Crescent Rose. A giant sniper-scythe.
Let's start with the fact that this glorified farm tool requires a mechanical engineering degree and four hours of setup just to unfold. You're telling me this thing spins, retracts, folds, unfolds, reloads, fires high-caliber rounds and can still cut through Grimm?
You know what happens when you hinge a bladed weapon? You compromise the structure. You know what happens when you hinge it twelve bloody times? It turns into a ticking time bomb with a handle.
This isn't a weapon. It's an origami puzzle with a kill count!
Every hinge, gear, bolt, and collapsing mechanism is just another opportunity for the whole thing to explode into scrap metal mid-battle. And you use this thing to block claws, smash into the ground, and parry weapons the size of buses, like you're not wielding the mechanical equivalent of IKEA furniture held together by anime glue and sheer denial?
Love, it's held together by anime logic and prayer. Every time you take a swing, there's a 50/50 chance a gear flies off like it's trying to escape this stupid design. You don't need a weapon. You need a maintenance crew.
Also, you're on a team, remember? Team RWBY? A squad? A unit?
Then why is it that every time you swing that oversized mechanical lawnmower, your friends have to flee for their lives? Crescent Rose demands at least a 2-meter radius to swing without taking someone's head off, including your own teammates. Every time you wind up for a strike, Weiss has to duck, Yang has to roll away, and Blake is already halfway out the window like, "Nope, not dying today."
You are a mobile hazard. It's less of a team tactic and more of a "clear the blast radius" protocol.
You're like a blender with abandonment issues. Once you start spinning, anything in the radius is fair game. Allies, civilians, trees, your last shred of tactical coherence... All gone. You can't fight in close quarters with Crescent Rose unless your battle plan is "accidental manslaughter." Friendly fire is basically your default combat style.
"But Ruby is fast and agile!"
Cool. So is a wrecking ball when it's airborne but that doesn't mean it belongs in a group fight. Every time you strike, Ruby, it's a miracle that no one gets turned into collateral damage.
Plus, trying to use that thing in tight environments is like trying to fly a jet in a parking garage. Tight corridors? Narrow forest paths? Enclosed ruins? Nah, you're not entering until the entire environment is open-plan, feng shui–approved.
Crescent Rose is a scythe. A tool originally designed for cutting wheat. Not people. Not monsters. Wheat. And for good reason: the blade curves away from the target. That's right, Ruby. Your blade's cutting edge faces you.
You're swinging a weapon where the sharpened, deadly edge is on a crash course with your own torso. Brilliant. If you ever slip mid-spin, you're not just getting knocked over, you're getting bisected.
At the same time, the blunt edge is what meets the enemy on most swings unless you contort yourself like a yoga instructor mid-battle. You have to literally pivot your entire spine to align the blade correctly. The only way to actually slash something with the sharp part is to completely overswing and hope you land the arc at the right angle.
Forget reading your opponent's movement, you're too busy playing Twister with the death machine in your hands. You don't so much fight as you just start spinning and hope the enemy is stupid enough to walk into the wrong end.
Crescent Rose isn't a bladed weapon, it's a centrifugal accident waiting to happen. Imagine going into battle and your weapon says: "Hey, before we do anything, can you perform a triple axel and calculate a parabolic swing mid-air while dodging claws and explosions? Cool, thanks."
Let's be clear: if you want a war-scythe, then make the blade in the same direction as the handle, not perpendicular to it. A scythe is not a weapon. It's an agricultural tool designed to cut wheat, not sprinting death-lizards. Farmers don't use them because they're efficient at murder. They use them because they're good at weeding, and crops don't fight back.
Now let's talk about the sniper part. You have a sniper rifle… that doesn't snipe.
Clearly, the mechanical chaos of the scythe wasn't enough, so you shoved a high-caliber sniper rifle into it. Of course! Why not take two weapons that require entirely opposite combat strategies and smash them together? Because when I think close-quarters melee combat, I definitely think: "You know what this needs? A long-range weapon bolted on for funsies."
You've got a long-range, high-caliber firearm that could take down Grimm from miles away. You'd think that would help, right? Wrong. You fire the damn thing at the ground to rocket-jump at the enemy like the ballistic missile in a skirt you are!
Yeah, because nothing says "stable trajectory" like firing a high-caliber rifle mid-flip with a razor-sharp death crescent flailing around. Every shot is a gamble against gravity, wind resistance, and basic physics.
Every shot wastes ammo, momentum, and brain cells. Why even have the rifle if your only strategy is to hurl yourself into danger faster?
In conclusion: Crescent Rose is the kind of weapon that looks cool in a sketchbook but gets laughed out of every real-world combat doctrine.
Crescent Rose is a WMD. Not a "weapon of mass destruction." A "weapon of mass dumbassery."
You walk onto the battlefield with that and expect the enemy to be scared? No, sweetheart. Everyone's scared. The Grimm. Your friends. The environment. Physics. Even I'm scared, and I'm just yelling from the sidelines.
You don't wield Crescent Rose. Crescent Rose tolerates your presence. And every day it doesn't bisect you mid-somersault is a bloody miracle.
It's not made for battle, it's made for a slow-motion cutscene. And even then you're praying the animators skip the part where you clip through your own teammates.
If the military saw you coming with that spinning death contraption, they wouldn't draft you. They'd hire you for lawn care.
And honestly? That's all it's good for. Killing weeds. Not monsters.