Contrary to popular sentiment, Pyrrha Nikos is not, in fact, invincible.
She is skilled, perhaps more so than any warrior before her.
Perhaps, even, more than any yet to be.
But, if the frantic pounding of her heart is any indication, she is very much alive.
But the creatures she fights now, powerful and ferocious as they are, are not.
They do not bleed.
They do not cry out when struck.
Even when destroyed, their oily black forms dissolving and their burning red eyes dimming, the other creatures pay them no mind.
They just continue their attack, mindless in their advance, like an unrelenting black tide.
Pyrrha is no stranger to adversity. Her city-state is known the world over for its battle prowess, and she is one of the only women who has passed the trials to become a fully-fledged warrior. She's been trained for war since she was old enough to walk; fighting, for her, is as natural as breathing.
She'd been born into an ongoing war between kingdoms, with Vale and Vacuo on one side and Mistral and Mantle on the other. Vale and Vacuo are hungry for territory, and their supply of valuable resources have allowed them to conquer everything in sight without much resistance.
She's always known that her day to fight would come, ever since her training began. Through her prowess in battle and keen tactical mind, Pyrrha has always prevailed in her trials.
But this?
This is as close to hopelessness as she's ever felt. She'd known when she'd put on her armor and taken up her sword, spear, and shield, that she wouldn't return from this battle.
Nonetheless, she'd joined the few hundred defenders willing to stall the army so that the townspeople could.
Pyyrha is a force of nature, her sword is swift, her shield unbreakable as she holds back the horde of monsters at the gate. The other defenders have fallen–she can tell by how quiet it's become; the clang of swords against shields and armor has gone silent. There are no more desperate calls for aid or rallying cries to boost morale. Pyrrha is the last one standing.
She fights on, even as the sun dips toward the horizon, battling on through the pain of a dozen wounds, persevering despite a broken arm and a shattered shield. Her breath comes in harsh pants and she can taste blood in her mouth. Her muscles burn with exertion and she's soaked in sweat beneath her armor.
In the distance, a horn sounds–the signal that the town is empty of citizens.
Relief washes over Pyrrha. Her mission has successful, though at the cost of her own life–even without her injuries, she'd never be able to outrun the horde of Grimm and soldiers that stand before her now. She takes a breath, ignoring the pain in her chest from several broken ribs, and calls upon her Semblance. It isn't much use against the creatures of Grimm, they don't use weapons and are not made of metal, but the massive iron gates to her city will respond to her power with enough effort.
The bronze-clad warrior gives ground under the assault of the Grimm, cutting down any that come close enough to be a real threat, drawing them in closer and closer until her back presses up against the gates.
Pyrrha has never been much for religion, but given that she's about to die, some expression of faith seems appropriate, though she doesn't truly expect anyone to be listening.
Brothers, I've lived my life as best I could. I've served and protected my countrymen as well as I am able. And now, I commend my soul to thee.
Pyrrha reaches out with her abilities as the Grimm begin to close in on her, breaking her sword in their latest salvo of attacks. She closes her eyes and pulls with all her might, the enormous gates behind her groaning as they are twisted and bent, before finally being freed from their hinges in the walls. The last thing Pyrrha feels is the warm, sticky sensation of blood running from her nose, and then, she feels nothing at all.
***TCE***
Death is not what Pyrrha expects.
She feels strange, detached and disconnected somehow, but still aware.
What? Where am I?
You have been blessed. Chosen to receive a great gift.
The voice comes from everywhere at once, even inside her head. It sounds as though several people are speaking at once, in multiple languages simultaneously, but still she understands.
Our creation has failed. We are displeased at the cruelty humanity has wrought. Generation after generation, it is all the same. War and death, killing over the most petty and inconsequential things. The Grimm will never be exterminated if humanity cannot unite and learn to live in harmony and yet humanity, with its cruelty and prejudices, will not change.
Who are you? Who's there? Pyrrha wonders.
I am the Brother of Light. I wish to reward you for your selflessness. Perhaps, with enough time, and the wisdom granted by the years, you will come to find a solution that I cannot. I bless you with eternal life. You shall not be felled by sickness, nor by sword, nor by time unless you wish it so. You shall also have the power to grant this gift to others as you see fit–choose wisely, as this gift cannot be taken back once bestowed. You only need to speak these words, and the blessing shall be complete: "For it is in passing that we achieve immortality. Through this, we become a paragon of virtue and glory to rise above all. Infinite in distance and unbound by death, I release your soul, and by my shoulder, protect thee."
And now, I must depart. I cannot bear to watch my creations destroy themselves in a perpetual cycle of torment and misery. Perhaps, one who has lived as they do will be able to bring an end to this vicious cycle.
Wait! Don't leave! I have so many questions! Pyrrha cries.
But, there is no answer.
***TCE***
It's dark when Pyrrha awakens. She opens her eyes to see the moon, shattered, but still gleaming in the night sky, surrounded by stars. She attempts to take a deep breath, but there's a massive, crushing weight on her chest–she looks down to see the remains of one of the city gates pinning her to the ground. The pain of it is incredible, worse than anything she's ever felt before, and her mouth falls open in a silent scream. Her vision goes black at the edges, narrowing to a tiny spot of light, and then she's gone again.
How long she lies there in the sand, trapped, she can't say. The cycle of being slowly crushed to death and then reviving, only to suffer the same fate is agonizing. It takes her almost the entire night to realize that she still has control over her Semblance, and then, with no small amount of effort, she's free.
Pyrrha lies there, in too much pain to move. A cursory glance downward has revealed that her armor is completely crushed, and if the pain is anything to go by, most of the bones in her body have been shattered–she's glad she can't see what her face looks like.
Slowly but surely, her body begins to repair itself, the gruesome noises of her bones and muscles rearranging themselves would be enough to make her sick if she'd eaten anything recently. It's pure agony of the worst kind, and when her skull has healed enough for her to speak, she screams.
After what feels like hours, the pain finally begins to fade.
Against all odds, The Invincible Girl stands once more.
Pyrrha has to prize herself free of her destroyed armor for her body to finish healing, leaving her clothed only in her underthings, but modesty is the last thing on her mind at the moment. She holds out her hands in astonishment, wiggling her fingers and moving around experimentally.
As far as she can tell, she's completely fine.
Pyrrha blinks, realizing that the "dream" she'd had after her death wasn't a dream at all…
If she can't be killed, then she'll outlive everyone she knows, everyone she loves. To say nothing of the various things she's seen that seem a worse fate than dying…
Overwhelmed and exhausted by this realization, Pyrrha lets out a tortured wail and collapses once more into the sand.