Dark knight

by EL PRISIONERO DEL MUNDO

Whitley Schnee is a lonely boy who watches the world slowly and imperceptibly change around him as he remains in the same place, locked within the walls of his mansion, bound to his father's will. He feels he was born for a greater purpose, but doesn't know where to begin. We will learn about the rise of Whitley Schnee, better known as The Batman.

3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: An Uncertain Path

This story is a work of fanfiction based on the RWBY series. I do not own the copyright to the original series mentioned. This work of fiction has been created in order to explore the vast possibilities of the imagination and, above all, to provide entertainment. I hope you find pleasure in reading it,...I do not own batman either...that's obvious.

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"Happy Birthday!"

Six people shouted in the dining room of a large mansion.

Whitley was in the center of that large rectangular table, in front of him a huge chocolate cake. He was now 12 years old.

He was simply seen smiling in his birthday cap, a napkin around his neck to avoid stains. On that large rectangular table was a large amount of food, all of the best quality, everything that money could buy.

—"Happy birthday, Whitley," Emma put a hand on Whitley Schnee's shoulder.

The boy smiled at her, took Emma's hand and squeezed it tightly.

—"Thank you very much, and thank you very much for coming," he said to the group of people in front of him. They were his neighbors. At first it felt strange to have neighbors; he had never had them in his life, but he had grown so accustomed to them that they seemed like a constant in his life since he arrived in Argus. It seemed that things had simply changed for the better.

He never thought he would have so many close people in his life in such a short time, and five, that was a lot considering where he came from. Although it felt a little strange to call an older man and a woman of about 35 friends, he could consider his daughter and son friends.

Whitley looked at his neighbors with a mixture of gratitude and surprise. He had never thought that he could have such a close relationship with people outside of his family. He remembered how at first Mr. Nikos, his friends' father, always looked at him suspiciously, thinking that Whitley was trying to hit on his daughter. What a funny misunderstanding! Whitley just wanted to be friends with all of them.

—"I hope you enjoy the party," Whitley said, trying to sound as adult as possible. Internally, he laughed at the idea that anyone would think that he, a 12-year-old boy, was interested in anything other than games and fun. He wasn't interested in such things, but he didn't deny that he had fun playing video games, but his mind and body were focused elsewhere, in another field, on other things.

Emma, noticing Whitley's thoughtful expression, gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

—"Are you okay, Whitley?" he asked with a smile.

—"Yeah, I was just thinking how lucky I am to have you all here," Whitley replied, returning the smile.

These people were very kind, too kind for a person's normal standards. They were really well-intentioned, really. They didn't seem to care how rich he was, or who he really was.

It seemed that good fortune was smiling on Whitley. His newly formed company, which he had named Wayne Enterprises, had emerged with such force in the market that it was surprising.

His father asked him why he didn't use his family name or surname to form his business. Whitley responded with an answer that was in itself very sensible.

—"I don't want my success to be linked to my family name. I want to make a name for myself where my successes are due to my efforts."

His father nodded, in fact, he looked strangely proud. Whitley was slightly startled, because that tone of pride was truly not like his father. For a moment, he didn't recognize the man standing in front of him, but as soon as he said those words, his father returned to his usual wretch self.

Whitley felt a chill run down his spine. Who was this man who looked like his father but acted so differently? For a moment, he thought he might be someone else, perhaps replaced by a reptilian or some cosmic entity. The idea was absurd, but he couldn't get it out of his head.

That night, he sneaked into his father's room and took DNA samples to confirm his theory. He felt like a spy on a secret mission, his heart pounding as he picked up a hair from his father's hairbrush and a glass he had used.

—" This should be enough ," Whitley thought, packing the samples into a small plastic bag.

It was a few days before he could get the results. When he finally got them in his hands, his theory turned out to be wrong. His father was, indeed, his father. Whitley felt relieved and a little foolish for having thought of something so far-fetched.

—"I guess we can all have moments of unexpected pride," Whitley mused, laughing to himself.

Despite everything, experience taught him not to underestimate people, even those he thought he knew well.

Now everyone is talking about the young and successful entrepreneur who has emerged from nowhere. Of course, "from nowhere" in quotation marks, because everyone knew who he was, but it is still impressive. His fortune has grown exponentially, surpassing even companies that have been on the market for years and generations.

He didn't expect to achieve the same level of fortune as his father, at least not yet. The good thing was that he didn't have to compete with him, since Whitley's niche market wasn't the powder industry. If anything, he was becoming a millionaire by the minute.

The success of solar panels was a great achievement. As Emma said, his niche was the border villages. Many of them now hardly use dust; instead, they use solar panels to light their houses. Sure, dust hasn't disappeared completely, but its use has been reduced by almost 60%, which for him means profits and more profits.

But Whitley didn't stop there. Thanks to the new knowledge he had acquired courtesy of Dr. Polendina, who was now his teacher in all things technology, he understood many of the ideas he had in that science book that magically appeared in his room. Now, Dr. Polendina was more than a teacher; he was his partner and friend. Well, partner he did consider him, friend... Whitley wasn't quite sure, but he hoped Dr. Polendina considered him that way.

Between Whitley and Dr. Polendina, the scientific experiment sessions were always exciting and often funny. One time, while working with volatile chemicals, they managed to put the entire military area of Atlas into emergency. The experiment went wrong and caused a small explosion that set off all the alarms. As punishment, Whitley had to clean the military bathroom for a week. Despite everything, Whitley did not lose his sense of humor and joked that at least now he knew how Atlas' security systems worked.

These experiences not only strengthened his knowledge, but also his relationship with Dr. Polendina. Whitley often cracked jokes during experiments, such as when he tried to create a "dancing robot" that ended up making a mess in the lab. Dr. Polendina, although serious, couldn't help but laugh at Whitley's antics. These anecdotes became part of his routine, making learning not only effective, but also fun and memorable.

For years, they have been working hard on various innovations: solar panels, cloud seeding, hydroponics, wind power, new forms of farming and animal husbandry. All of this has significantly boosted the food, energy and construction industries.

Now, together with Dr. Polendina, they are developing the first hydroelectric dam in all of El Remanente. The doctor has been more excited than ever, but carrying out a project of such magnitude will take time. Currently, the project is in beta phase and the location is still being chosen.

Whitley enthusiastically presented the project to Dr. Polendina. —"Doctor, this is a groundbreaking project for The Remnant," Whitley said as he spread the plans out on the table. —"Here are the technical details of how it will be done. This dam will operate by using the flow of water to generate electricity, something that, although simple, no one had ever considered before due to the reliance on dust to generate power."

Dr. Polendina looked at the plans in wonder. —"It's incredible, Whitley. What instruments will we need?" he asked with genuine interest.

—"We'll need turbines, huge generators and an advanced control system," Whitley explained. —"I'm also thinking about integrating sensors to monitor water flow and optimize electricity production."

Dr. Polendina nodded, impressed. —"I never thought something so simple could be so revolutionary. With this project, we could change the way The Remnant produces energy."

Whitley smiled, telling an anecdote about how the idea had come about. —"I remember being at the river with my family, watching the water flow so powerfully. That's when I thought, why not harness this energy?"

There was a small inconsistency in that story, first, there were no rivers in his house and in the rare case that there were, they would be so frozen that there would practically be no current in that river, or you could not see said current,

Dr. Polendina laughed.— "Sometimes the best ideas come from the simplest moments. I'm looking forward to seeing this project in action."

With this conversation, both felt more motivated than ever to carry out the project, knowing that they were about to make history in El Remanente.

And as for her training, I had to put it this way: it's complete torture! The old hag was truly devious and malicious, with a wicked sense of humor. She seemed to enjoy making people suffer. Seriously, I'd never met someone like that. Despite her old age, she had the mentality of a 15-year-old girl, which made her even more unbearable. Her tiny size didn't stop her from knowing exactly how to cause physical pain to people.

Whitley, while acknowledging all of these negative traits, had to admit that she was an excellent teacher. Everything he learned from her proved to be incredibly useful. Her combat skills were unparalleled, something Whitley had never seen before. Although he had not witnessed the training of a veteran hunter, he had seen recordings of the Vital Festival tournaments, and this old woman far surpassed any aspiring hunter student.

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling training session, Whitley found himself reflecting on his teacher. —" It's amazing how someone so small can be so powerful," he thought as he massaged his sore muscles. He remembered a conversation he had with her at the beginning of his training.

—"Why are you doing this?" Whitley asked, panting with the effort.

The old hag smiled wickedly.— "Because, boy, true power does not come without suffering. Only through pain can you reach your true potential."

Whitley couldn't help but feel a mix of admiration and resentment. Despite everything, he knew her words were true. Every blow, every fall, every moment of pain was making him stronger, faster, more resilient.

One night, while reviewing the techniques he had learned, Whitley remembered an anecdote his teacher had told him. —"When I was young, I trained with the best hunters. I learned that true strength is not in the muscles, but in the mind. Strategy and cunning are your greatest weapons."

These words resonated with Whitley. Despite her harshness, the old hag was teaching him valuable lessons, not just about combat, but about life itself. With each passing day, Whitley realized that, although his training was torture, he was forging a true warrior.

Over the years, she had taken it upon herself to strengthen his body to the limit, and that was something he was very grateful for. His hands, which he always kept gloved to avoid suspicion, were as hard as rock and had calluses upon calluses. Although Emma knew he was taking self-defense classes, that was just what he told her.

With a good diet, good care and up-to-date medical check-ups, at 12 years old he was very tall and had a strong body; he hardly looked 12 years old. Miss Maria was very pleased with his progress, but there was something that bothered her a little: his aura, or rather, the lack of it.

—"Hey, Bruce! One question. I know this is repetitive for you, but I've offered to open your aura so many times and you always refuse," said Calavera Mary, looking at the boy doing push-ups.—"Why?"

Whitley, without stopping his pace, replied:

—"As I last answered you, I'm not looking to be a hunter."

—"Yes, of course not, but it seems like it," Maria slammed her staff on the floor and then hit Whitley's hand, making him stagger, but he didn't stop. He kept doing push-ups, now with only one hand. —"But not necessarily if your aura is open you have to be a hunter."

—"You're right, Miss Maria, but there are regulations for people who have aura and besides, I have other personal reasons," Whitley made a groan of effort; he was reaching his limit, he had been doing push-ups for three hours.

Maria watched him with a mixture of frustration and admiration. Whitley, with his unwavering determination, was an enigma. Why was he so reluctant to open his aura?

—"Come on, Bruce. We've known each other for five years, call me Maria," the old woman smiled, her eyes sparkling behind the thick lenses.

—"Then call me Mr. Wayne," Whitley replied, flashing a defiant smile.

—"Never!" Maria replied, laughing with a warmth that contrasted with her usual harshness.

—"Then you'll still be Miss Mary Skull to me," Whitley replied, matching her tone.

Maria frowned, studying him closely.— "You look like you're preparing to face something," she said, her voice gravelly and deep. —"I've seen many with that look, a look of fierceness and determination. You have that same intensity, Whitley. I've seen you fall, get up, endure pain others couldn't even imagine. The training I give you is to become a hunter, but not just any hunter. I will make you exceptional. The problem is, to endure it, you must open your aura."

Whitley didn't answer, he simply nodded and continued with his push-ups. Maria watched every movement, every drop of sweat that ran down his forehead.

—"But you, Whitley, are different from everyone I've trained. They've all given up, except you. A normal human, enduring training designed for powerful beings. How do you do it? What drives you?"

Whitley paused, breathing heavily, but his gaze remained fixed on an indeterminate point. —"Have you seen the Abyss, Miss Skull?" he said finally, his voice barely a whisper.

Maria was perplexed. The Abyss? What did he mean? It was a word that resonated with an ancient echo, evoking mysteries and unknown dangers.

—"The Abyss? I don't understand, boy. What are you talking about?"
Whitley closed his eyes, as if he were reliving some painful memory. A shiver ran down his spine, raising every hair on the back of his neck. He looked at his left hand, then his right, tracing the scars left by countless hours of training. His eyes, once filled with determination, now burned with an intensity that chilled Maria.

—"Where every dream dies and every atrocity is allowed," he whispered, his voice barely a rasp. —"Where hope simply does not exist and every vestige of humanity is erased without a trace. I have seen how low someone who has seen the Abyss can fall, the unimaginable horrors they are capable of when that darkness consumes them."
Whitley couldn't take his eyes off his hands, flexing them over and over again, as if trying to strangle some inner demon. His eyes had turned dark, filled with a primal rage that contrasted with the calm he usually emanated. —"I will not become a Hunter, I don't want to be and I never will be," he stated in a firm voice, as if he were answering a silent accusation. "But he's right about one thing, there is something I have to face."

Maria felt a chill run down her spine. The darkness emanating from Whitley was palpable, like a thick fog enveloping everything around her. For a moment, she thought she saw a dark figure hovering around her, like a bloodthirsty bat. It was an illusion, of course, but the fear it provoked was real.

—"Whitley..." he began, his voice shaking. "I don't understand what you're saying, but if you're going through something, you should know that you're not alone."

Whitley stared at her, his eyes like two bottomless pits.— "I'm not alone, Maria. The Abyss is after me, and I'll be after it. To the end of the world."

At that moment, Maria realized she was in the presence of something far greater than she had imagined. Whitley was not simply a rebellious young man; he was a man scarred by traumatic experience, someone who had seen the darkest face of existence. And he was determined to face it, alone or with someone else.
The night closed in on them, shrouded in a tense silence. Maria and Whitley stared at each other, each lost in their own thoughts. The darkness around them seemed to come alive, whispering secrets and promises of destruction. And in the midst of that darkness, Whitley stood like a beacon, a solitary light in a sea of shadows.

...

—"Whitley, what are you thinking about?" Emma asked, interrupting his thoughts with a soft voice. The boy had been lost in his memories, his gaze fixed on an indeterminate point.

He smiled weakly at her, trying to hide the sadness that overwhelmed him.— "Nothing, just thinking about my sister."

Emma sighed, her eyes filled with understanding. She had heard that same answer hundreds of times. Whitley had been trying to build a bridge to Weiss for years, but it seemed like she knocked him down every time she tried.

—"Whitley..." she began, choosing her words carefully. —"I know it's hard, but I think it's time to accept reality. Weiss doesn't seem interested in having a relationship with you, at least not right now. I don't want you to keep hurting yourself."

Whitley nodded slowly, feeling a lump in his throat. Emma was right. Weiss had always rejected him, building an invisible wall between them. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't break it down.

—"I'm not saying you should give up on her," Emma continued, softening her tone.— "Just that maybe you should accept that things are the way they are now. Maybe in the future, when you're both older and more mature, you can rebuild your relationship. But for now, you need to take care of yourself."

Whitley fell silent, staring at his hands. Emma had struck a nerve. His relationship with his sister was an open wound that never seemed to heal. And not just with Weiss, but with Winter and his mother as well.

He didn't quite understand why his sisters rejected him, he guessed, and deduced that maybe it was because they had known Whitley since he was little and they saw that before his change, he was becoming a small version of his father, and he couldn't blame them for still thinking that, he was too far away from them to live together, but he visited them regularly but they always seemed distant.

The only one who seemed more or less willing to have a relationship with him was his mother, but her alcoholism problem frankly makes that improvement difficult, she always seemed to be lost in her own world, and Whitley, no matter how hard he tried to have a bearable conversation with his mother, it was like talking to a wall, the words wouldn't get through.

—"My family is screwed, aren't they?" ,he finally muttered, his voice barely audible.

And the only one who was more or less sane in that place was her father and that was not encouraging. She had lived with her father for so long, even if she didn't want to. Frankly, it was business and business should be conducted professionally even with people you hate. She realized that her father was not simply a racist person, but rather... well, she didn't know how to describe him. Emma had a very detailed description of the man, a description that would never leave her mind and for which she had apologized many times. She had nothing to apologize for, she was absolutely right.

His father was simply a man who didn't see people as people per se, but rather as numbers, figures, statistics. If fauns weren't in the dust mines and it was humans instead, his father wouldn't have changed his attitude in the slightest. He would still be the same jerk, no matter who it was, as long as it was useful to him. That was his father... And it scared him to think that at some point in his life he had looked at people the same way.

—"I can't blame my sister for how she is. I can blame the decisions she makes, but not for what she is now," Whitley poured himself a glass of water, trying to quench his thirst and agitation. —"She's very suspicious of me, she suspects I have intentions towards her. Hahaha! I don't blame her! Since everyone goes to her with ulterior motives, all to make business connections with my father. They see her as a gateway to an opportunity for wealth." Emma could see sadness in Whitley's eyes, but also pity, compassion for his sister, for the life she had. —"I won't stop trying to earn my sister's trust, to earn being her brother, to be a family."

If he couldn't blame the circumstances, the best thing he could do was move forward with what he had. At least he would have the consolation that in the end he did everything possible to unite his family.

But even though they may never know it and don't need to know it, he would always be looking out for his family.

Whether it was her sister Winter, facilitating new contracts with her father's company, convincing her father to make new contracts with the Atlas army, helping her sister's image as she negotiated with her father.

And her sister Weiss, who began her training to become a hunter years ago, was very surprised that she took that step and followed in her older sister's footsteps, something that her father did not like in the least, but Whitley had to intervene, telling her that this would help her character, her discipline, it was difficult, it took almost two months to convince him but her father let Weiss have training to be a hunter.

But they would never know, because one of the philosophies that he has learned throughout this short time and that he practiced as a superhero, is that you did not do a good deed to receive recognition, you just did it.

And with her mother...you couldn't help someone who doesn't want to acknowledge that she has a problem...or who acknowledges that she has a problem but won't do anything about it, the best thing she could do was accompany her.

Emma felt a lump in her throat. Whitley was too persistent, too stubborn to understand that it wasn't worth helping someone who didn't want to be helped and that it wasn't worth getting hurt because of it. —"Listen, Whitley, I understand your way of thinking. Fuck, yes I do! But your family is wrong, your family is like a fucking drug that kills you for taking it! It consumed your mother, it consumed your sister and your other sister! They are like that because your father is like a fucking cancer that destroys everything inside your system. And the same thing could happen to you! You already left that family, you escaped, you did all of this by yourself!" ,Emma raised her arms, pointing to the kitchen, her gesture was so exaggerated that Whitley couldn't help but smile. —"This is serious, Whitley! Look at everything you've done in five years, you built a company worth millions, and not only that, you've grown as a person. Do you think I want to see you again as that unfriendly, sarcastic boy, who always did what he wanted? Capricious, disinterested towards others! Do you think I want to see you become your father?!"

Whitley couldn't contain himself, he burst out laughing. —"jajaja ahaha! What? Hahaha, God, this was beautiful. I love it when you just lose your mind, it's wonderful. It's like the time when I was trying to build this mansion, I wanted to move into a new residence and oddly enough, there was a brothel in that place."

Emma groaned, vividly remembering that day. —"Yes, Whitley? No, don't mention it to me, okay? We had that conversation a while ago. What the hell were you thinking, doing that?"

—"Even though I have all the money in the world, some things I just can't change. Sometimes I get hungry at night and, well, the brothel operates at night and oddly enough it has a food section." How did Whitley know that detail? He wouldn't mention it, it just had something to do with Mr. Nikos begging Whitley not to tell his wife about a certain incident. —"The plan was just to be close to them so I wouldn't have to order so much delivery, I would just have to change a few steps over there and order something."

—"I'm not going to ask how a brothel has a food section and I don't want to know how you know that, but I feel the need to know," Emma growled, glaring at the boy in front of her.

—"Please, it's not that bad. I haven't done anything indecent, I swear. I haven't even gone in. I'll stay a virgin until I'm married," Emma didn't know why, but Whitley's words sounded like a blatant lie. His normally calm eyes now shone with an intensity that made Whitley shiver. —"But I have to tell you now, his chicken wings really are fantastic. I can't believe a brothel cooks them so well, in fact I tried them yesterday, they're wonderful and..."

Whitley's words were lost in the air as Emma, with a quick, decisive movement, stood in front of him, cutting his words like a knife.

—"You still go there?" Emma asked, her voice low but filled with blood-curdling anger. Whitley gulped, feeling his face growing redder.

—"Well, ahh, of course I'm not going to stop going to a place just because of its reputation. I reserve the right to keep my opinions to myself until I see it for myself," Whitley stammered, taking a step back. Emma stepped even closer, cornering him against the wall.

—"If it's any consolation, I always dress up to get there. Nobody knows I'm the one ordering food at 12 at night. I always go dressed as Bruce... you know..." Whitley said with a nervous smile.

Emma let out a wry laugh.— "I don't understand how you feel the need to go to a fucking brothel to eat chicken wings when you can go to any restaurant in Argus," Emma snapped, furious.

Whitley shrugged. —"Not all restaurants are open at 12 at night," he argued, trying to sound reasonable.

Emma looked at him in disbelief. —"Even though we have one of the best chefs in Atlas in this mansion!"

—"Nobody makes wings like Miss Green does. They're... they're magic!" ,Whitley exclaimed, closing her eyes in ecstasy.

—"You said you'd never been inside that brothel," she accused him, reminding him of his lie. Whitley fell silent, biting his lower lip.

—"Well, technically... the door is always open, right?" he tried to justify himself. Emma stared at him, saying nothing. Whitley cleared his throat. —"Plus, it's a very quiet place. There's always classical music playing in the background and a lavender scent that relaxes you..."

The argument escalated, Emma's screams echoing throughout the mansion. The neighbors, accustomed to the couple's weekly scandal, barely raised an eyebrow. Some even offered to bring popcorn to enjoy the spectacle.

—"You're ridiculous, Whitley! How can you be so childish?"

—"But the wings!"

-{}-

—"Are you done arguing?" Arnold Nikos asked with a smirk, as he dug his fork into a juicy piece of cake. Elena, his wife, glared at him.

—"Honey, you shouldn't bother Whitley," she chided, though her tone of voice suggested she was enjoying the show.

Gerald, the youngest Nikos son, joined the conversation with a mischievous smile.— "And what were you arguing about this time? Whitley wanted entertainment and you didn't let him?" He turned to Emma, whose expression was a mixture of anger and frustration.— "Looks like you had a lot of fun," he added with a wink.

Whitley shrugged, but his gaze met Emma's. —"You shouldn't talk about such things in public, Gerald," he muttered uncomfortably.

Gerald's older sister, Wendy, crossed her arms and looked at him with disdain.— "Are you scamming people again? Typical of men."

Wendy and Gerald had been friends with Whitley for years, with Gerald being a year older than him and Wendy being two years older than him, but sometimes their jokes crossed the line, and while he appreciated them, he sometimes felt burdened by their accusations.

Elena shook her head, unable to believe her daughter's accusations. —"Wendy, you shouldn't accuse people like that. Whitley would never scam anyone. He doesn't have to, he's a millionaire kid."

Whitley looked away, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. Emma watched him with a mix of tiredness and fatigue. She had seen Whitley do things that had perplexed her, things that did not fit the image of the sweet, innocent boy everyone thought they knew. And the worst part was that, deep down, she knew he was capable of anything.

—"Of course not," Whitley replied, his voice shaking. —"I don't need to scam anyone."

Emma couldn't help but laugh. —"Of course not, Whitley. You have all the money in the world."

Luckily, Whitley was an expert at changing the subject. He clapped his hands enthusiastically to get everyone's attention and exclaimed, —"Well, well, let's cut the trivia!" But it seems Arnold wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to dig a little deeper.

With his mouth full and a mischievous smile, Arnold asked,— "Oh, come on! Seriously, what were you arguing about this time?"

Emma, his wife, gave him a gentle nudge in reprimand.

Whitley, without losing his composure, made up a story to divert attention, —"Nothing out of the ordinary, just business. Emma won't let me make some moves." His expression was so serious that one would almost believe the story, if it weren't for the obvious tension in the air.

Gerald, the friend of the group, decided to add fuel to the fire, —"I heard something about a brothel." Whitley looked at him with an expression of disbelief mixed with annoyance. Seriously! He had to make things more complicated than necessary. If he wasn't his friend, he would surely have told him to go to hell right then and there.

—"I think you misheard," Whitley replied, trying to remain calm. —"In any case, the argument shouldn't have come to that. And I also think it was very rude to argue when we have guests. Although I have to be clear, my proposal was completely reasonable." Whitley shrugged with an innocent expression, while Emma rolled her eyes and gritted her teeth. —"It wasn't that big of a deal. Now I understand why she's still single at thirty," he commented sarcastically.

Whitley felt a sharp pain in her rib as Emma gave her a gentle punch. But she didn't let the smile leave her face. —"I was just kidding!" she exclaimed with a laugh
. —"Any man would be lucky to have you. You just need to stop frowning all the time and be less strict."

Laughter erupted around the table, but Whitley noticed that Emma's laughter was a little forced. She knew she had touched a nerve and that the discussion was not over yet.

Demons

Whitley had everyone's attention again. With a mischievous grin, he announced,— "Okay, let's open presents! Let's see, this one's from Arnold. Let's see what's inside..." With nimble fingers, Whitley untied the wrapping and revealed a toolbox.— "My, my! I saw this coming. Just like the drill from last birthday, the grinder from the one before that, and the set of wrenches you gave me. Are you planning on turning my room into a hardware store?" Whitley joked, as Gerald smiled back.

Arnold defended himself, —"Every man needs tools in his house for an emergency."

—"I agree with you on that",Whitley agreed, albeit with a slightly ironic tone.

He picked up another box and opened it curiously,— "Let's see, this gift is from Elena." Inside he found a tent and a survival kit. The boy smiled gratefully.— "Thank you, Miss Elena!"

Elena smiled back, feeling flattered. —"It's a pleasure, Whitley."

Whitley examined the camping equipment carefully.— "Wow! I can already organize an expedition to the Emerald Forest with this," he joked, while the others laughed. —"Seriously, thank you. This is a very original and useful gift."

Arnold, seeing Whitley's obvious excitement, couldn't help but feel a little envious. He had put a lot of effort into choosing the perfect gift, but it seemed like Elena had gotten it right. He told himself that he would have to be more creative next time.

—"So, this is a gift from Gerald. What do we have here? Hey, what's this?" Whitley raised an eyebrow, curiously examining a strange-looking plant. Its leaves had an unusual blue hue and its flowers emitted a soft phosphorescent light.

Gerald smiled enigmatically.— "Ah, that! Although it may not seem like it, it is something very special." He cleared his throat and began to narrate the history of the plant in a dramatic tone.— "A few months ago, a somewhat eccentric explorer went into the wilderness. He never returned," Gerald paused dramatically, letting the tension build. —"Yes, the wilderness. That place where not even an experienced hunter would dare to set foot. And what is a madman doing venturing into such a place? Well, I don't blame him entirely. It is unexplored territory and, frankly, of great scientific interest. But not even the bravest scientists dare to enter there. And I speak of the wilderness because it is by no means the most dangerous place there is. The first is the Grimm lands. That is a place whose name no one speaks."

Gerald continued his tale with an air of superiority.— "The thing is that somehow the explorer's luggage was washed away by a river. And it turned out that this river was connected to another river that flowed directly into the border town of Hansel. A boy there found it and, not thinking anything of it, gave it to a friend of his, who in turn gave it to a friend of mine. And that's how it came into my hands."

Whitley looked at the plant with growing fascination. Gerald was clearly proud of his unusual gift.— "The point is, I'm not interested in these occult things, but this object is really strange. You don't find many things in the wilds, not even a simple stone. So, since I know you like unusual things, I decided to give it to you."

Whitley carefully took the plant and examined it in the dim light. It was both beautiful and mysterious. —"Thank you, Gerald. I really appreciate it."

Gerald frowned. —"You don't seem very excited."

Whitley shrugged.— "I usually get flowers from women. And, well, I'm not exactly comfortable getting flowers from a man. Is there anything you want to confess to me, buddy?"

Gerald let out a loud laugh. —"Fuck you, Whitley," he said with a sneer.

Whitley simply returned the gesture, unfazed.

He opened another present, this time a smaller one wrapped in shiny paper. —"So, this is from Wendy. What do we have here? A massager and a coupon for a free massage," he read aloud. Whitley examined the gift with a smile. It was a very thoughtful touch. With the muscle aches he had been having lately, a massage would do him good. Even though he already had one at home, the coupon for a professional massage was tempting. —"That's disappointing," he joked, —"for a moment I thought you would give me the massage, but I can't ask for more. Beggars can't be picky." Whitley faked a sigh of resignation, dramatizing his disappointment to provoke a reaction from Wendy.

Wendy rolled her eyes in amusement.— "As if I would give you a massage. Grow up a little more, in a few years and maybe you'll have a chance with me," she replied with a mischievous smile, giving him a challenging look. Whitley instantly perked up. The proposition was too tempting to pass up.

With a grin from ear to ear, Whitley turned his gaze to Emma.— "Emma, did you get me a time machine?" he asked in a playful tone. Emma stared at him, her expression showing that she was seriously considering his question.

—"No," he finally replied, with a wry smile.— "But if I had one, I would probably have sent you back to a time when you knew how to behave."

Whitley feigned indignation. —"Hey! That's not fair. I'm an old-school gentleman," he protested, though his tone was more jocular than offended.

Emma, unfazed, handed him a small package wrapped in fancy paper. —"In any case, this is your present," she said firmly. Whitley opened it curiously and found an elegant leather notebook. —"You can use it to write down accounts, numbers, and anything else related to the company," Emma explained seriously.

Whitley frowned, confused. —"But I already have a notebook," he argued, holding up the notebook in question. It was a medium-sized notebook with a picture of a smiling cat on the cover.

Emma let out an exaggerated sigh.— "A fucking notebook you bought from a neighborhood bookstore! It has a picture of a cat on it! A cat, Whitley! You're the owner of a multi-million dollar company and you're going around acting like a child." Objectively speaking, Whitley was a child.— "You need to be more professional," she scolded him sternly. Whitley shrugged, feeling like a scolded child. It seemed that despite her age and position, Emma still had the ability to make him feel small.

—"But I like that notebook," Whitley insisted, clinging to his sentimental object.

Emma looked at him with an expression that left no room for doubt.— "And you would like it if I took your video game console away from you?" The threat was veiled, but Whitley understood it perfectly. His beloved video game console was his greatest treasure, and the thought of losing it made him shudder.

—"No, lady," Whitley replied, his voice barely a whisper.

Emma nodded in satisfaction.— "Then you will use the notebook. And I assure you that you will get used to it. It is much more elegant and professional than that cat nonsense."

Whitley sighed in resignation and picked up the new notebook. He knew he had no other choice. Emma was his partner and sometimes his nemesis. It was like having a personal trainer, but in a business version.

Her eyes fell on a small box that still remained on the table. It was wrapped in shiny paper. A smile spread across her face as she read the name written on the card, 'Pyrrha Nikos',— "Wow, she remembered my birthday," she commented in surprise.

Arnold, noticing her expression, explained, —"Yeah, my niece couldn't make it. She just won her second Mistral championship and, you know, sponsors and press and stuff have her very busy." He apologized with a slight nod, but Whitley waved him off in reassurance.

—"Don't worry, send her my congratulations. No, I'll call her tonight. Second time champion of the Mistral Youth Championship! Wow, she must be quite a celebrity among the kids."

Gerald, with a mischievous grin, added, "And you haven't even seen their latest cereal commercial. You have to see it, Whitley. It's... well, it's something you have to see."

Whitley opened the gift with childlike enthusiasm. Inside he found a pair of dumbbells, small but heavy. He picked them up and examined them curiously. —"Interesting," he commented, placing the dumbbells carefully in the palm of his hand. —"This girl knows how to motivate a man," he paused dramatically before adding with a smile, —"It's a shame this man is so irresistibly charming. Tell Pyrrha she needs to try harder to win my heart."

Everyone burst out laughing. It was obvious that Whitley was joking,

-{}-

And so another year passed.

—"So this is Hansel?" Whitley scanned the horizon of the border town, his gaze lost in the distance. —"Relax, yes... Although, maybe when I'm 70 I'd like to retire in a place like this," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone in particular. The panorama of Hansel stretched out before him, an immensity that made him feel small and, at the same time, infinitely curious.

I will tell you, Mistral, a kingdom of colossal proportions, resembled in its extension a city like Washington DC. At least, that is how Whitley estimated it. A great wall, the fruit of a century of hard work, surrounded the entire kingdom, delimiting its borders and protecting it from the unknown. Within this vast territory, four main sectors shared power: Altar to the south, Elder to the east, Alt to the west and, of course, Mistral to the north, the capital. It is a bit curious that all the kingdoms have as their capital a sector that bore the same name.

Beyond the wall lay the Border Towns, scattered settlements that, although not connected to the kingdom itself, benefited from its protection. Mistral's hunters, trained at a prestigious academy, were responsible for ensuring the safety of these communities, freeing them from the threats that lurked there.

Whitley, at that very moment, found himself in one of these border towns, the closest to the Wilds but far enough away to offer safety.

But the feeling of being on the edge of the world was palpable. The wind, blowing hard from the south, carried with it the scent of damp earth and the distant howling of some wild animal. Whitley shivered, not so much from the cold, but from the thought that a giant grizzly bear might be staring at him from the bushes.

—"Okay," Whitley looked out at the town's dusty streets, his gaze lost in a future filled with shops and malls. —"In a few years I'd like to see this place prosper a little more. Just imagine! A mall with a comic book store as big as a basketball court, a video game center with machines that teleport you to other worlds... And a five-star restaurant that serves burgers with gold!"

Whitley laughed to himself, imagining Hansel turned into a rural version of Las Vegas.— "Yeah, it would be interesting to make one of the kingdoms have a city like that, with buildings so tall they reached into the sky."

But Whitley wasn't here to sightsee, or even to eat burgers with gold. That was the excuse he had given to Emma, his faithful companion in adventures (and the only one who could stand him).

—"Business," he had said with all the seriousness in the world.

—"What kind of business?" she asked, her eyes wide.

Well, I had convinced her that creating a security agency was a brilliant idea.

—"We'll hire the toughest hunters in all of Remnant," he had said, —"We'll be like the Justice League!"

—"What the fuck is the Justice League?!"

Emma had nodded, although Whitley knew what she was thinking, 'who would think of creating a security agency in a town where the most dangerous thing there is is a squirrel?'

Whitley had done some research on Hansel. Luckily, he had found some old records. According to those documents, Hansel was a place where hunters came to retreat when they grew tired of fighting monsters and preferred to fish for trout. Perfect, Whitley had thought, a breeding ground for experienced hunters, ready to be trained and turned into my henchmen… I mean, his security team.

Of course, the idea of a security agency was just a cover. His real plan was much more ambitious, it had one goal... well, actually it had two goals.

First, build another Batcave. He's been working on plans for several months now to build Batcaves around the world, locations that will serve as bases when he's in different regions. He's building one in Argus, another in Mantle, and in several other border towns.

How does he do all this without arousing the suspicions of, I don't know, the leaders of those regions? He has his company's headquarters in those places, so he can be there doing an inspection. That's one part of the cover story. The other cover story is that he has to have someone to build all this, right? You know, manpower. That's one of the big problems that he would have. The problem is that he didn't need manpower, he didn't appoint people to build his bases, he didn't appoint someone to speak up and mention and be suspicious and ask what all this is for.

So who's building the Batcaves?

The technology was wonderful, and with Dr. Polendina, they had been working on new robots that would serve the Atlas military. He was very involved in that. In fact, at the insistence of the doctor himself, he wanted Whitley to work with him, and so he did. They made hundreds of patents and mass produced them to help the Atlas military. It may be that a few hundred of these robots, soon after being deployed to the storage vaults, were stolen by the White Fang. It may be that this White Fang was not actually the White Fang, and that it was Whitley who planned an actual robbery. He may have hired a couple of thieves and told them where and when these robots would be, and they stole them for him. Once he paid them, the thieves simply didn't need to know what they were being used for. They would suspect that it was perhaps for a war.

And it could also be that Whitley modified those robots, removing the trackers, installing new software, modifying circuits and such, and making them his labor force.

Imagine the scene: Whitley, with a mischievous grin, watching the robots work tirelessly, building their Batcaves. The robots, with precise and efficient movements, erecting walls and digging tunnels, while Whitley drinks coffee and reviews blueprints. What a spectacle! And all this without anyone suspecting a thing.

Hahaha, but it could be.

Whitley wasn't going to stop and ponder the morality of his actions. After all, the end justified the means, didn't it? And his plan was already taking shape.

But what was he doing here in the middle of nowhere? He was looking for someone special, a real phenomenon. He had heard about this guy, a war hero, a real hunter. What an irony that his profession was so literal!

He needed to learn from him. Maria was an exceptional fighter, no doubt, but Whitley wanted something more. He wanted to master all forms of combat, as of now he knew 37 forms of fighting, and this man, according to his sources, was a master in the art of fighting. If his suspicions were true, this guy could teach him things that even Maria, with all her experience, couldn't.

—"This must be it," Whitley muttered, as he entered a forest near Hansel's village. The road was long and lonely, but the scenery was beautiful. Of course, the heat was unbearable. Vacuno seemed like paradise compared to this hell! (exaggerated), He was sweating profusely and his wig was starting to come off. (He put it on like hell), With a gesture of annoyance, he took it off, revealing his white hair, now completely disheveled.

What a heat! And what a long walk! With every step, Whitley secretly cursed the heat and the distance.

He thought about what his meeting with this supposed martial arts master would be like. Would he be an eccentric guy who lived in a cabin in the middle of the woods? Or perhaps a retired former soldier who spent his days training young hopefuls?
As he walked, Whitley couldn't help but imagine his target's possible reactions. Would he be surprised to see him? Would he welcome him with open arms or treat him with distrust? And most importantly, would he be willing to teach him everything he knew?

Whitley continued walking until, in the tall grass, he saw a young boy. He looked to be a year older than him, maybe two. He had blond, unkempt hair, blue eyes, and was dressed like a farmer, though with a certain style. The most curious thing was that he was brandishing some kind of wooden sword, more like a stick with a rudimentary blade, and he was bringing it down hard on a tree.

—"You have the wrong posture," Whitley commented, without warning.

The young man started and looked at him with a mixture of surprise and shock.
—"Oh! My God! You scared me! Who are you? And what are you doing with a wig in your hand?" the boy asked, pointing at the wig Whitley was holding.

—"It's a cap," Whitley lied, without much conviction.

—"No, that's a wig, obviously!" the boy replied with a smile.

—"Well, whatever. Sorry to interrupt you," Whitley apologized, feeling a little guilty.

However, to her surprise, the young man was not bothered at all. On the contrary, he seemed excited.— "Don't worry, nothing is wrong. Tell me, what am I doing wrong?" he asked, eager to learn.

Whitley, seeing the boy's disposition, decided to seize the opportunity. After all, such an enthusiastic and learning young man was just what he needed.

—"Well, for one thing, you're very stiff. You need to relax your arm and move your wrist more fluidly. And the posture... well, the posture leaves a lot to be desired," Whitley commented with a smile.

The boy nodded, hanging on every word. Whitley took the wig and placed it on the young man, bowing exaggeratedly. —"Very well, young padawan, prepare to receive a fencing lesson!" exclaimed Whitley, adopting an epic pose.

—"What is a Padawan?"

—"I have no idea what it is"

And so, in the middle of the forest, a peculiar fencing lesson began. Whitley, with his flamboyant attitude, was teaching a young farmer the rudiments of sword fighting. The boy, despite his lack of experience, was a diligent student and soon began to improve.
With each movement, Whitley couldn't help but smile. It was like being a child again, playing swordsman. (He is still a child.) And although his original mission was to find a martial arts master, perhaps he had found something much more valuable: a friend.

—"Wow, thanks!" The boy smiled, but then opened his eyes wide. —"Ahh, sorry, pardon me! My name is Jaune, Jaune Arc."

—"No, forgive me for my lack of manners. I should have introduced myself first. My name is Whitley Schnee." Whitley looked at the wig in his hands. Well, there was no reason to pretend anymore. He said his name, assuming the boy would already know who he was, but surprisingly, it seemed like this young man didn't know him. Strange, everyone in Remnant knew his name, the name of the great Whitley Schnee. —"It's an honor to meet you," He extended his hand and Jaune took it, giving it a firm shake.

—"An Arc?" Whitley smiled, it seemed that good fortune was smiling on him again. —"I suppose you know Arthur Arc."

—"Yes, he's my grandfather," Jaune replied. —"If you're looking for him, I can take you to him."

—"Thank you so much."

And so, Jaune led Whitley towards Arthur Arc's house. Jaune was a very cheerful boy, admittedly, and talkative, he had to say. But he wasn't a talker who made you feel rejected, but rather someone who attracted you to a conversation.

Jaune couldn't stop talking. He was like an endless source of anecdotes about his family: stories of his seven sisters, of his father hunting wild boars, and of his mother making the best pies in the county. Whitley listened, amused, as he imagined Jaune, with his good-boy face, trying to cook and ending up burning the pan.

—"Imagine, seven sisters!" Jaune exclaimed, his eyes shining,— "I'm the only boy at home. I'm the king!"

Whitley nodded, though inside he felt a little… jealous. He was the youngest son, just another one of the bunch. He didn't have the closeness with his sisters that Jaune seemed to have with his sisters. And that hurt him a little.

—"And why are you wearing that wig?" Jaune asked, pointing at Whitley's head, —"Are you a spy or something?"

Whitley scratched the back of his neck.
—"I'm a very famous person," he replied with a smile, —"and sometimes, one needs to blend in."

Jaune looked at him in disbelief.

—"A famous person? And you teach fencing in the middle of the forest? Now that's original!" Jaune mocked.

Whitley couldn't help but laugh.
As they walked, Whitley couldn't stop thinking about Jaune's life. It was a simple life, full of love and laughter. A life that he, deep down, longed for. He imagined himself surrounded by a big family, celebrating the holidays in a house full of his family. It was such a warm and welcoming image that it made him feel a little sad.

—"Hey, Whitley, why are you so quiet? Is something wrong?" Jaune asked, noticing his new friend's change of mood.
Whitley shook his head to clear it.

—"No, it's nothing. I was just thinking about my own things."

—"Well, if you want to talk about it, I'm here," Jaune said, patting him on the shoulder.

Whitley smiled. He was lucky to have met Jaune. He was just what he needed: a sincere and fun friend. And who knows, maybe one day he too would have a family as close-knit as Jaune's.

—"I assume you're training to be a hunter like your father," Whitley inquired, but Jaune's gaze darkened as if a cloud had eclipsed the sun.

—"My father... never wanted to teach me," Jaune sighed, resignation weighing on every syllable.— "I'm too old to start now, don't you think?"

Whitley frowned, not quite understanding. —"It's not like that, Jaune. Many hunters start late. Academies accept students of all ages. Don't give up so easily!"

Jaune smiled bitterly, a shadow of sadness in his eyes.— "I think I gave up a long time ago. I always dreamed of following in my father and grandfather's footsteps, but he… he never gave me that chance." His voice trailed off, as if the words were too heavy to carry.

He looked up at the sky, an endless blue canvas that seemed to mock his frustrated dreams. —"I wanted him to train me, like my grandfather did. But he wouldn't have anything to do with my dream." He turned to Whitley, his gaze filled with deep sadness. —"I can't ask any other hunter for help. They all know me and know what my father thinks of my dream. And the academies… they're too expensive. My father could pay for it, but he won't."

Whitley looked at Jaune with a mix of sorrow and frustration. The boy before him was a ghost of what could have been. He saw the passion in his eyes, the flame that still burned despite everything. But he also saw the resignation, the defeat that had taken root in his soul.

Whitley felt a lump in his throat, a tightness that prevented him from breathing. He wanted to offer Jaune words of encouragement, a balm for his wounded soul, but the words escaped him, timid and hesitant. How to comfort a heart that had been torn in two?

—"And that's all you're going to do?" Whitley snapped, frustration boiling inside him. It wasn't anger at Jaune, but at the circumstances that imprisoned him, at a world that seemed hell-bent on stifling a young man's dreams. How can anyone take away another person's future, especially a parent?

They both stopped dead in their tracks, the weight of their emotions hanging in the air. Jaune stared at him, bewildered, as if he didn't understand his friend's vehemence.

—"Are you going to let them beat you like this? Are you going to let your father decide your fate? Being a farmer isn't bad, but is that what you really want?", Whitley insisted, his eyes burning with an intensity that surprised Jaune. He could sense the pent-up rage in his friend, a rage that resonated with his own.
Jaune felt cornered, his defenses rising like a wall.

—"And what do you want me to do? I'm tied hand and foot. Even if I had the madness to leave this village and seek training, I don't have the means. I would fail and return with my tail between my legs, more defeated than ever." His voice broke, revealing the deep wound he carried within.

Whitley looked at him with a mixture of sadness and anger.— "Is this how you want it to end? Give up without even a fight?"

Jaune let out a gasp, his fist hitting the ground hard. —"Of course I don't want to! My father is a selfish, tyrant who denies me my dreams. He trained my sisters to be hunters, but me... what excuse did he have? None! He left me adrift, without direction, without hope."

Jaune's words echoed through the air like a heart-wrenching wail, drawing a deep sigh from Whitley. In that instant, he saw himself reflected in his companion's hopeless eyes.

He couldn't blame Jaune for feeling trapped in a web of expectations and limitations imposed by others. After all, who was he to judge? He himself had been lucky enough to be born into an environment that had provided him with opportunities, an escape route to a promising future. Jaune, however, seemed doomed to a preordained fate, with no voice or choice.

A wave of compassion and determination washed over Whitley. Jaune needed what he had needed: someone to believe in him, to offer him a helping hand and show him the way.

—"And you think I'm going to let it end like this, buddy," Whitley said, his voice firm and determined. The word 'buddy' resonated between them, forging an unexpected bond. —"If you're willing to fight for your dreams, I'll be with you until the end. I won't let you give up."

Jaune stared at him, stunned. Who was this boy? Why did he care so much about his fate? They had known each other for barely an hour, and yet Whitley seemed willing to change the course of his life.

Jaune's surprise turned to amazement when Whitley handed him a card, a seemingly simple object that hid a deep meaning. The seal on the card was unmistakable: the symbol of the kingdom of Atlas, an emblem of power and adventure.

—"Listen, Jaune," Whitley began, his blue gaze boring into his friend's eyes.— "Men like us have a calling, a mission beyond our personal dreams. We are guardians, protectors of a world that needs our help."

His words rang out with unexpected force, filling the air with an electrifying energy. "And you, Jaune, have the potential to become one of them."

Jaune felt a chill run down his spine. Whitley's words resonated deep within him, awakening a flame of hope he had thought extinguished. Was it possible to escape the chains that bound him? Could he, a young man with no resources or experience, become something greater than himself?

In that instant, Jaune knew his life was about to take a radical turn. And although the path that lay before him was uncertain and full of pitfalls, he would not feel alone. He had Whitley by his side, a beacon of hope in the darkness, a friend who believed in him unconditionally.

—"We do not allow others to guide our destiny," Whitley proclaimed, his voice resonating with unwavering conviction.

— "When we dislike something, when limits are imposed on us, when we are told we can't, it is our responsibility to rebel against the status quo. We don't accept things as they are, but as we want them to be."

Jaune's fists clenched tightly, forcing out the frustration and resignation that had oppressed him for so long. He felt a weight lift from his shoulders, freeing him from the shackles of self-doubt. It was true. How many times had he defied his father's orders, simply out of an impulse to do what he wanted? And though he had tried to convince himself that he had given up, deep down he knew that the flame of rebellion still burned within him.

—"You weren't born to give up, Jaune," Whitley continued, his gaze locked with his friend's eyes.— "You were born to lead, to shape the world in your image. You were born to command armies and conquer new horizons."

Whitley offered him a challenging smile, a smile that lit a spark inside Jaune. With those simple words, she had rekindled the dying flame, restoring his faith in himself.

— "You were born to be a hero."

-{}-

And there it was, imposing and lonely, the Arc mansion. I had heard so many legends about this family of hunters, I expected to find some kind of haunted castle. But, well, at the end of the day, it was just a house, albeit a rather large one.

He had always been told that the Arcs were like hunter royalty, a kind of dynasty of monster exterminators. He imagined Arthur sitting on a throne of Grimm bones, giving orders to an army of hunters. But of course, that was just fantasy.

The house was huge, enough to house a family of twenty. How on earth could one person live in such a place? He must have had an army of invisible servants who took care of everything. Well, or so Whitley thought, until I learned that Arthur was more of an old school guy. A guy who preferred to do his own shopping and even sweep the floors. A true Renaissance man, or rather, a Renaissance hunter!

She wondered if he had a basement full of ancient weapons and mysterious scrolls, or if he kept a stuffed Grimm as a trophy. (She knew for a fact that no Grimm could be stuffed because they dissolved shortly after dying, but it was good to dream.) And speaking of trophies, did he have a room full of medals and awards? Imagine Arthur's face with a "Best Hunter of the Year" medal! He would surely hang it in a very visible place, next to a photo of himself with a dead Grimm.
In short, it was evident that Arthur Arc's house was much more than just a house. It was a monument to his family's history, it was a legacy.

He knocked on the door, a thing so large it looked more like the entrance to a bank. Mahogany, silver, gold... Mr. Arc had good taste, or at least a lot of money. And yes, he had to knock. In the 21st century! Who doesn't use doorbells anymore? Well, I guess if you're a monster hunter with an ego the size of his mansion, you can afford to be conservative.

A few seconds later, the door swung wide open, revealing Arthur Arc himself. The very same one! And boy was he well preserved for his age. According to records, the guy must have been close to a hundred, but he looked more like a sixty-year-old Adonis. It was like one of those old wines that they tell you tastes like a thousand things, but actually tastes like vinegar. And he had the right to say that, because he has tasted 100-year-old wines.

Arthur looks like he's 60, and out of 60 you look good, a 60 year old man who looked 40 but was actually 95 years old, much like a lemon juice that looks Jamaican but tastes like tamarind.

—"And who are you? What do you want here, brat?" Arthur asked, in a voice that seemed straight out of a cowboy movie. It was so deep and resonant that one almost expected a cigar to fall out of his mouth.

What a direct guy! He had prepared himself for a more cordial reception, but well, that was just him. He took a deep breath and adjusted his wig, which by the way, looked great on him.

Jaune had run off before Whitley could tell him the whole plan. How impatient! But hey, he'd have time to explain everything later.

—"I'd like to talk to you, Mr. Arc. My name is Bruce Wayne," he said, bowing exaggeratedly. He hoped that a little flattery would win the grumpy old man over.

Arthur nodded, as if he were granting a royal audience.

—"Come in, brat. I don't have all day." And so, with the magnanimity of a king granting a request, he invited him in. I don't know if his ego or his mansion was bigger.

The dining room was a crazy thing. Walls covered in trophies, from animal heads to gigantic swords that looked like something out of a fantasy movie. It was like a hunter's hall of fame, only instead of medals, it had animal heads. And on top of all that, a carved wooden throne that looked like something out of a pirate movie. Mr. Arc took being a hunter very seriously!
Arthur sat on his throne, resting his chin on his hand as if he were judging a criminal.

—"Well, Mr. Wayne, what brings you here? I don't usually have visitors, especially from brats like you."

Whitley felt a lump in his throat at Arthur's abruptness. He tried to respond, but the old hunter held up a hand, imposing a deathly silence. His finger pointed to the ground, an unspoken command that brooked no reply.

With a mixture of resignation and determination, Whitley knelt down. The cold wood of the floor contrasted with the warmth of his determination.

— "I have come from far away, sir, attracted by your legend. I have heard of your exploits, of your wisdom. I long to learn from you, to be your disciple."

Arthur stared at him with a piercing gaze, as if he were scanning his soul. —"And you think you're just going to get what you want, huh? You're wrong, boy. I don't train just anyone. I don't look for disciples." His voice was like a lion's roar, imposing and authoritative.

Whitley felt hurt, but he was not intimidated.— "I know my words may seem empty, but my wish is sincere. I am willing to pay any price, to overcome any test..."

—"Money doesn't interest me, brat," Arthur interrupted, cutting his words short. "Get out of here."

Whitley leapt to his feet, anger boiling inside him. —"I can't just walk away like this, sir. I've come a long way, I've risked a lot for this opportunity."

Arthur stared at him, challenging him with his gaze. And in that instant, Whitley couldn't give up. He had faced monsters more intimidating than this old hunter.

Arthur stared at him, challenging him with a gaze that seemed to penetrate to the very depths of his soul. And in that instant, Whitley knew he couldn't give up. He had faced monsters more intimidating than this old hunter, but none had tested him so much.

—"Interesting," Arthur muttered, a mocking smile curving his lips.—"Do you really think putting on that attitude will convince me? We'll see."

Whitley felt a chill run down his spine. His instincts, honed by years of training, warned him of impending danger. Before he could react, Arthur launched himself at him, his fist describing a deadly arc. With one agile movement, Whitley moved out of the way just in time, feeling the impact of the blow against the ground, which cracked under the brute force.

If he had tried to block that attack, his hand would have been irreparably fractured. Arthur was far more skilled and powerful than he had imagined.

—"Your reflexes are good, boy," Arthur praised, his voice filled with unexpected respect. —"A hunter in training would have tried to block that blow and would now be regretting it. But you..."

Before Whitley could respond, Arthur struck again, this time with surprising speed. His attacks were precise and deadly, each designed to exploit the slightest weakness. Whitley dodged and blocked, fighting back with all his might.

The room became a whirlwind of movement, the air vibrating with the energy of battle.

Whitley felt adrenaline flood through his body. Fighting Arthur was like dancing with death, every move a gamble. With a nimble leap, he managed to deflect a low blow and counterattacked, throwing a roundhouse kick that sent his opponent reeling.
Arthur chuckled, admiring the young man's tenacity.

— "Very well, boy. You're amusing me. But don't get too confident, you haven't seen anything yet."

And so the battle continued, a deadly dance between two warriors. Whitley fought with the desperation of someone who knows his life is hanging in the balance, while Arthur fought with the serenity of a seasoned master.

More than a battle, it was a demonstration of superiority. Whitley dodged, blocked, but it was like trying to catch the wind. Arthur's blows, precise and forceful, made him retreat, leaving a dull vibration of pain in his body.

Arthur, however, didn't seem entirely committed. He was toying with his prey, testing its limits. In one swift movement, he grabbed Whitley's wrist, bending it with terrifying ease. A well-aimed blow to the stomach sent the young man flying several meters, crashing into the wall.

—"That way of fighting... I haven't seen it in years," Arthur murmured, intrigued. —"Who taught you that, boy?" As he watched Whitley get up, his curiosity grew. That agility, that endurance... it wasn't something you learned anywhere. He had noticed that Whitley had no aura, but hitting him was like hitting a rock, this boy was not normal.

Whitley coughed, a trickle of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. The pain was intense, but his determination was even greater. "My teacher is called Maria Calavera," he replied hoarsely.

Hearing that name, Arthur's eyes widened, lit up by an emotion Whitley couldn't quite fathom. A sinister smile spread across his face, a smile that seemed to hold centuries of secrets and experiences. "—"Maria Calavera, you say? You're her student? Hahaha! Hahaha! Hahaha! Hahaha! Hahaha! Hahaha!" His laughter echoed throughout the room, shaking the heavy suits of armor hanging on the walls like leaves in the wind.

—"You know, boy," Arthur said, his voice hoarse but filled with a strange warmth, —"if you're Maria Calavera student, what are you doing here? What do you expect me to teach you that she hasn't already?" His gaze locked with Whitley's, daring him to answer.

Whitley felt a chill run down his spine. The question was direct, but the answer was not so simple. —"My teacher is exceptional, I do not deny it," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. But his gaze, fixed on Arthur's eyes, burned with a steely determination.— "But I have heard of you, I have read of your exploits. In the Great War of the Faun Revolution, you were one of the few humans who stood by their side, who fought for their freedom. You helped achieve the independence they so longed for."

At these words, Arthur's smile widened. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if reliving old memories.— "Yes, it was," he murmured.— "The Faun War... a turbulent time. A war that, in my opinion, should never have happened. Why make war over something as insignificant as race? We should all be equal, don't you think?"

Whitley nodded slowly.— "I know. But intolerance and fear blind many."

—"That's right," said Arthur, opening his eyes again. —"And you, what are you looking for? Why do you want to learn from me?
"

Whitley straightened, his gaze locked with Arthur's. —"You were feared, your name ringing like thunder in the ears of your enemies. It was said that those you pursued were doomed from the start." His words were a veiled compliment, an invitation to a duel of wills.

Arthur smiled, a smile that revealed years of experience and countless secrets. —"You're telling me everything I already know about myself, but you still haven't told me what you expect me to teach you."

Whitley did not hesitate for a moment.— "I want you to teach me how to hunt," he replied firmly.

Arthur raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Maria must have taught you that already," he said skeptically.

—"Yes, he did," Whitley admitted, —"but it seems he still doesn't quite understand me. I don't want him to teach me how to hunt Grimm. I want him to teach me how to track my enemies, how to follow their footprints, how to anticipate their movements. I want him to teach me how to hunt people."

At these words, Arthur's expression changed. His eyes, once filled with curiosity, hardened, taking on an icy gleam. This was a request that resonated deeply within him, awakening memories of a violent and ruthless past.

—"You've got my attention, boy," he said, his voice deep as thunder.— "Your training will begin once you've brought me to Maria Calavera."

Whitley felt a chill run down his spine, a mixture of excitement and fear. He had lit a flame in Arthur's heart, a flame that could consume him or illuminate him. But he was willing to take that risk. He had found another master, the one who could forge him into the warrior he longed to be.

Whitley didn't question Arthur's motives for seeking out Maria Calavera. He sensed that there was a complex history between them, full of secrets and rivalries. However, he doubted that they would face each other in battle. They were both mature men, too wise to be carried away by youthful impulses. But Arthur seemed wise, and Mary was very impulsive even at that age.

—"I appreciate you taking me on as an apprentice," Whitley said, his voice firm but respectful. —"But I would like to put forward one condition."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, intrigued.— "Shouldn't I be the one setting the conditions?" he asked with a smirk.

—"Yes, very true," Whitley admitted, "but believe me, I will not leave here until you accept my condition."

Arthur's curiosity intensified. —"I'm listening."

—"It's not just me that I want to train."

-{}-

Three months! Who would have thought that time flies when you're being tortured by a couple of sadists disguised as teachers! You'd think three months would be a long time, but believe me, when you're training with Arthur Arc and Maria Calavera, every second feels like an eternity.

Arthur, with his wise face and air of superiority, turns out to be a real sadist. He loves to see others suffer, especially those he deems unworthy of his company. And Skull Mary! That woman is the personification of evil. She laughs out loud as she subjects you to the cruelest tests. Together they make a hilarious couple!

The most ironic thing of all is that Jaune, the spoiled child of the Arc family, has such a sadistic grandfather. Imagine! But at night, Arthur transforms into the most loving grandfather in the world, telling Jaune stories and taking him on adventures through the forest. What an absurd contrast!

It turns out that every month, Arthur becomes the center of attention in Hansel's Central Square. He sits on a bench, takes out his pipe and begins to tell fantastic stories about dragons and princesses. And what stories! It seems that in his youth he lived a thousand and one adventures. Whitley would pay a fortune to see those stories turned into a reality show!

Jaune, poor boy, couldn't believe his grandfather's double life. One moment he was the most loving grandpa in the world, telling him fairy tales, and the next he was a ruthless tyrant, subjecting him to brutal training! What a mess the poor guy had in his head!

In the end, Whitley barely managed to convince Arthur to train him. Of course, on the condition that Skull Mary also took part in his training.

Jaune, with his heart in his mouth, went to Argus with his grandfather guided by Whitley

From what little Jaune had told Whitley, his parents and sisters hadn't taken his decision to go train well at all. And they didn't even know that his grandfather was going to be one of his instructors! Jaune had told them that he was going to Atlas to receive military training, thanks to a registration that Whitley had gotten him.
That registration was a direct pass to the military academy, a gift from General Ironwood.

It seems that the general had the idea that Whitley wanted to follow in her older sister's footsteps and become a specialist. Who knows why he got that idea! Maybe it was because of the great friendship Whitley had with Dr. Polendina or because of his technological contributions to the army.

Whitley had never been much of a fan of the military, but he figured some serious military training wouldn't hurt his friend. So what? Jaune would love it!

Before Jaune was to head off to the military academy, Whitley decided that he needed a good foundation. So, with a grin from ear to ear, he told Jaune that his grandfather would be in charge of training him for a whole year to become a true monster hunter.

Jaune, hearing that, was happier than a partridge with a grain of corn. A whole year with his grandfather, learning to fight and survive! He was so excited that he even dared to joke with Whitley about being his best man. What a future the boy imagined!

Whitley laughed at Jaune's confidence. Who knew his friend looked so self-assured! But he made it clear that before thinking about weddings and best men, he had to learn how to stand up during training. And that, with Arthur as his teacher, was going to be quite a challenge.

However, Whitley's training plans were suddenly interrupted. Emma, his partner and actually the mastermind behind his company, called him to Vale. It turns out that she had opened a new branch there - and without telling him!

Although to the outside world Whitley was the owner of the entire business empire, everyone knew that the real boss was Emma. He provided the face, the crazy ideas and extravagant designs, the assets, while she took care of everything else: contracts, negotiations, marketing... She was a money-making machine!

Whitley, despite his inflated ego, knew perfectly well that without Emma his company would be a ship adrift. So, in all humility, he had to admit that he owed everything to her. And as a token of gratitude, he had offered her a salary... well, more like a blank check.

—"The check is blank, you dictate how much you want to earn," Whitley had told him, with a smile that tried to hide his nervousness.

Emma looked at him with a raised eyebrow, as if she was evaluating whether he was crazy or just generous.

—"Are you sure?" he asked, with a mocking smile.

—"Of course," Whitley replied, although inside he was thinking: 'Please don't ask for an astronomical figure!'

—"And if I tell you I want to make a million lien a month, you won't back out?" Emma insisted, enjoying Whitley's reaction.

—"No, of course not... but we're just getting started, so try not to earn at least a million lien in this first year," Whitley replied, with a nervous smile.

Emma laughed. Whitley was so predictable!

That was a good memory.

Emma always knew how to make him smile. Whitley fondly remembered that conversation about his salary.

Whitley immersed himself in the bustle of the city. Disguised in a simple cape and hat, he walked the streets like anyone else. He knew he didn't need to hide, but years of living in the shadows had made him a master of disguise. Besides, being recognized on the street wasn't exactly what he was looking for right now.

The aroma of seafood led him to a street stall. "Grilled squid!" he exclaimed excitedly. Fresh fish was nearly impossible to come by in Argus, so this delicacy was a real treat.

—"Is that grilled squid? It's very hard to get this in Argus. How much is it, Miss?" Whitley asked, salivating over the skewer. The seller, a friendly-looking woman, smiled and replied.

—"five lien."

Whitley reached into his pocket, certain he had his wallet. But there was nothing! His eyes widened. Impossible. He always carried his wallet secured with a magnet.

—"What now?" he wondered aloud, running a hand through his hair. The feeling of emptiness in his pockets was palpable. He checked again and again, but there was no mistaking it: his money was gone. Had it been taken while he wasn't looking? The thought made him nervous.
He pictured the scene: someone sneaking up on him, slipping an expert hand into his pocket, and escaping without a trace.

But no, that was impossible. His senses were so keen that he would have noticed the slightest movement. Plus, his wallet was secured with a small magnet that stuck to the inside of his pants. It took some force to remove it, and he would have felt it.

—"There's no way I could have been robbed," he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

However, the evidence was irrefutable.

Suddenly, a wave of frustration washed over him. It wasn't so much the money he had lost, but what he had inside his wallet. That very day! What bad luck! Among the bills and coins, there was an access card that allowed him to enter Dr. Polendina's laboratory. A priceless object that he couldn't lose under any circumstances.

—"Whitley, you're in trouble again," he thought with resignation. He sighed deeply, trying to remain calm.

But the situation was desperate. Without the card, he would not be able to access the laboratory.

—"shit".

-{}-

Esmeralda had accomplished her mission.

She was a street urchin, forged in the crucible of misery, where survival was an art learned the hard way. Theft was her trade, her only tool to overcome the abyss of poverty. And in this cruel game, she had perfected her skills to the point of achieving a mastery that made her fearsome.

His life-hardened eyes had seen more than any child should. They had witnessed the cruelty of man, the indifference of society, and the treachery of fate. And yet beneath that shell of indifference, there beat a heart that longed for more than just survival.

She vividly remembered the first time she had stolen. She was barely nine years old and hunger had driven her to a desperate act.

She had stolen a piece of bread from a street stall, thinking that no one would see her. But the owner, a corpulent man with a fierce look, had surprised her.

The beating she had received that day had been brutal, scarring her body and soul. However, it had been in that moment of extreme pain that something inside her had awakened: her Aura.

The Aura, that mysterious force that beat in the hearts of hunters, had protected her from the clutches of death. She had felt a warm, comforting energy envelop her, easing the pain and giving her the strength to get up.

And with that mystical awakening came the greatest of blessings: a semblance. A unique ability, woven with threads of light and shadow, that set her apart from others. Her semblance was a heavenly gift, a secret weapon that allowed her to shape reality as she wished. With a simple glance, she could manipulate the senses of those around her, immersing them in a sea of illusions. She could make them see what wasn't there, hear what didn't exist, and feel what they had never experienced.

For a girl who had known only the harshness of the streets, this skill was a priceless treasure. It was a veil that hid her from the eyes of the world, a key that opened doors that were previously closed. With her semblance, she could go unnoticed, slipping through the shadows like a ghost. And so, she could feed herself, she could survive.

Each robbery was a ritual, a macabre dance between her and her victim. She watched her prey, studied their movements, and then, with a whisper of power, she wove her illusion. The world the victim perceived distorted, and in that moment of confusion, Esmeralda acted. She was fast, silent, efficient.

And yet, despite the coldness with which she carried out her robberies, a glimmer of compassion sometimes crept into her heart. As she looked at her victims, she saw her own desperation, her own struggle to survive. But the world was cruel, and she had learned to toughen up. There was no room for weakness on the streets.

—"Poor fool," he muttered, his fingers caressing the thick wad of bills.

The surprise had taken her breath away. She had stolen countless wallets in her life, but she had never found one like this. An unexpected treasure lying hidden among the worn leather.

As she counted the notes, a smile of disbelief spread across her face. One hundred, two hundred, three hundred... Three thousand liens! A fortune that could change her life completely. Who was this child? What wealthy family did he come from? Questions swirled through her mind as she was overcome with a feeling of euphoria.

With the loot secured, Esmeralda plunged into a spiral of waste.

The market streets became her playground. She ate her fill, bought new, bright, colorful clothes that contrasted sharply with her usual rags. For the first time in a long time, she felt alive, powerful.

As night fell, she returned to her humble abode, a dark and forgotten corner in the slums of the kingdom of Vale. A place where hope was a luxury few could afford. There, surrounded by shadows, she gazed at her reflection in a pool of dirty water. She was no longer the same girl who had wandered the streets, hungry and helpless. She was a young woman who is still surprised that she had lived this long.

The slums of Vale were a labyrinth of narrow alleys and ramshackle houses, a place where the law was barely enforced.

It was the dumping ground of society, a place where the marginalized and the forgotten found refuge. The inhabitants of this place were a heterogeneous mix of humans, fauns, united by their poverty and desperation.

The kingdom of Vale, with its other districts, shopping malls, paved streets, five-star restaurants, stood as a symbol of everything they would never have. And yet, the rulers seemed indifferent to the suffering of their weakest subjects.

—"Why invest in the slums when there were so many other more important places to attend to?" The question echoed in her mind, a silent accusation against the kingdom's indifference. And yet, she had found in this marginal place a refuge, a space where she could be whoever she wanted to be.

The rents were low, almost ridiculous compared to the exorbitant prices downtown. No one asked questions about her past, about her family. They only cared about money, and she had it. It was a convenient deal, a tacit truce between her and society.

But the calm was deceptive. A shadow had fallen over her newfound happiness. She felt it in her bones, in her skin. Someone was following her. It wasn't a hunch, it was a certainty as solid as stone.

And then she saw him. A tall, burly man with a cold, calculating gaze. She recognized him instantly. He was one of the thugs working for the local crime lord.

Surprise turned to resignation. It had all been too good to be true. Life in the slums was like that, a constant struggle for survival.

Without hesitation, he ran. The narrow, winding streets of the slums became his battlefield. He knew every corner, every dead end, every shortcut. He was like a hare fleeing from hunting dogs.

He turned a corner and there he was, another thug, blocking his way. He jumped over a fence, landing in a dark, damp alley. But there another one was waiting for him. She dodged them with surprising agility, mocking his clumsy attempts to capture her.

—"Idiots! Do you really think you can catch me?" he sneered, his voice echoing through the maze of alleys. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins, fueling his confidence. He knew these alleys like the back of his hand, every shadow, every corner a potential refuge. He'd spent countless nights dodging the law, the thugs, anyone who dared cross his path.

Blind trust is a double-edged sword, however. In her arrogance, she had underestimated her pursuers. With every alley she turned, with every leap she made, she was leading them straight into the trap they had laid for her.

It was like a butterfly fluttering around a flame, ever closer to its own destruction.

As she turned a corner, she encountered a scene that chilled her blood. A group of men, more numerous and better organized than she had imagined, was waiting for her at the end of the alley. It was an ambush, a carefully woven net to trap her. She tried to back away, but it was too late. A wall of bodies stood in her way, cutting off any chance of escape.
They had cornered her like a rat.

Anger and frustration filled her. She had been naive, trusting. And now, the consequences of her arrogance were looming over her.

-{}-

The darkness slowly faded, revealing a narrow, claustrophobic space.

Esmeralda blinked, trying to adjust to the sudden light from the spotlight hanging from the ceiling. Her wrists burned, held in place by rough ropes. A lump in her mouth prevented her from screaming.

With a superhuman effort, she managed to raise her head and look around. A rickety table, covered with a stained tablecloth, occupied the centre of the room. Behind it, sitting on a wooden chair, was a man. His face, hidden in the darkness, was a mask of indifference.

—"Please take that thing out of our guest's mouth," the man said in a soft, deceptively gentle voice.

A burly man, who had until then remained in the shadows, approached her and untied the rope that bound her mouth. The cool air burned her lungs as she inhaled deeply.

—"Who the fuck are you? What do you want from me?" ,Esmeralda snapped, her voice hoarse and full of defiance. But behind the brave facade, a shiver of fear ran through her body. She knew perfectly well who this man was and why she had been captured. His actions had finally caught up with her.

The man smiled, a cold, calculating smile that didn't reach his eyes. —"I don't like it very much when a pretty young lady has such vulgar vocabulary," he said, his voice unctuous as honey. He rose from his chair and approached her, his eyes scanning her with shameless lust.

—"A very pretty young lady indeed," he continued, caressing her cheek with his fingertips.— "It's incredible that such a beautiful flower could be born in this place of death and desolation... but it seems that the attitude of this place has contaminated you."

Esmeralda glared at him. The audacity of this man infuriated her. How dare he touch her like that? With a swift movement, he released her, and she staggered back.

—"But I'm not here to flatter your beauty," the man said, his voice hardening.

With a sudden movement, he grabbed her hair, pulling her hard until her head was level with his face. —"There have been numerous robberies in a certain place that belongs to me."

Esmeralda felt her scalp tighten under his fingers. Anger blinded her, but she also felt a terrible fear. This man was more dangerous than she had imagined. With a violent yank, he released her, sending her crashing to the ground. The wooden chair shattered under the impact of his body.

The physical pain was intense, but the emotional pain was even greater. She had been humiliated, treated like an object. And worst of all, she knew there was no escape.

—"I started investigating," the man continued, his voice cold and calculating. —"For a moment I thought one of my men was robbing me. So I had to cut off a few heads, and I'm speaking literally."

A new wave of terror washed over Esmeralda. This man was a monster, capable of any atrocity. Without warning, he kicked her in the stomach with brutal force, sending her crashing against the cold, damp wall.

The air escaped from her lungs in a stifled moan. Her eyes filled with tears, not only from physical pain, but also from despair.

—"But what a surprise I got when I found out that the one responsible for robbing me was you, a little vermin," the man mocked, his laughter echoing in the room like a macabre echo. He looked at her with contempt, as if she were an insignificant insect.

— "I'm not going to ask you to give back everything you stole from me, frankly maybe you already sold it, maybe you gave it away, maybe you traded it. So getting all that back is frankly a waste of time. But at least I'll console myself by profiting from you, hahaha, many people would love to have someone so beautiful to do what they want with."

The man's words rang through Esmeralda's mind like a deathblow. She knew what he meant. Human trafficking was a cruel reality in the slums, a dark shadow that loomed over the streets. She had seen many girls like her dragged into that world, subjected to the will of ruthless men. And now, it was her turn. A shiver of terror ran through her from head to toe. How had it come to this? How had she gone from being a starving child to a commodity?

—"No, please," Esmeralda pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper. The man's words rang in her ears like a death sentence. She had seen the horror in the eyes of other girls, the desperation and resignation. She didn't want that fate for herself.

—"Are you trying to beg? No, it's useless to me, you will pay with your body," the man spat out the words like venom. He turned to one of his henchmen, a burly, faceless man, and ordered,—" Take her away and..."

But before the henchman could get close, a flash of light illuminated the room. A small object, which looked like an ordinary coin, had embedded itself in the man's chest. The object emitted a deep red glow before exploding with surprising force, throwing the henchman against the wall. He fell to the floor motionless, a sack of limp flesh.

At that very moment, small metallic spheres began to roll across the floor, spreading black smoke that quickly spread throughout the room.

Visibility dropped to almost zero, and a foul smell of gunpowder filled the air.

—"What the fuck!" the gang leader screamed, his voice full of panic. He couldn't see anything, it was pitch black.

—"What the hell is going on! Who did this?" His voice was lost in the confusion and chaos.

Esmeralda, blinded by the smoke, crawled across the cold, damp floor. Her hands stumbled over something solid: a shoe. She looked up, squinting to try to see through the mist. And then she saw it: one of the henchmen, suspended in the air, as if an invisible force had lifted him up. A second later, a piercing scream echoed through the room and the man's body crashed against the wall, disappearing into the darkness.

—"Don't just stand there! Attack!" the gang leader ordered, his voice shaking with fear.

—"Where to, sir?" one of the henchmen asked, his voice uncertain.

—"What does it matter? Just find him! Find the person responsible for this!" the leader shouted, his anger and fear mixing in an explosive cocktail.

Gunshots erupted in the room, like fireworks on a dark night. Bullets whistled through the air, hitting the walls and ceiling. Screams of pain and terror intertwined with the sound of the gunshots.

Esmeralda shuddered, clutching the ground with all her might. She couldn't see anything, but she could feel the violence around her.

—"No, please! No!" a panicked voice begged. A horrible crack broke the silence, like the sound of a bone breaking.

Esmeralda closed her eyes tightly, imagining the scene: a man being tortured, begging for his life. A shiver ran through her body.

Esmeralda closed her eyes tightly, trying to isolate herself from the chaos that surrounded her. A shiver ran through her body, and she curled up under the table, seeking refuge in the darkness.

The cold wood brushed against his skin as he imagined the scenes of violence unfolding around him.
The battle came to an end as quickly as it had begun.

The shooting stopped, and the only sound left was the labored breathing and the groans of pain from the wounded. The smoke slowly began to clear, revealing a scene of chaos and destruction.

The bodies of the henchmen lay scattered on the ground, like broken puppets.

The gang leader walked to the window, watching the outcome of the battle in disbelief.

—"What the hell?" he muttered, his voice hoarse and filled with wonder. In the blink of an eye, his army had been defeated. And there, in the middle of the room, was the cause of their defeat: a young, seemingly insignificant man, dressed in shabby clothes.

The young man had blue eyes as piercing as steel and hair as black as a raven's wing. His face, though marked by youth, radiated a surprising calm.

The scene was so absurd that the gang leader couldn't help but laugh.— "jajaahaha!" he exclaimed, his laughter echoing in the empty room.— "I can't believe it! All my men have been defeated by a child!" His laughter turned into a growl of anger.

—"So I have a young aspiring hero, huh? Do you know this girl? Is she something of yours? Is she your girlfriend? By the way... Where did she go?"

The young man did not answer, keeping his gaze fixed on the gang leader. His silence was more eloquent than any words.

—"You're not much of a talker, are you?" the man sighed, his voice hoarse and menacing. —"So much for not attracting attention. Now I have to kill a fucking kid. Well, there's always a first time. My name is William, nice to meet you, lad. And goodbye."

With a quick and precise movement, William lunged at the young man. His fists, hardened by years of street fighting, were heading towards the boy's face. But to William's surprise, the young man dodged the blow with surprising agility.

He stepped to the side, placing his feet in a firm stance, ready to counterattack.

William smiled, amused by the boy's boldness. —"I like your spirit," he said, as he assumed a fighting stance. His eyes glittered with a fighting lust that made anyone shudder.

The battle began. Fists clashed in a deadly dance. William was strong and experienced, but the young man was fast and agile. His blows were precise and accurate, connecting with William's body again and again.

The gang leader grunted in pain, but he didn't give up. His anger drove him to keep fighting.

William threw a powerful roundhouse kick, but the young man blocked it with his forearm. Seizing the opportunity, the young man counterattacked with a quick combination of punches, landing an uppercut that sent William reeling back. The gang leader staggered backwards, crashing into a wall.

However, William did not stand still. He quickly recovered and launched himself into the attack again. His blows were wilder now, filled with desperation. But the young man dodged them with ease, moving like a shadow.

With a swift movement, the young man grabbed William's arm and twisted it hard, as if it were a simple stick. The gang leader let out a scream of pain that echoed through the room, a guttural, animalistic sound. He fell to the ground, writhing like a crushed worm.

But William was an experienced fighter. With a ferocity that surprised the young man, he leapt up and attacked again. His fists moved like shadows, searching for a gap in the boy's defense.

The boy blocked, deflected and dodged each attack with surprising agility. It was as if he were dancing with death, his movements fluid and elegant.

However, a direct blow to the stomach made him gasp and take a step back. He was short of breath, but his determination did not waver.

Taking advantage of his opponent's momentary distraction, the young man slithered behind William like a snake. With a quick and precise movement, he stomped hard on the man's Achilles heel, knocking him off balance. Before William could react, the young man climbed onto his back and drove his knees into the gang leader's neck. With a last-ditch effort, he knocked him to the ground with a heavy blow.

William struggled to his feet, anger burning in his eyes. His body ached, but his fighting spirit remained intact.

He attacked the young man with renewed fury, but the boy had changed his fighting style. He was no longer the agile and elusive boxer of before. Now, his movements were more abrupt and powerful, like those of a wild animal.

He deflected a fist from William and, with astonishing speed, landed a powerful palm on the man's stomach. The air was forced out of William's lungs in a muffled groan.

Before he could recover, the young man dodged another blow and lunged forward, landing a precise elbow into William's ribs.

The gang leader clutched his ribs, his face contorted in pain. The young man struck with brutal force, each blow seeming to extract a part of his soul.

A drop of scarlet blood trickled down the corner of William's lips. He had never felt such intense pain before. He had been hurt more than he cared to admit, but his pride prevented him from showing weakness.

— "Those punches of yours..." the boy began to speak, his voice soft and hoarse like a crow's croak, he was faking his voice. —"Your hands are prosthetics, aren't they?"

William frowned, puzzled by the young man's remark. "What does that have to do with it?" he asked disdainfully.

—"Nothing, really," the boy replied with an enigmatic smile. —"But it means a weakness."

Without warning, the young man pulled out a gun and pointed it directly at William's heart. The gang leader's eyes widened in terror.

At that instant, a burst of gunfire echoed through the room. Two small anchors, bright as shooting stars, embedded themselves in William's metal prostheses.

—"!ahhhhh ahhh!".

A heart-rending scream escaped the man's lips. A powerful and brutal electric current ran through his metallic body, paralyzing him completely. It was as if thousands of needles were piercing his nerves.

William writhed in pain, his body convulsing violently.

—"Metal is an excellent conductor of electricity," the young man explained calmly, as he watched his enemy's agony. —"Although the human body is not designed to withstand such discharges, even with Aura."

William screamed again and again, a guttural wail that echoed through the room like distant thunder. His body contorted spasmodically, shaken by the brutal electric shock.

The aura that protected him, that invisible barrier that had made him invincible, vanished like fog before the sun, revealing his fragility.

—"Ahhhhhhhhhh!" he roared, his voice hoarse and broken.
The young man, impassive, watched the agony of his enemy.

— "Feel a little of the pain you've caused all your life," he said in a cold, calculating voice. —"And believe me, you haven't paid for anything you've done yet. You will remember this day, William, you will remember this humiliation. You will feel ashamed of yourself, and I will transform that shame into fear, a fear that will haunt you even in your darkest dreams."

William writhed on the ground, his body convulsing violently. Electricity coursed through his veins like lightning, burning him from within. His eyes, once filled with arrogance and cruelty, now expressed deep, unimaginable terror.

—"Ahhhhhhhhhh!" he screamed again, but this time his voice was barely a whisper.
Little by little, the convulsions ceased and William lay limp on the ground, his body shaking like a leaf in the wind. The electricity had done its work.

The gang leader, the man who had sown terror in the neighborhood, had been reduced to an empty shell.

He lay stretched out on the ground, a pathetic sight of a once powerful man.

Whitley looked at William's lifeless body with a mixture of contempt and satisfaction. His eyes, cold and calculating, rested on the contorted face of the defeated man.

—"Consider yourself lucky I didn't make you suffer more ," he murmured in a soft but venomous voice.

Whitley then turned his gaze to the table where Esmeralda had hidden.

The young woman felt a chill run down her spine. Her heart was pounding in her chest, like a bird about to fly away.

If one boy could defeat all those men, what chance did she have? She curled up further under the table, wishing she could become invisible.

The young man's figure slowly approached the table, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the room like the beat of an ominous heart. Esmeralda held her breath, her chest rising and falling with each frantic beat. She expected the worst, preparing for whatever might come.

Suddenly, the blanket covering the table was torn away with a jerk, revealing her pale, frightened face to the moonlight streaming through the window.

Esmeralda stepped back, crashing into the cold stone wall. Her eyes, wide and filled with terror, filled with tears.

However, the look of fury and hatred that had painted Whitley's face vanished in an instant, as if a flame had been extinguished. In its place, a soft, tender smile blossomed, and his eyes, once filled with anger, now shone with a kind, comforting light.

—"Good evening, Miss," he said in a soft, melodious voice, his tone completely changed. —"Sorry to scare you, but you took something that belongs to me, and believe me, I will make you pay for all the mishaps you have caused me today."

-{}-

Hello! First of all, I want to express my sincere thanks for taking the time to dive into the pages of this chapter.

While this story is a fanfic of the RWBY series, it won't be 100 % faithful to the original canon, so there will be some inconsistencies. I hope this won't be a bother to fans.

To clarify, Whitley is only a year younger than Weiss, or just a few months younger .

It's taken me a long time to update, I have no excuse, I'm just lazy .

Little by little Wittley's path is taking shape and will he find new allies? Who knows?

To answer a question, no, Clover will still make men just like the original Canon.

In fact, I won't change the gender of any of the characters, just some details in their lives .

Yes, I know that in that chapter Whitley looks a little cruel, but you know, Batman doesn't kill, but he does leave you with wounds for life, hahaha

I hope this is well received.

Follow me on Wattpad, I'm like "user35719154".