The valley was a graveyard of broken blades and twisted metal, its once lush greenery now a field of ash and bone. A pall of acrid smoke and despair clung to every ragged breath. Among the countless corpses and shattered remnants of Huntsmen and Huntresses, one lone figure remained upright-if only barely. Jaune Arc, humanity's final bulwark against oblivion, knelt with one hand pressed to the hilt of his sword. The other clutched at the ragged edges of his once-proud attire.
He wore a black hoodie with vibrant orange accents lining its interior, though now it hung in tattered strips, soaked in his own blood and smeared with ash. Beneath it lay a chest plate of lightweight white and gold armor, chipped and cracked from relentless battles, its glossy sheen long since dulled by soot and gore. His dark blue jeans bore deep slashes and scorch marks, and his boots-once polished to a hero's shine-were caked with grime. A torn red cloth, originally a proud banner of hope wrapped around his waist, now dangled in shredded, battle-worn tatters.
The valley that once brimmed with life and promise had become a crucible of ruin. Not a single blade of grass swayed in the wind-only broken metal fragments and limbs of the fallen stirred under the heavy breaths of distant Grimm. A pall of ash and smoke clung to the air, swallowing the light and making the landscape appear in hues of ashen gray and sickly crimson. The scent of blood, iron, and singed cloth permeated every ragged breath that dared to fill one's lungs.
The bodies of what had once been Remnant's greatest defenders lay scattered in unnatural contortions. Team RWBY's legacy had ended not in a blaze of triumph, but in bitter tragedy. Ruby Rose, Jaune's beloved wife, lay crumpled on the broken earth. She had fought until her last breath, Crescent Rose now a jagged ruin at her side. The fearlessness that once shone in her silver eyes was now lost to sight, her face hidden by a curtain of blood-matted hair. Yang Xiao Long, who had laughed in the face of danger and worn her strength on her sleeve, now lay motionless, arms twisted at an impossible angle. Blake Belladonna, who had fought so fiercely against her own dark past, was now still as stone, her bow slipped from her hair and resting inches from her outstretched fingertips. Weiss Schnee, once so poised and graceful, rested face-up in the dust, her rapier shattered, her pale cheeks stained with soot and tears that had long since dried. The quartet's last stand-valiant, defiant-was reduced to wordless testament in their lifeless forms.
Nearby, the remnants of JNPR fared no better. Lie Ren, who had carried so much silent sorrow in his heart, now wore only the stillness of death. His body slumped against Nora Valkyrie's. She had died fighting, hammer raised, teeth clenched in one final snarl of defiance. Together they had pressed on, braving horrors beyond reason, yet the Grimm had not cared for their courage or their love. Their colorful personalities and shared laughter were now muted echoes in the cold silence. Pyrrha Nikos's spirit, though she had fallen long ago, seemed to linger in the thick air as if witnessing the gruesome finale. Her essence drifted on the edges of perception, an aching memory that refused to fade, as though even death could not still the champion's unwavering resolve.
Oscar lay not far from them, the young man who had shouldered a burden beyond any comprehension. His staff was splintered, his aura snuffed out by the ravenous claws of darkness. Other allies, too numerous to count, littered the ground. Some had come from far corners of Remnant to defend what remained of civilization. Others were nameless Huntsmen and Huntresses who had dared to stand between Salem and humanity's last gasp of hope. Now they were fragmented relics of a failed resistance, weapons reduced to worthless sticks, armor cracked and peeling, their warm bodies grown cold and stiff.
Amidst this grotesque tableau of death and futility, a colossal beast dominated the center of the valley-a towering amalgamation of vile energies. Its form was an atrocity given shape: twisted limbs woven from pure shadow, spines that leaked a sickly red luminescence, and a body layered in writhing filaments of darkness. Black ichor bubbled along its hide, seething and hissing as if alive with malignant purpose. Its muscles tensed and released in rhythmic pulses that made the very ground quake, sending minor avalanches of debris rolling down collapsed fortifications and shattered cliffs.
At the core of this abomination, half-embedded within its pulsating flesh, Salem reigned like a queen in her vile throne. Her skin, once porcelain-pale, was now tinged with the lifeblood of countless victims. Her long, flowing hair draped around her cruel features as though the beast wore her like a precious jewel. Her eyes sparkled with a predatory gleam, reveling in the unspeakable horror she had orchestrated. She savored this moment-a symphony of misery composed over centuries and now played to its grim crescendo.
The giant creature's claws rose and fell, stamping down on the bodies below. Bones crunched beneath its weight. Armor buckled. The messy chorus of destruction delighted Salem, who drank deeply of the despair swirling through the valley. Her laughter cut through the silence like a blade of ebony ice, a lullaby sung to broken spirits. High and keening, it swirled overhead, a chilling counterpoint to the low moan of a distant, dying wind.
And there, just beyond the beast's shadow, stood Jaune Arc-the final witness to this senseless butchery. Kneeling, battered, and clutching his sword for support, he watched through tear-blurred eyes as Salem's monstrous champion trampled upon everything he had ever loved. Her gaze lowered to him, savoring the sight of the lone survivor. His body shook with fatigue and despair, yet within that broken soul there still flickered a spark of resistance. A single ember of defiance, waiting to be fanned into flame.
"You are alone, Jaune Arc," Salem hissed from her living throne, her words a legion of hateful whispers twisting around each other in the stagnant air. She relished the spectacle of his pain. "Your allies lie dead. Your world crumbles at my feet. Yield to the darkness-take your own life if you must, spare yourself the cruelty of hope."
Her voice, seductive and poisonous, coiled into his ears. Around him, strewn corpses and shattered dreams bore silent testimony to the truth of her words. Yet something in Jaune's eyes still refused to die. As the monstrous shadow loomed large, Salem's final taunt seethed into his mind, daring him to cast aside what slivers of faith and future remained.
He could still hear Ruby's laugh in some distant memory. He could still feel the warmth of his friends, their laughter, their encouragement. Yes, he was alone now. But to yield was to betray everything they had died for. And so he listened, heart hammering against his ribs, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached, as Salem's challenge hung heavy in the death-stilled air.
Jaune raised his head, blood trickling from a cut above his brow. His vision blurred, yet he refused to look away from Salem. He would show no weakness before this monstrous queen. "I... won't," he managed, voice ragged but unwavering. "Do you think humanity's will is that easy to crush? You took my friends, my family, my love... but you will never break my resolve. As long as my heart beats, I will fight you."
At these words, Salem's twisted grin deepened. "Your courage is hollow. This world is mine. Surrender."
But even as Salem's venomous words curled through the suffocating air, filling his mind with visions of final defeat, something stirred deep within Jaune's core. At first, it was just a whisper, a faint warmth flickering in the cold darkness of his heart. Yet that whisper grew stronger, more distinct, spreading through him like ink poured into clear water. Against the background of screams and howling winds, he could almost make out the soft murmurs of familiar voices-voices thought lost to the grave.
There, in that desolate valley, he began to feel them-his fallen comrades, each one a cherished memory turned phantom presence. The teammates who once laughed beside him during peaceful evenings at Beacon's cafeteria; the loved ones who offered gentle embraces and kind words long before despair had hardened the world; the comrades-in-arms who fought tooth and nail at his side, laying down their lives to hold back the encroaching tide of darkness. These were no mere echoes of the past, but guiding hands pressed tenderly against his shoulders, lending him their faith, their courage, their will. Their auras, once scattered across battlefields and broken dreams, now converged upon him, drawn like steel shavings to a powerful magnet. He could feel Ruby's earnest hope, Pyrrha's noble valor, the quiet strength of Ren, the boundless energy of Nora, and so many others lingering in that spectral host.
Their collected presence soaked into the hollow spaces where grief and exhaustion had carved deep chasms in his soul. Where despair had gnawed its claws, leaving gouges of emptiness, these spirits of the departed filled every wound with warmth, mending cracks with their collective resolve. This was not some illusion conjured by fatigue or delirium. No, he could sense them as surely as he sensed the cool blade in his hands, or the scorching ache in his limbs. They were with him, as real as the battered armor on his back, their will and essence pouring into his aura until it swelled beyond all mortal limits.
He inhaled a shaky breath, each heartbeat thrumming with renewed purpose. Around him, the gloom of the battlefield seemed to hesitate, just for a second, as if the forces of darkness could sense something shifting. Tendrils of smoke and shadow curled away from him, repelled by an unseen force. Jaune's eyes lifted, and in them shone not resignation, but a fierce and terrible brilliance. He refused to yield. Not here. Not now.
His aura ignited like sunfire breaking through a storm-dark sky, dazzling gold interlaced with arcs of pure white radiance. It exploded outward in a corona of light so intense that the ash-laden winds swirled violently, scattering soot in all directions. The luminescence danced across twisted metal and shattered weapons, painting them with fleeting halos. Even Salem's monstrous shape, which loomed like a void against all reason and mercy, could not remain cloaked in murk. The glow reached her, forcing her vile features into sharp relief-revealing every contorted line of rage and disbelief etched into her abominable flesh.
This aura was not just a shield or a show of strength-it was something deeper, older, and infinitely more profound. Within its brilliance hummed the resonant chords of countless lives: the determined laughter of those who fell fighting by his side, the soft lullabies of mothers and fathers who had once comforted a younger, more innocent Jaune, the hearty cheers of friends raising mugs in toasts to better days. Every fractured memory, every scarred emotion, every silent prayer uttered in darkness fused into this luminous new power. It was hope and loss, pain and perseverance, all transmuted into a force of pure defiance.
Like a divine pyre, it crackled and roared around him, purging away the last vestiges of weakness. In that celestial glow, the battered knight was reborn. He stood taller, straighter, the weight of grief somehow transfigured into unbreakable resolve. His blade-marred, chipped, and bathed in the blood of countless battles-now shimmered as if forged anew. The dying embers of faith had caught fire, blossoming into a blaze that could not be extinguished by fear or hatred.
What gripped him now was an energy the world had never witnessed, a metamorphosis of aura and spirit united in righteous fury. If Salem had once believed him a pawn to be crushed, she would soon understand her error. If despair had once swallowed light, now it was the light that would consume the darkness. The earth trembled under this surging tide of raw, unyielding power, and the very air sang with possibility.
This was a gift born of the fallen-an inheritance of their valor and sacrifice, transformed into something both beautiful and terrifying in its purity. It transcended Semblances and simple aura flares. It soared past the known boundaries of mortal strength, touching upon something far greater and more profound than even the strongest Huntsmen could fathom.
This was a new semblance, something far beyond what the world had ever witnessed. Divine Requiem.
Salem's mocking expression faltered. A ripple of uncertainty ran through the colossal beast as Jaune rose to his feet. The battered hoodie and armor shimmered in the glow, revealing the truth of a warrior who refused to yield. His sword, gripped tightly in weary hands, began to radiate with the same brilliant energy-transformed into a blade fit to cleave despair itself.
Jaune's voice, now steadier, thundered across the battlefield. "You think I'm alone, Salem? Think again. They all stand with me-Ruby, Pyrrha, Ren, Nora, Weiss, Blake, Yang, Oscar... Everyone who has fallen is here, and through me, they fight once more. I carry their strength, their hope! I carry the future of humanity!"
For three relentless days and three merciless nights, the battlefield became an inferno of fury and will. The sky wept ash, and the very air trembled beneath thunderous strikes of steel and shadow. Jaune and Salem clashed amid jagged mounds of broken armor and charred bone, their every blow an earthquake, their roars shaking loose the few fractured mountains that dared stand in witness. Streams of bitter wind carried sparks and cinders across the ruins of a dying world as the knight, cloaked in radiant aura, fought on with a blade that now seemed forged from stardust and the lingering hopes of the fallen. Each of his sword arcs carved through darkness, leaving trails of shimmering gold and white in the gloom-testaments to the thousands who had perished and now rallied behind him, unseen but ever present.
Salem's laughter had once danced through the valley like a sick dirge, but now it shrank into desperate shrieks, her voice cracking as her monstrous form endured blow after monstrous blow. She attempted to crush him beneath colossal fists of writhing shadow, to entangle him with tendrils of sorrow and fear. Yet, Jaune's defiance had grown bolder with each clash. When her claws raked the earth, splitting it into rivers of molten stone, he vaulted over the chasms and let his aura-suffused blade sing against her hide. When titanic limbs of darkness slammed down, he spun beneath them, driving a shimmering counterstrike deep into the heart of her despair. The shrill cries of Grimm beasts, drawn like flies to her malignant aura, blended with the clash of metal, the roar of hellish winds, and Jaune's ragged, unbreakable breathing.
Time lost meaning in that infernal struggle. On the first day, it was a tempest of blades, black limbs, and desperate parries. On the second, Salem conjured storms of acidic rain and howling ghosts of long-dead Huntsmen to torment him, yet he pressed on, shielded by the souls of his allies that glowed fierce in his heart. On the third, as night's ink thickened, she revealed claws of twisted bone and tendrils of sinuous shadow, each capable of dismembering a warrior whole-but Jaune took wounds, endured agony, and answered with strikes that chipped away at her towering husk. His aura flared brighter with every drop of blood he spilled, defying reason and mortality. In that grim standoff, it seemed the world itself held its breath, waiting for a victor to emerge beneath the suffocating darkness.
Then came the dawn of the fourth day-pale sunlight piercing cracks in the blackened heavens, daring to shine upon this final hour. Jaune's muscles coiled as he found his opening, every fiber of his being electrified with purpose. The world seemed to slow, sound draining away until only the thunder of his heartbeat remained. His aura, that radiant gold and white blaze, surged into the blade until it shone brighter than the sun itself. High above the battlefield, he crouched low, knees bending, teeth clenched, his eyes cold and determined. There was no turning back.
In that suspended moment, images flashed through his mind-Ruby's gentle laugh, Pyrrha's proud smile, Ren and Nora's playful banter, the determined faces of Team RWBY, and countless friends who'd fallen so that he might stand here now. Each memory ignited another spark of power, fusing together into a single, unstoppable force.
With a battle cry that tore at the heavens, Jaune launched forward in a blur of brilliance. His feet slammed against the fractured earth, kicking up a burst of golden dust and sparks. He dashed straight towards Salem's monstrous form, leaving cascading afterimages in his wake-phantom silhouettes of every friend who bolstered his will. His blade swung back, gathering momentum, glowing lines of raw aura spiraling around its edge like streaming comet tails.
Salem roared, her colossal maw splitting in a fury of darkness and hatred, but she was too slow. Jaune's sword, now an extension of every soul he carried, came down in a single, breathtaking arc. In that split second, the wind howled and the air crackled as if torn by lightning. Strips of darkness peeled away from Salem's hide as the blade carved through her essence, and golden arcs of energy erupted across the valley, painting the ruins in shimmering light.
The strike landed with a thunderclap. For an instant, no sound followed-just a flash of radiance, a burst of impossible brightness. Then the shockwave rolled out, rattling distant peaks, scattering the ash-choked clouds, and sweeping the battlefield clean. Salem's horrific form shuddered, her cruel eyes widening in disbelief before the impact tore through her core. It was as if the universe itself held its breath, acknowledging this one perfect swing that transcended mortal limits.
As Jaune's blade completed its deadly arc, he skidded to a halt, boots scraping the charred ground. He stood in silence, his sword still raised, aura crackling faintly around him. Behind him, Salem's darkness fractured into shards of fading shadow, each piece drifting skyward, swallowed by the newborn sunlight. Her final scream was a distant echo, lost in the soft hush that followed.
When the light finally settled, Jaune remained poised, sword gleaming, breath heaving. He had done it-executed a finishing blow so absolute it felt written in the stars.
The Grimm vanished, their existence snuffed out with Salem's demise. The valley went silent, save for the quiet whisper of the wind. The darkness that had smothered Remnant lifted, and sunlight bathed the land in its gentle warmth. Humanity had survived.
Yet as victory embraced the world, Jaune fell to his knees, sword trembling in his grip. His body would not stand any longer. He had given everything-his strength, his future, and most precious of all, the life he had forged through ten years of ceaseless struggle. He saw Ruby's face in the sunlight, a gentle smile that welcomed him to peace.
"It's done," he whispered, voice quavering yet content. He placed a trembling hand on the hilt of his sword, now half-buried in scorched earth. "We won..."
His eyes fluttered closed. In that final instant, as the world began to heal, Jaune Arc hope to join his fallen comrades-to be reunited at last with his wife, Ruby Rose-and his spirit faded into the warm, endless light.