Everything was ready for the journey to "anywhere but here."
I had Dust, some food, half a bottle of water, and I even managed to scavenge more gunpowder ammunition from that White Fang guy who died on the ramp. As for the woman I... killed, there was nothing useful besides another broken Scroll.
I'd already taken her weapon, so it didn't really matter.
Others died too, but I don't know where they fell.
My hope is to find a city with a communication tower—or at least get close to one—call Klein, and return to Atlas on a private airship while feasting on pancakes like a champion.
Until those dreams come true, I'll be stuck in the middle of nowhere on the Anima continent.
How wonderful.
It's daytime… I think it's better for me to leave now. I could still be attacked during the day, of course, but it gives me a little more comfort than venturing out at night.
I take a deep breath, adjust the strap of my backpack on my shoulder, and start walking. The uneven vegetation and reddish soil of Anima surround me—it's not as cold as Solitas, but it's still hostile in its own way. Twisted trees, withered shrubs, and an uncomfortably hot wind.
…—...---...
Time crawls by. The trail seems unchanging—the same withered bushes, the same gnarled trees, the same hot wind relentlessly buffeting my face. After a while, walking becomes almost automatic: step, breathe, look around; repeat.
When I finally glance at the sun again, I realize it has already climbed high into the sky.
At least two hours must have passed since I started walking.
I think I can keep going a little longer.
—...---...---
My legs throb, heavy as if they've doubled in size. My breath comes in ragged, dry gasps.
My water is running low; I can't afford to waste any.
Just a little further.
…—...---...---
I blink. Once, twice. My vision blurs for a moment, and when it refocuses, the sky is no longer blue—it's a deep, heavy black, speckled with lights that tremble as if they're cold.
When did it get so dark? I hadn't even noticed.
…—...---...---
I can't walk anymore; I need to sleep.
I might be able to climb a tree… I don't have many options. It'll be better than staying on the ground, waiting for some Grimm to make me their midnight snack.
I place my hands on a branch and pull myself up. It holds my weight. Okay.
Each pull makes my arms tremble.
I find a spot wide enough. I curl up there, lean my back against the warm trunk, and drift off into the world of dreams.
…—...---...---
I survived the first night.
And those guys on TV say surviving in the forest is hard.
While I was up in the tree, I spotted a stream that should be somewhere around here…
The vegetation grows denser as I move forward.
I duck under some bushes and force my way through. The sound of water reaches me first—faint but real. My heart leaps in my chest. Finally, some luck.
I push aside the last branch.
And there it is.
A small river, its water clear enough to see the stones on the shallow bottom. It's not exactly clean—nothing here is—but it's enough to drink and fill my bottle.
I kneel at the edge, nearly stumbling. I fill my bottle and drink slowly, feeling the pain in my throat gradually fade. I splash water on my face and take a deep breath.
It feels like a small miracle in the middle of this hell.
I lift my head and look around.
A wide-open place, full of trees and life.
My eyes land on a small bird perched atop a boulder in the middle of the stream.
Black. Small. Red eyes.
A raven.
I like them: small, clever, and clean.
Practically perfect.
Clearly a good sign.
Though this one is strange. Staring at me… I could swear there's something vaguely human in its gaze.
And do ravens even have red eyes?
Bizarre…
…
…
…
Fuck it.
I draw my revolver and shoot the bird.
BANG!
It's an impulsive decision… I mean, I don't even know if ravens are edible.
But—
"SHIT!"
Do ravens talk? I must be hallucinating.
The raven thrashes on the ground, as if trying to remember what the correct gravity is. Its feathers tremble, its shape distorts—and I'm absolutely certain birds aren't supposed to make sounds like an angry person.
Red smoke begins to pour out of it, swirling and compressing, as if the creature is being crushed inward.
"You fucking idiot! I'm going to kill you!"
What a foul mouth.
The smoke dissipates.
In its place stands a woman with black hair, red eyes, and crimson armor.
She clutches her shoulder where the bullet struck, glaring at me with a mix of disbelief and pure hatred—like I just shot her.
And I did.
But I thought it was a bird! I was hungry! If I explain, everything will be fine.
"My lady—" I begin.
I shouldn't have started.
She raises her good hand in a sharp, cutting gesture that makes me swallow the rest of the sentence.
That's when I really notice the katana at her waist—the black sheath secured by red leather straps, the curved blade hidden but still gleaming with a crimson reflection along its edge. Even sheathed, it radiates a simple message: pull me half an inch and someone loses an arm.
Her sharp crimson eyes lock onto mine.
"If you call me that again, I'll rip out your tongue."
Perfect. Excellent.
She inhales slowly, like someone gripping their sanity with their teeth.
"You. Shot. Me."
I raise my hands slowly, trying to look like the least threatening human alive.
"Technically," I say—because I'm an idiot—"I shot the bird."
The silence that follows weighs more than my entire backpack. She blinks once. Slowly. Very slowly.
"I am the bird."
"So you can talk! I wasn't crazy."
She closes her eyes and exhales. Her hand slides to the katana's hilt—just resting there—but that's enough to make my soul briefly leave my body.
"Why," she asks, every word dripping with restrained violence, "did you shoot me?"
"I… thought you were food?"
Her eyes snap open.
I raise my hands quickly.
"Wait—wait! Listen! I've been walking for two days without finding anything decent to eat. I thought it was a huge raven, you know, juicy—"
"Ravens aren't juicy."
"At that moment," I say, "everything looked juicy."
Her expression twisted between disbelief and fury.
She closed her eyes for a moment, as if pleading with the gods for patience.
When she opened them, her hand rested on the katana's scabbard—not drawing it, but close enough to make me reconsider every choice I'd ever made.
"You're joking."
It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.
"It's just the nerves, you know?" I say, still talking for some reason. "When someone with a katana looks at me like they're calculating how many strikes it would take to slice me into pieces, I get a little... chatty."
She tilts her head slightly. That's all. But that small movement carries all the energy of I'm going to kill you, but I'm still deciding how.
"I could cut you in half before you even drew that ridiculous weapon."
She gestures with her chin toward the revolver still in my hand.
I swallow hard and slowly holster the gun, as if returning a fragile glass to its shelf.
"Totally fair."
She blinks. Once. Slowly. Then she takes a step forward. Just one. But it's so calculated, so precise, so full of lethal intent that my body reacts instinctively, and I step back.
"Why don't I kill you right now?"
The answer that comes out of my mouth is:
"Because... making mistakes is human?"
She takes a deep breath, a very deep one, as if drawing on every last ounce of patience left on the planet.
"If you say another stupid sentence, I'll cut you."
"Short or long sentence?" slips out before I can stop myself.
Her silence grows heavy.
I feel the air thicken.
Her hand tightens on the katana's sheath.
I clamp my mouth shut so quickly I nearly bite my tongue.
The corner of her mouth twitches. Not with amusement, but with mounting irritation.
At that exact moment, I was 70% certain I was going to die.
The remaining 30%... was pure denial.
"L-look, my name is W-Whitley Schnee," I stammered, my voice faltering as if trying to escape before I could. "If you get me out of this forest, my father—who I'm sure you know who he is—would be more than happy to give you a reward."
"A reward?" she repeats, as if savoring the word—and liking the taste.
"Yes! Oh, and a very big one. It can be anything you want," I continue, trying to force confidence where only panic exists. "Money, Dust, men..." I pause too long before adding, almost in a whisper, "women?"
She raises an eyebrow slowly, as if watching an idiot drown in his own words.
"I don't judge," I explain.
She takes a step toward me—not fast, not threatening. Just... controlled. Like a predator that knows exactly the right distance to maintain, so it doesn't need to run.
"Anything I want?" she asks, her voice low, almost gentle. The kind of gentleness that often precedes natural disasters.
I swallow hard. "Y-yes. Absolutely. Completely. No limits."
Her eyes gleam with something that isn't exactly interest... but it's definitely not contempt either. Which, honestly, is even more terrifying.
"And you really think," she says, tilting her head slightly, her black hair cascading like shadows, "that your father would give anything to get you back?"
"Anything," I confirm. "He may not show much affection, but... well... he's invested a lot of money in me."
"Interesting," she murmurs.
Her hand moves away from the katana's sheath. For a moment, I think this is a good sign.
Until she finishes:
"Because I think you're offering me the wrong prize."
My brain freezes. "Wrong...?"
She takes another step, now just inches away from me. Her crimson eyes pierce my soul as if checking my price tag.
"If I wanted money," she says, "I would have already stolen it."
"If I wanted Dust, I would have already taken it."
"If I wanted men..." she smiles, a smile that simultaneously kills and revives me, "...I'd choose someone who could keep up with me."
She watches me with calm, predatory focus.
"But you? You're in the forest, alone, lost... and desperate." She tilts her chin. "Which makes me think what matters here isn't who will pay me."
A chill ran down my spine.
"T-then... what do you want?"
She smiled. A genuine smile this time, the kind that appears right before life-or-death decisions.
"I'm still deciding," she said, her voice as smooth as a gliding blade. "But I'm certain of one thing."
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"You're going to be useful to me."
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
I need to do something. Anything.
She takes a step forward.
My hand, already gripping the gun, rises, ready to fire.
But before I can aim, she moves.
A breath of air.
A crimson flash.
And then—TRINK!
My hand freezes.
I look down.
The barrel of my revolver clatters to the ground.
Severed.
Like butter.
It takes a second for my brain to process that my weapon—my last line of defense—has ceased to exist before I could even raise it.
"I warned you," she murmurs, sheathing her katana with the calm of someone who has just tidied a drawer.
I barely have time to open my mouth.
"What—"
She vanishes from my sight for a split second and reappears in front of me.
Her fist strikes my stomach with the force of a train.
The air rushes out of me.
My legs buckle.
A horrible sound escapes my throat, half cough, half agony.
The ground rushes up too fast.
My vision darkens at the edges.
Before I black out, only one thought remains:
If I had eaten her in raven form... would that have been cannibalism?
And then everything went black.