It had been five years since Azrael had arrived in Remnant. In that half-decade, Azrael came to learn a great many things about the world he now inhabited. Winter and Jacques told him about the creatures of Grimm, the magical substance known as Dust, and the Faunus. Jacques talked at great length (and with great vitriol) about the Faunus and the White Fang, and Azrael took in every word. It was immediately apparent to the Undead warrior that Jacques was an unrepentant racist. Azrael himself had spent thousands of years dealing with exactly the sort of treatment Jacques seemed to relish in—insults, prejudice, and outright assaults because of one's physical nature were all too familiar to every Undead. But for Azrael, such experiences were only the tip of the iceberg, for even amongst the Undead, Azrael was an outcast.

Azrael was a pyromancer, born with a natural affinity for manipulating his inner flame. Sorcerers, clerics, and warriors all looked down upon him for both his ability and the strange featureless ring he wore. For a long time, Azrael simply refused to even use it, until he met a strange woman in the Blighttown swamp.

This woman—who claimed to be Quelana, one of the daughters of Izalith herself—took it upon herself to force Azrael to embrace his talent. After all, what we want to do and what we are good at are not always the same.

Azrael spent months training in that horrid swamp, even filthier than the Great Swamp where he was born, until finally he had learned all that Quelana had to teach. From there, Azrael promised to avenge Quelana's sisters, who had been horribly transformed when their mother, the Witch of Izalith, attempted to join her Great Soul with the First Flame to extend the Age of Fire. Instead of kindling the First Flame, Izalith's souls combusted, destroying her great city and transforming her citizens and family into flame-spewing monstrosities.

Azrael hunted down five of Quelana's six sisters, her brother, and finally her mother, ending their torment once and for all. But there was one sister he simply could not kill—Quelaan.

Like their sister Quelaag, Quelaan had been transformed into a terrifying half-woman, half-spider. The two sisters, thinking the rest of their family doomed, moved to the edge of Blighttown, far enough to escape the hellfire but close enough to protect their family's legacy from curious adventurers.

For decades, they lived in relative solitude, killing any adventurers who dared stray too far into the swamp. But eventually the soft-hearted Quelaan took pity on the residents of the nearby village, constantly besieged by disease and plague. Against her sister Quelaag's orders, Quelaan sucked up the Blightpus, cleansing the village proper from disease at the cost of her vision. Unfortunately, this very nearly killed Quelaan, and Quelaag was furious. She moved Quelaan and the girl's faithful servant Eingyi into a hidden passage deep within their lair and sealed it off from the rest of the world to protect Quelaan from her own mistakes. From that moment forward, Quelaag no longer cared for scaring off adventurers—now they had to die, so that Quelaag could use the dregs of humanity in their corpses to heal her naïve sister.

Azrael's ring allowed him to speak with Quelaan, and while the blind girl was largely ignorant of her situation, he was able to infer most of the details, and the pieces he missed, he learned from Quelana.

Azrael could not bring himself to murder such a kind woman, and told Quelana as much. He would take Quelaag's place, bringing Quelaan as much humanity as he could spare. Eventually she recovered somewhat, but her wounds far exceeded his abilities.

Eventually, he had to move on, heartbroken that he could neither help Quelaan nor tell her the truth—his ring allowed him to understand the language of Chaos, but he could not speak it. Before he left, Quelana confided in him that she had accepted her star pupil's decision to spare her sister, and gave him a final gift before she left for parts unknown—the most destructive pyromancer to exist, the Fire Tempest.

After Azrael defeated the corpse of Gwyn and let the flames die out (for a time, at least), he traveled back to the Northern Undead Asylum where his journey had begun. There a few nasty surprises were waiting for him, most notably a pair of Gwyn's elite soldiers.

Peculiarly, he found a small doll in his old cell. Sadly, he also found Oscar of Astora, the man who had freed him from that very same cell, completely Hollow, swinging his sword at the walls. Azrael's mercy only took a single stab to administer.

Holding the doll in his hands felt…right. From there he travelled to Anor Londo for reasons he could not understand, and was kidnapped into a world inside a painting. Several days later Azrael had fought his way through this facsimile of a castle, expecting a hard fight with a horrible demon to block his way out. Instead, he found another innocent, terrified girl. He found meaning in a dark, meaningless world.

He found Priscilla. He would serve her for millennia, until that bastard Lautrec resurfaced.


Eventually, Azrael's hunt for Lautrec ran out of leads, and he decided it was time to leave Lordran. He returned to Firelink Shrine to say farewell to his dear friend Laurentius—the only other pyromancer who could understand what Azrael went through—as well as deliver a final "go fuck yourself" to Patches.

Azrael went north, to Drangleic. There, he found even more evidence of the cruelty of racism. Undead were used as cannon fodder, hunted down like dogs, even locked up in research halls and experimented on.


After five years without any fights to the death, Azrael had become extremely restless. It had been two years since Winter joined the Atlas military, and the two of them had not seen each other since then. Azrael was eager to go on a scouting mission with his erstwhile pupil, if only to get some target practice in with his pyromancy. Captain Sierra had managed to suppress any rumors as a favor for Azrael saving his life, and he didn't trust anyone else but the Schnee daughters with his secret ability—although this world apparently had an abundance of individuals with strange powers, Azrael preferred not to advertise his strength, and got very few chances to use it as a result.

Twelve hours of silent tracking later, Azrael began to regret choosing the frozen forest north of the Schnee estate as a scouting mission. He wasn't bothered by the cold—a decade of fighting on the walls of Eleum Loyce made everything else feel toasty in comparison—but they had found absolutely nothing. No bandits, creatures of Grimm, or even potential assassins to satiate his slowly growing hunger for a fight.

Finally, Winter broke the suffocating silence. "Final sector clear. Thanks for the help Azrael, even if it turned out to be a bust."

"Glad I could help. I just wish we had found something I could kill out here."

"You do realize that this was a scouting mission, right?"

"Yes, but even so…" Azrael suddenly felt uneasy, as if the pair were being watched. Why is my Darksign responding to…oh no. He immediately crouched down behind a snowy embankment, praying that his intuition was wrong. "Winter, head back to the mansion and tell Ironwood I need to speak with him. Now."

"What are you talking about?" the specialist-in-training whispered, crouching next to her mentor, who had already drawn his sword.

"Do you remember the stories I would tell you and your sister? Specifically, the one I told you, about the Black Knights?"

Winter thought back to the last night she had spent in her home before shipping off to Atlas. She and Weiss had stayed up all night listening to Azrael's war stories—that he made them promise never to tell anyone else, especially not their father. She recalled the last story he told her, after Weiss had fallen asleep. The Battle of the Painted World, he called it. He was in the service of something name Velka (who or what Velka was, Azrael refused to explain, but he said that name with a reverence Winter had never heard him speak with before), protecting a woman named Priscilla, when an entire army of armored warriors even larger than himself assaulted their castle. Azrael and his comrades fought bravely, and he personally slew over a hundred of them as they poured onto the battlefield. But they were betrayed by one of their own—a scoundrel Azrael called "The King in Yellow"—and the castle fell. Winter remembered how Azrael's voice grew quiet, almost to a whisper, when he told her how the King had forced him to watch as two men, one wearing golden armor, the other covered in black spikes, butchered Priscilla in front of him, then stabbed him and threw him off of the nearest cliff. Azrael told Winter that he only survived because he had been filled with hatred, losing almost everything that even made him human (a lie, but Azrael had decided it was better not to try and explain to Winter that he was, as far as he knew, literally unkillable).

"Yes, what of it? I thought those knights all died in the battle."

"So did I, but I fear I was wrong. We are being watched."

Winter's eyes darted to and fro, focusing intently on anything out of the ordinary, but Azrael grabbed her. "I told you to report back to General Ironwood. Go now."

"But I can help you fight whatever is out here!"

"Trust me, you will only slow me down. Your scroll can capture video, correct?"

"Yes, but why…I see." Winter took out her scroll, linked it to Azrael's helmet and started recording, then handed it to Azrael.

"I will see you when I get back, Winter."

"I'm going to hold you to that."

Azrael glared pointedly at his former student. "Have I ever broken a promise before? Now GO!"

Winter sped off, using her glyphs to travel back to the Schnee estate and report to Ironwood as fast as she could.

Now it's just me and you bastards. This should be fun.

Azrael moved out from the cover of the snowbank and stood up straight, exposing his hulking form for all to see. He placed the Grass Crest Shield on his back, making a mental note to thank Whitley for reminding him to take it with him once he got back, and raised Lucatiel's sword up to shoulder height.

Azrael closed his eyes, allowing the sixth sense afforded to him by the Darksign to do its work. Even though the knights' pitch black armor would be extremely visible against the alabaster snow, he knew he would be able to sense them before he saw them. There you are. And look, you brought friends.

Azrael slid behind the nearest tree and froze, waiting for the perfect moment to ambush the trio of reanimated armor sets (all wielding straight swords and large shields), unaware that a fourth Black Knight was preparing to do exactly the same to him.


It had ended almost as quickly as it had begun. Azrael burst from his hiding spot and chopped the first Black Knight clean in two before it had even heard him move. Moving with a speed born from thousands of battles over the years, he ran his sword through the second knight and kicked the third so hard that it fell backwards. Seeing his opportunity, Azrael jumped onto the fallen armor's shoulders and placed his hand over the area a face would have been (if it had any face to begin with), letting loose an enormous surge of fire from his Pyromancy Flame. Feeling the long-overdue ecstasy of souls swarming into his body as the three knights and their weapons disintegrated, Azrael stood up straight and relaxed for the first time in months.

In fact, he was so relaxed that he didn't notice the hidden fourth Black Knight approaching him until its halberd slashed across his back, sending him reeling across the ground and leaving a massive red stain in the snow.

Ignoring the searing pain and the blood spraying out from the enormous wound, Azrael clambered to his feet, readying his shield while frantically searching for his weapon. The large sword had been knocked out of his hands by the savage blow, and Azrael finally saw it lying on the ground nearby. He dashed over to it, barely deflecting another incoming blow from the Black Knight's halberd with his shield. He grabbed the sword's hilt and yanked it out of the ground in a vain attempt to decapitate his adversary, but yet another powerful swing knocked the sword out of his hands again, and this time it embedded itself an entire foot deep into a nearby tree. So much for a fair fight. Time to get creative.

Azrael bashed his shoulder into the knight as hard as he could, catching it off guard, then dropped his shield and tried to wrest the halberd from its owner's hand. For nearly half a minute, the two ancient warriors grappled, kicked, and shoved each other, until finally Azrael came apart from the Black Knight with the halberd in his hands. If he didn't know better, Azrael would've sword he could smell the creature's fear and resignation as it tried one final lunge with its shield, but Azrael was ready for it. He ducked under the shield and swung upward with the enormous halberd, knocking the armor off its feet, then plunged the blade into its owner's head, over and over again.

Weary from the fight, and yet feeling more alive than he had in years, Azrael watched as the possessed armor dissolved, expecting the same to happen to his new weapon. When the halberd remained in his hands, Azrael grinned at his luck and began the long journey home, wincing as his adrenaline wore off and the massive gash across his back made itself known rather emphatically. I really should've brought my flask, thought Azrael as he collapsed into the snow.


Meanwhile, at the Schnee Residence

"And you just left?" yelled the man currently standing in front of a visibly shaken Winter Schnee inside her father's study.

"Yes, sir."

"Would you mind telling me why?"

"Azrael ordered me to report back to you immediately. Considering his clear superiority in battle, I obeyed, trusting that he could handle whatever it was he thought was watching us. Sir."

General James Ironwood scratched at his jawline, disturbed by this turn of events. He knew almost nothing about Azrael, but Winter always spoke very highly of his combat abilities. If he really was the one who trained her, then in all likelihood he could handle anything the Grimm could throw at him…but this mention of these so-called Black Knights concerned him deeply. Was there really a faction of elite warriors hiding in the frigid mountains? And if they were hiding out there, could they be used to help fight the Grimm?

Ironwood's reverie was broken when his assistant came into the study. "Sir, we're getting a signal from Ms. Schnee's scroll. You'll want to see this." Ironwood decided that any thoughts of an alliance could wait. For right now, he had to see what is was that demanded his attention. Ironwood took the scroll and dismissed his assistant, sending him from the room, setting the scroll to display mode.

The general and his protégé watched in awe as Azrael dismantled his enormous opponents with visible ease. Ironwood had fought beside and against many skilled warriors, but this was on an entirely different plane of existence. Azrael moved with a speed and confidence that Ironwood had never seen in his life—even Ozpin didn't move like this.

Winter, for her part, was less astonished than her commanding officer (having been trained by the whirling vortex of death they now observed) but at that moment she realized that she would never surpass her teacher's skill. Winter finally understood why Azrael had always seemed preoccupied whenever they had sparred in the past—he wasn't distracted, he was bored.

When the fourth knight struck Azrael down, Ironwood gasped. He began to move out the door to send a search party for Azrael, but Winter was already sprinting out the door, determined to save her first teacher.


One Hour Later

Winter finally returned to the Schnee residence with Azrael's battered form (and broken armor) slumped over her shoulder. Shoving her father aside before he could ask questions, she motioned Captain Sierra over to help her. The head of security immediately took Azrael's unconscious form in his arms—the weight on his augmetic metal arm viscerally reminding Sierra of their first meeting—and rushed him to the medical ward.

Winter, confident that Azrael was in capable hands, ushered a curious Weiss away from the scene, but not before her young sister noticed the blood stains all over the courtyard (not to mention Winter's jacket).

"Winter, what's going on? What's wrong with Azrael?"

"Nothing's wrong, Weiss. Go play with Whitley."

"But he was bleeding all over! What's happening?"

"Azrael got in a fight with some bad men, but he won, and the bad men aren't going to hurt anybody anymore," which was about as close to the truth as Winter was comfortable with. "Don't worry, Azrael will be fine. He promised me."

At this, Weiss's panicked expression softened. She knew Azrael wouldn't break a promise to either of them. "Well, make sure to tell him he's in big trouble for making me scared!"

Winter managed to force a smile at her little sister's innocence—as if the little girl would ever be able to exact punishment on Azrael if he didn't want her to!

Emotionally drained, exhausted, and covered in Azrael's blood, Winter marched Weiss back to their room and promptly collapsed onto her old bed, her concerns about whatever those monsters were slipping away in the face of sleepy oblivion.


One Week Later, Schnee Residence Medical Hall

Azrael awoke with a start and jumped to his feet, scanning around himself for threats. The last thing he remembered was fighting something. The Black Knights! Wait…I killed all four of them. As he shook off the memory of that fight, Azrael finally looked at his surroundings and noticed that he was in a room filled with terrified nurses and doctors. As his stance relaxed, the medical staff, wearing what Azrael recognized as a mix of Schnee medical personnel uniforms and Atlas military doctor scrubs, turned to each other and began murmuring.

"How is he awake so soon?"

"Forget awake, how is he even alive? He lost over a gallon of blood!"

"I wonder if he's single?"

Azrael ignored them and made to leave the infirmary, but before he could, he felt a small hand tug at the waist of the medical gown he was wearing. He stopped walking, turned to his right, and noticed Weiss staring at him angrily.

"You can't just leave, you're really hurt! The doctors told me you'd be here for a month!"

Inwardly, Azrael laughed at the oddity of the situation. He had just woken up from one of the fiercest battles he had fought in a decade, one in which he had singlehandedly kill four Black Knights, and yet here he was, cowed by a small child. A child he had pledged his life and service to, who held more power in her soul than she could possibly imagine, but still just a child.

He decided it would be best to sit down on the nearest medical cot—a decision he immediately regretted when the cot collapsed under his weight. One of the doctors, clearly struggling with Azrael's massive torso, helped him up and back into his reinforced bed. One of the downsides of weighing nearly a sixth of a ton, Azrael mused.

"So, Weiss, how long was I out?"

"A whole week, which means you owe me two more stories!" The little girl beamed, excited to hear more tales of war from the ancient fighter.

"What's this about stories?" came a voice from the door. Jacques had finally arrived in the medical ward.

"It's nothing, Father." Weiss's eyes shot down to her feet.

"Have you been filling my daughter's head with fairy tales AGAIN?"

"Yes. What of it?"

"I already told you I don't want her listening to any ridiculous tall tales!"

"I know what you said. And I have never told her anything that wasn't true." Azrael sat up straight in his bed. Even sitting down, he was at eye level with the Dust baron, and Azrael took advantage of it, glaring at Jacques, daring him to make a move. The Schnee patriarch backed down almost immediately, storming out of the medical wing in a huff, rushing past a bemused General Ironwood—flanked by Winter—on the way out.

"Doctors, nurses, Miss Schnee, I need a word with our friend." The medical staff dispersed, leaving the general alone in the room with Azrael and the two Schnee girls. "Miss Schnee, please, I have to talk to your friend."

Weiss puffed up her chest and stared at the military man defiantly. "No! He still owes me two bedtime stories!" Ironwood stiffened, not noticing Winter nearly bursting out laughing behind him.

"It's fine, Ironwood. Let her stay," Azrael chimed in. "She already knows more about these things than you do anyway."

"Excuse me?"

"I've been telling her stories about my past exploits for five years. She is more knowledgeable than anyone except Winter and myself about the Black Knights." At this, Weiss's head swiveled around to meet Azrael.

"You fought a Black Knight! Ooh you gotta tell me about it!"

"Later, Weiss. Now I need to let General Ironwood in on the secret." The little girl looked disappointed, but she was placated for the moment. Azrael turned to the general.

"This will take quite a long time to explain."

"This takes precedence over my other duties. I've got all day."


Azrael spent the next three hours explaining his journey through Lordran to the bewildered Atlas officer, in a heavily edited fashion. He left out all the hundreds of deaths he suffered at the hands of Lordran's monstrous menagerie, as well as the existence of Priscilla—best not to give the general any reason to be suspicious of Azrael's oath to Weiss.

For the entire time, Weiss and Winter sat next to Azrael, listening just as intently as Ironwood—while they could tell he was hiding a lot from the general, they had never heard Azrael tell the entire thing from cover to cover, so to speak.

After Azrael explained how he had been teleported to Remnant against his will (glossing over about 14,500 years of his personal history for the general's sake), Azrael slumped back down in his bed, exhausted from talking for so long.

Ironwood simply stared in shock at the tale he had just heard. He was shocked not because of how long the story was, nor how insane it sounded, but because the general absolutely believed every word. Azrael was a man who simply would not lie, Ironwood could feel it in the core of his being. Finally, his brain managed to form enough words to ask questions.

"So why are these Black Knights in the mountains of Atlas? I thought they all died in the Kiln?"

"Apparently not all of them. I'm not sure how, but I think they followed me in the same manner that Winter summoned me here in the first place. It just took them longer to show up." Looking at the general, Azrael didn't need to hear the next question. "Relax, general. If any more were in Remnant, I would know about it."

"How can you be sure?"

Well, now is as good a time as any, I guess. "I left out a key part of my story. It is a brand on my shoulder known as the Darksign. It allows me to sense when other creatures from Lordran are around. When the Black Knights appeared, their presence screamed at me like a beacon in the night. Trust me, they're gone now."

"That's quite a relief." Ironwood turned to Winter. "Schnee, you have the rest of the day off. I recommend you spend it preparing to leave. I have decided to promote you to Specialist." Winter's eyes lit up.

"Really, sir?"

"Absolutely. Without your quick action, Azrael here would have died out there. We will be leaving at 0600 tomorrow morning. Goodbye, Azrael. Miss Schnee." Ironwood bowed to Weiss and walked sharply out of the room, leaving the Schnee sisters with their injured protector.

Winter quickly followed her superior out the door—after a quick apology to both Weiss and Azrael—and went to her room to pack.

Weiss looked at Azrael, eyes beaming. "Now you HAVE to tell me another story!"

Azrael groaned and threw his head back into his pillow.