~.~.~

All Along the Watchtower

Chapter One: The Wayward Son

~.~.~

Unforgiving and unrelenting, the frenzied winds of a particularly harsh winter tore across the land, scattering fallen snow and ash in their wake. His hair danced in the gales, the chill stinging his small body as white and dark flakes fell around him, joining a sea of ice and cinders that was attempting to swallow him whole. He wasn't sure how long he had been out there, in the icy grip of the snow. Perhaps it had already been days, perhaps only a few hours—he hadn't cared enough to keep track, hadn't bothered to consider his own health.

His mind had become a blank slate—unthinking, unfeeling, simply moving on need and instinct.

It was only by some small miracle, some damnable pity granted by a heartless reality, that he had not collapsed and died of exposure, that his tiny limbs had not stiffened and froze, that the watery trails his tears had left behind had not yet turned to frost. Despite this, he was certainly frozen, unable to move or speak or blink. He sat there in the growing snowdrifts, body limp and numb as he stared at the painful sight that lay in front of him—a simple stone, half-buried in the fallen snow, put there by his own hands. His eyes, hollow and defeated, could only gaze blankly at the rock, unable to look away, forced to meet the unflinching gaze of actuality.

Behind him, fires cackled as they fought to stay alive amid the roaring winds and damp snow. The flames called out to him, beckoning and reaching for him with long arms of billowing dark smoke, constantly reminding him that, even if he could muster the strength to turn away, there was yet another horror awaiting him. Which would be more painful to stare at? Which terror would have heaped more grief upon his trembling shoulders—that horrid, taunting stone in front of him or the burning rubble and ruins behind him that were once his beautiful village?

The sun began to set. The flames birthed giant, unrecognizable shadows that twisted and crept along the ground until they surrounded his quivering body. As the full moon rose to claim the skies as its domain, as deep and unmistakable growls began to sound from the surrounding woods, as pair after pair of piercing red eyes that held a ravenous hunger began to shift behind the trees, only one stray thought danced across his mind.

He was going to die here, cold and alone.

Finally, his body, propelled by some innate need to survive, moved—a frigid arm had reached out and allowed numb fingers to wrap around the grip of a nearby blade, submerged beneath the sea of frosty white. Pulled from the drifts with no small effort, the wet blade stood tall and shined in the fire's light. His body moved again, his mind remaining silent, and he gave the weapon a quick swing to test its properties, just as he had been taught.

With his small and exhausted body, the weapon's weight and the long length made it awkward and cumbersome in his hands. Staring at the sword, his senses finally returned to him, if only fleetingly. For a brief moment, he raced back into his memories to bring forth pictures of warmer days, when the sword's previous wielder handled it with skill and grace unlike any other while he looked on, proud and amazed.

A new wave of tears welled up in his eyes as he recalled how that masterful swordsman now lay buried beneath the snow, a single stone acting as an unmarked grave for the man who had meant everything to him.

The sounds of fresh snow crunching beneath the heavy, tremorous footsteps of snarling beasts met his ears, resounding over the screaming winds. Masks as white as the surrounding flurry itself began to emerge from the dark woods, a small hoard of predators slowly striding towards him, poised to devour. Pulling his knees from the blizzard, he stood upon shaky legs and held the unwieldy weapon before him as naturally as he possibly could.

They sprung, descending upon him with a chant of ferocious howls that chilled him in a way the snow could never hope to match. He lifted the blade high above his shoulders as the creatures drew nearer and nearer, swinging it down with all his might as one leapt towards him with a roar. The cool steel of the sword clashed with the razor-like claws of a monster as they grappled for dominance.

The fire cackled, the smoke danced, the winds howled.

He had lost everything that he had ever known and cared for and now he was caught in another struggle for his very own life. It was by pure instinct that he had grasped the sword, it was the primal need to survive that had him warring with the beasts before him. There was no consciousness in his decisions, no choice in his actions, and no spirit in his young, broken form. Though his body moved, he was already dead.

His life had passed, yet he continued to live.

The world had ended, yet the fire still burned.

~.~.~

As it turned out, the climb hadn't nearly been the proper challenge he initially thought it would be. The walls were so gigantic, so daunting, that even a thousand miles away, he could still clearly see them standing tall and proud as they reached up to grapple with the sky. He had expected such an impressive defensive measure, then, to be just as well-guarded as the kingdom it protected. This, after all, was Vale, one of the Four Great Kingdoms. Surely there would be no expense spared when it came to the safety of its citizens.

He should've known better.

It seemed a life lived hiding behind their walls had left the people of Vale lax. The automated cannons that lined the peak of the great barrier were pointed skywards, constantly vigilant in their watch for airborne Grimm, and the guards stationed far below kept only the gates secured, as though the only ways into the kingdom were either by flight or through the front door. If the people of Vale truly believed that no one would ever dare take up the task of scaling their great walls, they'd clearly never stepped foot in the wild, untamed lands beyond their precious barricade.

The "Wealds" they called it, and its people were supposedly as primitive, barbaric, and savage as they came, on the same level as any Faunus.

He snorted. Perhaps if they actually spent some time meeting those "barbarians," they'd realize that their great wall could be mounted and overcome rather easily by anyone who had the skills and time to bother—it had only taken his "savage" self a single day to accomplish that supposedly impossible feat. Rolling his shoulders, he moved over to the inner edge of the wall, casting his gaze out to the vast cityscape before him.

From where he stood, he was closer to the clouds than he was to the bustling noise and flow of the streets below him, but he could see it all. Herds of people crowding the streets, passing vehicles blaring their horns in frustration, flashing billboards poking out from behind skyscrapers…

This was not his world.

His world didn't have skyscrapers and there were no paved roads for traffic to gather in. In his world, blacksmiths and farmers and tailors relied on the quality of their work to promote their businesses, not neon signs and billboards with advertisements plastered across their surfaces. Most importantly, though, back in his world, people didn't cluster together at every street corner and path. The city felt so much more constricting, so much more confined, like the people had just enough room to breathe and nothing more.

He shook his head. He hadn't even set foot in the actual kingdom yet—it was a tad too early to start feeling alienated and his mission was far too important to allow his trepidation to get in the way. Having taken in enough of the city, he reached down and pulled a small knife from the leather pouch that hung from his belt. He glanced downward to the streets below, silently thankful that getting down from the wall would be far easier than climbing the massive structure.

Holding the small blade out, he let it to slip from his fingers, allowing gravity to send the steel plummeting to the ground below. Standing back, he sighed, steeling his nerves as he watched the sun slowly sink beneath the horizon. Soon enough, it would be nightfall and the natural darkness would provide him with all the cover he needed to safely traverse the roads without drawing too much attention to himself.

How long would it take, exactly? He wasn't sure. If all went well, he'd be out of here and back home in a month. At worst, he could be stuck here as a stranger in this strange land for an entire year…or two…or several. The question of time wasn't important, though—not to him, at least. All that mattered was the mission and this was one that he was not going to fail.

"So…" he muttered, sensing the knife clatter against the pavement, "Let's begin."

A brilliant flash of yellow blanketed him, overtaking his entire form. When it finally died down, the peak of the wall stood vacant, without a single trace that anyone had even been occupying the space just moments ago. The flash of light went unnoticed by the preoccupied people moving in the shadow of the barrier, as did the fact that, suddenly, there was one more person walking the streets with them.

~.~.~

A glorious battle, one worthy to be remembered in song and poem, it certainly hadn't been. No one would be found gathered around campfires generations later, regaling their family and friends with tales of how the novice seven-year-old from the lands beyond the kingdoms managed to stave off a small pack of Beowolves by clumsily waving his sword around. It hadn't been his skill that had saved his life that night and neither his strength nor his cunning had proved any use. It had been luck that rescued him.

Pure, stupid luck and a very, very sharp sword.

He had slipped, plain and simple. The first brave Beowulf that had come rushing towards him had pushed him back when its claws met his father's blade. He went stumbling backwards, losing his footing on the slick ice, and as he fell, by random chance, the blade was flung from his hands and slipped past the beast's claws, catching itself within the monster's throat.

How heroic.

Yet, at the time, he hadn't cared how intrepid he appeared—he still didn't, in fact—and none of the remaining Beowolves did either. They had spied a lone child, weeping and frozen in the dark of night, and believed themselves to have found an easy supper. As they watched the lifeless carcass of their more excitable and reckless kin slump to the ground, however, shimmering steel still piercing its neck and dark miasma leaking out into the smoke-filled air from the wound, self-preservation forced them to reexamine their prey.

Red eyes watched the boy as he quickly stood from the drifts and staggered over to his kill, freeing his weapon from their fallen brother with a few taxing tugs. His sword now back in his hands, he didn't spare the fallen Grimm a second thought, and instead turned to face the many rows of sharpened teeth that were bared towards him. Silently, he began to count the white masks he saw, careful not to allow himself to lose any amid the storm.

Six.

If he was to survive the night, he had six more pairs of teeth and claws to fend off.

He adjusted his grip on the hilt, tightening his hold far too much, to the point that another clash between the blade and the Beowolves' claws would surely knock the weapon from his tiny, inexperienced hands. He would later look back at the bumbling display of his lack of skill and almost slap himself for his stupidity. He should've known better than that—he had been taught better than that—but there, in the snow, facing six hungry maws, everything he'd ever learned about proper fighting fled from his memory. He was no swordsman, no man-at-arms, and yet, that night, he would have to be.

Another footstep, another crunch of fallen snow and ice compacting under heel, had him swinging the sword in a wide arc towards the next creature that chanced to step forward.

At the sight of the blade, the beast growled, retreating back from the slight advance it had just dared. When another stalked towards the boy, the process repeated—the sword swung towards it, and the beast took two steps back, snarling and displaying its monstrous fangs.

A stalemate, one that the boy fearfully understood could be broken rather easily should even one of the Grimm decide to come rushing at him, and a sliver of steel was all that stood between the child and six hungry monsters. But which among them would dare and be the one to risk having their own throat cut so that the others could safely attack? Which would risk their life so that the others might eat?

A martyr was glorified only in the faraway realms of the civilized world. There, in the Weald, where kings dare not plant their banners, where knights and lords worked the fields just as any serf, where sleep was a luxury rather than a necessity, only one thing was glorified, one sole concept championed: survival. Honor was only a word used to describe the cretins who marched honorably off to an early grave and left the smarter men who prioritize living with that much more work to do—both men and beasts alike understood that much.

Thus the Grimm were faced with a decision: to go on playing this game of cat-and-mouse all night in hopes of maybe scoring a morsel without dying or to go and hunt elsewhere in those woods, where perhaps a feast of deer or bear awaited them.

One by one, without ever glancing away from the frozen swordsman and his weapon, the fiends slowly began to creep back into the forest. The boy watched them go, never blinking, even as the beasts roared and snapped their powerful jaws at him. Finally, when all six were enshrouded within the darkness of the trees and all that he could see were the pairs of burning eyes watching him from the shadows, a long, lone howl emerged from the throat of one of the creatures. It was a frigid call that was soon echoed by five more.

He could hear the sounds of their mighty steps growing more distant with every passing second and he knew that they had departed for more fruitful hunting grounds. His eyes stayed trained on the dark forest, however, and his hands remained wrapped around the haft of his blade as he stood on guard for the rest of the night, only breaking when sunlight poured through the trees and chased the night away. By that time, the great fire that raged behind him had consumed all he had ever known. With nothing more to feed it, the blazing titan could do little else but wither and die and soon became nothing more than a few smoldering embers amongst the burnt foundations and the blackened skeletons of buildings once familiar.

Without a word, he turned and heaved the sword that had seen him safely through the darkest of nights upon his shoulder before walking back into his ruined village.

~.~.~

Blending in was his first priority. He had to make himself appear like he belonged, like he was commonplace. It was a task that, considering who and where he was, wasn't necessarily easy. Having never been in a city before, all he could do to try and fit in was to simply go along with the flow of pedestrians as he performed basic reconnaissance. After stopping at several crosswalks, however, and listening to the giggles of passing girls and judgmental utterances of older adults, he quickly realized that his state of dress was another thing he would have to fix.

He was dressed for life in the Wealds, where survival was prioritized over fashion. Judging from the looks he was drawing, the utility of combat boots and flak jackets apparently weren't appreciated here. The fact that those articles of clothing were particularly worn and muddied after months of use in the wilderness probably didn't help matters.

He resisted the urge to groan.

It seemed his new first priority, then, was to find the nearest clothing store. Until he did, he was going to be attracting some very unwanted attention as the only young man in the entire city that casually dressed as though he was about to be dropped straight into a war zone.

He turned towards the many stores that lined the way, 'Now where the hell can I buy clothes around here?'

Being a foreigner, he wasn't exactly well-versed in the biggest clothing chains and retailers that Vale had to offer. Moving down the street, he decided to simply pick the first store that caught his eye and see what it had to offer. Even if they didn't sell clothes, at least he could ask for directions to the nearest store that did. With that settled, he rounded the corner and gave the street a quick once-over as he weighed his options. His gaze quickly fell upon a small, unassuming store that went by the name of "From Dust Till Dawn." Shrugging, he stepped towards the store…

"Grah!"

"This'll be the day we've waited for, this'll be the day we'll open up the door~!"

…just in time to watch a short, scythe-wielding girl dropkick a man through the store's front window, all while her headphones blared out the lyrics of some rock song he'd never heard.

'…Huh,' he hummed, pursing his lips as he watched the scene play out in front of him, 'Maybe I should pick a different store.'

Considering the fact that four more goons hastily emerged from the store, brandishing sharpened blades and wearing menacing scowls upon their mugs, he assumed that this wasn't a normal, healthy part of life in the big city. The thugs moved quickly, fanning out around the teenager, who merely adjusted her grip on her pole-arm as her gaze shifted from one attacker to another. In a matter of seconds, the young lass in red was surrounded. He winced, ignoring how his hand twitched towards his knives as he fought the urge to help the girl.

'The mission is more important than one kid,' he frowned, 'I can't risk drawing any more unnecessary attention to myself. I already stick out like a sore thumb thanks to my clothes…'

Would leaving the girl to her fate plague his mind? Of course—no part of him liked the idea of just letting the hired muscle beat the little maiden into a bloody pulp. Even so, he had trekked halfway across the world for a singular reason and it wasn't to be a hero. Just because he felt bad didn't mean he was about to jeopardize everything he'd—

"W-Wah—ugh!"

He blinked as one of the bruisers went sailing past him, smacking into the concrete with an undignified grunt. As he worked to convince himself not to intervene and save the hooded girl, the little miss was busy showing off just why she didn't need any saving. The way she moved almost seemed more like dancing than fighting, as graceful and flowing as she was, belying the strength packed within her petite frame. She twirled through the air, using her scythe for leverage as she planted her boots square into the face of the nearest punk, knocking him back. Not losing her momentum, she leapt off, pulling her scythe with her and slamming the snath of the weapon down onto the head of another foe.

Whistling, he was both impressed and relieved—it seemed his conscience could rest easy tonight. The third and fourth assailants were quickly dispatched after only two or three strikes to the head and chest. While his concern had briefly returned when he noticed the last punk pull a fully automatic firearm and open up in the middle of the street, he found the lass defying his expectations again when she became a blur, swiftly ducking and weaving around the stream of bullets.

In fact, the girl was handling herself so well that he was about to just turn around and continue his quest to find more suitable clothing. As he prepared to leave, however, he noticed that a redhead, garbed in a slick white suit and dark bowler cap, had stepped out of the shop, twirling a cane and glaring at the young, scythe-wielding teenager. The newcomer scowled, rolling his eyes as he observed the thug's incompetent shooting.

"It's so hard to find good help these days," the redhead muttered, sighing as he raised his cane into the air like a man would a rifle and took aim down an imaginary scope, "If you want something done right…"

The base of the cane popped open, revealing itself to be a reticle, one that was trained right on the lass' cranium. His eyes widened as they shot from the weapon to the girl it was pointed at—she was distracted, too focused on dodging the bullets that were already flying at her to even notice that she was caught in the sights of yet another gun. He grimaced, 'Don't get involved, don't get involved, don't get involved, don't—'

"Say goodnight, Red!" the man smirked as the end of his cane began to glow.

He groaned, swiftly pulling a knife from his belt and pitching it towards the redhead's unknowing target.

Him and his stupid fucking sense of morality.

~.~.~

As he watched the sun slowly begin its descent, he made a small mental note that this marked the fourteenth sunset he had seen since the world had ended.

He almost laughed at himself.

The end of the world? How dramatic. How many "worlds" had ended out there, in the Weald? Far too many to count, he was sure. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if a handful of "worlds" were snuffed out every single day. Unlike the kingdoms, the people here had no walls to hide behind and no professionally trained Hunters or Huntresses to come rushing to their aid. Even if one of the kingdoms bothered to hear their cries for help and actually felt generous enough to spare their time and resources, the Weald was a vast, unpredictable land. How could anyone, even the kingdoms, hope to mobilize a force and move it halfway across the known world in time to save one small hamlet or village from the dangers that constantly surrounded it?

No, the truth was that someone's world ended every day and the rest of creation never cared enough to notice. Homes—lives—were wiped off the globe in a single breath and no one so much as batted an eye. Why should he be any different? Did he really think that the entire world would come to an end just because his home had? Was he so stupid as to believe that anyone out there was shedding a tear, thinking of the poor orphaned youth, starving and frostbitten as he wandered around ruins of his beloved village?

He tried to tell himself that he was shivering from the cold and nothing more.

Ignoring the tightening knot in his stomach, he pressed on—there were far more important matters at hand than coming to grips with the insignificance of his situation. Nightfall was approaching and with it came a blanket of darkness that many of the large, beastly predators lurking in the Weald did so appreciate. The inferno that had engulfed his community had warded off many of them that dreadful night and a few of the more cautious creatures refrained from coming near the smoldering rubble for a couple more, but that had been over a week ago.

Now?

Now they were hungry, growing more and more ravenous with every moon.

Now the fire had long since died out and they had no more fear of it sparking back to life.

He had no delusions of surviving another night so openly exposed and so he had fallen into a simple routine. By day, he would scavenge, digging through the snow and debris in the burnt-out homes of neighbors and friends for what little food hadn't been scorched to char and ash. He would slip any supplies he gathered into the small leather satchel he had found on one such excursion and make his way back to whatever cellar or half-collapsed building he decided to stow away in for that night. On his way back, he would often spy the ghosts of people he once knew, walking the roads, smiling and greeting one another as they had been the morning before the…the incident.

The phantoms that haunted his memories.

He was getting better at ignoring them, but every now and then, he'd see the faces of his best friends amongst them, playing hide-and-seek or tag like they always did, or the kindly bakers who often gifted him with sweets, or the gruff, old warriors who entertained him with stories about the exciting adventures they had in far-off lands. He would watch them, frozen and fighting back tears, as they passed by, asking him to come play with them, how his day was, and where he was off to.

He had yet to see his father amongst them and he was thankful for it—he wasn't sure how he'd carry on if he had to watch that man disappear in front of him again.

He spent every night tucked away, hidden in the darkness of a corner, staring out of shattered windows. Every now and then, shadows would pass by, growling and snarling as they fruitlessly hunted for the scent of potential prey. It was pointless to do so—even if the fire no longer raged, the ash and soot remained and the entire area would smell of nothing but smoke for weeks, perhaps even months, to come. Even though he wandered the roads daily, the monsters would find no trace of his scent.

As he watched the malformed silhouettes of Grimm march along the walls and roadsides, he would recall the lessons his father taught him and began to identify every one he saw. The Beowolves he could recognize easily enough and an Ursa would appear every now and then. He could even occasionally make out the snorts and squeals of a passing Boarbatusk, if the winds weren't too strong. Of course, there were also beasts unknown to him that stalked the snow-filled streets—giant scorpions, monstrous snakes, packs of spiders the size of dogs…

Every time he saw a creature he couldn't name and every time he saw one that he could, he would feel fear grip his heart, his blood running so cold that he believed the pounding in his chest might freeze just like the rest of him. All he could do was pull his father's sword close to him, a poor substitute for the actual man himself, and pray that he would go undiscovered. Never would his gaze part from where he'd glimpsed the monstrosity, blinking only when the frigid cold forced him to. Eventually, he would fall asleep out of sheer exhaustion and wake the next day to find that he had not been devoured in the night by some beast. He would rise, stretch, grab his sword and satchel, and once again head out in search of food.

For two weeks, this had been his life and, as he crawled down into the cellar of a nearby home just as the sun finally dipped below the trees, a part of him knew that this could not continue for much longer. Food was dwindling—every day he found less and less and every night he grew hungrier and hungrier, just as the Grimm did. Soon there would be nothing left for him here but empty nostalgia and regret-ridden comfort.

The decision he had to make was becoming more and more obvious to him with every passing day—he could choose to stay here and die with his home or he could leave and hope to find another hamlet, one with food and supplies, one that might take him in or at least offer him help.

A shadow passed by the cellar window and a low growl rang out over the howling wind. He stiffened, grabbing his sword and pulling it close to hold it tight.

Perhaps the decision could wait until morning.

~.~.~

It was a long ride across the sea from the small island of Patch to the capital city of Vale, but she had made it all the same. She had spent the last week trying to convince her overprotective father to let her set out for Vale alone, breaking out every trick in her arsenal and even inventing a few new ones. She had tried being extra helpful around the house, casually and constantly mentioned the fact that all her friends had gone to visit the city by themselves already, and made sure to practice with her scythe harder than she ever had before. Finally, when she felt she had at last curried enough favor with her old man to warrant a little freedom, she asked.

The experienced Hunter didn't skip a beat—a resounding no.

From there, she'd put on her best puppy eyes and broke out all of the crocodile tears she had in storage. When that failed as well, she locked herself in her room and refused to come out, even when her dad attempted to appease her with a freshly baked plate of her favorite chocolate chip cookies. Oh, how the delectable scent of melted chocolate in the air had tempted her, a siren's call to her struggling will. Still, she remained adamant. Her goals were too important to simply abandon.

Yes, more important than even cookies (the thought almost seemed sacrilegious to her young mind).

She wanted to visit her mother's grave. She wanted to see her big sister one more time before school started. It was only after hearing her reasons for wanting to visit the city that her father relented, allowing her to head out on the grounds that she stay out of trouble and come right back after she finished both her tasks.

At the time, she had just rolled her eyes, writing off his concerns as the typical worries any dad had surrounding his little girl. This was the capital of Vale, one of the Four Great Kingdoms—it had to be one of the safest places on Remnant. What kind of trouble could she possibly get up to?

She should've known better.

Though she wasn't quite sure when her luck had taken a turn for the worst, she strongly suspected it was right after she'd first set foot in the city, when her sister apparently just refused to answer any of her calls. Unable to find the wild blonde, she had decided to visit her mother's grave first, something she had hoped would help clear her mind. The pack of Beowolves that attacked her there, however, had other plans.

Feeling slightly put off by the assault and having exhausted a good supply of the Dust that her Crescent Rose required, she had headed into town looking to replenish her reserves. It took a bit of searching to find a Dust shop that stayed open as late as it was, but when she finally managed to stumble across one, aptly named "From Dust Till Dawn," she found herself getting sidetracked. By chance, her gaze had just happened to wander over to the magazine rack, where the latest issue of Weapons Magazine (Issue #228, the fan-favorite "Back-to-School" edition) sat.

Stepping over to the rack, she plucked a copy of the magazine from its spot, intending to just quickly peruse the articles and catch a glimpse of some of the newer designs. Six very thought-provoking pieces on weapon modification and a centerfold that detailed the initial prototype blueprints of the new TX-55 bipedal tank later, she was pulled out of her own little world by a tap on the shoulder. Shortly afterward, she was informed that she was, in fact, being mugged.

Lucky her.

After a single well-placed dropkick launched the would-be robber through a window, she found herself in a scrap with a few other goons. Considering the fact that they were sporting the same dark suits and red shades as the man who first tried his hand at stealing from her, she assumed they were friends of his. They went down just as easy as the first mugger did, too. It was only when one pulled a gun on her and began to open fire that she even started to take them seriously.

As she sped around the bullets and slid next to the gunman, she gave a quick flick of her scythe, slicing the muzzle clean off the firearm before plunging the blunt end of the snath right into the gut of her assailant.

"Oogh…!" the man coughed as the wind was knocked from his lungs, collapsing as he clutched at his aching stomach. After pausing a moment to make sure that none of her attackers would be getting back up for a second round anytime soon, she sighed.

'I just wanted to come visit Vale,' groaning, she folded her scythe back into its more manageable inactive form, 'Why can't anything go my way for…'

Trailing off, bemusement overtook her features as her ears picked up on a low whistling. Turning, her silver eyes shot wide open with panic when she found the source of the noise—a Dust-charged flare, burning an explosive shade of red, was flying straight towards her. It was already only a few feet away and closing in fast. She only had seconds to react, but with her Semblance, she still should be able to—

Her back went rigid when an abrupt yet strong force clamped down tightly on her ankle, preventing her from moving. Glancing down, she found the taunting grin of the thug she'd just disarmed and defeated, chuckling as he held her leg in his vice-like grip.

"Not getting outta this one, kid," he muttered darkly, smirking.

Her mind raced.

She didn't have the time to unfold Crescent Rose again and block the shot and even if she did struggle and break free of the downed goon's hold on her, she wouldn't have the time to dodge. With no other obvious solutions left and only a couple seconds before the blast would hit, she threw up her hands to shield her face and tightly clenched her eyelids shut, bracing for the inevitable impact.

It never came.

A groan of pain reached her ears and she felt the grip on her ankle disappear. Somewhere far, far above them, a loud explosion rang out and lit the night's sky in a shower of sparks that rivaled even the most brilliant of fireworks. When the realization that she was, in fact, not about to get caught up in an explosion, she allowed her hands to drop back down to her sides. Opening her eyes, she found herself face-to-face with the back of a worn, forest-green flak jacket, staring right at the small red spiral that rested on the middle of material. A quick glance down was all it took to confirm why the thug had released her—whoever had saved her, they had delivered a strong kick to the head of the goon that had grabbed at her, knocking him out cold. She turned her gaze back upwards.

She blinked, catching sight of an untamed mane of sun-kissed blond hair. Still dazed from the shock of it all, she couldn't help but mutter the first name that came to mind.

"…Yang?"

~.~.~

His lungs burned, his heart pounding in his chest and sweat clinging to his form as he hurriedly pulled himself through the waist-deep snow. Behind him, the ground quaked, singing under the unbearable weight of the wild footsteps he fled from. He felt a gust of chilling wind blow past his shoulders as an ear-splitting roar erupted behind him, shaking snow and icicles free from the tall branches above. It had been just four days since he had parted ways with his home of seven years, the only one he'd ever known, and headed out into the wilderness with nothing but his sword, the last of his food and water, and a bleak hope that held him together.

Already everything was beginning to unravel.

When he had first found the creek, he believed himself to be lucky—a source of fresh water and fish was certainly a good find, considering that his current resources were fairly limited. Rushing across the wet banks and kneeling down into the slush, he had cupped his hands together and dipped them into the frigid water, eager to wet his dry throat. When he lifted his head, however, he found a pair of crimson eyes staring him down, eyeing him with the same endless hunger that every Grimm seemed to possess.

An Ursa Major, larger than any he'd ever seen before and sporting longer, sharper claws and even sturdier armor than he'd thought were possible for the species, stood on the other side of the creek, its black fur soaked and matted. He seized up, allowing the water to slip from his fingers as he eyed the many bone-like pikes protruding across the creature's broad back. His mind and hand both shot immediately to his father's blade, his fingers flying to grasp the grip before he realized just how suicidal attempting to fight the beast off would be.

He could barely handle a single Beowolf, but he was going to down an Ursa Major?

Unwilling to draw the steel and risk agitating the apex predator any further, he slowly lowered his hand back down to ground. Instead of rushing into combat, he instead opted to take a steady and cautious step back, hoping to quietly slip away before the Ursa saw fit to charge. He had heard from the fighters that had lived in his village of how, often times, the creatures of Grimm were just like any other animal and adhered only to their most basic instincts. If that were true, the last thing he wanted to do was turn and dash and excite the Grimm's natural instinct to give chase.

As he slowly began to creep backwards towards the cover of the forest, the beast suddenly rose up, snapped its jaws twice, and bounded across the stream towards him, snarling all the while—apparently, it was none too pleased with its breakfast attempting to escape. He didn't need any further encouragement—he turned and ran as fast as his tiny legs could carry him, the warriors' teachings be damned.

Now he found himself caught up in a race against Death, stumbling as the mighty Grimm plowed through several trees in its path, felling the logs effortlessly and sending them toppling into the snow. Daring to spare a quick glance over his shoulder, his eyes widened in fright when he found that the Ursa was slowly but surely closing the distance between them, fangs bared to sink into its prey.

He turned his gaze forward, determined to redouble his efforts, only to find his heart dropping as he felt the ground beneath him vanish.

In his desperation and panic, he had run straight over the edge of a small cliff. He fell, plummeting down a good ten or fifteen feet before unceremoniously crashing down on top of a large snowdrift. He lay there, shocked for the briefest of moments, before quickly standing up, uninjured—the snow had completely broken his fall. His mind went to his pursuer as he turned back towards the cliff face, expecting to find the monster glowering at him from atop it.

He found only snow.

A thunderous crash, one that sent ice flying high into the air, filled his ears—unwilling to allow him to escape, the Ursa had leapt off the cliff as well, slamming down into the ground behind him with all the force of a meteor. A giant paw suddenly struck out from behind the veil of flakes the creature's fall had kicked up, a swipe that only just missed its target by inches. He fell backwards, feeling his back hit the sheer rock of the cliff he'd just fallen from. The Grimm stood from the drifts, glowering as it stalked towards its meal.

He was trapped, caught between rock and beast.

His hand shot up, wrapping around the grip of his sword and pulling it free from where it lay strapped across his back. He hadn't wanted to try his hand fighting an Ursa Major, but it seemed as though he wasn't going to have much of a choice. The first strike he'd managed to defend against, raising his steel to counter sharpened claws. The force behind the bear's mighty blow ran along his arms, shaking his form. The second was even harder, stronger—he felt his blade shift in his hands beneath the power of the Grimm.

He panicked, readjusting his grip as best he could under the relentless assault.

When the Ursa chose to rain the third hit down upon his head, it came so swift that he'd barely even seen a blur of movement. He flung his weapon out, desperately attempting to catch the swipe before its claws met his skin. In his hurry, his inexperience shined again—he had managed to adjust his hold, but his grip on the sword had become too loose. When the Ursa's paw met his father's blade again, the weapon was knocked from his hands and flew into the ice-covered brush of the forest.

He hadn't even had the time to feel the horror set in, to realize his imminent death, before the fourth strike came. Ruthlessly, the dark animal's vicious hammer of an arm fell upon him, agony erupting within him. He felt his feet lift from the chilled earth beneath him and, just like his sword, he soon found himself tumbling through the crisp air, blood spilling freely from his burning head.

The world spun, twisting and churning as he flew.

When he finally touched ground once more, crumbling into the snow, it was with bitter anguish that he noted that the icy powder did little to ease the searing pain in his throbbing skull. Even as his ears began to be overtaken by an incessant ringing, he could still hear the tumultuous quakes of the Ursa's footsteps. It grew closer and closer, never faltering, only stopping when it drew close enough to turn its snout down to inspect its prize. Even in his dazed state, he could feel the sickeningly cool breath of the Grimm upon his frozen skin.

This was how he would die—face down in the snow, his life leaking out from his wounded head, thirsty, hungry, and exhausted. No friends, no family, just a nameless boy, forgotten to the world and all those who walked it. He closed his eyes and waited.

A beastly cry of pain, a heavy thud, and the sound of softer, gentler footsteps were all that met his ears.

Bemusement dulled his suffering. He struggled to push himself from the drifts in hopes that he might see what had happened, but only succeeded lifting his face from the snow and craning his neck. Even so, it was enough for him to at least spy a brief glimpse of the scene before him.

The Ursa Major now lay dead on its side, its dark essence slowly leaking out into the air and soaring away, cradled in the wind. Approaching his fallen form was the stranger who had presumably downed the beast. He was tall—an adult, no doubt—but all other features were concealed within the glare of the morning sun, leaving the figure as only a dark silhouette of what he imagined hope might look like. That didn't matter, though—he knew of only one man with enough skill to so effortlessly kill such a monster.

His savior had been another ghost, one that had followed him all this way from his village. The one spirit who had remained hidden from him all this time, the one who he had never seen walking the empty streets or resting in the burnt-out homes. He felt tears brim in his eyes.

"…D-Dad…" he whispered.

Even in death, his father had come to protect him.

~.~.~

"…Yang?"

He turned, casting a glance back at her from over his shoulder, "Not the last time I checked, no."

She blinked.

He was right—whoever this stranger was, he most certainly was not her sister. For one thing, Yang's eyes were a vivid shade of lilac, not the two spheres of lapis, deep and blue as the ocean itself, this stranger possessed. Another difference was that Yang's complexion was pale and soft, ironically reminding her of winter every time she laid eyes upon the sunny blonde. The newcomer, however, sported unblemished tanned skin that stretched over a lean yet rigid musculature—a body built for speed rather than sheer brute force.

Her eyes trailed down to his hands, where she did not see her sister's Ember Celica, as though that (and not the fact that this person was clearly male) was the final piece of evidence that proved he was not Yang Xiao Long. Instead, she found two short blades, one of which was presumably the weapon that had deflected the explosive shot that had nearly blown her to smithereens. In his left hand rested an ordinary throwing knife, one with an odd sigil imprinted upon the blade, and in his right, a dagger that she quickly identified as a tantō.

As soon as she laid eyes upon the knife, she was stunned.

Whereas most short blades of such an exotic nature that she'd seen sported decorative hilts and sheaths, the weapon in the blond's hand seemed deceptively simple. She spied the sheath of the tantō strapped horizontally across the back of his leather belt—just like the hilt, it was pitch black, without a single ornamental feature to be seen. The dagger didn't need any unnecessary extravagance, though—the blade itself was already beautiful.

It glowed a gentle white that shined paler than the shattered moon in the skies above them, leaving a thin trail of brilliance in the air as it shifted in his grip. Even the steel was gorgeous—a ripple-like pattern ran along its edge, proud proof of the skill and knowledge that went into the tempering of the weapon. She didn't know where he had it made, but she doubted that even the most experienced blacksmiths would be able to recreate the metallurgy used to shape such a blade.

As a self-declared "weapons geek," she totally had to find out where he'd found that masterpiece.

"Oh, goodie—another one."

She blinked as the sardonic words met her ears, peeking around the stranger to find a redhead armed with a…cane? She shrugged.

She'd seen odder choices back at school.

"Well, kiddies," the redhead sighed, allowing the cigar that had been hanging in his mouth to drop to the ground, "I think we can all agree that this has been an eventful evening and, as much as I would just absolutely love to stick around…"

The sarcastic man raised his cane, leveling it at the both of them.

"…I'm afraid this is where we'll be parting ways."

Another shot, another whistling red flare sailing through the air. This time, though, they both had ample time and warning. The duo dodged, and were far out of the explosive's range by the time it detonated and tore up a good portion of the road. The redhead, meanwhile, had used the time they took to avoid his attack to turn and run, fleeing up the fire escape of a nearby building. By the time she'd spotted where the crook had run off to, the old owner of the "From Dust Till Dawn" had come stumbling out of his shop, surveying the damage the attempted robbery had wrought.

She turned to the elderly man, concern evident on her face, "Are you gonna be okay if we go after him?"

Next to her, the blond blinked, 'What does she mean 'we'?'

He was done for the night. They beat back the bad guys, protected the innocent people of Vale—hell, he was pretty sure the redhead didn't even take anything besides a few crystals of Dust! As far as he was concerned, this was no longer a job for him and the hooded youth. This was now a job for the proper authorities to handle. Yes, they were going to call the police and right after that, he was washing his hands of this whole situation. He had a job to do, something that required that he remain as inconspicuous as—

"Okay, let's go!" the scythe-wielding girl declared bravely, raising a fist as she charged into the fray.

"H-Hey, hold on a second!" he called out, raising a hand out towards her as he tried to halt the eager lass. Naturally, his cries fell on deaf ears. Unfolding her scythe, she pulled a trigger on the weapon, activating a mechanism that shot her straight into the air, where she grabbed onto the ledge of the building and pulled herself up. Without even looking back, she continued to give chase, just assuming that he would be right behind her.

…He should leave. He should just turn and walk away and pretend that he never saw anything. Deep down, he knew that it would make both his mission and his life a whole lot easier if he was smart enough to walk away, just this once. Just walk away and let the girl fend for herself—she was more than capable of doing so, she'd proven that much. What was the worst that could happen?

He frowned.

She might be running straight into a trap. She could easily get distracted again and end up getting shot in the back, just like she was about to when he intervened in the first place. Hell, if she was honestly expecting him to back her up, she may even just turn her back on a foe, expecting that he'd take care of that one while she tackled another. Then she would lie there, defeated at best, dying at worst, wondering where her new friend had gone and what she had done to make him abandon her in her time of need.

…Shit.

'Me and my stupid fucking conscience!' he growled in frustration, chucking his throwing knife towards the rooftop she had run off to before disappearing in a bright flash.

~.~.~

The cackling fire.

His village in flames.

Grimm swarmed.

Screaming. Running.

Panic.

His father. He needed to find his father.

He felt a tug on his shoulders.

Everything shifted around him.

Red.

Blood. It wasn't his own. It was—

'No…'

Their eyes met.

Hurt. Confusion. Despair.

Fading.

'No…!'

Gone.

"No!"

He shot up, chest heaving and breath shallow, clutching wildly at his own torso. Sweat dripped from his brow, his skin heated and sickly pale. Slowly, his mind began to catch up to the rest of his panicked conscious. He had been dreaming, but it wasn't a dream he'd seen. It had been a memory, a scene he was sure would forever haunt his slumber, a vision of the life that had been traded for his. Under his palms, he could feel the rapid beat of his own heart—alive. He was…alive. His stomach stirred as he felt bile build in the back of his throat. He felt sick. Somehow, he had lived and his father had…he froze.

His father.

With his own eyes, he'd witnessed the man's death. With his own hands, he'd dug a shallow grave and buried him. With his own breath, he'd whispered his final goodbyes. Yet it was that same man—he was sure of it—who had come to his rescue, saving him from being devoured by the Grimm. Pushing down the building sickness in his gut, he turned left and right, searching for any signs of the parent he so desperately missed.

He found no one.

As he had been for so long now, he was alone.

He sat in a cave that, though damp, must have been far drier than the raging blizzard outside, the haunting cry of the fierce winds echoing down the stone walls. Beside him, a small fire danced, bathing him in its orange glow and driving back the writhing shadows of the cavern. Next to the flames, his sword and supplies rested. He sighed, shifting over to retrieve them. The second he moved, however, a deep and unbearable pain flared to life. His hand snapped back, as though burnt, and instead flew up to grip his head. His fingers met a thin layer of cotton, soaked in blood and sweat, instead of skin.

"Oh, you're up. Well, welcome back to the land of the living, I guess."

A voice—one that was not his father's—drifted down from the mouth of the cave. It wasn't long before the owner of that voice came to join him by the fire, the carcass of a freshly slain rabbit in his calloused hands. The stranger pulled a dagger and quietly set to work skinning the creature, not even bothering to cast so much as a glance in his direction.

He sat there, allowing the silence to settle as he observed the man.

Silver hair, not gold. Pale skin, not tanned. A tired and lazy gaze, not bright and gentle.

Very little, if anything at all, about the person who sat there even remotely resembled his father. The silver-haired man had his father's height, he supposed, along with his build. As he watched the blade in the man's hands gently and swiftly run along the corpse of the animal, digging into the animal's flesh with machine-like accuracy, he also realized that the stranger possessed his father's impeccable skill in handling steel. If the two adults shared anything else, it was nearly impossible to tell—the man had the lower half of his face obscured by a thick scarf, while one eye remained hidden behind a dark cloth that was being used as a makeshift eye-patch.

This man clearly wasn't his father, so who was he?

"Um…" he mumbled, shattering the quiet that had stood between them, "W-Who are you?"

"No one important, if that's what you're wondering," the stranger spoke evenly, betraying no emotion as he sliced the creature's feet from its legs. He then set his bloodied knife aside, taking the rabbit's head and neck in his hands. The man's face—what little of it he could actually see—never lost its impassive expression, even as the sickening crunch echoed within the cavern as he gave a strong twist and tug. The mammal's head, along with its feet, were soon thrown into the fire, feeding the flames. The knife was then sunk into the belly of the creature and torn straight down, allowing guts and innards to pour from the trail the blade left, "Kakashi."

He blinked, eyes shooting from the dismembered rabbit to the man, "What?"

"My name. Last time I checked, it was Kakashi," the stranger—Kakashi, apparently—pulled the innards from his prey, "If you need to call me something, that should do as well as anything else."

He frowned, glancing down to his lap, "Kakashi, did you…were you the one who saved me?"

The offal was tossed to the ravenous inferno as well, "I did."

His stomach twisted again, "Was...was anyone with you?"

"You're the first person I've met in a long time," Kakashi answered, setting his bloodied knife aside, "Wasn't anyone with me when I found you, no. Just you, me, and the Ursa."

"…Oh," he muttered.

Of course Kakashi had been alone. His father was still buried under the snow and ash, where he would be for the rest of time. To honestly believe that he had risen from the grave, just to protect his only son, as though death was just some minor inconvenience…how stupid. He knew what death was and what it meant—he'd even seen it before all this. The rotting carcasses of animals left to fester and decay in the forest, the rows of tombstones that had populated the graveyard of his village, the picture of the redheaded woman standing next to his father that had hung upon the wall in his home. He knew what it meant to die, and yet…and yet…

'I'm…an idiot!' he choked back a sob, struggling to keep a tight rein over the tears that brimmed in his eyes. Pulling his legs to his chest, he bowed his head and buried his face between his knees, eyes tightly shut. Kakashi skewered the rabbit on a stick that he'd stripped of its bark, setting the meal over the flames to cook. Grabbing the blade he'd laid at his side, Kakashi pulled a small rag from his pocket and absentmindedly began to wipe it of ichor as he stared into the flames, hiccuped sobs sounding beside him.

Outside, the winds screamed and chilled the world—spring was but a distant dream.

~.~.~

One.

Not two.

Not four.

Not ten.

Not a hundred.

Just one.

One solitary shop, owned and operated by some senile old codger. That was the target. Not the endless Schnee family fortune, not the bottomless pockets of Vale's treasury—just a single goddamn store that was too cheap to fork over enough cash for a security camera, let alone hire an actual guard. It was such a stupidly easy job that he'd been downright insulted when it was passed along to him. The idea that he, seasoned veteran of the criminal world that he was, would be tasked with knocking over some grandpa's Dust joint? Ridiculous. It was beneath him in every way.

So why the hell was he fleeing the scene of the crime with barely enough Dust to fuel a car!?

It should've been the easiest job he'd done in years! The geezer was half-blind for fuck's sake! Yet here he was, jumping from roof to roof, all in an effort to escape the clutches of a little girl and her teleporting jackass of a friend, both of whom had popped right out of nowhere (one more literally than the other) and ruined the entire affair. His blood boiled as he thought of the money he'd spent hiring the incompetent goons that the scythe-toting teenager had knocked out in a matter of seconds.

'Worth every scent, truly,' he growled, glaring up at the darkening sky, 'Now where the hell is that—'

"Hey!"

He froze, face twisting into an enraged scowl. Of course they had pursued him instead of just calling the police—you know, like normal people with functioning brains would have done. Who the hell almost gets blown up and then keeps chasing the man who almost blew them up!? He understood that it took young people awhile to understand that their delicate little lives could be snuffed out like a candle, but he would've thought a fiery explosion in their faces would've clued them in! Honestly, the sheer size and scope of their hero complexes must've been an absolute psychological marvel.

'This night just keeps getting better and better,' the redhead glowered, "Persistent…"

He turned, leveling a glare at the girl in red before him. She stood as tall as her vertically-challenged body would allow, knees bent and weapon pulled back, ready and eager to jump into action. What caught his attention, though, was not that she faced him without fear, but that she faced him without backup. Seemed her blond friend was at least wise enough to know when the game was—

As if just to spite him, a knife abruptly planted itself in the roof beside the scythe-wielding teenager. After a short-lived and bright yellow flash, the blond was standing beside her, exasperation evident in his cerulean gaze.

'…Naturally,' he resisted the urge to roll his eyes, "Well, aren't you two clingy? I thought I told you both already—as fun as it would be to waste my evening babysitting you brats…"

The wind began to pick up as the sounds of whistling turbines slowly filled his ears. He smirked. It seemed as though something was finally going to go his way tonight. Before either of the two wannabe heroes could make a move, he leapt backwards and off of the roof they stood on, disappearing as gravity gripped him and pulled him down over the ledge. The girl rushed forward, ready to continue the chase, only to find herself halted by a sudden wall of gales that blew her back.

Both she and the blond stared on, stunned, as an airship—a Bullhead, to be precise—slowly rose up from below the building, the redheaded thief standing safely aboard it. Mounted beneath its wings were two very large, very shiny Gatling guns, both of which were aimed squarely at them.

Roman Torchwick grinned at the sight of duo's surprised expressions, "…My ride's here!"

~.~.~

"Your father, huh?"

He nodded weakly, his tear-streaked face shimmering in the dim glow of the fire. Kakashi hummed in response, his tone too neutral to determine just what the sound was supposed to convey. The man picked the last bit of meat off of a tiny rib before nonchalantly tossing it over his shoulder and into a small pile of bones. Watching the white sliver sail through the air, he frowned, momentarily forgetting his grief as he realized that, despite sharing a meal together with the stranger, he'd never actually seen the silver-haired man's face. He shrugged the thought off quickly enough though, deciding that he'd simply been too distracted to notice.

Outside, the gusts had finally calmed and it wouldn't be too much longer before the first rays of the sun would reach over the horizon and mark the beginning of a new day. In the bright sunlight, the Grimm would seldom find the cover their large, pitch-black forms needed to ambush unsuspecting prey, making the forest that much safer to traverse.

"And that was his sword, then?" Kakashi pointed to the blade that he kept clutched in his tiny hands.

He nodded again, mumbling, "It was."

"I see," the man muttered, holding out his hand, "If you don't mind, could I see it?"

Ordinarily, he would've minded very much. The sword was the last physical connection he had with his father and the idea of parting with it, even for a moment, made his skin crawl. Still, Kakashi had saved his life, tended to his wounds, provided him with shelter through the night, and had even fed him. Allowing the man a peek at the steel was the least he could do to repay him. Reluctantly, he unsheathed the sword and placed it into Kakashi's outstretched palm.

"This is beautiful craftsmanship…" the older man whistled, lifting the weapon so that he could see it better in the firelight, "Definitely made by a Weald smith—they don't make them like this in the kingdoms."

He didn't know if that was true or not, so he remained silent.

Kakashi continued, "No modifications, either, but that's the norm out here, isn't it?"

He'd heard tales of how, in the kingdoms, it wasn't at all odd to see a swordsman turn their blade into a firearm or for a bowman to shift their crossbow into an axe. The very concept of it seemed foreign to him. A scout surveying the lands for resources, a miner gathering the finest ores, a smith purifying and forging each individual blade and arrowhead and bullet—the sheer amount of effort, sacrifice, and skill that went into making even a single dagger was unimaginable. All that work gave every blade a soul, every bow a character, and the process was nothing short of magical. Combining and mixing two weapons to him seemed as impossible as fusing two people. It seemed almost…disrespectful to the weapon, the equivalent of telling a person that they weren't good enough on their own, that they needed to take on the qualities of another before they were worth knowing. But people were meant to be themselves, not anyone else, and a sword was meant to be a sword, not a gun.

Instead of explaining all of this, though, he just wordlessly nodded his head once more.

"But with craftsmanship like this, that's hardly an issue," the silver-haired man traced a finger along the sword's edge, "In the hands of someone with the right skill, this could easily cut right through any kingdom-forged steel."

The man was right, the blade could cut through other swords. He'd seen it.

"A fine blade," Kakashi concluded, passing the steel back over to him, "You shouldn't use it."

He blinked as he took the sword, "Why?"

Kakashi leveled him a flat look, "Kid, that thing's more than half your size. If you're going to defend yourself, you have to pick a weapon that you can actually wield."

The man was telling him that he couldn't use his father's sword, that he was unfit to wield it.

He saw red.

"I can use it just fine!" he shouted, "I killed a Beowolf with it!"

The slaying of said Grimm had been a complete fluke, but Kakashi didn't need to know that.

"Oh, is that right?" Kakashi seemed unimpressed, "So you know how to use that thing?"

He glared defiantly, hands balled into fists, "I do!"

He didn't. While his father had decided to begin his training early on, he hadn't yet mastered even half of the basics. In truth, all he truly knew was how to properly hold a blade and how to swing and slash. Even then, he had only really ever used a wooden training sword, one that wasn't nearly as long as the steel in his hands. Again, these were all facts that, for the sake of his argument, he decided Kakashi didn't need to know.

"Good," Kakashi stood as he spoke, pulling his dagger from its sheath and placing a fair bit of distance between them, "Show me."

He frowned. Swinging a sword—a real sword, not some wooden toy that beginners used for practice—at Grimm was one thing. Grimm were cold, heartless creatures who sought nothing but destruction. A Grimm didn't have any family or friends, it didn't dream or love or laugh, and there were some who wondered if they even truly felt pain. To point your blade at another person, someone who did love and laugh and dream, someone who had family and friends that cared for them, was an entirely different matter.

That was the first lesson his father had ever taught him, back when he began his training, and it was only after learning it that he was allowed to touch a real sword for the first time.

Ignoring all that, though, there was also the clear difference of skill between them. Kakashi had struck down an Ursa Major like it was nothing, while he had barely managed to fell a single Beowolf. That alone spoke volumes of how any match between them would conclude.

"Well?" the man called.

It was at that moment that he realized something had to be wrong with him. Three weeks ago, he would've already been on his feet, itching at the chance to knock Kakashi down a few pegs, no matter the odds of his success. His friends had always been able to goad him into taking whatever dare they could think of with a few simple taunts and he had walked home sporting the bruises and scrapes he'd earned in brawls with the local bullies on more than one occasion. His rash nature was something his father had constantly told him to work on.

So why, then, did he not feel the need to jump up and prove the man wrong?

He huffed, crossing his arms as he turned away, "I'm hurt. I shouldn't—"

"You think the Grimm will go easy on you when you're injured? If you can't fight with a little scratch like that, you won't last long out here," Kakashi rolled his eyes, "C'mon, get on your feet. You aren't so bad off that you can't handle a little bit of sparring."

Sighing, he reluctantly pushed himself to his feet and moved to stand opposite the man. He paused. The dagger lay in his opponent's left hand, which was hanging at Kakashi's side. That in mind, he tightened his grip on his sword and rushed forward, favoring his right foot. Kakashi remained completely still all the while, appearing only half-interested in the young boy's charge. Once he got close enough, he delivered the swiftest strike he could manage to the man's unguarded right side. When he still saw no movement from Kakashi, he almost believed he'd ended the spar with a single swing.

The echoing clang of steel clashing with steel disagreed with him.

"Hm…your instincts actually aren't terrible," Kakashi hummed, pressing his dagger against the offending blade, "But…"

His eyes widened, 'When did he—w-whoa!'

He didn't have the time to finish his thought. Kakashi had pressed his advantage, jutting out a leg to sweep his small feet out from under him. He fell back onto the cavern's rough floor, grunting in pain as his back collided with the rocky surface.

"You aren't tall enough to use that sword properly. With your tiny arms, you have to make wider swings to give yourself more leverage," the man continued, "You end up overextending because of it, leaving your opponent with plenty of time to react and counter. Since you weigh so little, anything you're fighting is going to have an easy time knocking you over when they get the chance to parry, and once you're on the ground…"

Death.

He winced.

The Reaper had been hovering over his shoulder for some time now, having followed him throughout his burnt-out village all the way to the creek. For a brief moment, when the man had asked him to show his swordsmanship, he'd even seen the glare of Death upon Kakashi's face. He shut his eyes. Was that why he seemed to have changed so quickly in these past few weeks? Had he grown so used to having the threat of his own demise hanging over his head that he'd lost all sense of confidence, to the point that he almost refused to stand when Kakashi called upon him?

"Alright, let's go again."

He blinked, staring up at the man with large, confused eyes, "Again?"

Kakashi nodded, gesturing for him to stand with a wave of his hand, "Yes, again. Chances are that I'm not going to be around to save you every time you run into an Ursa, so you need to be ready to deal with it yourself."

There it was again—that creeping sense of doubt and fear that had dwelt within him ever since his home had gone up in flames. He knew himself. He was supposed to be confident to a fault, impulsive and stubborn. For the longest time, it had been all he wanted to be brave and heroic like his father, and now he was being offered the chance to learn. He should've been eager, excited even. Had he been the old him, maybe he would've. Now?

All he could do was doubt that he would ever become powerful enough to slay Grimm, to stand proud and tall beside the memory of his father.

"Can I…" he frowned, glaring down at himself, "Can I really get that strong?"

"Well, I can't exactly make any promises," Kakashi shrugged, "Some people dedicate their entire lives to perfecting a trade and never make any progress. Other people can master skills so effortlessly that you'd swear they cheated. That's just the way the world works."

That was how the world worked…? He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. The world wasn't fair and it certainly wasn't kind. The weak died, while the strong who dared to protect those too feeble to save themselves died alongside them. Those with natural talent could choose to live for themselves and survive, while those without it could only struggle against the ebb and flow of life's empty miseries. So which was he? Was he too weak to survive in such relentless lands? What was the point of surviving, anyway? Everything he knew, everything he wanted to know, was gone.

"…It's…" he mumbled, "It's all…pointless."

The man frowned.

"Look, Kid," Kakashi leaned down, "The world is a shitty place. People get hurt. Sometimes they die and sometimes they live. Hell, sometimes they have to hurt other people, even the ones they care about. It's not fun, it's not fair, and a lot of times, it's too much. People quit. They breakdown and can't go on and when that happens, they realize that it's all pointless…"

He bowed his head, shoulders trembling.

"But it's not pointless—it never is," Kakashi reached out and placed a comforting hand upon his head, ruffling his hair, "It's up to every person to discover what their own purpose is. It's not easy and some people never manage it, but the answers we find are the only things we can truly call our own. They're what give life meaning."

"…Then what about you?" he voice was quiet, almost a whisper, "What purpose did you find?"

"Me, huh? I don't know. Until a little a while ago, I thought I knew what it was, but…I was wrong. I realize that now. Until I find the right answer, though, I decided that I wanted to find something to protect," Kakashi shrugged, all traces of solemnity vanishing from his tone, "I can't guarantee that you'll become strong, Kid. All I can say for sure is that you're not gonna get any better unless you decide to make the first step yourself. Now, are you ready to try again?"

…Was that really it? Was is truly as simple as just making your own reason to survive? He almost didn't believe it—it seemed too easy, too straightforward, for this crooked world. The conviction and sincerity that was woven into Kakashi's words, though, was undeniable. He wanted…no, he needed to believe that it was that simple. And if Kakashi was right, if finding one's own purpose was the answer, then…

An image of his father surfaced in his mind.

'Dad…what was your purpose?' he asked it.

A smile bloomed on the image's face, one that was meant for him and only him.

Despite it all, he found himself smiling back—somehow, he knew what his father would've told him.

He placed his smaller hand in Kakashi's larger, calloused one, "I'm ready."

Though he wasn't sure, he could've sworn he saw Kakashi's face light up as he uttered those words.

"Good," the man nodded, lifting him to his feet, "This time, though, try not to fall on your ass."

~.~.~

"I am so sorry!"

"It's okay."

"I-It's just that t-they were trying to rob me and…"

"Don't worry about it."

"A-And I didn't mean to drag you into it or anything, I j-just—!"

"Ruby, it's fine."

"It was an accident! I didn't even notice you were there and I got distracted and…and…!"

"Ruby…"

"B-But I'm sorry! Super sorry!"

"Ruby."

"Like, the sorriest I've ever been! Really! I-If I had known it would've ended up like this, I definitely would've been more careful and—"

"Ruby!"

"I—huh?" the hooded girl blinked, turning to the young man on her right, "Did you, um…did you say something?"

He chuckled, offering the young woman a somewhat strained smile, "Relax. I get it—you're sorry. You don't have to sweat it, though. It's not like you did anything wrong."

Ruby frowned, "B-But, I got you arrested…"

Another chuckle escaped his lips, one that was aimed at his own expense. Yes, just two hours after his flawless infiltration of the Kingdom of Vale, he, being the masterful young sneak that he was, had somehow managed to find himself in a holding cell with a scythe-wielding, fifteen-year-old heroine. It wasn't anything much—just a cement floor and white brick walls, with a couple of old, musty cots for them to rest on. He wasn't sure what a police station in one of the vaunted Four Great Kingdoms would be like, but it turned out to be disappointingly typical. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't quite sure what he was expecting.

"Are you the secret mastermind behind the robbery we stopped?" he questioned, arching an eyebrow as he peered over at the girl.

"What?" Ruby jumped a little, her posture stiffening at the sudden accusation, "N-No!"

He choked back a laugh as he saw the flustered girl's panic, "Did you force me to help out against my will?"

"Um…no?" Ruby tilted her head, clearly confused over his sudden line of questioning.

"Then I don't see how it's your fault that I'm in prison," he concluded, falling back in his cot to stare lazily up at the ceiling, "Personally, I blame the redheaded maniac who tried to blow us up…twice."

Honestly, this entire mess had been the thief's fault as far as he was concerned. How the hell was he supposed to keep a low profile while squaring off against an armed Bullhead in the middle of the damn city!? Even he, as awesome as he was, had limits! To make matters worse, the maniacal crook had opened fire almost as soon as he got aboard the airship, raining down bullets upon them with the two Gatling guns that the Bullhead sported. Seeing this, he was about to grab Ruby and warp them both to safety when the timely intervention of a professional Huntress stayed his hand.

He almost broke into a rant, ready to curse whatever cruel deity had decided to pick tonight of all nights to mercilessly toy with him. There he was, trying to lay low while getting caught up in preventing a robbery, fighting an airship that was trying to murder him, and standing right next to a goddamn Huntress in the middle of the capital! There had to be a special word in the dictionary for his luck tonight, because at this point, "unfortunate" was no longer strong enough of a term. He was only a few seconds away from teleporting his way out of the scene altogether until he realized exactly which Huntress had come to their rescue, using her signature (and, now that he thought about it, highly questionable) riding crop to create an impenetrable barrier between them and the swarm of lead.

Glynda Goodwitch.

Ozpin's right-hand woman.

And just like that, his luck had gone from absolute shit to pure gold, all in a matter of seconds.

He had ended up sticking around and watching the brief fireworks display that ensued, with the blonde Huntress engaging the Bullhead in an awe-inspiring battle of Dust and Aura, one that forced the Bullhead to beat a hasty retreat. Following that and Ruby's adorable yet naïve attempt to score an autograph off the icy woman, the proper authorities were called and both he and his scythe-wielding friend found themselves dragged off to their current predicament.

It wasn't all bad, though. He'd gotten to find out a bit more about the girl, who he learned went by the name of Ruby Rose. She was apparently a student at some school called Signal Academy (a very promising one, from what he'd seen) who had traveled all the way from Patch to try and find her older sister, a girl who Ruby seemed to think he'd have a lot in common with. Somehow, though, he doubted that. The scythe, Crescent Rose, was apparently her own design and that was about as far as he'd gotten on that particular topic before the young girl had started on a long tirade of technobabble on the finer points of weapon modification that had lasted the entire ride over to the station. He had silently promised himself to avoid the topic of weapons, only giving the vague answer of "out-of-town" when Ruby asked him where he'd gotten his own blade.

Ruby shot him an apologetic look, "Still, I should've—"

"Ruby, you're being too hard on yourself," he rolled over onto his side to peer over at her, a flat look on his face, "The crazy bastard tried to kill us. Compared to that, anything you did or didn't do is a nonissue as far as I'm concerned, okay?"

"…Okay," the dark-haired girl gave a reluctant smile as she nodded. He found himself growing confused when, only seconds later, Ruby's silver eyes widened with realization and her cheeks began to flush from embarrassment. The girl gave a nervous chuckle, "Oh, geez, you're gonna think this is really stupid of me, but…I, um…in all the excitement, I never got the chance to ask you—"

The barred door to their cell suddenly flew open, a loud and abrupt creak sounding out in a desperate cry for grease. They both turned to find Glynda Goodwitch standing in the doorway, accompanied by one of the officers who had arrived at the scene of the robbery earlier. Glynda's frigid green eyes land on him instantly, piercing him as deeply as any blade could manage. The Huntress stared at him, mouth drawn into a tight and unreadable line, before her gaze sharply turned towards Ruby. The youthful lass shrunk beneath the shrewd scrutiny she found herself under, making herself seem as small as possible to avoid incurring the wrath of Goodwitch.

"You," she addressed Ruby, her tone sharp and stony, "Follow me."

Ruby remained seated on her cot, eyes wide and panicked. He wondered if she'd even heard the command amid the internal freak-out the excitable girl was likely having.

Glynda's gaze narrowed into one of the fiercest glares he'd ever seen, "Now."

The word seemed to snap Ruby out of her trance and had the young girl scrambling onto her feet and over to Glynda like her life depended on it. He snorted. For all he knew about the stern woman, maybe it did. The blonde didn't spare the scythe-wielder another glance or word. The Huntress turned and started down the hallway she came from, not even bothering to look back to make sure that Ruby was following. Ruby paused in the doorway, sending a worried glance back his way. He answered the concerned look a reassuring grin. Nodding, Ruby smiled back and disappeared down the hall after Glynda.

"That leaves you and me, kid," the officer drawled, "C'mon."

Jumping up from his own cot, he spread his arms, stretching them until a gratifying pop met his ears. Satisfied, he stepped towards the officer, rolling his shoulder as he did so. Just as Ruby followed Glynda, he trailed after the policeman, hands stuffed into the pockets of his worn combat trousers. The officer led him down to the opposite end of the hallway, where a simple, unassuming door stood. Opening it, the policeman stepped aside and ushered him inside.

He glanced around, taking in his surroundings.

Again, he found himself oddly disappointed—as far as interrogation rooms went, this was boringly clichéd. Without any windows, the room relied solely on the work of a single hanging lamp to fight off the encroaching shadows. Positioned directly beneath that lamp was a simple metal table, accompanied by two extraordinarily uncomfortable-looking metal chairs. It was the person seated in one of those chairs that drew his attention, though, and had his breath catch in his throat.

Silver hair.

A calm, distant expression.

The unmistakable aroma of coffee.

Ozpin.

He remained impassive, making absolutely sure to keep any trace of emotion off his face as he walked towards the table. The door closed behind him as he took his seat, leaving him and Ozpin as the room's only occupants. Outwardly, he was the picture of a composed, indifferent individual. Internally, however? Fireworks and confetti were flying through his mind, choirs singing him praises as he mentally celebrated an early success. When he had first arrived in the city, he was absolutely convinced that it would take months of careful planning and manipulating to score an audience with the Professor Ozpin. Now, here he was, sitting face-to-face with the man after only being in Vale a few meager hours.

He'd have to remember to give Ruby the biggest hug he could muster the next time he saw her—she'd more than earned it.

The distinguished professor had his nose buried in a manila folder, leaving him to wonder if the man had even noticed his arrival. Even so, he didn't say anything to catch Ozpin's attention and instead merely waited patiently as the coffee lover flipped nonchalantly through the file in his hands. Out of curiosity, he peered down at the folder, checking it for any label or title that might clue him in on what the man found to be so interesting. Sadly, he found none, and Ozpin closed the file and set it aside before he could continue to search for any hints to its contents. Ozpin took the cup of piping hot coffee that rested beside the folder, raising the mug as a greeting before bringing it up to his lips and tipping it back in a long, steady sip. He just nodded in return.

Finally, Ozpin set his mug aside, gesturing to the plate of cookies that lay between them, "Please, help yourself."

He eyed the sweets for a moment, before smiling and shaking his head slowly, "I'm good."

"Very well," Ozpin spoke in a cool and collected timbre as he rested his elbows upon the table, lacing his fingers together, "In that case, shall we begin?"

'Please, by all means,' a smirk nearly sprouted on his face, 'Let's play.'

~.~.~

Kakashi sighed as he tugged on his scarf, pulling the soft cotton tighter around his neck. He hated winter. Winter brought freezing temperatures with it, forcing people everywhere to don thicker, warmer clothing, often in layers. Colder weather meant more restrictive clothing, and restrictive clothing hindered reflexes and movement speed. Any veteran of any battle could prattle on for hours about the importance of even the slightest few seconds when it came to survival, so clothing that slowed a person, even for just a moment, could very well lead to one's own downfall.

For the common soldier, it meant that a choice had to be made—wear enough damned cloth to stave off frostbite or shed the threads in favor of dodging the bullet flying towards your skull. It was never a fun situation, regardless of which you picked. Even then, dodging that bullet didn't mean much if you were caught up in a drawn-out battle while knee-deep in ice. Winter had decimated more armies and claimed the lives of more soldiers than any kingdom or bomb could ever hope to match. No knife could stab as deep as the chill, no blast could desolate the lands as well as the winds. The odds of a soldier succumbing to starvation, hypothermia, and even suicide all dramatically increased during the winter…at least, that was what he'd read. He, himself, had never actually experienced a campaign that lasted the entire winter and he was thankful for it. Almost nothing good came of winter, the only positive the season boasted being…

Kakashi heard the sound of crunching snow somewhere behind him and sighed.

…it was harder to be stalked during the snowy season.

Turning, he laid a hand on the grip of his tantō, lazily staring into the seemingly barren forest before him, "Well, I'd say you were pretty good at hiding if you could actually keep quiet while you did it. C'mon out, Kid, and, while you're at it, why not tell me why you've been following me for the past day and a half?"

He waited.

Silence.

Sighing again, Kakashi unsheathed his blade and flung it towards a low-hanging branch just a few yards away from him. The dagger sliced through the wood, sending the limb hurtling to the ground below. The silver-haired man watched it plummet, crashing down behind a nearby snowdrift, one that was easily large enough to hide a person.

"Ow!"

A young voice cried out in pain as the branch finally touched down, likely upon the head of the voice's owner. Seconds later, he heard the sound of crunching ice again as a small figure began to climb to the top of the icy pile. A mop of unkempt blond hair emerged over the snowbank first, followed by the dirtied face of the boy who he'd saved from an Ursa Major a couple days ago. As the boy tenderly nursed the bump that was forming on his cranium, he glared towards Kakashi, tears pricking at the sides of his blue eyes.

"That hurt, asshole!" the boy shouted, "What the hell was that for!?"

Kakashi rolled his eyes as he stepped over to retrieve his weapon, which had lodged itself into the trunk of a nearby tree, "I see you're in a better mood than last time."

The boy pouted, mumbling, "You didn't have to hit me…"

"Oh, did I hit you? Sorry," Kakashi's dull tone of voice made it rather clear he was, in fact, not sorry, "Now, I believe an adult asked you a question, so be a good little boy and answer it."

He watched as a look of determination crossed the boy's face, one that was all too familiar for his tastes. The fire that burned in the brat's eyes brought him back to his own youth, when he was stupid and ignorant of how the world actually worked. All it took was one glance for Kakashi to realize that he didn't like seeing it again.

"Teach me how to fight!" the boy declared.

Kakashi snorted. Even the kid's words were eerily nostalgic. He'd read this story before—he wasn't particularly fond of the ending.

"No," the silver-haired man answered, pulling his blade from the birch and returning it to its sheath.

"Eh!?" the boy, Kakashi noted, appeared shocked. Apparently, he honestly wasn't expecting a flat-out refusal. The little blond carefully slid down the snowbank, rushing to his side and tugging on the hem of his jacket. Kakashi kept walking, dragging the youth, who failed to find solid footing on the slick snow, with him, "Why not!? You taught me a ton of cool stuff a few days ago!"

"I taught you just enough to defend yourself and that's it," Kakashi replied plainly, "I don't take students. If you want a teacher, I'd suggest you look somewhere else."

"No way!" the child cried, still grasping at Kakashi, "You took down that Ursa without breaking a sweat! It's gotta be you—you're the strongest there is!"

Kakashi bit back a laugh at that. Oh, to be young and naïve. If there even was such a thing as the "strongest," Kakashi was rather certain that he was not it. Despite this, he knew that there was no way he was going to be convincing the foolhardy tyke that he wasn't any time soon. Once kids got something in their heads, pulling teeth was less painful than trying to change their bullheaded young minds. Kakashi hummed, 'So how to get myself out of this mess, then?'

He supposed he could always just outrun the boy or ditch the kid as soon as the little brat fell asleep, this time making sure to actually put effort in covering his tracks. He glanced down to the boy, who now had his little arms wrapped around his leg in a vain attempt to keep the adult from walking off. The tear-streaked face of the young blond surfaced in his memory. He frowned. Maybe that was a little too cruel. Perhaps it would be better to just put up with the kid until he made it to the next town. That way, when Kakashi did finally leave the kid behind, he could at least make sure the rambunctious child had someone to look after him. Nodding, Kakashi decided that would be his best option and set his gaze back on the path ahead of him.

"Alright, Kid, listen up," Kakashi spoke, making sure the finality in his voice would reach the youth's ears, "You can come with me…"

"R-Really!? You mean it!?" the kid grinned, finally releasing his leg and leaping up and down in absolute glee, "Does that mean you'll tea—"

"But!" Kakashi watched as the child's elation began to deflate as he said that word, "As soon as we get to the next village, I'm finding you a foster family and you're staying with them. If you still want to learn how to fight after that, find someone in that town to train you. Deal?"

The blond pouted up at him, "But that's not fair!"

He failed to see how it wasn't, considering he was under no obligation to train the brat, but Kakashi quickly realized that would also be a moot point to argue, "Too bad. Neither is life, but I think we both know that by now. That's my offer, take it or leave it."

Frowning, the child paused, humming in thought, "How long will it take to get to the village?"

"Well, if the map I have is still accurate," Kakashi shrugged, knowing that maps tended to change very quickly in the Wealds, where entire civilizations could disappear overnight, "About four or five days, depending on the weather."

The boy's victorious grin returned to his face, blooming with newfound confidence, "Fine! I'll just have to make you see what an awesome student I'd be before we make it to the next village, then!"

"Sure, Kid, you do that," Kakashi rolled his eyes again, just relieved to finally be able to continue down the road. As per their agreement, the boy rushed after him, falling into pace at his side. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed as the youth struggled to keep up with his longer stride, taking two steps for every one Kakashi took. Kakashi chuckled, "So, got a name, Kid?"

The kid, probably too busy brainstorming ways to show off his potential to the experienced fighter, blinked, "Huh? Did you say something?"

Kakashi shook his head, sighing, "Your name, Kid—what's your name? If we're going to be traveling together, I can't just keep calling you 'Kid,' understand?"

"Oh, right! A teacher should know his student's name!"

Kakashi decided to ignore that bit of cheekiness.

Flashing him a brilliant smile, the boy jumped ahead of Kakashi, twirling around and proudly jerking a thumb towards his own chest, "Just call me—"

~.~.~

"It's very strange," Ozpin eyed the young man before him, "To find a boy who, as far as Vale's records go, shouldn't exist. No name, no family, no birth certificates, no transcripts—the officers were quite surprised that they couldn't find anything about you in their registry. It's almost as if you appeared out of thin air."

"Well, speaking as a bit of an expert on myself, I can promise you I do exist," he chuckled, scratching the back of his head, "I'm a bit new in town, I guess. Maybe my papers haven't gone into the system yet?"

"Is that so? And when did you arrive, then?"

"Just tonight actually," he grinned, "Some first day, right? Is every day in Vale as exciting as this one?"

Ozpin's expression remained neutral, "I assure you that violent robberies and rooftop chases are not the norm in Vale."

"Oh…" he blinked, his grin faltering slightly, "Uh…good to know?"

"Very good, I'm sure," Ozpin murmured, taking another sip of his coffee.

He'd heard rumors about how…odd a man Professor Ozpin was, but he certainly wasn't expecting this. Even if it was the legendary ice queen, Glynda Goodwitch, he was certain he could at least get a reaction out of her, whether it be a snarl or a glare. He needed something to go on, some form of expression to help him gauge the thoughts and emotions of the person he talked to—it was the best way he knew of to steer the conversation in his favor. Ozpin, however, remained poker-faced no matter what was said or how disarming he acted! Rather than help him lead their exchange, trying to dredge up an emotion out of the man left things more awkward than helpful.

'And the worst part is,' he groaned mentally, 'I can't tell if Ozpin's doing it on purpose just to fuck with me or if he's honestly this wooden.'

The professor had to be fucking with him. How could a man so lacking in charisma have possibly ended up as the headmaster at one of the most prestigious academies in the civilized world?

"Has anyone ever told you, young man," Ozpin set aside his mug, returning his unreadable gaze to the teenager in front of him, "That you use a very intriguing weapon?"

He smiled sheepishly, "Do I? I doubt it—Ruby has a scythe that can change into a sniper rifle! How badass is that!? Compared to that, I don't think some throwing knives and a dagger are—"

"A tantō."

"…I'm sorry?" he frowned.

Ozpin tapped a finger on the table, "It's not just a simple dagger, now is it? It's a tantō…one modified to house and draw upon a cartridge of white Dust stored in its handle."

"Oh, yeah, it is," he smiled, "How'd you know?"

"I saw it glowing in the traffic camera footage that the police confiscated from the scene of the crime. That pale light it gives off is rather unique, you know," Ozpin spoke calmly, "I've seen countless weapons that make use of white Dust, but that tantō is still the only type that's glowed so deathly pale. It's always been a beauty to behold, so faint and yet so deadly. Almost like a ghost..."

He plastered a curious look on his face, "Maybe my little knife's a bit cooler than I thought. I always figured it wasn't anything too special."

Ozpin nodded, "Of course, not many use it. In fact, I've only ever come across a single family that traditionally chose the tantō as their primary weapon."

'Crap…' he couldn't keep his smile from becoming just a bit strained, "Really? I got mine from my family, too. My uncle gave it to me when he decided I was old enough to use it, but I never found out where he got the mods done. Who knows—maybe I'm a distant relative?"

"Well, even if you are, I wouldn't go digging too deeply into it," Ozpin shrugged, "The Hatake family…well, I'm sure you'll learn of it eventually."

"…I hope so!" he laughed, "It sounds really interesting!"

"It is a very interesting story," Ozpin hummed in agreement, "Now, onto the matter at hand. I'm curious to know why a young man such as yourself, new in town and without any obligation to do so, rushed to the aid of a girl caught in a fight with several heavily armed men. I'm sure you'll agree that it's not something most people would do."

He leaned back in his seat, laying his hands out on the table, "I…didn't really intend to help out at first, you know? She seemed to be handling herself well enough, but when I saw that she was in trouble…I guess I just moved? I don't know how to explain it—my body was running towards her before my mind could catch up."

It wasn't a lie. If he was smart, he would've stayed far, far away from Ruby and her battle. He was here for a single reason and helping her wouldn't have benefited his agenda at all. In fact, at worst, it would've hindered it, either by ending in his injury or death or by landing him in the spotlight as some sort of public hero. It was only by pure stupid luck that it ended up working out in his favor. But his body had already thrown his knife by the time his brain could remind him of all that.

At the end of the day, he just couldn't let an innocent person get hurt.

It had always been his greatest weakness.

"That's quite a dangerous impulse, you know," Ozpin raised an eyebrow, leaning forward, "There are even veteran Hunters and Huntresses that hesitate to run straight into the path of an oncoming explosive."

"I've been told I can be a bit reckless sometimes," he chuckled weakly, "Like I said, I just sorta moved."

"And you did so skillfully, protecting both yourself and Ruby Rose," Ozpin praised, "Whoever taught you to fight did a very fine job honing your technique."

A far-off look entered his eyes, "Thanks. It was my uncle…he's the one who taught me everything I know about, well, anything."

"Well, perhaps you'd allow me to teach you just a bit more?" Ozpin question, grabbing his mug and downing the last of his coffee.

Elation began to flow through him.

"W-What are you saying?" he blinked, "You want to…train me?"

"Ah, being from out of town, I suppose you might not know who I am," Ozpin muttered, more to himself than anyone else, "I am Professor Ozpin, headmaster of Beacon Academy, and there is always a spot at my school for courageous young men who put the lives of others before their own. Ordinarily, you'd have to go through several years of conditioning and education at an escalator school, but given your skills and instincts, I see no reason why you couldn't enter directly into Beacon at the start of the semester."

He'd done it. In just a few hours, the first critical phase of the mission was already complete. The biggest struggle he faced that night was keeping the huge, triumphant grin that threatened to split his face at bay. It was all he could do to not start parading around the room, dancing and cheering in joy of the first major step in his path to his goal. He briefly wondered if a victory back-flip might've been called for, just to add a bit of style to the moment. He swiftly decided that yes, it was, but it would be smarter to wait until Ozpin had at least left the room first.

Ruby had definitely earned that hug. Hell, he had half a mind to leap across that table and wrap Ozpin up in a hug for good measure.

His eyes went wide, "I…uh, wow…I-I don't know what to say…"

Even if he had already gotten what he wanted, he still had to maintain the act until the show was over. He didn't want to ruin it by appearing too eager, now did he?

"It is a big decision," Ozpin hummed, "I won't pressure you, of course. Feel free to take some time to think about—"

"N-No, no, I'll go! It's just…" he waved his hands, quick to dismiss the idea that he was doubting his decision, "It was just kinda unexpected. I'd be honored to go to Beacon, sir, really! In fact, please let me go! I won't let you down!"

"I am confident that you won't," Ozpin finally smiled, nodding to the ecstatic young man before him, "But, if you are to be enrolled into my school, it might be useful to at least know your name."

"O-Oh, right!" he gave a wide grin, extending his hand for the professor to take, "Just call me Naruto Namikaze, Sir!"

Ozpin grasped Naruto's hand, giving it a firm shake, "I look forward to having you at Beacon, Naruto."

"Believe me, Professor Ozpin," Naruto smiled, "You're not the only one."

"Let's hope not," Ozpin stood from his seat, taking his empty mug and the plate of cookies as he moved, "The officers will arrive shortly to escort you to the door and return your personal effects. Please arrive at Beacon's gates in two days, by no later than eight o'clock in the morning. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another young hero to meet with tonight. Have a nice evening, Naruto, and do keep safe."

"Sure thing, Teach!" Naruto's grin was almost infectious, Ozpin found, but his face remained relatively impassive as he shut the door behind him. He glanced down at his empty mug, noting idly that he should grab another fresh cup of coffee before he headed to go rescue Ruby from Glynda. With that in mind, he made his way to the lounge the police station sported, where he hoped to find a coffee maker capable of crafting at least a decent pot of his favored drink. As he walked, he reflected back on the interesting young man he'd just met.

'A young man who tries to best me at my own game—how rare,' Ozpin wore the ghost of a smile, "This year is shaping up to be quite interesting."

~.~.~

So, just to let you know how slow I am in writing these things, I have had this idea in my head literally since the end of Season 1 of RWBY. It took me a month—literally a month's worth of time, over 43,836 minutes according to Word—to write this chapter and, as I sit here and type this sentence, I STILL have to go back and edit the entire 18,000 words that this thing turned into. I was going to have this be a prologue until I realized, "Hey, I'm already way too deep into this thing to not make it the first official chapter, soooooooo…"

Ugh.

I know it's been awhile and I do apologize for that, but real life comes first for someone who will be forced to actually enter the work force and support himself in just a few months. I had a manual labor job that kept me from doing any real writing over the summer, a ton of papers (do yourself a favor and do not double-major in two writing intensive fields…and then pick a minor in a third writing intensive field) due during spring semester of last year, and a wedding to worry about (no, I did not get married. I pity the poor woman who actually wants to date the thing that is writing this), so I've been rather busy. Sadly, just this coming week, I have three papers due and a three hour lab to complete, which will lead to a final project in one lab, and I have to start working towards a history project and two more final papers before next week.

Yay.

Anyway, for those of you who are readers of Fearful Symmetry, my other mess, please do not worry. It hasn't been abandoned. In fact, despite my last computer literally dying of spontaneous combustion last year and costing me all 15,000 words I had on the fourth chapter of it, I am currently sitting at around 22,000 words for the newly improved chapter four. And, writing chapter 4, I have come to realize that I hate writing fights that involve guns when I have to keep the physics at least somewhat realistic. Honestly, the confrontation between Naruto and Freed is the only thing that's holding me back from just posting the chapter. I have been writing it, editing it, looking over it and realizing that I absolutely hate what I've written, deleting it all, and starting all over again on the fight for the past six months. I think I might be legally insane by this point. So, yes, it is coming, just as soon as I can finally settle on a version of the fight I like or I just decide to burn the whole ship down with me aboard and post the chapter without the fight. I guess if I did that, I'd just have to write the fight scene next chapter, but I digress. One of those two things will happen and soon.

Moving onto my newest work, All Along the Watchtower, part of why I wanted to do this crossover (beside the fact that this idea was burning a hole in my head), was because I think it would be interesting to handle the world of RWBY. I mean, it's basically a post-apocalyptic sort of world, with only four stable civilizations across the entirety of Remnant. Is no one else interested in what the politics must be like between the four kingdoms that literally run the world? Competing for resources, building a military, expanding on unclaimed territory, subterfuge, all while maintaining the façade of peace. I'm really hoping we get to see a bit more into the governments of the kingdoms. I wanted to make a story where that shows how the politics of that world has shaped a line of characters, with each character inheriting the strengths and curses that another had to endure.

Anyway, long story short, I like RWBY and wanted to do a crossover with it because of that, an idea I had, and I read some other good crossovers with it.

But please, by all means, review and tell me what you guys thought. I know some of you probably won't like the present-to-flashback scene changing, but honestly there is a lot of backstory surrounding the story and I didn't want to have to wade through it all for about six or seven chapters before we got to the present, where the actual RWBY characters appear in the plot. I'm sure you all wouldn't want to read that either. It's a crossover! You came here to see characters interact! This is just my way of doing that while actually getting the backstory out and moving forward in the story.

Some of you will also undoubtedly dislike how the Naruto characters are born into the RWBY world, but that's just the simplest way to integrate them. Let's be honest with ourselves, chakra would be so OP in the RWBY world. I know some authors, like YaDingus, have done it very well, but I didn't want to try it.

But now this Author's Note thing is starting to go on longer than some scenes in the chapter, so I'll wrap it up. So, did you like it? Did you hate it? Please tell me what you think.

As always, have a nice day and thanks for stopping by.