The silence was wrong.
That was the first thing. Not the smoke, a greasy black plume twisting into the afternoon sky like a bad omen. Not the scent, a gut-churning cocktail of ozone, rot, and something sharp that stung the back of the throat—burnt Dust. It was the silence. Villages under Grimm attack weren't silent. They screamed.
Team RWBY moved through the splintered gates of Onn Village, weapons drawn. The place was a wreck. Homes were clawed open, their contents strewn across the muddy track. A child’s doll lay face-down in a puddle, one button eye staring into the muck. But there were no bodies. No bloodstains, either. Just craters, some still glowing with residual energy, and the rapidly dissolving corpses of Grimm. Dozens of them.
“Keep your eyes open,” Ruby Rose murmured, Crescent Rose held at a low, ready angle. “Whatever did this might still be here.”
“This level of destruction…” Weiss Schnee’s voice was tight, her hand white-knuckled on Myrtenaster’s hilt. “This isn’t a standard Grimm pack. This was an incursion. We should have found… well, we should have found *more*.” She left the grim alternative unspoken.
“They’re all Boarbatusks and Beowolves,” Blake Belladonna noted from a rooftop, her posture a study in coiled tension. “But they’re huge. Alphas, most of them. And look at the kill patterns. No claw marks, no bites. Just… holes.”
She was right. The Grimm carcasses were perforated, punched through with a force that had blasted them apart from the inside. Yang Xiao Long whistled, low and impressed. “Looks like someone beat us to the punch.” She cracked her knuckles, Ember Celica glinting. “I’m not sure whether to be grateful or insulted.”
They followed the trail of carnage inward, toward the village square. The Grimm bodies grew thicker here, a black, evaporating carpet. In the center of the square, a figure stood.
He was massive. Encased in heavy plate armor that was an unfamiliar style—not Atlesian, not Mistralian. It was white and gold, scarred and pitted, with thick pauldrons and a helmet that completely obscured his face behind a polished blue visor. A swatch of tattered blue cloth, marked with a stylized twin-headed eagle, hung from his waist. In his hands, he held a weapon that made Ruby’s gear-head heart skip a beat. It was a brutal-looking rotary cannon, its six barrels still smoking.
He stood over the disintegrating body of the last Beowolf, his posture radiating an exhaustion that seemed heavier than the armor itself. His left hand, fingers encased in a thick gauntlet, tapped a restless, five-beat rhythm against his thigh plate. One-two-three-four-five. Pause. Repeat.
A small group of villagers huddled near the well, watching him with a mixture of terror and awe. He paid them no mind. His attention was fixed on the dissipating Grimm.
“Huntsman?” Yang called out, her voice loud in the sudden stillness.
The armored giant’s head snapped up. The blue visor fixed on them. He didn’t reply, but he shifted his stance, the huge gun held loosely but pointedly at the ground. It was not an aggressive posture, but it was not a welcoming one, either.
“Identify yourself!” Weiss demanded, her tone crisp and authoritative. “This area is under the jurisdiction of the Beacon Huntsman Academy. We’re here to render aid.”
He tilted his head. The motion was slow, deliberate. Inside the helmet, a voice without a past wrestled with words that had no meaning. *Huntsman? Beacon?* The sounds were foreign, like rocks rattling in a can. All he knew was the burning imperative that had woken him from a long, cold sleep: *Protect them.* He’d found the screaming, the fear, and drawn it all to himself. He had stood in the square and become the lightning rod, the bulwark. Now the storm was over. The screaming had stopped. He had done his job.
These newcomers smelled of ozone and something floral. They weren’t Grimm. They weren’t the terrified villagers. They were… something else. Something loud. He didn’t like the smell of burnt Dust that clung to them. It was a dry, chemical stink, like a battery gargling ash. It felt wrong in his nose, a place where no memories lived.
Taking a measured risk, he made a choice. With a hiss of hydraulics, he lowered his weapon completely, letting its considerable weight rest on the ground. He straightened up, planting his feet in a parade-rest stance. An offering of peace.
Ruby saw the gesture and lowered Crescent Rose an inch. “Hey, we just want to talk. That was some serious firepower. Where did you get a rig like that?”
The figure remained silent, his stillness unnerving. Blake’s eyes narrowed. “His armor… it’s patched. Not battle damage. It looks like it’s been repaired a hundred times with whatever was on hand. And there’s no Aura shimmer. None at all.”
That gave them all pause. To fight like that, to take down this many Grimm without a visible Aura? It was impossible. A Semblance could explain the power, but survival required Aura. It was the most basic rule of their world.
The giant figure swayed. A tremor ran through his massive frame. The effort had cost him. The power that filled him, that hot, brilliant core of strength he called the Light, was guttering like a candle in a gale. His vision swam. Black spots danced behind the blue visor. He took a heavy, stumbling step backward, his armored boot scraping against stone.
“Whoa, easy there, big guy!” Yang started forward, concern overriding her caution.
Before she could take a second step, a new light bloomed in the air beside him. It was a sharp, electric blue, and it unfolded with a sound like chimes and static. A small, geometric construct materialized, made of metal shards that orbited a central, glowing eye. It hovered at the man’s shoulder, its single blue optic swiveling to scan Team RWBY before turning to its charge.
“You overdid it again,” the little machine said. Its voice was feminine, synthesized but warm. It pulsed with a soft light. “Drawing all the enemy aggro to a single point is a valid Titan strategy, but you’re still new. Your Light reserves aren’t infinite.”
Team RWBY froze, staring at the impossible little drone.
“What… is that thing?” Weiss whispered, Myrtenaster half-raised again.
The armored man reached up a hand, not to his helmet, but toward the floating machine. His fingers trembled. The restless tapping against his leg had stopped. The world was narrowing to a pinpoint.
The floating Ghost turned its ‘face’ back toward him. The villagers gasped. Team RWBY held its breath. The silence that had felt so wrong before was now a fragile, sacred thing, about to be shattered.
“It’s all right,” the Ghost said, its voice gentle. “I’ve got you, Jaune.”
The name hit the air and detonated.
Yang’s smile vanished. Weiss’s eyes went wide with disbelief. Blake took a half-step back, her mind rejecting the implication.
Ruby’s world tilted. Crescent Rose felt impossibly heavy. She stared at the impossible man, the impossible floating robot, and the impossible name it had just spoken. A name she knew. The name of a lanky, awkward, hopeful boy who had fallen from the sky. A boy who was dead.
The figure in the armor didn’t react, only swayed on his feet, his hidden face turned toward the light of his strange companion. But deep within the fog of his mind, the name echoed. A single, solid thing in a world of ghosts.
*Jaune.*