The Superman exists elsewhere as well. In other specks of Sand, far from here. They take on different forms there in those foreign worlds.
But here – the Superman is Pyrrha Nikos.
The titans continued to fight, even as this world beyond worlds continued to shatter into pieces from the shockwaves of their battle. Endless layers above everything, beyond the wrecked ruins of worlds below. The fight between the Golden Champion and a vampire, a devil clad in black. Pyrrha held onto her crimson lance, now chipped and bent, yet still sharp. Her shield continued to shelter her from the cruel magicks of the vampire, though wearing it down with every wicked blast of fire or heinous slash of the claws.
Throughout all of this – Pyrrha's red cape remained untouched, silky and still flowing with righteous fighting spirit. It was evidence of her bravery, for she had not once turned her back against this evil before her.
"Why do you fight on?" Salem asked. "You will continue to die over and over again, in every story, in every speck of Sand. And you wish to fight on? For what? Just to anger me?"
Pyrrha's breath was heavy, her limbs were starting to numb, even as the joints of her invincible metal machine body scrambled to put itself back together. She knew that this evil before her was the most powerful enemy she will ever have to face. No Grimm nor men that came before was as powerful, not Cinder, not Mercury, not Penny – none.
And yet.
And yet.
Indeed.
Pyrrha still fights on. Her mind is more focused now than ever before. Her purpose is clear, she knows what she has never known before. Deep in the specks of Sand is a story, the story of the Hero. One who was sent from the heavens down to humble soils. A god worshipped by all to be treated as human, as a friend.
Deep in the farthest corners of her metal robot mind is a metal door, locked and hidden down a hallway. Behind the door, she can hear many voices. Ozpin, Ironwood, one named Oscar? And so many more. But in the seas of these voices, only one voice is gentle enough for her to hear.
"Pyrrha…" Jaune whispers inside her mind.
In other worlds, other specks of Sand, the Story of the Superman would be the story of a single life form – a child, being rocketed away from an unstable planet cursed with the tragic beauty of its own doom. A beauty that the child will remember, despair, and mourn as he goes on to shine a beacon of hope brighter than any before him. That is the Story within a speck of Sand far from here, and it is the most recognizable, the most powerful.
Here, the form follows the mold of the Golden Champion Pyrrha Nikos. Details differ, but the Story remains the same. Inhabitants within the Sand would come to define the Superman as merely an extraordinary specimen of a man, a mortal made god. A man to make morals by his own might.
The Superman is so much more than that, however. Just as it was proven by the First Hero of Remnant, Red. Who would go on to define Huntsmen as the world would come to know them. Red is the mold that gives Pyrrha her shape, the one Pyrrha is inspired by, knowingly or otherwise. Or perhaps – it is the other way around, that it is Pyrrha who gives Red her shape.
Strength without context is meaningless, just as phrases and words do not make up stories on their own. Jaune Arc has known weakness all his life, and yet he still grows into the mold of the Superman. Pyrrha is the most powerful of them all, and what she wants most in life is to descend down to a humbler place, a place where she will see him, her friend.
"So I fight on!" Pyrrha shouts, "Because that is the essence and duty of a Huntress. This metal body is powered by life energy, by Dust – to fight your evil, your emptiness."
"Bold words," says Salem, "but meaningless ones. How can you fight, when your death echoes across the multiverse? Die an endless DEATH!"
Sparkling from the devil's white palm is the negative essence of Grimm, of which Pyrrha quickly shields herself from the attack only to be knocked down into the celestial temporal river. Falling into an infinite death leaving a hole to crack open within the specks of Sand.
On the bell tower, Cinder would draw her bow crafted from the crystal sand of magick, to fire an arrow into Pyrrha's heart, piercing through.
The arrow would travel far, with its dark ambition piercing through the armor of the White Knight Jean Arc, incapacitating him instantly where he stands.
Salem's claws are sharp, but her fangs are sharper – the thirst of a vampire god cannot be quenched, only delayed. Ozpin sees this as his own limp lifeless body is being held in the grip of the monster, her fangs reaching closer and closer, breathing down his neck.
"Let me feed," Salem growls baring her fangs, "until nothing remains but Salem."
The story, Pyrrha thinks to herself, this story is trying to destroy her, so that this shall be the final story, and no more heroes will rise ever again. The Grimm are eating away at her Dust.
In one speck, Pyrrha falls to the savagery of the Grimm on her very first day of school.
In another she would be struck at the heel, to then have her leg completely chopped off, before falling into doom.
Another arrow piercing her foot, as Cinder's flaming blade stabs her in the heart.
Another where Salem corrupts the corpse of the Golden Champion to do her bidding, and so many more.
The specks are endless.
And yet close to her death, one foot already out the door – Pyrrha can still hear his voice, one so gentle and noble:
"Pyrrha…" Jaune whispers once more.
To light a fire inside her heart brighter than she has ever been before. The Legend of Red has spread once before, and now it shall spread again into the specks of Sand.
Even as she falls to her knees, held by the cruel claws of the vampiric mistress of evil, Pyrrha never shows her back to have her red cape tattered or ripped. She holds strong as Salem's fangs draw in closer, ready to bite down on her neck draining the life force dry.
The whispers give her this strength to stand strong, to resist the pull and temptation of the devil.
It gives her hope.
And in this hope, Pyrrha is once again empowered by the strength of the machine inside. Her purpose keeps her straight and her determination fuels these joints. Shielding herself from the bite, she would then push Salem off to create an opening.
The two fight on the edge of everything, in a realm beyond realms, and a void beyond voids. Trembling as they dangle precariously. They are at the edge, the very end of everything, beyond here is nothing except a blank space.
Her strength is renewed, for that is her purpose. No matter how much Salem adapts, no matter how much the devil evolves, Pyrrha would adapt back and evolve with her, for it is in her nature. Both of their natures, the nature of their duality. For every slash of the claw, Pyrrha would retaliate with a slash of her blade, empowered by the rifle in her lance, rocketing forward to a divine strike.
The ringing of the bell echoes on furiously, continuously, like a distress signal.
But the Guardian of the Universe is here, she is called upon in time of need for the ultimate purpose, the ultimate masterwork crafted from Dream.
"This is who I am," Pyrrha pants, "what I am."
"NO! Let me feed!" Salem calls out in desperation, not knowing what to do against this golden warrior.
"You could've achieved greatness, Cinder," says Pyrrha. "With the power you gained you could've been part of this story, the Story of the Superman. But you coveted more, fallen from grace."
"This power is my Destiny, my right!" Salem shouts.
"Then it is my Destiny to oppose you," Pyrrha raises her lance, ready to strike. "You have no one but yourself to blame."
"NO!"
The stabbing of the vampire is final, the final strike, the final beat of the battle – a stake through the heart. Her unholy defense is of no use now at the edge of everything. The blade pierces her as easily as butter, Dust overtaking her Grimm body, overloading the emptiness with life energy until it bursts.
Salem would fall into the void far beyond, Pyrrha hears her scream down there getting fainter and fainter until the very idea of what Salem is becomes nonexistent. All that remains is the Hero standing on the edge, still yet to turn her back to show her red cape – one without a single scratch or burn.
Well done, my masterwork.
Salem is no more, out of existence. But it will return, as it is cosmic canon. But not in this original form, perhaps elsewhere, but not today. Today the Hero stands tall, and Red is the color of her might.
"I must return to my world," said Pyrrha, limping with great determination. Her robotic parts fell apart as she strode forth. "Destiny calls, my duty is yet done."
Yes, but what will happen now that you have changed the course of stories?
On the bell tower, as the clock hit midnight and the Dragon fell from the sky from mysterious circumstances, disintegrating as it crashed down unto the ground of Beacon, Pyrrha stood tall over the body of Cinder Falls. Cinder was asked if she believed in Destiny mere moments ago, before responding with a determined 'yes', drawing her bow and preparing to kill Pyrrha Nikos.
And now, in a space of time less than a single heartbeat, Pyrrha's heart continued to beat as Cinder was reduced to ashes. Almost like that of a vampire being exposed to the light, or even a dying Grimm decomposing as it drew its last breath.
The Story has changed, the girl Pyrrha has changed the story. The death of the Hero is no longer certain. No longer will they be sacrificed like lambs in a futile mission, to die a tragic death.
Now there is hope.
Even as Pyrrha kneeled down, bowing her head to draw her last breath – a smile could be seen on her bloodied face. For she could at last be at peace. Her heart continued to beat but she was no longer alive – a lifeful death. With one hand clinging to her lance and a shield on her back over the crimson cape, she kneeled facing the corpse of her enemy and closed her eyes to rest – forever having her back facing away to the opposite direction, so that the cape shan't be scratched or burned.
Ruby Rose would shortly come up on the crumbling bell tower, so silent, no longer ringing. Running to her friend, the tears of a young hopeful girl fell mourning this death.
"Bother me no longer, boy." Said the old man as he tossed the stick into the bonfire. "Go back to your city, where it's safe. I have told you the Story. Do of it as you wish."
"Okay… um, thank you – sir."
"Though, before you go," the old man coughed, "what's your name?"
"R-Roman, sir. Roman Torchwick."
"Hmm…"
"There's still a lot I don't understand. I have a Dream once, sir. I was on a falling airship, and I came face to face with a girl in a red hood. There was something strange in her eyes, a certain spark of silver – a certain… beacon of hope. I told her the futility of being a Huntress, because there is only death and tragedy. But she continued on, unafraid – while I met my demise being swallowed by a hideous Grimm. That's when I woke from the Dream. It felt… right, for some reason. Like it is supposed to happen like that, almost like… it's the future. What does it all mean, sir? Is that girl in the hood… is she Red? Does Red still exist?"
The old man did not answer, only exhaled:
"Dreams are powerful my boy, do not underestimate them. They are the root of hope, and the Story goes on. It can be your story, too."
"Me? But… I'm a nobody."
"Yes, and so was Red, the story of the humble," said the old man, smiling for the first time.
"I mean… sure, being a Huntsman – a hero sounds nice. But how can I be a hero? I'm not strong, or fast. I don't even have a Semblance."
"The value of the Hero is not measured by the strength of his body, but instead the strength of his heart. If your heart has hope, then you can Dream of a better tomorrow. Now go, be safe on your travels. I have nothing left to give you but my farewells."
AN: Been on a sudden hiatus from other fics due to real life. Will be back to writing them soon.