Looking around at the devastated surroundings, I couldn't help but sigh in admiration at the devastation that those two sisters could produce. The land was ruined beyond recognition, craters overlapping craters, the earth torn open like it had been clawed apart by something angry and enormous. Stone lay shattered into uneven plates, some flipped upside down as if the ground itself had tried to escape. Smoke still drifted lazily through the air, curling and thinning as it rose, and the smell of burnt stone and metal hung thick in my lungs. It was unpleasant. But not unfamiliar. While doing so, I searched around the area for that sister who got caught up in that explosion. My gaze moved slowly, carefully, sweeping across the battlefield the way a doctor scans a ward, methodical, patient, alert for any sign of life. Perhaps she was dead and there was nothing I could do about it. Or perhaps she was still alive and I could fix her. Or perhaps there was nothing left of her at all, no body, no pieces, just dust scattered across the battlefield. That last thought lingered longer than I liked. It made my chest feel a little tight, like something pressing inward. An odd sensation. Emotional responses were... inconvenient, but not useless. They kept me moving. They reminded me why I did this. I hadn't known her for very long, but she seemed like a good young woman. Loud, reckless, stubborn, but good. The kind that burned brightly and didn't seem to notice how close she stood to the fire. I exhaled slowly. "Do try not to be dead," I murmured, half-serious, half-hopeful. At these thoughts, I sighed again and continued walking through the black dust field. Every step sank slightly into ash and debris, my boots leaving clear impressions before being gently erased by drifting particles. There were potholes everywhere, some shallow enough to step over, others deep enough to swallow a truck whole. Cracks spiderwebbed across the ground, some still faintly warm, radiating heat through the soles of my boots. Visibility was terrible. The dust from the explosions floated around me like mist, slowly falling in fine black particles. It coated my gloves, clung to my coat, and stuck stubbornly to the edges of my mask. I could feel it in the air, taste it faintly even through the filters. Despite everything, it was... kind of beautiful. The way the sunlight caught the drifting ash made it shimmer, each particle glowing softly before fading into shadow again. Almost like snow, if snow burned your lungs and slowly kills you. I let my senses spread out and I listened for the signs I knew well, irregular breathing, disrupted circulation, I listened for time. But there was nothing, no clear patients just yet. I walked toward the center of one of the larger craters when suddenly my foot struck something solid. "Oh" I stumbled forward, arms jerking up as I barely caught myself before face-planting into the ash. I stood still for a moment, letting my balance settle, then looked down at the offending object. A shotgun. It lay half-buried in dust, scorched and scratched, the metal darkened by heat and impact. The stock was chipped, the barrel blackened, but it was still intact. Still usable. It had survived a blast that had reshaped the land. "Well," I said quietly, "you're sturdier than you look." There was a logo on it I didn't recognize, etched into the metal with careful precision. Beside it sat a small metal box, its surface dented but sealed, half-buried in ash like it had been deliberately placed there. Curiosity won out. I crouched down, brushed the dust away, and opened the box. Inside were blueprints, clean, detailed designs, preserved and organized despite the chaos around. They showed exactly how the weapon was made and how it could be modified in several different ways. Reinforced barrels. Dust-chamber alterations. Ammunition conversions. Notes scribbled in the margins, some neat, some rushed, all brimming with intent. I studied them for a moment longer than necessary. "...Yes," I murmured, a faint note of fond recognition in my voice. "This has to be miss Ruby's powers at work." I smiled faintly as I glanced back toward the creature that had appeared when we were attacked earlier. It still lingered nearby, its body hunched and twitching, a crooked silhouette against the drifting ash. Its limbs bent at odd angles, joints clicking softly whenever it shifted its weight. Patches of its hide were scorched and split open, and each breath it took sounded strained, like air being dragged through something broken. When I first found it, it wasn't doing well. The environment was killing it slowly. The air was wrong for it, too thick with dust, too sharp to breathe. Its chest had barely risen, each breath shallow and desperate. Its movements had been sluggish, uncoordinated, as if its body no longer trusted itself to move correctly. I remember watching it sway, nearly collapse, and thinking that if I waited even a minute longer, it would have died right there. That would have been... a shame. I had approached carefully back then, keeping my posture calm and my movements slow. My doctors intuition had stirred almost on instinct, senses tuning in to the rhythm of its failing body. Circulation weak. Respiratory failure imminent. Structural damage along the limbs. Not human, certainly, but the problems were familiar enough. "I see," I had murmured at the time, kneeling beside it. "Yes, that will not do." The creature had reacted poorly to my presence at first. It lashed out, a sudden burst of panic and pain, claws slamming into the ground where my head had been a moment earlier. I had leaned back smoothly, letting my doctor's training carry the motion, then stepped in again before it could recover. "Easy," I had said, firm but not unkind. "Struggling will only make this worse." It hadn't understood the words, of course, but it understood restraint. I'd held it down just long enough to work, my grip stronger than it appeared, guided by careful control rather than force. I had already modified it earlier with leftover frog limbs I'd carried from before. Thick, durable things. Built for breathing in bad air, for pulling oxygen from places where there barely was any. The grafting had been crude but effective. Bone fused. Muscle accepted the change. My training smoothed the transition, reduced rejection, guided the body into accepting what it needed to survive. The creature had screamed once. Then it had gone quiet. Now, it stood where I'd left it, alive in a place that should have killed it. The added limbs flexed slightly with each breath, working steadily, filtering the dust from the air. Its posture was still hunched, still wrong, but stable. Functional. It turned its head slightly, one eye fixing on me. Not hostile. Not friendly either. Just aware. I gave it a small nod. "Good. You're still breathing." It wasn't a patient. Not truly. I wasn't going to dress it up as something noble. But it was still alive, and that was enough reason for me. Life was life. Ending needlessly was wasteful. As these thoughts passed through my mind, I didn't stop moving. I walked from crater to crater, scanning every shadow, every shape that looked even remotely human. My boots crunched softly against broken stone and glass, the sound oddly loud in the quiet aftermath. Each step sent small clouds of ash drifting upward before settling again. I kept my posture relaxed, but my senses were fully awake. A thin thread of my intuition remained active, reaching out just enough to feel for signs of life, irregular breathing, a faltering pulse, anything out of place in the stillness. Most of what I saw was damage and broken terrain. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Nothing. No heartbeat. No breath. No weak attempts at movement. Just silence and dust. I slowed, then stopped, standing at the edge of a crater. For a moment, I considered the possibility that I was too late. That I had already done all I could do here. It was an unpleasant conclusion, but not an unfamiliar one. I was just about to turn away when I heard it. A weak cough. It was barely audible, thin and rough, like air scraping past something damaged, but it was real. Not the wind. Not settling debris. Life. Hope sparked instantly, sharp and sudden. My head snapped toward the sound before I even realized I was moving. I turned toward it and saw nothing but fog and drifting dust. The air was thick here, hanging low inside the crater, swallowing shapes and distance alike. I stepped forward carefully, boots sliding slightly on loose stone, my breathing steady despite the quickening rhythm in my chest. "Stay alive," I murmured, more command than prayer. The sound came again, closer this time. Short and painful. Definitely human. It was coming from the first crater. I approached the edge and peered down inside. The crater was deep, its walls uneven and scarred, shadows clinging stubbornly to its interior. Dust rolled lazily along the bottom like fog on water. Nothing. I frowned slightly behind my mask. "Hm." I let my senses expand a little more, carefully, deliberately. The world sharpened at the edges. I felt heat, fading but present. Disturbed air. A faint, unsteady rhythm, too slow, too weak, but there. Alive. I circled around the crater, eyes sharp, senses strained, scanning every angle. Loose rocks shifted underfoot. The dust made shapes where there were none, tricking the eye. Still nothing. Then I saw her. Behind the crater, half-buried against broken rock, lay the young woman. Blonde hair matted with ash and streaked with blood. My breath caught. "Damn it..." I whispered, already moving. She was missing an arm. The sight of her pain hit me in a peculiar way, professional concern, yes, but also a creeping frustration. So much damage, so much chaos, and yet she was still alive. Life stubbornly refusing to give up. It was... admirable, in its own way. I rushed over, closing the distance in seconds, careful to keep my footing on the jagged stone and loose debris. She was barely conscious, caught in a violent coughing fit. Her remaining arm bled heavily, and dark veins spread beneath her skin like cracks in glass, evidence that the dust had infiltrated her system far too deeply. Black particles, corrosive and choking, had gone beyond the surface. I could feel the irritation, the strain in her lungs, even from a few steps away. Thinking fast, I whistled sharply. The creature responded immediately. It had lingered nearby, quiet but vigilant, and now it sprang into action. Its wings flared, sending a gust of wind strong enough to push the dust away in visible waves. Black clouds scattered into the air above, leaving the crater's interior clearer, breathable, at least for the moment. "Good," I muttered. "Stay like that." I knelt beside her, crouched over the wreckage of her body with the calm focus of a surgeon at work. My hands hovered briefly, assessing the wounds and the worst of the bleeding. My work was subtle, guiding my movements, enhancing precision, stiffening my grip where needed, sensing exactly where tissue resisted repair and where it was compliant. Nothing flashy, nothing aggressive, just careful, surgical support. First, the bleeding. I pressed down hard, steady hands deliberate despite the chaos surrounding us. Tools appeared in my hands as though called by instinct, needles, thread, clamps, small instruments clicking softly as I worked. My skill focused again, reinforcing the fragile structures under her skin, temporarily halting further deterioration as I sutured torn flesh. Each movement measured, every stitch intended to seal damage without causing new trauma. The worst of the blood loss slowed under careful compression, aided by my energy subtly bolstering her fragile vessels. Her coughing fit subsided slightly, though ragged breaths still shook her chest. I muttered softly, almost to myself, "Not quite done, but we're getting there. You'll live... if we're careful." The black dust that had infiltrated her lungs was still a problem, but my doctor skills could only assist, not completely cure what her body had inhaled. I had to be meticulous, patient, methodical. Every second counted, every motion precise. I glanced up at the creature briefly, it hovered just out of the dust's edge, wings twitching slightly, alert and ready. Not patient. Not human. But useful, efficient. I gave it a faint nod, acknowledging its service without words. It seemed to understand, because it stayed in place, maintaining the cleared air while I worked. Time stretched oddly. Each stitch felt measured, each motion deliberate. Yet underneath, the awareness that the battlefield could still shift at any moment lingered. I had to remain ready, senses alert. My patient acted as an extension of my vigilance, monitoring, guiding, preparing for any sudden threat that might arise even as I repaired the young woman's fragile body. Every movement, every stitch, every controlled breath, it was all a delicate dance. And I was the one conducting it. Internally, it was worse. Much worse than I had expected. Shrapnel had torn through her body in several places. Her heart had barely missed being pierced, its fragile wall nicked and scorched by flying metal fragments. I worked carefully, removing the shards one by one. My hands were steady, movements precise, guided not just by sight but by the faint hum of my ability tracing the damage inside her. Each fragment that came free left a small trail of relief in the tissues, a momentary easing of pressure I could feel even through the mask I wore. Her organs were bruised, some torn, some crushed against bone. I noted the irregularities, the bleeding I couldn't see from outside, and adjusted my approach. One piece of metal had lodged near her neck. A delicate area, prone to catastrophe if handled roughly. I drew my breath slowly, aligning my focus, then eased the fragment free. "Hold on," I murmured softly, though I didn't know if she could hear me. I rarely expected response. Words were comfort, not necessity. Still, I said it. Habit. Habit was important in medicine. And in survival. Her face had a deep cut running from her cheek toward her neck, just beside her lips. The blood streamed, stubborn and dark, along the curve of her jaw. I stitched it carefully. When I finished, the wound left a thin line, slightly curved, a pseudo-smile, almost mocking in its accidental irony. "Huh," I thought, lips hidden behind the mask. "Funny coincidence." I almost smirked. Almost. Then I turned to her remaining arm. A mess. Every bone had been fractured, compressed together in a grotesque bundle as she had raised it instinctively to shield herself from the blast. Muscles shredded, some reduced to a near-mush that resisted repair. I let my skill run through the limb, sensing weak spots, reinforcing tissue as I manipulated bones back into alignment. Muscles that could be rebuilt, I rebuilt. Tendons and ligaments carefully encouraged to reconnect. Every motion calculated. Every movement controlled. Her arm would function again, eventually. But her other arm... There was nothing left. Completely gone. Reduced to dust in the force of the explosion. No muscle, no bone, no tissue to repair or manipulate. I paused for only a moment, staring at the empty space beside her shoulder. Regret would not help her. Regret would not bring back what had been destroyed. It would not breathe life into what had been extinguished. I exhaled softly, letting the thought pass. My focus returned immediately to what I could do. Stabilize, repair, restore. That was all that mattered. Even in destruction, there was work to be done. And I, as always, would do it... I worked for nearly two hours straight. Sweat ran down my face, trickling along the edges of my mask and stinging my eyes. My hands moved nonstop, a constant rhythm of stitching, pressing, and adjusting, guided by both sight and the subtle hum of my ability tracing the fragile lines of life within her. Every beat of her heart, every shallow breath, every tremor of pain was noted, measured, and corrected as best as I could. The creature stayed close, wings occasionally beating to keep the air clear. Dust and ash swirled around us, stubborn and choking, but each flap sent it scattering, creating brief pockets of clean air where I could work. It made small, low noises, almost a purr of satisfaction, if such a thing could be called that, and I found myself acknowledging it with a short nod. Useful, if not a patient. Reliable, at least. When I finally finished, Yang's breathing had stabilized. The harsh coughs subsided into slow, steady inhalations and exhalations. The black veins that had webbed across her skin faded as circulation normalized. Her pulse was strong again, regular, a testament to the body's stubbornness and my intervention. I leaned back and let out a long breath, letting the tension drain from my shoulders. My hands, still trembling slightly from exertion, clapped together. Dust, or what felt like dust, rose in tiny clouds that quickly settled back to the ground. "All in a day's work," I said quietly, voice low but steady. "Another patient saved and another day without the pestilence." I allowed myself a faint smile, one that didn't quite reach my eyes, and looked up at the sun struggling through the smoky clouds above. Its pale light reflected on the jagged crater edges, glinting faintly off the scattered dust and debris. A small, fragile kind of beauty, even here. Then I squinted. Dots filled the sky. Dozens of them. Fifty, maybe more. They moved deliberately, steadily, growing larger as they approached. I tilted my head, tracking their trajectory carefully. Birds? Perhaps. But birds didn't move like that. Not coordinated, at least not enough to avoid the jagged craters and mountains without a collision. Something else perhaps. Something potentially hostile. I glanced at the shotgun lying near Yang, the metal gleaming faintly in the dust. I shook my head. Firearms weren't my style. Slow, cumbersome, too easy to fumble. Besides... I already had something better. My hand moved naturally, almost instinctively, behind my back. Fingers brushed the hilt of my strange bladed weapon. It slid free in a smooth motion, its edge catching the sunlight, humming faintly as though alive. The vibration was subtle, comforting, an extension of my focus, my skills, my readiness. I felt the air around me, the shifting dust, the approach of those dots. My senses sharpened, guided by the quiet hum of my skills. Every movement, every twitch of the distant shapes, registered. They were far enough away to be observed, but close enough to matter. I smiled faintly at the weapon in my hands, its edge reflecting more than light, it reflected preparedness, control, the quiet promise that life would be defended, even here, in this strange, fractured land. Despite the chaos, despite the unfamiliar terrain, despite the uncertainty of what approached, there would always be patients to save. And there would always be a doctor to answer the call.
()()
Meanwhile, in a large tent, a woman with raven-black hair sat quietly, palming a Katana in her hands. Her fingers wrapped around the device almost unconsciously, but her grip was firm, controlled. Despite her outward calm, a flicker of worry betrayed her attempts at neutrality. She forced her face into an expression that suggested composure, but the slight crease between her brows and the tension in her jaw told a different story.
She wanted to go to her daughter. Now. She wanted to see her, to make sure she was truly safe, but she couldn't allow herself. Not yet. She had to let her daughter be strong. She had to trust in that strength, even if it hurt her to do so.
she ripped on the katana slightly, testing the edge as her thoughts confirmed themselves. The connection to her daughter, the thread of her semblance, was stronger now. The pulse of life, the rhythm of her body, the subtle signature of her aura… all of it had stabilized. A small, involuntary sigh escaped her lips, a release of tension she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Relief seeped into her chest, slow but unmistakable.
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sensations wash over her. The black of her hair fell over her shoulders, catching the faint light filtering through the canvas. She could feel the balance return, not just to her daughter, but to the flow of her own energy. Her semblance hummed faintly in response, connecting, aligning, reinforcing. It wasn't magic in the old sense, but it was power.
Her expression softened. The lines of worry melted almost imperceptibly, replaced by quiet determination. She knew the world was cruel, that danger lurked even in the smallest of moments, but she had kept her daughter alive this time. She had survived. That was enough to remind her why she endured, why she stayed, why she fought.
She rose, her boots brushing the rough floor of the tent. The air shifted around her as her aura subtly extended outward, scanning, stabilizing, ensuring the perimeter was safe even without her noticing it. It was a reflex, second nature, the quiet power of a mother, a warrior, and a leader. The wind seemed to follow her motion slightly, the tent flap rustling as though acknowledging her presence.
Her lingering thoughts hardened into resolve: If this happens again, I'll come. That is the promise I made when you were born, and I do not intend to break it, not even if I half to go back to that place again.
She adjusted her grip on the katana, letting the weapon rest lightly against her hip. There was no fear, only focus, and a simmering readiness that she could unleash at a moment's notice. Every motion, every breath, was measured. The black of her hair shifted with the movement of her head as she walked to the edge of the tent. She paused, looking outward, scanning the surroundings with a practiced eye, aura subtly probing for threats.
The relief was still there, faint but grounding then now, she allowed herself to take the next step forward.
()()
Meanwhile, in a silent home, a father, sat on the sofa, his hands resting tensely on his knees. Worry and exhaustion were etched deeply into his face, lines that usually softened in quiet moments now sharpened by fear. His daughter… Ruby… had just disappeared. The thought alone made his chest tighten, a cold, sinking weight that refused to leave.
He thought back to the moments before it happened, the panic that had seized him. He remembered rushing through her room, noticing the absence of familiar objects, the deliberate emptiness where her personal belongings should have been. Every item had been taken, everything. Even the small, secret emergency supplies she had tucked away, the ones she thought he didn't know about. She had tried to prepare, to plan, but somehow it hadn't been enough.
He closed his eyes briefly, running a hand through his hair, the muscles in his jaw tightening. She's gone… The thought repeated like a drumbeat in his mind. I should have noticed sooner. I should have protected her better.
The door opened, and he looked up, startled. For a brief moment, hope sparked in his chest. Perhaps news. Perhaps someone had found her.
Qrow Branwen stepped into the room, red tape wound around his arm, eyes scanning the space before settling on Taiyang . "No luck," Qrow said quietly, his voice low but carrying a careful weight. "Even Ozpin can't find anything about them. Not in any kingdom, at least. They have to be… in the wild, or somewhere underground. A hidden village, maybe. Somewhere unrecorded, off the maps, beyond the cameras and scrolls."
Taiyang remained silent, staring at the floor. He could feel the tension coiling in his shoulders, the slow, gnawing panic that refused to dissipate. The quiet of the room pressed in, heavy and suffocating.
Finally, he spoke, voice low but steady, carrying a weight beyond fear. "Seven days. Seven days to find any trace of them. If you don't… I'll have to go and ask that woman's help." His words were measured, deliberate, but they carried an edge of threat, a promise born of desperation.
Qrow's brow furrowed, unease flickering in his dark eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked carefully, concern threading through his tone.
Taiyang lifted his gaze, meeting Qrow's with eyes hardened by determination. There was no bravado, no false courage. Just the raw, unwavering resolve of a father whose child was in danger. "I'm not sure," he admitted softly, the words almost swallowed by the weight of the room.
But even in the uncertainty, there was purpose. He would act. He had to act. The quiet settled around them again, broken only by the faint hum of the house, the soft creak of the sofa under Taiyang's weight. Hope and fear coexisted in that room, balanced delicately, both sharpening the edge of resolve.
Taiyang leaned back slightly, hands still tense on his knees, and let the silence stretch. Seven days, he thought. Seven days to find her. Then I'll do what I must.