(Kaelith POV)
My eyes opened, and the room slowly came into focus as the drowsiness faded.
I woke up at exactly 5:30 AM.
3 and a half hours before classes start.
And the time I woke up at all the time in this second life.
Standing, I stretched, doing some very complicated stretches that got my full body involved.
First, I interlaced my fingers overhead and leaned far to the right, then to the left, my ribs stretching with ease. The kind of side bend that makes your spine whisper threats.
Then I dropped forward, folding in half with my legs perfectly straight, palms flat on the floor like gravity had nothing on me. I stayed there, letting the pull in my hamstrings bite, before hooking my hands behind my ankles and pulling myself even deeper. My forehead kissed my knees—a habit from the White Room training in my past life. Yes, dance was also taught there.
Next came the standing backbend—arms up, chest out, and I arched until my fingers were pointing nearly behind me, a full-body C-shape that made my spine crack loud enough to scare ghosts.
Finally, a slow squat, thighs parallel to the floor, elbows pressed against the insides of my knees as I brought my palms together. The deep yogi squat. It grounded me. Let my joints moan in their horrible little chorus before settling into silence.
Next came the shadow boxing altered for all martial arts.
I moved along my room careful not to disturb my teammates whilst throwing quick jabs, straights, elbows, crosses, throws, various kicks, and more in a beautiful dance.
Of course this was basic, so I took it further by imagining a strong opponent to fight against me. So I actually was using blocks, and dodging attacks. And of course, when I got hit, I made it seem like I did.
Because I would take it to the nth degree.
Normally people built up into this, but my body was always ready for the harsher training as soon as I woke up.
Plus, I have done this same routine every day in the White Room since Shiro left.
And that was back when I could be called a "normal" human being.
By the time I finished, sweat clung to me like an old friend.
A glance to the side—as I settled into the next routine of push-ups, sit ups, and the like—told me what I knew already.
Pyrrha was curled up, breathing steadily.
Nora had star-fished off her bed, one leg dangling like she was mid-battle even in dreams.
And Ren was well Ren. Perfect posture, zero movement. That guy could pass as a meditation statue. If I didn't have my Ki Sense, I might have assumed he was dead.
I felt my lips twitch upwards.
By 7:15 I was showered, dressed in the window, and sitting by the window in full uniform drinking a cup of tea I had made myself whilst enjoying my breakfast. That was not pancakes, rather it was miso soup, with grilled fish and rice. Just a large portion due to my Saiyan stomach.
I had also made food for the other 3, which were normal portions for the Humans.
I watched the sky lighten over Vale, shadows shrinking like cowards.
This world had birds, flapping their wings like the symbol of freedom they were.
Back when I was still just Sumire, I'd have turned this moment into a full-blown philosophical analysis on the nature of freedom.
… I was still going to do it.
I've read dozens of books about freedom. I had to. Not because I was seeking it, but because the White Room made us read various books during language courses.
The first one that always came to mind was Erich Fromm, Escape from Freedom. He argued that human beings, when truly faced with freedom, often ran screaming into the arms of authority. That freedom wasn't just the absence of chains—but the burden of choosing. "Modern man, freed from the bonds of pre-individualistic society… has not gained freedom in the positive sense of the realization of his individual self, he has gained freedom from the overt authority of the church, of the state, of moral laws—freedom from, but not freedom to."
Fromm's words resonated with the sterile lessons of the White Room.
We were given freedom from emotion, from personal desire, from the messy unpredictability of human connection.
But were we ever given freedom to be ourselves? To explore passions, to forge our own paths unburdened by the White Room's rigid curriculum?
No. Our choices were always within the confines of their design, aimed at creating the ultimate weapon, the perfect intellect.
Then there was Jean-Paul Sartre, his existentialist pronouncements echoing in the quiet corners of my Memory. "Man is condemned to be free; because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does."
Sartre's freedom was a terrifying responsibility, a constant creation of self through action.
In the White Room, our actions were dictated, our selves molded to perfection.
Now, in this chaotic world, the weight of that Sartrean freedom pressed down. Every choice, no matter how small–what to eat, what to say, how to fight–was mine. And with that freedom came the Endless Possibilities, made for infinite scenarios, each one, containing infinite mistakes, and successes.
Viktor Frankl, a man who found meaning amidst unimaginable suffering, offered another perspective in Man's Search for Meaning. He argued that even when stripped of all external freedoms, humans retain the ultimate freedom: the ability to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.
The White Room attempted to crush this inner freedom, to dictate our emotional responses, but it never fully succeeded.
And then there was the concept of free will itself, a philosophical battleground spanning centuries. Was our every action predetermined by a complex web of cause and effect, or were we truly agents of our own destiny?
As Sumire, I believed that predeterminism was an illusion. That events were influenced by factors that in some cases, form the appearance of destiny and that the idea of absolute fate was… foolish.
And I still view it that way.
Even after my meeting with the Goddess.
Though, that is old information to some. It is relevant to what comes next.
I recalled the works of Baron d'Holbach, his System of Nature painting a stark picture of humanity as nothing more than complex machines, every action an inevitable consequence of prior causes. "Man believes himself free, because he is ignorant of the motives by which he is determined." He had wrote.
The White Room, in its relentless conditioning, had certainly attempted to mold us into predictable instruments. Had they succeeded more than I realized? Was my current path, my reactions, simply a complex chain reaction set in motion by that sterile environment?
Then there was Daniel Dennett, his Elbow Room offering a more nuanced compatibilist view. He argued that free will, in a meaningful sense, could exist even within a deterministic universe.
Our ability to reason, to consider alternatives, to learn from our mistakes–these were real capacities that granted us a form of freedom, even if the underlying physical processes were governed by laws.
Had my meticulous planning in the face of Raven Heart, my decision to spare her–manifestations of that "elbow room," or merely the predictable outputs of my unique programming?
The complexities of Benjamin Libet's experiments flickered in my memory–the readiness potential in the brain preceding conscious awareness of a decision.
Did this prove that our "choices" were merely afterthoughts, the brain acting before the mind was even aware?
Or were there methodological flaws, interpretations that allowed for a more active role of consciousness?
The debate within the scientific community itself offered no easy answers.
And then there was the stark opposition of thinkers like Robert Kane, championing libertarian free will–the genuine ability to choose between multiple possibilities, unconstrained by prior causes.
This felt intuitively true, especially in moments of intense decision like facing down the girl. The sheer effort of will, the feeling of consciously choosing a path in the face of overwhelming odds–could that truly be an illusion?
The rising sun painted the Vale sky in hues of orange and gold, a spectacle I observed with appreciation.
The birdsong, a constant in this world, was a data point, a characteristic of this ecosystem
Freedom, a concept I had dissected and analyzed countless times, remained an elusive variable in the equation of my existence.
The White Room had offered a twisted form of freedom–freedom from the perceived weaknesses of humanity. Yet, it had also stripped us of the freedom to explore our own potential beyond their narrow parameters.
My meticulous planning during the fight with Raven Heart, the conscious decision to deviate from the White Room's programming and spare her–were these acts of genuine free will, a nascent emergence of a self beyond the weapon they had forged?
Or were they merely complex calculations, the most logical course of action based on the available data, including the unexpected stirrings of empathy triggered by fragmented memories of Sumire's—my final act?
I didn't know.
I finished my food, setting the chopsticks down as I checked the time.
7:30.
Got it. You want the Kaelith who revels in her power, enjoys a bit of psychological warfare, and has that dry, cutting wit from the Jaune scene back. Less "logical robot," more "amused god-empress who tolerates humans."
Here's that section rewritten with that characterization in mind:
(Kaelith POV)
7:30.
"OI! Sleepy heads, wake up or we'll be late for our first day at Beacon."
The detonation of my voice in the quiet dorm achieved its desired effect. Nora rocketed upright like someone had lit a firework under her bed, which, knowing her, wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility.
"Late?! For class?!" She gasped, eyes wide with horror, as if I'd just announced the end of pancake season.
I raised an eyebrow, sipping my tea. "Relax, chaos gremlin. You have 60 minutes. We're not actually late. But you were generating enough gravitational pull to form a small, very loud black hole."
Nora blinked. Then blinked again. Then… pouted, as if this was a grave personal affront. "You can't just say 'late' like that, Kaelith! My heart nearly stopped! And I like my heart. It keeps me full of punch!"
She threw a fist into the air dramatically, nearly knocking her pillow off the bed in the process. Said pillow made a slow, tragic descent to the floor with the sound of a defeated thump, much like Nora's short-lived moment of dignity.
Across the room, Pyrrha stirred gently, blinking her emerald eyes open as if roused from a dream of velvet and ancient poetry. Her gaze moved to me, a faint, amused smile already gracing her lips.
"Good morning, Kaelith." Her voice had that usual warmth, like sunrise after a storm, annoyingly pleasant.
"Morning, Pyrrha," I replied, nodding. "Breakfast is on the table. Miso, grilled fish, rice. Human portions, so try not to spontaneously combust, Nora."
Nora perked up at the word breakfast, abandoning her faux indignation faster than a Beowulf running from a plasma blast. "Food? You made food?! I take back all my complaints! You're a goddess, Kaelith! A breakfast goddess!"
[Faith has increased by 10 points]
...A goddess of breakfast. Right. My past life training, the White Room's relentless conditioning, the interdimensional travel – all for this glorious title. Still, ten points was ten points. The Great Ape of Vale legend had died down, so I didn't gain points from that anymore. I needed new avenues.
Ren moved at last, silently rising from his bed with the elegance of a falling feather. No yawn, no blink, just motion—as if he had merely been waiting for the correct time code to execute his existence. He padded over, offered me a slight nod, then added, "Thank you for the meal."
Minimalist gratitude. Classic Ren. Always efficient, even in appreciation. I could respect that.
Pyrrha sat up with more grace than anyone had the right to after just waking up. The kind of effortless movement that made it feel like she'd been in a training montage while unconscious.
"You didn't have to do this, but thank you. It smells wonderful." She said, slipping from the bed to the table, already looking composed.
Nora had already begun inhaling her food. I swear, I blinked, and half her bowl was gone, a sugary vortex claiming all in its path.
"I would marry this miso," she declared between bites, rice threatening to escape her lips. "No prenup. I'd take its name. Mrs. Miso Valkyrie."
Pyrrha giggled softly at that, ladylike and poised even with a bowl of fish in her hands. "You really should open a restaurant someday, Kaelith."
"I would," I said dryly, eyeing Nora's enthusiastic consumption. "But the urge to vaporize rude customers might hurt repeat business. And the cleanup costs would be astronomical."
"...You'd get very polite customers," Ren observed, his voice completely flat, completely serious.
That actually got a genuine, short bark of laughter out of me. The man had a talent for understated comedy.
As the others ate, I looked back out the window.
The campus was fully awake by now—bullheads moving like slow, metallic fish through the clouds, students wandering across the Beacon courtyard, some slouching with the weight of bad decisions, others moving with the forced enthusiasm of the truly delusional.
By 8:20 the four of us filed out of the dorm, sharp in our Beacon uniforms—well, mostly. Nora still had a piece of pillow fluff in her hair that Pyrrha kept trying to brush off, much to Nora's oblivious annoyance. Ren walked with serene indifference, his thoughts undoubtedly as ordered as his Aura. I, meanwhile, walked with the calm confidence of someone who knew the world wouldn't dare inconvenience her without dire consequences.
As we moved through the halls, I caught snippets of whispered gossip.
"Is that her? The one from initiation?"
"Totally. That's the one who fights like a demon and eats like five people. And punched a Schnee."
"Did you see her take out that Nevermore? Like it was made of paper!"
Let them whisper. I dealt in myths, not introductions. Their awe was merely a side effect of proper power management.
[Faith has increased by 1 point]
Yep, the myths are working. My personal fan club was steadily growing. That was my 96th point. Soon, I'd be able to request a personal cheering section. Or maybe just another stat point.
Nora, oblivious as always to anything not directly involving explosions or pancakes, skipped ahead, her mace, Magnhild, swinging playfully at her side. "Did you hear what that girl said? A 'demon'! I like it! Maybe we should get t-shirts! With demon horns!"
Ren, ever the pragmatist, gently steered her away from a collision with a group of bewildered first-years. "Perhaps we should focus on finding our first class, Nora, before you incite a panic."
Pyrrha walked beside me, her expression thoughtful. "The students seem… intrigued by you, Kaelith." Her tone was mild, but I could sense the underlying question. Are you okay with this?
I offered a small, almost imperceptible shrug. "Intrigue is a natural response to the anomalous. And useful. It keeps the idiots at a safe distance."
Ren, observant as ever, spoke up. "She doesn't mind it."
Ren's quiet observation was accurate. Intrigue was just data, and data was useful. Fear, however, was a different variable, prone to causing irrational, messy behavior. I preferred intrigue. It kept people at a distance, curious but hesitant to provoke. Fear made them act unpredictably, which was just annoying.
We found our first class, entering the lecture hall. Most of our classmates weren't here yet, but there were a few familiar faces. Namely, Team CRDL. Cardin Winchester, the walking inferiority complex, and his three equally dim-witted henchmen. They were already huddled together, probably planning their next target for bullying.
[New Quest Generated, "Humiliate Team CRDL"
Requirement: Humiliate Cardin Winchester, Russel Thrush, Dove Bronzewing, and Sky Lark.
Rewards:
1,000 EXP
4,000 Lien]
A quest for humiliation. How quaint. Expected, but that would be far too easy. They barely registered as speed bumps in combat class, which I fully intended to use to my advantage. Their arrogance was a weakness, and I was a master of exploiting weaknesses.
Nora bounced in her seat, practically vibrating with anticipation for whatever fresh hell Beacon would unleash. Ren settled beside her, a picture of calm amidst the pre-class buzz, probably mentally reviewing the syllabus. Pyrrha took the seat on my other side, her posture perfect, her gaze occasionally flicking towards me, still that faint, unreadable concern in her emerald eyes.
Why was she concerned, when she knows my power? I mused, a flicker of genuine bewilderment in my mind.
Professor Port, a man whose prodigious mustache seemed to possess more sentience than most of the student body, cleared his throat with a sound that could curdle milk. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, he launched into a tirade of various Grimm species, complete with dramatic hand gestures that nearly took out a ceiling tile.
RWBY, the perpetually fashionable latecomers, arrived approximately five minutes after the class's designated start time.
Weiss entered first, a sharp glare already aimed squarely at me. It was softened slightly, though, a performative flash of annoyance, like a dull blade trying to impress a diamond. I registered it, catalogued it. An interesting development. She was trying to maintain that frosty exterior, but the crack was there.
Ruby, a whirlwind of nervous energy, bounced in second, offering me a quick, sweet wave before Weiss, yanked her into a seat. Blake followed, a walking shadow library, and then, of course, Yang sauntered in last, a sunbeam of unapologetic tardiness.
Professor Port, utterly oblivious to the late arrival of Team RWBY–or perhaps, simply choosing to ignore it since it was the first day–continued his booming lecture on the anatomy of the Ursa.
He punctuated his points with slightly exaggerated stories of Grimm encounters from his own glorious past. And I say slightly because, truth be told, the man's Ki Signature felt on par with—if not stronger than—Glynda's. So, the old fool's tales might actually hold some weight.
Nora, despite her earlier breakfast-induced manic energy, was now leaning precariously on Ren, her cheek propped firmly on his shoulder—a sight I made a mental note to 100% tease them about later. Ren, a paragon of stoicism, was meticulously focused on the lesson, sitting perfectly straight, but even he looked as bored as a rock in a desert.
Pyrrha, too, looked bored, her gaze occasionally drifting to the clock as if willing time to accelerate.
And I? I was probably the most bored I had been in a long time. I did not spend an eternity mastering quantum mechanics at the age of 6 in my past life, only to be subjected to a lesson on Grimm biology that amounted to "pointy bits go stab, furry bits go roar." The only marginally interesting parts of the lesson were Professor Port's stories, if only for their potential statistical analysis.
"The moral of this story?" Port boomed, pulling me from my internal data processing. "A true Huntsman must be honourable, dependable, strategic, well-educated, and wise! So, who among you believes themselves to be the embodiment of these traits?"
I knew what was coming. The bait was dangling, waiting for a certain silver haired heiress to leap for it. A quick glance at Weiss, however, confirmed my earlier assessment: she hadn't taken the bait. Her character arc, while accelerated, seemed to be holding.
That meant… it was time for Plan B. Or rather, Plan C, since Plan A—a casual, public display of overwhelming power that would leave everyone else questioning their life choices—wasn't quite feasible within the confines of a lecture hall.
Cardin smirked, his hand shooting up with exaggerated enthusiasm, as if he expected a medal just for volunteering. "Professor Port, my team and I would be honoured to demonstrate our… prowess."
The smugness practically dripped from him. Excellent. This was going to be delightful.
Professor Port puffed out his chest, his ridiculous mustache quivering with an almost equal amount of self-importance. "Excellent, Mr. Winchester! A volunteer! Come on down then, you and your… esteemed colleagues."
Team CRDL swaggered to the front, Cardin leading the way with a cocky grin that promised more arrogance than actual skill. Russel and Dove flanked him, looking vaguely menacing, while Sky trailed behind, seemingly more interested in the dust bunnies under the benches than the impending demonstration.
"Alright," Professor Port boomed, gesturing towards a large, covered cage in the corner. "Inside this very enclosure lurks a creature of formidable aggression. A real Boarbatusk!"
The cage rattled ominously, and a series of angry snorts echoed from within. Nora's eyes widened with manic glee, practically vibrating in her seat, while Ren subtly shifted, his hand hovering near his weapons, ready for inevitable idiocy. Pyrrha's expression tightened with a hint of genuine concern for the students about to face the creature.
Cardin, however, just smirked, flexing a non-existent bicep. "Don't worry, Professor. We've got this." He gestured grandly to his team. "Team CRDL will show you what a real team can do."
The Professor released the cage, and with a furious squeal, the Boarbatusk charged out. The creature was the standard Grimm color scheme: black hide with thick white bone-like plating, all accentuated by angry red lines and four crimson eyes. It was generic, efficient, and about to become a punchline.
Cardin, with a surprisingly swift move, launched himself forward, his mace, "The Executioner"—a name so cringeworthy it belonged in a fanfiction written by a particularly angsty thirteen-year-old—swung with what would have been a heavy impact to its skull. But the Boarbatusk, having been charging straight at him, rammed into his stomach before the full swing could be completed.
Cardin was sent flying, his grip on his weapon lost, The Executioner clattered to the floor with a pathetic clang as his back slammed into the wall. His Aura, a sickly brownish color, flickered like a dying candle. He was lucky the tusks didn't impale him. His Aura barely held.
Russel and Sky moved in tandem, Russel using a flurry of quick slashes with his pair of daggers, while Sky attempted to use his halberd's long range to keep the Grimm occupied. They did land a few hits, cracking the Boarbatusk's skull slightly. But of course, neither of them possessed the tactical acumen to actually, you know, get it onto its back and finish it off. The creature just absorbed the blows, seemingly unimpressed.
Dove, meanwhile, began firing revolver rounds from his sword. The rounds were theoretically capable of piercing its thick armor, but as it turned out, Dove was a truly terrible shot. He had to reload three times before landing a single, grazing shot; seventeen misses for one hit. A truly impressive display of incompetence.
It was… underwhelming. Even for a first-day demonstration. I could now clearly see why Jaune was allowed into Beacon. If this was the caliber of combat school graduates, the bar had been lowered to the floor and then promptly buried. Their teamwork was sloppy, which should have been drilled into them at those supposed combat schools. Their attacks were predictable. The Boarbatusk, a creature hardly an insurmountable threat for a group of four, was making them look like first-year children. Three couldn't even manage to knock it onto its side or back to expose its vulnerable underside, which conveniently lacked all of its armor. Any competent team wouldn't struggle here.
Professor Port had perhaps realized that this demonstration was... a terrible idea. His expression, usually jovial, showed a flicker of genuine concern. But he waited. He waited because he knew Team CRDL had yet to actually use their Semblances.
I, too, was biding my time, observing the unfolding disaster with detached amusement, waiting for the perfect moment to deliver the maximum emotional and professional damage.
Sky, getting impatient, rushed in further... only to instantly almost be impaled by the Boarbatusk's right tusk. His sky-blue Aura protected him from immediate death, but he was sent flying back, forced to let go of his halberd to dodge a follow-up lunge from the demonic creature. He scrambled away, looking terrified.
Dove, seeing this, finally decided to lock the fuck in, activating his Semblance. We had never actually seen any of Team CRDL's Semblances in canon, so I was mildly curious... only to discover his Semblance was pathetically weak. All it did was enhance his speed, like a significantly watered-down version of Ruby's, with none of the cool effects or useful directional control. Sure, he was a lot faster than normal, but... it seemed he had tunnel-vision and could only run in a straight line.
He sped in, a blur of green, only to be met by the creature changing direction with surprising agility and headbutting him. The kinetic energy generated from his own misguided speed, when met with the immovable object, transferred back into him... leaving him much like Cardin, splattered against the wall. And his green Aura shattered, winking out of existence.
Russel, now left with no choice, backed off, bringing his daggers—"Feather's Edge," a half-decent name, I grudgingly admitted—to a forward grip. A dense bluish glow emanated from his blades, wrapping around them before growing and curving, making the daggers look more like glowing wakizashi. This was obviously his Semblance.
Russel, with the glowing wakizashi blades, began dancing around the Boarbatusk, carving deeper gouges into its armored body. He had dealt more damage than his entire team combined. He was fast, agile, and his Semblance amplified his offensive capabilities significantly. It enhanced the cutting properties of his weapons, turning Aura into an outward cutting force that extended the weapons' reach. More than likely, he chose his daggers for this reason. Visually and practically? It was the Hien from Naruto. A neat trick, if he had the Aura to sustain it.
But, his Aura began flickering, showing that the reason he never used his Semblance more often was simply due to his lack of Aura capacity to sustain it. A fundamental flaw.
Sky, still recovering from his near impalement, scrambled back, his face pale with fear. Dove, equally shaken, could only watch, slumped against the wall, as Russel fought a losing battle against the increasingly enraged Grimm. Their earlier bravado had completely evaporated, replaced by a stark, humiliating realization of their utter inadequacy.
Cardin, still slumped against the wall, watched with a mix of pain and fury. His team was failing spectacularly, and his earlier arrogance now seemed less like bravado and more like a pathological delusion. He tried to sit up, his eyes fixed on the creature with a desperate hope.
But, he fell back down, a grimace on his face. It seemed even he knew he couldn't win.
The Boarbatusk, enraged by Russel's persistent, though ultimately futile, attacks, finally managed to land a solid blow. Its massive head slammed into Russel's chest, the force sending him skidding across the floor. His Aura flickered violently and then vanished completely. He lay there for a moment, stunned, before the creature lumbered towards him, its crimson eyes fixated on its downed opponent, preparing to finish the job.
A collective gasp went through the lecture hall. Pyrrha's hand flew to her mouth, and even Ren's stoic expression tightened with concern.
The Boarbatusk lowered its head, tusks gleaming as it charged straight toward Russel's crumpled form. It was clear what was about to happen.
Professor Port had already drawn his weapon, a massive blunderbuss, but before he could act—
My fist connected with the Boarbatusk's skull.
The impact launched it into the wall with a thunderous crack that shook the entire hall. Its armour, thick and seemingly impenetrable moments before, split like brittle glass, fracturing so badly it began to dissolve on the spot.
I'd moved so fast, I left an afterimage still sitting casually in my chair, sipping my tea, as if I'd never moved at all.
"You, in your infinite, delusional confidence—which, by the way, is the clinical definition of arrogance—in your team, Cardin Winchester, decided to fight a Grimm way above your weight class... and nearly get them all killed." My voice was calm, conversational, even as the Boarbatusk finished dissipating into black smoke. The air now smelled faintly of ozone and shattered pride.
It took me a singular punch to kill a creature that almost killed his entire team. The humiliation was implicit. But I was not one to leave things merely "implicit." I called out his arrogance, systematically dismantling his self-worth piece by piece.
Cardin wheezed from his pile of crushed ego and bruised ribs, looking like someone had just explained quantum physics to him for the first time, using interpretive dance. His aura was gone, his pride shattered, and The Executioner—still a name worthy of a midlife crisis, complete with a bad haircut—lay forgotten on the floor like his relevance.
I turned, slowly, letting the silence stretch, savoring it. The room was thick with tension and secondhand embarrassment, a symphony of discomfort.
"Let's recap," I said, my voice smooth, like someone reading a particularly scathing Yelp review of a clown show. "Four huntsmen-in-training. One standard-issue Boarbatusk. Zero tactical awareness. One shattered ego. And, of course, Dove."
The crowd tensed. The air crackled. I didn't let up.
"Cardin, you charged in with a weapon that has less tactical value than a blunt garden shovel and expected the world to bow before you like you're some kind of crimson god of war. But you didn't even get your swing off. That Grimm saw your wind-up, decided it didn't like your face, and turned your ribcage into a mere suggestion."
He winced, a visible shudder going through his body. Good. That meant he could still hear me. Excellent.
"Dove—my guy—eighteen bullets. Your chance at landing one shot is 5.56%. At that point, it's not a bad aim, it's a personality trait. If I handed you a shotgun and teleported you inside the creature's stomach, I still wouldn't trust you to hit something."
The class tittered, a wave of nervous, suppressed laughter rippling through the lecture hall. Even Professor Port looked like he was trying desperately not to grin behind his mustache, which now drooped like it, too, was disappointed in humanity.
"Sky... buddy. You looked like you were trying to joust the Boarbatusk, then forgot you weren't riding a horse. You dropped your weapon in the dirt like a defeated anime rival who just realized his power-up was imaginary, and then tried to moonwalk out of there. It didn't work. We all saw it. It was incredibly pathetic."
Sky, cheeks flaming crimson, looked like he wished the Boarbatusk had just finished the job. His existence was now a meme in the making.
"And Russel..." I paused, giving the crowd a moment to catch its breath, to truly appreciate the crescendo of ineptitude. "The one member of Team CRDL who actually tried. Who did damage. Who danced around that creature like a man fighting for extra credit just to make up for the group project of incompetence he was dragged into."
Russel blinked. Was that a moment of pride? A brief flicker of hope? Not for long.
"...And yet, Russel, even you, the supposed MVP of this dumpster fire, failed. Utterly. Try treating your foe seriously next time. Or perhaps, try fighting with a team that isn't actively trying to get itself killed."
At this point, the audience was holding back laughter the way a dam holds back a tsunami. Shoulders shook, muffled snorts echoed, and even Professor Goodwitch, who had presumably just arrived and was standing stony-faced in the doorway, had a muscle twitching in her jaw.
"Team CRDL," I concluded, my voice dropping to a tone of clinical dismissal. "You didn't just lose. You demonstrated that you are not capable of being a true Huntsman. You showed folly, not wisdom. You aren't honourable. And you ran in without a semblance of strategy. You are, in essence, a liability."
Cardin opened his mouth, a pathetic whimper escaping.
"Shut up," I cut him off, my voice sharp, final. "You've done enough."
Silence. The kind of silence that tastes like public shame and the crushing weight of reality.
Pyrrha blinked, stunned, her hand still near her mouth. Nora gave me a hearty, enthusiastic thumbs-up, practically vibrating with second-hand schadenfreude. Ren, that inscrutable enigma, offered a single, almost imperceptible nod of approval.
I walked back to my seat, the afterimage of myself having vanished a while ago, leaving the real me to simply sit. The Quest Completion notification appeared promptly.
[Quest, "Humiliate Team CRDL" has been completed.
Requirement:
Humiliate Cardin Winchester, Russel Thrush, Dove Bronzewing, and Sky Lark.
Rewards:
1,000 EXP
4,000 Lien]
296100 EXP left before I reach Level 85.
I sat back down, picking up my pen.
Well, this is enjoyable.
(Time Skip: 15:40 or 3:40 PM)
The final bell had rung 10 minutes ago, and while other students probably flooded the dining hall or headed to the library, I found myself walking down a less-frequented corridor of Beacon Academy, away from the bustling student areas towards a lift.
The metallic sheen of the lift doors reflected my image, a still portrait of the extradimensional Saiyan warrior, who became a student of Beacon. It was utterly out of place for what I was. I pressed the down arrow. The doors hissed open, revealing a stark, unadorned interior that was thankfully grey.
And inside was Ozpin himself.
"Kaelith." Ozpin's voice was calm, collected. Almost too collected for the events of yesterday.
"Headmaster." I replied with the same level of calmness as I enter the elevator.
Ozpin inputted the code necessary, I watched memorising the code. As the elevator doors closed, Ozpin began speaking.
"She's been… quiet," he stated. "Initial attempts at communication yielded nothing. Not even a whimper. She's been cuffed by energy suppression devices when your energy ropes faded earlier. All we managed to get was her name; Nevara."
Nevara, huh? That's better than what I expected. Nothing.
"She won't speak to anyone but me. These people tend to only speak to the one that defeated them." The elevator carried us downwards as I spoke. I settled my back against the wall, hands in my jacket's pockets as I continued. "Anyone weaker than them tend to be treated as... lesser beings. The fact you got her name means you did better than most would."
The lift hummed, a gentle counterpoint to the quiet tension filling the small space. Ozpin's gaze was fixed on the closing doors, but I could feel his analytical mind already dissecting my words.
"Lesser beings," Ozpin echoed, his voice a low, thoughtful murmur. "A common enough sentiment among those who wield great power. But she is not from this world. Her power, her motivations... they remain an enigma."
The elevator gave a soft lurch as it stopped. The doors slid open with a hiss, revealing a dimly lit corridor that felt distinctly more secret government base than prestigious Huntsman academy. The air was colder here, sterile in a way that reminded me of the White Room. But a bit more colourful.
Ozpin gestured me forward. "She's through here."
We walked in silence. The hallway had no windows, just smooth, grey walls and that unsettling hum of tech you couldn't see but could always feel. At the end was a reinforced door, thick enough to make a Beowolf think twice, and guarded by a panel with a biometric scanner.
Ozpin scanned in. The lock disengaged with a dull clunk.
"I'll be going. This information can be told to us through you later on."
I nodded, as the door opened with an ominous creek that was absolutely not necessary, and a notification flickered to life as I stepped inside.
[New Quest Generated, "Interrogate Nevara and receive new information"
Requirement:
Get 5 bits of information from the girl.
Rewards:
55,000 EXP
X10 Common Gems
X5 Uncommon Gems
Bonus: Get more out of the Girl
Requirements:
Get more pieces of information from the girl in 1 hour of completing the first requirement.
Rewards:
20,000 EXP per piece of Information gained or confirmed.
X1 Rare Gem per piece of information gained or confirmed]
My tail flicked behind me as the door closed, locking behind me.
The room was dim, lit only by a single overhead light that cast long shadows across the stark metal floor. No chair for me. One chair for her. Table bolted to the ground. Energy suppression cuffs visible, humming faintly with a low green glow. High-tier tech—Atlasian, I'd wager. Advanced enough to seal Aura around.
Nevara sat slumped, posture deceptively lax. But her eyes—golden as ever, narrowed, unblinking—followed me with a predator's calculation. Like a snake that knows it's cornered, but still believes it might bite.
Good let her think that.
Let the silence do its work.
Seconds ticked by.
I let the weight of my presence settle. Not just my Ki. My will. She felt it. Her shoulders stiffened the way one might under an unseen mountain. My tail flicked once, slicing the air behind me in a lazy arc. She noticed that too.
Finally, I stepped forward and spoke, voice flat but unwavering. "Nevara."
She didn't respond. Her gaze flicked away, casual, but too quick.
"I don't need you to speak," I continued, circling slowly around the table like a jungle cat. "You'll talk. Not because I demand it. But because you need to."
Still nothing. But she flinched when I leaned down, meeting her eyes from just beside her ear.
"You lost." It wasn't said with cruelty. No malice. Just a fact. Like announcing the temperature. "You lost to someone you considered a "decimal", a lowly new system holder. That matters. You know it matters. Because if I can do that—how many more like me do you think are out there?"
I was going off the fact that she more than likely knew this world was low-tiered, so I played on the fact that more Gamers are like me. Planet Busters.
Nevara didn't flinch again, but her jaw clenched. That slight tic told me more than she wanted it to. I had her attention. Now I just needed to start prying her ego open like a sealed crate of dust with too much tape.
I kept circling, slowly, methodically—boots making soft taps against the floor. Never too fast. Predators don't chase; they close in.
"You're quiet now, but I can see it," I said, tone just shy of conversational. "You've been replaying our fight in your head, haven't you? Trying to justify it. 'You slipped.' 'You held back.' 'I got lucky.'' Tell me—how many lies have you told yourself since you woke up in this cell?"
Her fingers twitched—so small a movement, most would miss it. But I didn't miss things. That was my job. That was my nature.
I paused across the table from her, folding my arms. "You want out of here. You want to redeem your loss. You're wondering how far behind me you are, how much training it'll take. But to do that, you need context. You need answers."
I waited. Still no words. So I leaned forward slightly, letting my power—not flaring, not oppressive—just exist in the space between us. It rolled off me in waves like a calm sea hiding a leviathan just beneath the surface.
"You don't get to ask questions yet," I said softly. "You answer first. Give me something. A name. A mission. Even a damn adjective. Something only you know."
That's when she moved.
Not an attack. She straightened slightly. It was subtle, but it was a shift in posture from "defiant captive" to "negotiator."
Her voice was low, raspy from disuse. "I was sent to kill you."
She said the obvious first, something I already knew because of our fight.
"I figured as much," I said simply, not giving her the satisfaction of shock or surprise. "You weren't here for chaos. You weren't lashing out. You were a scalpel, not a bomb."
Nevara didn't respond immediately. But her head tilted just slightly—acknowledging the observation. A flicker of interest.
"And yet, you failed." I kept my tone even, the words just barely brushing condescension. "Which means either you underestimated me… or someone lied to you."
Her golden eyes narrowed. Ah. Hit a nerve.
I leaned against the wall now, arms crossed. "So which was it? You miscalculated? Or were you sent in blind?"
She hesitated. Not because she was thinking—because she was weighing. Testing how much to give. Calculating if the trade was worth it.
"…Both," she admitted finally, her voice rough but steady. "You weren't supposed to be this strong. The intel said 'newly-awakened.' Just another System-User. Local-tier."
I smirked. "Local tier?" I echoed, amused. "Well, someone really didn't do their homework."
[Quest Progress: 1/5]
"Who gave the order?"
Another pause. I stepped forward. The silence between us now was less dramatic, more… surgical. I wasn't here to intimidate her. Not anymore. I was dissecting her like a Grimm autopsy with a clipboard and steady hands.
Her mouth twisted slightly—disdain or indecision, hard to say.
"Even I don't know the names of our leaders. Their true names have been lost to time."
So they're terrified of people knowing their true names, huh? And there is multiple of them. I had suspected that was the case but confirmation helps with my plans.
[Quest Progress: 2/5]
It seemed information I already knew did not count fully.
She gave me the "we don't use names" spiel, which told me something more than she intended.
Fear.
Not respect. Fear. The kind of fear that binds a tongue tighter than a suppression cuff ever could.
I leaned forward, just enough to cast my shadow over her face. "Names are power. That's old magic. Ancient fear. So you call them what, then? Titles? Ranks?"
Her eyes darted—briefly. It was the mental flinch that interested me, not the physical one.
"Titles," she finally muttered. "Based on their powers."
[Quest Progress: 3/5]
Nevara sat rigid now. Still no real resistance, but no longer pretending apathy. She was leaning forward just slightly, chin dipped—a subconscious posture of someone deciding if the gamble is worth the cards they hold. That posture meant something vital.
She was close.
So I pressed.
"Titles based on power," I echoed, letting the thought hang between us like smoke in still air. "That's not just dramatics. That's hierarchy enforcement. Keeps the weak terrified and the strong too proud to question each other."
Nevara didn't confirm, but she didn't deny it either. Her silence was no longer defiance. It was caution.
"You don't have names," I said, pacing again. "So I'm guessing you have things like 'The Flame,' or 'The Silence,' or 'The Echo-Eater'—dramatic titles that sound like a 14 year old edge lord designed them."
She twitched.
Bingo.
"The Echo-Eater." I repeated, locking eyes with her. "That's one of them, isn't it?"
Nevara glanced away—just once, quickly—but the damage was done.
[Quest Progress: 4/5]
"You've got to be kidding," I said with a small chuckle. "What, did you all come from a rejected indie villain guild? Do you even get matching hooded robes or is it just edgy code names and suicidal assignments?"
She didn't laugh, but her jaw tightened. Embarrassment? Disdain? Probably both. Perfect. I didn't need her to like me. I needed her to break pattern.
"And let me guess," I continued smoothly. "You got your title too, right? Something suitably apocalyptic?"
Nevara hesitated—longer this time. Then, with a breath like she was swallowing her pride, she answered.
"The Goddess of Betrayal."
Oh, damn that makes sense considering the lore of Neptunia. She wielded Gehaburn after all.
"'The Goddess of Betrayal?'" I said the name slowly, letting the weight of it settle. "Not bad. I'd give it a seven out of ten. Points for flair. Loses marks for being beaten by a first-year transfer student with sleep deprivation."
Her lips twitched. Almost a smirk. Almost. Progress.
[Quest Progress: 5/5
1 hour starts now]
The truth of how easy this was? Came from the fact I had beaten her, and had made a terrifying presence. She knew I could end her at any time, and that terror gave me information I needed.
It was why Torture, whilst not always effective, was a major part of gathering information.
The fact she was still speaking to me, still was proof of that.
"Our organization spans dimensions. We aren't confined to one system or world. We watch for anomalies. Disturbances. Things like... you."
There it was. Something juicy.
"You mean Gamers?" I asked, brow raising slightly. "System-users?"
She nodded. "It's as you said. One Gamer nearly destroyed us. We are still recovering from the trillions lost that fight."
[Quest Progress: 8/5]
The confirmation of 3 things brought it to 8.
That wasn't the kind of hyperbole people like her used. That number was deliberate.
"You're recovering from trillions lost," I echoed, voice low. "Let me guess. One Gamer. One system user. And they did that kind of damage?"
She nodded once, curt. Controlled. But I caught the flicker of something else behind her eyes—dread. The kind that isn't aimed at a memory, but at a possibility. At a repeat.
I whistled, slow and low. "And I assume that's what brought you to this world. You're trying to stop another one."
"Correct." Her voice was clipped, like she hated saying it out loud. "You weren't supposed to be a threat."
That got a chuckle out of me.
[Bonus Quest Progress: 9/5]
I paced a few steps, hands behind my back. Let the silence work its way between us again. Not dead air—just enough space to feel like she was filling it willingly, not under interrogation.
"So who was this original anomaly?" I asked. "The one who made your entire organization pee their collective pants?"
For a moment, I thought she'd resist. That old stubborn twitch pulled at her jaw. But fear makes people itch to talk—just to share the weight of it.
She looked up at me. "We called him Redshift. He was the first to stand against the "sins" of our group."
[Bonus Quest 10/5]
The confirmation that the group was evil wasn't big, it was something I knew already.
Nevara saying the name was like someone muttering a curse they'd sworn never to speak again. Redshift. It hit the air with all the gravity of a black hole—dense, ominous, and pulling questions toward it like debris in space.
I didn't react outwardly. Just folded my arms, brow slightly lifted, tail lazily curling behind me like I wasn't dissecting every inch of her posture.
"Redshift," I repeated, almost conversational. "Now that's a name. Better than yours, I'll give him that. Sounds like someone who didn't come to play."
Nevara didn't take the bait. But she didn't deny it either.
"And I take it Redshift wasn't a member of your little Saturday morning villain squad?"
Her expression twitched. "He was," she admitted, begrudgingly. "He was our strongest… and he turned on us."
Now that was surprising. A Villain turning Hero?
[Bonus Quest Progress: 11/5]
I leaned forward slightly. "So your organization got betrayed by its ace card. One Gamer tore through trillions of your forces and scattered your merry band of horrors to the dimensional wind." I paused. "I don't know if that's tragic or poetic."
Nevara's golden eyes were steady now, but they held a storm behind them. Her voice dropped low. "He destroyed entire timelines. Erased. There's places we can't even remember anymore because he tore them down."
And that explained the fear. The dread in her bones. Not fear of me exactly—though that was a useful tool—but fear that I might one day become something worse. The same way fire respects the match that razed a forest.
I gave a soft hum of interest, pretending to mull it over. "So that's why you're scared of anomalies. You think every new System-User might be another Redshift waiting to happen."
Nevara nodded once. "We can't take the chance. Not again."
[Bonus Quest Progress: 12/5]
I let the silence sit. Let it hurt. Let her think about what she just admitted. That her entire operation, as ancient and wide-reaching as it apparently was, still had its boogeyman.
Eventually, I stepped away from the table. Turned my back, just slightly—not enough to be careless, but enough to send a message. I wasn't worried about her. Not anymore.
"You know," I said casually, "It's funny. I've barely scratched the surface of what I can do. Tell me, did you watch anime back in your past life?"
Nevara glared at me. "I know the basics of what you are."
"Then this might not come as a surprise to you, but I've not even achieved Super Saiyan yet." I smirked, ever so slightly.
"If you did, you would have used it." She stated the obvious.
"True."
And so, for the rest of the hour I gathered more intel.
My, was this game fun. And it had only just started.