt, activating it with a precise flick of her thumb. A swirling, three-dimensional map of Mistral appeared, overlaid with glowing lines indicating Grimm movement, concentrated hot spots, and strange, almost geometric attack patterns that converged on specific, strategic locations. "We believe these are 'Grimm beings,' Madam. Creatures with an unnatural intelligence, possibly even engineered or somehow… enhanced. The energy signature, as Lixue confirmed, points to a direct connection with the Land of Darkness, where Salem resides, but also to a local source of amplification within Mistral itself. A focal point that is being cultivated."

"Amplification?" Aquarius pressed, her voice sharp, her legal mind immediately seeking the weakness, the leverage point, the loophole.

"Yes," Lixue confirmed, her voice devoid of emotion, purely analytical. "A nexus of intense negative emotion, perhaps being cultivated through manufactured fear and discord. Or something that enhances their inherent abilities, granting them a terrifying form of sentience and strategic thought. It’s distinct from the elemental magic of Maidens or the manipulation of Aura through Semblances. This is a deliberate, external influence."

"And the source of this amplification?" Aquarius asked, her eyes narrowing, a dangerous glint entering them.

Shion sighed, a weary but determined sound, their large hat seeming to droop slightly. "We believe it is tied to an individual. One who seeks to understand and control these Grimm, to twist their very essence. A dark alchemist, perhaps, a twisted geneticist, or a new breed of mad scientist who sees the Grimm not as a threat, but as a tool for a new world order." They looked at Aquarius directly, their lavender eyes piercing. "Someone capable of reshaping existence itself."

Aquarius Vasilas leaned back, contemplating this unsettling information. Her mind raced, sifting through legal precedents and tactical maneuvers, weighing the extraordinary claims against the undeniable escalation of Grimm activity and the increasingly erratic reports from other kingdoms. Her husband, Triton Vasilas, Neptune’s father, would likely dismiss this as fantastical, too rooted in myth and conspiracy for his practical, jovial nature. Triton, a genuinely friendly and pleasant man, was currently attending a charity event at the Argus Community Center, effortlessly charming philanthropists with his good-natured humor and easy smile. He was the doting parent to Noelle in another life, a stark contrast to his stern wife. His primary concern was the well-being of his family and the community, fostering amiability and good cheer, rather than confronting the deep, underlying threats to Remnant. He would have suggested a "more cheerful" approach to the Grimm, perhaps a "community initiative" to boost morale, completely missing the grave implications of manipulated monsters. He was a man who believed in the good in people, and in the simple, solvable problems of daily life, utterly unprepared for the insidious nature of the threats his wife was currently facing.

"Such claims—coordinated Grimm, engineered creatures, individuals twisting their very essence—require… substantial, undeniable evidence," Aquarius stated, her eyes hard, betraying no emotion. "Mistral's council, even with its current… composition, will demand it. I, as their representative and a voice of reason in this city, demand it. My hands are tied by bureaucracy without it."

"The evidence is being gathered, Madam," Arrastra stated, her blue serval legs almost vibrating with urgency. "But the incursions are escalating. We need support. Access to resources. The full cooperation of the Mistral authorities, not merely skepticism. We are running out of time."

Just as the conversation reached this critical juncture, a news broadcast, muted until now, flickered to life on a large screen embedded in Aquarius’s office wall, demanding attention. The image showed Lil' Miss Malachite, the intimidating gangster leader of the Spider faction in Mistral, a heavy-set woman with short blonde hair pulled back in a severe bob, her distinctive spider tattoo on her left shoulder prominent. Her expression was one of shrewd, calculating ambition, a woman who commanded respect through fear and undeniable influence. She was known for her sharp eye for business and her ruthless efficiency, having risen to become the second most powerful figure in Mistral’s underworld through sheer cunning, even allegedly orchestrating her own husband's demise.

"—and I am proud to announce my candidacy for the Mistral Council," Lil' Miss Malachite declared, her voice resonating with an unexpected gravitas, a polished veneer over raw power. "The current council lacks foresight, lacks strength. Mistral needs a leader who understands the true currents of power, both on the streets and in the halls of influence. A leader who knows how to get things done, by any means necessary. My experience in 'managing' the city's affairs has uniquely prepared me for this public service." Her shift from gang boss to aspiring councilwoman was a cunning power play, a calculated move to legitimize her underworld empire and solidify her control over the city’s political landscape. Her twin daughters, Melanie and Miltia, were being groomed to eventually follow in her footsteps, though they were currently absent from the public eye.

Aquarius Vasilas watched the screen, her lips thinning into a grim line, a flicker of something akin to distaste and profound exasperation crossing her features before settling back into a mask of stoic resolve. "Malachite," she muttered, her voice colder than the Mistral fog outside. "A new ambition. Just what Mistral needs. More chaos dressed up as progress, threatening to dismantle the city's fragile stability from within." Her mind, already burdened by Grimm and Maiden secrets, now had to contend with the transparent political machinations of the underworld, threatening to unravel the city from within.

"Her rise will only exacerbate the 'crime underclass' you speak of, Madam," Arrastra noted, her gaze fixed on the screen, a grim understanding in her eyes. "More chaos. More desperation. More opportunities for these... 'Grimm beings' to exploit, thriving on the fear and discord her methods will create."

Shion, ever the melancholic observer, sighed, their large hat seeming to droop slightly. "The shadows deepen, indeed. And the tapestry of fate grows ever more intricate, weaving new threads of political corruption and monstrous threat into its grim design. The peace of Argus is becoming an illusion."

Lixue, her expression grim, simply nodded, already calculating the increased threats, the potential destabilization that Malachite’s political ascendancy would bring. The situation in Mistral, far from being stable, was rapidly descending into a new kind of anarchy, one where ancient powers, insidious conspiracies, ruthless ambition, and burgeoning political corruption converged. The Grimm Guardians, with their strange allies, were now squarely in the crosshairs of a conflict far larger and more complex than they had ever imagined. The fight for Remnant was not just on distant battlefields, but in the very heart of its cities, a battle for its soul, and its very future.
____________________________________________________________________________
The relentless sun of Vacuo beat down, turning the ruined prison into a shimmering, oppressive oven. Twisted metal and shattered concrete clawed at the bright, cloudless sky, monuments to a recent, brutal force. The air hung heavy with the smell of scorched earth and lingering dust. It was a scene of utter devastation, but for Elphelt Valentine, an investigator from the G-Gear organization, it was another puzzle to solve, another step on her grand quest.

Elphelt, in her crisp, almost uniform-like white dress with a pink ruffled underskirt and black shorts, her bob-style pink hair swaying gently, moved through the wreckage. Silver spikes on her boots and a pink spiked collar were her only concessions to the rugged environment. She carried no bouquet of roses here, but a sleek, high-tech handgun, 'Ms. Charlotte,' at her hip. Her aqua blue eyes, usually sparkling with romantic notions, were sharp and focused. She hated killing, disliked bugs, and positively loathed loneliness, but a job was a job, and this particular job involved finding out who had caused such a mess.

"Oh dear," Elphelt sighed, stepping over a collapsed wall, her voice a soft, almost innocent murmur that seemed out of place amidst the destruction. "Such a lot of broken things! It's simply not very organized, is it? And I do so appreciate a neat, tidy presentation." She activated a scanner on her wrist, a faint hum emanating from the device. "Hmm, residual energy signatures indicate a very… enthusiastic exit."

She came upon a particularly mangled set of cell bars, twisted outward as if by sheer, brute force. "The Crown," she mused aloud, her tone surprisingly casual, as if discussing a bygone fashion trend. "Such a dramatic name for a group that ended up… well, quite deflated, wouldn’t you agree? I mean, all that talk of royalty, and then… poof! Right into prison. It really does make one wonder about the permanence of things, doesn't it?" The fall of The Crown, the Vacuan monarchy-restoring group, had happened much earlier in this timeline than in others, a messy, conclusive defeat.

She then noticed a flickering security monitor, somehow still clinging to a shattered frame. With a confident, almost playful flourish, Elphelt produced a small, intricate device from a hidden pocket and plugged it in. The screen sputtered to life, showing grainy, jumpy footage of the prison break.

On the playback, the figure of Gillian Asturias appeared, her crown braid askew, her face etched with a desperate fury. “This is utterly chaotic, Limit Break!” Gillian’s voice, captured by the prison’s internal comms, crackled with a raw frustration. “They’re not supposed to be this… unruly! This wasn’t part of the liberation plan!” Even in the face of imminent freedom, Gillian, with her cunning mind, was dismayed by the lack of order.

Elphelt watched the blurry figures of the Darkcraft tearing through the prison. Limit Break, a woman of lethal elegance, led the charge, her dark gear a blur as she moved. Babblus, a wiry lunatic, raced around spouting mad proclamations, his anarchic glee terrifying. Destroyer, a hulking juggernaut, simply smashed everything in his path. Vinox glided through shadows with feline precision, scouting escape routes. Copperhead slithered, a serpentine menace. Kasino Kane strutted with gambler’s flair, throwing Dust grenades. And Kassnova Kane, a silent ghost, moved with deadly precision.

The footage flickered to Jax Asturias, Gillian’s twin brother, his usual arrogant demeanor replaced by a mixture of shock and exhilaration as he realized his freedom was at hand. Elphelt frowned. My dream husband isn't supposed to be so... prone to dramatic escapes from prison! Though, a troubled past could be quite intriguing. Perhaps a werewolf with a complicated history? she mused to herself, a romantic scenario already forming in her mind, completely detached from the actual violence on screen.

As the footage continued, showing Gillian using her Aura Siphon to empower one of the Darkcraft agents, a thought sparked in Elphelt’s mind. "Oh! Aura transfer! So fascinating! It's like... sharing your innermost sparkles! I wonder if it feels like... love? Or perhaps a very, very intense hug that also gives you energy!"

The screen went static as the power finally gave out for good. Elphelt unplugged her device, shaking her head. "Well, that was certainly… vigorous. They definitely didn’t just… walk out, did they?" She clapped her hands together, a bright, optimistic gesture in the desolate environment. "So, two very important people are now free. I hope they find lots of happiness and, like, maybe a quaint little home in the suburbs with four kids and a very friendly dog!"

She spun around, scanning the horizon of Vacuo's vast, unforgiving desert. "Now that that's sorted, perhaps I can find someone who wants to talk about us! Or maybe someone who just wants to listen to my new song idea about finding love in unexpected places! It's, like, totally going to rock your heart and knock you out!" Her spirits, ever resilient, had already bounced back, the grim reality of the prison break merely a fleeting thought in her endless pursuit of happiness and romance. She was, after all, Elphelt Valentine, and every situation, no matter how chaotic, held the potential for a new, wonderful beginning.

As she ventured deeper into the prison ruins, Elphelt’s scanner pinged softly, picking up a faint trace of residual Dust energy. She crouched beside a pile of rubble, brushing away debris to reveal a cracked vial, its contents long since evaporated but leaving a telltale shimmer. "Oh my, a Dust grenade casing! Kasino Kane’s calling card, I presume?" she said with a playful lilt, as if uncovering a clue in a treasure hunt. "Such a flair for the dramatic! I bet he’d be a fabulous dance partner at a gala, tossing sparkles instead of explosives."

She pocketed the vial and continued her exploration, her steps light despite the oppressive heat. A glint of metal caught her eye—a discarded blade, its edge still sharp, half-buried in the sand. "Vinox, perhaps?" she wondered aloud, tilting her head. "So sneaky, so precise. I bet you’d be amazing at hide-and-seek! Though, I’d probably find you by following the trail of glittery shadows you leave behind." She giggled, imagining a game with the elusive Darkcraft agent, her mind weaving a whimsical scenario even as she cataloged the evidence.

The trail led her to a partially collapsed guard tower, its interior littered with shattered monitors and overturned furniture. Amid the chaos, she spotted a tattered notebook, its pages singed but intact. Elphelt’s eyes sparkled with curiosity as she carefully picked it up, flipping through handwritten notes scrawled in a hurried, almost frantic script. "Oh, this is juicy!" she exclaimed, her voice bubbling with excitement. "Battle plans, code names, and… oh, a doodle of a crown? Gillian, you are committed to the aesthetic, aren’t you?"

The notebook detailed fragments of The Crown’s failed uprising, with references to their "liberation plan" and mentions of a mysterious benefactor who had supplied the Dust grenades. Elphelt’s brow furrowed, her romantic daydreams momentarily sidelined by the weight of the discovery. "A benefactor, hmm? Someone pulling strings from the shadows? That’s so mysterious! Like a secret admirer, but with… more explosions." She tapped her chin, her mind racing with possibilities. "I wonder if they’re single."

She tucked the notebook into her satchel, her optimism undimmed. The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the ruined prison. Elphelt paused, taking a moment to adjust her spiked collar and smooth her dress. "Well, Ms. Charlotte," she said, patting her handgun affectionately, "we’ve got quite the story to tell back at G-Gear headquarters. A prison break, a shadowy benefactor, and a whole lot of sparkle! But first…" She struck a dramatic pose, one hand on her hip, the other raised as if holding an imaginary microphone. "Let’s write a quick verse for that song! ‘In the desert’s heart, where shadows dance, I’ll find my love, I’ll take that chance!’ Oh, that’s perfect!"

With a skip in her step, Elphelt continued her investigation, her heart alight with the thrill of the chase and the promise of romance, even in the midst of Vacuo’s unforgiving wasteland. The clues were mounting, the puzzle growing ever more complex, but for Elphelt Valentine, every broken wall and scattered shard was just another verse in her grand, adventurous ballad.
____________________________________________________________________________
Back to where it started.

Beacon

The afternoon sun, typically a warm, inviting presence in Beacon Academy's classrooms, instead cast long, judgmental shadows as it slanted through the high windows. Dust motes danced in the light, illuminating the rows of students already settled, their attention mostly on the whiteboard where complex combat theory diagrams were meticulously sketched. The air was filled with the soft scratching of quills, the rustle of textbooks, and the low, clear voice of their teacher.

She was a striking figure, impossibly poised even as she lectured. Cinder, a fair-skinned young woman, stood at the front of the classroom, her long, ashen-black hair falling gracefully over her left eye and resting over her left shoulder, creating an intriguing asymmetry. Her bright amber eyes, though sharp and intelligent, held none of the malice one might expect from a disciplinary figure, instead conveying a subtle, almost academic amusement. Dark red lipstick and violet eyeshadow added to her refined aesthetic.

Cinder's attire was a testament to her impeccable, if a little flamboyant, sense of style, even within the confines of a classroom. She wore a dark red, long-sleeved, off-the-shoulders, V-neck minidress. A quadrant-shaped keyhole on her upper back elegantly framed a black tattoo of her emblem: a pair of high-heeled shoes, placed sole-to-sole, forming a stylized heart. Golden regal designs adorned the dress, tracing delicate patterns around the keyhole, across her chest, and down her sleeves, which ended in loops around her middle fingers. The dress split from her right hip down, tapering elegantly just above her knees, its hem trimmed with black lace. Black, lace-up shorts peeked from beneath, complementing a black choker around her neck. Dark, glass high-heeled shoes completed her ensemble. On her right hip, where the dress split, was a distinctive brooch: a black, rhombus-shaped gem set within a gold metal frame, with several iridescent blue and green feathers radiating out from it. A gold hoop earring with a black gem dangled from her right ear, and a jeweled anklet adorned her right leg. This was Cinder, not as a force of destruction, but as a beacon of discipline and style, a respected teacher at Beacon Academy.

Suddenly, the classroom door burst open with a jarring CRASH, echoing through the otherwise quiet hall. All heads snapped towards the disturbance.

Team RRHM tumbled in, a disheveled cascade of late arrivals. Ruby Rose, her black hair with red tips slightly askew, caught herself on the doorframe, Crescent Rose, in its compact form, bumping awkwardly against her hip. Lie Ren, his long black hair with its magenta streak slightly wilder than usual, managed to regain his composure quicker, though a faint flush rose to his cheeks. Hyde Kido, his dual-toned blonde and black hair falling messily over his eyes, looked a bit bewildered, his school blazer unzipped and rumpled. And Miko Kubota, her blue-violet hair escaping her bun, skidded to a halt, her large eyes wide with a mix of breathless apology and hyper energy.

Their classmates, who had been diligently taking notes, now bore confused looks, a few stifled giggles rippling through the room. It wasn't often Cinder's class saw such a chaotic entrance.

The four awkwardly stared at their teacher, a collective, silent apology hanging in the air. Ruby’s hand went instinctively to the back of her neck, Ren straightened his tailcoat, Hyde shifted his weight from foot to foot, and Miko seemed to vibrate with suppressed kinetic energy.

Cinder, however, merely offered a slow, knowing smirk. Her bright amber eyes, always expressive, held a hint of mischievous amusement, and for a fleeting moment, a subtle, golden glow seemed to emanate from their depths, a silent, internal acknowledgment of the young Fall Maiden's aura within her classroom.

"So," Cinder purred, her voice smooth, cutting through the silence with a dangerous elegance, "look who decided to join us. Right on time, as always." The sarcasm, sweet as honey, was unmistakable.

“We can explain,” they all said.

Chapter Text

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The morning sun filtered through the grand windows of Beacon Academy's amphitheater, casting a warm glow over the assembled first-year students. The vast space, with its glass dome arching high overhead and rows of bleachers encircling the central stage, buzzed with a mix of excitement and nervous energy. Students shifted in their seats or stood in clusters, weapons holstered or slung over shoulders, their casual attire a patchwork of personalized styles that reflected the academy's relaxed dress code. The ornate wooden backdrop on the stage gleamed under blue lights, and holographic screens flickered to life, displaying the Beacon emblem.

At the center of it all stood Headmaster Ozpin, his silver hair neatly combed and his green suit impeccable as always. He leaned slightly on his cane, his eyes—hidden behind small, round glasses—scanning the crowd with a serene wisdom that belied the weight of his responsibilities. Beside him was Professor Glynda Goodwitch, her purple cape fluttering faintly as she adjusted her riding crop, her expression a mask of stern professionalism. But today, the stage held two additional figures, drawing whispers from the students: the new combat instructor, Cinder Fall, and her assistant, Emerald Sustrai.

Cinder stood tall and commanding, her raven-black hair cascading in loose waves down her back, framing a face that was both strikingly beautiful and etched with the subtle scars of hard-won battles. Her amber eyes burned with an intensity that could unsettle even the boldest aspiring Huntsman, but in this alternate path of her life, that fire was tempered by heroism. No longer a pawn of darkness or a seeker of destructive power, Cinder had reformed years ago, her encounter with true evil in the shadows of Remnant's underbelly forcing her to confront her own ambitions. She'd turned her semblance—Scorching Caress, the ability to superheat and manipulate glass into razor-sharp weapons or defensive shards—toward protection rather than conquest. Now, as Beacon's newest faculty member, she channeled her past regrets into mentoring the next generation, teaching them not just to fight, but to endure and redeem. Her outfit reflected this duality: a sleek red dress with gold accents that flowed like liquid flame, reinforced with subtle armored plating at the shoulders and hips, practical for both classroom lectures and battlefield demonstrations.

Emerald hovered at her side like a shadow made manifest, her mint-green hair tied in neat twin tails that swayed with her subtle movements. Her red eyes darted across the room, assessing threats and allies with the precision of someone who'd once lived by deception. In this AU, Emerald wasn't the manipulative thief of canon lore; she'd been pulled from a cycle of abuse and coercion by Cinder's intervention during a botched heist in Mistral. Recognizing a kindred spirit in the young illusionist, Cinder had taken her under her wing, guiding her semblance—Hallucinations, the power to create vivid, sensory deceptions—toward ethical uses. Now, as Cinder's assistant, Emerald helped in training simulations, projecting illusory Grimm or environmental hazards to test students without real peril. Her black tactical gear, accented with emerald green trim, was form-fitting and utilitarian, her dual revolvers/sickles, Thief's Respite, holstered at her hips. She offered a faint, knowing smirk to the crowd, her loyalty to Cinder absolute, born from gratitude and shared redemption.

Ozpin cleared his throat, the sound amplified through the amphitheater's speakers, drawing all eyes to the stage. "Good morning, and welcome to Beacon Academy," he began, his voice calm and measured, like the ticking of an ancient clock. "You have all proven yourselves worthy of this institution through your skills, your determination, and your potential to safeguard Remnant from the ever-present threat of the Grimm. But today, we begin the true forging of your paths as Huntsmen and Huntresses."

He paused, gesturing to the faculty beside him. "Allow me to introduce our staff. Professor Goodwitch, whom many of you have already met, will oversee much of your practical combat training. And joining us this year is Professor Cinder Fall, our new instructor in advanced combat tactics and semblance mastery. Her experience in the field is unparalleled, and she brings a unique perspective on turning adversity into strength."

Cinder stepped forward, her heels clicking against the stage with authority. Her amber gaze swept the room, lingering on faces like Ruby Rose's wide-eyed enthusiasm, Miko Kubota's fidgety energy, Lie Ren's quiet poise, and Hyde Kido's nervous grip on his sword. "I am not here to coddle you," she said, her voice a controlled blaze—warm enough to inspire, sharp enough to cut through complacency. "The world beyond these walls is unforgiving. Grimm do not hesitate, and neither should you. But with discipline and resolve, you can harness your powers to protect, not destroy. I, along with my assistant Emerald Sustrai, will push you to your limits. Emerald's illusions will simulate the chaos of real battles, teaching you to discern truth from deception."

Emerald nodded, crossing her arms with a sly grin. "Think of it as leveling up your senses," she added, her tone lighter but no less serious. "One wrong assumption in the field, and you're Grimm chow. We'll make sure you're ready."

Ozpin smiled faintly, adjusting his glasses. "Indeed. Now, to the matter at hand: your initiation. This is no ordinary test. You will be deployed into the Emerald Forest, a vast and treacherous expanse teeming with Grimm. The rules are simple, yet profound. You will be launched from the cliffs individually. The first person you make eye contact with upon landing will become your partner—for the duration of your time at Beacon, and likely beyond. Partnerships are the foundation of teams; they teach trust, synergy, and the art of complementing one another's strengths and weaknesses."

He paced slowly, his cane tapping rhythmically. "Once paired, you and your partner must proceed north to an abandoned temple ruins. There, you will find relics—ancient artifacts, such as chess pieces—placed upon pedestals. Retrieve one and return to the cliffs. The relics you choose will determine your team assignments, forming groups of four. Be vigilant; the forest is alive with Beowolves, Ursai, Nevermores, and worse. Your aura, your weapons, your semblances—these are your tools. But survival hinges on adaptability and cooperation."

Glynda interjected, her voice crisp. "This initiation mirrors the unpredictability of real missions. No two encounters are the same. First-years are typically shadowed discreetly by faculty for safety, but make no mistake: this is your trial. Prove yourselves, and you will be assigned to teams by evening."

Cinder's eyes narrowed slightly, adding a layer of intensity. "And remember, the Grimm are drawn to negativity—fear, doubt, anger. Control your emotions, or they will consume you. Emerald and I will observe from the cliffs, ready to step in only if absolutely necessary. Use this as an opportunity to show what you're made of."

The students murmured among themselves, a wave of anticipation rippling through the crowd. Ruby bounced slightly in place, whispering to Miko, "This sounds intense! Eye contact partners? What if I blink at the wrong time?" Miko grinned back, fiddling with her gauntlets. "Psh, it's like random matchmaking in a game. We'll crush it!" Nearby, Ren exchanged a calm nod with Hyde, who muttered, "Great, more chances to trip into a Grimm den."

Ozpin raised a hand for silence. "Prepare yourselves. You will be called to the cliffs shortly. Dismissed."

As the assembly broke, students filed out of the amphitheater, heading toward the grand avenue lined with flag-draped poles and archways. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of the Emerald Forest below the cliffs. Airships hummed in the distance, and the Beacon Tower loomed overhead, its green lights pulsing like a heartbeat. Teams RYMH and FWYB mingled with the others—Ruby chattering excitedly with Five, Weiss straightening her tiara with a huff, Blake adjusting her bow, Simi offering a sarcastic quip to lighten the mood. They all moved as one toward the launch pads, the weight of the impending trial settling over them like a gathering storm.

But for now, the forest waited, its secrets—and dangers—still hidden in the shadows below. The initiation loomed, a threshold they would cross soon enough.

 

____________________________________________________________________________
The dim interior of the abandoned warehouse in Vale's industrial district flickered with an unnatural glow as swirling portals tore open in the air, their edges crackling like fractured glass. Dust motes danced in the ethereal light, and the air hummed with residual energy from whatever arcane force had summoned them. A cloaked figure stood at the center, hood drawn low to obscure their face, hands extended as if conducting an invisible orchestra. One by one, the members of Carmine's crew emerged from the voids—disoriented, weapons at the ready, eyes scanning the shadows for threats.

Carmine Esclados stepped out first, her long auburn hair with its signature silver streak swaying as she adjusted her crimson-trimmed cape. Her golden eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and calculation, freckles dotting her dark complexion like stars in a night sky. She flashed a warm, almost inviting smile at the cloaked ally. "Well, that was smoother than expected. Thanks for the lift, darling. We owe you one."

The figure said nothing, merely nodding once before vanishing into a final, shrinking portal that sealed shut with a soft pop. No farewells, no lingering—just gone, as if they were never there.

Carmine chuckled lightly, her voice like honey laced with venom. "Charming as ever. Alright, everyone, sound off. Let's make sure we all made it in one piece. This little gathering is too important for anyone to be left behind in whatever interdimensional limbo that was."

Bertilak Celadon lumbered out next, his massive frame nearly scraping the low ceiling beams. His wild beard and scarred face twisted into a perpetual scowl, green eyes narrowed under bushy brows. He hefted his rusty black mace, chains rattling ominously, and spat on the concrete floor. "What a load of crap. That portal felt like being squeezed through a Grimm's gut. If I see that cloaked freak again, I'll bash their skull in." He glanced around at the group, his voice a gravelly growl. "Name's Bertilak Celadon. Huntsman, or what's left of one. I heat things up—literally. And if any of you Faunus scum get in my way..." He trailed off with a sneer, flexing his fingers as the air around him shimmered faintly with rising temperature.

Carmine shot him a playful yet pointed look. "Easy, Bert. We're all on the same side here. Save the temper for the real enemies." Her tone was light, almost teasing, but there was an edge that reminded everyone who was in charge.

Umber Gorgoneion sauntered out, her dreadlocked hair swaying as she adjusted her dark mirrored glasses—the kind that hid her dangerous gaze. She cracked one of her whips idly against the floor, the snap echoing through the warehouse. Her outfit was sleek and practical, emphasizing her agility. "Umber Gorgoneion," she said nonchalantly, leaning against a crate. "Shade Academy dropout, Crown loyalist. Look me in the eyes without these shades, and you'll freeze up like a statue. Love a good fight, hate creeps who hit on me. Let's get this over with—I've got better things to do than babysit."

Next came Argento Pocoron, the lanky pig Faunus with ears twitching under his brown bandana. His jumpsuit was dirt-streaked, and he fiddled with his gas mask hanging around his neck. "Argento Pocoron," he muttered, voice muffled slightly by habit. "Ex-Shade Huntsman, Crown enforcer. I slow things down—make you think you're faster than you are, then bam, you're done. Don't underestimate the pig." He snorted derisively, crossing his arms and eyeing Bertilak with mild annoyance at the earlier Faunus jab.

Rosa Schwein followed, her spiky pink hair catching the faint light from the warehouse's grimy windows. She adjusted her loose black robe over her white tunic, fists clenching as if ready for a brawl. "Rosa Schwein," she said curtly, her voice sharp. "Former Shade Huntress, now Crown muscle. I phase through your hits like mist—intangible when I want to be. Try punching me, and you'll regret it." She shadow-boxed the air a few times, her boxing style evident in the precise jabs, before settling into a stance that screamed 'don't test me.'

Green emerged last from his portal, the tall, broad-shouldered brute in his green muscle shirt stretching as if waking from a nap. His silver armband glinted, and he pulled his gas mask up slightly to speak. "Green," he rumbled simply, his voice deep and unhurried. "Crown enforcer. I wrestle, I choke you out with smoke that reeks worse than a Grimm's breath. Don't need fancy words." He exhaled a faint puff of foul-smelling vapor for emphasis, making a few in the group wrinkle their noses.

Mercury Black slinked in from the shadows—he'd arrived via a different portal, his prosthetic legs whirring softly. His silver hair fell over one eye, and he smirked cockily, hands in his pockets. "Mercury Black," he drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Assassin extraordinaire. These legs of mine? They shoot, they kick, they kill. Worked with some big names before—Torchwick, Cinder. I'm here for the chaos and the paycheck. Don't bore me, or I'll make things interesting myself."

Camie Utsushimi popped out with a bubbly grin, her light brown hair bouncing as she struck a pose. Her curvaceous figure was hugged by a form-fitting outfit, and she spoke in that signature slang that somehow made villainy sound fun. "Yo, like, Camie Utsushimi here! Second-year at Shiketsu—or was, before I decided hero life's too square. My Quirk's Glamour—poof, illusions from my breath, totes fetch for messing with heads. I'm all about the vibes, y'know? Evil's way more lit when you're chill about it. Who's up for some fun schemes?" She winked at the group, her affable energy cutting through the tension like a breath of fresh air—ironically, given her power.

Finally, Neopolitan stepped daintily from her portal, her petite frame clad in her signature pink, white, and brown ensemble, parasol twirling in her hand. She didn't speak—couldn't, really—but her mismatched eyes (one pink, one brown) sparkled with mischief. She mimed a curtsy, then held up a small sign she'd pulled from... somewhere: "Neopolitan. Illusions are my game. Roman's partner—where is he, anyway? Let's talk plans. 💖" She flipped the sign to show a crude drawing of Beacon Academy crumbling, her silent laughter evident in her exaggerated shrug.

Carmine clapped her hands together, her amber eyes gleaming as she took center stage amid the crates and forgotten machinery. "Perfect, we're all accounted for. Welcome to Vale, my dears. This warehouse is our little hideout for now—courtesy of some local contacts. Roman Torchwick's running late, but Neo here's his stand-in, and I'm sure she'll keep us posted." She nodded at Neo, who responded with a thumbs-up and a playful twirl of her parasol.

Bertilak grunted, leaning his mace against a wall. "So what's the play, Red? We didn't portal-hop across who-knows-where just to chat. The Crown's got big plans, but Vale's not Vacuo. Beacon's full of those self-righteous brats training to be Huntsmen."

Carmine smiled affably, but there was a ruthless glint in her eye. "Oh, Bert, always straight to the violence. I love that about you. We're here because the Fall of Beacon is coming—our mysterious benefactors made that clear. Chaos in Vale means opportunities for us. Kidnappings, trafficking potent Semblances back to the Crown, maybe even stirring up Grimm attacks to thin the herd. But we play smart. Infiltrate, manipulate, strike when they're weak."

Umber adjusted her glasses, smirking. "Sounds fun. I can paralyze a few guards, scout the academy. Hate those uptight types anyway."

Argento nodded slowly. "Slow 'em down, grab who we need. Easy pickings."

Rosa punched her palm. "I'll phase in, snag targets. No one's touching me."

Green just grunted in agreement, a wisp of smoke curling from his skin.

Mercury laughed, kicking a crate lightly with his metal leg. "I'm in. Love breaking heroes. What's the first move—hit the streets, scout Beacon?"

Camie giggled, blowing a small illusionary heart that popped in the air. "Totes! Like, we could glamour up some disguises, sneak in as students. Super sus, but fun!"

Neo held up another sign: "Roman says dust heists first. Weaken defenses. Then big boom." She mimed an explosion, her eyes wide with mock innocence.

Carmine nodded approvingly, her telekinesis subtly lifting a nearby crate to demonstrate her power before setting it down. "Exactly. We start small—gather intel, link up with Roman's White Fang contacts, stockpile Dust. When Beacon falls, we capitalize. Unity under the Crown, or whatever our bosses want. But remember, darlings, we're a team. Play nice... or at least pretend to." Her voice was sweet, but the underlying threat was clear.

The warehouse door creaked open with a dramatic flair, admitting a plume of night air laced with the faint scent of gunpowder and stolen Dust. Roman Torchwick sauntered in, his trademark orange hair slightly disheveled under his bowler hat, cane tapping rhythmically against the concrete. He was flanked by a couple of White Fang goons hauling crates of pilfered Dust crystals, their masks hiding growls of exertion. Roman's green eyes scanned the room, taking in the assembled crew with a raised eyebrow—Carmine's motley band of villains lounging amid the shadows.

"Well, well, if it isn't the desert rat and her merry band of misfits," Roman quipped, his voice smooth as silk but edged with sarcasm. He adjusted his white coat, brushing off imaginary lint. "Miss me? I've been out playing Robin Hood in reverse—robbing every Dust shop from here to the docks. The last one was a doozy; those VPD clowns almost caught up, but hey, that's why I get paid the big Lien."

Neopolitan's eyes lit up like fireworks at the sight of him. She bounded silently from her perch on a crate, her petite form a blur of pink and white as she tackled him in a hug, parasol dangling from one hand. Roman chuckled, patting her head affectionately. "Easy there, kiddo. Good to see you too. Holding down the fort without me causing too much trouble?" Neo pulled back, nodding enthusiastically before miming a explosion with her hands, then pointing at the group with a thumbs-up—clearly approving of the new allies.

Carmine leaned against a stack of crates, her auburn hair catching the dim light, golden eyes narrowing with that affable yet predatory smile. "Roman. Charming as ever. I see you've been productive. Those Dust hauls will come in handy for what's ahead." Her voice was warm, almost friendly, but there was an undercurrent of command that brooked no nonsense.

Roman waved off the White Fang grunts, who deposited the crates and slunk away. He twirled his cane, Melodic Cudgel, before leaning on it. "Productive? Sure. But these new 'associates' of yours..." He gestured vaguely at the crew—Bertilak grunting in the corner, Mercury smirking, Camie blowing an illusory bubble that popped harmlessly. "And don't get me started on the White Fang. Bunch of animals. Creepy, fanatical, and they shed everywhere. Last heist, one of 'em nearly blew the whole op barking orders like he owned the place. This whole operation's getting out of hand—too many players, too much noise."

Carmine's smile didn't falter, but her fingers twitched, subtly levitating a small shard of glass from the floor to hover near her palm—a reminder of her telekinesis, though she kept it casual, no grand displays. "Out of hand? Darling, this isn't your little street hustle anymore. It's bigger than that. The White Fang are necessary muscle—fanatical, yes, but effective. And my crew here? They're assets, not liabilities. Mercury's got the legs for reconnaissance, Camie's illusions will cover our tracks, and the others... well, they know how to handle the sands and the shadows. As for the plan, it's not yours to question. You work for me now, Roman. Play your part, and you'll get your cut—plus the chaos you crave."

Roman rolled his eyes, but there was a flicker of unease behind his bravado. "Fine, fine. Just don't expect me to hold hands with the furballs. What's next, then? More robberies? Or are we finally moving on Beacon?"

Before Carmine could respond, the warehouse door burst open again—this time with a theatrical slam. A shorter figure strode in, spiky hair silhouetted against the moonlight, yellow eyes glinting with menace and a toothy grin splitting his face. Abbonox Inkseer, leader of the Marauders, snapped his fingers with flair, his compact frame exuding an energy that filled the room. He bowed mockingly to the group, his voice booming with confidence. "Ah, the party's started without me! Roman, old chap, looking dapper as always. And Neo—still the silent storm, I see."

Neo waved cheerfully, but Carmine straightened, her affable demeanor cracking into annoyance. "Abbonox. What are you doing here? This isn't your turf—we're in Vale, not some backwater raid spot."

Abbonox laughed, a swaggering chuckle as he paced the room, yellow eyes darting over the crew like a predator sizing up prey. "Oh, come now, Carmine. Annoyed already? I just got here. As for my Marauders—ah, many of them are such delightful chaos-bringers. You've met a few, but the full band's on its way. Under my orders, of course. We're here to help with this little Fall of Beacon gig. Think of us as your extra muscle—unpredictable, unstoppable, and utterly devoted to turning this kingdom upside down." He grinned wider, snapping his fingers again for emphasis. "Our mysterious bosses pulled strings to get us involved. You need disruption? We've got it in spades. Just say the word, and we'll make the Huntsmen dance to our tune."

Carmine crossed her arms, her golden eyes flashing with irritation, but she kept her tone even—affably evil, as always. "Your Marauders? I don't recall inviting a circus. This operation requires precision, not your brand of reckless flair. If they screw this up—"

Abbonox waved her off, unfazed. "Screw up? Please. We're professionals at mayhem. Trust me, Red—you'll thank me when Beacon's in ruins." He turned to the group with a wink. "Now, who's ready for some real fun?"

Carmine looks at Celadon who just shrugged, “Fine we’ll play ball. I’ve got that old doctor working with me anyhow.”

____________________________________________________________________________

Yesterday in Vale…

The evening air in Vale carried a faint chill as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across Beacon Academy’s grand courtyard. The iconic Beacon Tower loomed overhead, its green spheres glowing faintly, a beacon of hope against the darkening sky. Inside Ozpin’s office at the tower’s summit, the intricate clockwork designs on the walls ticked softly, mirroring the tension in the room. Ozpin stood by the panoramic window, his silver hair catching the last light, cane resting lightly in his hand as he gazed out over the city. Glynda Goodwitch flanked him, her riding crop tapping impatiently against her palm, her green eyes narrowed in thought.

The door creaked open, and Qrow Branwen stepped in, his red cloak swaying with his uneven gait. His silver eyes were sharp despite the flask he twirled absently in his hand, and beside him walked Amber—a young woman with a quiet strength, her auburn hair tied back, her amber eyes darting nervously around the unfamiliar space. Unlike the canon tale where Cinder had ambushed her, Amber had reached Vale unscathed, guided by a mysterious contact whose identity remained a secret even to her. She clutched a small satchel, her aura flickering faintly as if sensing the weight of the moment.

“Oz,” Qrow said gruffly, tipping his hat slightly. “Got your package. Amber here made it through the back channels—someone’s been keeping her under wraps. No attacks, no Maiden drama… yet.” He shot a sidelong glance at Amber, who nodded stiffly, still adjusting to the sudden shift from her hidden sanctuary to this high-stakes meeting.

Ozpin turned, his expression unreadable but warm. “Amber. A pleasure to finally meet you in person. Your safe arrival is a relief. Please, take a seat.” He gestured to a chair, his voice calm but carrying the weight of centuries. Glynda stepped forward, offering a curt nod to Amber before resuming her vigilant stance.

Before Amber could respond, the door swung open again, admitting a tall figure with pale skin and golden blond hair that gleamed under the office lights. Aurum strode in, his golden yellow eyes scanning the room with a mix of curiosity and calculation. His tailored suit hinted at his wealth-driven nature, and his gruff chuckle broke the silence. “Well, well, Ozpin’s inner circle gets cozier by the day. Who’s the new face? Another ally for your little crusade?” His voice carried a sarcastic edge, but there was a begrudging respect beneath it.

Ozpin smiled faintly. “Aurum. Good to see you. This is Amber, a valuable asset whose presence strengthens our efforts. And you, I trust, bring your organization’s resources as promised?”

Aurum leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “You know me, Oz—always calculating the cost. My anti-supervillain crew’s on standby. We’re not heroes by trade, but I’ve got a line I won’t cross, and these Grimm-loving thugs are pushing it. Figured I’d lend a hand—keeps my legacy intact, at least.” He eyed Amber with a raised brow, misjudging her role. “She one of yours? Looks like she’s got some fight in her. Good. We’ll need it.”

Amber shifted uncomfortably, her voice soft but firm. “I… I don’t know who brought me here. Just that they said Ozpin could protect me. I’ve got something important—something they wanted to take.” She didn’t elaborate, but the flicker of her aura hinted at the Maiden powers she unknowingly carried.

Qrow snorted, taking a swig from his flask. “Yeah, well, whoever it was knew what they were doing. Kept her off the radar ‘til now. We’ve got eyes on Carmine’s crew stirring trouble in Vale, though—might be connected.”

Aurum’s eyes narrowed, his strategic mind kicking in. “Carmine Esclados? That rattlesnake’s got a knack for chaos. If she’s here, it’s not just petty theft. My team’s been tracking her movements—portals, Dust hauls, the works. Sounds like a setup for something big. I can deploy my Marauders to scout, but I’ll need intel from you, Oz.”

Ozpin nodded, his gaze drifting to the city lights below. “Agreed. Amber’s safety is paramount, but so is uncovering this threat. Qrow, stay close to her. Aurum, coordinate with Glynda on your scouts. We’ll protect her—and Remnant—together.”

The room fell into a tense silence, the ticking clockwork a steady heartbeat as the alliance solidified. Outside, the shadows lengthened, and the first hints of an impending storm began to stir.

 

____________________________________________________________________________

The Emerald Forest pulsed with life, its towering emerald embrace masking the dangers lurking in its depths. Golden sunlight filtered through the dense canopy in slender, shifting beams, casting ephemeral patterns onto the moss-covered ground. The scent of damp earth and pine mingled with something heavier—something feral. Distant calls of unseen creatures echoed between the trees, punctuated by the low, guttural growls of Grimm that watched, waited.

 

Ruby Rose crashed through the branches in a flurry of rose petals, Crescent Rose snagging on a gnarled oak limb before she wrenched it free with a grunt. "Ow, ow, ow!" she hissed, shaking off the debris as she landed lightly on the forest floor. Petals spiraled around her, dissolving into the air. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, silver eyes scanning the shadows for movement—her teammates, foes, or, by the rules of this test, her new partner.

 

First eye contact determines partnership.

 

She adjusted her grip on Crescent Rose, listening to the whispers of the forest. Somewhere out there, others were landing, scattering, searching just like her.

 

Not far away, the forest shuddered as Miko Kubota plummeted into a thicket, her Thunderforge Hammer discharging a crackling burst of energy upon impact. She rolled behind the husk of a fallen tree, breath tight in her chest. With a flick of her wrist, the holographic interface of her gauntlet whirred to life, scanning for nearby aura signatures. The display flickered erratically—too many energy readings, some familiar, others sharp and predatory.

 

Miko exhaled through her teeth. "Okay, Miko," she muttered, blue-violet hair catching the dappled light as she peeked over the log. "Just like debugging a corrupted program. Analyze, adapt, overcome." Her hammer hummed at her side, its circuits flaring defensively.

 

A rustle. A breath.

 

She wasn't alone.

 

Ren moved like a whisper given form, StormFlower’s weight a comforting presence at his side. His breaths were even, measured—his aura suppressed, his presence minimal. The undergrowth yielded to him without protest, every footfall deliberate. He paused at the base of an ancient tree, listening.

 

A twig snapped.

 

His hand hovered over his weapon.

 

A flash of red caught his eye—Ruby, standing a few yards away, Crescent Rose gleaming in the filtered light. Their gazes met.

 

"Partners?" Ruby asked, hopeful.

 

Ren gave a single nod. "Partners."

 

Hyde Kido was not having a graceful descent. Reality itself warped around him as the Insulator's unstable energy tore fissures in the air, hissing like static between dimensions. Leaves and branches whipped past his face as he flailed, finally crashing into a dense shrub with a grunt.

 

"Not the dramatic entrance I was going for," he groaned, shaking twigs from his disheveled red hair. The air still shimmered faintly around him, and he grimaced, hastily damping the weapon’s output. If the Grimm hadn’t noticed him yet, he’d like to keep it that way.

 

Then his eyes locked onto Miko’s.

 

She stared at him from behind her log, her tech interface flaring with warnings.

 

"...Oh, great," she muttered.

 

Hyde gave her a lopsided smirk. "Hey! Red-eyes! Over here!"

 

Miko exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes. "Guess we're stuck together."

 

"Looks like it."

 

Meanwhile, Team AIBJ had scattered across the forest’s expanse. Bergy landed with a solid impact, the weight of his frame compacting the earth beneath him. His Verdant Circuit Gauntlet pulsed with Ember Dust, the energy humming in harmony with the forest’s natural rhythm. He could feel the land—where the Grimm prowled, where the roots ran deep.

 

Linne Replace descended like a specter, her pale hair catching the fractured light as her Persona materialized—an ephemeral blade conjured from her Night Birth semblance. She landed soundlessly upon a moss-crowned boulder, crimson eyes narrowing. The air thrummed with something... off.

 

"Interesting," she murmured.

 

Makoto Yuki touched down moments later, Orpheus’s lyre resonating softly at his side. His usual calm faltered for a fraction of a second—this forest carried a weight, a presence that resonated too closely with the Dark Hour.

 

Linne’s gaze met his.

 

"The team configurations," she whispered, voice barely audible. "They’re not what they should be."

 

Makoto’s jaw tightened. "Something has changed."

 

High above, the teachers observed from the cliff’s edge, the wind teasing at their uniforms. Glynda Goodwitch’s lips thinned as she monitored the projections.

 

"The Grimm activity aligns with the set parameters," she reported, grip firm on her riding crop.

 

At her side, Cinder’s eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction. "Let them face it. They need to understand what they’re truly preparing for."

 

Emerald Sustrai’s illusions shimmered beneath the forest’s canopy, reinforcing the practice projections. "This is going exactly as planned," she murmured, a smirk playing at the edge of her lips.

 

____________________________________________________________________________

The forge's shadow glowed with the light of midnight industries—a cathedral of steel and ambition where the hum of machinery served as hymns to progress. Inside this sanctum of science, leading minds plotted new heights while Salem slumbered in her dark domain, her threat dormant but her legacy still heavy in the room like smoke from an extinguished fire. The very air seemed to pulse with the weight of their collective transgression against nature's order.

Dr. Iron Mechnike presided over this clandestine gathering in his oil-stained technician's apron, wild gray hair catching the flickering light of plasma torches and arc welders. His elongated figure moved with practiced precision through the maze of blueprints and tangled wires that decorated every surface, orchestrating this unholy alliance between Metal Forge and the assembled scientists with the flourish of a conductor commanding a symphony of destruction.

The massive steel worktable at the chamber's heart bore the scars of countless experiments—burn marks from volatile reactions, scratches from hastily scrawled equations, and stains from substances best left unidentified. Around this altar of ambition, the conspirators gathered like disciples of some technological deity.

Arthur Watts sat with aristocratic composure, his fingers adorned with rings that caught and reflected the forge's hellish glow as he adjusted them with nervous precision. Before him lay crystalline Dust samples arranged in perfect geometric patterns, each one pulsing with latent energy that made the air shimmer. His voice carried the weight of absolute conviction as he discussed his latest obsession: Synthetic Grimm.

"Gentlemen," Watts began, his tone carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being the smartest person in any room, "with Salem's current... sabbatical, it falls to us to test the limits of creation itself." He slid a digital map across the table's surface toward Merlot and Lee, the holographic display casting eerie shadows on their faces. "These Grimm cores represent evolution beyond the merely organic—neural patterns that can be rewritten, programmable aggression parameters, controllable evolutionary pathways. We stand on the threshold of making monsters dance to our tune."

The map revealed a network of locations marked with pulsing red dots, each one representing a potential testing ground for their abominations. Watts gestured to specific coordinates with the casual air of someone discussing the weather rather than the creation of artificial nightmares.

Dr. Merlot's gaze lingered on the display, his one remaining organic eye studying the data while his cybernetic replacement blinked with mechanical precision, processing information at inhuman speeds. The scars covering half his face told the story of experiments gone wrong, yet his passion burned undiminished.

"My expertise," Merlot said, his voice a curious blend of scientific detachment and barely contained excitement, "lies in the perfection of Grimm biology. Nature, in her infinite wisdom, could not finish what I will complete." He tapped his fragmented notes with a skeletal finger, papers covered in diagrams that seemed to writhe in the shifting light. Cross-references between mutated genomes and systems for artificial instincts created a web of connections that bordered on incomprehensible to lesser minds.

"Between Maw's unprecedented access to Cyberspace and Fort Lee's revolutionary animal drone technology," Merlot continued, his cybernetic eye focusing with telescopic precision on his colleagues, "we could engineer not merely control, but true adaptation. Imagine Grimm that learn, that evolve in real-time, that become more dangerous with every encounter."

Fort Lee responded with theatrical flourish, his movements deliberately grandiose as he gestured with his cannon arm—a weapon that had replaced flesh and bone after some catastrophic experiment years prior. The mechanical limb gleamed with polished chrome and crackling energy conduits that pulsed with his heartbeat.

"The Metal Forge partnership," Lee announced, his voice booming with the confidence of a man who had stared death in the face and emerged with upgraded hardware, "offers us more than mere machinery—it provides us with the tools of gods." He flexed his cannon arm, plasma energy dancing between the barrel's segments like captured lightning. "My drones, powered by this unique arm-cannon plasma and enhanced by my Shadow Trap Semblance, are ready for complete reconfiguration."

He paused for dramatic effect, savoring the attention of his brilliant colleagues. "Their accumulated battle data will fuel MIA's predictive combat analytics—absolutely essential for suppressing any Grimm outbreaks should Merlot's experimental serums prove... overly successful."

Dr. Mechnike’'s voice chimed in, his tone equal parts carnival barker and mad scientist, a combination that somehow worked perfectly for the orchestrator of this midnight conspiracy. "My contributions to our enterprise," he said, spreading his arms wide to encompass the forge around them, "Hazard's vessel, the Grimm chassis project, and the revolutionary brain-link protocol—all of it runs on the razor's edge between scientific triumph and beautiful chaos."

His eyes gleamed with the fervor of someone who had long ago abandoned conventional ethics in favor of pure discovery. "The Metal Forge does not discriminate in its hunger for progress—every alloy we forge, every circuit we design, represents another chance at achieving true supremacy over the natural order."

From across the room, a bank of monitors flickered to life with encrypted signals. Maw had established contact through secured digital channels, the screens displaying cascading code that hurt to look at directly. Through this connection, Hazard's consciousness patched in, the AI's unique personality cutting through the heavy atmosphere of scientific gravitas like a breath of fresh air from a simpler time.

"Yo, dudes!" Hazard's voice crackled through the speakers, his 90s vernacular a stark contrast to the hard science being discussed around the table. "This vessel's totally going turbo! We're talking universal grimmnet connectivity—Hazard in the shell, ready to vibe with Merlot's slithery code and Lee's lightning-spike drones. This is some gnarly synergy we're cooking up!"

The entity's enthusiasm was infectious, bringing unexpected levity to the grave proceedings. "Maw's been helping me get this meat-suit dialed in perfect. Once we're operational, those Grimm won't know what hit 'em—or if they'll even want to fight us or join the party!"

The room vibrated with tangible possibility, the very air seeming to thicken with the weight of their ambitions. This partnership, forged in the crucible of shared genius and mutual necessity, transformed former adversaries into collaborators united by vision. They traded schematics like playing cards, viral code like fine wine, and serum samples like precious gems.

Blueprints for Grimm hybrids covered every available surface—creatures that blended organic malevolence with mechanical precision. Synthetic scouts capable of infiltrating human settlements undetected. Autonomous hunters that could track prey across continents. The ethical limits that once constrained their work lay buried beneath layers of rationalization and the intoxicating promise of absolute power over life itself.

Watts pulled up holographic displays showing genetic matrices that pulsed with unnatural life. "Phase one involves basic neural pathway mapping," he explained, his fingers dancing through the three-dimensional representations. "We establish baseline aggression patterns, territorial instincts, pack behavior protocols."

"Phase two," Merlot interjected, his cybernetic eye projecting its own supplementary data into the display, "introduces the adaptive learning algorithms. Each engagement teaches them new tactics, new weaknesses to exploit in their opponents."

Lee's cannon arm whirred to life, projecting targeting data that overlaid perfectly with their biological schematics. "Phase three brings tactical coordination. Individual units networking into collective intelligence, sharing real-time battlefield analysis."

"And phase four," Mechnike concluded with obvious relish, "grants us direct control through the brain-link protocol. We become the gods of our own apocalypse, directing the symphony of destruction with the precision of master conductors."

The hours stretched on, filled with heated debates over implementation details, resource allocation, and the delicate balance between ambition and practical limitations. Coffee grew cold in forgotten cups as equations filled every whiteboard, every scrap of paper, every available digital display.

Outside the forge, the world slept peacefully, unaware that its fate was being decided by a handful of brilliant minds drunk on possibility and unfettered by conscience. The weight of their conspiracy settled around them like a comfortable shroud—they were no longer bound by the petty concerns of lesser mortals.

As dawn approached, the intensity of their collaboration reached fever pitch. Data flowed between systems, theoretical models took shape in holographic space, and the impossible gradually transformed into the inevitable. They were no longer simply scientists—they had become architects of a new world order.

The night ended with ceremony befitting the magnitude of their undertaking. The Forge's massive doors, reinforced with steel thick enough to stop artillery shells, latched shut with the finality of a tomb sealing. Project files underwent triple encryption protocols that would challenge even military codebreakers. Security systems activated in layered sequences, ensuring their work would remain undisturbed.

Maw's digital presence wove itself throughout cyberspace like an invisible spider spinning an unbreakable web, establishing monitoring protocols and defensive subroutines to ensure their progress would remain untouched by prying eyes. The AI's consciousness touched every connected device within miles, creating an early warning system that would make their sanctuary impregnable.

As the conspirators finally departed into the pre-dawn darkness, each carrying encrypted drives containing their shared research, they knew they had crossed a line from which there could be no return. The world would soon discover what happened when brilliant minds abandoned restraint in pursuit of ultimate power.

Their work would continue in secret laboratories and hidden facilities, in the spaces between what was legal and what was possible. They would toil in darkness until the day Salem stirred again from her slumber—and on that day, they would be ready with an army of nightmares that answered only to them.

The forge fell silent, but the seeds of a new age had been planted. In the shadows cast by cooling metal and flickering displays, the future took shape—a future where the line between creator and destroyer had been permanently erased.

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