The night was quiet, save for the occasional hum of airships passing overhead. The streets of Vale were almost deserted, the city's usual hustle and bustle reduced to a calm murmur. In the bright light of "From Dust till Dawn", a small, quaint Dust shop nestled in a quiet corner of the city, a lone hooded figure stood by the counter, eyes curiously scanning the rows of colorful crystals around her.
Her hair, a short wolf cut with a striking silver-white and reddish streaks that seemed to shimmer under the shop's lights, fell around her pale face in soft waves, a stark contrast to the vibrant ruby red of her eyes, glinting like polished gemstones.
She wore a bright red cloak, embroidered with red, grey, and blue roses, which flowed around her as she moved, but her attention wasn't solely on the Dust.

In her hands was a glossy tabloid titled "Weapons Magazine", which she picked up from a nearby rack; its pages filled with the latest transforming weaponry.
She paused to admire a sleek, high-caliber sniper rifle that morphed into a bladed polearm, muttering to herself, "Hmm, too bulky... the recoil would be a nightmare." Flipping further, she found a pair of revolvers that could combine into a compact shotgun. Her gaze narrowed slightly. "Not bad... but they'd need a better trigger mechanism. Even auntie's pizza cutter or Yang's gauntlet could outpace that."
All the while, a deafening orchestral song played through her headphones, the sharp, haunting notes of a violin beating rhythmically in her knife-like ears. The music drowned out the world around her, creating a bubble of focus and intensity. Each note seemed to synchronize with the flick of the pages, the violent crescendo of strings matching her rising interest in a new schematic-a weapon design she hadn't seen before.
Her thoughts wandered as she turned the pages, imagining the arsenal from her late mother's side of the family. Her clingy aunt's weapon-a giant pizza cutter-like blade rimmed with sharp edges that functioned like a chainsaw circle-was certainly advanced, a marvel of modern engineering from a place called Rim Bilton, wherever that is.
But then there was her great-grandma's weapon—a lot more simple than most in her family, yet in some ways, even more elegant, and undeniably scary. That intricate swordstaff–lance thing had a way of making its wielder seem larger than life, its mere presence enough to send an uneasy shiver down anyone's spine. And considering her great-grandma was already taller, or perhaps the tallest than everyone else in her family; the fact that the swordstaff was taller than her only added to her intimidating aura.
Which made her to shudder at the fleeting memories of her grueling training under her great-grandma, the captain of the second team of the Abyssal Hunters. For a ten years old, those sessions were beyond intense, spanning from rigorous combat drills to the unexpectedly demanding lessons in dancing and singing. Her great-grandma was relentless, always pestering her with reminders that the difference between Ægirians and Land-dwellers lay in their grace, elegance, intellect, and the advancements in technology and philosophy. She'd often proudly compares the differences to that of heaven and earth, a lesson that was drilled into her skull with every moment spent under her tutelage. The memories of those words echoed in her mind as she recalled the exhausting, meticulous training that had shaped her into who she was today.
She couldn't help but think of her great-grandmother, a master Hunter as well as an expert weaponsmith who had designed and created various transforming weapons—"trick" weapons, as she liked to call them, instead of "transforming" weapons like the Land-dwellers called. Those weapons were more than just tools to kill beasts and, occasionally, Grimms; each was a piece of art. Like its Huntsmen counterparts, they're also capable of changing forms in the blink of an eye, each more mechanically and arcanely complex and deadlier than the last.
Yet despite all their innovations, none could surpass the simple yet overwhelming power of her great-grandma and her swordstaff when she saw them both spar. That image of her great-grandma wielding that weapon—taller than even her already towering form—left an indelible impression on Ruby. But there was also that two handed white sword, covered in bandages, which for some reason her great-grandmother forbade her from touching and rarely used.
Thinking of her great-grandmother always eased her mentally and physically, a warmth amidst the gruellingly cold and harsh memories of her training. Her great-grandmother had always been caring and had helped her enormously when she designed and made her own weapon. Whenever she felt that she had had enough of her training and lessons with her strict great-grandmama, she would always run to her great-grandmother, using her as a shield to protect her from the scary lady.
Those moments often led to long debates between the two women on how best to raise her as a Hunter. Eventually, it was decided that her great-grandmother would take charge of teaching her on both singing, playing musical instruments, and philosophy, also the occassional combat tactics. While those subjects weren't easy, they were a reprieve from her great-grandmama's intense care, making Ruby's time with her all the more precious.
Looking at a picture of a greatsword in the magazine, her thoughts wandered again, this time to her quiet aunt, who was never without the huge blue and black sword she carried on her back. The weapon, as plain as it appeared—a large, imposing jet black blade devoid of any much intricate designs or mechanisms—became something extraordinary in her own hands. It was a testament to the raw power and skill that seemed to flow through her mother family's bloodline.
But her quiet aunt wasn't just a warrior; she was also the one who patiently taught her to play the harp, an instrument that required delicate precision—something her aunt had in spades. Those lessons had been as much about discipline as they were about music, her aunt's calm demeanor never wavering even when Ruby struggled with a particularly tricky piece. Singing lessons were the same, her aunt's voice, deep and resonant, guiding her through the notes until Ruby could match her pitch.
And then there were the days when her aunt would sit her down and carefully comb and washed through her hair, teaching her how to care for it so it could grow long and soft like hers and the others.
She had tried to follow her aunt's advice, but in the end, she had chosen practicality over tradition. Combat training demanded agility, and long hair got in the way.
So, she had cut it short—much to the chagrin of her entire mother's family. Her great-grandparents, her "almost non-existent in her life" grandmother too, then her uncle, even both her aunts themselves—they had all frowned upon her decision.
But it was both her clingy aunt, her great-grandmother–and for some reason her half-sister's reaction that left the deepest impression on Ruby. She remembered how the three of them had wept like a child, shaking her as if trying to wake herself from a nightmare when she saw her shortened hair.
"Waaa, Tina/Yang/Anne! Our Ruby is in her rebellious age!"
They lamented, acting as though her decision to trim her locks was the ultimate betrayal. Ruby couldn't help but cringe at the memory, recalling how they had wept and shaken her, trying to understand why she would do such a thing.
Yet still, despite all the lessons and traditions, Ruby couldn't help but feel more at ease when she remembered her quiet aunt's warmth and gentleness. Those were the moments that balanced out the grueling training and the harsh (yet somewhat loose at times?) expectations set by the rest of her family, especially from her great-grandma.
Oh, also her other uncle's weapon of choice, whilst her uncle from half-sister's side had an awesome scythe which she took inspiration of as her weapon of choice. Her uncle from her mother's side's philosophy were of a simple and rigid weaponry and lifestyle which also influenced her quiet aunt.
It was a simple massive four bladed anchor that looked more like a shipwreck artifact than a weapon, also came to mind. It was weathered and battle-scarred, but in his hands, it was a deadly force of nature.
As she flipped another page, admiring yet another transforming weapon, a small smile played at her lips. The weapons she saw might be impressive, but they lacked the soul, the history, of those wielded by her family.
"Hmm, like auntie Marie said... for a Hunter, sometimes a personally handcrafted weapons are the best," she murmured, the memory of her family's legacy from her late mother's side was a comforting presence in the back of her mind after she passed away when she was young.
As the music swelled, Ruby didn't notice the bell of the store's door chiming. Lost in the soaring violent violin notes and the pages of weapon schematics, she remained oblivious as a group of armed thugs walked in. They were dressed uniformly in black suits, red shirts, and black ties, their eyes hidden behind reddish-orange glasses. Black hats were perched on their heads, giving them a menacing, almost uniform appearance as they spread out across the shop.
Finally, an orange-haired man strolled in behind them, his presence commanding attention. His sharp, tailored white suit and black bowler hat contrasted with the rougher look of his underlings. A cane hung loosely in his gloved hand, tapping rhythmically against the floor as he walked. His eyes, cunning and calculating, scanned the shop with a predatory gaze, locking onto the shopkeeper cowering behind the counter. He smirked, a cocky grin playing on his lips as he casually approached the counter, his every movement oozing confidence and control.
Unfortunately, Ruby continued flipping through her tabloid, her head bobbing slightly to the music, unaware of the tension building in the room.
The orange-haired man leaned casually against the counter, tapping his cane with an air of impatience. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a Dust shop open this late?" he drawled, his voice smooth but laced with a hint of mockery.
The old shopkeeper trembled, his eyes darting nervously between the man and his ransacked store. "P-Please, just take my Lien and leave!" he stammered, fear evident in his voice.
The man chuckled, a low, amused sound. "Shh, shh, shh, calm down. We're not here for your money." He tilted his head slightly, his gaze shifting to the Dust crystals now filling the bags of his thugs. "Grab the Dust," he ordered casually and sat on the stool opposite of the counter.
The orange-haired man observed the scene unfold with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. From the corner of his eyes he saw a red figure was deeply focused in whatever they were doing, he motioned his chin to one of his men to deal with them. As his hired thug closed in on them, his gaze followed the figure's every move. When they casually removed their headphones and hood at the thug's signal, he leaned forward slightly, realizing that it was just a girl and he expected her to comply with the demands.
But instead of surrendering, the girl tilted her head in mild curiosity and he unmistakebly heard her asked, "Are you robbing me?" Her calm, almost innocent question seemed to catch his hired thug off guard, but he quickly recovered, growling, "Yeah!" as he pointed the red machete threateningly at her.
The pale girl's expression didn't change. Without warning, she delivered a swift, powerful kick that sent the thug crashing into a nearby table. The impact was so forceful that the thug crumpled to the ground, groaning in pain.
Before the other thugs could react, she spun on her heel, her cloak swirling around her. In an instant, she became a blur of red, a whirlwind of motion that left them stunned. As she dashed toward the window, her form seemed to dissolve into a tornado of blood-red roses, crashing through the glass with a sharp, deafening shatter.
The orange-haired man watched with narrowed eyes as the girl vanished into the night, leaving behind a trail of red rose petals and a shattered window. He replayed the scene in his mind, a smirk tugging at his lips as he muttered, "A Semblance? A Beacon Academy student?"
But then, his amusement began to wane. Something wasn't right. His nose twitched as a sharp, metallic scent filled the air. It was unmistakable-the pungent smell of blood. His smirk faltered as unease crept into his expression.
He glanced down at the floor where the rose petals were scattered. The sight of them, beautiful yet ominous, made his chest tighten. Carefully, he crouched down and reached for one of the petals, his gloved fingers trembling slightly as they made contact. As he lifted it, a sickening wet and stickyness seeped through the fabric of his glove. His eyes widened in shock.
The petal was soaked in blood.
"What... the... fuck?" he muttered, his voice low and incredulous. The realization hit him hard-the petals weren't just red; they were soaked in blood.
His breath caught in his throat as he stared at the blood-stained petal and the ones he steps on, realization dawning on him as he saw his bloodied footsteps behind him. The roses weren't just an aftereffect of her Semblance-they were real, and they were drenched in blood.
The scent of blood grew stronger, nearly overwhelming him. Causing him to recoil slightly. The girl was not what she seemed-she was far more unpredictable, more dangerous than he had ever anticipated.
As he stood there, still holding the petal, he noticed something strange. The petal in his hand began to disintegrate, crumbling into nothingness as if it had never existed. He watched in stunned silence as the blood-stained fragment of her Semblance's after-effect disintegrated into the air, leaving only a faint trace of dark red on his glove.
His mind raced, trying to piece together the implications of what he had just witnessed as quick as possible. What in Oum and the Two Brother Gods had he gotten himself into? The weight of the encounter settled heavily on his shoulders as he stared at the now-empty space where the petal had been as he felt a wet, cold shiver running down his spine.
The girl skidded to a halt some distance from the shop, landing in a low kneeling position. Her cloak fluttered around her as she gripped the metallic hilt of her weapon, concealed beneath the fabric.
+++++++++
Rising smoothly to her feet, she flicked her wrist, and the compact hilt in her hand began to unfold with a series of sharp, mechanical clicks. The weapon expanded and transformed, revealing itself as a massive scythe. Its serrated blade, like a row of shark's teeth, gleamed ominously in the dim light of the blood-red moon, the jet-black metal accented with bright red and subtle hints of dark blue, a testament to its deadly precision and the expertise of its craftsmanship.
Etched near the base of the blade, a symbol of a white cephalopod-like creature being stabbed by a white, two-pointed glaive added a final, haunting touch to the weapon's menacing aura.
She spun her scythe with effortless grace, the blade cutting through the air with a soft whistle. She brought the weapon to a stop and, with a swift motion, stabbed the sharp edge into the ground in front of her. The tip of the blade buried itself in the pavement with a satisfying crunch, and she pointed the weapon directly at the group of thugs who had stumbled out of the shop after her.
Her blood-red eyes narrowed as she leveled her weapon at them. The thugs froze, their eyes wide with a mix of shock and fear. They hadn't expected this-a girl, possibly a Huntress who could turn the tables so quickly, a girl who wielded a weapon as fearsome as this.
With no hesitation, the girl leaned back and moved with a fluid grace that seemed to defy the chaos surrounding her. Her scythe sliced through the air as she advanced on the first thug. He barely had time to react as she elegantly pivoted on one foot, the blade tracing a perfect arc through his machete, splitting it cleanly in two. The motion was seamless, almost like a dance. Before the thug could even register what had happened, she spun lightly on her heel, her dark cloak billowing around her, and delivered a precise kick to his chest. The force of the blow sent him crashing into a wall, the impact echoing through the night.
The girl didn't pause. With a fluid motion, she twirled her scythe around her, the weapon spinning like a dancer's ribbon in the air. Her movements were almost hypnotic, each one calculated, each strike deliberate. She suddenly dissolved into a whirlwind of blood-red petals, reappearing in a blur behind another thug. The man barely had time to register her presence before she swept the scythe low, hooking the blade around his ankle. With a swift pull, she yanked him off his feet and sent him crashing to the ground as she immediately jumped and lands herself on top of the thug, incapacitating him. Petals scattered around her, falling like crimson rain.
Another thug lunged at her, but the girl was already gone from his colleague, her form dissolving once more into a storm of bloody petals. She reappeared behind him, the scythe slicing through the air with deadly precision. The curved edge caught his weapon, snapping it in two with a delicate flick of her wrist. Before he could react, she twirled the scythe, using the momentum to send him flying across the pavement with a sweeping strike that seemed effortless.
A thug attempted to catch her off guard, charging from behind with a roar. But the girl was attuned to every movement, every shift in the air around her. She turned with the fluidity of water, her cloak spinning around her like a vortex. The scythe came up in a smooth, sweeping motion, the blade meeting the thug's weapon with a metallic clash that rang through the night. With a graceful push, she broke his guard, and before he could react, she spun low, sweeping his legs out from under him with the shaft of her scythe. He hit the ground hard, and she was already on the move again, her steps light and nimble.
As the remaining thugs were beginning to understand the gravity of their situation. They began to hesitate–unsure on how to best approach this girl who moved with the elegance of a dancer and the precision of a seasoned warrior. Her blood-red eyes locked onto them, and her expression calm, almost serene.
Now, she advanced, each step deliberate, her scythe held at the ready. With each movement, more of the crimson petals fell around her, drifting through the air like a deadly snowfall.
One of the desperate thugs charged forward, yelling and swinging his weapon wildly. The girl simply sidestepped smoothly with a dancer's grace. As he passed by her, she brought her scythe up in a wide arc, the blade slicing through the air with a soft, deadly whistle. The thug barely had time to realize his mistake before the scythe's edge found its mark, slashing through his defenses with ease and landing on the ground, inches from him. She twisted her wrist, the scythe spinning in her hands as she followed through with a kick that sent him tumbling back to a nearby wall, followed by the clatter of his weapon.
The last thug, seeing his comrades defeated so effortlessly, tried to flee. But the girl was faster. With a light push off the ground, she vaulted into the air, her cloak billowing behind her like wings. She spun in midair, her scythe tracing a deadly arc as she came down. The blade drove into the pavement with a sharp crack, sending a shockwave rippling through the ground. The thug stumbled as the force knocked him off his feet, and before he could regain his balance, the girl was upon him.
She dissolved into another swirl of bloody petals, reappearing in front of the thug just as he regained his footing. She brought her scythe down in a graceful, controlled motion, the blade stopping just short of his throat. The fallen thug froze, his eyes wide with fear as he stared up at the girl, who stood over him with an air of calm authority. Her blood-red eyes bore into him, unblinking, as if measuring his very soul.
Under the shattered red moon, the night held its breath as she slowly withdrew her scythe, spinning it once more before resting the blade against the ground. The thugs lay scattered around her, groaning in pain and utterly defeated. The girl remained poised and composed. The blood-red petals that had scattered throughout the fight began to drift to the ground, carried by the wind as the remnants of her semblance slowly fading.
Yet the strong scent of iron lingered for more...