A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 31

+++

The battle roared on around me, but it had become little more than a distant hum, a dull backdrop to the singular purpose in my head.

All that mattered was him.

Klepht stood at the center of the chaos, barking orders like a man who still believed he could control the storm. His voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding, but it wasn't enough. Not this time.

I moved.

He turned too late. His head snapped toward me, his eyes locking with mine. There it was, that brief flicker of awareness, recognition that trouble had found him. His instincts sparked, calculation flashing across his face—but he was already too slow.

My blade came down. .

He caught it, his arms trembling under the weight of the blow. Steel screamed as it clashed, the impact rippling through the air. His aura flared, golden and bright, the shimmer between us distorting the space like heat waves off scorched earth.

Klepht staggered back, his boots grinding the dirt beneath him. He spat, blood flecking the ground. "Don't you know who you're fucking with?"

I didn't answer. Words were wasted here.

I struck again.

The blow came fast, brutal, a downward arc meant to crush him. Klepht's blade rose just in time, catching it with a loud CLANG. Sparks spat from the collision, his aura flaring under the strain. He growled, leaning into the block, his teeth bared in frustration.

Then I swung forward, headbutting him square in the forehead. THUNK.

His aura shimmered violently under the impact, the golden light rippling unevenly.

"GRAAAH!" His roar ripped through the square, guttural and raw. His aura flared brighter, a blazing sun around him, but it was wild now, uncontrolled. He charged, his sword sweeping wide in a reckless, powerful arc.

I stepped in, meeting his blade with mine. The clash rang out, steel grinding against steel, the impact shaking my arms. My boots dug into the dirt as I held firm, his strength pressing against me like a tidal wave.

The shimmer between us pulsed again, a storm of pressure and heat.

His voice came, venomous and loud. "I am going to fuck and burn everything you hold dear, you filthy fucking animal!"

He drove harder, the weight of his blade grinding against mine. His strength was undeniable, but it was raw, untempered. Flawed.

I let him push. Let him think he had me. My knees bent slightly, my arms trembling just enough to sell the illusion of struggle. His smirk grew, twisted with confidence.

Then I twisted.

I pivoted sharply, letting his momentum carry him forward. His blade dropped, the force of his swing dragging him off balance. His smirk faltered as he stumbled, his body lurching awkwardly to regain footing.

I didn't hesitate.

My elbow drove into his ribs like a hammer. THUMP.

The impact rippled through him, his aura flashing weakly as it absorbed the blow. He gasped, his body jerking to the side, and I followed.

My blade came next. High slash. CLANG. He blocked it, barely. A low sweep. THWACK. He parried, but his movements were slower now, his aura flickering like a flame on the verge of burning out.

"Damn it!" he spat through gritted teeth, his voice sharp with frustration.

His swings grew wild, desperate, each one more erratic than the last. He was looking for an opening, grasping for control he no longer had.

I gave him nothing.

Right. Left. Each strike forced him further back, his boots sliding against the dirt, his balance unraveling. His aura shimmered weakly now, the cracks spreading like fractures in glass.

He barked threats, hollow and frantic, but I stayed silent. My silence gnawed at him, unnerved him in a way no words could.

Another swing. Wild. Predictable.

I ducked, his blade carving the air just inches above me. My fist drove into his gut. THUD.

He doubled over, coughing violently, his aura flaring weakly to absorb the strike. But it wasn't enough.

He tried to speak, but I didn't let him. My blade came low, slashing across his knee. CRACK.

He crumpled, his leg giving out beneath him. His aura sparked violently, a last burst of golden light shattering outward like shards of glass. The ground beneath him cracked as he hit the dirt hard, gasping for air, his free hand clutching at his leg.

But I didn't stop.

I stepped forward, my blade raised high. His eyes widened, desperation flashing across his face. He swung his sword up, more as a shield than a weapon. CLANG. My blade met his, the force of the impact driving him further into the dirt.

"STOP!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "You don't—"

I struck again. And again. Each blow met his blade, forcing it lower, grinding him down.

And then his blade shattered.

The final blow rang out like a thunderclap, steel screeching as his sword broke apart in his trembling hands. Shards of metal scattered across the dirt, glinting in the low light. His aura flared one last time, a desperate burst of golden light, before collapsing entirely.

It folded inward, splintering like glass under pressure, and then it was gone.

Klepht's body sagged.

His knees hit the ground hard, his arms scrambling uselessly at the dirt. Blood dripped from his mouth, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he tried to rise.

I didn't let him.

The flat of my blade slammed into his shoulder, driving him back down. .

He cried out, his voice raw, but his defiance clung to him, stubborn and pitiful. "Fuck yo—"

My fist crashed into his jaw.

His head snapped to the side, but I didn't stop. The next blow hit his ribs. Then another. Each strike drove him deeper into the dirt, his blood staining the ground in uneven streaks. By the end, he was gasping, huffing like a dying animal. I grabbed him by the collar, dragging him up just enough for our eyes to meet.

"From your death," I murmured, my voice low, steady, "I shall rise."

Then I slammed my forehead into his. Blood poured from his broken nose as his body went limp, his hands twitching weakly at his sides. I released him, and he collapsed in a heap, unconscious. His chest rose and fell faintly, his breath shallow and uneven. I stood over him, my blade lowered, blood dripping from the edge.

The square fell silent.

The bandits stared. First at me, then at Klepht—broken, beaten, and unmoving. One of them stumbled back, eyes wide with fear.

"Fuck this," someone muttered, their voice trembling as they turned and bolted.

Weapons clattered to the ground as the rest followed, fleeing into the night like rats from a sinking ship. And then came the sound. Low at first, distant—a dull rumble that grew louder with every second.

Snarling.

But it wasn't from any normal wolf anyone would know.

"Everyone, do not lose your ground!" I roared as I rushed up to a wall and peered out, and caught sight of men getting torn apart.

Grimm.

+++

Her chest rose and fell with the slow, deliberate breaths of someone who had spent every ounce of energy but refused to yield—not yet.

Adam stood a short distance away, his weapon resting against his shoulder, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. The sounds of snarling and screaming were distant now, carried on the cold night wind from beyond the walls. He looked to Sienna, his voice breaking the uneasy silence.

"Why aren't they coming for us?"

Sienna didn't look at him at first. Her gaze remained fixed on the dark treeline, where the faint glow of crimson eyes flickered in and out of the shadows. "They're not here for us," she said finally, her voice calm but edged with exhaustion. She gestured toward the chaos unfolding outside the town. "The bandits are the easier prey."

Adam's brows furrowed as he turned to watch the dark shapes moving in the distance. The Grimm were ruthless, tearing through the fleeing bandits with unrelenting ferocity. Screams rose and fell, sharp and desperate, until they were swallowed by the snarling chorus of the monsters.

"But we're glowing like beacons out here," Adam said, his tone incredulous. "I thought Grimm are drawn to huntsmen like moths to flame?" 

Sienna turned back. "Yes, normally. But with this restraint, it would seem that the Grimm here are kept in check by an alpha. It's likely that alpha is measuring how much Grimm it will lose going into here rather than just emptying the bandits out there."

He didn't argue, though the faint twitch of his fingers against his weapon betrayed his unease.

The snarls grew louder, then quieter again, retreating into the distance as the final screams of the bandits were cut short. The Grimm had done their work, and now they slunk back into the shadows, their hunger sated for the moment. The first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, painting the sky in muted grays and pale oranges. The town, battered but intact, stood in stark contrast to the carnage beyond its walls. The bodies of the bandits lay scattered at the edges of the forest, some half-devoured, others torn apart completely. The Grimm were gone, fading back into the darkness as quickly as they had come.

Adam stood up, letting out a huff. "It's over," he remarked. 

Sienna grunted.

Adam had drawn up a rather insane plan. Get the weaker townsfolk out while hiding the stronger ones in the village. It had been a gamble on Klepht's reputation as a cautious warlord who ruled through fear. If the townsfolk were able to evacuate and he didn't do anything about it, he would get mocked not just by the villages under his sway but also by his own men. "Are we really just going to let them get away?" they would cry. 

She imagined Klepht, biting down on the frustration, calculating, knowing that if he didn't act—if he didn't reclaim—then he'd lose control. Not just of the territory, but of the myth that let him command it. Fear was a fragile currency. It burned fast when not fed. So he was forced to take the bait. The townsfolk were well protected, of course. To sell the illusion, they really had to go and leave the town. Then, their best fighters would return on the fastest horses in tandem with hidden fighters. 

On paper, the militia was fairly outnumbered. But they had a winning angle.

One, the bandits would be far too tired and sleepy to mount an effective fighting force. Two, they wouldn't be able to see at night. A later inspection of the corpses would later reveal that some of the men had even attacked each other, thinking they were the enemy. 

All in all, how could they not win?

It was here Sienna glanced at Adam. 

"You look calm," she noted. 

​He snorted. "Oh, believe me, I am ecstatic," he noted. "But it is far too early to celebrate now. They still have their castle, no?" 

She nodded.

"Then we get to work." 

Later, Sienna stood in the center of the square, the broken remnants of Klepht's forces scattered around her. The bodies of bandits were being lined up along the edges of the town, their weapons and gear stripped away by the militia for anything useful. A faint metallic tang of blood still hung in the air, mixing with the acrid scent of smoke from torches and burned-out barricades. It was a grim scene, but one Sienna had seen too many times before.

She watched as a group of villagers, led by an older man who carried himself with the calm authority of someone used to hardship, began working to clear the debris. They moved with quiet determination, their fear of last night's chaos now replaced by the necessity of survival. Some carried buckets of water to douse smoldering fires. Others worked together to lift fallen beams and repair damaged walls.

Adam was further down the square, directing the militia as they organized the weapons and supplies scavenged from the bandits. He moved with a purpose, his voice sharp and commanding as he gave orders. "Sort the usable weapons over there. Anything broken, pile it up—we'll melt it down later. Make sure the wounded are stable before they're moved. And someone check the perimeter. I don't want any surprises."

Sienna watched him for a moment, her expression unreadable. He was focused, almost obsessively so, as if keeping busy was the only thing keeping him from unraveling. She couldn't tell if it was genuine resolve or just a way to avoid thinking too hard about what they'd done here. Either way, it was working. His militia glanced at him with clear respect, the villagers gave the same. If one had told her a few weeks back that humans would be looking at a faunus with respect, she would call them insane. 

​Yet here they were.

A voice called out, breaking her thoughts. "They're coming back!"

Sienna turned sharply, her hand instinctively going to her weapon. For a brief moment, her mind raced, expecting the worst—the Grimm, the bandits, some new threat she hadn't foreseen. But as she followed the villager's pointing finger, she saw the wagons approaching in the distance.

The returning townsfolk.

The villagers who had fled into the countryside began to trickle back into the town, their faces weary but relieved. Some were on foot, others packed into carts pulled by tired horses. Mothers held their children close, while the elderly leaned on younger relatives for support. There were no cheers, no celebrations—just quiet relief that they had made it through the night.

The militia moved to help them unload supplies, guiding them back into their homes or what was left of them. A few of the returning villagers stopped to thank Sienna and Adam, their voices soft and hesitant, as if afraid to jinx their luck.

"We thought we'd lost everything," one woman said, clutching a small child to her chest. "Thank you… thank you for saving us."

Sienna gave a curt nod, her expression neutral. She didn't need their thanks. What mattered was that they were alive. But she could not lie that she did not feel good.

Adam, however, offered the woman a reassuring smile. "You're safe now," he said, his voice steady but warm. "We'll make sure it stays that way."

Sienna's gaze flicked to him, her brow furrowing slightly. She couldn't tell if his words were genuine or if he was simply playing the part. Either way, it seemed to work. The woman gave him a watery smile before turning to rejoin her family.

As the villagers settled back in, the cleanup continued. The dead were buried outside the town—villagers and bandits alike, though the latter were given no markers. The bloodstains were scrubbed from the streets, the barricades dismantled, and the scattered debris gathered into neat piles. Slowly but surely, the town began to look like itself again, though the scars of the battle would remain for some time.

By mid-day, they were back in the Town Hall.

The doors yawned open, broken windows framing the dry wind that hissed faintly of blood and ash. Sunlight spilled in long shafts across the warped floorboards, glinting off scuffed boots and the dull steel of weapons at rest—but never far from reach. Along the walls, the militia stood in tight clusters, quiet and watchful. They weren't relaxed—no one truly relaxed around Adam—but the tension had shifted. It wasn't razor-taut anymore. It had settled, coiling into something patient and dangerous.

At the center of it all, Klepht knelt.

His wrists were bound behind his back, the rope biting deep, turning his fingers a swollen, bloodless purple. A streak of dried blood cut down from his temple, stark against the grime on his face, where Sienna had struck him during his capture. His breaths came shallow and quick, his jaw clenched so tight it might snap. Every so often, he twitched—some futile, involuntary spasm that hinted at the hate simmering beneath his bruised skin. As if he could break his bonds through sheer willpower alone.

But it wasn't hate that held the room.

It was the old man.

The headsman of Catania stepped forward, his cane tapping the floor in sharp, angry stabs. His face was a map of exhaustion and fury, sunken eyes lit by something primal. Something righteous. He carried himself like a man who had spent a lifetime burying grief and forgiving too little. When he stopped, he stood over Klepht, staring down with the weight of an entire town on his shoulders.

"This one," the headsman said, his voice trembling—not with fear, but with restraint. "This thing. He sent his men to take my granddaughter. Burned our grain. Slit the throat of my cousin on the road and left his guts for the crows." His knuckles whitened against the cane. "And now you want me to stand here, in this place, and do nothing while he breathes air meant for decent folk?"

A low murmur rippled through the room. Quiet. Dangerous.

Adam didn't answer. Not at first.

He stood at the back, arms crossed, face carved from something harder than stone. Sienna leaned beside him, one shoulder propped against a cracked column, her gaze flicking between the faces in the room. She didn't blink, didn't fidget. She'd seen this before.

The headsman's voice rose, trembling with anger and grief. "Let us hang him. Or better—give me ten minutes and a rusted knife. Let his blood water the same soil he defiled."

Klepht snorted, a weak and hoarse laugh that scraped the air like nails on glass. "Should've done it earlier, old man," he rasped. "Every second I'm alive's another second you all look like cowards."

Adam moved.

Not fast. Not with force. Just forward, through the space between fury and restraint. His boots thudded softly on the floorboards as the militia shifted to let him pass. He said nothing until he stood just a foot from Klepht, close enough to smell the sweat and humiliation clinging to the man.

Then, to the headsman: "No."

The old man's face twisted, disbelief turning the lines of his exhaustion deeper. "No?"

Adam nodded once. "Not yet."

The room thickened with silence, heavy as steam. The headsman's grip tightened on his cane, the wood trembling. "He deserves—"

"I know."

Sienna tilted her head slightly, the barest flicker of a smirk ghosting across her lips. She'd seen this before. The way Adam could steal the air from a room without raising his voice. Like some weight hanging in the rafters, waiting to fall.

"He dies," Adam said, his voice low and sure. His gaze didn't leave Klepht. "But not like this."

"Then how?" The old man's voice cracked, his frustration boiling over. "What could possibly justify keeping him alive?"

Adam turned. Not to the headsman, but to the room. To the men and women who had followed him through fire and come out scarred but standing.

"He's not a man anymore," Adam said, his words cutting through the silence like a blade. "He's a message."

Klepht blinked, his smirk faltering.

Sienna's lips curved slightly, almost imperceptibly.

Adam gestured to the broken warlord at his feet. "He ruled with fear. With myth. That stops when people see him like this—when they watch him stand trial and beg. When the villages he bled dry spit at his feet instead of kneeling."

He turned back to the headsman.

"If you kill him now, you bury your vengeance in one act. But if I show him paraded, judged, used then he becomes a symbol."

The headsman's teeth ground together, but his grip on the cane loosened. "You want to keep him like a chained dog."

"I want to break the spine of everything he built. Not just him."

The headsman closed his eyes, breathing hard through his nose. When he opened them again, he looked at Klepht with a simmering hatred that hadn't cooled, only shifted. His hand fell to his side.

"One week," he said. "Then he's ours."

Adam gave a slow, single nod. 

Klepht coughed, a wet, rasping sound that scraped his throat. When he looked up, his eyes fixed on Adam—not with hate anymore, but something colder. Calculating. Wounded, but not defeated.

"You think this ends it?" he rasped. "You think parading me around like some trophy will stop m-"

Adam didn't answer. He stepped closer, crouching low until their faces were level.

Klepht flinched, just slightly.

Adam's silence wasn't stillness anymore.

It was a sentence.

And Klepht, for the first time, looked away.

Adam stood. He turned and declared. "Send out your fastest riders!" he declared. "Proclaim to all the nearest villages! Armatole Klepht no longer rules these lands! Power has now been return to where it rightfully belongs, to the people of Mistral! Rise up against your oppressors! Rise up for the future! Tell them all that the Union comes and we bring the Jubilee!" 

"Hurrah!" a woman cried. Nerissa, her name was, Sienna remembered. "Hurrah!"

Her cry was quickly taken up. "Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!" 

+++

[URL unfurl="true" media="youtube:Cf6jon96EKY"]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cf6jon96EKY[/URL]

+++

The taproom of the Dustmare Inn reeked of sweat, spilled ale, and pipe ash. Above Rezek's head, a half-broken lantern swayed with every faint breeze that slithered through the half-shuttered window, its creaking an irritant against the silence. The map before him, stained with grease and grime, bore the weary marks of long use—routes for grain convoys from Bari, tribute lines from Numidia, two dozen little veins feeding into the heart of Klepht's power.

Were.

Rezek chewed on a strip of dried goat without tasting it, one foot kicked up on a barrel, his dull knife tapping absently against the edge of the table. Around him, the other men sat in uneasy silence. They knew this mood. When Rezek got quiet, it meant one thing: bloody things were about to happen.

Then came the hoofbeats.

Rezek's brow twitched. He stood slowly, crossing to the warped glass window. With two fingers, he pried the shutter open just enough to see.

Outside, a rider in scavenged militia armor galloped down the dirt street, his voice ragged from shouting. Mud and blood streaked his coat, and his horse was lathered to the chest.

"Armatole Klepht has fallen!" the man bellowed, his voice cracking from the strain. "Spread the word! Klepht has fallen! Catania has risen! Rise up and be ready because the Union is coming!"

A few villagers stopped to gawk. One woman gasped, her basket slipping from her hands. A boy darted to the corner, craning his neck to listen. The rumors had been swirling, yes—whispers of a village somewhere standing up, fighting back. Rezek's men had done their best to snuff them out, but as with all rumors, their suppression only made them spread faster.

Worse, he could see it now. The villagers—once cowed and hollow-eyed—were looking toward the inn. Their glances weren't fearful anymore.

Rezek closed the shutter.

Behind him, the room had gone still. No one breathed too loud. No one looked him in the eye.

He turned back to the table, his gaze falling on the map. The lines weren't roads anymore. They were nooses.

The Union. The Jubilee. A fucking name. That was what they'd rallied behind. Some peasant fantasy, spun into prophecy the way farmers made wind turn a mill.

The best thing to do now was to flee. But to do so quickly would only confirm the rumors as true. He could return to Onamrron, but he knew the castle would likely be besieged next. It was a tomb waiting to happen. And why run, when he could take what men he had left and carve out a new empire somewhere else?

His men caught the shift in his posture.

"What do we do, boss?" one of them finally asked.

Rezek barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. "What do we do? We don't panic, for starters. That's what they want. They want us to run scared, to break rank, to give them the momentum they don't deserve."

He straightened, his gaze hard and unyielding. "We don't run. We don't hide. We hit back. Hard. We remind these people why they feared us in the first place."

The same bandit cleared his throat, hesitant. "You're saying we fight the Union?"

Rezek's smile was sharp and humorless. "I'm saying we fight the idea of it. Let them have their little victory in Catania. Let them think they've won. But we hit the next village over. Hard and fast. Burn it to the ground if we have to. Make sure no one else gets any bright ideas about rising up."

His words hung in the musty air, sharp as the edge of the knife he'd been tapping. His men shifted uneasily, their eyes darting between him and the shuttered windows.

Rezek saw it—the flicker of doubt, the quiet, gnawing fear. He hated it. Hated the way it twisted his gut. He'd built this little empire from scraps, carved it out of Klepht's leftovers. He wasn't about to let some farmer rebellion tear it apart.

"We hit them first," he said, his voice low but cutting through the silence like a blade. "We burn their hope down before it catches. One village. One example. They'll learn quick enough that rebellion's a bad investment."

The men nodded, some slower than others. Harl, the grizzled veteran, cleared his throat. "And when the Union comes looking for payback?"

Rezek's lips twisted into a smirk. "Let them. We'll be long gone by then, someplace new. This isn't about holding ground anymore—it's about taking what we can and leaving the rest in ashes."

But even as he spoke, something itched in the back of his mind. The rider's words. Catania has risen. The Union is coming. He'd laughed it off as propaganda, the kind of nonsense peasants told themselves to sleep better at night. But the way the rider had shouted it—hoarse, desperate, believing—made his stomach churn.

It's just a name, he told himself. A name doesn't win wars.

He turned back to the map, running his finger along the routes like a gambler sizing up his odds. He could feel his men waiting behind him, waiting for orders, waiting for him to prove he wasn't afraid.

Then the first rock smashed through the window.

The sound cracked like a thunderclap, glass shattering and scattering across the wooden floor. Rezek froze, his knife halting mid-tap. One of the men swore under his breath, scrambling for his weapon.

A second rock followed, heavier this time. It struck the window frame with a dull thud before rolling inside, leaving a smear of dirt and blood where it landed.

The air outside buzzed with a low, growing noise—murmurs, shouts, the unmistakable hum of a crowd gathering.

Rezek's stomach dropped.

He'd been so focused on the bigger picture—on the Union, on the map, on his plans to burn the next village—that he'd forgotten the villagers in this one. The ones who'd been watching the rider. The ones who had been listening. The one's he'd been keeping in line, and were just told that their chains were broken.

The murmurs turned to shouts. A voice rose above the din, sharp and clear. "Enough of this! We don't need their kind here anymore! Drive them out!"

Rezek's knife hit the table with a dull thunk, his hand tightening around the hilt. He turned to the men, his face a mask of cold fury. "Barricade the doors. Now."

The next rock struck the door, followed by the dull thunk of a hammer. The mob was testing the barricades.

Rezek turned back to the window, his mind racing. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to be the one in control, the one pulling the strings. Not some nameless mob of peasants with rocks and rusty tools.

This is just a setback, he told himself. I've dealt with worse.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

The villagers weren't afraid of him anymore. And without fear, he was nothing.

Another impact rattled the door, louder this time. Rezek's grip tightened on the knife. "Fall back to the storeroom," he ordered. "We'll hold there. They'll burn themselves out eventually."

But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie.

The Union wasn't coming.

It was already here.

​+++

A/N: Hurrah, hurrah. The Bull brings the Jubilee. Hurrah, hurrah. He shall set us free. So we shall sing this from Cius to the Sea. While he marches through Mistral!