Back on the writing train. School is kicking my ass.

Enjoy.


"—taker? Whitaker?" An impossibly soft and timid voice called. "Wake up, Whitaker."

Whitaker's eyes peeled open.

Cobalt blue met sterling silver.

Ruby sat before him on a field of white flowers, her legs crossed and her black and red hair swaying softly in the wind. Upon her face rested a small smile. She reached out with a hand and cupped the side of Whitaker's face.

"R-Ruby?" Whitaker murmured. She looked… so real. "Where… where are we? Why are you here?"

She pouted. "I thought you would've been happy to see me."

"Well, I suppose I am," Whitaker replied. He took Ruby's hand and removed it from his face. Slowly, cautiously, Whitaker sat up, his hand still on the wounds the Alpha Beowolf left on him. But there was nothing there; no blood, no glasses, simply the thick padding of his white winter coat.

Only white flowers and a white sky dotted with grey clouds surrounded them. No breeze. No smells. And no other sounds besides the breathing of both Ruby and Whitaker.

"Where are we?" Whitaker repeated.

Ruby shrugged. "I'm not sure."

"Am I dead?"

Ruby shrugged. Again.

"Why are you here?"

She shrugged.

"Ruby," Whitaker said exasperatedly.

Her silver-eyes widened as she raised her hands up in surrender. "I really don't know anything. Last I remember, I was dreaming, and then I was… torn from my dream and dropped here. Right in front of you." She bit her lip. "What about you?"

"I was in the middle of my test," Whitaker murmured. "And I…" The words died on his lips. His throat dried up.

"You?"

"I failed. Whitaker grasped at the flowers, his fingernails digging into the dirt. "I failed, Ruby," he choked out. Tears pricked at the edges of his eyes. "I failed miserably. I was so stupid. I chose to start the mission even though there was a blizzard. I thought I was so ready, so prepared. I got cocky. I hadn't even fully prepared for a blizzard, but I still went. Gods, I was such a fool. I was an idiot. An arrogant idiot. The worst kind of idiot…"

Whitaker went on.

And on.

And on.

And Ruby listened.

"... And now," Whitaker's voice caught in his throat. "Now I'm dead and dreaming." He shut his eyes, and rubbed at them with the back of his hand.

Ruby's hand came to rest atop his. She brushed aside the dirt. And then her fingers interlocked with his. Whitaker leaned forwards. His head came to rest to rest atop Ruby's chest. Her other hand gently caressed his hair.

Before Whitaker knew it, he was crying.

Sobbing.

Wailing.

It was an awful cry. Ugly. Hideous. It was everything Whitaker didn't want Ruby seeing.

But.

She continued to run fingers through his hair. She continued to rub the top of his thumb with her own. She continued to breathe gently, the slow rise and fall of her chest nearly lulling Whitaker to sleep.

"You're okay," Ruby whispered. "It'll be okay."

"But I failed. I let everyone down. I disappointed—"

"Whitaker. You didn't disappoint anyone. You didn't let anyone down."

He shook his head. "I let myself down. And that's unforgivable."

"That's where you're wrong," she protested.

Whitaker pulled away, his cheeks stained with tears. "What do you mean?"

"It is forgivable, Whitaker. Letting people down, letting yourself down," Ruby continued. "That's a part of life. We can't always appease ourselves or the people around us."

"But—"

Ruby placed her finger over his lips.

"But nothing." Silver eyes narrowed into thin daggers. "Do you understand?"

"Ruby, it's not that simple—"

"It is, Witt," she countered. "It really is that simple." Ruby's other hand interlocked with Whitaker's. "When we got the news that my mom died, Dad couldn't stop blaming himself for her death. He thought he'd disappointed me and Yang, Uncle Qrow; he believed he had to carry the burden all by himself."

Ruby pursed her lips.

"It took years for him to get better. And that was with everyone's help." She moved closer now, her eyes not leaving Whitaker's. "I want to help you, Whitaker. And I will. But Dad didn't get better just because of us. He got better because of himself too." Her silver eyes softened. "It starts with a step. No matter how small, the road to getting better starts with a step. And it might take a long time. But it really is that simple."

Ruby pressed her lips against Whitaker's forehead.

Whitaker eased into her, his head falling forwards once more.

"Thank you, Ruby."

The girl nodded as she returned to running her hand through Whitaker's hair.

"Rest now, Whitaker," Ruby breathed. "You've earned it."

And slowly, calmly, in time with the brushing of Ruby's hand in his hair, Whitaker succumbed to sleep.

[;]

Whitaker awoke to a world of pain. Every inch of his body ached, his muscles cried out in sheer exhaustion. It took extreme effort to even breathe, and when Whitaker did breathe, it felt like a thousand spikes ran through every inhale and exhale.

Much to Whitaker's surprise, when he attempted to stand, he could put a normal amount of weight on his right leg. It seemed that his Aura managed to heal most of the injury while he rested. But his chest, where the Beowolf had struck him, pooled with blood. Sparing what bandages his could, Whitaker quickly unzipped his coat and encased the wound with them.

Once he finished putting his coat back on, Whitaker checked his watch.

39:10

Another fifteen hours of rest. Whitaker took it in stride. He had no food. He was running on empty. He needed to conserve whatever energy he could spare.

Soft moonlight leaked through the Beowolf-sized hole in the ceiling, bathing the interior of the cavern with a pale light. Chiseled stone walls, cut with intricate engravings and markings across its surface, stood all around Whitaker. The walls rose to meet the glacier. Where the stone stopped, the ice rested like a bed of cold earth, separating the ruins from the glacier's surface.

Whitaker flicked on his flashlight and further investigated the markings on the walls.

As he did so, he began to notice a pattern. Wherever there were markings of any kind, be it a line or column of them, he spotted the same sequence of writing: a crude symbol of a sword, then a fire, and then a man.

Whitaker wasn't an expert in archaeology by any means. Nor history for that matter. But he guessed that the writings matched the age of the tomb— after all, the chances of someone having recently been inside of the tomb were rare. Extremely so.

It was classified after all, and Whitaker was one of the four people who had known about the tomb's whereabouts. The other three being Esmond, Ironwood, and Winter.

If Whitaker had his Scroll, he could have documented it here and now.

He turned back to where he had landed.

And he realized that the mask of the Alpha Beowolf was nowhere to be seen.

Whitaker pocketed his flashlight, and in a flash, he unleashed both sides of Lightning. Sparks crackled between the blades as he held it before him.

Cold blue eyes scanned the area.

He waited.

He stood beneath the moonlight with bated breath.

And after an eternity of nothing but the howling of wind against the ice, Whitaker loosened his grip on Lightning. He let it rest at his sides.

If the Beowolf showed up, his Semblance would come in handy now that he could actually spare the Aura to use it.

Speaking of his Semblance…

Whitaker physically shook his head free of the thought. Theories about his Semblance needed to come later. It would always be there.

Right now, he had a ruin to explore and a mission to finish.

[;]

The ruin was impossibly large. It sprawled, labyrinthian, throughout the glacier, so expansive to the point that Whitaker wholly believed that he was lost. Every hallway looked the same, every wall bore the same markings, and every floor and ceiling was no different than the last.

He meandered throughout the ruins, his flashlight trained ahead of him.

35:37

Four hours had passed in the blink of an eye. Four hours disappeared from Whitaker's mind as the ruins seemed to bend, twist, and merge into one another, and he utterly lost himself within its halls.

32:10

Four hours became seven.

Whitaker's thoughts became a whirlwind of nothingness.

29:49

Seven hours became ten.

His mind wandered its own hall, lost in its own maze.

Whitaker was aware enough to understand what was happening to him. And it scared him to death. There was nothing he could do. It was like he was merely responding to the call of a siren, letting her voice guide him through the ceaseless halls of the ruins.

No resistance. No fighting it. No light at the end of the tunnel.

Just an infinite, immeasurable void

And Whitaker stood on its precipice.

27:30

Ten hours became twelve.

And Whitaker collapsed, and images of a sword of white steel wreathed in golden light assaulted his mind.

[;]

When he awoke, Whitaker sat before a bladeless weapon embedded into a stone pedestal. Liquid metal gathered within a small, glass bead at the end of the weapon's hilt. It stared back at him in silent fury, the colors of the metal trapped inside of the bead shifting and swirling, as though a storm brewed within the metal. The guard extended out from either side of the blade, creating a crescent shape.

Hands shaking, his entire being filled with hesitance, he reached out and, with a single finger, touched the white hilt of the sword.

Like water rushing out from a dam, the liquid metal spilled out of the bead and spilled out of the guard, solidifying into the blade of a broadsword. One that mirrored Lightning's blade almost perfectly.

On instinct, Whitaker's hands fully wrapped around the hilt. But, as he did so, Whitaker realized that something about the sword felt wrong. Like he wasn't meant to touch it, much less wield it.

Warmth spread through his hands, and, a moment later, a spark of electricity pulsed through his veins. It shredded his Aura, and his very hands began to burn. When Whitaker attempted to let go of the sword, his hands only clenched tighter around its handle.

A force, an energy, something, pierced his thoughts and placed itself at the forefront of his mind.

And when it spoke, it burned Whitaker's mind.

Who are you?

Whitaker met his question with silence.

And his mind was incinerated.

I… He stopped himself. But the fire that raced through him forced the words from his lips. I am Whitaker Ash. He tried to release the sword once again. To no avail. What happened? Who are you? How did I get here?

His question was met with silence for a time. And then the voice returned, bringing with it fire and brimstone.

These ruins were enchanted to ensure that no one would find their way to this area. And the Lightbearer.

Whenever the voice spoke, it scorched Whitaker's thoughts. It was like his brain was inside of a microwave. His vision blurred, filled with sunspots and flashes of gold and orange light. His thoughts burned, his mind smoldered, and Whitaker found it a struggle to even think.

L-Lightbearer? That was a new name. A weapon? It was a—

An artifact.

The burning, if only for a moment, ceased.

An artifact?

Some would say a Relic.

A Relic?

It is a potent weapon. And it seems that it has accepted you as its wielder.

Acc— Accepted me as its wielder?

You survived.

Whitaker blinked. The inferno was gone. He attempted to release the sword once again. And this time, it worked. For a moment, he was relieved when the voice in his head didn't appear, but that was quickly shattered.

The voice returned. Why did you seek this tomb?

I… Slowly, Whitaker's thoughts clarified. I came into this place as a mission assigned to me by my father. I'm training to become a Huntsman, and this was my final test before being admitted into Beacon Academy.

A Huntsman… The voice's presence momentarily disappeared. Yes, I can sense your Aura, despite how thin it is. You are skilled. Well-trained and disciplined, despite being so young.

Trained by my father, what he could teach me, at least. What he couldn't, experience and my allies taught me.

You are young. But you have killed.

How… how do you know?

No normal seventeen year-old boy speaks with as much conviction and courage as you do. We are linked now.

Linked?

Through Lightbearer, our minds are one in the same. Our memories are one another's, as are our thoughts and experiences.

That sounds dangerous.

Normally, it would be. Yet here you stand. Which means that the danger has passed.

If we are linked, Whitaker began. What is your name?

I am Harros Vesta.

Harros Vesta? The hero of the Igniter's Crusades and the Icecross War, Whitaker realized.

So you have heard of me. But you have not heard of Lightbearer?

Yes. Lightbearer is a name that I have never heard before. Whitaker glanced at the embedded sword. It had reverted from the broadsword to its original, bladeless form. Why is it doing that?

The blade takes the form of a weapon its wielder is most familiar with. Harros pushed himself to the very forefront of Whitaker's mind. Take the weapon now.

Whitaker grasped the grip of Lightbearer.

And the blade extended into a greatsword, the steel snapping into place before solidifying.

Harros stepped back.

The blade shifted back to a broadsword.

But I already have a weapon. Whitaker's hand moved towards Lightning, but as he did so, he felt himself cringe. When his hand came to rest around the grip of the sword, it sent a static shock throughout his body and he immediately released it.

The burden of Lightbearer is great. And it ensures that its wielders can carry no other weapon besides itself.

Why me? When I entered into this tomb, you weren't angry. It didn't feel like you were angry. You were more interested than anything.

Destiny would eventually find another wielder for Lightbearer. And when you arrived within the tomb's chambers, I knew that Destiny had found another to wield the blade.

My Destiny, huh?

Yes. You seem familiar with the concept.

I am.

Then you understand that Lightbearer is now your Destiny. You cannot run from it. You cannot hide from it. It will always find you.

Images flashed through his mind.

A young girl with eyes of liquid gold, wielding a katana of moonlit steel.

A forest shrouded in fog and darkness. A sword left behind.

The girl, now a woman, standing before a Grimm that towered over its surroundings.

A flash of light. A sword returned.

A ray of brilliant energy, leaving nothing but a cloud of vanishing black dust.

Whitaker was violently pulled from the images, his senses clogged and waterlogged, his vision fluttering. He grit his teeth.

His Destiny was his own.

No one else's.

You will soon see the folly in that belief.

Then I will see that folly fully realized. Whitaker straightened himself. Do you know the way out of this ruin?

I do. But the path has been overrun by Grimm.

Definitely not an accident.

I suppose not. Bring Lightbearer with you.

Whitaker's hand moved on its own. He grasped the hilt of Lightbearer.

When he first touched the sword, it felt foreign, like it was designed to not fit into his hand. But now it felt perfect. The way his fingers wrapped around the hilt, the coolness of the metal against his fingers, the weight of the blade in his hands. It all felt right. It felt natural.

He removed Lightbearer from its pedestal. Does it have a sheath?

Almost as if the sword had heard him, a white sheath appeared and wrapped itself around the blade.

I suppose that answers your question.

That it does. Humor me for a moment, would you?

What do you—

Whitaker attempted to shove Harros as far back into his mind as possible. Much to his surprise, it worked. Harros, at least the weight of his presence, was gone for the moment. Whitaker, strapping Lightbearer on the opposite side of Lightning, looked past the pedestal to the stone sarcophagus that rested behind it. He moved the stand alongside the sarcophagus.

As he scanned its cover, Whitaker noticed that there was an engraving on the stone. Words. But.. they were jumbled, written in a different language, one that Whitaker had never seen before. It was nothing like the sequence of symbols that he had seen near the ruin's entrance. This was proper writing. Unreadable by Whitaker, obviously. But it was still proper writing.

Harros returned. It is where my body rests.

What does it say?

"Harros Vesta, the great Silver-Eyed Firebrand, wielder of Lightbearer, may he rest here peacefully. May his actions resonate all throughout history, may his words be carried with us eternally. Rest in peace, the Uniter of Solitas."

The Uniter of Solitas… Then you really are Harros Vesta.

Did you doubt me?

I did.

Whitaker stepped away from the sarcophagus. He turned back to the entrance of the room.

We need to get out of this ruin.

Then I suggest we do it now.

As if on queue, a deep howl reverberated throughout the room and the surrounding halls.

We have company.

Creeping from around the corner of the entrance, the crimson eyes, the hulking form, the pale, stark white bones that protruded from every joint of the Alpha Beowolf revealed itself. It prowled into the center of the room, a low growl escaping its lips as it stared at Whitaker with a burning vengeance.

It's just like any other sword, right?

It will be like your sword, Whitaker Ash.

Whitaker drew Lightbearer, taking pleasure in the way it snapped into the shape of a broadsword. He pointed the point towards the Alpha Beowolf. He dared it to step forward.

A challenge.

A promise.

The Beowolf lunged towards him, claws extended, snarl fully formed.

Whitaker thrust his other hand forward and activated his Semblance.

He shattered time.

His vision darkened for a moment. But he began to see silver tendrils and lines extend out from the Beowolf. It surrounded the creature, almost like a field of some sort.

Whitaker's hands closed around one of the tendrils and he pulled it.

Time slowed to an utter crawl as the Beowolf's movement simply halted.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the tick, tock, tick, tock of a clock.

One hand still grasping the tendril of time, Whitaker took Lightbearer and stabbed it straight through the Beowolf.

In but a moment, every tendril surrounding the Grimm began to splinter. And in the next moment, they dissolved into nothingness.

The ticking of the clock faded as time pressed ever onward.

And Whitaker towered over the body of the Alpha Beowolf as it too dissolved, leaving behind nothing but its mask and a small pile of black dust.

[;]

As a Centinel screeched at him, Whitaker's hand moved on its own, slashing Lightbearer across the front of its scaled, black plates. The blade cut through it like paper. Whitaker grinned. Pleasure rolled through him as he watched the Centinel collapse to the ground and dissipate into nothing.

Whitaker let the sword rest at his side. Lightbearer illuminated the hallway, warding off the darkness and the Grimm alike.

A sea of red eyes and white masks stood before Whitaker. They did not step forward, the golden light that emanated from Lightbearer kept them at bay.

Why are they staying away?

The Light wards off the Dark.

You mentioned that it was an artifact of some sort. A Relic. Is this Lightbearer's power?

Part of it. Yes.

Whitaker took a step forward. And the inky, black creatures crawled a step back.

They fear it.

They should. The Lightbearer was meant for destroying their kind.

Whitaker struggled to fight back a grin. Any other exciting powers it has in store for me?

A wave of warmth rose from his fingertips to his shoulder.

Yes.

Whitaker watched as the light that surrounded him bent, curved, and twisted to form a bubble. And the bubble orbited around him, glittering before solidifying and becoming almost completely transparent. The bubble hung around him, still visible if only faintly, shimmering like golden gossamer.

This will protect me?

From creatures of the Dark.

As if on command, a nearby Beowolf leapt towards Whitaker. The Huntsman moved to dodge, but as its claws met the shield, the Light burned it away, melting the bony claws into a molten, pale liquid. Whitaker seized the moment. He drove the full length of Lightbearer into the Beowolf and twisted the blade before pulling it free.

The beast simply vanished into dust.

I could get used to this.

And you should. Lightbearer is your Destiny now, Whitaker Ash.

There it was again. His Destiny. Lightbearer was his Destiny. Whitaker had to disagree. His Destiny was becoming a Huntsman, nothing more, nothing less. He pushed both the thought and Harros aside.

Deliberation would come later. He had an army of Grimm to cut through. And a new weapon to enjoy.

Whitaker cut through the Grimm in a flurry of white steel, the blade of Lightbearer whistling and singing all the while. It sliced through the creatures of Grimm and their thick hides and scales with ease, with so little resistance that Whitaker had no trouble dancing from Beowolf to Centinel as he carved through them.

But as he fought on and on, Whitaker could feel the exhaustion that coursed through him. He was fatigued. His time was ticking. The longer he fought, the less energy he would have. And after spending nearly two whole days without eating a single scrap of food…

He twirled Lightbearer in his hand.

If he was going to die here and now, then the least he could do is go out with a bang.

From the opposite side of the Grimm, beyond the sea of inky darkness and crimson eyes, a single, golden piercer shined with the brightness of a small sun.

And beneath that sun rested eyes as red as death that burned with the promise of slaughter, of destruction, of ruin.

[;]

15:13

From waking up to Lightbearer, meeting Harros, and fighting through the ruin to escape, Whitaker was nearing the end of his mission's time limit. He was reminded of the mission's conditions for success.

Finding Drone 311-B's tracking beacon was long forgotten. From what Whitaker guessed, it was probably buried somewhere beneath all of the snow.

Locating the ruins? Check. Documenting them? His only real proof was Lightbearer. And while it was excellent proof, Harros had warned him against telling others the extent of the blade's powers.

Why? It seems like this would be an invaluable weapon against the Grimm.

Not until you have mastered it. Until then, the true nature of Lightbearer must remain a secret.

That it's an artifact? A Relic, as you called it?

Precisely.

Why? Precisely, why?

Lightbearer is as dangerous as it is powerful. And until you have mastered it, until you have accepted its burden with your entire being, Remnant must not know of its resurgence.

If you say so.

And from then, Whitaker simply carried on, continuing to explore the ruins for a way out. Harros occasionally spoke up to guide him— and because of that, Whitaker could hardly figure out how far he was from an exit. Pinpointing where he was within the ruins was impossible, and Harros wasn't inclined to give him more descriptive directions beyond telling him which way to turn at an intersection.

Frustrating as it was, there wasn't much Whitaker could do about it.

Two hours passed slowly. And as Whitaker rounded another corner, following Harros' direction, the Firebrand spoke up once again.

The exit will be at the end of this hallway.

Whitaker turned on his flashlight and flicked the head towards the other end of the hallway. While there was no outside light, the column of light revealed a large, circular stone door that was currently barred shut by a thick, heavy piece of wood.

Thanks.

Whitaker jogged to the door. He turned his flashlight off and laid Lightbearer on the ground, letting the blade's natural light illuminate the space for him.

Crouching down, Whitaker placed his hands on the bottom half of the wood. Tired, exhausted, and woefully underprepared as he was, for Whitaker Ash, if there was a will, there was a way. And he had plenty of fight left in him.

He grit his teeth and lifted the bar. As it crashed to the ground, it splintered and cracked into a thousand pieces. Then, with a deep shudder, the heavy, circular stone door rolled to the side and then disappeared into the wall, melding with it.

Brilliant rays of light cascaded from the world outside and into the ruin. Tiny specks of dust floated in the air, just in front of Whitaker's vision. For what felt like the first time in forever, Whitaker breathed in fresh, cool air.

But his moment of joy was cut short by a sudden gust of frigid air that chilled his face.

He retrieved Lightbearer, sliding the blade into its sheath.

When Whitaker stepped out of the ruins, he instantly drew his mask over his face once again. There was no blizzard, thankfully, but it was still far too cold for his comfort. The windswept landscape, cracked with ice and shaped by glaciers, stretched far and wide, beyond the horizon. As beautiful as it was, Whitaker knew just how dangerous that beauty was.

Still can't believe you fought to live in a place like this.

Atlas is beautiful… But you do have a point. The weather can be rather unpleasant.

Whitaker smirked. Unpleasant is putting lightly.

Dismal, then.

That sounds more like it.

Whitaker silently thanked Harros for momentarily putting his mind at ease. As lighthearted as the banter had been, both he and Harros knew how truly dire the situation was.

He hadn't properly rested in nearly two full days. He hadn't eaten a single calorie since he left Atlas. He could feel the aching throughout all of his body. He was at his wit's end. Whitaker laughed to himself. If he wasn't half as determined as he was, Whitaker was sure that he would have given up long ago. He'd probably be dead at the entrance to the ruins itself.

What now? I'm in the middle of Northern Atlas with no flares or way to communicate my location.

I am not sure. Perhaps you could fashion something from a device you have?

Whitaker glanced at his remaining grenades and the last clip of his M201. Maybe… Maybe if he tried tying together a fire and lightning Dust grenade. They were Atlas Military standard, they packed more of a punch than Vale's or Mistral's grenades.

It was better than nothing.

Whitaker readjusted the mask, fitting it tighter to his face.

He steeled his resolve.

Even though every step felt like it carried an impossible weight, even though every breath drawn was staggered and drawn with an unexplainable finality, Whitaker carried onward. He approached the highest point within the glacier valley: a sharp cliff of ice that jutted out from the snow and rose about a hundred feet.

He took the two Dust grenades and, with immense care, secured the two pins together and wrapped it in the remains of his gauze. As crude as it was, the fire and lightning Dust grenades would be volatile enough to create a fairly large explosion. With the blizzard gone and the skies utterly cloudless, Whitaker had a good chance of the makeshift flare being spotted by any nearby Bullheads that were patrolling his last known position.

If they still thought he was alive.

He sighed.

It was best not to dwell on such things.

As Whitaker staggered halfway up the cliff, a wave of nausea flooded his senses. His foot gave out beneath him, but he managed to catch himself before falling back to the ice. Falling a hundred feet would do him no favors.

He grit his teeth, fighting through his exhaustion.

His vision fluttered.

His stomach gurgled.

His entire body shuddered.

He held up the makeshift flare.

As Whitaker stared at a slowly falling snowflake, his knees buckled.

And his consciousness drifted away.

[;]

The sky burned with colors that Whitaker had never seen before. It burned with a brilliant vermillion, a shimmering onyx, a slate green, and a luminescent indigo. He stood at the edge of a cliff that overlooked a seemingly endless ocean. The waves crashed against the rocky cliffside, rising and falling with a roar. The crescent-shaped sun rested at the end of the sea. It formed a band of liquid gold that wrapped itself around the horizon, and reflected onto the orange-colored ocean.

The gentle crunching of grass caused Whitaker to turn his head from the beautiful sight.

A man, no older than his father, approached him. With warm brown eyes, coarse black hair, and a face that echoed wisdom beyond his years, Whitaker knew who he was despite never having seen him before.

"Harros," Whitaker said.

The man nodded.

"Where am I?"

Harros stepped up to Whitaker's left. He brought his hands behind his back and stared out at the sea. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled. "A memory."

"But I have never seen this place before."

"It is not your memory," Harros corrected.

"Does this have to do with us being linked?"

Harros nodded. He released his clasped hands and extended one outward, to the ocean, the palm facing towards the sky. Golden light flashed from his hand, and what was once an empty hand, now grasped the hilt of Lightbearer.

But the blade did not shift into a greatsword like Whitaker had expected.

Instead, the liquid metal flattened, curved, and sharpened to a single-edged blade.

A katana. Rare, outside of Mistral.

"I thought you used a greatsword," Whitaker said.

"It is not my memory we are within, Whitaker," Harros said.

"It is mine." A new voice called from Whitaker's right.

A woman with long, jet-black hair and shimmering, liquid gold eyes stared at Whitaker. Then, she looked to Harros. "Is this him? Lightbearer's new wielder?"

Harros nodded.

The woman extended her hand, and as Whitaker grasped it, he felt just how calloused and rough they were. She was an experienced fighter, a Huntress, no doubt.

"I am Corinth, and like Harros and you, I wielded Lightbearer."

Whitaker glanced between Harros and Corinth. "I thought I was only linked with Harros."

"You are." Corinth waved her hand. A circular table surrounded by three chairs materialized not five feet from where they all stood. "Let's take a seat. It'll be easier to explain it that way."

They all moved to take a seat, and once they were situated, Whitaker looked at Corinth expectedly.

"Many men and women have wielded Lightbearer," she began. "It has passed through the hands of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of people. All great. All powerful. All exceptional in their own right. In my time, Lightbearer was carried from every town to every village, and every able-bodied child or teen was to touch the blade, testing if it reacted to them at all." Corinth's hands tightened. "And when it came to me, it shaped itself into that." She pointed to the katana in Harros' hand. "It was considered a great honor to wield Lightbearer, a blessing, even. They had no idea how wrong they were."

"Wrong?" From what Whitaker had seen, Lightbearer had saved his life, and it was an incredibly powerful weapon. If anything, it was nothing but a blessing.

"As I said before," Harros began. "Lightbearer is powerful, more powerful than any other weapon on Remnant. But it is a great burden. More than even its wielders can comprehend."

"A burden how?"

Harros and Corinth looked at each other.

"That is an answer you are not ready for," Corinth said. "As it is now, you have not mastered Lightbearer. It is dormant. And it will remain that way until you have been deemed worth by Harros, myself, and every wielder of Lightbearer before you."

"I thought I was linked to only Harros."

Corinth shook her head. "Harros is the only wielder who can speak to you beyond a memory. But any wielder can manifest themselves within your memories. They deliver images, flashes of thoughts and even their own memories."

Whitaker then remembered who she was. "That girl…" he murmured. "That girl that I saw when I first used Lightbearer. That was you?"

She nodded once. "I once tried to run from Lightbearer. And I suffered greatly for it."

"Suffered how? In that memory, you wielded it just fine. And you survived for all of those years just fine."

Corinth shook her head. "Whitaker, when I abandoned Lightbearer, I was merely a seven year-old girl. Can you imagine? Training a seven year-old to kill Grimm, to kill people?"

Whitaker shrugged. He was young when he began his training. But Corinth had a point, training a seven year-old to fight was irresponsible. "What happened after you abandoned Lightbearer?"

Corinth grimaced. "I was chased by the forces of Darkness."

"The Grimm?"

Both Harros and Corinth shook their heads.

"Darkness," she emphasized. "Not just the Grimm."

"I'm not sure what I'm missing here," Whitaker said.

Corinth pushed her chair from the table as she rose to her feet. "It is better to show you, than merely explain it to you."

Corinth's golden eyes flashed.

Like dried, cracking paint, the world fell apart.

[;]

Whitaker, like a pale wisp, floated in space as he stared at Remnant. A complete and utter darkness shrouded it. It was like a thick, choking fog that stretched across its entire surface, encasing it within a cocoon of shadow.

In a flash of silver light, Corinth appeared beside him, her form equally as transparent and ghost-like. A moment later, Harros appeared in much the same way.

What is this?

Corinth turned to him. The beginning of Remnant.

I don't understand.

Just watch, Whitaker. With a hand made of silver smoke, Corinth pointed to the sun.

As Whitaker turned to face the beaming star, it began to glow even brighter, its light breaking the surface of the darkness. Somewhere in the distance, Whitaker could swear he heard a high-pitched whistle— like the sound of something travelling impossibly fast.

He narrowed his eyes at the sun.

As he peered closer, he saw a shape piercing the sun's surface.

A fine tip, like the point of a sharpened blade.

Then, Whitaker saw it.

A sword made of a pale, brilliant light.

Lightbearer. He realized.

Yes. Corinth confirmed.

Lightbearer flew towards Remnant.

And with the fury of a thousand burning stars, its Light pierced the Dark.

It is the Weapon of Light. Corinth said as they all watched the darkness burn away and reveal the inky purple and corrupted surface of Remnant. No creature of the Darkness can fight it. And that includes the Grimm.

What other creatures of Darkness are there?

Many, Whitaker.

Such as?

Whitaker's vision twisted into darkness, almost as if he were looking into a kaleidoscope made of only a single color. Moments later, his vision returned to normal.

He stood before an exact reflection of himself.

It was like staring straight into a mirror. When he blinked, his reflection blinked. When he waved his hand, his reflection waved his hand. But the one thing that separated him from his reflection was the vile and devilish sneer that his lips were curled into.

What is this?

A creature of Darkness known as Shadows.

Who names them?

Previous wielders of Lightbearer. I believe this one was discovered by Harros himself.

How am I supposed to fight it? Whitaker asked Harros. It looks exactly like me. It could wreak havoc on my life if it acted as me.

Except that it won't do that.

And why not?

Because it doesn't think like that. The Darkness could care less about your social standing. It wants to kill you more than anything, and will do anything it can to achieve that.

How did you kill it?

Harros appeared pensive for a moment. When I first faced a Shadow, it was on the battlefield. My allies struggled to believe who was who. But when it came down to it, my dearest friend, Ioris, trusted my words, and cut the Shadow down where it stood. He nodded once. Having allies built on loyalty and mutual trust will make quick work of any Shadow.

But uneasy relationships without any trust…

And you will die before you can even begin to fight it. Harros waved his hand and the Shadow vanished.

Whitaker took a moment to absorb the newfound knowledge. He was still lost. It didn't make any sense. Lightbearer was forged by a star, and its Light was meant to fight against Darkness. Everything he had ever known was different now. Larger. Grander. It was difficult to place himself on such a plane— after all, not ten minutes ago, he was still a Huntsman-in-training who was finishing his test to be admitted into Beacon. Now…

Now he was different.

Why me? He asked. Whitaker looked to Harros. Then to Corinth. Why not someone more prepared? More ready for something like this? This is bigger than me, bigger than anyone I even know. He scoffed. I'm not ready for this.

Corinth placed a wispy hand on his shoulder. When Lightbearer was bestowed to me, and even to Harros, neither of us believed we were ready. She waved her other hand in the air, and Lightbearer appeared in the space before Whitaker. Its ever-shifting metal moved like liquid as it seemed to stare back at Whitaker. But were you not ready, Lightbearer would not have chosen you.

I… I don't understand.

Corinth summoned a small flower. Beautiful. Intricate. Whitaker recognized it as a chrysanthemum.

Destiny is a strange thing, Whitaker. It can shape you. Change you. Make you better, stronger, and greater than you can even imagine. As she spoke, the chrysanthemum multiplied, sprouting from the air around her. Its petals shifted and waved to an invisible wind as they continued to be created from nothingness.

But it can also ruin you. Crush you. And it can destroy everything you have ever known. Slowly, as if poisoned by something unspeakable, the chrysanthemums wilted and died. Their petals detached. They drifted away for a time before dissipating into a dark brown dust. I understand your fears. Your doubts. I, and Harros as well, have gone through what you are going to as well.

But I'm just a kid. I'm not even a Huntsman yet.

And I was seven when Lightbearer chose me. I was a fool to run away, and I wish I hadn't. I offer you this wisdom, Whitaker: our Destiny shapes our lives, and whether you wish for it or not, Lightbearer is your Destiny now. Do not make the same mistake as I did. Do not run from your Destiny. Corinth offered one last look at Harros, and then nodded to Whitaker. I must depart for now. Remember what I said, Whitaker. I urge you to give it some thought.

And like silver dust caught in a breeze, Corinth's form faded away.

Whitaker looked at Harros. I suppose you're going to tell me the same thing?

Harros nodded, albeit somberly. Whitaker could see the apprehension clear on his face. We wage a war against Darkness, Whitaker. That, despite all of our wishes, comes before any other duty.

But I'm a Huntsman. If I have to sacrifice lives to defeat the Darkness—

We all made sacrifices, Whitaker. He glanced at the ground. Glass covered his eyes. Some more than others.

Whitaker clenched his jaw. I don't trade lives.

Harros just looked at him sadly. You will learn to.

And much like Corinth, Harros dissipated into the air.


A struggle to write this chapter. Lots of revelations, especially with the worldbuilding and origins of Remnant. As said in the summary, this is an AU story. And hopefully its a tad more exciting than the original RWBY world.

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See you guys in the next chapter. Hopefully sometime in the middle of October. Love you all, stay safe and healthy.

EDIT 1: I will be breaking this story up into books. Book 1 will consist of everything Pre-Beacon. Which means this part of the story will end soon. Stay tuned.

EDIT 2: Typos, formatting, and description adjustments.