Chapter Twenty-Eight

"Die! You huma—"

The scream was cut short as a bullet tore through the terrorist's head. He collapsed, blending with the others. Just another body in the pile, no different from the hundred before him, or the million that had fallen in this endless cycle of hate and ignorance.

Another insurgent charged at Ironwood, machete swinging wide. He sidestepped, his pistol shifting to his other hand. His free hand seized the man's wrist, twisting hard. Crack. The machete hit the ground, and Ironwood slammed the gun into the attacker's chest. One shot, one body hit the dirt.

A glare was sent toward him before the light went out for good. 

Ironwood tasted bile, as if swallowing manure. These deaths were meaningless. These weren't warriors. They were fanatics, mindlessly fighting in a war they didn't understand. And yet, they were all the same: tragedies born of hate and ignorance.

 But it wasn't the time for that.

His emotions didn't matter. He was a pillar.

The comms were down, but Ironwood had already sent the message. "Hold your position. I'll take care of the rest."

And he did.

Time seemed to stretch as his semblance sharpened his senses. His pistol barked, each shot fast and accurate. Every bullet found its mark. He didn't miss. Not with the years of experience and cold commitment he had.

A sniper fell from a rooftop, his skull shattered by a single bullet. A fox Faunus, bombs in hand, didn't even have time to react before her explosives hit the dirt, harmless. A battle-ax wielder was disarmed with a brutal kick, followed by a point-blank shot.

Ironwood moved. Fast, his feet left the ground. A mole Faunus burst from under the dirt, arms swinging beneath his him. Two shots. The first cracked his aura, the second splattered his brain. He dropped low as an axe came for his head. He spun, a quick strike to the knee dropped the attacker. Another body. Another shot.

He looked up. A woman in better armor (an officer, no doubt, in whatever crude hierarchy a group of terrorists possessed) came at him next. Her weapon was raised, then blasted out of her grasp in the same second. Face twisted in rage, she lunged with talons, but Ironwood was much quicker. A shot rang out; empty. The chamber was spent. He sidestepped as she tried to strike. The ground beneath him exploded as she followed through. He ducked, letting her kick miss. He elbowed her in the neck. She choked.

Without hesitation, he followed up. A punch to the temple sent her reeling. Her aura cracked. He didn't waste time. A knife in his hand, three thrusts. Liver. Lung. Heart. Her aura shattered, and she crumpled.

Done.

All southern gates were secured. The enemies had been neutralized, and the only thing left was the civilians being evacuated.

In the midst of the broken bodies and scattered corpses, Ironwood stood still, his hand reaching for his comms before he hesitated and lowered it. The comms were dead. The battlefield was silent now, save for the distant crackle of gunfire. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to be here. It wasn't supposed to go like this.

But it had.

He took no joy in taking their lives. No sane man wished to be the one to choose who lived and who died. But this evening, he didn't need to. The White Fang did it shamelessly. They had made the choice to degrade themselves, to become nothing more than fanatics, to reduce themselves to beasts.

He was a Huntsman. It was his calling to put down beasts.

They ran straight ahead into his home and started wreaking havoc. They attack his proud Atlas on a day of celebration. Protecting Atlas? That was his duty.

The weight of that duty pressed down on him, but not in a way that felt burdensome. It was a weight he'd carried for years, one he wore proudly. The numerous had shown him what was important—it wasn't about the cause, or glory, or justification. It was about survival. It was about protecting those who depended on you, the people who fought beside you.

And when it came to Atlas, that pride ran deep. The city was his to defend. All that threatened it, no matter how ruthless, had to be eradicated. There was no room for weakness.

That was his obligation, and the obligation of every man and woman of this glorious nation.

Duty meant sacrifice. And Ironwood knew that better than anyone. The choices he made, the lives he took, those were the heavy decisions of leadership. And in the end, those decisions were necessary.

 He couldn't help but feel a small surge of pride, remembering his own words: True strength isn't measured by power alone, but by perseverance. The true mettle of a man is forged in the fires of impossible choices.

A flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a distant explosion. Ironwood smirked as the familiar sound of chaos reached his ears.

'A happy law-abiding citizen,' he allowed himself a snort. He had underestimated a certain man, it seemed.

A fault he'd gladly admit.

'Perhaps a tad bit too much,' his smile turned into a bemused thin line as he recalled the man spilling classified information that the number of people or individuals cleared to even glimpse at could be counted on both hands.

But fortunately, he was familiar with the other man's acts to understand more than enough that Jacques had meant to blurt them out when no one else could hear.

A capable ally was not to be underestimated, and Ironwood was more than happy to admit that.

He turned to walk toward his men, heading for the rally point where the security and his men were supposed to gather.

Ironwood approached the rally point, a hastily constructed command post just inside the secured perimeter. Floodlights bathed the area in harsh light, throwing jagged shadows over soldiers, medics, and security personnel scrambling to keep the situation under control.

The location was intentionally small. Expanding operations beyond the perimeter was too risky at this moment. Escorting civilians out or sending in air transport like Bullheads amid ongoing gunfire and explosions was completely out of the question.

A soldier skidded to a stop in front of Ironwood, snapping a crisp salute. His armor was scuffed, and dirt streaked his face, but his posture was sharp, Ironwood noted with approval. "General Ironwood, sir! The gates are shut, and the perimeter is secure! Reports from operatives in other units indicate that the south, west, and main entrances have all been locked down as well in tribute to Jacques Schnee's unit, though confirmation is impossible at this time. The Bullhead pad is also secured, thanks to Grumann Otto and Jonathan Colebrook."

Keeping his expression neutral, Ironwood moved his gaze toward the chaos beyond the floodlights. "Good work. Relay to all units: maintain full defensive readiness until every last civilian is evacuated. No exceptions. A breach at this point is unacceptable."

"Yes, sir!" the soldier barked before running off to set off the communication flares.

Ironwood allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. Jacques was somewhat expected, but it was heartening that at least some of the nobility in Atlas seemed to understand the importance of stepping up when the situation called for it. It pleased him that Otto and Colebrook had contributed, even if he suspected their motivations were less about altruism or duty and more about one-upping each other.

Spite or not, they were leagues ahead of the typical aristocrats, not too far away from him to the side, whining about inconveniences rather than appreciating the medics healing them or the soldiers risking their lives for their safety.

Still, the situation gnawed at him. As arrogant and self-serving as Atlas' upper crust could be, they weren't to be messed with. The Faunus should have known better than to target.

Had the White Fang finally lost whatever thread of sanity they had? They had always been extremists, but this move defied logic. Even if it succeeded, the retaliation would be merciless, total. The kind of retribution Atlas would bring down would destroy everything they had built.

So why?

His mind lingered on the inconsistencies. The White Fang's tactics were too precise, and their movements were too coordinated. The one or two gimmicks they'd deployed—the Aura-receptive weaponry far beyond their typical arsenal, the systematic sabotage of Atlas' communications; The White Fang couldn't have done this alone.

This wasn't just their fight.

It was Watts. Ironwood was sure of it. His nasty fingerprints were all over this operation. But the exploding Grimm he'd come across were too intelligent and were supplied with Dust crystals that would've cost millions, which pointed out that Watts didn't work in isolation. It seemed that even Watts was a piece on someone else's board, a pawn serving a higher power.

The Dark Queen.

This wasn't just another raid. This was part of something much bigger. Something far worse.

Ironwood cursed under his breath, his steps quickening and fears of the worst already bubbling under his skin as he strode further into the cramped command post. "Is it done yet?" he addressed the communications crew.

"Sir! Not yet, sir." One of the technicians looked up, his hands hovering over the ancient console. It was a dusted and old thing from the days when the fears of the war reigniting were still strong. It belonged in a museum, but the latest scare with Watts made it necessary to keep it in case of an emergency. They never thought it'd be this soon.

"A large-scale broadcast is out of the question, but we should be able to support a single direct link. Even then, it might—"

"It doesn't matter," Ironwood cut in, raising a hand to stop him. His tone left no room for argument. "Patch me through to Central Command."

The comms officer shifted uneasily as Ironwood's gaze bore down on him. "Sir, contacting the command center might not be possible while the systems are down, but...but I can try linking you to a smaller operations cell in the headquarters. They are somewhat outdated, but their systems are separated from the main network enough to work."

"Do it," The general ordered. Anything was better than nothing, and he needed his orders carried out as soon as possible.

After what felt like an eternity, the officer straightened. "Connection established, sir."

Ironwood stepped forward, gripping the edge of the console. The line buzzed for a moment before a dreary voice answered. [This is Sector Control, Ops Cell A37. Who—]

"This is General Ironwood," he interrupted, his voice cutting through the static like a blade. "What's the situation?"

The voice on the other end stammered, a brief pause betraying their shock. [G-General! Sir! Uh, the situation is… complicated, we're told. Systems are crashing across multiple sectors, but they're regaining control. Most of our personnel are tied up maintaining order in the city and securing the festival zones.] Good. [Communication with all units is spotty at best. We've sent reinforcement to your location, but they are limited at best.]

Ironwood's jaw tightened. "Focus on evacuations and contain the chaos. Do not let this spill into the rest of the capital. Deploy the Huntsmen-in-training to assist, but keep them clear of active combat zones. Understood?"

"Understood, sir," came the reply.

"Good. Prioritize these locations…" Ironwood rattled off a series of coordinates near critical power plants and densely populated civilian areas. "Double the patrols in those zones. Ensure they're secured at all costs."

He paused for a moment, his expression darkening. "And one more thing," he added, leaning closer to the console. "Send five squads of men—you understand, not a single woman among them—equipped with the heaviest artillery available to guard and surround the Akarios Substation."

The officer on the other end hesitated, clearly processing the unexpected order.

"Nothing is to enter or leave that site," Ironwood continued, his voice cold and unyielding. "They have my authorization to kill anything that approaches without clearance. No exceptions. Relay that order immediately."

"Yes, Gen—!!!!" Static noise erupted in his ears. The connection was cut off.

Ironwood turned his head to the startled officer, a question on his lips, when an explosion rang out on the far horizon. Wide-eyed, he moved his gaze to the east, and his heart sank.

In the distance, several miles away they were, not too far from the academy, a cloud of smoke and fire was rising in the cold air of Atlas, where the most prized possession of Atlas was kept. His worst fear came to be a reality.

Fria...

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Winter was strong.

Some might call it arrogance. Others might dismiss it as the fiery pride of youth. But Winter Schnee didn't need to brag. She had no need to prove herself with words when her actions spoke louder.

She was strong.

From the time she could walk, she had been trained by her grandfather, Nicholas Schnee—a legend in Atlas, a huntsman whose skill was only matched by his charisma. A wolf in sheep's clothing, she'd heard those with less favorable opinions of her family call him. By the time most children learned to write their names, Winter had already mastered the basics of wielding a sabre.

At combat school, she outpaced her peers effortlessly. At Atlas Academy, she graduated at the top of her class, hailed by instructors as the second coming of her grandfather. Mission after mission, she proved her worth, earning accolades from soldiers, huntsmen, and even the press.

Her meteoric rise through the ranks of the Atlas military was unprecedented. In just four years after earning her license, she had become a candidate to inherit the powers of the Winter Maiden in a clear reflection of her prowess, discipline, and unshakable resolve.

But Winter knew better than to believe her own hype. She wasn't the strongest. Not yet.

She was talented, exceptionally so, but experience wasn't something that could be rushed. There were veterans like General Ironwood and Clover Ebi, the leader of the Ace Operatives, whose mastery came from years of trial and error. She could challenge them, make them work for their victories, but to best them outright was another matter. She was more than capable of admitting that it was a fight where she was the underdog.

And then there was Fria.

The fully-realized Winter Maiden was a force of nature. Fria was a living storm that could devastate armies single-handedly. Behind her warm smiles and grandmotherly affection lay a raw, untamed power capable of reducing even the most skilled fighters to ash. Winter knew that Fria wasn't just her better—she was on a different plane entirely.

Still, Winter Schnee was one of the best fighters in the world, rivaled by very few.

Her skills placed her among an elite class of warriors, a distinction that only a handful of people could claim. She wasn't untouchable—yet—but her name carried weight in Atlas and beyond.

A prodigy, she was called.

A monster.

There was no way she would ever lose to anyone dumb enough to associate themselves with a terrorist group like the White Fang.

Their tactics were predictable, their forces disorganized—a rabble of bitter animals and misguided zealots. Winter had faced them enough times to know how this story ended. Victory was always swift, and failure was never an option.

But it seemed even the dregs of the world seemed to have their very own monsters.

Winter barely had time to react.

The cackling madman lunged at her from the sky, faster than any Faunus she slew today, faster than anyone she'd ever fought. A scorpion-like stinger at the end of his tail whipped toward her head with lethal speed.

Her sabre was up in an instant, deflecting the strike with a shower of sparks. She stepped back, bracing herself, her grip tightening on her weapon.

"Too slow!" the man cackled. The curved blades at his wrist lashed out and aimed at her throat.

Winter twisted to the side, narrowly dodging. She countered with a swipe of her sabre, but he ducked under it like he'd been waiting for the move.

His tail shot out again. This time, it grazed her arm, tearing through her uniform. Her left knee bent, and the right rose, slamming into it, causing it to pass without breaking the skin. She glared at him but didn't falter.

Her palm slammed into the ground, and she spun; her heel stabbed into his side. It barely did any damage as his feet left the ground, and she felt him roll with the hit, landing several feet away, not even inconvenienced.

His golden eyes gleamed with unhinged delight. "Oh, you're fun!" He laughed.

Winter rose to her full height, her scowl still strong. "I'm surprised," she said coldly. "To think one of your filth could actually prove to be a half-decent fighter. But I suppose filth has to get lucky eventually."

 Tyrian's face softened into a frown, and he let out a sigh, one hand on his hip, the other tapping his chin.

 "Oof," he said at last. "I'm afraid to tell you, blatant discriminatory phrases like that are out of style, little Schnee."He shook his head and feigned disappointment.

"Bit problematic, don't you think?" He leaned forward with a grin, "Someone might think you're the villain in all this," he continued before a laugh forced itself out of his throat. "Oh, but don't stop on my account. I live for this kind of tension~! I'm absolutely basking in your disdain."

"A madman, then," Winter said with a sneer, tilting her head. "It makes sense now why the White Fang thought it was a good idea to venture here and try to kill their betters, seeing how their best is a man of little intelligence and even less class. Are you satisfied now that you've led them to their slaughter?"

Tyrian's laughter echoed like a broken bell. "Oh, my dear little Schnee, comparing me to these animals? How cruel! And worse still, accusing me of aligning with them!" He clutched at his chest in mock pain. "You wound me!"

"Winter tightened her grip on her sabre, and her sneer remained unwavering. "Interesting, considering you fit right in with their ilk, deranged, fanatical, and ultimately in need of being put down."

He tilted his head as his grin widened. "Oh no, don't misunderstand me. I enjoyed watching those poor fools scramble to their deaths. But me, working with them? No, no, no. I'm a free agent, little Schnee, here on a far grander mission than their petty squabbles."

"Explain," Winter said flatly, stepping forward. Her blade rose slightly, the flat of it resting against the back of her free hand as she shifted her stance and adjusted her style. Her eyes followed the Faunus as he sauntered in a slow loop around her.

Tyrian's grin widened as he completed his circle, his tail flicking erratically behind him. "Oh, but where's the fun in spoiling the surprise? Let's just say I'm here to deliver a message. One that will ripple through every corner of this frozen wasteland. But answer me this, Specialist Winter Schnee," he hissed her name, his golden eyes narrowing, and his voice trailed off, and..."Are you of faith? Because if not, then rejoice…"

He vanished from her sight.

"Because a prophet of the true Goddess stands before you!" he declared with maddening excitement as he appeared suddenly inside her guard.

 Winter didn't even have the time to be confused.

Before her mind caught up, her body reacted. The instinct honed over years of combat kicked in. She brought her sabre up just in time to block his blades, the metal ringing as it deflected off her weapon, narrowly missing her throat.

She cursed in her mind when his sudden strength lifted her off the ground.

He pressed forward, using his tail to lash at her sides, keeping her off balance. Winter shifted her weight, twisting to avoid the next blow.

The lunatic's tail shot forward, aiming for her face, but Winter activated a glyph mid-motion. The platform of light redirected her trajectory, and she spun above his attack, coming gracefully behind him.

Before Tyrian could recover, another glyph appeared at Winter's side. A shimmering, white Ursa emerged, its jaws snapping at him. He grinned, flicking his tail to swipe at the summoned creature, only for Winter to seize the moment.

Her sabre came down, but his wrist blade blocked it, twisting the blade and trapping it in place. Before he could capitalize on the opportunity, a sharp gasp escaped his lips as her father's massive dark dog surged from her shadow, clamping its fangs around his shin and forcing him to his knees.

Winter disengaged, leaping backward, her feet hitting the ground and propelling her forward again. With her arm freed, Tyrian slammed his fist into the Ursa, shattering it in a burst of white sparks. But from the wreckage, her father's huge white wolf slammed the Scorpion into the ground, its jaws and claws tearing at his aura, forcing him down with its weight. The Faunus's tail twitched, but a glyph trapped it in place before the tail could even lash out.

Winter cocked her blade back, thrusting it forward with force. Tyrian's eyes widened as she struck, a massive cloud of dust and debris exploding from the impact.

Moments later, Winter emerged from the dust, her feet skimming the ground as she skidded back. Her scowl remained, and the white wolf snarled at her side. Blood dripped down the side of her face, but she didn't flinch.

Tyrian's tail whipped through the dust, scattering it, his grin widening. His aura glowed bright, matching the violet gleam in his eyes. He patted the dust off his shoulders and walked ahead. He spared a glance at the huge dark dog, which seemed to be on the verge of collapsing. Her father's summon appeared barely coherent, fur flickering between solid and shadow.

"Just as I expected, an aura construct," Tyrian chuckled, raising his hand. It glowed with a sickly pink hue. "This makes it all the more easy."

He touched the dog's back, and the creature melted into shadows. Winter's surprise cost her; in the blink of an eye, Tyrian's blade was pressed against her eye. She tried to move, but the touch of his palm made her aura sluggish.

The blade neared her eye—shi-!.

"Weiss!" her mother's voice shouted from a distance, full of distress. The sound startled her, and surprisingly more so, Tyrian. His grin widened as, the madman that he was, he turned his eyes away from his enemy to scan the clearing, looking for her sister. "The Littler Schnee is here, too?!"

Tyrian's palm left Winter, and her aura stabilized. Without wasting a second, Winter's fist slammed into his exposed cheek with enough force to shatter steel, sending him reeling. From the same fist, a summoning glyph appeared, and a Taijitu lunged, its jaws snapping as it dragged Tyrian's body across the ground, away from her.

Winter's eyes widened in alarm as she turned toward her mother. "Where is Weiss?!"

In the distance, Willow, with her brother in her arms, and a woman Winter remembered as the unpleasant ABC director, stood surrounded by Winter's Griffon and a few of her own summoned birds, their wing. Willow looked almost... sheepish? "Ah, no, Winter. I meant the dog," she said, gesturing awkwardly to where the massive black dog had melted into shadows moments ago.

Winter's scowl deepened. "Mother, this is hardly the time for confusion!"

"Sorry! It doesn't matter!" Willow blurted, her tone rising in urgency. She pointed a trembling finger past Winter. "Ahead! Ahead of you!"

Winter snapped her attention forward just in time to see Tyrian charging out of the debris cloud, his grin feral and his blades gleaming. Her grip tightened on her sabre as she braced herself. "Stay back!" she called sharply to her mother, before raising her blade.

Winter's boots dug into the dirt as she surged forward, meeting Tyrian's charge head-on. Her sabre clashed against his wrist blades in a shower of sparks. The force of her swing nearly pushed him off balance. Nearly.

Tyrian twisted, his tail lashing out. Winter ducked under it. Her blade sliced upward to intercept his next move. He dodged, his foot slamming toward her ribs. She pivoted, taking the hit on her Aura. Her teeth clenched as she swung again, aiming for his exposed side.

Tyrian spun away, laughing. "Oh, you're learning!" His hand darted toward her shoulder, fingertips glowing with that strange pink energy. Winter jerked back just in time, slashing at his extended arm. The tip of her sabre grazed his Aura, leaving a faint ripple.

The White wolf lunged from behind Tyrian, its massive jaws aiming for his leg. He sidestepped and slammed his tail into its side, sending it to the ground. "Ah, clever girl!" he cackled. His hand glowed again, and he tried to touch the dog. Her sabre slammed on top of his forearm like a hammer. He laughed and thrust his arm toward her.

She sidestepped, spun, and bashed her sword into his head only to rebound against his wrist blade.

"A close one!" He giggled.

The white dog surged again, jaws snapping for Tyrian's arm. The Faunus darted aside, his boot slamming into the construct's head with a sickening thud. The dog yelped as it tumbled across the dirt, its form flickering before reforming in a weaker state. Tyrian sneered, unconcerned.

Winter snarled as she broke the deadlock, leaping back and casting a glyph beneath him. The shimmering trap barely lasted a second before Tyrian's wild energy shattered it. Sparks erupted as they clashed again, her sword against his twin wrist blades, neither giving an inch.

"You're so careful," he lamented as their weapons locked. He leaned forward, his strength driving her back one step at a time. "Afraid of my touch? Of what I might do to your precious Aura? How boring! Where's the fun in all this caution?"

Winter gritted her teeth, refusing to rise to his bait. A glyph appeared beneath her feet, and the sudden burst of speed propelled her forward. She slammed her shoulder into Tyrian's chest, forcing him to stumble back.

Her sabre sliced downward in a clean arc, aiming for his exposed midsection, but Tyrian rolled away. His tail whipped out in retaliation, sweeping low to trip her. Winter vaulted over the strike, twisting in mid-air to aim her blade straight for his head.

Tyrian's wrist blades caught her sabre again, sparks flying from the impact. They pushed against each other while his daft laughter filled the air. "Yes!" he roared. "That's it! Show me your fire, Schnee! Give me everything!"

Winter scowled, planting her heel and shoving him back. Her free hand reached out, assisting her father's dog once more. The creature materialized behind Tyrian, and it lunged with a guttural snarl.

The Faunus spun, his tail driving into the dog's side and flinging it aside before it could land a bite. "Piss off, will you?! You don't interest me anymore, you stupid mutt."

A no-look stomp of his foot crushed the spider she sent his way. He turned back to Winter, grinning ear to ear. "A family of pets, is it? How charming!" He attacked again. Winter ducked and sidestepped to keep his hands and that cursed tail away.

Winter gritted her teeth, her sabre deflecting each strike with effort. His ferocity was animalistic, his form was far too wild to be read correctly, and his attacks came from every angle. She sidestepped another vicious tail thrust that took several hair strands, only to find his blades slashing toward her neck again. A glyph flared beneath her, launching her upward just in time.

Tyrian's grin stretched wider as he pressed the attack. "Ah, curse my luck! Why must all the joys of life converge in one place?" he lamented with mock anguish, tears welling in his eyes. "I'm sorry, little Schnee, but I simply cannot feast on the appetizer when the main dish tempts me so!" His blades clashed with her sabre, forcing her back a step.

"Allow me, as a divine messenger, to offer you a piece of advice," he sneered. "Protecting the weak is a sin, and my goddess..." His tail blurred, and Winter's eyes tracked the sudden movement with dawning horror. It wasn't aimed at her—it struck his belt, ripping free a series of chain-linked bombs. "...is a harsh one."

The belt was hurled with terrifying force, not at her or the dog but at her mother and the child behind her.

"No!" Winter shouted, pivoting toward them. "Protect them!" she barked at her Griffon. The summon obeyed instantly, wings spreading wide as it soared to intercept.

The bomb belt struck its mark, detonating in a blinding eruption of fire, smoke, and debris. The shockwave ripped through the clearing, scattering dirt and shattered stone. Her heart sank as the Griffon's glowing form disintegrated, torn apart by the explosion. Residual flames licked at Willow's hastily-cast glyphs. However, the aftershock was enough to fling Willow and Whitley backward, both landing in a heap. Her mother's Aura shimmered before breaking.

"Bastard!" Winter snarled, turning back to Tyrian, her teeth bared. Her Aura flared violently as she surged forward, sabre slicing through the smoke to find its mark.

Tyrian leaned back in a way that should've broken another person's spine. The blade passed over his chest. He thrust his glowing fist in retaliation. The blow was almost amateurish in how choreographed it was. Her hilt batted it away easily, exposing his chest and neck like an amateur. It was a mistake, glaringly obvious. Her instincts screamed for her to capitalize on it.

Her sabre rose, set on making sure that this mistake was his last ever.

A faint clicking sound stopped her mid-swing.

"Are you sure?" Tyrian cackled, making no move to block. But then. Her eyes darted to his wrist, where his hidden weapon hummed to life. A split-second decision froze her blade as the scorpion's grin widened.

The rapid tat-tat-tat of gunfire erupted. Tyrian's wrist weapon unleashed a relentless hail of bullets—not toward her—but toward her mother and Whitley. Winter's heart plunged as she threw herself in their path, her body becoming the only shield left.

The bullets slammed into her upper chest, neck, and face, ripping through her Aura and sending waves of agonizing pain through her body. She gritted her teeth, holding her ground despite the searing heat and the blinding ache rattling her skull.

The gunfire ceased with the telltale click of an empty magazine. Winter staggered, trying to gather her strength, but the precious second she lost was all Tyrian needed.

His palm clamped onto her shoulder, the eerie glow of his Semblance pulsing against her Aura. A hole tore open in her defenses, and before she could react, his stinger plunged into her stomach.

A scream ripped from her throat as molten-hot venom surged into her body. It burned like liquid fire, seeping into her flesh. Her vision blurred as her knees buckled, but sheer fury kept her standing. With a snarl, she bashed the back of her hand into Tyrian's grinning face. The impact sent him skidding across the ground, but the manic gleam in his eyes never dimmed.

Winter fell to one knee, gasping for air. Her Aura flickered, desperately stitching itself back together, but the effort offered little solace. She felt blood trickling from her nose and eyes, her balance failing her.

Winter growled, forcing herself upright despite the venom coursing through her veins. She leveled her sabre at Tyrian, her vision narrowing on the madman.

He laughed, a deranged sound, and dashed toward her again. Her sabre arced, but it was too slow, too weak. He flipped over it with casual ease, and she braced herself for the inevitable strike.

It never came.

Instead, the echo of his cackling retreat reached her ears.

"No!" she yelled, spinning on her heels just in time to see Tyrian bolting toward Whitley's barely kneeling form, his blades drawn back, ready to strike.

"Young master! I haven't forgotten about you!" Tyrian cried, his voice dripping with manic glee. Excitement coursed through his veins. Soon—so soon—he'd have the perfect gift to offer the one man who held his heart.

"HAHAHAHAH-" His laugh warped into a guttural, demonic growl as a massive black blur slammed into him. Tyrian hit the ground with a snarl, the "boorish mutt" snarling and snapping at his arm. To its credit, the bite stung, and Tyrian spared it a sidelong glance as its teeth sank deeper into his flesh.

"Stupid animal," Tyrian hissed, his palm glowing faintly. A moment later, the dog disintegrated into shadowy wisps like its predecessor. He stood, brushing himself off, the grin never leaving his face. "I already told you, dumb animals don't excite me."

He turned and bolted again. Whitley's eyes widened in delayed fear as he realized what was happening. That fear quickly turned to shock as his mother hurled herself into him. The force pushed him, and sent him tumbling away from the incoming attack.

 "Guess I'm taking your head first, My Lady!!"

Tyrian's grin only widened. It didn't matter. The rage of a lover, the wrath of a father; both were utterly perfect, so sweet, so absolutely divine. He welcomed either.

His blades swung down—only for something to shift. A flicker, a presence, a wrongness.

Blood sprayed hot across his face, the edge of his weapon sinking into flesh. The familiar squelching of blood and bones tearing nearly tipped him over the edge.

"Hnngh…" Tyrian moaned, shuddering as pure, divine bloodlust coursed through his senses.

"Dumb animals don't excite you, huh?" the one who truly excited him muttered, his narrowed eyes, sharp and as beautiful as he had expected, even as shadows seemed to drip from his body. The blood on Tyrian's blade ran down his side, but the Schnee patriarch barely flinched. "Guess I'll have to raise the stakes, you cunt."

Tyrian almost collapsed under the pure bliss of the moment. He shuddered, his manic grin splitting his face further as he drove his blade deeper into Jacques' gut. "I've been waiting for you!" he cried out, his voice breathy, ecstatic. "Show me that hatred of yours!"

Jacques, unflinching, grabbed Tyrian's wrist with a vice-like grip. "I'll show you something far worse than hatred, you deranged insect."

In an instant, shadows erupted from Jacques' body, tearing through the ground like jagged claws. Tyrian's grin nearly split his face for the first time as the oppressive energy coiled around him. Jacques leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

"I'm gonna take a fucking shit down your throat, mate."

"Ahn~ ❤"