The soft whirr of aging fans stirred the air in Beacon Academy's staff office, their steady hum a quiet constant in the stillness of the night. Lamplight spilled in golden pools across polished wood desks, warming the scattered files and forgotten cups of cold tea. Beyond the tall windows, moonlight washed over the academy's spires—serene, unmoving, and in stark contrast to the storm that gathered on the distant horizon. Tomorrow would mark the beginning of initiation, a crucible that would test every student's resolve. The professors knew it well.
Inside, the staff remained awake. Each was immersed in their own work, yet united by the same unspoken tension that always preceded a new school year.
Ozpin stood at the window, his posture composed, both hands wrapped around a mug of steaming coffee. The heat in his palms contrasted with the chill that lingered in the room. He sipped slowly, eyes fixed on the horizon—not on what was, but what would be. The students arriving in the morning, the trials they'd face, the futures they'd carve. His gaze narrowed, as if the stars might offer answers the world would not.
A soft clink broke the silence. Bartholomew Oobleck set down a fresh pot of coffee on a side table, adjusting his glasses with a practiced flick. "You'll burn out your caffeine tolerance before the semester even starts, Ozpin," he said, voice quick and bright despite the hour.
Ozpin didn't turn, but the corner of his mouth lifted. "A professional hazard, I'm afraid."
Oobleck chuckled, pouring himself a cup. "Well, if you collapse mid-lecture, I'll gladly take over. At double the speed, of course."
A booming laugh filled the room, deep and hearty. Professor Peter Port's mirth echoed off the walls as he snapped shut a thick file and waved it in the air.
"Another applicant claiming to have bested a Beowolf with nothing but a spoon and sheer spirit!" he declared, his grin wide beneath his bushy mustache. "Ah, the audacity of youth. Reminds me of my first year, when I—"
"Please don't finish that sentence," Glynda Goodwitch cut in sharply, her tone like a drawn blade. She sat upright at her desk, tapping briskly at her scroll, glasses low on her nose. Her expression remained unreadable, but the practiced interruption said enough. "I'm sure it was just as ridiculous, Port, but the students don't need another rendition of your... creative exploits."
Port blinked, briefly stunned, then broke into another chuckle. "Come now, Glynda. Surely even you can admire a little youthful bravado! These kids have guts. That's worth something."
Glynda exhaled, not quite sighing. A hint of a smile tugged at her lips, though she quickly masked it. "Guts are one thing. A spoon is another." She returned to her scroll, muttering, "They'd be better off using their brains than their flatware."
Oobleck leaned in, ever the opportunist. "Ah, but think of the historical ramifications, Glynda! A spoon as a weapon—revolutionary! It could redefine close-quarters combat as we know it!"
She shot him a withering look. "Or redefine idiocy."
Port clapped a massive hand onto Oobleck's shoulder, nearly knocking his glasses askew. "Let's not dismiss innovation so quickly! Why, I once fought a Nevermore with nothing but a—"
"If the next word is 'napkin,' I'm leaving," Glynda deadpanned.
At last, Ozpin turned from the window. His face betrayed little, but there was the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes. "I'd pay to see that, Peter."
Port puffed his chest. "Aha! Even the headmaster recognizes the artistry of improvisation!"
Glynda massaged her temple. "I need a drink."
Oobleck raised his cup. "Already on it!"
The soft clink of ceramic against the side table punctuated the moment as Oobleck resumed his usual flurry of activity. His scarf fluttered like a banner behind him as he rifled through pages with dizzying speed, muttering a steady stream of rapid-fire observations that filled the quiet office with his signature buzz of energy.
Glynda cast a glance his way, one brow arched. "I hope you're not expecting divine insight from those files," she said dryly, fingers tapping an idle rhythm against her desk.
"Far from it!" Oobleck replied, not missing a beat. "But—ah, here we go! This one... hmm, curious." He pointed at a profile, his voice rising with excitement. "Their background suggests heavy self-teaching. Resourceful, perhaps even brilliant. Possibly unorthodox."
"Unorthodox?" Glynda echoed, her lips twitching. "You mean reckless."
Oobleck grinned. "A fine line, yes—but often a fruitful one. Some may lack polish, but there's potential here. Raw, yes. Untamed. But the kind that can spark real growth."
Ozpin turned from the window, the warm glow of lamplight casting faint shadows across his face. He took a slow sip of his coffee before speaking. "Unpredictability can be dangerous," he said, his voice thoughtful, "but also powerful. If guided properly."
Port, reclining in his chair with one leg crossed and arms folded, chuckled. "And that's where we come in, eh? Shaping all that chaos into something useful. I don't expect 'em to show up ready-made heroes. Just ready to learn."
Ozpin nodded slightly. "What matters isn't whether they arrive polished—but whether they're willing to face the grindstone."
Oobleck tapped his marker thoughtfully against his desk. "Still... this batch feels different. Unpredictable, yes—but volatile in a way that might rewrite what we consider the 'standard.' They won't just surprise us—they may change the game."
Glynda leaned back slightly, her gaze distant. "Initiation isn't gentle. If they're not ready, they'll learn that the hard way. And after the surprise wears off... that's when the real test begins."
A moment of quiet settled in, the low hum of the fan filling the space once more. Outside, the wind had picked up—an audible reminder of the storm closing in.
"Surprise," Port echoed with a grin. "That's half the fun, isn't it? But Glynda's right. The aftermath is where the true test lies."
Ozpin set down his mug with a soft thud. "Initiation is only the first threshold. What follows will shape them far more. The ones who adapt—the ones who endure—those are the ones who will matter most."
Port leaned forward, his tone now contemplative. "Think we've got any that could skip ahead? Jump straight to the serious business?"
"Not likely," Ozpin said, his voice even. "But I believe they'll surprise us—not with polish, but with heart. That's harder to measure... and more important in the end."
Glynda stood, walking to the window as she folded her arms. The moonlight spilled across her sharp silhouette. "I just hope they know what they're stepping into."
From behind his files, Oobleck looked up, eyes alight. "Oh, they'll know. Once they're in the thick of it, there's no mistaking the weight of it. That's the essence of Beacon—we test, we push, we challenge."
Port leaned back, voice shifting into his usual mock-gravitas. "And if they want a real test, they can always try to keep up with my class."
That earned a round of quiet chuckles. Even Glynda gave a short, reluctant laugh, shaking her head. "You'd have them running laps while listening to your stories before they even held a weapon."
"Exactly!" Port declared, puffing out his chest. "Physical readiness is the cornerstone of survival! And who better to whip them into shape than a seasoned warrior such as myself?"
"They'll have every opportunity to prove themselves," Oobleck said, eyes scanning the last of his stack. "Initiation Isn't just a test—it's a threshold. We'll see who steps through."
Glynda checked the clock and gave a pointed look to the others. "Then let's be ready for them. Preparation doesn't begin on the battlefield. It begins here—with us."
There was a brief silence as the professors considered her words. The tension of the coming day was palpable, but beneath it ran a shared current of anticipation.
"I still can't believe you're letting them sleep in the hall," Port said, reclining with arms crossed and chest puffed like a proud relic. "Back in my day, we'd have spent the night in the woods, hunted a pack of Grimm before sunrise, then slept under the stars—"
"—because the dorms hadn't been renovated yet," Glynda finished dryly.
Port laughed, undeterred. "Ah, but there's a certain character to it, you know."
"If you call that character," she muttered, though a ghost of a smile tugged at her lips.
"They won't need the woods tonight," Oobleck interjected, eyes still scanning his files. "But the experience will come. The challenges are set, and soon enough, we'll see who rises to meet them."
"Or who flounders," Glynda added with a knowing glance. "That's the nature of initiation."
"Indeed," Ozpin murmured, still gazing out the window. "It's always the unexpected that shapes them."
Port leaned forward with a grin. "You can't forge real Huntsmen in comfort. Let them sleep on marble and tile—they'll appreciate a real bed once they've earned it."
"And here I thought you'd suggest blindfolding them and tossing them from an airship," Glynda said flatly.
"That was my second suggestion," he replied with a wink.
Oobleck looked up, suddenly intrigued. "Actually... a randomized drop sequence could be viable! Freefall conditions as an early stress test—imagine the data!"
"No," Glynda and Ozpin said in unison.
"But—"
"No," Glynda repeated, firmer this time.
Oobleck sighed and returned to his notes, mumbling about wasted opportunities.
Port chuckled. "At least we've moved past catapults. Remember that one year?"
Glynda pinched the bridge of her nose. "Don't remind me. We nearly launched a student into the tree line."
Ozpin stirred his coffee calmly. "And yet, he scored impressively in survival."
"Sheer luck," Glynda muttered. Then, softer, "And a broken ankle."
Oobleck perked up again. "Still, improvisation is the soul of a Huntsman. They must adapt, react, survive—"
"Preferably without needing splints," Glynda shot back.
Port leaned in, voice lower. "I have a good feeling about this group. Something tells me we'll be talking about them for years."
"You say that every year," Glynda said, arching a brow.
"And one year, I'll be right," Port replied, grinning.
Ozpin remained silent, eyes on the shifting trees beyond the glass. A shadow crossed his face, unreadable.
"...What is it?" Glynda asked quietly.
He blinked, as if returning from a distant place. "Nothing. Just wondering how far some of them are willing to go."
The room fell briefly still. Even Oobleck's fingers paused mid-tap. Port's smile faded, just slightly.
"We'll find out tomorrow," Glynda said, bringing the moment gently back to focus. "Initiation always tells."
Port stretched and chuckled. "Let's just hope they bring more than a spoon and some spirit to the table."
The professors exchanged glances—quiet, thoughtful, resolved. The soft hum of the fan resumed its rhythm, steady as a heartbeat. Outside, the wind stirred the trees, a whisper of the trials to come.
Ozpin said nothing more, only sipped his coffee in silence.
"Thankfully, the new launch pads have been upgraded for this year's initiation," Oobleck said, his eyes gleaming behind his glasses.
Port let out a hearty chuckle. "Upgraded, he says! As if last year's didn't launch half the first-years straight into the tree line!"
"They launch, Peter," Glynda said sharply, not bothering to look up. "launch pads were supposed to do that."
Ozpin, serene as always, took a sip of coffee. "Safety is paramount. Still, there's a delicate balance between 'challenge' and outright bodily harm."
Oobleck waved a hand dismissively, as though brushing away any concerns. His eyes were wide, and his excitement practically vibrated off of him. "Oh, come now!" he exclaimed, his voice bouncing with energy. He leaned slightly forward, one hand still gesturing expansively. "Everything's been calibrated to perfection—reinforced steel, shock-absorbing mesh, automated trajectory correction." He paused, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm as if showcasing a prized invention. "They're practically masterpieces!"
Port leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he gave a skeptical grunt. His gaze flicked from Oobleck to the others, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. "And if that perfection fails?" he asked, his tone dripping with mock seriousness. "I'd rather not relive the Squirrel Incident."
At that, Glynda's lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile appearing. "They survived. Barely," she murmured, her tone flat, but there was a glint of something else—perhaps a memory of the chaos.
Ozpin, sitting calmly as ever, offered a faint smile that barely touched his lips. "Nature is surprisingly resilient," he said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of experience.
Oobleck, clearly delighted, leaned in even closer. "And so is Archimedes," he added proudly, the words tumbling out quickly. "My guinea pig endured at least five successful launches." He gave a small nod, as if reaffirming Archimedes' honor.
Port blinked, clearly taken aback. "Your guinea pig?" he asked, his voice full of disbelief, his eyebrows raised high.
Oobleck didn't miss a beat. "My research assistant," he clarified with a serious nod, hands clasped in front of him as though speaking of a respected colleague. "A creature of remarkable fortitude."
Glynda's fingers tapped against her desk, a clear sign of her growing impatience. She shot Oobleck an unimpressed look. "Next time," she said, her voice dry, "no animal trials." Her gaze was unyielding.
Ozpin, ever the voice of reason, glanced at Oobleck with a knowing look. "Agreed," he said simply, before turning his attention to the next page in the file. "Simulations suffice."
"Oh, certainly, certainly," Oobleck responded, already distracted by the next line of thought. His fingers flicked through the papers with speed. "Still, the data is promising. These new models can withstand triple the launch pressure." His voice grew more animated, as if caught up in his own excitement again.
Port groaned theatrically, shaking his head. "And quadruple the student screaming," he muttered, leaning back as though already anticipating the chaos to come.
Glynda smirked, clearly entertained by the exchange. "Your data on screaming is... anecdotal," she remarked, her tone mocking, though there was a hint of amusement in her eyes.
Oobleck grinned, as though he were proud of his "scientific" approach. "Anecdotal and fascinating!" he declared with a mischievous glint in his eyes, his hands coming together in a self-satisfied clap.
Ozpin, clearly done with the subject, set his coffee mug down with a soft clink. His gaze flicked to the others, before he sighed. "Let's change the subject before we end up revisiting the catapult era."
Port chuckled at that, a low sound that rumbled from deep within his chest. "Speak for yourself, old friend," he said with a wide grin. "I thrive on chaos."
Glynda rolled her eyes but allowed a rare, dry smile to creep onto her face. "You thrive on port wine and breakfast meats," she shot back, her voice full of mock exasperation.
Port gave a mock bow, sweeping one arm out. "And yet, still alive," he replied, winking at her before straightening up again.
Oobleck's eyes brightened at the shift in conversation, clearly thinking of something else to add. "Speaking of nourishment," he said, practically bouncing in his seat, "should we provide snacks at the launch site? Perhaps refreshments?"
Ozpin raised an eyebrow, his gaze steady but questioning. "Wouldn't that disrupt their focus?" he asked, a touch of concern threading his calm tone.
Glynda's eyes narrowed slightly as she considered the idea. "If you bring pastries," she muttered, almost reluctantly, "I'll allow it." She gave him a pointed look, one that spoke volumes. "But no sticky fingers on the control panel."
Port, always quick to seize on any opportunity, clapped his hands once. "Pastries it is! I know a place in Vale—" He started, already thinking about his next move.
Ozpin raised a hand to quiet him. "Later," he said with a subtle shake of his head, his voice firm but not unkind. "We've profiles to review."
Oobleck, ever eager to jump into the next thing, flipped through the papers in front of him with a flutter of motion. "Ah, yes, profiles! Now where was—ah!" He stopped, his eyes lighting up. "The one from Mistral. Have you seen her file?"
Glynda shook her head, pushing her own stack of papers aside. "Not yet. Start with that," she said, her voice calm but with an underlying interest.
Oobleck grinned widely, clearly excited by what he'd found. "She's got flair," he said, practically bouncing in his seat. "A kind of theatrical grace."
Port let out a short, skeptical sound. "Flair doesn't make a Huntsman," he grunted, his arms crossing as he leaned back again.
Glynda's voice was quiet, almost conspiratorial. "Unless it blinds the enemy," she muttered, her lips twitching upward at the edges.
Ozpin, never one to miss an opportunity to inject reason into the discussion, nodded faintly. "Or stuns them long enough to run," he said with a hint of a smile, his tone measured.
Oobleck, clearly enjoying the direction the conversation was taking, clapped his hands together with enthusiasm. "I, for one, appreciate a good flourish," he said cheerfully, his eyes sparkling with a contagious energy. "It's all part of the spectacle."
Port snorted, not bothering to hide his amusement. "We're training Huntsmen, not circus performers," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Glynda gave a rare chuckle, the sound soft and almost uncharacteristic. "Better a circus than a daycare," she quipped, her eyes glinting with mischief.
Oobleck's head popped up at that, an almost hopeful expression crossing his face. "Or a slumber party," he offered, clearly thinking it a grand idea.
Port threw his head back and laughed. "Let them sleep through the launch pads, then," he said, the idea of chaos amusing him greatly.
Glynda smirked, her expression sly. "Oh, we'll wake them," she said, her voice cold but amused. "Dawn is a wonderful motivator."
Ozpin, glancing at the clock on the wall, raised an eyebrow. "Not so cruel," he mused, "with coffee."
Oobleck's face brightened at that. "Precisely!" he beamed, his energy returning full force.
Port stood, stretching as he pushed his chair back. "Well, then," he said, his voice lighter. "Let's begin."
Glynda, already gathering her papers, gave a nod. "Only if we're moving past the pastry debate."
Oobleck, ever the showman, raised a hand dramatically, a gleam in his eye. "Onward!" he cried, his voice grand. "To the files of destiny!"
A hush fell over the room, punctuated only by the rustling of folders. Glynda set aside her scroll and reached for a thick manila file that had worked its way to the top. A yellow tab stuck out—unmistakable, almost like a quiet invitation.
She flipped it open with a practiced motion, her eyes scanning the clean text.
Her brow rose.
"Cala Ad Lance," she read aloud, her voice cutting through the quiet. "Hm. Not a name I recognize."
Ozpin stepped forward. His footsteps light on the floor. He moved beside Glynda, peering over her shoulder at the folder. His fingers lightly brushed the edge of the file as he spoke in a calm tone, "Let me see."
He took a final sip of coffee. Slowly, he set the mug down. The soft clink echoed in the quiet room.
Port, folding his arms, shifted his weight and leaned in. He looked from the folder to the others. His lips curled into a grin. "What have we here, then?" he asked, a slight chuckle escaping his throat.
Glynda, holding the folder with precision, tilted it toward him. Her fingers brushed over the edges, and she adjusted her glasses. She leaned in slightly, focusing on the file. "Specializes in heavy lance and shield combat..." she started, her voice measured, deliberate.
She paused, eyes scanning the paper. Then, she continued. "Weapon shifts into a cannon module—quite unconventional." Her gaze lingered on the photo, her lips tight as she considered the details.
Oobleck's eyes widened, his excitement practically radiating from him. He leaned forward, his hands hovering just above the folder. "Modular weaponry is a hot topic right now," he said quickly, bouncing on his feet. "But a lance and shield combo?" His voice trailed off as he shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "That's a throwback to ancient cavalry!" He paused for effect, his eyes gleaming. "You rarely see anyone in full medieval armor these days—except maybe the Arcs."
Ozpin gave a slow nod, his gaze never leaving the folder as he turned the page with care. His fingers lingered on the corner, his movements deliberate. "She's encased in full armor," he remarked, his voice calm. He glanced at the photo again, then added, "That's a rare sight these days, especially with modern emphasis on mobility."
Port chuckled softly, leaning back slightly. He stretched, his arms still crossed, a smirk forming. "She must be built like a tank—literally." He raised an eyebrow. "Or at least, she hopes to be."
Glynda raised a brow in response, lips curling into a thin smirk. She tilted her head, her fingers tracing the folder. "Well, perhaps it's because her semblance is Tank Endurance," she said, voice almost conspiratorial. She paused, letting the words sit. "She can absorb tremendous amounts of damage."
Oobleck flicked through his stack of papers, almost in a frenzy. His hands were fast, too fast to catch every detail. "That could balance her lack of speed," he muttered, barely pausing before continuing. "But I wonder—how does she handle coordination drills?" His eyes darted across the papers. He didn't wait for an answer, already lost in his thoughts.
Ozpin turned another page, taking a moment before responding. "Below average there, it seems," he said, his voice quiet, almost contemplative. "High strength, low agility."
Port scratched his chin slowly, eyes narrowing in thought. "So, she's a powerhouse who can't dance."
Glynda let out a breath, shaking her head slightly. "Not dancing—surviving," she said, the words slow and steady, as if letting the gravity of the statement sink in.
Oobleck paused, marker hovering in mid-air as he considered. "Her academic scores are top-tier, though." He finally spoke, a small grin appearing on his face. "She's intelligent."
Ozpin folded his hands in front of him, his tone steady. "Intellect and resilience." He let the words hang for a moment, the silence filling the room. "A formidable combination."
Port grinned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Or a recipe for bulldozing her teammates," he said, his voice light, teasing.
Ozpin's gaze lingered on the photo, his lips pressing into a faint smile. "Her expression is calm," he said, eyes flicking over the image. "Unflappable."
Port leaned back, crossing his arms. "Good trait. No panicking when a Nevermore swoops in." He chuckled softly at the thought.
Glynda slowly closed the folder, her fingers gently sliding across the paper. She looked up at the others. "She'll face surprises tomorrow," she said, her tone sharp, yet tinged with curiosity.
Oobleck beamed, his enthusiasm never waning. "I can't wait to see those pads put to the test." He practically bounced in place, his hands rubbing together.
Ozpin picked up his coffee mug again, his fingers curling around the handle. He sipped once more. "We'll learn much in a few short hours," he said quietly, setting the mug down with care.
Port stood, stretching his arms wide. "Well," he said, letting out a long breath, "to the waiting students, then." He cracked his knuckles. "May they be as interesting in action as they are on paper."
Glynda gathered her papers, stacking them neatly. She paused, eyes glinting. "Let's hope 'interesting' doesn't mean catastrophic," she said, her tone dry.
Oobleck, ever the optimist, gave a dramatic bow. "Catastrophe is just opportunity in disguise!" he declared, his arms flaring wide, as though presenting the idea to an invisible audience.
Ozpin flipped through the remaining pages of the file with a calm, deliberate motion, his eyes briefly resting on the photo attached to the profile. He paused, studying it for a moment longer. Cala's expression was neutral, unreadable. Her orange hair, wind-tousled, framed her face as she stood, a heavy lance resting casually across her shoulder. Her brown eyes were steady, unwavering—like stone.
Port leaned forward, his fingers tapping a rhythmic beat on the desk. "As for what we've seen in the notes," he said, voice laced with amusement, "she's no team player." He raised an eyebrow, a wry grin tugging at his lips. "Sounds like the type to charge in and leave everyone else scrambling to catch up."
Glynda's lips pressed into a tight line, her gaze sharp. "A team requires cohesion," she said, her tone firm. "It's not enough to be strong if you can't work together."
Oobleck's marker tapped the desk, his mind racing. "Yet sometimes the best leaders lead by action, not words," he said, eyes bright with excitement. He leaned in, practically bouncing in his chair. "She might rally others simply by charging ahead."
Ozpin's gaze never wavered from the photo, the quiet hum of the room surrounding them. "Action is admirable," he said, voice steady. He finally turned his attention to the others. "But heedless action can end badly."
Port chuckled, shaking his head. "Heedless? With full armor and a cannon-lance combo—'heedless' is practically her middle name!"
Glynda sighed, shaking her head. "I'd prefer 'strategic,'" she said, tapping her fingers against the desk as if to emphasize her point.
Oobleck waved his hand dismissively, a gleam of enthusiasm still in his eyes. "Semantics! The point is, she's unorthodox—and that's exciting."
Ozpin finally looked up, his expression thoughtful. "Unorthodox can yield both breakthroughs and disasters," he said, his tone more somber. "We must guide her."
Port drummed his knuckles against the desk again, leaning back in his chair. "I say we pair her with someone adaptable," he said, his voice low, as if contemplating the best strategy. "Someone who can keep pace and cover her flanks."
Glynda nodded slowly, her mind already moving ahead. "Yes," she said, her voice measured. "A liaison who can draw her out of her shell."
Glynda allowed a small smile, the faintest trace of amusement in her eyes. "Let's hope the music plays well tomorrow," she said, her voice soft but firm.
Ozpin picked up his mug with a slow, deliberate motion. "Tomorrow," he said, his voice steady, "we'll see the first notes."
Just as Ozpin's hand left Cala's file, another caught Oobleck's eye. It sat off to the side, slightly out of place—its edges worn, corners curled, like it had been thumbed through more than once. Perhaps even more than twice. His eyes narrowed as he reached for it, his long, nimble fingers plucking it up with practiced ease. The motion was fluid, almost automatic, as if his hands had done this a thousand times before. He adjusted his glasses with a small huff of breath, settling them higher on his nose.
"Oho... now this one is curious," Oobleck muttered, his voice quickening with interest. He flipped the folder open, the pages making a light fwip-fwip under his fingers as he scanned the contents. "Name: simply 'Doppel.' No last name listed. Orphan. Transferee. Multiple schools. Multiple—" His voice trailed off as he skimmed further. "Expulsions."
There was a beat of silence. Port leaned forward, eyes narrowing, his body stiffening. "That's the girl from the vent, isn't it?" He spoke slowly, his tone thoughtful. "I swear I heard something crawling through the ceiling earlier. Thought it was mice."
Glynda snorted sharply, barely looking up from her scroll. Her lips quirked in amusement, a flicker of impatience in her expression. "That was not a mouse," she said dryly, tapping her pen lightly on her desk.
Port grunted, crossing his arms with a deep sigh. "I wasn't going to check," he muttered, shaking his head as if to emphasize the absurdity of the situation. "Didn't want to lose a finger."
Ozpin wordlessly took the file from Oobleck's hands. The motion was smooth, fluid, almost too practiced, like he'd done it countless times. His eyes skimmed over the information with deliberate precision, scanning each page quickly but carefully. His brows furrowed slightly as he absorbed the details.
"Doppel," he echoed, his voice quiet but serious. His fingers lingered on the page. "Semblance: Full Mimicry. Copies the fighting style and semblance of any individual she interacts with. Retains the data... almost like she builds a library." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed the implications. "It's... an interesting concept."
"That's incredibly rare," Oobleck added, leaning in with newfound curiosity, adjusting his glasses again. "I've only seen semblances like that recorded a handful of times. They're usually unstable," he said, voice growing more intense. "Potentially... volatile." He looked up, his expression turning more serious. "If she copies the wrong person—"
Ozpin's gaze remained steady, a hint of concern crossing his features. "—she could become unstoppable," he finished quietly, his voice trailing off as if considering the full weight of the possibility.
There was a pause before Glynda spoke, her tone cold but sharp. "Or an absolute nuisance," she interjected, rising from her seat to peer over Ozpin's shoulder. Her eyes traced the lines on the page as she observed the potential dangers of such a power.
Port, still deep in thought, scratched his chin thoughtfully. "If she can copy anyone... how do you even control something like that? Sounds like an accident waiting to happen." He exhaled deeply, shaking his head with a sigh. "Not something I'd want to deal with in the field."
Glynda's lips curled in a tight smile. "That's why we have to ensure she's placed with the right team," she said, her voice firm. "Someone who can mitigate the risk, control the chaos."
Ozpin nodded slowly, closing the file with a soft thud. "Indeed. Her potential is immense. But so is the danger," he muttered, his voice low and contemplative. "We'll need to be cautious."
Oobleck was already flipping through more files, his energy undeterred. "We'll need to track her interactions," he said, his eyes scanning the papers quickly. "The longer she stays around different people, the more... unpredictable she becomes."
Port leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. "So, we're talking about a ticking time bomb?" He laughed softly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Great."
Glynda tapped her pen against her scroll, thinking for a moment. "Let's not assume the worst just yet," she said calmly. "But we'll need to keep a close eye on her."
Oobleck smiled with a hint of excitement. "This is going to be... fascinating." He said it with such enthusiasm that it sounded almost like a challenge.
Just as Ozpin finished scanning Doppel's file, Glynda squinted down at the next set of notes in her hand. She glanced over the paper, noting the shift in focus, and then began to read aloud, her voice cool and measured. "Let's see... petty crimes, shoplifting, impersonation, sleeping in random vents, excessive pranks..." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "A suspicious amount of stolen fish."
Port, sitting back with his arms crossed, offered an almost knowing grin. "She's a cat faunus," he said with a chuckle, stroking his mustache. "Explains the ceiling activity. And the fish."
Glynda's lips twitched into a dry smile as she let out a soft sigh. "Oh, that explains the vents," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Of course."
There was a brief silence before Oobleck, eyes still glued to the page, murmured, "There's a note here... she's older than most of the incoming class. Likely started out in the same generation as Team CFVY, if not for all the... interruptions." His voice trailed off as his eyes scanned further, curiosity piquing in every syllable.
Glynda raised a single, skeptical eyebrow as she reached for the file again. Her fingers paused, sensing an uneven weight to the folder—something tucked behind the usual paperwork. With a faint frown, she flipped it open further and extracted a second bundle: thinner, loosely bound with a faded elastic band, its pages cat-eared and smudged with fingerprints and the ghost of ink long rubbed dry.
"Poor girl's academic record reads more like a travel log than a transcript," she remarked, voice dry as parchment. Her eyes scanned the headers, each line seemingly more chaotic than the last. "At least six different schools. Only two full semesters completed in total."
She laid them across the desk with a crisp flutter, the sound stark against the hum of quiet tension in the office.
"Her academic record reads more like a travel log than a transcript," she remarked, dry as dust, her eyes darting across each header with increasing disbelief. "Six different schools. Only two full semesters completed in total."
She picked up the first report and read aloud with a flat tone.
"Atlas Preparatory: Expelled." A pause. "Incident report—impersonated the headmistress to cancel exams. Successfully fooled the staff... until she signed the memo, quote, 'Peace out, nerds.'"
Port chuckled, his eyes twinkling as he leaned back in his chair. "Well, at least she left them with a message. Can't say she lacks flair."
Glynda rolled her eyes and moved on to the next.
"Shade Academy, Vacuo: Suspension. Used her Semblance to mimic a rival student during a sparring exam. Confused the grading committee so badly that both students were disqualified."
"Effective," Oobleck murmured, adjusting his glasses with interest, "if not exactly... educational."
"Signal Academy, Vale," Glynda continued with a faint edge of irritation. "Expelled. Caught sneaking into the dorms disguised as an instructor to steal test answers." She paused, squinting. "Apparently forgot to fake the instructor's limp. Blew her cover immediately."
Port leaned in with a grin. "Details, Glynda. The devil's in the details."
She ignored him and continued reading, flipping to the next page briskly.
"Lionheart Learning Annex, Mistral. Expelled. Led a prank uprising involving fluorescent pink spray-paint across the school motto—'Honor and Diligence'—on the principal's car." Glynda blinked, expression flat. "Also replaced the school bell with a... recording of meowing."
Oobleck gave an appreciative hum. "Inventive. I assume the prank included surround sound?"
Glynda didn't respond. She was already onto the next.
"Argus Combat Institute: Left voluntarily. Apparently, she repeatedly slept in the school's ventilation systems. Claimed vents were, quote, 'just horizontal trees.'" She glanced at the bottom note. "Three staff injuries due to slipping on fish near vent exits."
Ozpin paused with his cup of coffee midway to his lips. "Fish?"
"Fish," Glynda confirmed, tone flat as stone. "Scattered like breadcrumbs."
Port gave a low whistle. "That girl's committed to a theme."
Glynda's fingers flipped to the next report almost irritably.
"Glassvale Academy: Expelled. Turned a routine fire drill into an elaborate hide-and-seek game using Full Mimicry. School went into lockdown for six hours under the assumption of an infiltrator on campus."
Port barked a laugh. "Now that's some commitment."
"She's lucky no one got arrested," Glynda muttered.
She flipped to the last major file and narrowed her eyes.
"Saffron Regional Boarding School: Suspension. Staged a fake food fight between students using mimicry. Blamed it all on the janitor. Minimal property damage, except..." Her brow furrowed. "...for a mashed potato sculpture of the headmaster left on his desk."
Oobleck gave a slow, impressed nod. "She has a flair for the theatrical."
"She has a flair for disaster," Glynda snapped, gathering a handful of handwritten margin notes from the disciplinary committees. She waved the pages in the air, exasperated. "These aren't even formal reports—they're side comments."
She cleared her throat and began to read.
"Unauthorized entry to the staff lounge disguised as the janitor."
"Replaced morning announcements with dramatic voiceovers—one involving a sword duel."
"Served 'experimental seafood stew' to students while posing as the lunch lady."
"Escaped detention through the ceiling vents. More than once."
"Copied another student's semblance mid-duel... and proceeded to defeat the instructor."
"Stole the principal's scroll and used it to prank call council members."
"Impersonated a guest pianist at a formal recital. Played flawlessly—until her tail knocked over half the keyboard."
Port was wiping tears from his eyes now, laughing too hard to speak.
Glynda glared at him. "There's more."
She snapped the final page straight, reading with a tone of disbelief.
"Filed a fake transfer application to the White Fang—just to 'see what would happen.' Attempted to mimic herself in the mirror and claimed she'd created a twin. And... mailed herself to another school in a crate marked 'URGENT: Mystery Fish.'"
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then Oobleck slowly flipped over one of the photos clipped to the file. It showed a short, black-haired girl grinning ear to ear, covered in band-aids, flashing a peace sign in front of a chalkboard. The chalk message read: I regret nothing.
Oobleck tilted the photo toward the others and offered mildly, "At least she's honest."
Glynda pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly. "This girl is either a menace or a genius."
Port, shoulders still shaking with laughter, managed to wheeze, "Or both."
Ozpin, who had been quietly absorbing the details, spoke up softly, his tone almost reflective. "But she keeps coming back," he said, voice barely above a murmur. "Despite the instability. Despite the setbacks. She's persistent."
Glynda shifted her gaze, a flicker of frustration in her eyes. "She's trouble," she corrected firmly, her voice sharp.
Port, however, shook his head, his grin widening. "She's resourceful," he countered, clearly more intrigued than worried. "And clever. A bit of chaos does wonders for shaking up complacency."
Ozpin leaned back, closing the file with deliberate care. His fingers drummed once on the cover before he gently set it down beside Cala's file. The weight of the moment settled over him as he stared at the two folders before speaking, his voice thoughtful.
"So," he began, his eyes flicking between the papers, "A mimic thief who sleeps in vents, and a lone tank who doesn't talk to anyone."
He glanced out the tall windows, the moonlight casting a soft glow on his face. There was a deep, quiet understanding in his words as he added, "They may not know it yet, but they'll change the rhythm here."
Port let out a low chuckle, reclining in his chair with a relaxed air. "They always do. Every year, someone shifts the balance."
Glynda shifted her attention between the two men, her face neutral, though a hint of skepticism lingered. "We'll see what they make of each other tomorrow," she said, her voice carrying a touch of warning. "If they make it through the forest without killing each other."
A sudden, faint snoring echoed from somewhere above, threading through the air vents. It was far too loud to be anything small or subtle, and the sound seemed to reverberate, almost mocking in its volume.
All eyes briefly turned upward, the noise unmistakable.
Oobleck's ear twitched as he raised a brow, a grin playing at the corners of his lips. "Should we wake her?"
Ozpin, unmoved, took another slow sip from his coffee. "No," he said calmly, his voice even. "Let her rest. She'll need it."
They fell back into motion, each person absorbed in their work. Glynda pulled another file from the pile, her movements sharp and precise, flipping it open with a swift flick of her thumb. Port muttered something under his breath about the "dual-wielder trend" ruining the art of true marksmanship, shaking his head in mild frustration. Oobleck resumed his highlighting, his pen moving with renewed fervor, underlining points with energetic focus.
Ozpin, however, remained near the window, his gaze fixed on the sky. His focus was quiet, unreadable, as though the night itself had drawn his attention. Outside, the air seemed to hold its breath in the deepening dusk, the stars just beginning to pierce the velvety blackness above.
And the work continued.
Ozpin set aside the last folder with a soft sigh, his fingers brushing lightly across the file's edge, as though feeling the weight of the decisions within. A quiet acceptance lingered in the air, mingling with the flickering lamplight that bathed the office in pale hues. Some files were well-organized, others scattered with hasty notes and quick scribbles—evidence of a long, relentless search for the right choices. He reached forward, pulling another from the pile.
"Let's see what we have here," he muttered softly to himself, his fingers grazing the cover before he opened it with care.
Glynda adjusted her glasses and leaned in slightly, her eyes already scanning the file ahead. "Kumiko Xen," she read aloud, her voice crisp. "Mistral native. Rich daughter of the Xen clan. A prodigy, it seems."
Port glanced up from his own work, raising an eyebrow. "Xen clan? That name rings a bell. Old bloodline. Wealthy. Traditionalist to a fault." He leaned back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "But I heard they're not doing so well lately. Seems like they're losing ground, trying to adapt to all the modern changes. Aura, technology, new semblances... it's not the same anymore."
"True," Oobleck chimed in without looking up from his notes. "Their values clash with what's trending now. Their whole legacy is about old-school discipline, hard training. But the younger generations are all about flashy new gadgets and quick power-ups." He tapped his pen against the desk. "Mistral's evolving, and they're struggling to keep up."
Glynda gave a short nod, clearly agreeing. "It's not just a matter of tradition anymore. It's about keeping pace with the advancements in technology and combat strategies. Their adherence to the old ways isn't sustainable in the current environment."
She turned back to the file, continuing to read aloud, "This file is... remarkably tidy. Even the handwriting is meticulous."
Oobleck hummed thoughtfully. "Wouldn't surprise me if it was curated by the family themselves," he said. "Some clans like to prepare a student's record before the student even arrives. Gives them an edge in the eyes of institutions."
The profile on Kumiko was striking in its clarity. It painted her as fiercely proud of her heritage, holding tightly to the customs of old Mistral warriors. Her weapon of choice was a long spear—nothing modular, no mechanical flourishes. Just pure skill, discipline, and reach.
"Long spear," Port murmured, his voice taking on a nostalgic tone. "Elegant choice. Demands timing, reach, and control. Very few wield it well anymore. Most kids these days want flash and gimmicks."
"And yet she seems to excel with it," Glynda remarked, flipping to the next page of the file with a crisp motion. "Top scores in precision drills. Technique evaluations marked as 'flawless' by three different instructors." Her voice, though professional, carried the slightest edge of reluctant admiration.
Ozpin's brow lifted slightly. He hadn't turned from the window, but his eyes glanced back, registering the detail with quiet interest.
"She fights like she was born for it," Oobleck added, leaning in and tapping the margin of the page with one slender finger. "According to this, she's had formal training since she could walk. Clan tradition, no doubt. Spears before scrolls."
There was a brief pause—just long enough for the air to settle—before Glynda cut in again, voice cooler this time. "But she barely scrapes by in her academic evaluations."
She turned another page, the rustle of paper accenting her disapproval. "History, theory, Grimm studies... all underwhelming. Notes from instructors mention frequent napping in lectures and, I quote, 'groaning like a dying animal whenever assignments are mentioned.'"
Port gave a loud bark of laughter. "A groaner, eh? I've had a few of those in my day. One lad snored so loud in my tactics class I thought a Beowolf had slipped in!"
Oobleck exhaled through his nose in a half-laugh, but his expression remained thoughtful. "It sounds like someone who sees the classroom as an obstacle. A distraction from what really matters to her."
"Not uncommon," Glynda said coolly, tapping the corner of the folder with her fingernail. "But still problematic. You can't punch your way through an exam."
"Some certainly try," Port muttered.
A quiet moment passed. Then Glynda frowned slightly, leaning in once more.
"There's no mention of a semblance," she said, scanning back and forth across the page. "Nothing listed. Not even a speculative note."
Oobleck shook his head. "None recorded. Either it hasn't manifested, or she's keeping it deliberately hidden."
"With her background?" Port asked. "Wouldn't that be a mark of shame?"
"Actually, no," Oobleck replied. "The Xen clan has always emphasized mastery of self first. Some warriors in Mistral spend years training without relying on—or even attempting to unlock—their aura, let alone a semblance. To them, raw talent is unruly unless shaped by discipline."
"Still," Glynda said, brows narrowing slightly. "For a girl with that much combat potential, no semblance? It's unusual."
Ozpin, still near the window, finally turned. His tone was quiet, almost introspective.
"Uncommon, yes. But not unheard of. There have been Huntsmen who went their entire careers without unlocking one. It makes her combat record... remarkable, if true."
Port gave a low, appreciative whistle. "Holding her own without a semblance? That takes grit. Old-fashioned, stubborn grit."
"She's like a well-forged blade," Ozpin mused. "Sharp. Purpose-built. But a weapon alone can't win a war."
Glynda gave a small nod, voice firm again. "She may dominate a battlefield... but what of leadership? Team cohesion?"
"Or tactics," Oobleck added, adjusting his glasses. "You can't brute-force your way through every scenario. Especially not in a place like this."
Port chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. "She reminds me of an old student I had. Brilliant with a blade. But hand him a map and he'd end up back at the cafeteria."
Oobleck allowed a smile. "She may be here to prove something," he said thoughtfully. "To her clan... or perhaps to herself."
Ozpin's gaze darkened with the weight of foresight. "She may be used to standing alone. But Beacon is not a place for lone wolves. If she refuses to engage with the full breadth of her training—"
"She'll find herself outmatched," Glynda finished, tone clipped, decisive. "And the field will not forgive arrogance. Nor ignorance."
The room fell into silence, the air thick with expectation. The folder lay open between them, its pages rustling softly under the gentle hum of the ceiling fan. The lamplight caught on the inked headers and crisp typeface, casting faint shadows over Kumiko's meticulously written profile.
Glynda closed the file with a soft but deliberate click, the sound crisp in the quiet.
"I'll be keeping an eye on her," she said, adjusting her glasses. "She'll need to learn how to balance her skills—before the battlefield teaches her the hard way."
They moved on to the next file.
It stood out immediately—not for any formal label or classification, but because the handwriting on the front cover was unlike the others. Each letter was curved and swooping, an ornate calligraphy that looked less like something written by hand and more like something etched onto a family crest. The paper itself shimmered faintly in the lamplight, as though dusted with something pearlescent.
Glynda blinked once. "...Well, that's not standard."
Oobleck arched a brow as he reached forward, then recoiled slightly, sniffing the air. "Is that... rosewater?"
The folder practically exuded nobility. It had clearly been sealed with care, and if one wasn't mistaken, lightly perfumed. Even the cardstock was thicker, glossier, like it had been custom-ordered. A thin, gilded emblem marked the back cover—no doubt the seal of some prestigious lineage.
"A noble," Oobleck murmured, tone both amused and resigned. "A bit more... flamboyant than the others."
Ozpin took the file with a quiet hum of curiosity, lifting it with the kind of careful touch one might offer to a porcelain heirloom. He opened it, adjusted his glasses, and began to read aloud.
"Sese Lenya Ban Von Fitzgerald Livingstone Cunningham Dragoncrest Chatterton Abercrombie Duskhollow Frostbloom Belsonavenolairequintaple the X."
A pause followed. A long one.
Even the ceiling fan seemed to hesitate.
Ozpin looked up, eyes dry, as he took a slow breath. "That's... quite a name."
Port stared at him, jaw slack. "She got all that on the school ID?"
"I hope they gave her a second scroll just for her surname," Oobleck quipped.
"Belsona-what-now?" Port muttered, trying to parse the syllables in his head. "That last one sounded like a summoning spell."
Glynda exhaled through her nose and crossed her arms. "No wonder the ink smells expensive. It probably is."
"Wait, go back," Oobleck said, eyes gleaming with the beginnings of a smile. "Quintaple the X? As in, the tenth? Of five? That's not how numbers work!"
Port gave a low whistle, half-impressed. "That name's got more syllables than some Grimm species."
Ozpin turned another page with calm precision, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly. "If nothing else, it will be difficult for anyone to forget her."
"Or pronounce it," Glynda muttered.
"The real challenge," Oobleck added dryly, "will be fitting that onto a team roster. Imagine the announcer at the tournament."
"And entering the arena..." Port said in his best booming voice, "Sese Lenya Ban Von... oh forget it, we're calling her Sese."
Even Ozpin let out a soft chuckle at that.
The room settled again, the amused air giving way to curiosity as they began leafing through the contents—each page as polished and well-kept as a legal contract, complete with embossed initials and marbled paper stock.
"She certainly made an impression before even stepping into the classroom," Glynda said, flipping a glossy sheet.
"Yes," Ozpin murmured, scanning the text, "but let's see if the substance matches the presentation."
Port let out a bark of laughter. "Sounds like royalty and half the capital's estate rolled into one."
Oobleck smirked, scribbling a note. "Frankly, I'm surprised there isn't a title like 'Duchess of Velvet Tulle' attached to it."
"She probably has one," Glynda murmured. "They just didn't have room on the page."
Glynda's lips twitched, almost breaking into a smile, but she composed herself quickly. "Quite the lineage," she noted, folding her hands. "Atlas, I presume?"
Oobleck nodded without looking up. "Indeed. An Atlas noble—one of the oldest families, if I recall correctly. And her academic records certainly reflect the resources at her disposal. She's at the top of her class in all theoretical fields. Political science, business economics, historical analysis... even fashion design."
Ozpin turned a page and gave a soft hum. "She's also a published model. And it says here she owns a wine industry? In multiple kingdoms?"
Port blinked. "At seventeen? I couldn't even balance a checkbook at that age."
"She's got a head for numbers and a runway strut, apparently," Oobleck muttered.
"Imagine going to class and then reviewing vineyard exports by sunset," Glynda said flatly.
"Or posing for a billboard before submitting a Grimm theory paper," Port added.
"Who is this girl?" Oobleck exclaimed. "Is she secretly a councilwoman?"
Ozpin's eyes remained on the page, voice calm. "Her mother appears to have strong ties to Atlasian diplomacy. It wouldn't be surprising."
Port whistled low. "Next you'll tell me she leads a classical orchestra on weekends."
Glynda sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Because of course she does."
Port leaned forward, peering at the file with mild amusement. "We training Huntresses or hosting a gala?"
"All of them, apparently," Glynda muttered.
Oobleck chuckled. "If she ever gets bored of the battlefield, I'm sure the fashion elite will take her back with open arms."
Port tapped the glossy paper with a knuckle. "You can almost smell the perfume through the ink. Is this scented parchment?"
Glynda gave a weary sigh. "Yes. That would be lavender and something... overly floral."
Ozpin raised an eyebrow, flipping to the next page. "She even included embossed stationery in her application letter. That's a first."
"But...," Oobleck interrupted, pointing at a lower section of the page, "combat aptitude: satisfactory, but far from outstanding. She performs with grace, yes, but there's a distinct lack of... grit."
"Another one of those aristocratic types," Glynda added, rubbing her temple slightly. "All elegance and no grit."
Ozpin tilted his head, scanning the weapons description. "Interesting choice, though. A bow and musket, which shift into a rapid-fire crossbow rifle—Skyfire, she calls it. She favors precision over power, distance over aggression."
Oobleck leaned in, adjusting his glasses. "A versatile configuration. Traditional and modern, combined to one, fascinatingly unique, but... not particularly close-combat friendly."
"Likely by design," Glynda noted. "Someone like her prefers not to be touched."
"Sounds like a markswoman through and through," Port commented. "And her semblance?"
"'Hunter's Mark,'" Ozpin answered. "Once she marks a target, her projectiles automatically track them. Arrows, bullets, even thrown objects. As long as she maintains line of sight, the mark stays active."
Oobleck blinked, impressed. "Now that's a semblance with serious potential."
Port let out a low whistle. "That could change the tide of a standoff if used smartly. No place to hide if she's watching."
"She could hold an entire battlefield at range," Oobleck added, "provided her team keeps her protected."
"Assuming she can keep her attention on the battlefield," Glynda said, flipping through the attached notes. "She tends to... drift. Many of her teachers noted she's easily distracted unless the subject directly relates to her own interests."
Port gave a knowing smile. "A classic dilettante. Dabbles in everything, commits to little."
"But what she does commit to," Oobleck added thoughtfully, "she excels in."
Ozpin quietly lifted the attached student photo—a young woman with golden blonde hair cascading in soft waves, her blue eyes bright, almost crystalline. She wore a poised smile, equal parts practiced charm and earned pride. A picture of nobility, without question.
"She looks like she's used to being the center of every room," Glynda observed. "That might be a problem."
"Or it might be an advantage," Ozpin said, his voice low. "Confidence can be contagious. But if she lets it cloud her judgment..."
Port stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "With that kind of poise, she'll either command a team—or completely alienate them."
"She could be a natural face for diplomacy," Oobleck added. "If she ever learns when not to speak."
Glynda narrowed her eyes slightly. "Let's hope she learns humility before the battlefield teaches it to her the hard way."
"She'll do well if she can focus her energy. But that's a big if," Ozpin added, closing the file carefully and moving it to the side.
As they continued, the pace began to pick up. File after file passed beneath their fingers—each stamped with a name, a life, a spark of potential. Students from all corners of Remnant. Some came from storied bloodlines with expectations hanging like chains around their shoulders. Others arrived with nothing but raw instinct and a dusty pair of boots. A few glowed with promise. Others left more questions than answers.
And yet, none carried quite the same weight—quite the same intrigue—as the ones they'd just examined.
Glynda rubbed her eyes, fatigue threading through her features, and adjusted her glasses with the practiced motion of someone used to long nights. She glanced at the diminishing stack and exhaled through her nose. "There are still so many left to look at," she murmured. "How do you expect to keep track of all of them during initiation?"
Ozpin, as calm and unhurried as the breeze outside his open window, didn't look up from the page he was reading. "I have my ways," he said, almost absently.
Then, a faint pause. A slight tilt of his head.
"Besides," he added with a note of dry amusement, "I'll leave the tracking to you, Glynda. You're far more efficient than I am at multitasking."
Glynda scoffed gently, the corner of her mouth tugging upward despite herself. "Flattery won't make this pile any shorter."
From across the table, Professor Port let out a booming chuckle, leaning back with a stretch that made his chair creak. "I, for one, welcome the chaos. Nothing gets the blood pumping like a good initiation! The unpredictability! The strategy! The sparks flying through the trees!" He clapped his large hands together, eyes gleaming. "Marvelous, really! It's like chess, but with explosions."
Oobleck didn't even glance up from his furious note-taking. His pen scratched relentlessly across the page like a machine. "Let's just hope we don't have another incident like last year," he muttered. "We're still replacing half the trees in that quadrant. Not to mention the wildlife dislocation report..."
Glynda groaned, rubbing her temple. "Don't remind me. I spent three days chasing down an overgrown Nevermore that decided to roost in the bell tower."
"I thought that was poetic," Ozpin remarked idly, finally setting aside the file he'd been examining. "The symbolism was striking."
"The guano less so," Glynda deadpanned.
Ozpin's smile was faint, but real. Then his expression shifted, turned just a shade more solemn.
"We need to remember," he said, voice quieter now, "that we're not simply testing for strength or skill. The initiation is about more than that. It's about adaptability. Grit. How they work together under pressure—or fail to. It's one thing to pass a test. Another to survive the unknown."
Professor Port's grin dimmed, replaced with a thoughtful nod. "They always surprise us," he said. "The golden children sometimes trip over their own pride. And the overlooked ones... they find a way to rise."
"Let's hope someone rises," Glynda muttered, flipping open another folder. "Because if they don't, I'll be hauling unconscious bodies out of that forest again—and my back still hasn't forgiven me for last year."
From the corner, Oobleck raised his head just slightly. "Then may the forest be merciful."
Ozpin gave a soft chuckle, but his gaze had already drifted toward the window, toward the pale moon hanging low over Beacon Tower. His hands were still now, resting atop the closed file as his eyes reflected the silver light beyond the glass. He didn't speak for several long seconds.
Then—almost to himself—he murmured, "We're going to see some surprises. Big ones."
Silence followed. Not the brittle silence of tension, but something deeper. A pause filled with anticipation. With quiet gravity.
Beyond the walls of the office, Beacon Academy slumbered beneath a blanket of stars. The dorms were still. The lanterns dimmed. The sky, wide and ancient, watched from above.
Inside, the flicker of lamplight brushed across parchment and profile, over tired hands and furrowed brows. The staff kept vigil, surrounded by the stories of tomorrow's protectors—some bold, some uncertain, some barely ready.
But time would not wait. The forest waited for no one.
And just beyond the treeline, destiny stirred.
Biography of the characters:
Cala Ad Lance
Role: Frontliner / Tank
Age: 17
Height: 7'0"
Hair: Orange
Eyes: Orange
Aura Color: Bronze
Origin: Vacuo (military background implied)
Weapon:
Relict Heirpiercer – A transforming lance with a revolver chamber-style barrel.
Bastion of Dawn – A massive 5-inch thick tower shield.
Semblance: Tank Endurance
Allows Cala to absorb and endure heavy damage without slowing down. The more punishment she takes, the harder she hits back.
Combat Style:
Defensive powerhouse, anchors team fights.
Impeccable form, military precision, excels at front-line control and area denial.
Personality:
Stoic, disciplined, blunt.
Has difficulty with teamwork and emotional expression.
Quietly watches over her team.
Trivia:
Often mistaken for an adult or professional Huntress.
Likes quiet places and doesn't trust vending machines.
Calms herself by polishing her weapons.
Doppel
Role: Infiltrator / Wildcard
Age: 18
Height: 4'0"
Species: Cat Faunus
Hair: Black
Eyes: Golden (glow in the dark)
Aura Color: Purple
Origin: Vale slums / orphan
Weapon: Piranhates 1=20
A collection of 20 daggers used via hands, tail, and mouth.
Semblance: Full Mimicry
copy another person's appearance, fighting style, and semblance.
Combat Style:
Erratic, fast, improvisational.
Uses mimicry for infiltration, confusion, and combat mind games.
Personality:
Mischievous, chaotic, unpredictable.
Deeply independent but curious.
Hides trauma behind constant antics.
Trivia:
Vale's infamous fish thief.
Sleeps in vents.
Often adds "-nya" to speech.
Can mimic Sese's voice perfectly, much to Sese's dismay.
Kumiko Xen
Role: Spearfighter / Duelist
Age: 17
Height: 5'5"
Hair: Brown (ponytail)
Eyes: Brown
Aura Color: Red
Origin: Mistral (Xen Clan)
Weapon: hóngsè
A traditional long spear with collapsible segments.
Semblance: None
Combat Style:
High-speed precision; traditional martial arts.
Focused on single-target strikes, flawless footwork.
Personality:
Laid-back, clever, selectively lazy.
Has perfect combat grades, but sleeps through lectures.
Balanced between honor and modern cynicism.
Trivia:
Amazing cook.
Secretly reads drama and romance novels.
Nicknamed "The Spear Slacker" by Doppel.
Sese Lenya Ban Von Fitzgerald Livingstone Cunningham Dragoncrest Chatterton Abercrombie Duskhollow Frostbloom Belsonavenolairequintaple the X
Role: Ranged Control / Strategist
Age: 17
Height: 5'7"
Hair: Blonde
Eyes: Sapphire blue
Aura Color: Ice blue
Origin: Atlas
Weapon:
Featherdraw – Elegant longbow.
Headhunter – Ornate musket.
Skyfire – Shifts into a rapid-fire crossbow rifle.
Semblance: Hunter's Mark
Allows her projectiles to home in on a marked enemy until they hit or are blocked.
Combat Style:
Ranged precision, battlefield control.
Combines status effects and homing attacks.
Personality:
Regal, articulate, and cunning.
Polite but terrifying when annoyed.
Teasing and witty in private.
Trivia:
Fashion model and wine industry heiress.
Has a habit of silently appearing behind people.
Childhood friend of Weiss Schnee.
Dislikes mud. Likes dominance in business.