Infirmary
The gentle beeping of a heart monitor pulsed through the infirmary, a rhythmic sound that blended with the sterile scent of antiseptics. The air was crisp and cool, the kind that sent a slight shiver through Dennis' skin as he slowly began to stir. His body felt stiff, his muscles aching like they had been overworked and left to rot. His fingers twitched against the sheets before his eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim lighting.
Instinctively, he sat up too quickly, a sharp, searing pain slicing through his torso. He winced, hissing through gritted teeth as his hand shot to the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest. A deep sigh left him as he steadied himself. Then, a gentle weight on his thigh drew his attention.
Thorn's head, her soft blonde hair spilling over his lap, rose and fell with her steady breathing. A warmth spread through his chest, different from the pain, something softer, more grounding. He smiled slightly and reached out, running his fingers gently through her hair. She stirred, shifting slightly, before slowly lifting her head, blinking sleepily at him.
"You're awake," she murmured, relief washing over her expression.
Dennis gave her a small smile, the corner of his mouth tugging up despite the dull ache in his ribs. "Yeah."
Thorn wasted no time, launching forward and wrapping him in a tight hug, mindful of his injuries but refusing to hold back her emotions. "Come on, hug me back, you big oaf," she muttered against his shoulder.
He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound, and slowly brought his arms around her, holding her close.
"I was worried about you," she admitted, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. "Please don't accept any more missions like this."
Dennis exhaled slowly, his grip on her tightening slightly before relaxing. "I think I need a break anyway," he admitted, his voice laced with exhaustion.
Thorn smiled softly, stroking his cheek with the back of her fingers. "Well, I have classes tomorrow, so I should go. I just wanted to check on you."
She stood, flashing him one last smile before walking out. Dennis watched her retreating form before sighing and leaning back against the pillows. His mind was still a fog of exhaustion, but the mission lingered at the forefront of his thoughts.
Adam's sword—there was something unnatural about it. Every time Dennis struck, it glowed, storing his energy until the moment Adam unleashed it all in a single, devastating blow. That final slash, the one that tore through him, had been the culmination of all his attacks.
His fingers clenched into a tight fist. How was he supposed to counter something like that? How could he fight an opponent who turned his own strength against him? Frustration bubbled beneath his exhaustion, but he forced himself to push it down. Right now, there was nothing he could do. His body was broken, his mind clouded. He needed rest.
The next morning, Dennis woke to a sharp knock on the door.
Ryan, Beacon's primary medical officer, entered with a clipboard in hand. "Morning, Dennis," he greeted, glancing at the vitals on the monitor before looking at him directly. "You've made remarkable progress, but let's go over the details of your injuries."
Dennis nodded, shifting slightly to sit up straighter.
"When you were brought in, you had three broken ribs, a severe laceration from your shoulder to your hip, a broken ankle, and a concussion," Ryan listed off, flipping a page on his clipboard. "You were unresponsive for a week straight, but you showed brain activity, so we were hopeful. Luckily, your aura helped accelerate the healing process, and now, you're officially discharged."
Dennis let out a slow breath, relieved but unsurprised. His body still ached, but the worst had passed.
"One more thing," Ryan added, his expression turning serious. "We found traces of drugs in your system. If you start to develop cravings, mood swings, anything abnormal, you need to let us know immediately."
Dennis stiffened slightly, memories of Adam's twisted experiment flickering in his mind. He swallowed hard and gave a curt nod.
Ryan studied him for a moment before sighing. "Alright, you're free to go. Take it easy."
As Ryan left, Dennis swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. A fresh set of clothes—sweatpants, a tank top, and a hoodie—sat on a nearby chair alongside a pair of slippers. He dressed quickly, the soft fabric feeling almost foreign after so long in medical robes.
Stepping out of the infirmary, he was met with the vibrant energy of the Vytal Festival in full swing. The cheers of the crowd echoed through the air, bright banners and flags decorating the arena. The atmosphere was electric, filled with laughter and excitement.
He made his way into the stands, scanning the scene until his eyes landed on the ongoing match. His body tensed.
Yang was in the middle of the arena, her Ember Celica smoking from a recent shot. Mercury Black lay on the ground, his legs sprawled out unnaturally. A stretcher was being rushed onto the field, but the scene wasn't adding up.
The moment Yang fired, something felt… off.
Then the name hit him. Mercury Black.
Why did that name sound so familiar?
A sudden wave of unease crept up his spine. He racked his brain, searching for the connection, but the moment was fleeting. Then, chaos erupted in the stadium as the match was called off.
The crowd's excitement turned into uncertainty, then panic. Security flooded the field, officials swarming around Yang as Mercury was carried off. Dennis' brows furrowed as he watched. Something wasn't right. He could feel it.
And he needed to figure out what.
Colosseum
The clash between Pyrrha and Penny rages on, each movement a symphony of skill and precision. Pyrrha presses forward, her strikes landing just a little more frequently, tilting the fight in her favour. The crowd roars with each exchange, but then—something changes.
Pyrrha's eyes flicker, her gaze glazing over as Penny launches three of her floating swords toward her. But to Pyrrha, it isn't just three. Something—some unseen force distorts her perception. Instead of a trio of blades, she sees a hundred, a deadly storm of steel hurtling toward her. Panic surges through her, and instinct takes over. Her semblance flares to life—too much, far too much.
A shockwave erupts from her, a massive, magnetic force slamming into Penny like a hurricane. The artificial girl is ripped from the ground, her limbs torn apart by the sheer magnitude of the pull. She crashes into the far end of the arena, pieces of metal clattering to the floor. Silence falls. Then—gasps. Horrified whispers ripple through the audience.
Pyrrha stares at the wreckage of her opponent, her breath shallow, eyes wide with horror. She hadn't meant to—she couldn't have—
The screens above the arena flicker. A symbol appears: a single, black pawn. And then, a voice.
"This is what we teach the defenders of humanity," Cinder's voice drips with mockery. "How to mutilate their opponents. Your so-called 'Invincible Girl' can't even control her own strength. How do you expect them to save you if their semblances are so wildly out of control?"
Dennis's fists clench. He knows exactly what she's doing—spinning fear, twisting perception, turning the people against those meant to protect them.
Then—chaos.
Explosions rip through the arena, deafening booms followed by plumes of smoke and fire. The stands tremble as sections of the walls collapse, and from the dust and rubble, the White Fang emerge, their weapons drawn, their intentions clear. Panic surges through the audience, screams filling the air as the masked extremists open fire, cutting down civilians without mercy.
Dennis doesn't hesitate.
He launches into the fray, intercepting a White Fang soldier mid-charge. His fist slams into the man's gut with bone-crushing force, forcing the wind from his lungs. Before the enemy can react, Dennis seizes his baton and pistol, turning the firearm back on its owner. A squeeze of the trigger—three shots, precise and lethal. The body crumples.
The White Fang notice him now.
A swordsman rushes him, blade flashing. Dennis parries the strike with his stolen baton, redirecting the force before driving his elbow into the attacker's jaw. Another enemy lunges—a massive greatsword whistling toward him in a deadly arc. He ducks just in time, rolling beneath the swing before hurling his baton at the wielder. The metal rod strikes home, staggering them long enough for Dennis to pivot back to his first opponent. A brutal series of kicks sends the man sprawling.
No time to breathe.
The greatsword wielder recovers, raising his weapon for another attack. Dennis charges, aura coating his hands as he catches the blade mid-swing. With a forceful stomp, he snaps the steel in two, the jagged edge now a weapon in his grasp. Without hesitation, he turns the broken blade toward its former owner and drives it into their throat. Blood sprays as the body drops.
He senses movement behind him—another attack. He leaps away just as a sword carves through the space he once occupied. As he lands, his eyes scan the battlefield.
There are too many.
More White Fang reinforcements flood the arena, their numbers overwhelming. For a fleeting moment, a thought creeps in—there will be no sparing them. He can't afford to.
And yet… a part of him enjoys this.
He exhales sharply, pushing the thought away, and taps his scroll. His rocket locker responds, launching toward him from the other side of the stadium. But until it arrives, he has to hold his ground.
Dashing back into the fray, Dennis catches an enemy's wrist mid-swing, twisting it with a sickening snap before throwing them over his shoulder. Another comes at him—he rips a knife from their belt, slitting their throat before flinging the blade into the eye of the next attacker. A dust grenade. He grabs it, pulls the pin, and hurls it into the cluster of enemies before vaulting backward. A concussive blast erupts, sending bodies flying.
A fist swings toward him. He catches it, breaking the offending limb with brutal efficiency before using the momentum to hurl the attacker into another. Another sword slashes toward him—he raises his aura-coated hand, blocking the strike before snapping the blade like brittle glass. The shattered remains find a new home in its wielder's chest.
His rocket locker finally arrives, slamming into the ground beside him.
Dennis exhales, scanning the battlefield. Bodies surround him—some groaning in pain, others deathly still. The White Fang presence is thinning, but the damage is already done.
Without hesitation, he reaches for his locker, replacing his torn, blood-streaked clothes with his combat gear. Vindicator hums to life in his grip.
There's still work to do.
He moves.
The Grimm are coming.
Vault
Pyrrha sits motionless in the transfer machine, her breath steady but her heart hammering. This was it. The moment that would define her. She casts a final glance at Amber's still form, her mind warring between duty and fear.
Ozpin meets her gaze, offering a small, reassuring smile—one that does little to calm the storm inside her.
The machine hums to life.
A golden glow pulses around them as the process begins, wisps of power flowing from Amber's body to Pyrrha's. It's working. She can feel it. Until—
Thwip.
An arrow rips through the air, embedding itself deep into Amber's chest. The machine sparks violently as Amber convulses, her power tearing free from her body. The glow turns wild, erratic—before it is consumed.
Cinder floats above them, her body wreathed in fire, her eyes burning with newfound strength. She exhales, and the air itself seems to ignite.
Pyrrha's breath catches.
They had failed.
Classroom
Adam Taurus stands in the ruined classroom, his crimson blade humming with deadly intent. With a single stroke, he bisects a desk, the wood splintering apart like it was nothing. His voice drips with scorn.
"Is this what you've become?" His eyes narrow as he searches. "A coward!" He kicks a chair aside, the metal screeching against the floor.
From her hiding place, Blake swallows hard. "Why are you doing this?"
Adam stills. Then, softly—almost lovingly—"We were supposed to change the world, my love." His voice is quiet, dangerous. His gaze sharpens. "I suppose we start with him."
A scream echoes as his blade plunges into a Beacon student.
"No!" Blake rushes forward, intercepting his next strike with Gambol Shroud. Steel clashes against steel in a bright spray of sparks.
Adam overpowers her with ease, his strength sending her reeling. Blake barely has time to recover before he closes the distance. He punches her square in the face, and she is launched across the room, crashing into the far wall.
He looms over her, his voice a promise of suffering.
"I will destroy everything you love until you have nothing left but me."
The sound of footsteps—Yang and Thorn.
Adam grins.
His blade flashes—
A burst of red.
Blake screams.
Beacon
Dennis moves like a ghost through the war-torn academy, cutting down White Fang soldiers with ruthless efficiency. Kage, Tempest, wire-knives—whatever tool he needs, he uses without hesitation. Bodies fall in his wake.
Then—he hears it.
A scream. A flash of red.
His head snaps toward the source, and his heart stops.
Thorn. Torn in two.
Yang. Down an arm.
For a single moment, the battlefield fades. There is no war, no chaos—only the unbearable weight of loss. Then—
"ADAM!"
His roar shakes the air.
The swordsman turns, tilting his head. A smirk plays on his lips as he gestures lazily to the remains of Dennis's friend.
"Oh, it's you. I'm guessing you liked the other blondie?"
Rage blinds him.
Dennis moves.
His kick slams into Adam's guard with bone-crushing force, sending him hurtling into a darkened room. Shadows swallow them both.
Dennis breathes in, cold fury settling over him.
"I know how your semblance works. You will not survive me, Taurus."
Adam snarls, blade ready. "Show yourself, coward!"
Dennis vanishes into the darkness. His voice slithers through the shadows.
"I did my research. You and Blake—partners, once. I'm guessing a bastard like you isn't used to rejection?"
Adam roars in fury, slashing wildly. His sword carves through empty air.
A cut blossoms across his side.
"Too slow."
Another slash—his leg.
"You merely adopted the darkness," Dennis taunts, his voice a whisper in Adam's ear before another strike lands. "I was born in it."
Adam stumbles. His aura flickers.
Dennis's fist drives into the back of his knee, sending him crashing down.
"You wasted your semblance on my friends. That was your mistake."
A gunshot.
Tempest's round slams into Adam's knee, his aura shattering. He screams, dropping to the floor, panting, desperate.
Dennis steps forward, looming over him.
"Do you know what happens to people who live in the dark for too long?" His voice is eerily calm. "They adapt to the darkness, but when exposed to light guess what happens?."
Flashbangs clatter to the ground.
Nine-bangers. Military grade.
Adam's breath hitches. No.
The world erupts into white light and sound.
The Faunus shrieks, his heightened senses betraying him, his mind drowning in sensory overload.
Dennis watches, his expression unreadable, before stepping forward with Kage in hand.
Now comes the real work.
Cuts. Precision, deliberate. Chest. Arms. Thighs. Never vital but agonizing.
By the time Dennis is done, Adam is a trembling wreck, unable to hold his sword, unable to even stand.
A single throwing knife lands at his feet.
An explosion follows.
The floor collapses beneath him, opening a pit.
Adam stares up at Dennis, dazed, broken. He swings his sword in a last, desperate act.
Dennis doesn't even flinch.
The wire from his knife snaps forward, wrapping around Adam's throat. One brutal kick sends him plummeting into the abyss.
Dennis watches him fall.
"You better pray to me. Because down there? I'm your god."
Then—detonation.
A hailstorm of knives, dust bombs, and explosives rain into the pit, burying Adam under a violent, burning landslide of rubble and debris.
It was done.
But Dennis doesn't stay to watch.
He runs.
Thorn is still alive.
Barely.
Dennis falls to his knees beside her, his hands trembling.
She smiles weakly, raising a shaking hand to his face.
"Don't cry," she murmurs. Her fingers trace his cheek. "This is the life I chose."
Her eyes are glistening, but her expression is at peace.
"Come closer, dummy."
He does. He leans in, tears slipping down his face as she presses a soft kiss against his lips.
"I'm happy I got to meet you," she whispers. "Though, I didn't expect to die this early into my Huntress career."
"Save your strength," Dennis pleads.
Her smile turns sad.
"Be real with me. We both know I'm not surviving this. I don't even know how I'm still talking."
Dennis's breath shudders. "I—"
"Your life is yours to live, Dennis. Don't waste it."
A final kiss. A final exhale.
Her body stills.
Dennis stares down at her, his mind refusing to accept what has just happened.
Then, for the first time, he screams.
Not in rage.
Not in triumph.
But in the unbearable, soul-crushing realization of what loss truly means.
A void opens inside his chest, deeper than grief, deeper than rage. It is emptiness—an abyss of suffering clawing at his soul, demanding to be filled.
Then, something stirs.
A strange energy brews within his gut, a sensation both alien and familiar. It coils, restless and primal, as if it had always been there, waiting for the moment he truly understood the cost of power. The cost of losing everything.
Dennis grabs hold of it.
His fingers tighten, his mind latches onto it like a drowning man grasping a lifeline, and he refuses to let go. The energy does not resist—it embraces him, seeping into his veins, molding itself to his very being.
The world shifts.
A low, guttural hum fills the air as the battlefield warps around him. The very laws of existence bend, reality seeming to fray at the edges. Flakes of ashen red and obsidian black begin to rise from the ground, twisting in unnatural currents around him like dying embers. The air grows heavy, crackling with an unseen force, and Dennis feels something brand itself into his soul—a name, an identity that is now his to wield.
A chant burns into his brain.
"Blood Ruin."
His aura ignites—but it is not light.
It is a storm of entropy—a violent, swirling maelstrom of crimson and shadow that pulses with raw devastation. The ground beneath him begins to crack and decay, stone turning to dust, metal corroding as if time itself has given up.
His hands shake, but not from grief anymore.
It is power.
For the first time, Dennis understands his purpose.
This is not about survival. This is not about justice. This is about ruin.
Everything that stands before him will fall.
Everything that dares to take from him will be erased.
And as he lifts his gaze, eyes now burning a deep, hellish crimson, he welcomes the carnage.
"You took from me.""Now, I take everything from you."
His vengeance begins.
Beacon
The ruined cityscape looms above, with shattered buildings and debris scattered across the ground like the remnants of a forgotten battle. The air is thick with the acrid scent of fire and the stench of decay, but amid the chaos, Ruby races upwards, her heart pounding against her chest. The weight of each step presses her harder, and the wind howls past her, but all she can think of is Pyrrha.
At the top of the broken building, Cinder stands with an eerie calm. Her eyes gleam with malicious satisfaction as she readies her arrow, nocking it with an unsettling grace. Ruby's breath catches in her throat as she reaches the top, only to see the arrow fly with an almost prophetic precision, straight into Pyrrha's heel.
A soft gasp escapes Ruby's lips, but the horror that follows is unimaginable. Pyrrha's body tenses, and in an instant, the arrow bursts in a violent surge of fire and energy. The force rips through her, burning from the inside out—her flesh searing, her aura splintering. Pyrrha's agonized scream echoes across the arena, but it is quickly silenced as her body is disintegrated, reduced to ash and dust.
Ruby's breath stops. Her hands tremble, her heart twists into a painful knot, and she watches in helpless horror as the last of Pyrrha's existence is consumed by fire and entropy. Time seems to stand still.
And then—Ruby's silver eyes flicker with a blinding glow.
A raw, primal scream rips from her throat, and the world shatters around her. The moment her eyes ignite, an overwhelming wave of pure energy pulses outward, blindingly white and unstoppable. Cinder's face twists in surprise, but before she can even react, the light engulfs her, searing through the air and obliterating her left arm, her body wracked with the excruciating pain of being caught in the intensity of Ruby's grief-fuelled power.
The Grimm in the city freeze in place, their grotesque forms turning to stone, as if the very fabric of existence is being torn apart by Ruby's uncontrolled, raw fury. The stone cracks, shatters, and they too are disintegrated, reduced to dust by Ruby's unstoppable wave. The destruction is so pure, so intense, that the city seems to scream in agony.
And in the aftermath of this chaos, Ruby falls.
Her body, once filled with the fervor of her rage, is now weightless in the sky. She tumbles down the broken tower, her limbs flailing, her mind consumed by grief, as the ground below rises up to meet her in a horrifying rush. Her doom is inevitable. There is no escape from this fall, no way to soften her impact—until, suddenly, the air shimmers.
A burst of energy halts Ruby's descent—Weiss appears, the familiar blue glow of her speed glyphs surrounding her. Time around Ruby seems to stretch, slow, as if the universe itself is reluctantly bending to save her. The time dilation effect slows her fall to a manageable pace, and speed glyphs create a soft landing, cushioning her body from the impending impact.
She lands gently, the shock of the fall still rattling her bones, but she is safe—for now.
Ruby lies on the ground, panting heavily, her silver eyes still glowing faintly, a reflection of the chaos that just unfolded. She can feel the echoes of her power, the remnants of her fury still rippling in the air, but it is no longer focused. The grief and rage are overwhelming, and in the silence that follows, Ruby crumbles inwardly.
Weiss kneels beside her, her own expression one of concern and disbelief as she helps Ruby sit up. Her voice is soft, almost apologetic as she speaks:
"Ruby... It's going to be okay."
But Ruby doesn't hear it. Her thoughts are consumed with the image of Pyrrha, the warmth of her smile, the light in her eyes, all reduced to nothing.
As the battle rages on in the distance, Ruby knows she has only just begun to feel the weight of this loss. Her silver eyes flicker one last time before tears fill them—silent, unstoppable, just like the power she's barely learned to control.
But there's no going back now.
Aftermath
The tent is heavy with silence, the students sitting in stunned disbelief as Glynda's voice reverberates through the air, trying to console them in the aftermath of such devastation. The weight of their losses presses down on every single one of them, a burden that feels almost too much to bear. The faces around Dennis are tired, broken, each person struggling to comprehend the scale of what they've just endured.
"We lost 148 students, 1700 civilians…" Glynda's words ring hollow to Dennis, drowning in the thoughts of his own grief and guilt. His fists clench, knuckles white, but his expression remains stoic. The faces of the fallen flash before his eyes—Thorn, Pyrrha, the people he had failed. His body trembles slightly as he tunes out the rest of her speech, the sound of her voice merging into a dull, muffled hum.
Then, just as Glynda tells them that Beacon is over, Dennis's scroll buzzes in his pocket.
He opens it without hesitation, his breath catching in his throat as the message fills the screen. "All charges against you have been dropped..." He reads the words again, disbelief mixing with something else—relief, freedom. No longer bound by the weight of his past decisions, he has been given a second chance. He's free. The thought should feel like a victory, but all Dennis can think about is how empty that freedom feels now. How much it costs.
He waits for Glynda to finish before he stands, moves to pack his things quickly, and exits the tent.
The bag on his shoulder feels heavier than it should as he throws a few belongings inside—some clothes, his weapons, anything he could need to get by. The black slacks, the black button-up, and his leather jacket are what he puts on. The chain with fangs hangs around his neck, a symbol of his past that, no matter what he does, will always be a part of him. A reminder. He pulls on his gloves but leaving the jacket unzipped, the weight of his choices sitting on his chest as he turns to leave.
But as he walks, he sees Blake near the exit, her back turned as if she's about to slip away unnoticed. The sight of her stirs something inside him.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" Dennis's voice is cold, almost detached, as he approaches her.
Blake tenses, her body stiffening at the tone of his voice, but she doesn't flinch. She turns slowly, facing him with a defiant expression.
"I could ask you the same," she responds, her voice steady, though Dennis can hear the hesitation in her words.
"I'm off to Atlas. You?" he answers, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Yang and your girlfriend got hurt because of me. I have to go." Blake's words cut through the air, guilt lacing every syllable.
Dennis's jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing into a glare. "That is the dumbest shit I've ever heard. Yang is still alive. Why would you leave her at her weakest point?"
Blake opens her mouth to respond, but Dennis cuts her off, his tone harsh. "Don't give me that bullshit. Don't run from her. You will regret it."
Blake hesitates, her shoulders slumping under the weight of her internal struggle. "I can't do that," she finally admits.
Dennis shakes his head in disbelief. "I guess it's the hard way." Without another word, he pulls out a flashbang and activates it.
The bright, searing flash fills the space, and Blake staggers, clutching her faunus ears in agony as the sharp, painful noise reverberates in her head. The moment her guard is down, Dennis steps forward, his fist slamming into her gut with the force of a battering ram. She stumbles back, gasping for breath, but before she can react, Dennis grabs her and drags her back toward the tents.
He doesn't stop to see if she's okay, doesn't pause to give her a moment to recover. She's not leaving. Not like this.
Once she's out of the way, Dennis exits the tent without another word, slipping into the shadows of the city. He moves with purpose, with the certainty of someone who has already made up his mind. He pulls out his fob, calling his car, and the sleek vehicle appears at the curb moments later.
Sliding into the driver's seat, he turns the key, the engine purring to life as he shifts the car into gear. The road to Atlas stretches out before him, an uncertain future ahead, but at least it's a future he gets to choose.
AN: For all thinking Dennis is a hypocrite, yes he is. He's only got vengeance on his mind right now which is why he deals with Blake so aggressively