It's been a while, readers. I lost that spark for some time, looking back I find my previous works... Lacking, you could say. I've gotten more of a drive to write now, so we'll see what I post from now on. For now though, a very much short and sorrowful tale for you all. Of a man with no lives to save but those to come.

A final warrior stood in a desolate land. A tattered red cloak rested on his back.

Silver eyes. A torn red cloak. Blood pouring from the dragon-forged wound.

His armor glinted in the light, made up of the shattered remnants of what once was.

A shattered hammer. Vibrant hair. Pink clothes turned scarlet.

The man looked forward, eyes filled with hatred, head held high.

A rolling head. Black hair. Two dull blades attached to now bent firearms.

The grip on his blade tightened, twisting as it had plunged cruelly through the witch.

Champion of victory. A twisted shaft of glass to the sternum. Ashes in the air.

Black sclera dimmed as red irises lost their light.

Red eyes. An empty flask. A horde of ancient Grimm killed in rage.

A shaking hand crept up to his throat.

Hands strong enough to shatter mountains. Bones shattered. Bloody hair scattered into the winds.

The warrior slammed his elbow forward, breaking the pale hand.

A machine of man. Broken to cogs. Green eyes dimmed to a darkness akin to starless night.

A family of beowolves charged forward.

Family torn. Sisters slaughtered. Kin devoured.

The hunter growled deep, his very aura burning them to cinders.

Amber eyes. Crimson dress. Killed by dismemberment for a thirst unquenched.

He pulled back his blade, aura suffusing it in full.

Aura-lord. Weaver of magic. Even he had run out of time when the witch got her dues.

A single swing, and her legs were severed.

Legs of steel. Foul deceiver. Metal born kin slayer ground to dust in the gears of beacon.

Two more strikes, arms fell.

Tailless Assassin. Scorpion born. Worshiper to a false god put to the stake.

Another blow, the witch disemboweled.

Feline ears. A black bow. Entrails fell as swift as her race.

A stab, ripping apart hearts.

The good witch. Slayer of the scientist. Heart devoured by a horde of Goliaths.

A dancing, swift slash followed, beheading the Grimm queen.

Graceful dancer. Glyph shaper. Yet no speed alone could stop the dragon, in the end.

A final pulse of aura tore her very soul apart.

The hunters of Remnant. Army eternal. All souls devoured by the Grimm seer. All but one.

The last hunter panted, Grimm watching in shock as their lady ceased to exist.

With a deep breath, Jaune Arc looked up in renewed fury. The Grimm dragon, beast of Salem, king of Grimm, glared back in much the same manner. His hand lightly pressed into his sword, twisting its pommel.

The blade changed fundamentally, twisting from Crocea Mors into a blade almost unholy. It was a weapon forged with one purpose, and was thus given a name from an ancient blade made to do just that. A blade forged to slay a dragon, Gram.

After a long, bloody battle Jaune Arc laid upon the ground, breathing heavily upon the dissolving corpse of the Grimm Lord. His eyes glinted happily, finally having avenged his friends and family.

Time passed, as he found himself once more at the ruins of Beacon. An endless field of graves stretched as far as one could see. But only a few mattered the most to him. The people of Vale had started to rebuild, now not under the threats of the Grimm. Maybe, it was for the best that aura was forgotten. With a sad smile, he slowly removed his armor for one last time. RWBY. JNPR. Only a single letter was left in the end.

Jaune Arc laid his blade and armor to rest next to the graves of those he lost, his comrades in arms.

"They don't need hunters anymore."

And with that last Truth, he left the place behind. Soon the sands of time would wear on, hunters becoming a myth, the Grimm a tale told to children to frighten them, and Jaune arc himself becoming a legend. Dust would eventually run dry, and the graves at beacon would waste into nothing.

Only faint records of the Grimm slayer would be found, of a man held in near-mythological reverence. Centuries would pass when an old building would be found long since covered by the earth. A blade named Gram, a suit of ancient armor, a tattered cloak of red, all in surprisingly good shape.

A graveyard of heroes, saviors to mankind.

A graveyard to the ideal of hunters.

A graveyard to all of them but one.

And inscribed on an ancient technology, powered by a material that no longer existed, was a story. One of loss and joy and triumphs and failures.

A story of a man who had no lives to save but those to come, at the end of a journey long since past into legend.

A small, fairly simple story to get back into the swing of things. Please review, and thank you for taking the time to read it.