Hey everyone.
Yeah—it's me. I'm back.

This story has been sitting with me for a long time. I've always loved the concept—RWBY and Devil May Cry crashing together in a storm of style, emotion, and trauma—but I never quite gave it the attention or care it deserved. Until now.

What you're reading is a complete reworking of Chapter 1, with everything I've learned as a writer poured into it. The tone's darker. The characters are sharper. The world feels lived in—and it should, because these characters have been living rent-free in my head this whole time.

This time, I'm not rushing anything. I'm here to tell the story properly—with depth, with tension, with pain and power and all the jagged edges that make these characters who they are. If you've stuck with me this far, thank you. If you're just jumping in, buckle up.

This is a story about grief, inheritance, and becoming something more than what you were made to be. It's personal. It's messy. It's loud.

And I'm finally ready to tell it.

– Reven

Chapter 1: Fall Into Hellfire

The cold bit into her skin more than the pain ever could.

Yang Xiao Long's boots crunched through the fractured marble of Beacon's ruined courtyard, her legs buckling with every uneven step. Smoke curled around her like a mourning veil, the pale light of dawn just starting to pierce the blood-colored sky above. Fire still licked at the skeletal remains of what had once been a grand hall, casting flickering shadows along collapsed stone pillars and shattered glass.

She didn't feel the heat. Or maybe she couldn't anymore.

Her right arm was gone. A clean break just above the elbow, the bandages she'd managed to wrap with her teeth and trembling hand already soaked through. Her aura had long since shattered. Her body dragged itself forward through willpower alone, fueled by something primal—something louder than pain. Something louder than fear.

Survival.

Clutched against her chest, Weiss Schnee stirred faintly—still unconscious. Yang's one good arm held her partner with a desperate tightness, shielding her from falling debris and biting winds alike. The once-pristine white of Weiss's dress was torn and stained red, ash tangled in her silver hair like snowfall in winter mud.

Yang didn't know how far they'd come. Just that they had to keep moving. That Weiss had to live.

She couldn't lose her too.

"C'mon… stay with me, Weiss…" she muttered hoarsely, voice cracking under the weight of everything unspoken. "Just a little farther…"

But her legs had different plans. The moment she tried to take another step, her knees gave out.

She collapsed hard onto the cracked tile, her body curling instinctively to shield Weiss from the impact. For a moment, she couldn't hear anything except her own ragged breathing—then the ringing returned. That cursed, high-pitched ringing that had started when Ruby…

Yang squeezed her eyes shut.

She didn't want to remember. The gore. The screams. The feeling of her aura fracturing like glass just before the blade came down. Ruby's expression—wide-eyed, disbelieving, betrayed—just before it all went red.

Her breath hitched.

"I couldn't save her," she whispered, more to the broken world than to herself. "I couldn't save any of them."

Her head slumped forward, forehead resting against Weiss's shoulder as tears dripped freely from her eyes and vanished into the pale fabric. The weight of Weiss's body—so warm, so real—was the only anchor keeping her from spiraling further into that void of grief.

A distant sound stirred her—one she didn't immediately register.

A hum. Low and rhythmic.

Her tired eyes flicked downward.

A faint light glowed beneath them—blue, otherworldly, and growing brighter with every pulse. The stone beneath their bodies had cracked into a strange circular pattern, lines etched with energy that hadn't been there seconds ago. It wasn't Dust. It wasn't Glyphs.

It was something else. Something wrong.

Yang's instincts screamed at her to move. But her body no longer had the strength.

Weiss shuddered suddenly in her grip, lips parting in a breathless moan, and the light pulsed with new intensity. Then, in a moment that felt like gravity had turned upside down, the world twisted.

Yang didn't have time to scream.

The blue glow exploded upward in a dome of light and shadow, and in an instant—

They were gone.

The van groaned in protest as it hit yet another pothole, its frame creaking like an old man's joints. The soft rattle of tools in the back and the persistent squeak of the suspension filled the silence between them. Outside, the dimming sun bathed Fortuna in golden haze, catching the salt spray off the nearby cliffs and making it shimmer like misted glass.

Inside, Nero slouched in the passenger seat, one boot resting on the dashboard, his head tipped back against the cracked headrest. He looked like hell—and smelled worse.

"Y'know," Nico muttered, a half-lit cigarette bobbing between her lips as she swerved to avoid another crater in the road, "most people don't chase demon-possessed dolls through collapsing apartment buildings for a living."

Nero cracked an eye open, raising a brow without lifting his head. "Most people also don't charge double for exorcisms on the third floor."

"That one's your fault," Nico huffed. "You're the one who threw it out the damn window."

"She bit me."

"Yeah, yeah, poor baby," she said, pulling the van into a lazy curve. "Want a juice box?"

He smirked despite himself.

Their banter drifted into a lull again. The sound of the tires crunching on gravel, the soft buzz of the overhead lights, the faint static from the old radio left on a dead channel—it all blended into a kind of ambient white noise. Nero let his eyes close again. He wasn't sleeping—he hadn't really slept in days—but this half-aware haze was the best he could manage lately.

Ever since Dante had disappeared—"retired," he called it, like ditching the whole damn world was a vacation—everything had landed square on Nero's shoulders. The jobs. The calls. The expectations.

And the weight.

He reached for the pendant hanging from the rearview mirror—an old token from Kyrie, worn smooth by habit—and flicked it with one finger. It swung idly, catching the light.

Nico eyed him from the corner of her vision. "You okay?" she asked, quieter now.

He didn't answer right away. His fingers dropped from the pendant.

"Yeah," he said finally, voice gravel-rough. "Just tired."

"Try exhausted," she muttered, stubbing out her cigarette in the portable ashtray and tossing it into the already overflowing cupholder. "We've been going nonstop for what, a month? Two? You're pushing too hard."

Nero gave a dry laugh. "What, you miss the slow days?"

"I miss the paying jobs. All we've gotten lately are sob stories and possessed junk. I nearly got my ass set on fire by a toaster last week."

"Did it have a name?"

"Don't you start with me," she warned, but her smile was genuine. The rare kind. The one she only used when she knew he was hurting more than he let on.

They rounded the last bend into Fortuna proper, the skyline limping toward them in the sunset: a handful of rusting rooftops, half-cracked neon, and the Devil May Cry Fortuna Branch nestled awkwardly in the heart of it all like a stubborn weed.

Nico flicked her turn signal out of habit—though no one was around to see it—and coasted toward the orphanage-garage combo they called home. The 'Devil May Cry' sign above the garage door flickered on as they approached, buzzing blue like a tired heartbeat.

As the van bumped up the final incline, Nero's phone rang.

Nico groaned. "Don't you dare answer that."

He looked at her. Then at the phone. Then back at her. "Could be important."

"It always is, dumbass."

But he was already answering. "Devil May Cry. Nero speaking."

A pause.

Nico watched his expression shift—from tired to confused, then tight with concern.

"…Kyrie?" His voice dropped an octave. "What's wrong?"

Muffled sounds on the other end. Children's voices. The word "awake."

Nico sat up straighter. "Is she okay?"

Nero didn't answer her. "We're on our way. Stay inside. Don't touch anything."

He hung up and looked at Nico, all humor drained from his face.

"We've got a situation."

Kyrie had seen many strange things since meeting Nero.

Demons. Cursed objects. Even a talking parasitic mask once, though Nico insisted that one had just been a bad trip. But this—this felt different. This felt wrong.

The concrete floor of the garage was scorched, blackened in a tight circular pattern. Cracks spiderwebbed from a shallow crater where the portal had opened. The roof above had a ragged hole blasted clean through it, letting the dying sunlight pour in like judgment from the heavens.

And at the center of the chaos—two girls. Barely older than some of her teens.

One was unconscious, bandaged in makeshift gauze stained with blood, her golden hair matted and tangled like burnt silk. The other… the other had been awake when Kyrie arrived. Pale. Rigid. Terrified.

Kyrie knelt in front of the white-haired girl now—Weiss, she'd called herself—keeping her hands where the girl could see them. No sudden movements. No raised voice. Just calm, soft tones, like soothing a frightened animal.

"Weiss," Kyrie said gently, "you're safe. No one here wants to hurt you."

Weiss didn't answer. Her back was pressed to the far garage wall, shoulders trembling, her knuckles white around the wrench she held like a blade. In her other arm, she cradled the blonde girl close—protective, desperate.

There was something… refined about her, even in this state. The way she held herself. The way her voice had cracked when she first spoke—measured, composed, even in panic. But beneath that was something brittle. Like porcelain—beautiful, but fragile.

"She needs medical attention," Kyrie continued, nodding toward the girl in her arms. "And you do too. Please… let me help."

Weiss's eyes flicked to her friend. She hesitated. Her grip on the wrench loosened—slightly.

Kyrie took a slow breath. "My name is Kyrie. This is my home. I look after the children here, and… sometimes, people like you. You're not the first to crash through that roof, believe it or not."

That earned a blink. A flicker of disbelief.

Kyrie offered a small smile.

"See? Not as weird as it looks."

That was when the door slammed open behind her.

She turned—just in time to see Nico stomp inside, boots loud as gunshots on concrete.

"What the hell happened to my garage?!"

Kyrie flinched.

Nico stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Weiss. "Oh. Shit."

Weiss surged upright, wrench raised. Kyrie immediately held out a hand.

"Hey—hey, it's okay! She's with me!"

Weiss's breath came shallow and quick, eyes wide, darting between them like a cornered animal. She didn't lower the wrench.

"Kyrie?" Nero's voice came next—sharper, more controlled. He stepped inside, gaze immediately snapping to Weiss and Yang. Then to the scorched floor. Then back.

His hand went to Blue Rose.

"Don't," Kyrie said firmly, eyes still on Weiss. "She's scared."

Nero hesitated. He didn't lower the weapon—but he didn't draw, either.

Kyrie turned back, placing herself subtly between them and Weiss. "They're hurt. Exhausted. Probably disoriented."

Weiss swallowed, clearly debating her next move. Her eyes landed on Kyrie again.

"She… she's not breathing properly," she said, voice finally audible—barely above a whisper.

Kyrie moved slow, deliberate, and reached for her first-aid kit on the workbench. "Let me see."

There was a long pause. Then—finally—Weiss gave a trembling nod and loosened her grip.

Kyrie took it as permission. She moved to Yang's side, examining the girl's bandages. Old. Sloppy. Emergency work done under pressure. Weiss had done what she could, but this wasn't sustainable. The girl was pale, sweating, lips tinged blue. Her pulse was weak—but present.

"She's hanging on," Kyrie said softly. "But she needs rest, warmth, and fluids. So do you."

Weiss finally lowered the wrench to the floor with a metallic clatter. Her hand didn't stop shaking.

Kyrie met her eyes. "Come inside. Please."

A long silence stretched between them. Then, Weiss nodded.

Kyrie turned to Nero and Nico, her voice as sharp as a blade. "Get the kids back to their rooms. And find extra blankets. I'll handle the rest."

Nero looked like he wanted to argue—but wisely didn't.

Kyrie turned back to Weiss, reaching out with a gentle hand. Weiss hesitated—but this time, she didn't flinch away.

Kyrie smiled, warm and sure.

"It's okay. You're safe now."

The rain had started again, soft and sparse, tapping against the windows in irregular rhythm. Thunder rolled somewhere far off—nothing threatening, just a low, tired growl, as if the sky itself was too exhausted to follow through with a storm.

The office above the garage was small, but lived-in. Cramped bookshelves lined the walls—half of them stuffed with demonology manuals, the other half with bills. A tired couch sagged beneath Nico's weight as she spun a screwdriver between her fingers. Nero stood by the window, arms crossed, jacket still damp from helping carry Yang inside.

Kyrie sat at the desk, rubbing the heel of her palm against her brow. A cooling mug of tea sat untouched in front of her.

"She's stable," Kyrie said, finally breaking the silence. "Yang, I mean. I got an IV running and redressed the worst of the wounds. Honestly, I don't know how she made it this far with that kind of damage."

"She didn't," Nero said, not looking away from the window. "Weiss dragged her this far."

Nico scoffed from the couch. "Hell of a name. Ice Queen or somethin'?"

"She was frozen when we found her," Kyrie said softly. "Not literally, but… inside. Like something cracked her open and everything just froze up."

"I know that look," Nero muttered, finally turning from the window. "She's been through hell."

"Well she brought it with her," Nico grumbled, eyes flicking toward the floor beneath them. "Ripped a damn hole through the ceiling. You see that scorch pattern? That wasn't Gunpowder or explosives. That was… something else."

Kyrie didn't answer. Instead, she opened the small drawer on her desk and pulled out a folded paper towel. Inside it was a piece of stone—slate-gray with a glowing blue vein running through it like a lightning scar.

"I found this embedded in the garage floor," she said, holding it up for the others to see.

Nero frowned, taking it in his palm. The blue glow pulsed gently—alive, but not threatening. "Not demonic," he muttered. "But close. Like a… fractured portal trace."

"Teleportation?" Kyrie asked.

"Not by choice," Nero replied, tossing the shard back on the desk. "That kind of spike? It's unstable. Sloppy. Whatever dragged them here—it wasn't planned."

"So what's your read?" Nico asked, stretching her arms. "You think they're a threat?"

Nero hesitated.

Weiss's eyes flashed behind his memory. The way she held that wrench. The pressure he felt when he stepped into the garage—like the air had thinned. Something in her blood screamed not human.

"I don't know," he said finally. "But she's not normal. And she knew it."

Kyrie didn't speak for a long moment. Then, with slow purpose, she stood.

"I don't care what she is," she said, voice steady. "She was terrified. She was protecting her friend. That's all I saw."

"You didn't feel it," Nero said. "There's something under the surface—something heavy. Like she's standing on a fault line."

"Then we watch her," Kyrie said, stepping toward him, eyes unwavering. "Not interrogate. Not cage. Watch. Like we've done for dozens of kids who came through those doors scared out of their minds."

Nico whistled, impressed. "Damn, Kyrie. Didn't think you had your spine installed today."

Kyrie shot her a withering glance. Nico grinned but shut up.

Nero pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright. But I'm sleeping with one eye open."

"You never sleep anyway," Nico muttered.

Thunder rolled again, louder this time, but still far away.

Kyrie turned to the door, her expression softening. "They've lost everything. I won't be the next person to take something from them."

And with that, she left the office, her footsteps quiet on the hardwood.

Nero stayed where he was, still looking out the window as rain began to slide down the glass in tired streaks.

"…Neither will I," he muttered.