Among the battlefield

Having a clear head in battle was essential, in fact it's the only thing keeping you from just dropping dead. If you don't know what your opponent will do in battle, you are essentially defenceless, and if you don't know what you are going to do with your next move, you will do nothing but die.

If you don't know how you plan to reach your goal, you've already lost.

Summer Rose learned these common truths a long time ago, back when she was still a student in Signal, when she got conked in the head while sparring. First against her teacher, who was not, of course, actually fighting back, then in training fights with her peers, then against Grimm. Further, nailed into her head in Beacon, first under the supervision of the teacher, then on her own along with her team, and then finally in the field.

Summer Rose had learned the proverbial truths of combat all too well… sadly no matter how hard it was told and taught to her, it didn't stick, Summer Rose was always a little different from many other hunters.

In battle, she didn't think.

Or rather, she didn't think deliberately. She didn't calculate what her opponent would do or find the right counterattack in her mind. No, for Summer Rose, fighting was simply fighting.

That is not to say that her intelligence level fell to the level of the beast, or perhaps it did, as she simply delved into her basic instincts.

What many hunters pondered in combat sensibly, Summer was aware of reflexively.

Like a wild animal on the hunt, she was subordinate not to reason – but to instinct.

And her instincts told her one thing.

ATTACK!

And Summer was only too happy to obey them.

The blade was both her weapon and an extension of her hand, like the claws of a wild beast it had become an integral part of her, its fangs hungry for her enemy's blood.

And Summer was hungry.

Jonathan slowly screwed down the cap of his cane, then closed his eyes.

There you have it, one less secret. He had shown his ability to create a doomsday weapon out of the materials he has at hand, and a couple of dust containers.

It was impossible not to notice such devastation. Jonathan wouldn't be surprised if some observatory on the other side of Remnant noticed his actions, nor would he be surprised that right now Ozpin was urgently convening a committee to evaluate his danger rating, or something similar, making adjustments to his plans with this revelation. Or maybe he had already started getting rid of old plans and creating new ones? One never knows with chess masters like Ozpin.

Still, at the moment there was no one around Jonathan as he sat on top of a small rocky cliff, watching from afar the rumble of artillery and even more rarely the shouts of Grimm. Other than that, it was almost serene, so he could afford to sit down on a rock, looking into the distance.

So Ozpin had outplayed him after all… No, it would have been naive to think that Jonathan could beat the old schemer at his game, at the first attempt at that and without a plan for such… Still, he was now faced with a serious choice, one that would decide all of his future actions.

With Ozpin - or against him.

Jonathan, in general, didn't want to go up against Ozpin, therefore if indirectly, supporting Salem, he didn't see any meaning in it.

Ozpin was defending humanity, fighting for the sake of it, and has been doing so for millennia. Jonathan knows that if he himself had gotten his hands dirty in just a few years of his reign, with the scale of Ozpin's accomplishments, the amount of dark deeds he had needed to do could not even be imagined. It would simply be hypocritical in this case to accuse Ozpin of anything, but…

Humans are indeed hypocritical creatures.

That's right, humans were hypocritical creatures, it was simply inherent in their nature. The survival mechanism of humanity as a species was built on hypocrisy, their very consciousness was built on a clear division: me and them.

An axiomatic division.

And while Jonathan could not, by rational reasoning, whitewash his actions, he also could not find reasons to oppose Ozpin. On the contrary, even if he was indeed manipulated, if it was to help humanity, Jonathan could accept it…

But he was still a hypocritical man.

After all, magicians weren't that different from humans, that's why they were so different from humans. Paradoxically, the main alieness of the mage's mind was that he was similar, if on a superficial level, to ordinary humans, and yet… was very strange in his thinking.

A cross between ceaseless agony, philosophical conversation, and the quest for enlightenment, is how one could describe a mage's life… and that that life fits in with much bigger events.

Jonathan Goodman could not disagree with Ozpin's aspirations, but also could not support them.

Because Jonathan Goodman was a hypocrite.

And so, leaning on his cane, he sighed as he looked at his scroll displaying the last message he had received from Ozpin.

No, he would not kill Ozpin. While he could not understand the immortal's plans and mind, he could not even imagine the chain of events he might set in motion with a careless action like that…

But his friendship with Ozpin has come to an end.

It wasn't something bad or something good, just…

So it is done.

Tyrian, as he had once called himself, withdrew his claw, feeling his other claw begin to regrow, but too slowly for comfort as the unstoppable Fury was already at his side.

His body's arm, the only one left, foamed with black slime a moment later as he moved it to defend himself before the blade could strike forward – but Tyrian knew it was only a moment's respite. Felt it.

The Fury's blade plunged into his flesh, taking the form of a white bone blade, and with a light pressure, ripped through him like a red-hot knife slicing through warm butter. At the next instant, the blade was to slice through his head, at the same time that his tail would decapitate the Fury.

The sting at the end of his tenacious tail struck a moment later, but Summer didn't even change the trajectory of her blade, as a hand intercepted his tail a moment later. Whereupon a sharp crack and a moment's pain brought to Tyrian's mind… Understanding that he had lost his tail.

Summer's eyes raged with ecstasy.

Madness, rage, and amusement, oh, she would love to have torn him apart, ripped out chunks of his flesh, gutted him, if it had not been for the realization that with her blade she could kill him faster.

And that meant that then she would have time to kill more.

Tyrian was enchanted, in love like a boy seeing his first love. As if his heart, which had been stripped from his new body, fluttered with beautiful bitterness and pain. The most poetic strings of his soul were asking out, wanting to pour out all his admiration for the beautiful warrior before him…

Instead, however, his head, which had opened a mouth full of splintered teeth, lunged forward on a sharply stretched neck, attempting to sink into Summer's face, and rip her neck.

In reply, she only ducked lightly, stepping aside before her blade struck forth again, but this time with Tyrian's body claw back in its place.

Even when she was frustrated in her effort to kill the Grimm, Summer didn't use her greatest strength, her silver eyes, oh no, that would be too quick! She didn't want to just roast her foe without leaving any dust behind, she wanted victory. To stab, to slaughter, to mutilate – to feel the Grimm die with her own hands!

Tyrian was reborn as a Grimm, but that didn't mean he could ignore this delightful girl!

But unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, as a madman can rejoice in becoming part of a beautiful artwork with his own flesh and blood, Tyrian was losing.

Even with the great power of his beautiful Goddess coursing through him, Tyrian was incomparable to the world's greatest hunter. Summer Rose was the greatest, as a Hunter she stood on the mountains of defeated Grimm and wore a crown that Ozpin himself could not remove, and not even Tyrian could shake her throne.

The blade fluttered with deadly fury and beauty, enchanting and beckoning Tyrian, its stinging with a hundredfold pain like a Siren's call.

First one arm fell, then the other, his body was being cut down to pieces, but Tyrian continued to fight, fully enjoying the self-destructive dance, welcoming his doom with all his heart and mind.

Flesh, bone, and blood were replaced with a cloud of darkness rising from each of his incised wounds, but Tyrian cared not. Where there were wounds, new flesh would rise, arms would be regrown, and a stinger would grow in place of his head. Now, Tyrian's new grotesque form no longer resembled that of a deathstalker, nor the faunus he had once been, nor even the middle ground between them. He was now only a mishmash of jaws and arms, tentacles of flesh and disorderly scattered eyes transfixed only for the actions of the beautiful maiden.

For him – no, for them, nothing else existed now. Not the rumble of artillery in the distance, not the sand underfoot – just them and the deadly dance that would spell their doom.

Summer had lost recollection of Ozpin's words somewhere in the distance of her mind, and the beautiful picture of his Goddess no longer raved in Tyrian's mind. No, everything merged into a single battle, and each enjoyed it fully, each of them was lost in the endless solitude of two madmen…

Hungry for each other's blood!

Raven Branwen has always carefully assessed the risks and rewards of each action – the kind of people who become successful heads of gangs and clans. Which fights were worth getting into, and which ones they could easily do without, when they needed to act and when they needed to walk away.

Raven Branwen would not come within three hundred meters of fighting Summer Rose.

She had learned that lesson plenty when she foolishly challenged her to a duel back when they were still students in Beacon. That was a mistake she was lucky to survive from.

Summer's semblance was her Battle Frenzy.

In combat, Summer was unmatched, she could slaughter three armies without pausing for a breath. In battle, she cared for nothing.

She didn't hesitate in combat, she couldn't be distracted or led astray, she didn't notice her wounds, nothing could stop her, until she had killed all her enemies. Or until she dies… which is a very tall order.

When a Hunter encounters their first Grimm, their first bandit, their hands would begin to shake. They would try to find reassurance in their lessons and training – anything to avoid succumbing to their anxiety.

Summer was the flip side of that coin. Starting a fight is as easy as breathing, stopping on the other hand…

She wasn't worried, she couldn't be led astray, she couldn't be intimidated, she'd fight against anyone, a perfect berserker, a perfect tool for slaughter – if it weren't for one problem…

Summer couldn't leave that madness on her own.

When Summer used her semblance, there was no way to stop her until the last enemy choked on their blood. The only way to appease Summer was to let her cut everyone out, or to subdue her by force.

Once upon a time, when Summer was just a student at Beacon, it could be done – either by her team, or by her teachers. But time passed, and Summer grew stronger and stronger, then she rose above all the hunters of the world Summer and never fell from her place of power.

Now it would take an army, dozens of Hunters, or maybe someone on Ozpin's or Salem's level, to stop Summer, when she had entered her madness… Or, Jonathan Goodman, Raven could guess – what tricks he was capable of, Raven didn't even have the imagination to guess.

What she knows for sure, and loath to admit, is that she was not one of the people that can stop Summer's rampage.

And woe to whoever got in Summer's way.

Raven liked to live, and so, looking through binoculars at Summer's distant battle with some ugly Salem-made monster, she didn't even think about giving any orders to stop her.

Sometimes, Raven even wondered if Summer, the Summer she had always presented herself as to everyone who didn't know her, was just another form of defense on her part. If she could lapse into madness in any fight, wasn't her daily-life personality, so far removed from any fight, from any conflict, a form of barrier? Not to any dangers that can come from her, but a form of barrier from her…

And if so, then who erected that barrier – Summer? Her entourage?

Or did someone else have a hand in it?

However, shaking her head out of that train of thought, Raven removed the binoculars from her eyes and turned to her deputy, the young girl, Vernal, she was showing excellent results – before nodding. Vernal, having correctly understood Raven's cue, thundered out the next order, repeating what they had planned before, and the ranks of cannons echoed with thunderous booms, turning hundreds of Grimm into piles of meat, dust, and darkness. Some Grimm were desperate to get to Raven and the artillery location – and some, from the older and more experienced, who had gained along with their intelligence and instinct for self-preservation, tried to escape to save their own skin.

It was impossible to wipe out all the Grimm in the Super-horde even if Summer did kill the leader – some would definitely escape, drawing blood from the people of Remnant, likely the most experienced and oldest would survive… But only a few of them.

Summer will destroy most of those, and Qrow will turn those that Summer misses into nothing.

If one Grimm out of a thousand survives, it will be a miracle, for the Grimm, that is. Raven would bet on one Grimm out of a hundred thousand surviving, which totals no more than fifty… Even Vacuo could handle something like that.

And so Raven could relax – for a while at least, and go back to her tent.

The battle had already been won, all that was left was its consequences. Raven had a lot to consider what would happen when Qrow got back and Summer washed away from the black, viscous blood of the Grimm.

She expected such a long conversation waiting for her from Summer…

Tyrian didn't give up…

But he didn't need to. Defeat doesn't always come from giving up.

His Goddess' magic was magnificent – but even magic, the perfect mechanism for breaking the laws of the universe, had its limit.

It was impossible to give Tyrian infinite strength, infinite stamina, infinite regeneration, and just as Summer's power, his reserve was great but finite… It was just that Summer had more.

What was surprising was that the perfect monster made from Remnant's most dangerous assassin, transformed into a monstrous spawn by the magic of an immortal dark witch, was weaker than just one huntress – but so it is.

Tyrian was simply not given the time to heal every wound, to respond with the same strength, to be as swift as his opponent. And so, at some point, the outcome of the battle was a foregone conclusion… No, it had been a foregone conclusion from the start.

It was just that, at one point in such a long sonnet, in a song of destruction and glittering blades – the end point had been set.

When the monster's flesh was tortured and the hundreds of severed tentacles and limbs turned to oily slime, slowly soaking the endless sands of Vacuo, turning to black mist; when Tyrian realized that he had no strength left to even lift his arm – no, he had no arms anymore; when he saw the triumph in Summer's eyes, the pleasure of battle – Tyrian knew.

He had lost.

Tyrian had always imagined his death this way… Oh yes, he had always wished to die on the battlefield, perhaps not at the hands of the beautiful Fury, who would cut his life short with a blade in her hands and joy, hatred in her eyes… but a glorious death all the same.

Oh yes, death had caught up with Tyrian, but he was not saddened by it.

On the contrary, he lived and died as he wished, as a true warrior of chaos, of infinite destruction, and he was glad. He had borne destruction in his life, and died by one who bore destruction even greater than he.

Tyrian was glad of such a death, he was delighted with his lot and as he gazed into his reflection on Fury's blade, he only wished that his postmortem had been as stunning as his death.

His gaze slid for a moment across the sands, to the silent sand dunes of the desert, sand dunes that hid the small silent Grimm who had watched Tyrian battle, and he smiled.

I hope my Goddess of Destruction will be merciful to me, I hope I have favored her with my death.

But what fascinated Tyrian most was not what his Goddess could see, but what he himself saw in the eyes of the victor of their battle.

There was amusement in Summer's eyes.

Death.

AND A THIRST FOR MORE.

Oh, how Tyrian was glad of his death for only in it did he see happiness!

Summer had passed his test, destroyed his body, killed him, and he had given her a battle, a battle that others could only envy – given her a fight with Remnant's greatest Grimm.

But that was not enough for her.

Tyrian was enchanted, smitten and…

Dead.

She paused for a second as she severed the Grimm's head from his body. As she then looked up like a raptor who had just proved his right to the throne, the right to reign over all the beasts of the world, she exhaled.

Before she covered her eyes and a small smile began to play on her lips.

It was a… Nice fight.

Summer opened her eyes, feeling her smile twist into a grin.

She wished for another one like it!

The full eradication of the horde took several more hours, enough time for Jonathan to return to regular duty to the hitherto raised Glenn soldiers, who were now thoughtfully trying to solve the riddle of his orders. He had made a bird's eye view of the battlefield, carefully making a note to himself of Summer Rose's abilities.

Finishing that, he now owed a visit to Vacuo… Vacuo, whose empty streets were now filled with words of alarm, even as the airwaves were filled with words of encouragement.

"Army. Atlas. Will. Arrive. In. One. Hour."

Vacuo… never been on good terms with Atlas.

It happens when you turn an entire people into slaves and force them to work in the plantations, mines, and quarries.

Oh yes, the very fact that Atlas's army had to come to Vacuo's aid was insulting to Vacuo's denizens, but if Atlas had actually saved Vacuo in the process, it might have really smoothed the edges and helped Atlas's position…

Not for long, five, or ten years at best – but that would be enough time for Atlas to get stronger…

Of course, that's not going to happen now.

No, given the current situation, with the horde already destroyed and Atlas likely to arrive later than the announced time, a couple more hours late to save anyone had the horde not been destroyed… They would have arrived with loud fanfare, with their warships, and the proud general in helm. Now that would all arrive all too late, to a battlefield that was already emptied of threats.

Jonathan would not have been surprised for them to arrive, leading with something like a loud inspiring speech. Something along the lines of 'no need to worry, the Atlas army is already here!' to the point of making Vacuo's defense look as pathetic, ridiculous, and as painful as possible for the people of Vacuo.

Of course, now, none of that would happen.

They would arrive in a few hours, most likely by the time half of Vacuo was already drunk from their escape from death, and Jonathan, Summer and Raven being honored as heroes. Jonathan could practically see Ozpin's hand gently clearing all obstacles in the way of the three victors…

And, of course, the climax. Atlas' clash with Raven – the final chord that was to move Atlas from the category of mockery, to the category of unequivocal enemies.

And the many, many, many consequences of such…

But even now, Ozpin was giving him a choice. No, rather, he was making him choose.

A few hours was more than enough time for him and Raven to leave Vacuo, in which case there would still be a blow against Atlas, but not at all as strong as Ozpin would have liked. But if he were to act, there would be no more of Ozpin's help for Jonathan, his kingdom, he would have gained nothing in coming to Vacuo. And, in addition, such action would seriously damage his budding friendship with Summer…

The usefulness and fighting power of which, Ozpin had kindly demonstrated to him.

Oh, and lastly, it would also make him an adversary, if not an enemy, of Ozpin.

So, should he go along with his plan and act exactly as Ozpin had written his role?

Jonathan exhaled and shook his head, making a decision…

Hazel Rainart was a man of action, not words – preferably actions of the physical kind.

He was no longer a young man, at thirty-seven a man was considered an adult by all cultures and even species, and so he had managed to see quite a few things in his lifetime. As a retired Hunter, it was only natural.

Hazel had been on many missions since his graduation from Haven. Mostly successful. Mostly…

Hazel had had time to marvel at the power of the Grimm, and at the strength of the Hunters who fought them. To see the power of armies, on those rare missions when his path crossed with them…

And yet, his mind could not comprehend the words that kept coming out of the Councillor's mouth.

"Through the power of King Osmond's Semblance… The Super-horde is destroyed… The professional actions of Specialist Raven Branwen…"

Hazel knew from Gretchen, his dear little sister, about the power of the Super-horde, so he knew what King Osmond had accomplished. It was hard not to see it, for one straight week the headlines were practically speaking about the same thing, with the news on the Scrolls headlining interviews with specialists, shows and private meetings alike.

And of course Hazel would not have thought to accuse Osmond of any funny business or lies. No, Hazel held in his heart a great appreciation for the King for protecting and saving his little sister.

The only reason he had not gone to Glenn to swear allegiance to him, like a knight from some fairy tale, was because his sister, and all her team, simply could not physically stand being in Mount Glenn. And Hazel of course could not leave them in the situation they were in then…

And yet, even with all that, Hazel still had no way to fit the information of King Osmond's feat into his head.

Had… Had he really done it?

Looking at the man leaning on the cane, the short, rather thin guy who was clearly dependent on the walking stick in his hand, the perfect picture of frailty. There was simply no way Hazel could fit in his mind what the man before him and what he heard of his feat.

The destruction – an explosion of monstrous scale that could no doubt have left all of Vacuo in nothing but smoking ruins, was the work of… This man?

Hazel could believe the power of Summer Rose. Oh yes, rumors about Remnant's strongest Hunter since the Grimm Reaper were many and as colorful as the last. Looking at her figure on the stage she looked diminutive, and clearly felt uncomfortable standing in the spotlight – but Hazel knew not to underestimate Hunters for their appearance – that was something that everyone learned, and very quickly.

Raven Branwen on the other hand really looked the part. She looked like someone who could slaughter a small Horde on her own, she clearly was one step away from blurting out a grin as she watched the common folk, now looking at her with respect and some with admiration.

He could believe in Qrow Branwen's prowess, a famed hunter of sorts, and at the strength of the hundred or so thugs behind Raven's back because they looked dangerous. But most of all, from the fact, that their supposed strength was still within the norm of Humanity.

Hazel was strong, but he knows of those who were many times stronger than him in battle. The most powerful of the Hunters? They could turn the most powerful of the Grimm into a bloody mess with a flip of their hands, or with a swing of their blade, but…

But Osmond's strength?

Hazel's star as a renowned Hunter had never managed to rise, but the reason wasn't that he lacked the strength for such a thing. Oh no, if Hazel had continued on taking on missions, training on his breaks, perhaps one day he could have faced Summer Rose for the title of Remnant's strongest Hunter, but he had withdrawn himself from that life in order to devote all his time to looking after his sister.

But that did not take away from the fact that Hazel was strong or from the fact that he had been well-educated in Haven. And so it was perfectly understandable, without any doubt, that what was used by King Osmond was not a mere semblance, but more like…

Full-blown magic.

Not in the sense of old, musty books or rituals or anything like that, of course, he didn't believe in magic – but in the sense of a real… Miracle.

The people around him didn't care, they were just glad to have survived, at the cost of a short shelter stay and a couple of broken windows, but Hazel could see that such power was… Unthinkable.

For one thing, it didn't fit in any way with previous information about Osmond's Semblance.

So what then? Some sort of Lost Technology? A second person with this level of Semblance? Or is it something more?!

Such monstrous power, if proven to be not a one-time trick but freely available force, was not just going to shake the balance of power – it was going to break all the rules of the game.

What could have followed such a thing? What was to follow? And what would follow?

Jonathan looked up into the sky as the first shouts singing him, and the others' praises began to echo through the square, which had been improvised as a stage for his honoring by the Council. He exhaled as he looked at the approaching dots in the distance.

Atlas' army, of course. Right on time, huh, Ozpin?

What power Ozpin had used in picking the most perfect moment for Ironwood to appear, Jonathan didn't know… But not that that knowledge could help him at the moment.

Clutching his cane tighter and smiling at the Councillor, he turned around to accept the medal.

The final part of this spectacle was beginning…