Chapter 16: The Tragedy of Dr. Sorren Paulivic

The mounting failures of Dr. Arthur Watt's experiments were wearing thin on his patience, a dangerous predicament given the Empress's waning tolerance. His position on her grand council teetered on the edge of ruin, and Salem's wrath for failure was a fate he dared not meet. He had seen what befell others who faltered under her expectations—disgraced, discarded, and ultimately erased. Watts had always believed he was immune to such an end, his intellect shielding him from such failures.

Yet here he was, at the brink of disaster.

The serum continued to defy his efforts. No matter how he modified the Grimm's genetic structure, the results were identical. The grotesque mutations in their test subjects mocked his efforts. He leaned over the magnifying scope, his black mustache twitching as he muttered curses.

"Confounded serum," Watts hissed, his voice tight with suppressed fury. "What am I overlooking? What is it missing?"

Every theory and hypothesis he conceived had been meticulously tested and discarded. Solutions that once seemed promising dissolved into nothing. Time was slipping through his fingers and his standing in the Empire.

A part of him loathed the idea that the truth Cinder had hinted at—her vague insistence that the serum's answer lay elsewhere—might hold merit. But the thought was a distraction, one he could ill afford. He knew she would discard him if he failed, just as Salem would.

The low hum of the lab door sliding open broke his thought. An officer stood in the doorway, tablet in hand, his expression grave. Sorren straightened, forcing himself to appear composed despite the storm brewing inside.

"Yes?" Watts's voice was clipped, his irritation barely veiled.

"Doctor, we've received reports from the Town Square," the officer began, stepping forward.

"And?" Watts prompted, arching a brow.

"Our troops faced resistance," the officer admitted, hesitating.

Watt's gaze sharpened. "I assume this means the escaped experiment has resurfaced?"

The officer shook his head, extending the tablet to him. "Not exactly, sir. But I believe this will require your attention."

Watts took the tablet, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the screen. The footage showed the chaos unfolding in the Town Square. Smoke rose in plumes, and the Empire's transports were in disarray. But it wasn't the disorganization of his forces that held his attention—it was the two figures at the center of the conflict.

The pair moved purposefully, engaging soldiers and freeing captive Faunus with startling efficiency. Their movements were sharp, calculated, and devastatingly effective. Sorren paused the video and zoomed in on their faces. A cold dread seeped into his veins as he recognized them.

Though the footage was grainy, there was no mistaking the unmistakable resemblance.

"The Knights," he murmured, the words a whisper of disbelief.

The officer shifted uneasily. "It seems so, sir."

For a moment, Watts said nothing, his mind racing. If these two were the Knights Cinder sought, everything would have become infinitely more complicated. Failure was no longer an option—it was a death sentence.

"Inform the Empress immediately," Sorren ordered, his voice low and steely. "We may have just found the key to everything."

The officer hesitated but nodded, exiting swiftly. Watts set the tablet aside in the lab and leaned heavily against the counter. The stakes had just been raised, and a shadow of fear crept into his heart for the first time in years.

Time was no longer a luxury he could afford.

The house was eerie, with an oppressive unease that seemed to settle into its walls. But no one felt it as acutely as Qrow, who sat rigidly across from the supposed Beast of Asben Hallow. Each shallow breath the Beast took only deepened Qrow's wariness.

The creature perched atop a pile of fallen debris, a monstrous figure whose presence alone was enough to set Qrow's nerves on edge. Pyrrha knelt beside the Beast, tending to the wounds she had inflicted upon him in their earlier clash. Yet Qrow's grip on the hilt of his sword never loosened.

His sharp gaze never left the Beast. He had promised Pyrrha he would trust her judgment, but that promise extended to her alone. This creature—this thing—was another matter entirely. It had already tried to kill them once. He waited for any excuse, any sign of betrayal, to strike.

Pyrrha, seemingly oblivious to Qrow's unease, focused on her task. She examined the jagged wound along the Beast's arm, resulting from her blade. She soaked a cloth in a cleaning solution she had found nearby and glanced up at him.

"Here. This might sting a bit," she said softly.

With delicate hands, she dabbed at the wound. The Beast let out a guttural growl, jolting at the sharp sting of the solution. The sudden movement brought Qrow halfway to his feet, his blade already drawn.

"Qrow!" Pyrrha said sharply, raising her hand to stop him. Her voice was calm but firm.

Qrow froze, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. After a tense moment, he slowly lowered it and sank back into his seat, though his wary eyes remained fixed on the Beast.

Turning her attention back to the creature, Pyrrha softened her tone. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

The Beast rumbled another irritated growl, though it was quieter this time.

"P-pain… pain," he muttered, his voice guttural and strained.

Pyrrha's brows knit together as she looked up at him. "I'm sorry. Truly. Please…" Her voice was steady, carrying an undertone of compassion.

The Beast's growls softened into a low rumble, and he stilled. Pyrrha resumed cleaning his wound with a careful hand.

"I'm also sorry for attacking you earlier," she added gently. "We were… afraid. But we're trying to understand."

At her words, the Beast shifted his head to look at her, his eyes narrowing. "Understand?" he repeated, his voice a low, grating growl.

Pyrrha nodded earnestly. "Yes… to understand."

The Beast turned his gaze forward, staring at some indiscernible point beyond the room. His head dipped slightly, his expression clouded.

"No one can understand," he said, his voice heavy with despair. "What I am… what I've become." His gaze fell to his grotesque hands, claws flexing as they trembled in the flickering light.

"You can say that again," Qrow muttered, stepping forward. "You're not a Grimm, but we saw a Grimm blood trail outside." His eyes sharpened. "And seeing that blood right there, I take it it's yours. What exactly are you?"

The Beast lowered his head, emitting a low, rumbling growl. Pyrrha studied him carefully, her eyes drawn to the confusion and sorrow etched into his gaze. Something about him wasn't just monstrous—it was tragic.

Her attention shifted to the floor of the lab, where she spotted an old photo frame half-buried beneath shattered glass. She knelt down, gently picking it up. When she turned the frame over, her breath hitched.

"This was you, wasn't it?" Pyrrha asked softly.

The Beast lifted his head, eyes narrowing on the photo in her hand.

"You're Dr. Soren Paulivic," Pyrrha continued. "You were a doctor here in Asben Hallow, weren't you?"

At the mention of that name, the Beast let out a deep, guttural growl. His shoulders tensed as though the word itself inflicted fresh pain. It was a name once spoken with reverence, a symbol of hope and healing for Asben Hallow's people. But that was long ago—before the Grimm took over, before everything crumbled. Now, that name haunted him like a curse.

"No," he growled, voice ragged. "That is not who I am. At least… not anymore."

Pyrrha squinted, her brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"

"Paulivic brought hope," the Beast rumbled bitterly. "He saved lives. But that man is gone. Now, I am nothing more than a beast."

He lifted his clawed hands, shaking them as though trying to rid himself of their monstrous form. "All I cause is pain. Pain is all I feel. It's all I know. It's the only thing left—flowing through my veins like a curse."

Pyrrha and Qrow exchanged uneasy glances, sensing the depth of his suffering more clearly than before. His words weren't just self-pity—they carried the weight of genuine torment. But what exactly was this pain he spoke of?

"Pain? What pain?" Pyrrha asked, her voice gentle but insistent.

The Beast's gaze drifted to the floor, where a small puddle of thick, purple liquid shimmered under the dim light. Pyrrha and Qrow followed his stare, their eyes locking on the strange substance. It looked eerily similar to the blackened, corrupted blood of a Grimm.

"Your blood?" Pyrrha whispered, her tone wavering.

The Beast growled. "That is not blood," he hissed. "That… is a plague. An inherent plague that infects everything it touches." His voice rose, sharp with fury. "I can feel it inside me—flowing like poison. Burning me alive. It turned me into this… this monster!"

Pyrrha's throat tightened as she absorbed his words. He wasn't just suffering—he was dying, inside and out, consumed by whatever foul experiment had been forced upon him.

"Who did this to you?" she asked softly.

The Beast's growl deepened, claws digging into the stone floor beneath him. "The madman who lurks in the castle," he spat, voice trembling with both rage and fear. "He calls himself a doctor, but he's no healer. He's a butcher, a monster in his own right. And he won't stop until every Faunus in Asben Hallow suffers the same fate as me."

Pyrrha's grip on the photo frame tightened. Her eyes flicked to Qrow, whose expression darkened as realization set in. Knowing just who it was that did this. What was happening to all the Faunus in Asben Hallow.

"Watts!" Qrow uttered.

The Beast growls in anger at the mention of his name. Further confirming their suspicions that Salem's mad doctor was indeed behind this. Undoubtedly, he was doing this to all the Faunus he was taking from the Town.

"He came here in the first days the Grimm had taken our town," The Beast proclaimed.

Several Weeks Ago — The Beginning of the Grimm Occupation

Dr. Sorren Paulivic stood silently by the clinic window, his gaze fixed on the grim scene unfolding outside. The streets of Asben Hallow, once bustling with life, were now patrolled by armored Grimm soldiers. Their tanks rumbled methodically along the outskirts, casting heavy shadows across the cobbled roads. The air felt suffocating, like a noose tightening around the town's throat.

The Kingdom had abandoned them. The capital's promises of protection had been nothing more than hollow words. Many had fled before the invasion, but those left behind were now prisoners in their own homes, subject to the iron rule of the Empress's forces.

"Dr. Sorren?"

He blinked and turned from the window, meeting the concerned gaze of the woman sitting across the room. She cradled her young daughter, the child's flushed cheeks and labored breaths betraying the fever that had taken hold.

"Oh, my apologies," Sorren said softly, brushing a hand through his dark hair. "I was just… distracted."

He stopped himself, noticing the way her face tightened with worry. She didn't need to hear his fears. She already had enough to carry—raising a sick child under the watchful eyes of the enemy. Clearing his throat, he refocused.

"Let's get back to her treatment," he said reassuringly.

Moving to the table, Sorren stirred the herbal remedy he'd been preparing. The wild ferns and medicinal herbs filled the air with a sharp, earthy scent. Once satisfied with the blend, he poured a small portion into a wooden cup and knelt beside the child.

"Here," he said gently, offering the cup. "Just a sip for now. Then, give her the same each day until the fever subsides. It should only take three days for her strength to return."

The mother's shoulders eased as she accepted the cup and helped her daughter take a small sip. "Thank you, Doctor," she whispered, her voice trembling with gratitude.

Sorren nodded. "Of course. We have to look out for each other," he said, his gaze steady. "Even in times like these."

The woman gathered her child close and stood. Her eyes glistened, a silent testament to the gratitude she could not fully express in words. With a final nod, she turned and left the clinic, disappearing down the shadowed street.

For a long moment, Sorren remained still, listening to the faint echo of their footsteps fading into the distance. His hand tightened around the windowsill, knuckles whitening. The warmth of helping someone—even in the slightest way—flickered within him, but it wasn't enough to banish the cold seeping into Asben Hallow.

He returned to his desk, where scattered papers and half-finished research awaited him. The smell of ink and dried herbs mingled in the dim room, but even his work couldn't shield him from the weight pressing down on the town.

The soft hum of the lights above buzzed in the background as he sat down, pen in hand. He tried to focus—tried to lose himself in formulas and remedies—but the distant rumble of tanks outside broke through his concentration. His thoughts wandered back to the Kingdom's betrayal, the soldiers who patrolled like predators, and the people who now looked to him for hope.

His work had always been a source of comfort. But now, it felt like a fragile dam, barely holding back the flood of despair threatening to drown him and everyone else.

Even in these dark times, Sorren vowed to help those who remained. But as the shadows of the Grimm lengthened over Asben Hallow, an unsettling thought gnawed at him.

How long could he keep the darkness at bay?

Sorren was jolted to attention by the sudden crash of his front door being kicked open. The sharp echo reverberated through the small clinic, shaking the walls and shattering the fragile silence. His hand froze over the notes he'd been scribbling, heart pounding as he turned his wide-eyed gaze toward the other room.

The door to his lab burst open, hinges groaning under the force, and several Grimm soldiers stormed inside. Their heavy boots thudded against the wooden floor, their dark armor gleaming like obsidian under the dim light.

Sorren jumped, knocking over the ink bottle on his desk. "What in the—"

The words barely left his mouth before two Grimm troopers grabbed him by the arms, their grips like iron shackles. He struggled instinctively, but their strength far outmatched his. His breath came in short, panicked gasps as he thrashed against them.

"Let me go!"

A third soldier stepped forward, wielding a crackling stun baton. Without hesitation, the trooper jammed the baton into Sorren's stomach. The jolt was instant and merciless, a surge of electric agony that ripped through his body. Sorren's muscles spasmed, his legs buckling as his vision blurred. He let out a strangled cry before collapsing to the floor, the scent of burnt fabric and ozone filling the air around him.

His body twitched involuntarily as the last remnants of the shock pulsed through him. His consciousness flickered, his surroundings fading into a haze of dull pain and suffocating fear.

The commanding officer entered the room, his footsteps slow and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world. He stopped just short of Sorren's unconscious form, gazing down at the doctor without an ounce of empathy. His cold, calculating eyes didn't see a man lying helpless on the floor—they saw a specimen, an animal to be studied and exploited.

"Take him," the officer said, his voice devoid of emotion.

The troopers didn't hesitate. They lifted Sorren's limp body, his arms dangling at his sides, and carried him out of the lab as though he were nothing more than cargo. The sound of the door slamming shut behind them echoed through the clinic, leaving behind only the scattered notes on Sorren's desk and the overturned ink bottle slowly bleeding its contents across the page.

Outside, the rumble of an armored transport signaled Sorren's departure. His clinic fell silent once more, its dim light casting long shadows across the floor—shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly, like the grip of the Grimm tightening around the heart of Asben Hallow.

Here's the refined version of this scene with improved flow, atmosphere, and tension:

When Sorren began to wake, a dull throbbing pain pulsed through his body, each beat a cruel reminder of the electric jolt that had stolen his consciousness. His eyes fluttered open, vision blurry at first as the dim, sterile glow of overhead lights came into focus.

He tried to lift his arms, but they wouldn't move. Panic rippled through him as he cocked his head from side to side, realizing he was lying on a cold metal table, straps binding him at the wrists, ankles, and chest. He strained against them, muscles trembling as he pushed with all the strength he could muster—but the restraints held firm.

He couldn't move.

The table beneath him was angled slightly upright, offering him a limited view of the cold, clinical room around him. Metallic shelves lined the walls, cluttered with vials, syringes, and ominous surgical instruments. The air was suffocating, filled with the sterile stench of disinfectant mixed with something foul and decaying.

"No... no, no..." he whispered, breath quickening. His heart pounded violently against the strap holding his chest, his instincts screaming for him to flee, to escape—anything but this.

The faint hum of machinery and the distant clinking of metal echoed through the room, making the silence between each sound unbearable. Shadows flickered on the far wall as if something—or someone—was moving just out of sight.

He pulled against the straps again, teeth clenched, veins bulging in his arms. But the restraints didn't budge. His breath came in ragged gasps as frustration and fear clawed at his mind. No matter how much he fought or how much strength he could summon, he remained trapped.

"Help," he croaked, voice hoarse. "Someone..."

The shadows in the corner shifted. Footsteps echoed across the floor, slow and deliberate. A tall figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into the pale glow of the overhead light. Sorren's breath hitched as he recognized the man's face—cold, sharp features framed by graying hair, eyes devoid of warmth or mercy.

It was the madman—the one who had orchestrated the horrors within the walls of the castle.

Dr. Auther Watts.

"Ah, Dr. Paulivic," the man said with a thin, cruel smile. "You're awake. Excellent."

Sorren's chest tightened as the man approached, hands clasped behind his back like this was just another day in his laboratory.

"You have no idea how valuable you've become," the man continued, circling the table slowly. "But you'll find out soon enough."

Sorren's pulse thundered in his ears. "Please... don't do this," he whispered. "You don't have to—"

"On the contrary," the man interrupted, leaning in close, his breath cold against Sorren's ear. "I have to. For science... for progress. For the prosperity of Salem's Empire. And you, Sorren, are going to help me achieve that."

The sound of latex gloves snapping into place was the last thing Sorren heard before the cold bite of a needle pressed against his arm. He thrashed again, desperate to break free, but the restraints didn't loosen. As the contents of the syringe emptied into his bloodstream, a fiery sensation erupted beneath his skin, spreading like molten lava through his veins.

Sorren's screams filled the room, but they fell on deaf ears. The cold, sterile walls absorbed the sound as if the castle had been designed to silence its victims.

The last thing he saw before the darkness consumed him was the glint of surgical tools being prepared, their edges reflecting the pale light like the teeth of a predator waiting to devour him.