The Bullhead's engines thrummed a low, familiar thrum as it banked toward Vale's glittering expanse, cutting through wisps of afternoon cloud like a scythe through mist. the Bounty-hunter slouched in the rear passenger bay, last seat, as always, back to the bulkhead for that clear sightline on the hatch. His poncho draped over the armrest like a surrendered flag. His compact weapon lay collapsed across his lap, a silent sentinel, while his revolver's holster pressed reassuring against his thigh.
The cabin hummed with the chatter of a half-dozen other passengers: merchants haggling over crate manifests, a wide-eyed tourist snapping holo-pics of the horizon. He ignored them, grey eyes drifting to the frost-rimed viewport. Outside, Vale unfurled like a jeweled crown forged from steel and stone: a sprawling metropolis cradled in the kingdom's palm, its districts pulsing with the ordered chaos of Remnant's heart. The outer sprawl blurred first: patchwork farmlands giving way to industrial veins, smokestacks belching faint Dust-laced vapors that caught the sun in iridescent halos.
Deeper in, the city proper bloomed-a labyrinth of spired commerce and shadowed alleys, airships darting like fireflies between skyscrapers that clawed at the sky. Commercial hubs thrummed with neon veins: holographic billboards hawking Dust-infused gadgets, street vendors hawking skewers from corner carts, the distant roar of trams threading through elevated walkways. At the end, rising like a verdant monolith from the urban sea, loomed Beacon Academy. There she stood-Beacon, the spire of huntsmen's hubris, its colossal tower piercing the clouds like a lance aimed at the gods. White stone veined with emerald glass, cliffs cradling its base in jagged embrace, the whole edifice a beacon ("ironic, that", thought the hunter.) of polished marble and manicured lawns, ringed by amphitheaters and training arenas that gleamed under the sun's forgiving gaze. From this height, it looked almost serene: banners fluttering from parapets, the faint glint of mechashift weapons drilling in the yards below, airships ferrying initiates like proud shuttles.
Soft, He thought, as his fingers stilled on his weapons surface. All that shine, and they teach you to team before you track. Heart's fine for fairy tales but, Grimm don't parley. The "tales" flickered unbidden: Uncle's bedtime mutterings of immortal councils and endless nights, dismissed as family bluster padding the real lore-the ledgers of horde patterns, dust traps that worked. Beacon? A gilded cage for kids who dreamed of being heroes, not protectors that kept villages breathing.
"Still... that tower's got eyes", He mutters, "the reward for Harlan's bounty is there. By a certain Ozpin. Apparently, the headmaster of this...institution. Wonder if the old man's as stiff as his tower and walls."
The Bullhead dipped, engines whining a descending growl as it spiraled toward the academy's outer perimeter. The courtyard swelled into view below: vast flagstones ringed by blooming topiaries and arched colonnades, the faint bustle of students milling post-class-chatting, weapons slung casual like schoolbags. No scars, no hard beaten resolve; just the pristine hum of potential, untouched by the road's grit. The young hunter's grey eyes narrowed, a micro-glow in his eyes. "Clean, too clean. Most of them would break in a real hunt."
The landing pad materialized, a reinforced slab jutting from the cliffside near the courtyard's edge, guidance lights pulsing welcome in rhythmic green. With a hydraulic hiss and a jolt that rattled the crates, the Bullhead touched down, rotors slowing to a whisper. The cabin lights flickered amber, the intercom crackles: Prepare to disembark. Passengers stirred, gathering satchels and chatter. The Bounty-Hunter rose unhurried, slinging his weapon cross-back, poncho settling over his shoulders like a second skin. The ramp groaned open, flooding the bay with Vale's crisp air-scented of cliffside winds and distant sea salt-parting to reveal the pad's edge, where the courtyard sprawled inviting beyond a short gangway. He stepped out, boots hitting the grated metal with a solid thunk, hat brim tugged low against the glare. He paused at the threshold, grey eyes sweeping the horizon once more-walls to spire, city to academy-before turning toward the high tower. "Go in. Show proof. Get money. Get out," The young Hunter rolls his shoulders, "Right, what can honestly go wrong?"
-------
The late afternoon sun slanted through Beacon Academy's towering spires like golden shrapnel, casting long shadows across the courtyard where the echoes of chaos still lingered. What had started as a harmless cafeteria skirmish-a literal food war courtesy of Team RWBY and Team JNPR-had devolved into Glynda Goodwitch's stern lectures and a cleanup crew of reluctant first-years. Ruby Rose, leader of the aforementioned team, darted through the debris like a crimson comet, her cloak fluttering as she scooped up a half-smashed tray of pudding cups.
"Guys, come on! It wasn't that bad," Ruby protested, her silver eyes wide with optimistic denial. "I mean, the food fight was kinda fun, right? Like, bonding! Weiss, you have to admit, your bread sword and acting was epic."
Weiss Schnee huffed, arms crossed over her pristine (if slightly flour-dusted) school skirt, frowning at Ruby like a disapproving chaperone. "Fun? Ruby, we nearly destroyed the mess hall. Yang flew through the roof! If Glynda hadn't-"
A low rumble cut her off, not thunder, but the growl of a Bullhead engine slicing through the air. Heads turned as the sleek transport descended onto the landing pad just beyond the courtyard, its hull scarred from Grimm claws and frontier dust. The ramp hissed open, and out stepped a figure: lean and shadowed, dark red poncho with golden highlights fluttered like a ghost, wide-brimmed hat tugged low over tousled coal-black hair. A compact rectangular case slung across his back, and a low-slung revolver holstered at his thigh caught the light with rune-etched menace. He moved with a gunslinger's sway, boots crunching gravel, a frayed burgundy scarf knotted loose at his throat like a half-forgotten oath. Mild tan, angular face half-veiled by that fringe-deadpan eyes scanning the mess with faint, unimpressed grey storm.
Blake Belladonna, perched on a nearby bench with her book half-open, arched a brow from beneath her bow, "I didn't know we accepted transfer students,". Yang Xiao Long grinned, wiping pie residue from her hands with exaggerated flair, "Nah, looks like he just flew in from a bad western. Bet he's here for the Vytal Festival auditions-look at his get up. Ruby, eyes up; you're doing that weapon geeking thing again." Ruby was doing her thing again, her gaze locking on the stranger's gear with weapon-nerd precision. "Whoa... what sort of weapon is that? It's definitely some sort of mechashift weapon. Do you think He'd let me take a closer look? Oh man, I gotta-"
"Ruby Rose!" Glynda's voice cracked like a whip from the archway, her riding crop tapping sternly against her palm. "Less fawning, more cleaning. And you-" She pivoted to the newcomer, glasses glinting. "State your business. Beacon isn't a rest stop for vagrants."
The figure tipped his hat brim with a gloved hand, voice low and dry as Vacuo sand. "Not vagrant. Bounty claim. Slate Harlan-the rogue who torched that caravan near Forever Fall. Ozpin's bounty? Got the proof." He unslung a small, sealed pouch from his belt, tossing it lightly-inside, the glint of a charred Huntsman insignia, Harlan's faded emblem of a cracked emerald shield. Glynda's expression tightened, a flicker of recognition cutting through her disapproval. Harlan had been Ozpin's quiet purge: a disgraced graduate turned Grimm-baiter, his raids leaving villages in flames under the guise of "culls." The headmaster had posted the lien reward personally, a subtle test for the shadows.
"Follow me," she said curtly, turning on her heel. "The headmaster's expecting proof. And you four-back to work."
The elevator ride to the headmaster's office was a silent ascent, Glynda's posture rigid as the clockwork gears whirring around them. The Bounty-Hunter leaned against the wall, gloved fingers drumming his revolver's rose-carved grip-a subtle tic, the only tell of the road's weight. When the doors parted to Ozpin's sanctum, the headmaster was already there: perched at his desk like a chess master mid-gambit, cane hooked over the armrest, green eyes sharp behind those spectacles. The office sprawled eternal-clocks ticking discordant symphonies, holographic maps flickering with Grimm migrations, a half-sipped mug of cocoa steaming on the saucer.
"Mr...?" Ozpin trailed, voice warm but probing, like a scroll unrolling secrets. "Just Coal," came the blunt reply, stepping forward to slap the pouch onto the desk. "Harlan's done. Insignia, Grimm-trophy ledger, witness tabs from the survivors. Incapacitated and jailed. Lien's 50k, wired or crystal?"
Glynda hovered by the door, arms crossed, but Ozpin's gaze lingered on the pouch, then lifted to the young hunter's scarred hat, the burgundy scarf, the belt-buckle glinting faint-a wolf bisected by steel, ancient as the relic in his vault. A brief memory rises after looking at that crest. No, he thought. Coincidence. That lineage has been snuffed out, a hundred years have passed since he last saw of their kind. But that crest... familiar, like a half-remembered gambit.
"Impressive work," Ozpin murmured, leaning forward, fingers steepled. "Harlan was... slippery. Knew how to cover his tracks well. And you-a freelancer? No academy crest I recognize."
Coal shrugged, hat brim casting a shadow over his deadpan line. "Road-taught. Villages don't care for pedigrees when Grimm knock. Either way pay up, bounty's done and dust."
Ozpin's smile deepened, a subtle prolong-cocoa untouched, the clocks seeming to slow. "Dust, you say. Fitting for one who hunts so deftly. Tell me, young man... what name shall I wire this to? Full formalities, if you please."
A beat. Coal's grey eyes met those endless greens-unwavering, but no resonance sought; just the blunt transaction.
"Coal Burgundy."
The air thickened, not with Aura, but history's weight. Ozpin's steeple paused, spectacles catching the light like fractured emeralds. Burgundy. The name hung, a howl from faded tomes. The matriarch's laugh echoed in his mind, her overreaching gamble that echoes like a phantom pain. And this boy holds such a family name? Or perhaps just an uncanny coincidence...
Coal, oblivious to the reaction, simply straightened, hands brushing lightly against his weapon harness. "So," he said, tilting his head. "Money?"
Ozpin leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, curiosity fully piqued now. "Well... perhaps we should discuss a bit more than that," he said slowly, prolonging the conversation, though Coal's attention was already drifting due to thought of long conversation, "Great, a conversationalist."