Male Reader x RWBY: Volume 3 / Reader x Yang Xiao Long

Chapter VII: Unstoppable

For most, the majority of our days are mundane and uneventful. We wake at a scheduled time, go about our daily routine, and at night we lay our heads down to sleep, only for the process to repeat itself the following morning. These days are the ones we forget, lost in our memories. Occasionally, there comes a day that holds special meaning or some significance. A job promotion, a birthday, a funeral. Though these days might hold importance for an individual or some select few, but in the end, they are ultimately lost, consigned to oblivion in the history of everything. And then there are days that will be remembered for years to come. When the world has been populated with new blood and new generations, when time has passed to the point where no one from the old generation is still alive, there will be days that the scholars will study, and the children will learn about. Days that will teach, instruct, and serve as a warning. Days, quite like today, that will never be forgotten.

The crowd is in shock as Pyrrha Nikos, the Pyrrha Nikos, stands over the dismembered body of what everyone once thought was a girl, but who was now revealed to be a machine. People wince and cover their ears as feedback whines from the loudspeakers, only to be replaced by a mysterious voice.

"This is not a tragedy. This was not an accident. This is what happens when you hand over your trust, your safety, your children, to men who claim to be our guardians, but are, in reality, nothing more than men."

You can hear the people around you muttering, no doubt asking what is happening, hoping to receive some form of assurance, like a child places faith in their parents.

"Our academies' headmasters wield more power than most armies, and one was audacious enough to control both. They cling to this power in the name of peace, and yet, what do we have here?"

You see General Ironwood angrily rise from his seat and exit the arena. Teetering on the edge of your seat for several seconds, you do the same.

"One nation's attempt at a synthetic army, mercilessly torn apart by another's star pupil. What need would Atlas have for a soldier disguised as an innocent little girl. I don't think the Grimm can tell the difference. And what, I ask you, is Ozpin teaching his students? First a dismemberment, now this. Huntsmen and huntresses should carry themselves with honor and mercy, yet I have witnessed neither."

Peoples' eyes on you, murmuring behind raised hands as they nod their heads in agreement with the faceless voice. Several figures point at you, no doubt wondering about what immoral things you'd been taught during your time at Beacon.

"Perhaps Ozpin felt as though defeating Atlas in the tournament would help people forget his colossal failure to protect Vale when the Grimm invaded its streets. Or perhaps, this was his message to the tyrannical dictator that has occupied an unsuspecting kingdom with armed forces. Honestly, I haven't the slightest clue as to who is right and who is wrong. But I know that the existence of peace is fragile. And the leaders of our kingdoms conduct their business with iron gloves."

Your robes billow behind you as you briskly walk through the tunnels that make up the back stage. The dim lighting causes shadows to flicker across your determined face. Two young women exiting a bathroom turn and run back inside at the sight of you.

"As someone who hails from Mistral, I can assure you, the situation there is... equally undesirable. Our kingdoms are at the brink of war, yet we, the citizens, are left in the dark."

Reaching the competitors' changing area, you dig your hand into the inner folds of your robes and produce your scroll. Pointing it at a locker, the red light turns green as the door hisses, swinging open.

"So I ask you, when the first shots are fired, who do you think you can trust?"

The voice disappears, replaced by the kingdom's loud emergency siren mixed with the screams coming from the audience now scrambling for the exits. Rhino's Charge wrapped over your shoulder, you begin to walk out onto the arena, rolling back the cuffs of your sleeves as you prepare for the inevitable.