A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 16

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A shrill, mechanical whistle screamed through the steel bones of the warship, followed by the guttural bark of a voice over the intercom:

"General Quarters! General Quarters! All hands, man your battle stations!"

Then came the bell—blaring, relentless, pounding in rhythm with her heartbeat.

Winter shot upright in her bunk, the metal frame groaning beneath her. For one suspended breath, the walls seemed to close in, then exploded with movement—boots thudding, voices shouting, emergency lights strobing along the corridor seams. She reached for her uniform, slipping into the coat with practiced precision, even as her fingers trembled.

General Quarters.

The term echoed in her skull. A drill? No—this wasn't scheduled. This wasn't simulated. Something was wrong.

She burst into the corridor, nearly colliding with a pair of junior officers scrambling toward their posts.

"You!" she barked, intercepting a running ensign. "What's happening?"

The young man didn't slow. "No idea, Miss Schnee—recommend you get to the bridge!"

Her jaw tightened. Not good enough.

She took off down the narrow hallways. When she reached the bridge, it was chaos—controlled, but tense. Uniformed men and women hunched over consoles, voices clipped and urgent. No music. No idle chatter. No drinks. Even Derringer was sober.

General Derringer stood by the central display, posture rigid, his usual air of smug detachment replaced by the grim edge of command. Captain Irving flanked him, grim-faced and staring into the holographic map like it might lunge out and bite.

Derringer turned to her, his eyes narrowing. "Miss Schnee," he said, tone clipped. "You should remain in your quarters."

He phrased it like a suggestion. But everything in his posture said order.

Winter ignored the chill crawling down her spine. "Why?" she demanded. "What's going on?"

Irving answered before Derringer could. "SDC Security in Aurora just sent a distress signal. Full-scale uprising. The Faunus have seized the mine."

Her stomach dropped. No. No, no, no—

Her breath caught halfway up her throat, refusing to come down. Her vision didn't blur but tightened—contracting around the flickering image on the map, where red pulses marked Aurora and Nicolasburg. Alerts blinked beside troop manifests and supply lines.

The Faunus have risen.

The words hung in the air like a curse, sharp and heavy. The room tensed as they settled, coiling the atmosphere into something brittle.

Winter stood frozen, her boots rooted to the grated floor of the bridge, trying to gather herself—trying not to feel the tremble behind her ribs. But command moved fast.

Derringer was already turning to Captain Irving, his voice low but laced with contempt. "They made their move. Of course they did." He motioned toward the map. "We should've crushed Nicolasburg the moment they took it."

Winter's pulse pounded, her chest tight with guilt. Suddenly, it felt as if this was her fault.

Irving cut in, his tone professional but blunt. "She bought us time. And she got those trucks out—hostages too."

"I can grant her that..." Derringer shook his head. "But no time. There's no time to think about what has happened—only now."

He turned to her, his gaze sharp. "Miss Schnee, the Faunus have overstepped. This is no longer an isolated incident. On authority vested in me, this is now purely an Atlesian Military matter. I ask the SDC to step back and let us handle it."

Even when it was his job, he had to tread carefully with his words.

"I... I must inform my father," Winter croaked.

"Of course. Make your call," Derringer said with a nod, already turning back to Irving. Their clipped discussion resumed, blending into the hum of the bridge as strategies were exchanged.

Winter moved numbly to the comms officer, who glanced at her with thinly veiled pity. He punched in the necessary codes, then stepped aside for her to sit.

Jacques Schnee's cold face filled the screen.

"Winter," he said flatly, without greeting.

She sat stiffly, her back straight as she struggled to anchor her voice. "There's been an uprisin—"

"I know," he interrupted, tone sharp. "Anything else?"

"General Derringer has taken over the matter."

"Good."

Winter hesitated. "Coordination between the SDC and the battlegroup may be required."

"You'll coordinate nothing," Jacques replied immediately, his voice as unyielding as steel. "Your purpose has already been served. You are to observe. The military will proceed."

Her throat clenched, words catching behind her teeth.

"Father, I—"

"Did your presence deter the uprising?" He tilted his head, eyes slicing into her. "Did your concessions prevent the next fire from spreading?"

She didn't answer.

Jacques leaned forward slightly, pale blue eyes cutting deeper. "Derringer will do what is necessary. I expect you to support him by staying out of his way. You will not give interviews. You will not make promises. You will not play diplomat to terrorists. Am I understood?"

Winter swallowed hard. Her hands trembled against the armrests, but her voice did not crack.

"Yes, Father."

"This is the price of your mercy, Winter. The price of ideals. No more."

He leaned back, his gaze icy and unrelenting.

"Now watch the world you've created."

The screen went dark.

Winter sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty frame where her father's face had been. Cold sweat crept down the back of her neck.

Behind her, the bridge buzzed with energy. Maps shifted. Orders barked. Deployment codes relayed. The war machine was winding up.

Winter rose from the comms station, her movements stiff and mechanical. The hum of activity on the bridge swirled behind her, a cacophony of clipped voices and sharp commands. She turned back toward the holographic map, its pulsing red markers like open wounds, and for a moment, she felt as though the weight of the entire ship had settled on her chest.

Her boots echoed on the grated floor as she moved toward the observation window. The stars beyond the glass were cold and indifferent, a vast void that swallowed everything. She stared at the faint reflection of the bridge behind her in the window—the officers hunched over their consoles, the tension etched into their postures, the war machine grinding forward.

Derringer's voice cut through the din, sharp and commanding. "Captain Irving, I want the ANS Falcon moving into position immediately. Broadcast surrender demands. Bullheads and mantas will deploy ground forces. If there's no response by the time they arrive, we proceed with the assault."

Winter turned slightly, watching as Irving nodded, his expression grim. "Understood, General."

Another officer hesitated, his voice cautious. "And the civilians?"

Derringer's response was cold and unflinching. "There are no civilians in a warzone. If they've chosen to remain, they've chosen their side."

Winter's hands clenched into fists at her sides. The words hit her like a physical blow—detached, clinical, dismissive. As if the people of Aurora, Faunus and human alike, were nothing more than obstacles to be removed. She wanted to speak, to shout, to argue—but what could she say?

The bridge moved around her, a flurry of motion and purpose. Derringer and Irving were already discussing troop movements, supply lines, and tactical priorities. The officers relayed commands without hesitation, their voices blending with the hum of the ship. The holographic map shifted and glowed, cold and unfeeling, as markers representing lives were dragged across its surface like pieces on a board.

"Nicolasburg?"

"The 12th marches to retake it. This has gone on long enough."

Winter felt frozen, trapped between the weight of her father's orders and the looming inevitability of what was coming. She thought of Aurora, of the people trapped there. She thought of the Faunus who had risen up, of the civilians caught in the crossfire. She thought of every decision that had led to this moment—and the crushing realization that none of it had made a difference.

What can I do?

What could I possibly do?

"Miss Schnee."

Derringer's voice snapped her out of her spiraling thoughts. She turned to face him, his sharp gaze appraising her.

"You're still here," he observed, his tone low but pointed. "I suggest you return to your quarters. This is a military operation now. Your presence is unnecessary."

Winter straightened, forcing herself to maintain composure. "I understand, General," she said evenly, though the words felt hollow in her throat.

Derringer didn't acknowledge her further, already turning back to the map. Winter lingered for a moment, her gaze sweeping over the bridge one last time. The officers were focused, their movements precise, their voices steady. The war machine was in motion, and nothing she said or did would stop it now.

With a final glance at the holographic map, she turned and left the bridge, her boots echoing down the corridor. As the doors slid shut behind her, the noise of the bridge faded into silence, leaving her alone with the weight of her thoughts.

The corridors were eerily quiet as Winter walked. The emergency lights cast long shadows on the steel walls, and the faint hum of the ship's engines resonated in her bones. She passed crew members rushing to their stations, their faces tense and focused, but no one stopped her. No one spoke.

Her mind churned as she moved, replaying every conversation, every decision, every moment that had led to this. Her father's words. Derringer's orders. The frantic energy of the bridge. It all swirled in her head.

When she reached her quarters, she paused outside the door, her hand hovering over the keypad. For a moment, she considered turning back—returning to the bridge, demanding answers, demanding action. But what could she say that wouldn't fall on deaf ears? What could she do that wouldn't make things worse?

The door slid open, and she stepped inside. The cold, sterile space felt more like a prison than a sanctuary. She sat on the edge of her bunk, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the floor. The ship groaned around her, the sound resonating in her chest.

Had it all been for nothing?

Her hands trembled, but she forced herself to remain still, her back straight, her expression calm. She had to stay composed. She had to stay in control.

But deep down, a small, desperate voice whispered:

You can't stop this.

Then, the intercom crackled to life. "Attention, all hands. The ANS Falcon has been redirected. The 12th Battalion is deploying. Prepare for battle readiness."

The assault was beginning. The war machine was grinding forward, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. 

And for the first time in a long while, Winter Schnee felt truly powerless.

+++

Something was wrong.

We all knew it the moment one of the destroyers broke formation, peeling off like a predator scenting blood. From the Wings of Victory, dots came. Bullheads and mantas scattering like a swarm of locusts. The air thrummed with the sound of their engines, a low, ominous hum that crept into my bones.

I didn't need to say anything. I could feel it in the air, see it in the way the others froze, their movements faltering. Everyone knew.

The realization struck me fully as the Atlesian camp came alive. The grinding of metal echoed through the valley—deep, resonant, like the groaning of some ancient beast waking from its slumber.

I forced my legs to move, sprinting toward the wall. Others followed, shouting orders, scrambling for weapons, frantic and uncoordinated. My boots pounded against the stone steps as I climbed, my breath ragged in my chest.

And then I stopped as horrible realization seeped in.

"They're attacking!" I roared, my voice cracking but loud enough to carry. "Everyone, to your positions!"

A thousand questions tore through my mind like shrapnel, each one more futile than the last. None of it mattered anymore.

They were coming.

Screams erupted from the compound below—sharp, rising, panicked. I could hear the clang of tools being dropped, the hurried scramble of feet as people ran for cover. The chaos spread like wildfire.

"Adam!"

I turned sharply.

It was Pasiphae. She was running toward me, her face pale, her blue eyes wide with fear.

"What do we do?" she cried, her voice trembling, almost breaking.

"We fight," I said, my voice cold and steady despite the fire roaring in my chest. "Get behind a shelter. Hide."

"No!" she snapped, shaking her head violently. "I want to fight with you."

I grabbed her by the shoulders, harder than I meant to. "No," I said, my voice firm, my tone leaving no room for argument. "This is not up for discussion. Go. Hide."

Her lip quivered. For a moment, she just stared at me, as if trying to memorize my face.

"I love you," she said suddenly, her voice soft but breaking like glass.

Before I could respond, she stepped forward and kissed me—hard, desperate, like it was the only thing anchoring her to the world.

For a moment, everything else faded. The screams, the engines, the groaning metal—it all disappeared. I rested my forehead against hers, my eyes closing.

"I love you too," I whispered.

And then she was gone, tearing herself away from me. I watched her run, every step like a knife twisting in my chest. She disappeared into the crowd, joining the others who were rushing toward the shelters.

The moment ended. The world came crashing back.

I turned to face the horizon, gripping the railing of the wall so hard my knuckles went white.

"Everyone who can fight—to the walls!" I bellowed. My voice carried through the chaos, cutting through the panic like a blade.

Miners surged forward, their faces grim and pale. They moved like a tide, their fear fueling their urgency.

"Adam!"

The shout drew my attention.

It was Blizzard. He was running toward me, something clutched in his hands.

He stopped just in front of me, breathless, and held it out.

"You'll need this," he said, his voice steady despite the chaos around us.

I glanced down.

It was a sword—or something like it. A messer, heavy and utilitarian, its broad blade gleaming faintly in the dim light. An insignia was etched into the hilt, worn but still visible.

"I found it in the foreman's office," Blizzard explained. "Still sharp."

I took the weapon, feeling its weight settle into my hand. It was rough, brutal, but it would do.

I looked up at him. "I need you to record everything," I said, my voice quiet but firm.

Blizzard nodded, his expression solemn. "I will."

For a moment, we stood there, the weight of what was coming pressing down on us.

Then I turned back toward the horizon, where the Atlesians were marching, human and robotic thrall together.

I gripped the sword tighter, the leather of the hilt rough against my palm.

"Then let's get to it," I said.

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[SPOILER="Which Side are you On?"][URL unfurl="true" media="youtube:VzvH5UZVQU8"]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VzvH5UZVQU8[/URL][/SPOILER]

Lieutenant Everheart led the way, fanning out with practiced precision. His men and countless other squads followed close behind, their boots crunching against the packed dirt of the valley trail. The hike from the bottom of the valley was long and punishing, but Everheart barely felt it. He was a Marine—they were made of sterner stuff than most.

The AK compliments marched in tight, unyielding formations on the actual road, their metallic bodies gleaming in the sunlight. Everheart and his squad took the sidewalk, a narrow strip of concrete the SDC had been kind enough to construct.

As the slope leading to Nicolasburg grew steeper, his mind wandered briefly.

Did he hold any grudges against the Faunus?

No, not exactly.

His grandfather had told him stories about the old days, back when the Faunus were literal slaves—sold like cattle at auctions held in front of the Winter Palace in Mantle. He could still hear the old man's voice, laced with nostalgia, recounting those days.

But that had been before the Great War. Before the Color Revolution. Those seismic events had changed everything, finally emancipating the Faunus.

And yet, freedom hadn't changed attitudes.

Everheart didn't hate them. He didn't fear them, either, unlike his grandfather. To be frank, he pitied them.

Such thoughts were useless now. The walls of Nicolasburg loomed ahead, their presence stark against the clear blue sky.

He glanced over his shoulder. His men were beginning to show signs of fatigue from the climb, their movements just a fraction slower than before. The AK units, however, marched on undaunted, their mechanical precision unwavering.

Everheart crouched, dropping to one knee. His hand reached up to his helmet, activating the magnification on his goggles. The walls came into sharper focus—shadows moved against the parapets.

Th—

Screams.

The sharp, visceral sound tore through the air. Everheart's head snapped around just in time to see Private Snow stumble, clutching at his neck. Smoke curled from a charred wound where something had burned through his flesh. Snow's mouth moved, but no words came out, only a wet, choking sound.

"They're firing!" Everheart roared, his voice cutting through the chaos.

He pressed himself flat against the ground as more shots rained down from the walls.

"AKs, advance!"

The mechanical knights responded instantly, their metallic voices echoing with affirmatives. They surged forward, rifles raised, unleashing a fusillade of suppressing fire.

The sound was deafening. Bullets hammered the walls of Nicolasburg, sending shards of stone and dust flying. The AKs advanced steadily, their formations breaking slightly to allow the soldiers behind them clear lines of fire.

The miners on the walls ducked behind the parapets, scrambling for cover. Their return fire was sporadic, desperate.

The AKs were relentless. They moved like a tide, their volley of gunfire drowning out all other sound. Step by step, they pushed forward, mechanical and unyielding.

And then—

A flash.

It streaked across the sky, blinding and sudden.

The next moment, the battlefield erupted into chaos. AK units were sent flying, their bodies torn apart as something landed in their midst with bone-shaking force.

Everheart barely had time to process what he was seeing.

A figure stood amidst the wreckage of fallen AKs. His hair was a fiery red, wild and untamed, like a living flame. His eyes burned with a cold focused fury. And the horns—curving and sharp—marked him unmistakably as Faunus.

Adam Taurus

For a moment, the battlefield seemed to hold its breath.

And then he moved.

He was a blur of motion, faster than anything Everheart had ever seen. His weapon cut through the air with deadly precision, slicing through AK after AK. Sparks flew as metal met metal, and the ground shook with the force of each impact. He did not wield it with particular mastery or grace, only pure instinct. 

"Huntsman…" he muttered under his breath

"Sir! Orders?" a corporal shouted, his voice strained over the cacophony of gunfire and the shrieking of twisted metal.

Everheart scanned the battlefield, his mind calculating their options—and finding none. The AKs were supposed to be their vanguard, their shield against whatever resistance the miners could muster. But now, they were being ripped apart by a single combatant.

"Keep firing!" Everheart barked. "Target him! Suppress him!"

The soldiers hesitated for a fraction of a second, their fear palpable. But they obeyed, raising their rifles and unleashing a torrent of bullets at the red-haired Faunus.

It didn't matter.

The shots that landed shimmered against the Faunus' aura, a radiant blue-gold shield that flickered but did not falter. He moved through the storm of gunfire with terrifying speed, closing the distance between himself and the remaining AKs.

Everheart watched in horror as the Faunus leapt into the air, his blade catching the sunlight as he brought it down in a brutal arc. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the ground, scattering more AKs like toys.

"Spread out!" Everheart shouted, his voice hoarse.

"Spread out? How?" a soldier yelled back, his tone frantic. "We're in a narrow path, sir!"

Everheart cursed under his breath. The corporal was right. The valley trail left them with no room to maneuver, no way to flank or retreat. They were pinned, and the Faunus knew it. He was relentless. His curved blade cleaved through another AK with ease, sparks cascading like fireworks as its metallic torso split in two. The mechanical knight toppled, crashing to the ground in a heap of broken steel.

Everheart's hands trembled as he raised his rifle, but his instincts took over. He fired, the sharp crack of his weapon barely audible over the chaos. The shot struck Adam square in the chest, but his aura flared—a shimmering, golden shield that absorbed the impact like ripples in water.

Adam's head snapped toward Everheart.

Their eyes met.

Everheart felt his chest tighten as a wave of cold dread swept over him. Ice cold fury chilled him more than the ice of Solitas.

"Keep firing!" Everheart roared, his voice cracking. He didn't care if it was futile. He had to try.

His squad obeyed, unleashing another hail of bullets. The air filled with the sharp, staccato rhythm of gunfire. But Adam was already moving.

In a single, fluid motion, he dashed forward, his blade glinting as it arced upward. The corporal to Everheart's right barely had time to scream before the blade sliced through him, cutting flesh and bone like paper. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc, painting the ground.

"Fall back!" Everheart shouted, his voice raw with panic.

But there was no time. Adam was in their midst now, moving like a wraith. He swept his blade in a wide arc, and two more soldiers fell, their bodies crumpling to the ground.

Everheart stumbled backward, his heart pounding in his chest. He fired again, and again, but Adam was too fast. The Faunus ducked, weaved, and closed the distance between them with terrifying speed.

To Everheart's left, another soldier screamed as Adam's blade tore through his chest. The sound was wet and gurgling, cut short as the soldier collapsed.

The narrow valley trail had become a slaughterhouse.

The remaining soldiers broke, their discipline unraveling in the face of the unstoppable force before them. They turned and ran, abandoning their rifles in their desperation to escape.

But Adam didn't let them go. He moved with surgical precision, cutting down retreating soldiers one by one. His blade flashed in the sunlight, each strike deadly and deliberate.

Everheart fell to his knees, his rifle slipping from his hands. His mind raced, searching for a way out, a plan, anything—but there was none.

A shadow fell over him.

He looked up, his breath hitching in his throat. Adam stood above him, his red hair wild, his horns gleaming in the sunlight. His blade dripped with blood, the crimson droplets falling in slow motion to the dirt below.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Everheart's lips moved, but no sound came out.

Adam stood, raising his blade. The sunlight caught the edge, making it gleam like fire.

Everheart didn't feel the pain, only the cold. The world tilted, his vision fading as he collapsed onto the dirt. The last thing he saw was Adam turning away, his crimson hair a blur against the pale blue sky.

And then, nothing.

+++

"Sir, we're getting massacr—AWH!"

The transmission cut out in a burst of static and a wet, final-sounding crack. It might've been hilarious—classic cannon fodder comedy—if it weren't his own men dying like flies on a frozen slab.

General Derringer gritted his teeth and clenched the edges of his console, leather gloves creaking against the metal. His eyes flicked across the datafeeds, the flickering cams, the fast-scrolling casualty reports. Blood-red. Too fast.

It had been going so well. No resistance, just a clean march. 

It should've been over in an hour. It would have been, if not for that damn bull.

The Faunus.

Adam.

"Irving!" Derringer barked, voice snapping across the bridge. "Get the Mantas to support the infantry. Now."

"General," Captain Irving said from his station, looking pale and tired under the tactical displays. "Our air assets are already fully deployed to Aurora. We can't reassign them."

Derringer hissed, sharp and loud, and slammed a palm against the console, rattling half the readouts.

"Damn it!"

He breathed in through his nose. Cold. Controlled.

No choice, then.

"I authorize the use of batteries two, four, six, and eight. Medium-strength. Provide cover fire for our ground forces. Clear the ridge."

There was a pause.

"Sir…" Irving said carefully. "The Dust mine—"

"I said not the railguns, Irving!" Derringer shouted. "I'm not looking to blast a crater into the mountainside. Laser batteries. Calibrated. I just need a goddamn corridor!"

He exhaled, forcing composure back down his throat. Then turned toward the main weapons officer.

"Firing solution on the grid. Medium power. Do it now."

A flurry of panicked typing, light panels glowing under frantic fingers.

"Solution acquired."

"Fire."

The Wings of Victory shuddered as the port-side batteries lit up. From high above, arcs of blue light ripped through the snow-choked sky, burning down across the valley. Lances of energy struck the ridgeline and road, erupting in geysers of scorched rock and kicked-up earth. Explosions blossomed like poisoned flowers.

On the main screen, Derringer watched Adam fall back toward the gates of Nicolasburg, that oversized blade dragging behind him. He was retreating—but not broken. Covered by his own.

Too disciplined. Too stubborn. Too dangerous.

Derringer's jaw set hard.

He could end it now. Level the walls. Flatten the gates. Maybe spark a mine detonation. Maybe not.

His men would live however.

He stared at the blinking reticle marking the Nicolasburg wall.

He'd risk it.

"Retarget batteries," he ordered, voice low and cold. "The wall. Bring it down."

There was hesitation.

Then: "Sir?"

He didn't repeat himself.

"Now."

A hush fell across the bridge. The kind that follows a sacrament or a sin.

Grim understanding passed between the officers like a shared oath.

He closed his eyes.

The ship trembled again as the second barrage struck. This time, no warning shots. Direct hits. The lances carved through stone and rebar like parchment, turning battlements to powder. The wall didn't just collapse—it disintegrated.

Dust clouded the entire western valley. Black shapes fled from the wreckage, scattered silhouettes sprinting through debris.

And then, silence.

Derringer opened his eyes.

"Order the Twelfth to advance," he said quietly. "Push through. This ends… now."

​+++

I burned.

My skin screamed beneath the scorched remnants of my coat, smoke rising from the edges of cloth melted into fabric and flesh. My Aura had caught the worst of it, flaring bright in those first brutal seconds—but it hadn't held long. Not under concentrated artillery.

Every nerve in my body shrieked, seething with heat. But I couldn't stop.

Not yet.

And then came the sound.

The shriek of energy weapons cut through the chaos.

I turned just in time to see the wall crumble in a wave of dust and debris, folding like dry paper beneath the Atlesian assault. The scream of collapsing stone drowned out everything else.

Groans followed.

Not from the wall—from beneath it.

"Cletus!" I shouted, my boots skidding as I sprinted toward a crumpled heap near the edge of the fallen barricade.

He lay pinned beneath a slab the size of a supply crate. Dust billowed from the wreckage, mixing with the steam rising off my shoulders. His legs were gone—crushed beneath the rock, mangled and red. Blood bubbled at his lips as he tried to speak.

"Adam…" he rasped, weak, wet, voice fluttering like paper in the wind.

I dropped to my knees, hands clawing at the slab, but it didn't move. Not even an inch.

My ears twitched.

A sound—wrong, mechanical, sharp and rhythmic—clanked through the smoke.

Whirring servos. Hydraulic steps.

Knights.

I looked up and saw them through the dust. AK units in their stark white chassis, visors gleaming, rifles stowed for blades. No hesitation. No voice. No pause for the dying.

Cletus groaned again beside me, gritting his teeth as he reached for the rifle slung across his chest. It trembled in his grasp as he raised it, blood trailing down the barrel.

"Those who can fight—fight!" I bellowed, voice raw, wild. "Everyone else, fall back! Run!"

I stood, the heat still clinging to my skin like a second skin, and I charged.

Behind me, others rose—miners with pistols, with hunting rifles, with Dust-charged spears and shovels and picks fury. They charged or fired into the smoke, their rounds cracking through the haze, finding metal and bone alike.

My messer sang with the taste of metal. 

I didn't think. I didn't breathe.

I swung.

And the first Knight fell in half.

+++

"General?"

Derringer didn't look up at first. His eyes were locked on the screens before him—feeds flickering with red warning borders and searing static. White-clad Knights flooded through Nicolasburg's smoke-choked streets. 

He turned, finally, when he felt a presence behind him.

"We've received word," the officer said. "Aurora's been pacified. The resistance collapsed there an hour ago."

Derringer exhaled through his nose, shoulders loosening a fraction. "That's good."

But before the breath could settle in his chest—

"I also have Mister Schnee on the line. He's requesting to speak with you. Personally."

Derringer blinked. Of course he is.

He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "Irving. Take over."

"Yes, sir."

Derringer left the center of the bridge and made his way down the short steps to the comms station. The room dimmed slightly as he sat, controls illuminating under his hands. He adjusted his headset and nodded at the operator, who connected the line.

A sharp click. Then—

"General," came Jacques Schnee's voice—clean, clipped, every syllable honed to a corporate edge.

"Mister Schnee," Derringer replied, calm but tight.

"How goes retaking my town?"

Derringer glanced back at the main tactical display, at the outlines of knights moving through broken avenues, at the wall now flattened, at the red blips representing casualties still climbing in the corner of the screen.

"We've breached the wall," he reported. "But we're being held up. Resistance is... fiercer than anticipated."

There was a pause on the line. Then Jacques: "Held up. By miners."

Not a question. A sneer wrapped in a suit.

"One of them has Aura," Derringer said flatly. 

"Ah." A beat of silence. Then Jacques said nothing further.

The quiet held. Long enough to chill.

Finally, Jacques spoke again. "How long, conventionally?"

Derringer's jaw twitched. "Until the Aura-user is neutralized, sir. The rest will break when he does."

He could hear it now—the impatient tapping of manicured fingers against a desk, filtering through the headset like a metronome of someone used to getting what he wanted yesterday.

"General," Jacques said suddenly, voice low and final.

"Yes, sir?"

"Do whatever it takes. Bring him down."

Derringer didn't hesitate. He straightened in the chair, spine like iron.

"Understood."

He stood. No ceremony. No added word.

Only motion. Only command.

"Captain Irving!" he cried. "I want a firing solution!" 

+++

Blizzard had never seen war before.

He'd filmed protests turned violent, seen guards panic and shoot into crowds, watched mines buried under rubble and bodies pulled out days later with tags on their toes. But this...

That was it, in its full ugly fury.

His shoulder cam whirred silently, lens zoomed all the way in, hands braced against the ruined arch of a shattered watchtower. Below, the town of Nicolasburg was smoke and screams—streets reduced to ash-veined veins, buildings chewed apart by orbital fire, the air red.

And in the middle of it all, was him.

Adam.

A black silhouette against the blaze, coat in tatters, hair whipping wild. He didn't move like a man anymore. He moved like a blade given flesh.

The messer in his hand was slick with metal and blood, swinging with a weight that made Atlesian Knights crumple like toys. Limbs flew. Sparks burst from impact points. One knight collapsed before it even registered the strike—a red streak across its visor the only warning.

Blizzard's mouth had gone dry five minutes ago.

A Marine tried to flank Adam from behind. He never made it halfway. A backhand slash bisected him at the ribs, his scream swallowed by the roar of the artillery above.

"Holy shit," the cameraman whispered behind him.

Blizzard said nothing.

Because you don't speak when you're watching a god bleed.

Another wave came down the avenue—six Knights in tight formation, swords up. Adam didn't retreat. He didn't dodge. He charged.

He moved like vengeance incarnate, the blade a silver smear across burning air. One Knight went down before it fired. Another took a swing to the chest that tore its armor open like wrapping paper.

A third got a shot off. Hit Adam in the shoulder. His body twisted, stumbled—but didn't fall. Aura flared, cracking with strain.

Blizzard zoomed in as blood bloomed across Adam's upper chest, spreading fast. The man didn't even scream. Just kept going. Kept swinging.

"He's not mortal," the cameraman whispered. "He can't be."

Then it happened.

A light from above—a soft hum Blizzard barely registered until it was too late.

Batteries.

The lances of blue light came down in silence. A whisper. A judgment.

The blast caught Adam mid-sprint, just as he turned to face another squad—direct hit, no cover, full exposure.

There was no scream. No explosion.

Just light.

And then the street went white.

Blizzard flinched, instinctively ducking behind the stone. The ground trembled beneath him. His vision blanked for a second, the camera overloaded and screaming errors.

He popped back up a moment later—ears ringing, face pale.

Where Adam had stood—

Only fire.

And dust.

No figure rose.

No shadow moved.

Only silence.

Below, the town held its breath. Knights paused.

Blizzard panned slowly, catching the faces of the miners—wide-eyed, soot-streaked, exhausted. Rifles still raised. But no one was firing.

A woman—barefoot, bleeding, clutching a Dust canister—let it drop.

A man slumped to his knees.

Then, one by one, they laid down their arms.

Blizzard turned off the camera.

+++

A/N: This chapter was difficult to write, for obvious reasons.

One last chapter next...then next volume.

Here is a spoiler