Chương 24: The Board's Shift

The Headmaster's office at Beacon Academy smelled of fresh varnish, ozone, and the faint, comforting scent of gears running in perfect alignment. Through the massive, clockwork-patterned glass windows, the afternoon sun cast long, golden gears of light across the polished floorboards. Glynda Goodwitch stood behind the great desk, her posture rigid, her hands folded over her riding crop. Her signature glasses caught the harsh, white glare of the three massive holographic screens hovering in the center of the room.

On the left and right screens sat two prominent members of the Vale Council, their expressions grim and etched with bureaucratic exhaustion. On the center screen, General James Ironwood sat in his Atlas office, his pristine white uniform immaculate, though the dark shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes betrayed his lack of sleep.

"Headmistress," the first councilman began, his voice flat and tinny through the audio receiver.

"While the Council is pleased with the rapid physical reconstruction of the campus, we must address the fiscal reality. The sheer volume of resources allocated to Beacon's defense is drawing severe criticism from the lower districts. The citizens are asking why their taxes are rebuilding spires while the outer walls of Vale still rely on makeshift barricades."

"And more pressingly," the second councilwoman chimed in, leaning forward so her sharp face dominated her screen, "we must address the anomaly. This 'Saitama.' The underground media is calling him a savior, but our legal departments are calling him an unregistered weapon. He has no license, no formal background, and no psychological profile on record. If he decides to turn that terrifying physical power against the Council, we have no countermeasures." Glynda did not flinch.

She adjusted her glasses, her voice cool, steady, and utterly unyielding.

"The 'anomaly,' Councilwoman, is currently employed as our head of campus maintenance. His presence at the Breach is the sole reason we are sitting in this office today rather than picking through its ruins. As for safety, I assure you, Saitama is... remarkably cooperative. He is content with a modest salary, a quiet dormitory, and his daily chores. Attempting to catalog him as a weapon would only alienate an asset that has shown nothing but passivity toward our governance."

"For now," the first councilman muttered skeptically.

"I concur with Glynda," Ironwood's deep voice boomed from the center screen. He leaned back, his cybernetic hand resting heavily on his desk.

"Saitama is a localized stabilizing force. So long as he remains at Beacon under Glynda's direct supervision, he acts as a passive deterrent to any secondary incursions. The Council should focus on fortifying the domestic grid while we manage the school's internal security." The councilman sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Very well. But we expect a weekly security assessment, Headmistress. If this janitor so much as chips a brick outside his designated duties, we will revisit his status. Good day." With a soft chime, the two council screens flickered and went dark, leaving only James Ironwood's feed active in the center of the room. The tense silence of the room was broken by the sound of Ironwood letting out a long, heavy breath. He loosened the top button of his high collar, his posture slumping slightly.

"They're terrified, Glynda," James said, his voice dropping to a weary murmur.

"They see the world crumbling around them, and they want someone to blame or someone to control. If they knew what we really faced..."

"We must manage them as we always have, James," Glynda replied softly, her rigid posture softening just a fraction.

"With patience. But we cannot afford to lose our footing." In seconds, a series of tones chimed through the console. Three new holographic feeds materialized alongside the General's. On the first screen, Qrow Branwen's face appeared, his features washed in the dim, yellow lighting of a cheap Mistral motel room. He was slumped in a chair, a half-empty glass in his hand. On the second screen, Headmaster Theodore of Shade Academy sat in his sun-drenched, chaotic office in Vacuo.

He was leaning back with his boots resting on his desk, his golden armor reflecting the desert sun. Standing just behind him, her arms crossed and her face set in a stern, no-nonsense scowl, was his right-hand woman, Xanthe Rumpole. On the third screen appeared Leonardo Lionheart. The lion Faunus was seated in his grand office at Haven, his mane disheveled, his eyes darting nervously to the edge of his camera frame before settling on the others.

His breathing was shallow, and his hands were clasped so tightly on his desk that his knuckles were white.

"Glad you could join us, Leo," Qrow muttered, taking a slow sip from his glass.

"Thought maybe you'd gotten lost on the way to your desk."

"Q-Qrow," Lionheart stammered, offering a weak, trembling smile.

"My apologies. The... the administrative duties of the new semester have been quite overwhelming. It is good to see you all."

"Let's get straight to it," Glynda commanded, her authority reclaiming the room.

"Qrow, report on your findings in Mistral." Qrow set his glass down, his crimson eyes turning dead serious.

"Mistral is fraying at the edges. I've been tracking the local communications. The White Fang is consolidating under Sienna Khan's orders, and their cells are prepping for something massive. But more importantly... Salem's inner circle is seemingly on the ground." Lionheart flinched violently at the names, his chest heaving as he tried to mask a sudden gasp. He quickly coughed into his hand, his eyes wide.

"S-Salem's circle? Here? Surely... surely that's a rumor, Qrow! The security reports from my staff--""Your staff is missing patrols, Leo," Qrow interrupted, his voice sharp.

"I listened to your own council officials. Whole vanguard units are vanishing near the northern borders, and your office is claiming it's just dust interference. If her forces is in your system, they're feeding you dummy data. And then... well, you know what she does to Huntsmen."

"I... I have the situation under control!" Lionheart insisted, his voice rising to a panicked, defensive pitch. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand.

"Haven't I always? We are simply... reorganizing our defensive perimeters to account for the localized Grimm surges! There is no need for panic!" From his desk in Vacuo, Theodore leaned forward, his green eyes narrowing as he stared at the lion Faunus's screen.

"You look like you're about to jump out of your skin, Leo. If the Fang or Salem's lackeys are breathing down your neck, say the word. I can't send an army, but Rumpole and I can make some noise."

"No! No, please, Theodore, that won't be necessary!" Lionheart squeaked, his hands shaking as he adjusted his vestments.

"We must keep the peace. Extra forces would only incite panic among the civilian population. I assure you, Haven is secure." Beside Theodore, Xanthe Rumpole let out a sharp, skeptical hum, her eyes tracking Lionheart's erratic body language.

"We'll hold you to that, Headmaster. If Mistral falls, Vacuo gets a lot more crowded, and we're already at capacity." Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

"I also had a brief run-in with Raven," Qrow added, his voice dropping.

"Met her in a bar in the lower districts. She's dug in. Refuses to help. She's completely terrified of Salem and claims she's just going to keep her tribe hidden in the woods."

"Coward," Ironwood muttered, his cybernetic hand clenching into a fist.

"She has the strength to make a difference, and she chooses to play bandit while the world burns."

"She gave Yang her regards," Qrow said quietly, looking toward Glynda.

"For whatever that's worth." Glynda nodded slowly, her expression solemn.

"Then we are on our own. James, what is the status of the Atlas border?"

"We are maintaining a strict isolationist protocol to secure our tech grid," Ironwood answered.

"But if Qrow's assessment is correct, Mistral is the primary target. Leo, I am keeping a direct channel open to your office. If you detect any abnormal network activity, anything at all, you notify me immediately."

"Of... of course, James," Lionheart whispered, his face pale.

"Immediately."

"That will be all for now," Ironwood concluded.

"Stay vigilant, everyone. The board is moving."

"If you will excuse me," Lionheart said hastily, his screen already beginning to pixelate.

"I have... pressing matters to attend to." With a frantic keystroke, Lionheart's feed vanished. The moment Lionheart's screen went dark, the atmosphere in Glynda's office shifted from tense professionalism to deep, unspoken concern.

"Well," Theodore sighed, swinging his boots off his desk and leaning his elbows on the wood.

"He's hiding something."

"He was practically vibrating," Qrow agreed, picking his glass back up and swirling the liquor.

"Leo's always been a bit of a coward, but that was different. He looked like a man standing on a landmine."

"He is under immense pressure," Glynda said, though her own brow was furrowed in concern.

"With the global communications down, he is isolated in a kingdom known for its deep, corrupt underworld. But we cannot afford to lose Haven. Qrow, keep a close eye on him. Don't let him see you, but watch his movements."

"Already on it," Qrow muttered.

"On a different note," Ironwood said, shifting his weight in his chair as his screen focused on Glynda.

"How is our... secret weapon? Is Saitama still performing his duties?"

"He is," Glynda said, a faint, almost imperceptible twitch appearing near her left eye.

"He spent the morning sweeping the courtyard and complaining that the cafeteria's cabbage was overpriced. He remains entirely oblivious to the maiden, the relics, or the shadow war."

"It's still hard to believe," Theodore laughed, shaking his head.

"A guy who can flatten an alpha Grimm with a lazy slap, and his biggest concern is a grocery sale? Rumpole and I were looking at the combat feeds. It defies every law of dust and aura we teach."

"It's unnatural," Rumpole added, her voice flat and analytical.

"But if he works, he works. Just don't let him near Vacuo. We have enough chaotic elements without a bald god walking around in a janitor's suit."

"Actually," Glynda said, her voice taking on a formal, instructional tone as she tapped her riding crop against her palm.

"I am intending to utilize him more actively this semester. I have decided to make Saitama my assistant in my advanced combat classes." The room fell into an immediate, dead silence. On his screen, Qrow froze, his glass halfway to his mouth. He let out a sudden, violent cough, choking on his liquor as he hammered his fist against his chest.

"You... you want to do what?"

"You heard me, Qrow," Glynda said smoothly.

"The students require practical experience against opponents whose defenses cannot be breached by conventional means. Saitama possesses absolute invulnerability. He does not use Aura, he does not hit back unless provoked, and he has agreed to stand in the center of the arena and let the students strike him with their strongest attacks to measure their output."

"A... a training dummy?" Ironwood asked, his jaw dropping slightly as his analytical mind tried to process the tactical absurdity of the concept.

"Glynda, you are talking about using a force of nature as a punching bag for teenagers."

"Exactly," Glynda replied, her eyes flashing with a rare hint of dry satisfaction.

"He is entirely willing. In exchange, I have agreed to provide him with coupons to the high-end supermarket in Vale's commercial district."

"Coupons," Theodore repeated, before bursting into a loud, booming laugh that echoed through the feed. He slapped his desk, his shoulders shaking.

"Oh, that is brilliant! You're paying a god in discount vouchers! Glynda, you are a menace!"

"It's practical, Theodore," Glynda adjusted her glasses.

"The students need to understand that the world contains threats, or anomalies, that cannot be reasoned with or broken by standard huntsman tactics. Standing before Saitama will teach them humility."

"Humility?" Qrow laughed hoarsely, finally wiping his chin.

"Glynda, those kids are going to break their weapons on his head. I almost want to fly back to Vale just to watch the look on my niece's face when her crescent rose bounces off his bald skull like a plastic toy."

"They will adapt," Glynda said firmly.

"And Saitama will get his cabbage. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"Just ensure he doesn't accidentally swat one of them into the mountain range," Ironwood warned, though a small, rare smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Keep us updated, Glynda. We're going to need all the strength we can muster."

"Always, James," Glynda said, bowing her head slightly as the screens began to fade, leaving her alone once more in the quiet, golden light of the Beacon tower.

Miles away from the grand towers of the kingdoms, nestled in the quiet, rolling hills of the Mistral countryside, the afternoon sun cast a warm, heavy blanket of gold over a modest farm. The air here didn't smell of ozone or tobacco smoke. It smelled of damp earth, sweet hay, and the sharp breeze coming down from the northern peaks. Oscar Pine wiped his brow with the back of a dirt-stained sleeve, leaning heavily against his wooden pitchfork.

His breathing was steady but rhythmic, the familiar ache in his shoulders from a long day of turning the soil a comforting reality. He looked down at the freshly broken earth, watching a small beetle scurry beneath a clod of dirt.

"You must pace yourself, young man. The light is fading, and the storm on the horizon cares little for a tired back." Oscar froze, his knuckles whitening around the wooden handle of the pitchfork. His heart gave a sudden, violent thud against his ribs. He looked around sharply, his eyes scanning the empty rows of crops, the quiet barn, and the distant treeline. There was no one there. Just the wind rustling the leaves. He had been hearing it for days now.

A quiet, measured voice that felt less like a sound traveling through his ears and more like a thought that wasn't his own, echoing in the back of his mind. A voice that carried the weight of centuries and the faint, unmistakable clink of a coffee mug.

"Get a grip, Oscar," the boy muttered to himself, shaking his head hard to clear the fog.

"You're just tired. Just hallucinating from the heat." Propping the pitchfork against the side of the wooden fence, Oscar turned and walked toward the small, weathered farmhouse. The wooden steps creaked under his boots as he pushed the screen door open and stepped into the cool, dim interior. From the corner of the living room, the low, static-laced hum of an old television filled the quiet house. His aunt had left it running before heading out to the market.

Oscar walked past the kitchen counter, grabbing a tin cup of water, his eyes automatically drifting toward the glowing screen. The broadcast was a delayed regional feed from the Vale News Network. The camera was currently focused on a wide shot of the glittering spires of Beacon Academy, before cutting to a bizarre piece of amateur scroll footage.

The video was shaky, capturing a bald man in a yellow jumpsuit and a white cape lazily dragging a massive trash bin across the courtyard, completely ignoring a group of stunned junior students pointing at him. The news anchor's voice droned on.

"... while local officials continue to categorize the anomalous individual known as Saitama as a standard civilian employee, eyewitness reports from the Emerald Forest border suggest his presence has radically altered the defensive ecosystem of the kingdom..." Oscar stared at the screen, taking a slow sip of water. The world outside his farm felt so impossibly large, filled with academies, monsters, and strange, bald heroes who defied explanation.

"A fascinating anomaly," the smooth, resonant voice echoed clearly in his mind, causing Oscar to drop his tin cup. It clattered against the wooden floorboards, splashing water across his boots.

"A force that exists entirely outside the design. Perhaps... a variable she did not account for." Oscar staggered back, his hands flying to his head, his wide, terrified eyes staring at his own reflection in the dark glass of the kitchen window.

"Alright, enough!" Oscar shouted into the empty room, his voice cracking with panic.

"Who's there?! Who are you?! Get out of my head!" There was a long, heavy pause. Then, the voice returned, gentler this time, laced with a profound, sorrowful weight that made the young farm boy's chest tighten.

"My name is Ozpin," the voice whispered softly within his thoughts, as the television screen continued to flash images of the rebuilt academy.

"And I am afraid, Oscar... we have a great deal of work to do."