RWBY: Moon Reflection

The Lower Valley was a district that even the shadows feared. Known as Kuchinashi's warehouse district, it was where the criminal underworld conducted its most clandestine operations. The entire area was a labyrinth of massive storage buildings, each one fortified like a fortress. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter of every warehouse, and the atmosphere was suffocating, laden with the stench of damp metal and the ever-present tension of concealed violence. No one entered the Lower Valley without intent—whether to do business, settle debts, or meet an untimely end.

Crimson walked through the foggy streets of the district, his boots splashing in shallow puddles as he approached his destination. The target was the Armour Syndicate, a notorious gang specializing in weapons dealing. Their leader, Stannum Armour, was a former Huntsman from Mistral Academy, a fact that had given the syndicate both prestige and fearsome reputation. Crimson had been provided the location of their stronghold—a warehouse like any other, save for the increased number of guards and faint sound of machinery within.

As Crimson neared the warehouse, he noted the guards stationed at the entrance. They were rough-looking men, armed with rifles and batons, their postures exuding a mix of boredom and tension. One of them noticed Crimson approaching and immediately raised his weapon, barking, "Oi! Where do you think you're going?"

Crimson halted a few paces away, his hands resting casually on the hilts of his sword. "This is the Armour Syndicate's base, isn't it?" he asked, his tone calm but cold.

The guard narrowed his eyes. "Yeah. What of it?"

In an instant, Crimson's sword was drawn. A flash of steel, a spray of crimson, and the guards collapsed lifeless to the ground, their severed heads rolling onto the wet pavement. Crimson stepped over the bodies, pushing open the heavy warehouse door without hesitation.

Inside, the warehouse exploded into chaos. Syndicate members emerged from every corner, drawn by the sound of gunfire and the commotion outside. Crimson moved like a phantom, his blade slicing through the dimly lit space with deadly aim and merciless brutality. Men shouted, weapons were fired, and crates were overturned in the chaos, but none of it deterred Crimson. He fought without hesitation, his movements a blur of lethal efficiency. Within moments, the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and the ground was littered with the bodies of the syndicate's enforcers.

The gunfire and screams drew the attention of Stannum Armour, who had been in his private quarters deep within the warehouse. The noise outside stopped abruptly, replaced by an eerie silence that sent a chill down his spine. Grabbing the massive greatsword from where it rested against the wall, he stepped outside to confront whatever—or whoever—had dared to attack his stronghold.

What he saw made his blood boil. His men were all dead, their bodies strewn across the floor in grotesque positions. Standing among the carnage was a young man, his dark cloak spattered with blood, his sword glinting faintly in the dim light. The man was walking slowly toward him, his expression unreadable.

"You've got guts, I'll give you that," Stannum growled, his voice a mixture of fury and disbelief. "Who the hell are you, and why are you here?"

"I'm nobody," Crimson replied flatly. "This isn't personal. I'm just collecting a bounty."

Stannum's laughter was deep and mocking, echoing through the empty warehouse. "Do you have any idea who you've messed with, boy?" he said, gripping his sword tightly. "I'm Stannum Armour—ex-Huntsman, leader of one of the strongest syndicates in Kuchinashi. And you..." He pointed the massive blade at Crimson. "You're just a dead man walking."

As he spoke, a pale yellow light enveloped his body, shimmering like molten gold. His aura condensed and solidified, forming a suit of armor that gleamed with unnatural strength. The armor covered every inch of his body, leaving small gaps for movement. Stannum's voice rang with pride. "This is my semblance: the strongest armor ever created. No blade can pierce it."

Crimson tilted his head slightly, his expression unchanging. "The strongest armor," he repeated, his voice soft. "Because you're the weakest."

Before Stannum could react, Crimson moved. He closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye, his blade flashing toward the faint gap at Stannum's neck where the armor didn't quite meet. The strike was precise and devastating, severing Stannum's head from his body. His armored form crumpled to the ground with a resounding crash, lifeless.

Crimson wiped his blades clean, retrieving Stannum's ID and scroll as proof of the kill. Before leaving, he set fire to the warehouse, watching the flames consume the evidence of the massacre before disappearing into the night.

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Sometime later, Crimson stood outside The Skillful tavern once more. The guards at the entrance eyed him warily, but he ignored their nervous glances and stepped inside. The warm, noisy atmosphere of the tavern seemed almost alien after the grim silence of the Lower Valley.

Opal spotted him immediately, her sharp eyes narrowing as she approached the bar. "Back already?" she asked, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Too tough for you?"

Crimson dropped Stannum's ID and scroll onto the counter with a quiet thud. "The warehouse is gone," he said simply.

For a moment, Opal was stunned, her smirk fading as she registered his words. She recovered quickly, nodding as she transferred the Lien to his scroll "Well, I'll be damned. Didn't think you'd pull it off." She watched as Crimson pocketed his scroll and turned to leave.

As he walked away, Opal found herself staring after him, her smirk returning. She'd sent him on that mission expecting him to either die or run in fear, but he'd returned—alive and victorious. "Who is this kid?" she muttered under her breath, her curiosity piqued.

Crimson disappeared into the rainy streets without answering, leaving behind a tavern full of whispers and a bartender who couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just witnessed the beginning of something far larger than a bounty.

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Crimson walked away from The Skillful tavern, the bounty tucked into his pocket. The sum was more pretty good—enough to sustain him comfortably for more than a year, should he choose to live frugally. But comfort wasn't his priority. His mind is still drifting to his memories and the recent events.

He had no grand plans for the money, no vision of a brighter future. What he needed now was simple: a place to stay, somewhere far from the noise and prying eyes of the city's underbelly. The Upper Cliffs, a quieter district perched on the edges of the city's elevated terrain, seemed like the best choice. The buildings there were old and weathered, housing those who had enough to escape the chaos below but not enough to truly rise above it.

Crimson rented the first apartment he found. The landlord, an indifferent old man, handed him a rusty key in exchange for a month's rent. The place was far from luxurious—barely above average by the city's modest standards. The peeling wallpaper, cracked tiles, and faint smell of mildew told a story of neglect. But Crimson didn't care. He had no desire to search for anything better. He only wanted solitude.

The apartment was a one-room affair in a crumbling building that had likely seen better decades. It was quiet enough, and that was all that mattered. With a place to stay secured, Crimson turned his attention to basic necessities. He made his way to the market, a bustling maze of stalls selling everything from fresh produce to questionable trinkets. He avoided eye contact with the merchants, picking up canned goods and dry supplies that could last him a week. Efficiency was his only goal.

When he returned to the building, the stairwell was dimly lit by a single flickering bulb. As he climbed to his floor, he paused. Sitting on the narrow stairs were two small girls, their presence unexpected in a place like this. They looked similar, undoubtedly sisters. The older of the two couldn't have been more than six or seven, while the younger one was a year or two younger. Their frames were thin, their pale skin stretched tight over delicate bones. Their clothes were ragged, their hair unkempt. But it was their eyes that struck him. Wide and frightened, they darted to the bags in his hands, betraying their silent hunger.

Crimson stopped and stared at them. They didn't move, though their small bodies trembled slightly. His gaze lingered on them for a moment longer than he intended. Then, without a word, he placed one of his bags on the floor in front of them. The older girl hesitated, her hand twitching toward the bag, but Crimson didn't wait to see what she would do. He turned and continued up the stairs, the other bag still in his grasp.

The apartment door creaked as he opened it, the faint smell of dampness greeting him. He set the remaining bag down on the counter and collapsed onto the worn mattress in the corner of the room. His body felt heavier than it should have.

As he lay there, staring at the cracked ceiling, his thoughts wandered. [Why did I do that?] He hadn't spared a thought for others in years, his philosophy shaped by hard truths and bitter experiences. The world is a dark place, and to stand at its peak means looking down on countless sufferings. That was what he believed. The strong thrived, and the weak suffered. Yet, for some reason, he had given those girls food without a second thought.

He couldn't remember the last time he had felt pity for someone else. Was it really a pity? Or was it something else? Whatever it was, the question lingered, refusing to be silenced.

For the next week, Crimson didn't leave the apartment. He spent his days in quiet meditation, letting his mind drift through the stillness. His meals were sparse, taken only when his body demanded it. The canned goods he had kept were enough to sustain him, though he barely tasted the food as he ate. He focused on regaining control, on silencing the thoughts that had unsettled him. Yet, no matter how much he meditated, he couldn't find peace, the image of those two small figures on the stairs were added to these thoughts.

Outside, the rain continued to fall, drumming against the windows in a rhythm that felt almost accusatory. Crimson sat cross-legged in the center of the room, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. The world outside moved on without him, but within his solitude, he kept replaying the two lives and asking himself questions.