Chương 23: The Birds of a Feather

High above the terraced, sprawling city of Mistral, a single crow drifted silently through the evening thermals. Its black feathers caught the fading amber light of the setting sun as it glided over the steep, pagoda-style roofs of the lower districts. Down below, the city was alive with the ambient hum of lanterns flickering to life, the clatter of horse-drawn carriages on stone paths, and the murmurs of thousands of citizens packed into the winding alleys.

To the average eye, it was just a scavenger bird looking for scraps. But the crow's sharp, intelligent eyes were darting from balcony to balcony, listening with an intensity no animal could possess. Perching on a weathered wooden beam beneath the eaves of a busy tea house, Qrow Branwen tilted his head, his avian hearing tuning out the background noise to catch the hushed conversation of two Mistral council officials smoking on the terrace below.

"The scouting reports from the northern border are completely blank," one official muttered, nervously tapping his pipe against the stone railing.

"Two whole vanguard units just... ceased transmission. Headmaster Lionheart claims it's a localized dust interference, but I don't buy it. Something is swallowing our patrols whole." The crow spread its wings and took flight again, dropping down toward the darker, narrow alleyways of the lower slums where the law rarely reached. It landed on a rusty iron pipe just above a group of cloaked figures huddled around a burning oil drum.

"The high leader's orders were clear," a low, gravelly voice whispered from beneath a white grimm mask. The speaker wore the uniform of the White Fang.

"Sienna wants the Mistral cells locked down and ready. No unapproved raids until the representative from the continent arrives. Something big is coming down from the top." The black bird blinked, absorbing the tactical data. The White Fang was consolidating, and Haven's outer defenses were fraying from the inside out. But as Qrow prepared to fly toward the upper districts, the conversation of two drunken mercenaries staggering out of an alleyway caught his attention.

"I'm telling you, man, the Vytal tournament was just the warm-up," the larger mercenary laughed, swinging an empty bottle.

"Did you see the latest underground feeds from Vale? They're saying some bald guy in a green jumpsuit literally slapped a giant Beringel into dust. Just walked through the breach and cleared the whole courtyard with his bare hands."

"Oh, please. It's Atlas propaganda to keep the markets from crashing," his partner sneered.

"A savior of Remnant who works as a glorified security guard? Sounds like a fairy tale."

"Fairy tale or not, the underworld brokers are calling him the absolute wall of Vale," the first one countered.

"They say as long as he's sweeping the steps at Beacon, Cinder Fall's crew won't dare step foot back in the kingdom." The crow pushed off the iron pipe, soaring high into the darkening sky, its mind racing. Qrow knew firsthand that the bald guy wasn't a fairy tale. He'd stood right in front of the man alongside Glynda, Ironwood, and Winter after the battle. They had all agreed to keep Saitama right where he was, blissfully ignorant of Salem, to act as an accidental shield for Vale.

But hearing the rumors mutate into a mythological savior all the way in Mistral meant their carefully kept secret was leaking into the global underworld faster than they could track.

A mile away, in a secluded, dim alleyway tucked behind a row of dilapidated warehouses, the black crow dropped behind a stack of wooden crates. In a brief flicker of grey light, the feathers vanished, replaced by the tall, slouching figure of Qrow Branwen. He adjusted his tattered grey cape, ran a calloused hand through his messy black hair, and checked the flask at his hip. Finding it painfully light, he sighed, his crimson eyes scanning the neon sign of a low-end tavern across the cobblestones: The Rusty Anchor.

Qrow pushed the heavy wooden door open. The interior was choked with tobacco smoke and the sharp, sour stench of spilled ale. A handful of local miners and sailors sat scattered across the booths, their faces cast in a dull blue glow originating from a large, outdated television screen mounted above the bar. Qrow slid onto a stool at the far end of the counter, tapping his knuckles against the scratched wood.

"Leave the bottle, pal. Whatever's cheap and burns." The barkeeper, a burly man with a thick grey beard and grease-stained apron, grunted, sliding a glass and a half-empty bottle of amber liquor across the bar.

"You look like you've been flying against the wind all day, friend."

"You have no idea," Qrow muttered, pouring himself a generous shot and tossing it back, the alcohol burning its way down his throat. Suddenly, a loud fanfare chimed from the television. The screen cut to a bright, scrolling graphic: VALE NEWS NETWORK – SPECIAL REPORT. The camera transitioned to a sleek, polished news desk where a familiar, perfectly coiffed woman sat, her violet eyes scanning the camera with professional poise." Good evening.

This is Lisa Lavender reporting live for the Vale News Network,"her crisp, clear voice echoed through the dimly lit tavern." We begin tonight's broadcast with an exclusive look at the ongoing resurgence of Beacon Academy. Following the unprecedented security measures implemented by the Vale Council and the office of General James Ironwood, the legendary huntsman academy has formally opened its doors to the new semester's curriculum."

The screen split to show high-definition B-roll footage of the glittering, pristine spires of the newly reconstructed campus, showing groups of second-year students training in the outdoor courtyards beneath a clear sky." While atmospheric cross-continental communications remain largely disrupted,"Lisa Lavender continued, gesturing subtly to a technical chart behind her." Local infrastructure has reached peak operational capacity.

Faculty representatives assure the public that the defensive perimeter around the Emerald Forest has been completely reinforced, guaranteeing an unprecedented level of safety for incoming initiates.

In other news, the Vale Council continues to decline comment regarding the viral underground footage of the so-called 'Campus Savior' responsible for clearing the Breach, though morale among the civilian population remains at an all-time high--" The barkeeper stopped wiping a glass, staring up at the screen with a heavy, irritated sigh, before hitting a button on a remote to lower the volume slightly.

"Unbelievable. Every single hour it's the same thing. Look at that."

"They're proud of the rebuild," Qrow said, pouring another glass, his eyes tracking the muted image of Lisa Lavender shuffling her papers.

"Proud? It's obnoxious," the barkeeper complained, slamming his rag onto the counter.

"Ever since that disaster at the Vytal Festival, you can't turn on a single channel without seeing Vale. It's on VNN, it's on our local Mistral Broadcast, and yesterday my cousin said the Atlas Broadcast Network ran a three-hour documentary on Beacon's new 'logistical stability'. Every kingdom is acting like if Vale sneezes, the rest of us are going to catch a cold. They're just trying to hide how scared they really are."

"Can't blame 'em for being scared," Qrow murmured, staring into his amber glass.

"The world got a lot smaller a few months ago." Before the barkeeper could respond, the heavy front door of the tavern creaked open. The ambient noise of the bar didn't stop, but a subtle, sharp tension immediately rippled through the room. A tall woman stepped through the threshold, her long, voluminous black hair cascading down her back, contrasting starkly with her flowing crimson dress and the dark, intricate tribal armor plates fitted to her gauntlets.

A heavy, red-hilted katana hung prominently at her left hip. Her crimson eyes, identical to Qrow's, scanned the room with a cold, predatory assessment before locking onto the back of his grey cape. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. She walked with a slow, deliberate grace, her combat boots clicking softly against the floorboards. She didn't look at the patrons who instinctively leaned away from her.

She simply glided to the bar and slid onto the stool directly beside Qrow.

"You're a hard man to find when you don't want to be found, brother," Raven Branwen said, her voice smooth, sharp, and entirely devoid of warmth. Qrow didn't turn his head. He merely took another sip of his drink.

"I sent the signal to the old drop point three days ago. Didn't think you'd actually show your face in a dump like this. What's the matter, Raven? The wilderness getting too lonely for you?"

"I go where my interests require me," Raven replied coldly, gesturing slightly to the barkeeper.

"Bring me a sake. Warm." The barkeeper looked at the heavy blade at her hip, swallowed hard, and hurried down to the other end of the bar without a word. The siblings sat in silence for a moment, the blue light of the television reflecting off their identical, grim expressions.

"I saw the news," Raven said, her eyes lifting briefly to the muted footage of Lisa Lavender anchoring the broadcast. A small, mocking smile touched her lips.

"Ozpin's grand fortress, rebuilt from the ashes. He always was good at building beautiful cages for children."

"It's a school, Raven. It's where people learn to protect people like the ones in this room," Qrow snapped, his tone sharpening as he finally turned his head to look at her.

"Not all of us run away to the woods to play warlord when things get tough."

"And look where his protection got you," Raven countered, leaning her elbow against the bar, her body language fluid but coiled like a spring.

"The global communications are still dark. Mount Glenn is a graveyard. Vale nearly fell, and your precious Headmaster spent his final moments proving just how fragile his grand design really was. I chose survival. You chose a dying man's ghost." Qrow let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

"Ozpin isn't gone. Not completely. He's still in the fight, which is more than I can say for you. But speaking of the defense... I suppose you've heard the same rumors I have. Even out here in Mistral, the underworld is whispering about our clueless 'security guard' back at Beacon." Raven's crimson eyes narrowed, her fingers wrapping tightly around the warm cup of sake the barkeeper had nervously left before fleeing.

"My scouts have reported on him. You, Glynda, and Jimmy are keeping him tightly under wraps, aren't you? A man named Saitama. He possesses no Aura, no training, and yet he walks through alpha-class hordes like they're dead leaves on a path. Cinder's faction is terrified of him. They won't admit it, but they're restructuring their entire approach to Vale because of one bald man who doesn't even know what a Huntsman is."

"Yeah, well, that was the plan," Qrow admitted, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

"We agreed to keep him comfortable, keep him cleaning, and keep him entirely out of the loop regarding Salem. As long as he stays oblivious, he's the perfect accidental shield. But Salem isn't stupid. She knows he's an anomaly now. She just orchestrated a massive deployment of King Taijitus and Death Stalkers in the Emerald Forest just to test his limits."

"And?" Raven asked, her posture freezing slightly.

"He didn't even sweat, Raven. Broke an elder stinger with his forehead," Qrow said softly, turning his full gaze onto her.

"But while he's holding down the fort in Vale, Salem's inner circle is expanding their reach. Watts and Tyrian are right here in Mistral. They're circling Haven Academy like vultures. If they dismantle Mistral from the inside out while Vale is isolated, our little containment plan won't matter. We need everyone we can get." He reached out, his calloused hand resting on the counter between them.

"Come back, Raven. Stop hiding with your bandits. We could use your semblance. We could use your blade. Help us secure Haven before it's too late." Raven stared at his hand for a long beat. Then, a cold, clinical expression returned to her face, and she pulled away, lifting her cup to her lips.

"No."

"Raven--""You made a deal to hide behind a bald idiot in a jumpsuit who doesn't even understand the world he's standing on, Qrow. That isn't a strategy. It's a temporary delay. She cannot be defeated," Raven said, her voice dropping into a harsh, definitive whisper.

"I have a tribe to protect. My people rely on me for their survival. I will not throw their lives away for a war that was lost before we were even born." Qrow's jaw tightened, his hand clenching into a fist on the counter.

"And what about Yang?" The question hung heavily in the smoky air. For a fraction of a second, Raven's stoic composure cracked. Her eyes drifted down to her lap, her breathing hitched almost imperceptibly, before her mask slammed back down.

"She... she survived the Breach," Qrow continued, his voice softer now, laced with genuine pain.

"She's back at Beacon. She's training every single day, trying to close the gap between her and the monsters out there. She doesn't talk about you, but I know she thinks about it. Are you just going to let her burn when Salem's forces inevitably march on the rest of the world?" Resolute, Raven stood up from her stool, her crimson dress rustling as she adjusted the heavy katana at her hip. She turned her back to Qrow, her shadow stretching across the bar under the flickering television light.

"Yang has made her choice, just as I made mine," Raven said, her voice steady, though she kept her back turned to him.

"She is strong. Stronger than you think. But she has to learn that relying on others is a weakness that will eventually get her killed." She took three slow steps toward the door, then paused, her profile illuminated by the neon sign outside.

"If you see her again, Qrow... give her my regards," Raven murmured.

"Tell her to stay out of the deep woods." Before Qrow could answer, Raven pushed the heavy wooden door open, disappearing into the dark, rain-slicked alleys of Mistral. Qrow sighs in defeat. He sat alone at the counter, listening to the muffled tone of Lisa Lavender's broadcast as he poured another drink into his glass.

The heavy downpour of Mistral's lower docks did little to mask the heavy, metallic stench of the abandoned industrial refinery. Outside, the rain lashed violently against the rusted iron walls, but inside, the silence was broken only by the rhythmic, heavy thud of Hazel Rainart's leather boots echoing across the concrete floor. Hazel stepped out from the warehouse threshold, his massive frame shifting as he pulled his dark collar tight against the freezing mist.

He didn't look back at the Seer Grimm, which had already dissolved back into the shadows of the furnace room. His mind was focused entirely on the instruction Salem had laid out: Ensure they fall into line. As he approached the center of the dark courtyard, a sharp, mechanical click cut through the sound of the rain. From the shadow of a row of rusted shipping containers, a figure stepped forward.

The crimson detailing on his black combat tailcoat caught the dim, flickering amber glow of the refinery's external security lights. A pristine white mask, patterned with blood-red Grimm motifs, completely obscured his face. At his left hip rested Wilt, the red-hilted chokuto, its sheath catching the damp air. Adam Taurus stood with his hand resting casually on his hilt, his posture coiled with an aggressive, restless energy.

Behind him, a small contingent of White Fang guards stepped out from the shadows, their rifles lowered but their grips tight.

"You're late, human," Adam said, his voice a low, dangerous purr that carried none of the deference Hazel usually received from Salem's other subordinates. Hazel stopped ten paces away, his massive arms hanging loosely at his sides, his face an unreadable mask of solemn patience.

"The Mistress had final instructions. We have a window of opportunity while Haven's eyes are turned toward the borders." Adam let out a sharp, mocking breath through his nose, his gloved fingers tapping against the guard of his blade.

"Your Mistral cells are organized, but Sienna remains blind to the larger picture. She sits in her high throne room, preaching about tactical restraint and measured retaliation while our people are hunted in the streets. She thinks she can negotiate a revolution."

"Sienna Khan is a disciplined leader, Adam," Hazel replied smoothly, his deep voice carrying a warning weight.

"She built the White Fang into a global force. The Mistress wants her cooperation, not an execution. We are going there to establish terms." Adam turned slightly, his boots splashing in a shallow puddle as his crimson-lined coat swept through the air. A dark, predatory smirk played out beneath his mask.

"Sienna will do what is necessary for the Faunus. And if her pride prevents her from seeing that your Mistress's resources are the only path to our liberation... then her leadership has reached its expiration date." Hazel's jaw tightened. He did not approve of Tyrian's manic bloodlust, nor did he care for Watts's structural cruelty, but he recognized the cold necessity of Adam's ambition. If the White Fang was to be the anvil upon which Mistral was broken, its commander needed to be entirely committed to the cause.

"The transport is ready in the lower sector," Adam continued, gesturing with a sharp flick of his hand toward the dark tunnel network leading into the mountains.

"The guard shifts at the high headquarters have been adjusted. My loyalists are already stationed at the secondary perimeter. By the time we arrive, Sienna will have no choice but to listen." Hazel took a slow, heavy breath, looking up at the dark, choked sky of Mistral one last time before stepping into stride beside the young commander.

"Then let's not keep her waiting. Just remember, Taurus. Violence is a tool, not a solution. Don't force a hand you aren't prepared to play."

"I always play to win, Rainart," Adam muttered, his hand gripping Wilt tightly as the two men strode shoulder-to-shoulder into the dark, rain-slicked passage, leaving the empty refinery behind them as they set their course for the high seat of the White Fang.