Chapter Text
Threads of Rust
Prologue: Exile (Rewritten)
Where the never-ending war ends in blood and ash, and one last farewell.
Jaune
A second ago, the situation in Vacuo was well on its way into spiraling out of control.
Grimm, of all shapes and sizes, winged and not, had fallen upon the maze-like sections of the desert city like a tidal wave.
Guns roared, blades gleamed, as steel shattered bone and fang alike, even as the snarling beasts kept flooding in and trampling over their dead.
The air stank of sweat, Dust, and the Grimm’s burning ichor. The shouts of Huntsmen and Huntresses alike mixed with the desperate screams of civilians being shepherded through broken alleys, each new screech of a Nevermore blotting out hope just a little bit longer.
Yet through the dust and heat, the fervor of mankind burned ever-brightly.
A Silver-Eyed Reaper fought in lockstep with the Snow-White Heiress, as monstrous fang and bone were met with the swing of a scythe and the rapid thrusts of a rapier. Bursts of light engulfed them both and illuminated the battlefield on occasion, leaving naught but black ash falling onto the desert sand.
A Firebrand with a head of golden hair struck through the hordes like a blazing comet, fists hammering through shadow and bone alike, while at her side danced a Panther of midnight, ribbons whirling as her steel carved graceful arcs through the chaos.
The Thunderborn laughed as she swung her hammer, laughter crashing through the black tide like the storm she so happily embodied, while the Quiet Gale stood firm behind her, every shot from his bladed pistols as steady as a heartbeat.
The Young Sage fought with movements that were not wholly his own, a golden light from hundreds of heroes past guiding his cane as he struck true, while a Mirage of emerald fire cloaked the wounded and lost with phantoms of safety.
And above them all, the Winter Queen strode through the sky like a snowstorm made flesh, her blades and glyphs scattering the tide of darkness as though she were born to command the fading light.
And through the dust and fire, the Rusted Knight endured, his armor dented and scarred, his sword battered but unyielding even after his battle with the Witch of Flames, and his shield raised high for those who could no longer stand.
Yet even heroes tire, when faced with such numbers.
The Reaper’s breath went ragged, her petals slower to fall. The Firebrand’s flame, though fierce, had begun to burn low. A river of her own blood now stained the snow-white cloak of the Heiress, and the quiet rage in the Panther’s eyes told of wounds not yet healed.
The tide of darkness pressed on, endless, shapeless, merciless. Every Grimm they struck down dissolved into ash, only for ten more to crawl free from the dark horizon, drawn by fear, by death, by the pulse of Salem’s malice and authority.
She stood beyond them still. The Endless Queen, fractured but never broken, her presence an anchor of hate that even the fiercest light could not fully pierce.
Jaune felt it. A weight heavier than his shield. The truth none of them wanted to name: they were losing.
Even with all of them, every Huntsman and Huntress who still drew breath, every remaining warrior that answered Ruby’s call to action even with their hands shaking with fear, Vacuo would fall. Mankind’s flame would gutter out, and the shadow would win.
His hand tightened on his battered sword. Crocea Mors, though no longer the shattered blade he wielded for so long in that world of fantasy, felt just as feeble now. He thought of Pyrrha, of Penny, of every life already taken in the name of this never-ending war. He thought of Ruby’s trembling smile, Weiss’s weary determination, Yang’s feral defiance. He thought of how many of them would die today if nothing changed.
And from where it lay beneath his armor, he felt it, no, them hum.
The Relic.
The deceptive weight of Destruction itself, waiting like a blade above him, the city, the kingdom, the world, like a promise understood but left unspoken.
Its presence whispers at the edge of his mind, with each pulse feeling like cold steel as they ran through his veins.
He had never called upon it. Not once, ever since Oscar and Theodore entrusted it to him and the others for safekeeping.
How could he, when it’s power and the cost it involved made him feel more fear than even the death he had sought for so long?
But now…
What else remained? What other trick, what other brilliant plan, did they have in store?
He knew the answer to that, as did Ozma, as did everyone else.
There was no plan. No final gambit. No miracle waiting in the wings.
Vacuo was burning. Mankind was breaking. And even the brightest lights among them could not hold back the dark forever.
Jaune’s grip on Crocea Mors tightened until his gauntlets creaked, the battered sword shaking in his hand. What good was he, what good was this, against something that would never fall to blade nor mortal wit? Against the woman who had returned from every death, laughing in their faces every time she did?
Not enough.
The words weren’t his, but they felt true all the same.
Not enough. Never enough.
The hum of the Relic deepened, like a drawn breath from ages past.
The Knight’s worn gauntlet touched his chestplate, his soul trembling as it reached for the blade that had practically infused itself into his very being, and his lips spoke the name that Ozpin had told him, where the Infinite Man’s whispered words had echoed in the depths beneath Shade’s ziggurat.
“Damocles.”
And the chaos of the battlefield faded away. Blades were halted mid-swing, bullets stopped in their path, and the war around him came to a standstill.
It was as if the world had drawn back to watch, as a fragment of divinity–one that had been gifted to humanity at the dawn of their existence–made its entrance on the world stage for the first time in almost a century.
A thread of light unspooled from within him, from the Sword of Destruction, one as thin and beautiful as a spider’s silk that weaved upward through the dust and ash. It coiled above Jaune’s head, shimmering, until it formed into a blade. A blade not made of steel, and not any metal forged by mortal hands either, it was something else entirely. Its edge was the silence before a storm, its surface reflecting not the desert but the raw idea of an ending. Of oblivion.
The sword hung by that single glowing thread, swaying gently, as though daring the world to move.
And then it spoke.
“Ah… the weight of desperate hands,” said Damocles, the voice ringing like steel dragged across glass. “How long it has been since I’ve tasted resolve this bitter.”
Jaune’s breath caught in his throat, as he beheld the frozen world around him. The monstrous black tide, the faltering warriors, the terrified civilians, and the Endless Queen watching him from afar. It made him feel like he was looking at the most macabre painting in existence.
“You carry so much within you already,” the blade whispered. “Grief, guilt, duty. So many threads tangled together, in a body too young to hold an existence like yours. Tell me, knight of rust and ruin, hero of love and hope…what will you ask of me? What will you request of the herald of Destruction?”
“What thread do you wish for me to cut?”
The words slid into his mind like cold steel, soft yet absolute, as though the choice had already been made eons ago.
Jaune’s gaze swept across the battlefield. Ruby’s face, tired, strained, yet still burning with defiance. Weiss’s stance, remaining elegant even with blood trailing down her sleeve. Yang and Blake, fighting back-to-back, unyielding against the tide. Ren, Nora, Emerald, Oscar, Winter. All of them standing at the very edge of exhaustion, refusing to fall only through their sheer willpower.
And beyond them all, Salem. Even from this distance, he could see the monster that was once The Girl in the Tower smile, as though she believed even this strange power would fail.
Jaune’s heart pounded.
He thought of Pyrrha, whose memory had helped keep him on this path. Of Penny, whose last smile and whispered plea as she clung to his sword still haunted his dreams. Of the countless nameless souls who would never get to see another dawn if he hesitated now.
He shuts his eyes as tears begin to pool within them, but his voice comes out low, yet determined.
“Her.” He spat out, before he could lose his nerve. “Cut her thread, erase Salem.”
The hanging blade quivered.
“A bold command,” Damocles murmured, the sound resonating through Jaune’s very bones. “To sever the thread of one who cannot die is to challenge the loom of fate itself. I’ve told Ozma much of the same when he last sought me out, as I did for the many champions he has sent to me. But unlike them…it seems that your will does not waver.”
The thread above him tightened, glowing like molten gold.
“Very well, I will do as you ask. But hear me, Rusted Knight: to sever a thread as grand and storied as hers, I must take yours in exchange. Your bonds, your memories, your place upon this world. However this unfolds, Jaune Arc, Huntsman of Remnant and the Rusted Knight of the Everafter will cease to be from this moment on. This is the price of Destruction, as it always has, and will always be. Are you willing to pay it?”
Jaune’s laugh came out low and bitter. He had already lost so much, said so many farewells over the course of this journey. The boy that left his family’s homestead for the dream of a hero was long gone, and a rusted husk was all that remained in his place. What was one more piece of himself, if it meant the others would live?
He nodded once, then twice, the hand on his chestplate shifting into a tightly-clenched fist.
“I will, whatever it takes.” He turns his gaze up to the sword, his faded blue meeting the shimmering blade. “On the name of the Arcs, I swear it.”
The battlefield shuddered as he spoke, then the blade fell.
There was no flash, no thunderous crack, only the sound of a thread being snipped. The world breathed in, and then reality fractured right in front of his eyes.
Salem screamed. A terrible sound not borne of rage, but of shock, as though a truth she believed eternal had just been undone. Her immortal form unraveled like smoke torn apart by the wind. One moment she was there, defiant and endless as she was in the vision that Jinn showed all of them, of the moment she defied the Two Brothers. The next, she was nothing but a whisper in the ash.
The Grimm faltered. Some collapsed instantly, fading into dust, while others scattered, shrieking in confusion as their lord and master vanished.
The heroes, frozen until now, staggered as the world lurched back into motion. Ruby’s silver eyes widened. Weiss turned to Jaune, mouth parting to speak.
But the Rusted Knight was already falling.
Threads of light lashed around his limbs, dozens, hundreds, each connected to something dear,
Ruby’s smile. Weiss’s laughter. Yang’s stubborn warmth. Blake’s quiet understanding. The sound of Nora’s laugh. Ren’s calm demeanor. The memory of Pyrrha’s voice. Penny’s final words.
All of them were there. All of them pulled at him, each thread trying its best to hold on until–
“Payment,” Damocles intoned. “A price must be paid.”
He gasped as the world snapped around him.
Vacuo, his friends, the endless sands that stretched to the horizon, all of it was torn away as if someone had ripped open the fabric of reality. There was no desert, no sky, no Grimm. Only a cascade of broken threads falling into a void of white and shadow.
“A knight who dares to wield me must always pay the toll. Your thread no longer belongs to this world.”
Jaune reached out, trying to grasp even a single thread. Ruby’s name escaped his lips. Weiss’s. Yang’s. Pyrrha’s.
But they slipped through his fingers like smoke.
Then he fell.
Through light, through dark, through a sea of unseen stars and fractured memories. His armor scraped against nothing as he sank, his shield and sword heavy and foreign in his hands. He felt like a man plummeting between stories, severed from the tale he once belonged to.
And then, impact.
The smell of salt and rust, the sound of distant sirens, the taste of oil and rain. They all welcomed him.
He opened his eyes to see an alien skyline: towers of metal and glass lie in the distance, the lights above him buzzing like insects in the night. The air was heavy, wrong, as if he had found himself in the depths of Mantle’s industrial district.
And above all of that, an unbroken moon graced the night sky.
Jaune Arc, the Rusted Knight, had left the world of Remnant behind.
And Earth Bet will find themselves beset by a hero of yore.