Disclaimer: Don't own either Rwby or Type Moon. So enjoy or don't
Chapter 74: The Silent Blade
Mantle existed beneath an oppressive shadow of escalating crises, where each passing hour brought renewed waves of Grimm incursions, their assaults no longer random but seemingly orchestrated with calculated malevolence. The beleaguered city groaned beneath the weight of unceasing alarms, the acrid smoke of burning infrastructure staining the once-crisp air. Amid this chaos, the valiant efforts of Team RWBY, Team JNPR, and Shirou Emiya became both beacon and bulwark, though each mission exacted a price. Their multifaceted responsibilities—ranging from fortifying Mantle's vulnerable perimeter, safeguarding key construction on Amity Colosseum, and mediating the frayed nerves of a populace teetering on despair—demanded unrelenting endurance. Exhaustion became a constant companion, its toll visible in every fatigued glance and faltering step.
And yet, even in this crucible, fragile moments of reprieve persisted. Around shared tables in Atlas Academy's dining halls, levity flickered like a fragile flame. Ruby's insatiable curiosity brought warmth to tense conversations, Nora's infectious exuberance momentarily dispelled the suffocating weight of duty, and Ren's steadfast calm lent stability. Jaune's measured pragmatism and Ren's quiet wisdom knit the group into a coherent whole. Shirou, ever the stoic, lent silent reassurance, though Blake's perceptive gaze discerned the widening fissures in his composure. His wearied eyes and increasingly detached demeanor spoke of burdens far beyond battlefield fatigue.
One cold night, when the academy's corridors lay silent save for the distant echoes of alarm drills, Blake found him hunched over intelligence dossiers in the library. The room smelled of paper and ink, suffused with the quiet desperation of endless inquiry. "You are pushing yourself beyond reason," she observed softly, her words gentle yet unyielding.
He responded with a hollow smile. "Preparation is paramount. There's always another threat looming."
Her feline intuition, honed over years of subterfuge and vigilance, detected the fracture lines beneath his practiced façade. This was not mere strategic concern; it was dread personified.
As midnight hours stretched into dawn, Shirou immersed himself in a labyrinthine web of data: autopsy reports, eyewitness testimonies, and surveillance fragments. His quarters had transformed into an obsessive scholar's sanctum, the walls lined with maps punctuated by red threads tracing paths of death. Each file, each statistic, each coded message revealed a pattern too deliberate, too chilling in its efficiency: victims collapsing from internal cardiac rupture without external trauma; crime scenes scrubbed clean of forensic residue; no surveillance footage capturing more than fleeting shadows.
These were signatures etched into Shirou's memory from a darker chapter of his life. The chilling precision, the spectral presence—each pointed toward a specter he had once faced on the killing fields of Fuyuki: Hassan of the Cursed Arm. Yet what truly unsettled him was the inescapable conclusion that only one figure could have conjured such malevolence into this reality—Kirei Kotomine. The name alone conjured memories of betrayal and torment, a spider weaving insidious webs in worlds both magical and mundane.
The implications were staggering: not merely the presence of an assassin of superhuman prowess, but the calculated infiltration of Atlas by one whose manipulation of chaos was legendary. Kirei's presence presaged a cascading destabilization of Mantle's already tenuous equilibrium, a blade hidden in shadow that threatened to plunge into the heart of all they sought to protect.
Shirou knew he could not yet share these fears. Evidence remained circumstantial; alerting the others prematurely would undermine their unity and perhaps place them in peril. He resolved to bear the weight of this secret alone, even as the strain etched lines deeper into his face and robbed his nights of sleep.
Meanwhile, within the opulent confines of the Schnee estate, a political overture unfolded with all the subtle tension of a diplomatic chess match. Jacques Schnee, long reviled for arrogance and exploitation, extended an invitation that confounded expectation: a private meeting with Robyn Hill, Mantle's uncompromising advocate. Her arrival was measured and wary, every movement taut with suspicion as Klein welcomed her with impeccable grace.
Beneath vaulted ceilings and among artifacts of inherited privilege, Jacques awaited not with hauteur but with an unexpected humility. His once-imposing stature seemed diminished, eroded by scandals and regret. "Miss Hill," he began, his voice stripped of affectation, "thank you for granting me this audience. I am acutely aware that my time and influence are rapidly waning."
Robyn's eyes narrowed. "Spare me platitudes. Why am I here?"
Jacques exhaled slowly, the weight of culpability audible in his breath. "I seek to make restitution, however imperfect. I intend to publicly endorse your candidacy and pledge financial and logistical support to Mantle's reconstruction efforts."
She studied him with penetrating skepticism. "And your price?"
"Only this: a temporary armistice toward General Ironwood. Mantle's survival demands cohesion, not division."
Robyn crossed her arms. "If you truly want what's best for Mantle, why not drop out of the election entirely?"
Jacques's lips pressed into a thin line before he responded, his voice quieter yet weighted with unspoken tension. "Because I cannot—not at this time. I am being used as a pawn in a game far larger than just this election, and my movements are... constrained." He shook his head, glancing away. "I cannot speak on it further, but know that my support for Mantle is sincere, even if my hands are bound in ways I wish they weren't."
Her semblance activated in a subtle pulse, laying bare his sincerity—marbled, however, with desperation and a yearning for familial absolution.
"I will hold you to your word," she said at last, each syllable edged with steel.
Jacques bowed his head with genuine gravity. "I welcome that accountability."
They parted on a handshake more symbolic than binding, its fragility underscored by mutual wariness. As Robyn departed into Mantle's frozen night, hope and caution battled for primacy in her heart. Jacques remained alone in his study, gazing into the flames of the hearth, silently vowing that this would be his chance—not merely to redeem himself in public perception, but to reclaim the respect of those whose judgment mattered most.