The woman below him burned.

She was an inferno, fueled by all the of the inhumanity in this world, threatening to engulf the air itself with the power of her all-consuming fire.

Which is why his broken form could only persist, if only to snuff out the flame that was the obsession of his hate before it could burn this forsaken world to ash.

His mother had never told him to not play with fire. It was a plain enough rule that it remained unspoken amongst the Arc clan, and he wasn't thickheaded enough to ignore such a core concept of any developing child. He was justifiably afraid of what both drove and destroyed mankind with equal measure. Fire was progress and annihilation, meant to be feared and respected no matter how efficiently the people of Remnant harnessed it.

That, and ever since his eldest sister burned down half of the Arc manor in one of her experiments, claiming her life and that of their father, none of the remaining progeny were even allowed to handle matches. To think that the strong, confident, humble huntsman that was Aurum Arc died in a futile effort to save his sister Saffron killed something within him. Something far more vital than his innocence or childlike naivety, that even now he couldn't name. It showed him the power of fire, and that no man, however strong or powerful, is immune to the inevitability of death.

How his sense of reason and doubt could be ignored by such a profound hate, he couldn't understand. He saw her golden eyes, faced her condescending smile, and embraced every emotion his mind shouted at him to ignore without any hesistation.

A blackened, smoking hand held the woman down below by the throat. Fingers drove themselves like daggers into her pale, delicate flesh as the same quaking arm pushed downward with all its might. Bones creaked until he was sure that fingers snapped and joints tore from the strain itself, but his hand clamped down all the harder as she struggled.

She thrashed wildly, hands like flaming talons raking across his face and body in an attempt to find purchase, creating cuts and gashes that cauterized instantly. He roared as the blood upon his skin boiled and the flesh of his arms simmered and crackled and steamed, all his nerves screaming. Every drop of blood left in his body pooled beneath them, and somehow he resisted the tempting darkness. He faced her assault, the pain only serving to enforce his deadlock upon her neck, even as dark spots began to swim in his vision.

Leaving his other hand free to do what was necessary.

Crocea Mors might be a smoldering pile of slag, but a sword wasn't required at this point.

The first punch hurt, flames erupting from his fist as he arced the same arm backwards, the fingernails of his left hand burrowing into her slender neck.

But the only thing of importance was that it didn't hurt as much the second time around.

His right fist pounded into her gorgeous face relentlessly despite the flaring pain, his heavy blows sending blood splattering and fragments of teeth scattering across the scorched ground. He listened to the sound of her high cheekbones shattering further and further with each tremendous blow, heard the crunching of cartilage in her already broken nose as he smashed it to a bloody ruin, and endured the feeling of his knuckles imploding from the force of his every strike.

Yet those glowing eyes stared at him with all of the unbridled hatred they could manage, defiance and ire glistening at the forefront of everything she consciously held to bear.

And a hint of something else. Something far more primal and relevant that danced at the edge of her golden orbs. Seconds, minutes, hours; he didn't know how long his gaze bored into hers, but by the end of it all he found himself roaring with laughter. The pain and anguish were lost to the howling winds and crimson sky, for what he saw was something he desired and could relate to.

Fear. A sense of panic hidden below the veneer that was her meticulously crafted façade. She was stronger than him by perhaps twentyfold, but he saw that vestige of emotion lurking to where she might not even recognize it herself. To think that he—the weakest, the fraud, the dunce—could cause such an emotion to arise from the person he hated more than loathing could possibly attest to? He laughed until the shattered ribs puncturing his lungs caused him to cough enough blood to contrast her porcelain skin. Until the hundreds of thousands of Grimm below roared in unison with the reverie of his madness.

He laughed until those baleful orbs dimmed, until her soft curses faded into grunts and gasps, and even until her neck creaked and inevitably snapped under the strain of his might. But even that wasn't enough, for his heart and the fading embers of his love wouldn't allow it. Precious, agonizing seconds were spent reaching for a surviving shard of Crocea Mors, the sharp edges still molten and scalding, but he grasped it all the same. Dull, amber eyes watched him as he slammed the smoldering shard into her chest. There was no gasp, she did not cry out as he buried the remnants of his most precious weapon into her heart and lungs.

And he despised the thought.

He did it again. And again. Over and over, until his attacks lost cohesion, his strikes landing onto her face and the ground itself. He hacked, sliced, and stabbed until her visage was but a tattered collective of blood, bone, and brain. Golden eyes, somehow untouched, stared at him accusingly, filled with blatant agony and fear, but he couldn't care. The pain of the hand grasping his face was negligible, the blood pooling from the wound easily ignored as the light and glow in her beautiful orbs finally faded to nothingness.

And for the first time in seven years, even as he felt the embrace of death closing in, Jaune Arc felt alive.

He arose from her battered corpse to greet the darkened world, the crimson glow of the shattered moon casting it in a harsh, malignant light. Fire and blood dominated the scene, the black slate that was the ground cratered and oozing from her blows and heat. The beautiful veranda that hosted their fight was a ruin—its chairs, tables, and columns all shattered to nothing. It smelled of copper and acrid smoke, the scent of death burning his nostrils with every heaving breath.

He staggered once, twice, before his quivering legs gained some sense of stability. Blood sloshed beneath him as he reached a respectable hunch, but he ignored it, instead focusing on a vision that refused to escape the darkness encapsulating it. Precious seconds were spent standing unsteadily, until finally the dark, sporadic spots faded to a blurry haze.

"Do you think they would have wanted this?"

In an instant adrenaline was pumping through his system, the roar of his blood audible over the howling winds. Yet the trusty, reliable blade of his house wasn't at his side as he went to grasp it, and the sharp pivot he took to face behind him only managed to be a drunken sway, his feet catching on themselves as he stumbled.

"Is this what you are? Is this the true face of the man halting humanity's inevitable extinction?"

He reared back, disfigured hands swinging wildly, eyes animalistic and frenzied.

Only for his fists to strike nothing but the open air.

"Is this all you can manage?" Is what it asked as he swirled, hands tightened enough to cause fingers to shatter, his teeth clenched hard enough to where he knew his jaw fractured from the strain. "I'd laugh if it weren't so pathetic," the voice whispered into his right ear, hot breath tickling his already fried nerves. He grasped his neck, consumed by the rage destroying him, and tore. Something screamed in the purest agony he could ever understand, red filling his vision, but nothing quelled the harsh, deep, basso profundo haunting him.

"When has this not been your fault?" It begged him to answer as his blue eyes fell to the floor.

"Stop," he whispered hoarsely, using his voice for what felt like the first time in years. It hurt; everything was a blight, consumed by an anguish that ensnared both body and mind.

"You didn't stop when she died," it stabbed at the rawest, deepest wound it could find.

"Nor when Ren laid on the rocks of Vacuo, begging you to end the insanity!" It slashed at the last vestiges of empathy he could bring to bear.

"Or when Nora asked you to see her lover one last time!" It sliced away at the pragmatism that killed more than it could ever possibly save.

"Would you just shut the fuck up!" He screamed at the top of his lungs, eyes boring into everything and nothing as they glanced to and fro. He felt something breaking, shattering, but couldn't stop it no matter how hard his strategic mind rushed to rationalize the damage.

After several agonizing seconds his gaze gravitated towards the woman a few meters away, or what was once a human being.

He stared into Cinder Fall's lifeless eyes, the faintest wisps of the Fall Maiden's powers dissipating with an afterglow of glittering gold. Why was it necessary for him to face her alone, when he had a team ready and willing to help him? Who had technically abandoned whom as he stated his desire to utterly annihilate the corpse below, no matter how much it might jeopardize his plan or end with his death? The odds were against him, the deck stacked so high, the chance of victory so near zero, that it was beyond suicidal.

It was a death sentence, and no one would be left if he failed to salvage the world from total destruction.

"And whose fault is that?" It added on one last time, a raspy laugh echoing across the marble walls, though he wished it weren't telling the truth. JNPR, sans him, was dead. RWBY was gone, lost to the wind. CFVY, CRDL, and SSSN all ate the dirt three years ago, with himself as the acting commander of an operation that he swore would save them all.

He'd been so foolishly idealistic back then.

There was no protecting everyone, no matter his strength or adaptability.

On his part, it couldn't be called cynicism anymore. The world had teetered on the edge of an unfathomable abyss ever since Beacon fell, and despite their endeavors and all of the blood spilled to save it, the four left to carry the torch could only do so much. The Huntsmen of years passed had either fallen or faded into obscurity at this point, desperate to live out their remaining years in solitude as the curtains over Remnant began their slow descent. Only Atlas remained standing amongst it's sister kingdoms, and that it had turned into a totalitarian hell-hole in the years since only spelled its doom in the near future.

The world they fought to save wasn't a world worth saving anymore, despite Ren and Nora's hopes, and Ruby's obvious delusions back when they were all still alive. But Jaune, once the dense and bumbling idiot, saw that there was no turning back. The Four Maidens were dead, the Relics lost to the enemy, and the last bastion of Humanity was under siege from every flank and even from within. He had been disillusioned ever since she died, and the gnawing doubt within him had grown until his strategic mind had finally seen every conceivable outcome.

There was no chance of victory, not even a pyrrhic one, damn the irony.

Too much had already been lost.

Jaune Arc was all remained of Beacon, the last descendant of the greatest heroes the world had ever known, and he struggled against a fate that threatened to consume everything that remained of what he held dear. There was no honor, and certainly not any mercy left for those who destroyed everything that made him wish to be anything but someone who would punish them for their transgressions.

For instilling such a cold, abyssal fury within him. A hatred that only seemed to grow and grow with every beat of his shuddering, failing heart. He wanted to scream, to cry out to the gods for all this misery and death, but his voice just wouldn't come. He felt his labored breathing yet he felt himself suffocating on the memories poisoning every thought.

Did it even matter anymore? Everything just continued to fall to pieces. He held back the tide but even still he was losing both the war and the faith of the people he sacrificed everything to save. His friends, his love, his body, heart, soul; he'd given it all for what seemed like nothing. Why was it so hard, and why did he just want it to end?

Mangled hands grasped at his scorched face, his every breath a heave as it all began rushing back. Blood smeared into his already soaked hair, his eyes bulging as he felt the world rapidly falling away. The pressure in his skull was reaching a crescendo, and it simply would not abate.

He was going insane, or perhaps he already was.

Why was he here again?

Why was he crying?

"Jaune."

His head snapped sharply to the right, fist already raised as a precaution, and cobalt met alizarin. Beautiful orbs stared at him without the barest hint of judgement, black hair fluttering in the wind, smelling of lilacs and the things of the night. She said his name so simply, so calmly despite the brutality he must have dealt and endured that he knew this was the end of something truly precious to him as a human being.

He reached, and like always she was there to catch him.

Why was she here, he wanted to ask. Would she stay by his side through the end, he wished to beg the only figment of his fragmented past that refused to leave him.

He settled for smiling a watery smile, and she nodded back as she held his head to her bosom, her stoic countenance cracking only slightly. Tears glistened in her sad eyes, her face unchanging, and he mouthed to her a quiet apology.

She was there to plant a kiss onto his chapped, bloody lips. There to hug him when he began to shake from the frigidness and convulsions racking his broken body.

He didn't know when he collapsed, but she held him close until he finally embraced the dark.

AN: I can't say I'm not a sadist, but a death of a close friend and my own mental health deteriorating made me have to write something.

This was supposed to include Salem, but I left this open-ended enough to where I might continue one day.