Secrets of Arc

by The Builder's Return

The Worker of Secrets is reborn into the body of a deceased Jaune Arc. Watch as the worker of Secrets embarks on a new journey to fulfill Jaune's dream of being a hero. Romances are not determined but may be possible later on. Rated M for trauma and darker themes. Infinity Blade and other games/RWBY Crossover.

1. Chapter 1

Hey guys. sorry for the long hiatus. I been having many issues in my life. Some family, some lost friends, some messed up relationships. I am trying to come back to this passion but I have to fix up my life. I hope I can bring a new journey for you guys. Found a rhythm that works for me. Hopefully I can deliver. Please enjoy this new story.

---

Chapter 1

The air stank of blood and fire. Smoke curled through the blackened rafters of the Arc family home, the once-cheerful farmhouse now a gutted ruin. The faint glow of the setting sun painted the carnage in a cruel orange light, casting long shadows over shattered furniture and the twisted remains of the family that once lived here.

The bodies were strewn like discarded dolls. John Arc, the father, lay closest to the door, his arms torn off at the shoulders, his severed head lying several feet away, staring blankly into nothingness. Evelyn Arc, the mother, was unrecognizable—a mass of broken limbs, her body brutalized in ways that suggested an almost gleeful cruelty. Nearby lay the corpses of Jaune Arc's sisters—seven of them.

The oldest, Lucille, her throat slit with precision. Then, Rosemary, her stomach impaled and twisted, her lifeless eyes wide with shock. Violet, her neck bent at an unnatural angle. Elaine, her body charred, the edges of her dress still smoldering faintly. And the youngest, the three little ones: Grace, only ten, her face frozen in terror; Marie, barely eight, her chest run through with a blade; and Beatrice, just six, crumpled in a small, bloodied heap.

At the center of it all, Jaune Arc lay sprawled on the floor, a deep gash across his throat. His pale skin was smeared with dirt and blood, golden hair matted where it had pressed against the floorboards. He had not died fighting. He had died watching, helpless, as his family was butchered before him.

The killers had made no effort to hide their work. The symbol of the White Fang had been slashed into the walls with jagged strokes, a mocking declaration of responsibility. This was not a robbery. This was not an act of desperation. It was a message.

And yet, death did not come alone.

---

Far beyond this world, in a realm of shimmering voids and endless black, a presence stirred. He had died—again. Siris, his eternal nemesis, had finally found a way to end him. The Worker of Secrets, the mind behind the gods, the architect of Deathless immortality, had been slain. And not just slain, but banished.

The Infinity Blade had done its work well, severing the bonds that had made him eternal, casting his soul adrift into the void. For the first time in an eternity, he felt... finite. Vulnerable. The concept of death was alien to him, and yet here it was, creeping closer with every passing moment.

But the Worker of Secrets did not fear death.

He defied it.

Even as his soul unraveled, scattered across the abyss, he felt a pull. A connection. The faint flicker of a dying life, clinging desperately to existence. A small, frail soul, crying out in its final moments.

The Worker latched onto it. He would not fade into nothingness. If this frail body was the only vessel available to him, so be it. The child's soul was nearly extinguished, its memories and thoughts scattered, its identity barely clinging to its fractured form. There would be little left to resist him.

---

Jaune Arc's body twitched, his chest jerking upward as his lungs sucked in a ragged breath. Blood gurgled from his throat, the fatal wound still fresh, but his heart—weak as it was—thudded once more. His hands twitched, fingers curling against the blood-soaked floorboards as if reaching for something unseen.

But these were no longer the hands of a boy.

The Worker of Secrets opened his eyes. His glowing, golden gaze burned with a deep, otherworldly intensity, utterly out of place on the face of a ten-year-old boy. He groaned as he sat upright, the boy's small body trembling under his weight.

"What... is this?" The voice that emerged was raw, hoarse, and cracking, but beneath it was a resonance that did not belong in a child's throat.

He staggered to his feet, swaying slightly as he surveyed the ruin around him. His memories—ancient and vast—processed the carnage with cold detachment. But something unfamiliar surged within him. A pang in his chest. A hollow ache.

This was grief, the boy's grief. He could feel it lingering in the vessel, a stubborn ember that refused to die. Faces flashed through his mind—memories not his own. John's steady voice, Evelyn's warm laugh, Lucille's protective presence. The little ones, Grace, Marie, and Beatrice, clinging to their big brother's arms.

All of them now lay silent, lifeless.

The Worker's gaze fell on the symbol carved into the wall, the crude emblem of the White Fang, and a wave of rage surged through him. It was not entirely his own, but he embraced it. For the first time in countless millennia, the Worker allowed himself to feel something beyond cold calculation. He allowed himself to hate.

The Worker of Secrets, now in Jaune Arc's frail body, stared down at the corpses of his new vessel's family. He considered leaving them where they lay. The dead had no need for dignity, no need for comfort. And yet, the boy's memories clawed at him, tugging at his thoughts. He gritted his teeth, the sound audible even in the silent night. "Fine," he muttered, the boy's hoarse voice rasping as he stumbled out of the house.

Behind the farmhouse, he found an old shovel, the handle worn and splintered. It would suffice.

The work was grueling. The boy's body screamed in protest, his muscles trembling and weak. Blisters formed on his palms within minutes, splitting open to bleed soon after. His throat burned, the wound still tender and unhealed.

But the Worker pressed on. He dug through the night, carving nine graves into the hard earth: one for John, the protector; one for Evelyn, the caretaker; and seven for the daughters—Lucille, Rosemary, Violet, Elaine, Grace, Marie, and Beatrice. Each grave was a testament to the weakness of the boy's family, a reminder of how easily they had fallen.

He dragged their bodies into the graves one by one, his movements mechanical and efficient. There was no reverence in the way he handled them, no care for their dignity. And yet, when they were all laid to rest, he stood over the graves and bowed his head.

The Worker of Secrets did not believe in gods. He had spent countless millennia defying them. But in this moment, he allowed himself a brief, silent pause.

"You are gone," he muttered, his voice low and cold. "But you will not be forgotten."

He knelt in the dirt, his golden eyes narrowing. "To the ends of this world, I will hunt them. The White Fang will answer for this."

The last mound of dirt fell, a dull thud echoing through the silent remains of his family home. Jaune stood there, unmoving, the cool wind brushing against his sweat-soaked skin, carrying with it the scent of death and damp earth. He stared at the nine graves before him—mother, father, sisters—names he once spoke with ease now etched into the cold ground beneath him.

His hands, blistered and raw from the night's labor, curled into fists. This isn't the end.

The world felt emptier, darker, but somewhere beyond the stillness of this graveyard, the White Fang still existed—thriving, breathing. His breath came out in ragged, uneven bursts, and he could feel it... the fire igniting deep within his chest.

No more waiting. No more weakness.

The wind shifted. His battered body protested with every step as he turned away from the graves, his resolve carrying him forward. The ruined walls of his childhood home stood silent, ghostly, as if watching him take his first steps into something new—something inevitable.

His eyes flicked to the discarded sword near the entrance, rusted, dull. It wouldn't do. Not for what was coming. His path was clear now. He left the graves behind. The soft crunch of dirt beneath his feet marked the beginning of a different kind of burial—one for those responsible.

---

The rhythmic clatter of train wheels against steel tracks echoed through the underground tunnels, a ceaseless, oppressive sound that drowned out everything else. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning oil and overheated metal, and the dim, flickering lights above cast long, erratic shadows across the grimy walls.

Inside the speeding train, the cargo cars rumbled under the weight of their stolen goods—Dust canisters in every color, crates filled with military-grade weaponry, all meant for the White Fang's growing war against humanity. Armed soldiers in white masks patrolled the aisles, their rifles slung casually over their shoulders.

But not all aboard were at ease.

Blake Belladonna sat near the end of the train car, her amber eyes scanning the passing tunnel lights with a sharp, restless gaze. The weight of her decision pressed against her chest like an iron chain, tighter with every mile they traveled. Next to her, Adam Taurus stood, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his crimson sword, Wilt. His aura radiated a quiet menace, his masked face expressionless, but Blake knew better. She could feel the storm beneath the surface—the simmering rage that never truly left him.

"You're too quiet," Adam's voice cut through the hum of the train, smooth but laced with an edge that made her skin crawl. "What's on your mind, Blake?"

Blake forced a faint smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Just... thinking about the future," she replied. Her fingers curled around the edge of her seat, nails digging into the worn leather.

Adam chuckled, his lips curling beneath the mask. "The future belongs to us," he said, his voice dark with conviction. "Once we crush those who oppress us, there will be nothing left standing in our way."

Blake's stomach twisted. How many times had she heard those words? How many nights had she lain awake, questioning if they were still fighting for the same cause? The White Fang she had joined was not the same anymore. It had become something darker, something crueler. And Adam... he had become a monster.

She turned her gaze downward, watching her hands tremble slightly in her lap.

Tonight was the night. She had made her choice.

The plan was simple. One clean cut.

Blake moved silently through the train car, the hum of the engine masking her light footsteps. She had memorized the layout of the train weeks ago, knew where the emergency couplings were located. If she could detach the last few cars, she could slip away in the chaos, disappear before Adam even realized what had happened.

Her hand hovered over Gambol Shroud, feeling the familiar weight of her weapon. One precise strike, and the chain between the cars would sever, leaving the White Fang scrambling to recover their stolen cargo while she vanished into the darkness.

She crept toward the coupling, her breath slow and controlled. Every footstep felt like an eternity. With each step, she felt the weight of her years in the White Fang pressing down on her shoulders—the friends she'd lost, the crimes she'd witnessed, the atrocities she had silently accepted.

And then, she heard the voice.

"You don't have to do this, you know."

Blake froze, every muscle in her body tensing. Adam stood at the entrance to the car, his arms crossed, his crimson gaze burning into her soul. She hadn't even heard him approach.

She swallowed hard. "Adam..."

"You're leaving," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, but the way his fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword told another story. "I can see it in your eyes. You've been different lately. Distant."

Blake turned to face him fully, her grip tightening on Gambol Shroud. "I can't do this anymore, Adam. This... isn't what we stood for. It's not about equality anymore. It's just revenge."

His expression remained cold, but something beneath the mask twisted. "Revenge is justice, Blake. You think they'll ever see us as equals?" He took a slow step forward. "We have to make them afraid of us. Fear is the only language they understand."

She shook her head, her eyes burning with unshed tears. "No. You're wrong. I—"

Adam's hand shot out, gripping her wrist before she could react. His grip was iron, squeezing until she felt her bones grind together. "You're not thinking clearly," he said, voice eerily soft. "You're just... confused."

Blake gritted her teeth, wrenching her arm free with a sharp twist, and stepped back. Her resolve hardened. "No, Adam. I'm done. I'm leaving."

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, his voice dropped into something venomous. "If you leave, you're a traitor."

Blake didn't hesitate. She whipped Gambol Shroud from its sheath and slashed down at the train's coupling with a swift, clean stroke. The steel parted with a screech, sparks flying as the chain snapped. Immediately, the cars behind her lurched, the gap widening as the rest of the train surged forward.

Adam's eyes widened in shock. "Blake!" He lunged forward, but it was too late.

She took one final look at him—his expression a mix of fury and desperation—before she turned and sprinted toward the exit. The wind howled as she flung the door open and leaped onto the passing tunnel walls, rolling hard onto the gravel.

The train roared on without her, Adam's distant voice echoing in the darkness, calling her name in rage.

Blake sat in the shadows of an abandoned station, her breathing ragged, her heart pounding against her ribs. Her hands trembled as she reached up, pulling the White Fang ribbon from her arm and letting it fall to the ground beside her.

It felt... empty. She had spent years fighting for what she believed in, and now she had nothing but the clothes on her back and the guilt that gnawed at her insides.

But she was free.

She clenched her fists, staring into the distance where the train had disappeared. Adam would come for her. She knew it. He wouldn't let go so easily.

Blake exhaled sharply, rising to her feet. There was no going back.

She would find her own way now.

The train was gone, consumed by the gaping maw of the tunnel, its distant echoes fading into nothingness. The world should have felt quiet. Still.

It didn't.

Blake Belladonna stood frozen on the platform, her breath coming in shallow, trembling gasps. The air hung thick and stagnant, heavy with the metallic scent of rust and oil. Dim lights flickered overhead, their feeble glow unable to hold back the pressing dark that surrounded her. The silence pressed in, suffocating, filling the spaces where the train's roar had once been.

She had done it. She had escaped.

Then why did it feel like something was still coming for her?

Then the voice came.

"Running away, Belladonna?"

A single sentence, spoken not with anger, but with something far worse. A solemn weight, like a verdict being read in an empty courtroom. His tone carried no rage, no fury—just a cold, measured judgment.

Blake's heart seized in her chest, her body going rigid, her instincts screaming at her to move. She twisted around, eyes wide and wild, scanning the empty platform. The voice had no direction. It simply was, threading through the shadows, bleeding into the steel and stone around her.

Her ears twitched, straining, but the silence that followed was absolute.

Then she saw him.

A figure stepped forward from the blackness, his footsteps ringing against the concrete in slow, deliberate beats. Each impact was heavier than the last, echoing through the station like a distant drum of war.

And then the lights caught him.

Silver and gold armor.

Polished. Perfect. Pristine. It gleamed under the flickering lights, as though it had never known the filth of the underground. The plating moved seamlessly with him, each piece fitting together too smoothly, too perfectly—more like a construct than a man.

Blake felt ice crawl up her spine, her lungs constricting painfully.

She knew who he was.

Everyone in the White Fang knew him.

The Invincible Human.

A legend whispered in fear. A ghost that stalked their operations, a force of nature wrapped in steel and silence. He was not a Huntsman. Not a soldier. He was something else. Something wrong.

Something unstoppable.

She had heard the stories, retold in shaking voices by those lucky enough to escape. Entire outposts, reduced to nothing but twisted wreckage and blood-soaked floors. Piles of bodies, broken and useless, left behind as grim reminders of his work. It didn't matter how well they prepared, how many stood in his way—nothing stopped him.

Not Aura. Not traps. Not Grimm.

He cut through their defenses as if they were air. Aura, their sacred protection, was useless against him. He sliced through it like it wasn't even there, his blade severing things it had no right to touch. And by the time they saw him—by the time they realized what he was—it was already too late.

A blur. That's what they called him. A flash of silver and gold, moving faster than the eye could follow, carving through them with unrelenting precision.

Blake shivered, cold sweat trickling down her spine.

And now, he was here.

Her mind raced in frantic desperation, trying to piece together why, how, but the answer was already there, lurking in the back of her mind like a cancer.

The train.

He knew.

He always knew.

Blake took a faltering step back, her legs weak beneath her. How? They had been so careful. No mistakes. No leaks. And yet, this thing—this man—had found her anyway. Had been waiting.

Her gaze flicked to the weapon strapped across his back. A sword. Simple. Unremarkable. No Dust cartridges, no mechashifting mechanisms, no signs of Remnant's advanced technology. Just a long, unadorned blade.

And yet, it terrified her more than any weapon she had ever faced.

It was a promise. A sentence waiting to be carried out.

She swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. "Who... who are you?"

Silence.

The suffocating stillness stretched, the flickering lights casting strange, shifting shadows across the platform. Blake's chest heaved, her muscles locked in place, too terrified to run.

Then, he moved again.

Without a word, without hurry, he crouched down, his armor creaking faintly in the stillness. Blake tensed, her breath held painfully tight in her throat.

She knew what he was reaching for before his fingers even closed around it.

Her ribbon.

The black and red fabric hung limply from his grip, swaying gently in the frigid air.

She had dropped it. She remembered it now—when she had severed herself from the White Fang, she had torn it off and let it fall, leaving behind the weight of what she once was.

But now, in his grasp, it felt different. Heavy. Final.

He straightened slowly, rolling the ribbon between his fingers, his head tilting ever so slightly, like a judge weighing evidence before sentencing. The flickering lights reflected off his armor, making him seem less real, less human.

Then, his voice came again.

Soft. Solemn. Final.

"Why?"

Blake's legs trembled beneath her, a choked breath catching in her throat.

It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't curiosity. It was judgment.

Cold. Detached. As if her answer didn't matter. As if the decision had already been made.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came. No excuses. No explanations. There was nothing she could say that would make a difference.

The ribbon dangled from his grasp, a reminder of everything she had abandoned, everything she had fought for—everything she had failed.

Blake had run from Adam. She had run from the White Fang.

But standing here, beneath the weight of those glowing blue eyes, she realized with a dawning, suffocating certainty—

She would not run from him.

There was no escape from this.

There never had been.

The air hung heavy between them, thick and suffocating. The distant hum of the tunnels felt like a whisper compared to the crushing weight of his presence.

Blake stood frozen, her wide amber eyes locked onto the glowing blue of his. He didn't move, didn't speak. He simply stood there, waiting.

Waiting for her.

The ribbon dangled loosely from his grasp, a silent reminder of everything she had tried to leave behind. It swayed gently in the cold underground air, a lifeless thing that once meant so much, now held in the hand of something that felt so much worse.

Blake swallowed, hard. Her throat was dry, raw, her mind racing in frantic circles. She needed to run. She needed to move. But she couldn't.

He was waiting.

Silent. Unrelenting.

Judging.

The longer the silence stretched, the smaller she felt beneath it. His gaze pinned her in place, stripping away the layers she had built to protect herself, leaving her bare and exposed. And still, he waited.

Blake's trembling fingers clenched tightly around the hilt of Gambol Shroud, but she didn't draw it. It would be suicide. Against him, weapons didn't matter. She had heard the stories. Everyone had heard the stories.

She forced herself to breathe, to gather what little strength she had left.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she found her voice. It came out weak, strained. A whisper that barely carried over the empty station.

"I… I couldn't stay," she said, each word scraping against the knot of fear in her throat. "Not anymore."

His glowing eyes remained fixed on her, unblinking. He didn't react. Didn't move.

The silence stretched on, unbearable. Blake forced herself to continue, the words spilling from her lips faster now, as if she could outrun the weight pressing down on her chest.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she whispered, her voice trembling but growing stronger with every word. "The White Fang... when I joined, it was about justice. About standing up for our people, for those who had no voice."

She let out a shaky breath, memories flashing behind her eyes—protests, speeches, marches for equality. The faces of those who had stood beside her, hopeful, defiant. Naïve.

"I believed in it. In them. I thought we were fighting for something greater." Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. "But it changed. Slowly at first, then... all at once. The anger, the hatred—it became everything."

Her voice wavered. "I watched friends, people I trusted, lose themselves in it. In the violence." She shook her head, eyes burning. "We weren't fighting for peace anymore. We were fighting for revenge."

Blake looked down, the weight of her own words crushing her.

"I tried to tell myself it was still right, that it was necessary. That it was the only way." She clenched her jaw, guilt gnawing at her insides like a parasite. "But I was lying to myself."

She forced herself to meet his gaze again, her amber eyes filled with pain and something else—something raw.

"I couldn't be part of it anymore. I couldn't stand by and watch them hurt innocent people. That's not what I signed up for." Her voice cracked, her vision blurring slightly. "I didn't want to become a monster."

She expected something. A reaction. A flicker of understanding. Anything.

But the armored figure before her remained still, as unmoving as a statue carved from metal and ice. His glowing blue eyes regarded her in silence, that same quiet judgment weighing heavier with every passing second.

And then, he spoke.

"Why didn't you leave earlier?"

Blake's breath hitched.

The question struck like a hammer, blunt and precise, cutting deeper than she thought possible. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

He took a step forward. The soft clink of his armor echoed through the station, sharp and unrelenting.

"Why?" His voice was quiet, yet it sliced through the air like a blade. "If you knew it was wrong, why stay?"

Blake staggered back a step, her heart thudding against her ribs. "I…" Her voice faltered, her mind scrambling for an answer, for something that would make it make sense.

Why hadn't she left sooner?

Because she had believed. Because she had been afraid. Because Adam had promised things would change, that it would get better. Because she'd convinced herself that walking away would make her weak.

Because leaving meant admitting she had been wrong all along.

Her lips trembled, her voice barely above a whisper. "I... I thought I could change things. I thought I could fix it from the inside."

His eyes burned into her, the flickering light casting deep, angular shadows across his faceplate.

"Lies," he said simply.

Blake flinched as if struck.

He took another step forward, his presence towering over her, suffocating. "You knew what it was turning into. You stayed because it was easier. Because you were afraid."

Blake's body shook, her fists clenching so tightly that her nails dug into her palms.

"I'm not afraid," she whispered, but the words sounded hollow, even to herself.

He tilted his head, the movement slow, methodical—like he was looking through her, into her. Through every excuse.

"You ran only when you had no other choice," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Not because of conviction. But because you were finally scared enough to act."

Blake's lips parted, but no words came.

The truth sat in her chest like lead, and she couldn't deny it.

For years, she had stayed. She had looked away from the atrocities committed in the name of their cause, told herself that their goals justified the means.

She had seen the signs—the cruelty, the hatred that had begun to fester. And still, she had stayed.

Because it was easier.

Then, with an almost mechanical slowness, he reached behind him.

Blake's breath hitched as the soft rasp of metal against leather filled the air.

The sword.

She watched in frozen horror as he drew it free, the blade catching the dim station lights, its surface unnervingly pristine—untouched by the battles it had surely seen. Its design was simple and ceremonious and yet it felt heavier than anything she had ever faced.

Blake's legs trembled, her instincts screaming at her to run, but she couldn't.

He lifted the blade slightly, letting it rest at his side, his blue eyes never leaving hers.

"This," he murmured, glancing at the ribbon still in his other hand, "was a choice."

Blake felt the weight of her decision settle over her like a crushing tide. She had left the White Fang, but had she truly escaped it?

He took another step forward, the blade gleaming in his grip.

Blake shuddered.

She was starting to realize—there was no escaping him.

Blake's breathing came in ragged, trembling gasps. Her heart pounded so violently it drowned out everything—the hum of the tunnels, the flickering buzz of dying lights, the metallic weight of the air pressing down on her.

And him.

He stood before her, silent, unwavering, the gleaming silver and gold armor reflecting the dim light like a specter wrapped in steel. The ribbon dangled from his grasp, frayed edges fluttering in the cold underground draft.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, trembling with the knowledge of what was coming next. The blade in his hand—simple, unadorned, and utterly final—hung in the air like a sentence waiting to be carried out.

She had nowhere to run. No words left to speak.

Blake's vision blurred with tears as she closed her eyes, her body trembling with silent, shuddering sobs.

This is it.

The weight of her decisions bore down on her shoulders like chains. The years spent in the White Fang, the faces of those she had fought beside, the innocent lives caught in the crossfire—every choice she had made, every lie she had told herself, had led her here. To this moment.

A sob escaped her lips, quiet and broken. She had left too late. She had stayed too long.

And now... she would die for it.

Blake squeezed her eyes tighter, bracing herself, waiting for the inevitable.

Then she heard it.

The whisper of steel cutting through the air.

A sharp, clean slice.

Her breath caught in her throat. She felt... nothing. No pain. No sudden cold.

Blinking through the tears, she forced herself to look up, her vision still swimming.

The ribbon.

It lay on the ground in two halves, neatly severed.

Her eyes widened in disbelief, shifting slowly back up to him.

He stood exactly where he had been, but something had changed. His sword, now resting at his side, gleamed under the flickering light, its edge stained only with the weight of unspoken judgment.

He stepped back. Just one step.

The space between them felt vast, like a chasm carved from something far deeper than the mere distance of a few feet.

Blake's lips trembled, confusion warring with the pounding in her chest. He hadn't killed her. He had let her live.

She looked down at the severed ribbon, realization sinking in like a knife of its own.

Her choice had saved her.

Walking away from the White Fang, cutting ties, abandoning everything she had once believed in—it was the only thing that had spared her from the fate she had feared. If she had stayed, if she had wavered, if he had found her still standing among them... he wouldn't have hesitated.

He would have cut through her just as easily as he had cut the ribbon.

The truth settled deep within her bones, colder than the underground air. If he ever found her supporting them again, he would not grant her the same mercy.

Blake swallowed hard, wiping at the tears that stained her cheeks with the back of her trembling hand.

He had given her a warning. A final one.

His glowing blue eyes still burned into her, piercing through her doubts, her fears—into whatever was left of the girl who had believed in a cause that had long since rotted away.

He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The message was clear, carved into the space between them like a scar that would never heal.

With a final glance at the torn ribbon, he turned away, the soft scrape of his armored boots against concrete the only sound in the cavernous silence. He walked into the shadows without another word, his form swallowed by the darkness as if he had never been there.

Blake stood there, motionless, staring at the place where he had disappeared. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her knees weak, threatening to buckle beneath her.

She looked down at the ruined ribbon once more. The emblem of her past. The symbol of everything she had fought for... and everything she had abandoned.

Blake sank to her knees, her shoulders trembling, and let the last of her sobs escape in ragged, gasping breaths.

She was alive.

But it didn't feel like a victory.

---

The Tempest drifted silently in the upper atmosphere, hidden beneath the thick veil of Remnant's cloud cover. A sleek, lethal predator forged from dark alloy and precision engineering, it moved without a whisper, cloaked from the eyes of the world below.

Inside, the command deck was bathed in the pale glow of countless holographic displays, each one pulsing with streams of intercepted data. The air was still, save for the rhythmic hum of the ship's systems working tirelessly to filter the endless flood of information.

And at the heart of it all, he sat.

The Worker of Secrets.

His silver and gold armor gleamed faintly in the dim light, an unyielding monument of steel and purpose. His helm rested atop the console beside him, forgotten, leaving his face illuminated by the cascading patterns of intercepted transmissions. His piercing blue eyes moved with razor-sharp focus, fingers gliding across the controls with practiced ease.

Across the primary display, a holographic map of Remnant pulsed with activity. Signals stretched out from the great kingdoms—Vale, Atlas, Mistral, Vacuo—like a vast network of veins, carrying the lifeblood of communication across the world.

Most of it was noise. Merchants, travelers, soldiers. But scattered within the chaotic hum, like parasites feeding on the arteries of civilization, were the hidden whispers of the White Fang.

Faint, but unmistakable.

Encrypted signals flickered across the display, weaving intricate paths through the wilderness, but their feeble defenses were nothing to him. The message fragments scrolled across the screen:

"Shipment confirmed—moving at dawn. Stay hidden until further orders."

"Adam won't tolerate another failure. If the shipment doesn't—"

"Coordinates updated. Move to grid six and wait for the signal."

He watched, cold and calculating, as the threads of their network unraveled before him. Their operations were growing desperate. Reckless. Predictable.

His gaze drifted to the spinning image of Remnant, watching the signal trails fray and pulse across the map. For all their fury and purpose, the White Fang were nothing more than blind animals, thrashing in the dark against forces they could never comprehend.

His fingers traced the air in front of him, but his mind drifted to something else.

Suspended before him, hovering in the air via magnetic stabilizers, was his newest creation. A weapon forged not from necessity, but from precision. A spear.

Its body was sleek and deadly, a fusion of advanced alloys designed for speed and lethality. The head of the spear pulsed with a contained plasma field, a focused edge capable of cutting through Grimm hide and armor with equal efficiency.

But that was not all.

Running along the spine of the spear was an integrated .75 caliber plasma-enhanced firearm, a secondary function for when distance or armor penetration was required. The barrel was streamlined into the weapon's design, ensuring minimal weight distribution without sacrificing power.

He reached out, wrapping his gauntleted fingers around the weapon's grip. The spear hummed in response, the plasma encasing the tip crackling faintly, restrained only by the engineered magnetic field binding it to a metal blade .

The Infinity Blade had served its purpose—its role absolute and unyielding. But it was a weapon of finality. A tool for his vengeance.

This spear was different. A tool of precision, something that could be wielded for any purpose obliteration, something that required finesse.

Testing it would come soon enough.

As if on cue, the ship's interface chirped, dragging his attention back to the holographic map.

"DISTRESS SIGNAL DETECTED."

His eyes sharpened, his grip tightening around the spear. With a flick of his hand, the map expanded, zooming in on the source of the alert.

A village on the outskirts of Vale.

A red wave of movement swarmed toward the tiny settlement—Grimm. A stampede.

He stood abruptly, the spear humming to life in his grasp. Without hesitation, he tapped the map interface, sending the command to the Tempest.

The engines roared to life.

The Tempest streaked through the night sky, a silent predator against the swirling clouds that obscured it from below. The ship's engines burned white-hot, whisper-quiet yet brimming with power as it moved with surgical precision.

Inside the dimly lit command bay, the Worker of Secrets stood at the open ramp, spear in hand, gazing down at the carnage below. His piercing blue eyes burned with cold calculation, the map display flickering beside him—red pulses showing the encroaching Grimm swarm, their numbers vast and unrelenting.

The village below was chaotic.

Villagers screamed, their desperate cries echoing through the narrow streets as they scrambled for shelter. The few members of the local militia stood their ground in ragged lines, rifles shaking in their hands, their eyes wide with fear as the Grimm descended.

The Beowolves were already tearing through the outskirts, their snarling, skeletal faces illuminated by the fires spreading through the homes. Ursai smashed through wooden carts and barricades with ease, their armored frames relentless. And behind them, looming in the darkness, the slow, terrifying march of a Goliath, its massive tusks carving deep furrows into the earth with each ponderous step.

The ship's AI chimed through the intercom, indifferent.

"Landing gears deploying."

He didn't wait.

With a sudden burst of motion, he sprinted forward, his armored boots hammering against the ramp before he launched himself into the night like a streak of silver and gold. The wind howled around him as he plummeted towards the battlefield below.

His eyes locked onto his target—a Beowolf leaping at a fleeing child.

He twisted mid-air, angling his descent with inhuman precision, and in a blink, his spear was in motion. The plasma-encased tip burned through the darkness like a comet as it struck first.

The Beowolf never reached its prey.

The spear impaled the creature's skull mid-pounce, driving it into the ground with bone-cracking force. The plasma edge hissed, searing through flesh and bone in an instant.

Before the stunned villagers could react—he moved.

A blur.

Something so large should not have been able to move with such speed, such fluidity. Yet he did, gliding across the battlefield like a phantom, his spear a flashing arc of death that left nothing in its wake but ruin.

A second Beowolf lunged from the side, claws swiping for his exposed flank. Without breaking stride, he rotated, his spear already in motion—a perfectly timed parry, redirecting the blow before driving the plasma tip through its chest in one smooth thrust.

He pulled the weapon free with a flick of his wrist, pivoting in a blur of silver and gold just as an Ursai charged. Its bulk was a towering wall of plated muscle and raw power.

He flowed around it.

Sliding low beneath its crushing strike, his spear flicked upward, scoring a molten line across its underside. The beast roared, rearing back, and in that instant, he struck again—plunging the weapon into its exposed throat. Black ichor gushed as the Ursai convulsed and collapsed in a heap.

The militia stood frozen, eyes wide in awe.

One of them, a grizzled man with a rusty rifle clutched in trembling hands, whispered, "By the Brothers... he's not human."

Another soldier, younger, clutched his weapon to his chest, his voice shaking. "He's... he's faster than them."

The Worker heard them. He ignored them.

His spear was already carving through another Beowolf's spine before they even registered he had moved.

And then, for the briefest moment, he felt it.

A flicker. A whisper beneath the cold machine of his mind. Compassion.

It came unbidden, rising like a ghost from the depths of Jaune Arc's buried memories. The way the villagers cowered, the way the militia fought with trembling hands, the way the children cried for mothers who might never come...

He felt his compassion. The foolish boy's desire to protect, to shield, to save.

For a moment, the cold edge of his mind wavered.

And at that moment, he decided.

No Grimm would harm them.

His stance shifted, blue eyes locking onto the incoming horde beyond the village's edge. The earth trembled with the march of dozens more Grimm—eyes glowing like distant stars in the dark. Beowolves poured in like a black tide, their guttural snarls a chorus of impending doom.

And at the rear, the Goliath.

Its presence was suffocating, each ponderous step a declaration of inevitability. It would crush the village beneath its weight if left unchecked.

But he would not allow it.

He surged forward.

A new wave of Beowolves rushed in, their hunger palpable. He met them head-on.

One lunged—his spear flashed forward, piercing through its chest and severing its spine in a single thrust.

Another came from behind—he pivoted, the plasma edge tracing a molten arc that carved through its throat before it could even touch the ground.

Two more closed in from the sides. He flowed between them, spear spinning in his grip, the weapon becoming an extension of himself as he struck with surgical precision.

A large Alpha leapt from the rooftops above. Without looking, he raised his left arm, deflecting the blow with his gauntlet before driving the spear up, impaling the beast mid-air.

Its corpse hit the ground with a dull thud.

He pressed forward, never slowing, never hesitating. His body moved like liquid steel, reacting to threats with an eerie, inhuman grace—no motion wasted, no strike unnecessary.

A brief glance toward the villagers. Fear still clung to them. But now, there was something else in their eyes.

Hope.

The militia, emboldened by his presence, shakily took aim and opened fire, their shots picking off stragglers in the advancing swarm.

He pivoted again, driving the spear through a leaping Beowolf before turning his gaze back toward the horizon. The stampede wasn't slowing. If anything, it was growing.

His blue eyes narrowed, the hum of his spear intensifying.

Let them come.

With deliberate finality, he planted his feet and raised his spear, facing the approaching tide without an ounce of hesitation.

The Grimm screamed as they charged.

And he stood—silent, unshaken, a guardian forged in blood and steel.

---

Qrow Branwen cursed under his breath as he soared through the night sky, the wind screaming past his wings. He had heard the distress call barely minutes ago—a Grimm stampede, massive in scale, bearing down on a village that had no hope of surviving on their own.

He beat his wings harder, pushing himself faster.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, his avian form cutting through the wind like a shadow. He had seen enough villages like this before—small, defenseless, just another mark on the map to the Grimm. If he didn't make it in time, he'd arrive at nothing but smoldering ruins and dead bodies.

His scroll buzzed beneath him, its muffled tone barely audible over the wind. He risked a glance, banking slightly to free a claw and tap the call button.

"Qrow, what's the situation?" Ironwood's voice, stern and tense.

"Bad," Qrow snapped, his voice gravelly and strained through the comms. "Village on the outskirts of Vale. Big Grimm wave, and I mean big. They're about to get steamrolled."

"We're dispatching the nearest Huntsman team. ETA, fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen!?" Qrow nearly lost altitude, his wings flaring wide to catch himself. "They don't have fifteen! I'm gonna have to play babysitter till then."

"Hold the line, Qrow."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, cutting the call short. Hold the line, alone. Just great.

The village came into view below, its streets lit by the flickering glow of fires spreading from broken homes. Qrow spiraled down, his dark form vanishing into the night before he landed at the village outskirts in a swift burst of feathers.

He shifted, his body twisting and morphing with practiced ease until his boots touched the cracked earth. His cloak settled around him as he straightened, breath misting in the cold air.

The village should have been in complete chaos. People should have been screaming, running, hiding. But instead...

They were staring.

Dozens of villagers—men, women, even children—were gathered in the streets, all craning their necks, eyes wide with shock and disbelief. Some gripped whatever crude weapons they had, but none were running.

Qrow frowned, adjusting Harbinger on his back as he strode up to the crowd. "Hey!" he barked. "What the hell are you all standing around for? The Grimm are—"

A villager, a wide-eyed woman with soot-streaked cheeks, cut him off with a trembling hand. Without saying a word, she pointed past the smoking rooftops.

"Look," she whispered.

Qrow followed her gaze.

His breath hitched.

On the far side of the village, at the edge of the encroaching darkness, a figure stood amidst the Grimm.

Silver and gold, moving with impossible speed.

It took a moment for Qrow's mind to catch up with his eyes, to fully grasp what he was seeing. A lone armored warrior, his spear crackling with arcs of plasma, was tearing through the horde.

Not just fighting. But dominating.

Qrow watched in stunned silence as the warrior moved with a terrifying grace—too fast, too precise. Every strike was lethal, every movement effortless. Beowolves lunged at him from all sides, but he flowed between them like water, his plasma spear, a streak of burning light through the darkness.

A Beowolf snarled and lunged from behind. Without turning, the warrior stepped aside at the last possible second, the spear twisting behind him in a perfect arc that sliced the creature in half before it even hit the ground.

A trio of Ursai charged together, their heavy bodies crashing through rubble. The armored figure didn't retreat. He surged toward them, dodging under one's claw and driving his spear into its side in a seamless motion. He pivoted, slashing a molten line across the second's face before planting his boot against its falling form to launch himself toward the third.

With a single, brutal thrust, the plasma-coated spear burned through the Ursai's thick hide, dropping it in an instant.

And still, the Grimm came.

From a distance, the militia—ragged men and women with battered rifles—fired desperately, their bullets chipping away at stragglers that got too close. But they didn't fire into the thick of the fight.

They couldn't.

They were too stunned. Too afraid of hitting the lone warrior who moved too fast, too fluidly, too perfectly.

Qrow swallowed hard, his grip tightening on his weapon. What the hell am I looking at?

"Is he… a Huntsman?" one of the militia whispered beside him, voice trembling with awe.

"No… no, we don't have anyone like that," another muttered, shaking their head in disbelief.

Qrow squinted, his eyes following the warrior's movements carefully. Every fiber of his Huntsman instincts screamed that something about this was wrong. This wasn't just training or skill—this was something else.

The way he moved, the way he reacted—every strike calculated, every motion premeditated as if he knew exactly what the Grimm would do before they did it.

This wasn't combat.

It was an execution.

And then Qrow's eyes settled on the thing leading to the stampede.

The Goliath.

It marched slowly, steadily, each thunderous step shaking the earth. Unlike the others, it did not charge recklessly. It advanced with the patience of inevitability, tusks gleaming, ancient eyes locked onto the warrior standing between it and the village.

Qrow exhaled slowly and muttered. "You'd better have a plan for that one."

Then, to his utter shock, the armored figure slowly turned—his head tilting just enough for those piercing, glowing blue eyes to lock onto him across the battlefield.

For a split second, Qrow felt something he hadn't felt in a long time.

Doubt.

Whoever—whatever—this man was... he wasn't normal.

The Grimm swarmed again, another wave charging in.

And without hesitation, the warrior turned back to face them. His grip on the spear tightened, and with inhuman speed, he launched himself back into the fray, his plasma weapon slicing through the horde like a scythe through wheat.

Qrow swallowed the lump in his throat and pulled out his scroll.

"Ironwood... I think you need to see this."

The voice of Ironwood crackled through his scroll. "Qrow? Report!"

Qrow swallowed hard, his voice quieter than before. "James... we've got a problem."

"Explain."

He licked his lips, eyes never leaving the battlefield. "There's... a guy down here. Silver and gold armor. Moving faster than any Huntsman I've ever seen. He's taking them apart like clockwork."

There was silence on the other end. Then Ironwood's voice came back, quieter.

"...The Invincible Human."

Qrow's blood ran cold. "You know him?"

Ironwood's voice was grim. "I've heard reports. From White Fang raids. Broken strongholds. Survivors whispered about a man in silver and gold... someone who couldn't be stopped, couldn't be killed."

Qrow watched as the warrior dispatched another wave of Beowolves with a precision that was almost mechanical. Every motion was calculated, every kill efficient. There was no wasted effort, no hesitation.

It wasn't a battle.

It was annihilation.

Qrow swallowed the lump in his throat. "Well, he's here. And I don't think he's one of ours."

Ironwood's voice tightened. "He isn't. But the reports... they never mentioned a spear. Always a sword."

Qrow's eyes narrowed. "Yeah... and this weapon of his, it's no ordinary spear. It's got plasma covering its blade or something... cuts through Grimm like they're nothing."

Ironwood was silent for a moment before responding. "I'm redirecting additional forces. This is no longer a containment mission—it's reconnaissance. Do not engage unless necessary."

Qrow scowled. "Great, so I'm just supposed to stand here while he tears through them?"

Before Ironwood could respond, a thunderous tremor rolled through the ground. Qrow's head snapped toward the horizon.

The Goliath was still coming.

It marched with dreadful purpose, an unstoppable titan among lesser monsters. Every step was calculated, deliberate, ancient eyes locked onto the lone warrior. Behind it, a tide of Grimm poured forth—endless, hungry.

Qrow whispered under his breath. "Damn it, kid... what's your plan?"

And then the warrior did something unexpected.

He turned—just for a moment—and his glowing blue eyes met Qrow's across the distance. The connection lasted only a heartbeat, but it was enough.

Those eyes weren't afraid. They weren't desperate.

They were certain.

Then, without hesitation, the warrior turned back to face the horde.

The militia behind Qrow murmured in awe. Some pointed. Others clutched their weapons with newfound determination. They weren't running anymore. They were watching.

The warrior's spear pulsed with renewed energy, the plasma edges flaring brighter. The next wave of Grimm surged forward, howling and screeching.

He didn't wait.

He met them head-on.

Qrow could only watch as he moved—faster than before, his spear carving molten trails through flesh and bone. A Beowolf lunged, and he flowed around it, the weapon spinning in his grip before driving through its core. Two more followed; he twisted low, severing legs, and impaled the final one mid-step.

It was ruthless. Precise. Beautiful in its efficiency.

Qrow exhaled sharply, raising his scroll again. "Ironwood... you better get here fast."

His voice was grim, his eyes never leaving the battlefield.

Because whoever—whatever—this was, he wasn't just here to fight.

He was here to win.

The village trembled beneath the relentless advance of the Grimm horde, their snarls echoing through the burning streets. Shadows flickered wildly against broken walls, but in the heart of it all, he stood—silver and gold, carving through the tide with terrifying efficiency.

Qrow gripped Harbinger tightly, standing just behind the militia, his sharp crimson eyes locked on the unfolding chaos. He should be down there fighting, not standing around like the rest of these gawking civilians. But what he was seeing...

It didn't make sense.

The armored warrior moved with a fluidity that was almost inhuman. Every step, every strike, was calculated to perfection. His plasma spear blurred in the air, carving molten trails through the Grimm like a scalpel through flesh. Beowolves lunged at him from all sides, but he was faster. He dodged with uncanny grace, his weapon spinning, cracking, and striking without pause.

One Beowolf leapt for his exposed flank—

BOOM.

A searing plasma round burst from the spear's integrated firearm, the shot hitting the beast's chest with a deafening crack. Black ichor and shattered bone sprayed outward as the creature crumpled, but the warrior had already moved on.

Qrow muttered under his breath, "Yeah... definitely not your everyday Huntsman."

The militia behind him were slack-jawed, some barely breathing. The younger ones clutched their weapons, knuckles white, their eyes filled with awe and fear.

"He's... he's fighting them all alone," one of them whispered, voice shaking.

Another soldier, a grizzled man with a battered rifle, shook his head slowly. "He's winning."

Qrow clicked his tongue, uneasy. "For now."

Then the ground trembled.

Qrow turned his gaze past the skirmish, toward the true threat still looming beyond the lesser Grimm.

The Goliath.

It towered above the battlefield, its crimson eyes locked onto the armored figure, its tusks gleaming under the firelight. The smaller Grimm seemed almost emboldened by its presence, swarming faster, more aggressively. The tide was shifting.

And for the first time, Qrow saw it—

They were closing in.

The warrior cut through another Beowolf with a precise thrust, but more were coming. Too many. They were circling him now, using their numbers, waiting for an opening. Ursai lumbered forward, flanking him, their bulk forcing him into a tighter formation.

Qrow's instincts flared. He's getting boxed in.

He cursed under his breath, hoisting Harbinger off his back.

"Alright," he grumbled. "Guess I'm jumping in."

Before the militia could stop him, Qrow dashed forward, cloak billowing behind him as he dove into the fray. His weapon shifted in an instant, the blade extending with a familiar metallic click, and he was there, stepping into the gaps the Grimm were trying to exploit.

A Beowolf snarled and lunged toward the warrior's blind spot.

Not today.

Qrow intercepted it mid-stride, his scythe cleaving through its torso in one clean sweep. The beast crumpled, its blood hissing against the scorched ground. Another moved in from the side, and Qrow spun, Harbinger's edge flashing through the dark.

The warrior didn't even acknowledge him.

He simply continued, his spear firing another round that shattered the chest plate of an oncoming Ursai. With a quick, brutal thrust, he drove the weapon deep into its exposed core, twisting sharply before wrenching it free in a shower of molten ichor.

Qrow swore again. "You could at least say thanks, tin man."

No response.

The warrior was already moving, already anticipating the next threat, his spear a blur of calculated destruction. Qrow had fought alongside plenty of Huntsmen before—good ones, fast ones—but this guy?

He wasn't reacting.

He was predicting.

And that unsettled Qrow more than the Grimm did.

A sudden tremor shook the ground beneath them, the Goliath's thunderous roar splitting the night.

Qrow's eyes darted up to the massive beast. "Oh great. Forgot about you."

The warrior, however, had not forgotten. He turned his gaze to the towering creature, eyes burning with an eerie, unwavering focus. His grip tightened on his spear, and without hesitation, he moved.

Qrow barely had time to blink before the silver figure charged toward the Goliath.

"Hey—hold up!" Qrow called, but the warrior was already gone, his speed unreal, his form a blur across the battlefield.

The militia watched in stunned silence as he sprinted directly at the towering monstrosity, spear humming with plasma energy. The Goliath swung one of its tusks, aiming to crush him where he stood.

But the warrior dodged, slipping past with impossible precision, and slammed his spear against the beast's knee joint.

BOOM.

The gun discharged, the round blasting into the Goliath's thick armor, sending cracks spider webbing across its surface. The beast roared in fury, but the warrior pressed the attack, twisting around its massive legs with frightening agility.

The militia behind Qrow finally found their voices, cheering as their disbelief gave way to something else—hope.

Qrow, however, wasn't cheering. He gritted his teeth and raised his scroll again, Ironwood's voice crackling through.

"Qrow, what's happening?"

He watched as the warrior fired another shot, molten fragments of Grimm armor raining down around him.

Qrow sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Well... he's fighting a Goliath one-on-one, so that's happening."

A pause. Then Ironwood's voice came back, edged with tension.

"Hold your position. More units are inbound. Stay close to him—we need to know if he's truly alone in this."

Qrow scoffed. "You kidding? This guy fights like he doesn't need anyone."

And yet, despite his words, Qrow found himself tightening his grip on Harbinger and stepping forward once more.

Because whatever the hell this guy was—Huntsman, soldier, ghost—he wasn't going to fight alone tonight.

The ground trembled beneath the weight of the Goliath's massive steps, each one sending tremors through the battlefield. The beast's crimson eyes glowed with ancient malice, its bone-plated head looming high above the ruined village. Fires crackled, casting long, jagged shadows across the scene of carnage.

And yet, the armored warrior stood unmoved.

Qrow watched him from a short distance, Harbinger resting on his shoulder, eyes narrowed in disbelief. The silver-and-gold figure was a monolith amidst the chaos, his plasma spear pulsing faintly with restrained power. The militia, hesitant and awed, gathered behind Qrow, their weapons clutched tightly in shaking hands.

"He... he's not seriously going after that thing, is he?" one of the militia men stammered, eyes darting between Qrow and the lone warrior.

"Oh, he's serious," Qrow muttered, watching as the warrior began his approach. "Real serious."

The Goliath roared, the sound deep and thunderous, shaking loose embers from the burning wreckage around them. Its tusks scraped against the ground, massive and deadly, poised to sweep away anything in its path.

But the warrior moved.

With inhuman speed, he surged forward, closing the distance before the beast could react. The plasma spear snapped up in his hands—

BOOM.

A thunderous shot echoed across the battlefield as the plasma-enhanced round slammed into the Goliath's thick skull plating, sending a web of cracks racing across its surface. The beast let out a deafening roar of pain, staggering slightly under the force.

But the warrior didn't stop.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

Shot after shot slammed into the Goliath's head, each one exploding against its armored hide in brilliant bursts of molten energy. The cracks deepened, splintering outward with each relentless impact. The beast reared back, its balance faltering.

BOOM.

The final shot struck dead center. The fractured armor shattered, chunks of bone and scorched flesh flying in all directions.

And then—

The Goliath's head detonated, the sheer force of the plasma rounds tearing it apart in a grotesque explosion of ichor and shattered bone. The towering beast stood motionless for a moment, headless, before its massive bulk finally crumpled, collapsing to the ground with a thunderous crash that sent shockwaves through the battlefield.

Silence fell.

Then, a deafening roar—this time, not from the Grimm, but from the militia.

"Charge!"

Qrow smirked as the ragged group surged forward, rifles firing in rapid bursts. The remaining Beowolves and Ursai, stunned by the sudden turn of the tide, found themselves overwhelmed as the villagers pushed back with newfound confidence.

The silver warrior, however, wasn't finished.

While the militia clashed with the remnants of the horde, he was already moving.

A Beowolf attempted to retreat into the shadows—he was there first, his spear slicing through its throat before it could make a sound. Another turned to flee, and the plasma edge of his weapon cut it down mid-step.

Qrow shook his head, moving into the fray himself. His scythe flashed through the air, carving a Grimm apart with practiced ease, but no matter how quickly he moved, the silver warrior was faster. Every strike landed with ruthless precision, every movement executed with fluid efficiency.

It was over in minutes.

The last Grimm dissolved into the night, black mist rising into the air like a fading nightmare. The battlefield fell silent once more, save for the heavy breathing of the surviving villagers.

Qrow lowered Harbinger, his gaze falling on the armored figure standing at the center of the carnage, spear lowered but still humming with restrained power.

He took a few steps forward, tilting his head. "Gotta say, you make the rest of us look bad."

The warrior turned slowly, those piercing blue eyes meeting Qrow's beneath the helmet. His voice, when it came, was cool and even. "They needed to be protected."

Qrow exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well... can't argue with results. But I gotta ask—who the hell are you?"

The warrior was silent for a moment, then responded simply, "No one."

Qrow rolled his eyes. "Right. Mysterious and broody. Got it." He took a step closer, lowering his voice. "Listen, I don't know what your deal is, but you don't just take down a Goliath and walk away like it's a regular Tuesday."

The armored figure remained still, unreadable beneath the polished silver helm.

Qrow sighed. "Look, pal, I don't have time for games. Ozpin wants to talk to you."

At the mention of the name, the warrior's posture shifted slightly, an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. "...Ozpin."

"Yeah," Qrow continued, watching him carefully. "Headmaster of Beacon. Big-shot strategist. He knows a thing or two about people like you."

The warrior studied him for a long moment before finally speaking. "What does he want?"

Qrow smirked. "Probably the same thing I do. Answers." He gestured toward the remnants of the battlefield. "You don't just fight like that without turning a few heads."

The warrior's gaze drifted toward the village, where survivors were beginning to gather, some tending to the wounded, others staring at him with a mixture of awe and fear. His grip on the spear tightened slightly, as if debating whether to stay or disappear into the night.

Finally, he looked back at Qrow. "...Fine."

Qrow let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Great. You're not the type to chat much, are you?"

The warrior said nothing.

"Figures."

Qrow turned back toward the militia, signaling them to stand down. The battle was over, but something told him things were just getting started.

"Alright, tin man," Qrow said, glancing at him with a lopsided grin. "Let's get moving before more of your friends show up."

Without a word, the warrior followed.

The fires in the ruined village still crackled weakly, painting the battlefield in a ghostly, orange glow. Ash floated through the air like drifting snow, and the acrid stench of burning wood and Grimm ichor hung thick in the night. The villagers stood in small clusters, whispering nervously as they gazed at the silver-and-gold figure in the midst of the destruction.

He stood unmoving.

The armored warrior, his plasma spear dimmed but still in hand, radiated an aura of cold vigilance. His glowing blue eyes surveyed the field with detached calculation, as if still waiting for an unseen threat to emerge.

Qrow, resting Harbinger lazily on his shoulder, let out a low whistle as an Atlesian troop transport descended through the smoke-filled sky. Its floodlights cut through the darkness, sweeping over the ruined village before settling on the armored warrior.

"Great," Qrow muttered. "Just what we needed—a whole lot of tension and not enough booze."

The ship touched down with a hiss of hydraulics, and the ramp extended with practiced precision.

A four-man squad of Atlesian soldiers marched out first, followed by a Huntsman team of four, their leader a tall red-haired woman with a sharp, calculating gaze and a katana strapped to her hip. They moved with the cautious poise of professionals, but even they hesitated when their eyes landed on the lone warrior standing amidst the wreckage.

And then, stepping out with authority, came General James Ironwood.

His mechanical arm flexed slightly at his side, his blue eyes sharp, cold, and filled with a calculated wariness. His posture radiated control—command.

Trailing behind him, coffee mug in hand, was Professor Ozpin.

Unlike Ironwood, Ozpin's eyes carried no tension—only mild curiosity and a polite, knowing smile as he scanned the battlefield with his usual calm demeanor.

Ironwood stepped forward first, his boots crunching against the debris. "You're coming with us," he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "Stand down. Now."

The warrior didn't move.

His glowing blue eyes fixed on Ironwood with unnerving stillness, his grip on his spear relaxed but unwavering.

The red-haired Huntress stepped in quickly, her voice firm but diplomatic. "Sir, please—he hasn't made any aggressive moves." She looked between the warrior and Ironwood, her stance shifting slightly. "He saved this village. He didn't harm any civilians, and—"

Ironwood cut her off with a sharp glare. "Huntress, this man has wiped out entire White Fang strongholds alone. Do you understand what that means? He's an unknown, and I don't deal with unknowns."

"Sir," she persisted, a hint of urgency in her tone. "This isn't a White Fang base. These are innocent people. And right now, you're treating their savior like an enemy."

Qrow smirked. "She's got a point, Jim."

Ironwood didn't respond. He took another step forward. "This is your last warning," he said, his voice steel. "Drop the weapon. Now."

Qrow's smirk faded. "Jim, don't—"

The soldiers moved first.

They raised their rifles in unison, red laser sights snapping onto the warrior's chest.

Before a single shot could be fired, the warrior moved.

A silver blur.

In an instant, he was among them.

His plasma spear flared to life, slicing cleanly through their rifles with terrifying ease. Sparks and molten metal sprayed through the air as the weapons fell apart in the soldiers' stunned hands. Before they could react, the warrior struck—one lightning-fast punch per soldier.

Crack.

Thud.

Crash.

Each strike landed with brutal precision, sending them sprawling to the ground, groaning and clutching at their shattered armor.

The Huntress gasped, eyes wide, before snarling, "Team, engage!"

The Huntsmen leapt into action.

The red-haired leader surged forward with incredible speed, katana flashing in a deadly arc aimed straight for his side.

Too slow.

The warrior shifted effortlessly, sidestepping the blade with supernatural speed, his armored hand snapping out and gripping her wrist like iron. Before she could react, he twisted sharply and forced her to her knees in a single, fluid motion.

The second Huntsman lunged from behind, a pair of glowing gauntlets crackling with electricity—

Only to find himself yanked off his feet as the warrior spun, driving the blunt end of his spear into the man's gut and slamming him into the ground.

The third Huntsman barely got his weapon halfway raised before the warrior appeared in front of him, his fist slamming into his chest and sending him skidding backward, falling to his knees.

In less than five seconds, the entire Huntsman team was on their knees, gasping for breath and clutching at bruised limbs.

Silence fell over the battlefield once more.

Qrow blinked. "Yeah… called it."

Ironwood clenched his jaw, his mechanical hand twitching dangerously. His body coiled, his fingers inching toward the pistol at his hip—

And in an instant, the warrior was gone.

Before Ironwood could even touch the grip of his gun, the warrior appeared behind him.

His plasma spear was already out, crackling with raw energy, its deadly tip hovering inches from the side of Ironwood's head.

The General froze.

The red-haired Huntress swallowed hard, watching in stunned silence as her entire team knelt in defeat. The militia, the villagers, even Qrow, stared wide-eyed at the scene unfolding before them.

Ozpin, as always, was unbothered. He took a slow sip of his coffee and finally spoke. "Fascinating."

Ironwood's fists clenched, his voice strained. "Stand. Down."

The warrior didn't move, his voice low and cold. "You cannot force me."

Qrow sighed, stepping forward cautiously. "Alright, everybody take a deep breath. Maybe put the scary death spear away before Jim here has an aneurysm?"

The warrior didn't respond at first, but after a long, tense moment, he finally retracted his weapon with a soft hiss.

Ironwood let out a slow, controlled breath, stepping away with tightly contained anger.

Ozpin, ever the diplomat, smiled. "Well, that was quite the display. But I do believe we're all a bit too tense for further discussion. Why don't we take a walk?"

The warrior regarded him carefully, eyes narrowing slightly.

Ozpin gestured away from the wreckage, toward the open field beyond. "Just you and me. No soldiers, no weapons drawn. I think we have much to discuss, don't you?"

The warrior studied him for a long moment before nodding.

Without another word, they walked off together, disappearing into the night.

Qrow let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, glancing at Ironwood. "So... what's your read, Jim?"

Ironwood glared after them, his mechanical hand clenching and unclenching. "I don't trust him."

Qrow smirked. "Shocking."

The ruins of the village faded into the background as Ozpin and the armored warrior walked in silence across the charred fields beyond. The flickering glow of the fires behind them cast long shadows, stretching their figures across the uneven ground.

The night was cold and quiet now, the distant hum of the Atlesian airship still lingering in the air, but neither of them paid it any mind.

Ozpin took a slow, measured sip from his mug, the warmth of the coffee a sharp contrast to the tension that still clung to the battlefield like a lingering specter. He studied the figure beside him, the warrior's every step calculated, his spear still in hand though deactivated. Even at rest, he moved with an unsettling fluidity—inhuman, precise.

"You know," Ozpin said at last, breaking the silence with his usual calm demeanor, "I don't often come across someone who can humble General Ironwood so... efficiently."

The warrior said nothing, his glowing blue eyes locked ahead, scanning the darkness as if expecting another threat to rise from the horizon. His posture remained rigid, his grip on his spear firm despite the absence of enemies.

Ozpin smiled softly, unfazed by the cold response. "You have a talent for efficiency. I imagine it serves you well."

A long pause followed before the warrior finally spoke, his voice low and distant. "It is necessary."

Ozpin tilted his head slightly. "Necessary for what, I wonder?"

The warrior remained silent, offering no answer, his gaze never wavering.

Ozpin chuckled lightly. "Ah, the silent type. I must admit, I expected as much." He took another sip, his eyes twinkling with something knowing. "Still, you've piqued my curiosity."

The warrior glanced at him briefly but said nothing.

The two continued walking, the wind rustling the tall grass around them, carrying with it the distant echoes of the villagers rebuilding their shattered lives. Ozpin walked at an unhurried pace, his hands tucked into his coat, while the warrior moved with the grace of a predator.

Finally, Ozpin spoke again. "You fight with a purpose," he mused aloud. "Not for power, nor for survival. No... your movements speak of something else entirely."

Jaune's grip on his spear tightened slightly, but he said nothing.

Ozpin glanced sideways at him, his voice probing yet gentle. "Tell me, what happened to your family?"

There was a long silence, and for a moment, Ozpin thought the warrior wouldn't answer. Then, finally, in a voice as cold as the night air, Jaune spoke.

"They were killed."

Ozpin's brows lifted slightly, but his voice remained calm. "By who?"

Jaune's eyes never left the horizon. "The White Fang."

The headmaster's gaze flickered, his fingers tightening around his coffee mug. "I see," he murmured, his mind already working. A massacre. A deep-seated grudge. A lone survivor. He had heard of such things before, but only once in a very particular case.

Ozpin stopped walking for a moment, a thought solidifying in his mind. He turned fully to Jaune, studying him with quiet intensity. "The White Fang... targeting an entire family." His voice took on a thoughtful edge. "That's not their usual approach. They prefer large-scale disruption—symbolic targets, industrial sites, high-profile figures. But an entire household? They don't make exceptions unless..."

His eyes narrowed slightly, and Jaune met his gaze without flinching.

"...Unless it was personal."

A quiet, deadly confirmation passed through Jaune's expression.

Ozpin's expression shifted, a flicker of realization settling in his features. "The Arc family," he said at last, his voice quiet but filled with certainty. "They died years ago. Or so the reports claimed. Their home was left in ruin, their legacy shattered... yet their son was never found."

Jaune didn't react at first, but the stillness of his body spoke volumes.

Ozpin tilted his head slightly, his voice gentle but firm. "Are you that missing son?"

The wind carried the weight of the moment, rustling through the empty fields. Finally, Jaune's voice broke the silence, cold and final.

"...That boy is dead."

Ozpin exhaled slowly, taking another sip of his coffee, yet beneath the surface, a flicker of relief passed through him. He's alive. Whatever was left of him, however fractured and hollow, the last Arc still stood before him.

"Perhaps," Ozpin said quietly. "But I wonder, are you so sure?"

Jaune said nothing, but the rigidness in his stance betrayed his thoughts.

Ozpin continued walking, his voice softer now. "I thought we had lost something irreplaceable that night. The Arcs were protectors. Warriors, yes, but also pillars of hope for many. Their disappearance left a void." He glanced at Jaune. "And yet, here you are, filling that void in your own way."

Jaune's voice was distant, as if spoken from a place long buried. "I do not fight for hope. I fight because it must be done."

Ozpin gave a small nod, his expression carrying a quiet understanding. "And how long do you think you can keep that up?"

Jaune's grip on his weapon tightened further. "...As long as it takes."

Ozpin sighed, shaking his head slightly. "There is such a thing as fighting for too long, you know."

Jaune said nothing, his gaze once again turning forward.

Ozpin watched him for a moment longer before offering a small, knowing smile

"Ironwood wants you under his control," he said, voice calm but deliberate. "The world isn't kind to strangers, especially ones as... capable as you." He gestured toward the distant lights of Vale. "But I'm not here to control you. I'm here to offer you something else."

The warrior finally turned his head slightly, the faintest flicker of interest crossing his expression. "...What?"

Ozpin smiled faintly. "A place. A purpose." He gestured toward the distant lights of Vale on the horizon. "Beacon Academy."

The warrior was silent for a long time. The wind stirred around them, the stars above glinting coldly.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter. "What purpose?"

Ozpin's smile deepened. "To train, to understand yourself better... and perhaps, to find something beyond just survival and vengeance."

The warrior's eyes darkened at the mention of vengeance, but Ozpin noticed the slight hesitation, the brief flicker of conflict beneath the cold exterior.

"I've seen many like you," Ozpin continued, his voice gentle but firm. "People who have lost everything and tried to fill the void with battle. But fighting without reason... it leads to an end far worse than the Grimm."

The warrior looked away, his expression unreadable.

After a long silence, he finally asked, "And if I refuse?"

Ozpin chuckled softly. "Then you walk away, and I imagine we'll cross paths again—though perhaps under... less favorable circumstances."

The warrior stared at him for a long moment, as if measuring him. "You are not afraid of me."

Ozpin's smile never wavered. "No, I am not."

The warrior studied him for another long moment before finally, he nodded.

"I will... consider it."

Ozpin nodded back, his expression satisfied. "That's all I ask."

As they turned and began walking back toward the village, the tension from earlier seemed to ease, though it never fully disappeared.

Qrow was waiting near the transport, arms crossed, watching them approach with a lopsided grin. "Well?" he called out. "Are we making friends now?"

Ozpin chuckled. "In a manner of speaking."

Ironwood, however, was not so amused. His jaw was tight as he stepped forward. "Ozpin, we need to discuss—"

Ozpin held up a hand. "In due time, James. For now, I believe our new acquaintance deserves some rest."

The warrior said nothing, simply watching them all with those unblinking, glowing blue eyes.

Ironwood exhaled through his nose, clearly displeased but holding his tongue.

The smoldering village lay in uneasy quiet, the flickering embers of burned-out homes casting long, wavering shadows across the battlefield. The militia worked in silence, clearing debris and tending to the wounded, their eyes occasionally darting toward the armored figure standing near the Atlesian transport.

Jaune stood still, his plasma spear resting against his shoulder, the dim glow of his blue eyes cutting through the darkness. He stared out into the horizon, unmoving, unreadable.

Qrow, leaning lazily against the transport ramp, twirled his flask in his hand. "So," he drawled, "Oz, you think our mysterious friend here needs a lift, or does he just wander off into the night like some kind of broody legend?"

Ozpin, standing a short distance away, smiled lightly as he took a slow sip of his coffee. "An excellent question, Qrow." He turned his gaze to Jaune. "Would you care for transportation back to Vale? I'm certain we can arrange a more comfortable journey than simply walking."

Jaune's glowing blue eyes shifted toward Ozpin, expression unreadable behind his helmet. He was silent for a moment before lifting his left arm, activating a flickering orange holographic interface from his omnitool.

The sudden burst of synthetic light and data streams made Qrow blink in surprise, and even Ironwood, standing rigid nearby, furrowed his brow in suspicion.

"What the hell is that?" Qrow muttered, straightening slightly as the interface flickered through unfamiliar symbols and inputs.

Ironwood took a step forward, eyes narrowing. "That's... not any sort of standard technology." His voice was tight, wary. "Where did you acquire that?"

Jaune ignored him, fingers gliding across the interface with precise, practiced motions.

From the distant clouds above, a deep thrumming noise resonated, a low mechanical hum that slowly grew in volume. The villagers looked up in awe, gasping as a sleek, angular airship descended from the cover of the night sky.

The Tempest.

Its silver and black hull gleamed under the moonlight, the vessel's elegant yet imposing frame unlike anything they had ever seen. Its engines pulsed softly as it hovered above the village outskirts, landing struts extending with a quiet hiss as it settled gently onto the charred earth.

Ironwood's fists clenched at his sides. "That ship..." He exhaled sharply. "That isn't Atlesian. Or from any of the Kingdoms."

Ozpin's eyes twinkled with intrigue as he took another sip from his mug. "How very interesting," he mused, unfazed. He turned back to Jaune. "A fine vessel. You must be quite... resourceful to possess something of this caliber."

Jaune said nothing, simply watching as the Tempest completed its landing sequence. Its forward ramp extended with quiet precision, the ship standing there like a silent sentinel awaiting its master.

Ozpin smiled warmly. "I can see you're a man who values his independence. However, should you choose to stay in Vale, I can offer you a secure hangar at Beacon to store your... impressive ship. A place where it will be safe, and far from prying eyes."

Jaune's gaze lingered on Ozpin for a moment, the soft hum of the Tempest filling the space between them. For the briefest second, something flickered behind his eyes—consideration.

Finally, he gave a slow nod. "...I will consider it."

Ozpin's smile deepened ever so slightly. "That's all I ask."

Qrow smirked, rubbing his neck. "Man, you got all the cool toys, huh? No wonder the White Fang are scared shitless."

Without acknowledging the comment, Jaune strode forward, stepping onto the ship's ramp with measured purpose. The interior lights of the Tempest glowed faintly, casting him in a silhouette of silver and gold as he disappeared inside.

As the ramp retracted, the ship's engines flared to life.

The Tempest rose slowly into the night sky, hovering silently for a moment, allowing the villagers and the gathered forces to take in its full presence. Then, in a sudden burst of power, the engines ignited—sending the ship soaring into the clouds with a streak of blue light, vanishing into the distance with breathtaking speed.

The stunned silence that followed was broken by the grinding of Ironwood's teeth.

"Something like that," he growled, voice dangerously low, "should not be operating outside of our control." His mechanical fist clenched tightly, metal groaning under the pressure. "That ship, that technology, needs to be brought in—examined, contained."

Qrow chuckled, taking a sip from his flask. "Yeah, good luck with that, Jim. Guy's got a pretty firm grip on the whole 'lone wolf' thing."

Ironwood shot him a glare, his eyes dark with frustration. "Ozpin," he said, voice clipped, "this is a mistake."

Ozpin, still gazing at the sky where the Tempest had disappeared, took another thoughtful sip of his coffee. "Perhaps," he said softly. "Or perhaps we're simply watching the first steps of something... far greater."

Ironwood didn't respond, his jaw tightening as he turned away, striding back toward the transport.

Qrow exhaled, shaking his head. "Well, that went better than expected. Kinda."

Ozpin smiled faintly, but his eyes were distant, thoughtful. "Indeed, Qrow. Indeed."

The village was quiet once more, but in the hearts of those who had witnessed the events of the night, one undeniable truth remained:

The Invincible Human was no mere myth.

And now, the world was beginning to realize just how much it didn't know.

---

If you guys can't tell, I'm giving Jaune the custodes vibes.