Save the world? Fuck that, I want to make money! (RWBY SI) ch 81

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The tower rises from the barren landscape like a jagged scar against the horizon, an unnatural wound that bleeds dark energy into the sky. Its silhouette is a twisted spire, clawing upward as though it seeks to tear through the very fabric of reality itself. The peaks are sharp, serrated like the teeth of some monstrous creature, reflecting the same ambition that drives its mistress. The tower stands alone, a silent sentinel in a world emptied of life, surrounded by the hollow ruins of civilizations long forgotten. Here, the air is thick with an ancient dread, a presence that bends reality itself.

The structure is a grotesque fusion of forgotten architecture and unnatural design, an abomination that bends time and space around it. The dark stone walls rise high, each one etched with arcane symbols that flicker with an eerie, otherworldly glow—runes that pulse with a life that is not of this world. The stones are ancient, weathered by millennia, but seem impervious to decay, as if the very essence of the tower resists the erosion of time itself. Its spires, impossibly tall and jagged, reach toward the heavens like fingers stretching toward forbidden truths, yearning to claw their way into realms beyond mortal comprehension.

Inside, the air is thick with an oppressive silence, a crushing stillness that seems to swallow sound. Shadows cling to every corner, twisting and contorting as if alive. The flickering light of a distant, dying flame casts grotesque, unnatural shapes upon the walls. The floors, made of polished black stone, reflect nothing—not light, not warmth, not hope. They are mirrors to a void that knows no end.

The chambers within are cavernous, their towering ceilings stretching upward into an infinite dark, leaving only the disorienting sense of unending space above. The silence is unbearable, broken only by the faintest whispers—murmurs of dark power, echoes of forbidden knowledge that stir in the walls like something waiting to awaken. The rooms are sparsely furnished, the remnants of long-forgotten rituals scattered across the stone like the remains of some profane ceremony. Salem's personal sanctum lies deep within the tower, a place untouched by the outside world, where the very air hums with the raw, unholy energy of ancient, forbidden magic.

Hazel Rainart stands before the door to Salem's personal sanctum. He raises his hand, ready to knock. Then, he pauses.

Beside the door, a panel with a dark, spiked orb stands, throbbing with an unnatural rhythm. Hazel watches, unmoving, as the orb opens with a sickening, wet crunch, revealing a single, unblinking eye. The eye stares into him, and for a moment, he feels as if the very essence of his soul is being weighed and measured.

"Mistress, there is an issue that requires your attention," Hazel rumbles, his voice thick with a mix of dread and respect. This is not the first time he has spoken to this orb, but each time, the experience leaves him more unsettled. With the absence of Watts and Tyrian, he has become her new steward. Not that he desired the role—it was simply a matter of convenience for his patron.

The eye blinks once, slowly, and the locks on the door twist and turn with an unnatural sound, like bones grinding against each other. The door creaks open, revealing the sanctum within. Hazel steps inside, his eyes drawn immediately to the center of the room.

The bed, unmade and untouched, rests in the center. Salem does not need sleep, but she is still something that requires sustenance of a darker, more disturbing nature. All around the room, stacks of books—some bound in strange, living materials—stand in chaotic piles, their covers inscribed with incomprehensible symbols. Some of the books, Hazel cannot even bear to touch; the letters upon them are not of any language he knows. He assumes they are tomes of dark sorcery, relics of forgotten rituals.

And there she is, seated behind her desk, her back turned. Her silhouette is faintly visible through the heavy shadows, and in the dim light, her presence feels as though it warps the very air around her. Rows of books are spread out in front of her, and she is scribbling in one with an unnerving speed. The quill moves with unnatural precision, as if guided by some invisible hand. What she writes, Hazel cannot fathom.

"Mistress," Hazel dips his head, his voice barely a whisper, as if speaking any louder would shatter the fragile reality around them.

The scribbling stops. Salem slowly places the quill in an ink-filled vessel, the ink unnervingly black and viscous, like something alive. She glances over her shoulder, her red eyes glowing like coals in the dark. There is no warmth in them, only an emptiness that stretches beyond the stars.

"You say it is urgent, Hazel?" Her voice is rich, ancient, and laced with a predatory sweetness that sends a chill crawling down his spine. "And please, lift your head. I would like to look into your eyes as we speak."

Hazel hesitates for a heartbeat, his body refusing to obey, but he forces himself to comply. As their gazes lock, his very soul recoils. He is no longer looking at a woman. He is staring into the void itself. Her eyes are not just red—they are infinite, an abyss that bends space, time, and sanity. His knees tremble, the world around him threatening to crumble, but he forces himself to stand tall, focusing on the matter at hand. His eyes, it twitches and hurts, like someone is training a small knife to cut around his veins. Then, it vanishes. There, Salem seems like a woman again—until she doesn't.

"Our client in Vale asks that we reduce the attacks on his kingdom. He fears the situation is spiraling beyond his control," Hazel reports, his words feeling small and fragile in the face of the vast power before him. "Client." The word feels insignificant in her presence, as though it could dissolve into the air.

Salem's lips curl into a smile that isn't really a smile at all—more of a cruel twist, as though her very thoughts are beyond mortal comprehension. Her laughter rings out, hollow and unsettling, before she returns to her desk, her hand reaching for the quill once more. "I was assured that he was capable," she muses, her voice like the scraping of ancient stone. "Did we not give him what he needed? He has his army, control of the council."

"It seems the fire has spread beyond even his ability to contain it," Hazel surmises, his voice barely above a whisper.

"So it would seem," Salem nods, her head tilting as if contemplating something far beyond the scope of mortal thought. "Very well. We shan't harvest the crop before the wheat is ready. Inform Cinder to hold off on high-profile acts." She resumes her writing, the quill moving faster now, as though it is being guided by some unfathomable force.

"Are we delaying the plan?" Hazel asks, his curiosity barely masking his unease.

"The more...exciting parts, yes. But the rest shall continue. I see no reason to stop," Salem's voice drips with quiet assurance, as if the fate of the world is of little consequence to her. "Vale will fall. The Cardinal will be brought low, and Beacon destroyed. That is your wish, is it not?"

"Yes," Hazel replies, his voice tight, his gaze falling to the cold, black stone floor.

"No more innocents to die from Ozpin's games. No more to be manipulated into serving his cause," Salem continues, her voice becoming a low murmur that feels as though it's entering his mind. Hazel's blood burns with hatred at the mention of Ozpin. His teeth grind, and his body trembles with barely-contained rage. But he suppresses it, forcing himself to focus.

"Yes..." he responds, his voice strained as he fights to contain his fury.

"No more heroes," Salem's smile widens, but there is no amusement in it—only the hollow, chilling satisfaction of an entity that has long since transcended humanity. Hazel nods mutely.

"No more heroes," he agrees, his voice barely a whisper. "May I be dismissed?"

"Go," she says softly, and Hazel feels the weight of her command press down on him like a physical force. Salem watches him leave, her eyes never leaving his form, as if she can see through him, past him, into all that he is and all that he will become.

Their plans wouldn't be entirely disrupted by pulling back on the excitement. They had already achieved much of what they needed. Vale... it was a delicious, intoxicating cage. She could feel it—the fear, the anxiety—it was intoxicating. Her eyes redden in dark delight. Her precious Grimm trampled and gathered, drawn to the negative emotions stirred by the Fleur. In a twisted way, their stubborn desire to restore their petty kingdom was admirable. A pity for them that their ambition was sealing their doom. Once the Vytal Tournament began, the following days would be satisfying.

More robots, more men for security—each anxious and waiting. The Faunus, driven to paranoia. Vale would be destroyed, and her husband's pool of recruits drained.

Where would he run, she wondered. Would he flee to Vacuo, already suspicious and angry at Vale for losing their cultural treasures? Mistral? The continent was a mess, divided in two. She needn't intervene there; the fools had already fallen into base corruption and allowed issues to fester. All she had to do was nudge a few individuals into the right places.

Atlas? No, Solitas. He would seek refuge there, with the Solitans and their technology. She had watched the rise of the continent closely, from the beginning, starting with that blasted mine the Schnees ran. Such concentration of force never went unnoticed.

She watched as their systems changed, discarding the weak, and saw the floating city descend. She watched as it defied all natural laws, sending its automata screaming into the heavens. Few things surprised her anymore, but the rocket launch was one of them. She came from an era when conventional wisdom dictated the planet's limits. Dust couldn't work too far into the sky—it needed a planet's life to function.

It was tempting to disrupt and attack the rocket launch when it happened, to watch the world tremble as Remnant tried to breach the confines set by the Gods. But she did not. It wasn't part of the plan. Disrupting it would create variables she could not account for. So, she chose to watch, letting the Solitans make history.

It would be the last of their achievements.

Vale would fall. Vacuo would fall. Mistral, then Solitas. The relics would be found, and the bastard Gods returned to purge the world.

Then, she could find what she desired the most.

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A/N: Props to Hazel and the rest of Salem's tea for living through a Great One and still maintaining their sanity. The more I think about it, she literally fell into a pool of utter darkness and evil. No one is coming out of that...normal. 

​It would make sense for Salem to use a shit ton of spells to make her comprehensible to her human agents. With the lack of them around save for Hazel, she doesn't see the need to use glamour.