The faint hum of a needle threading through fabric filled the otherwise quiet dorm room. Cinder sat with perfect posture on the edge of her bed, her fingers moving with calm precision as she stitched a sleek black dress across her lap. The fabric shimmered faintly under the dim light, her expression focused yet thoughtful.
On the floor by her bed, Emerald sat cross-legged, eyes glued to her Scroll, thumbs flicking across the screen with practiced ease. Every so often she glanced up at Cinder, as if expecting her to break the silence.
Mercury, sprawled out lazily across the rug with a comic book resting against his chest, finally broke it instead. His smirk carried none of its usual smugness. "You were right, Cinder," he said, turning a page without much interest. "That kid... Hyunwoo? He's dangerous."
Emerald lifted her eyes, narrowing them. "You mean the fight today?"
Mercury gave a half-shrug, eyes still on the panels in front of him. "Yeah. I went in to test him, not crush him. Thought I'd push him just enough to see where he stood. But the way he moves..." He finally lowered the comic, his smirk flattening into something sharper. "He fights like he's lived through a hundred battles already. No wasted energy, no hesitation. Every strike is meant to finish things. If I had pulled back, he would've put me on the floor for real."
Emerald frowned, shifting uneasily. "You're saying he's stronger than you?"
Mercury chuckled dryly. "Im not sure. He moved ... scarier. Most kids our age, they fight like they've got something to prove. He fights like he's already proved it—and now he's just cleaning up."
The quiet stitching of thread paused. Cinder's golden eye lifted, her lips curving into the faintest smile. "Hyun Kim's son," she said softly, savoring the words like they carried weight. "Not just by name, but by the way he fights. By the way he decides."
Mercury tilted his head, curious. "You make it sound like you've seen it before."
Cinder's smile didn't fade as she returned to her sewing, the black fabric folding perfectly under her hands. "I have. His father was the same. Ruthless in thought, precise in execution. Never stepping into a battle without already choosing the outcome. The boy... is a reflection of that legacy."
Emerald leaned forward, voice cautious. "So what do we do about him?"
For a long moment, the only sound was the rhythmic tug of thread. Then Cinder's eye narrowed, a glint of fire catching in the dim light.
"We watch. We wait. And when the time comes..." She tied off the last stitch and held the dress up to the light, her tone calm yet final. "...we remind him that legacy can be broken."
Mercury smirked faintly, though his fingers tapped against his comic book with restless energy. Emerald said nothing, but her grip on her Scroll tightened.
The air in the dorm grew heavier, as though even the shadows leaned closer to listen.
____
The training room was quiet, save for the steady sound of Hyunwoo's spear slicing through the air. Sweat ran down his temple, his breath steady, each movement sharp and disciplined. He wasn't just drilling—he was forcing himself into rhythm, something that could keep his mind from wandering too much.
But it wandered anyway.
Today's the day.
His grip on the spear tightened as the thought returned, sharper than any blade. Ironwood and his men would be moving on Dock 12—the very place Hyunwoo had pointed out. Cinder's staging ground. Weapons. Dust. And maybe worse. The General would handle it with his soldiers, but Hyunwoo couldn't shake the tension pressing at his chest.
Cinder, Emerald, Mercury... they shouldn't be there. Not if they want to keep their masks on. They'll stay tucked away as Beacon students, smiling, laughing, pretending. While the Atlas military cleans house.
The spear stopped mid-swing, Hyunwoo lowering it as his eyes drifted to the ground. His brows furrowed. He hated this waiting game, hated the feeling that he was always one step behind someone else's plan.
The door creaked open.
"Hyunwoo?"
Ruby's voice was soft but bright, cutting through his thoughts. He turned, blinking as she peeked into the room with that familiar nervous smile, Crescent Rose folded neatly at her back.
"You're here early," he said, setting the spear against the wall.
Ruby stepped inside, her boots clicking lightly against the floor. "Well... I promised, didn't I? Training together. Figured I shouldn't keep you waiting." She fiddled with the hem of her sleeve before glancing up at him, eyes wide. "Unless... you're busy?"
Hyunwoo shook his head, brushing the sweat from his brow. "No. I could use the company."
Ruby's smile widened, and she stepped closer, her weapon unfolding with a metallic snap. "Good! 'Cause I've been working on a new sequence, and I thought... maybe you could help me tighten it up."
Hyunwoo gave a faint chuckle at her energy. For a moment, the weight in his chest lightened. Still, as he moved to take his stance opposite her, his eyes flickered once more toward the window, toward the horizon where the docks lay hidden.
Ironwood... don't mess this up.
Ruby raised Crescent Rose with a grin. "Ready?"
Hyunwoo lifted his spear again, sliding into his stance. "Always."
The clash of steel filled the room, but in the back of his mind, Dock 12 burned like a shadow he couldn't escape.
____
Dock 12 was shrouded in the pale light of early evening, the tide pulling and pushing against the wooden stilts beneath the warehouses. Floodlights from Atlas carriers cut through the fog, beams sweeping across stacks of crates and the yawning mouth of the dockyard. The air carried the faint tang of Dust and oil, a warning of the shipment hidden inside.
Ironwood stood at the forefront, his posture rigid, military coat brushing at his legs as the wind tugged it back. His soldiers moved in tight formations behind him—rows of Atlesian Soldiers clanking across the concrete, rifles primed. Their glowing eyes cut sharp in the dark.
"Perimeter secured, General," one officer reported, stepping beside him.
Ironwood gave a curt nod, his gaze never leaving the warehouse marked Dock 12. "Good. Move in. Quietly. If the information is right, this is their staging ground."
The command spread in hushed relays, boots and metal treads shifting as squads moved to flank the warehouse.
The doors were breached in seconds—an echoing slam of reinforced metal against the wall. The Soldiers surged in, weapons raised.
Inside, rows of crates stamped with Schnee Dust Company logos filled the space, towers of smuggled goods packed tight. And nestled among them, hulking silhouettes crouched in shadow—Atlas Paladins. Their frames gleamed under the sudden flood of light.
The soldiers froze for a breath, waiting for movement.
Then, the machines' eyes snapped to life.
Red. Not blue.
"Contact!"
Gunfire erupted as the Paladins stirred, massive limbs snapping chains like paper. One swung its arm and sent two Soldiers flying into the side of a container. Another stomped forward, sending the ground trembling beneath its bulk.
"Fall back! Fall—!" A soldier's voice cut short as a clawed arm swept across the line.
Ironwood's jaw tightened. "Override protocols, now!"
But the soldiers' consoles only sparked with error messages. ACCESS DENIED.
The realization struck him cold. They've taken control of the Paladins already.
The air thundered with gunfire, Dust rounds sparking against Paladin armor. Atlas soldiers fell into tighter formations, desperately holding the line. Above it all, Ironwood drew his sidearm, his voice ringing clear over the chaos.
"Destroy them. Every last one!"
The clash at Dock 12 turned from a tactical operation into a full-blown battlefield. The screech of twisting steel echoed as the hijacked Paladins lumbered forward, their massive arms crushing through containers like they were paper. Atlas soldiers scattered to find cover, rifles sparking with Dust rounds that barely dented the armor plating.
Ironwood did not retreat.
He stood at the front, firing round after round from his pistol until the barrel glowed faintly red. Each shot landed with surgical precision, striking joints, optics, weak plating seams—every place he knew would force the machines to falter.
"Left flank! Down!" he barked, shoving two soldiers out of the way as a Paladin's arm came crashing down where they had been. The blow shook the dock so violently that the floodlights above flickered and swayed.
Then came the other sound—a rising chorus of voices and boots pounding the concrete. From the far end of the docks, banners flared. Red. White. Black.
The White Fang poured in like a tide. Masked Faunus fighters swarmed the battlefield, their weapons flashing as they rushed the already-pressured Atlas lines. Smoke bombs hissed, filling the warehouse with choking haze and flashes of green Dust fire.
"Of course," Ironwood muttered through clenched teeth, discarding his spent pistol and pulling out a heavier weapon—a modified Dust rifle with a gleaming bayonet fixed to the barrel.
He moved like a man carved from steel, slamming the bayonet into a White Fang soldier's chest before ripping it free in one fluid motion. He ducked under another's blade, swung the rifle stock up, and shattered the fighter's jaw with bone-snapping force.
Behind him, his soldiers rallied, inspired by the sheer relentlessness of their commander.
One of the Paladins lunged, its clawed hand snapping forward to crush him. Ironwood charged it instead. He drove himself under its reach, leapt onto its arm, and scaled up the plating with brutal efficiency. His bayonet found a seam in the armor, and with a snarl, he rammed Dust rounds directly into the exposed machinery. Sparks erupted as the Paladin staggered, crashing into the side of the warehouse.
The White Fang cheered as if the Paladin were theirs—but their shouts faltered as the machine slumped to the ground, disabled.
Ironwood landed heavily, metal against concrete, his coat stained with soot and blood. He did not hesitate. He turned, already aiming at the next target.
"Hold the line!" His voice roared over the chaos. "Atlas does not fall to terrorists!"
But even as his men cheered and pressed forward, Ironwood's sharp eyes caught the sight of more Paladins powering up in the gloom, red optics igniting one by one.
The White Fang hadn't just staged a raid.
This was a trap designed to bleed Atlas dry in one night.
____
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