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RWBY: The Knights of Cerberus	By : Grimlyn360 Category: +M through R > RWBY Views: 2564 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY, nor do I make any profit from this story. All credit for the series goes to Rooster Teeth and Monty Oum. Please support the official release.

Chapter List
- 1-RWBY: The Knights of Cerberus
- 1
War.
Time and time again, I have heard people say that war is one of the worst things that could happen in the history of man. They say that we, as a whole, have lost more than we could have ever made in the midst of war. Millions upon millions of lives are claimed in an orgy of blood, flesh and steel. The throes of battle cause the foundations of homes, factories, companies and even nature itself to collapse underneath their weight. The thousands of blades that clash at once is a thunderclap that rattles even the sky itself, tearing apart the clouds and allowing our screams to reach as far as the stratosphere. If we all waged war at once, chances are that the entirety of Remnant would be torn apart. Time and time again, I have heard people say that war is one of the worst that could happen in the history of man.
But I say that it is one of the most beautiful things we have created.
You see, like life, war only lasts a certain amount of time before it expires and passes on. But while it is in existence, it is a fusion of art, philosophy, creations and bodies merged into one big explosion. It is the pregnant mother, giving birth to new things that will play a major part in the cycle that we go through. A man soft at heart can come out of it to be a hardened killing machine. What was once his sword is now his rifle, his bazooka and then his city-slaying missile. What was once his home is now nothing but smoldering ruin, free for a new structure to take its place. Yes, while some changes can be considered good, others can be considered bad. But in either case, the world recomposes itself and has evolved a little bit more from its past self. War may be the cruelest of parents. But it is also an effective teacher for the novices and rookies of life.

On one side stands her teammates, worried and pensive.
On the other stands her opponents, amused and entertained.
In front of her stands her enemy, bloodthirsty and aggressive.
The weight of his guillotine blade smashes into Crescent Rose, causing her to tumble away. She recovers quickly, rolling back onto her feet and readying herself. He hurls himself at her, bringing his massive axe up to bear again. She blocks, gritting her teeth as the force of his strikes pushes against her very bones. Her wrists flick and twist the scythe staff, parrying and counter-attacking. He acts accordingly, blocking and batting her own blade away from his form. To her, it is amazing as to how he could move so quickly. Despite the size of his weapon and the fact that it looked difficult to even carry, he was wielding it in a manner that spelled weightlessness. He is a new kind of opponent for her, one that she is learning to fear.
A pull of her gun trigger, and she shoots herself away just in time to avoid a crushing two-handed strike. As soon as her skid stops, she grips Crescent Rose tightly and adopts a menacing stance to challenge his own. As he turns to face her, she lets out a ferocious scream and charges at him. He lets out a roar of his own, and they rush to bring their weapons together once more.

When one has to skirt death so many times in one battle, they tend to forget.
Perhaps they were a soldier on a mission. Perhaps they were simply minding their own business when they were suddenly thrust into a scenario of life-threatening proportions. Perhaps they wanted to defend something or someone of value. But in the heat of the battle, none of that matters. When you experience those sinful sensations – the sweat coating trembling hands and, by extension, the weapon you wield, the pounding of your heart that reaches your own ears with its volume, the mixture of adrenaline and boiling blood coursing through your veins and the wrath that suppresses nearly every emotion aside from the ones that matter. The only objective that registers in your head is the death of your enemy and the preservation of your life. Everything else is forgotten, and oh, what a splendid feeling it is! It is ironic, too – one can only feel truly alive when they are staring death in the face!
It is just one of many joys one can experience from war, mind you.

“Here, little Faunus. No need to hide...”
She hears his call, his voice honeyed and husky as it reaches her ears. But by this point, she knows that it's nothing but an effort to lower her guard. In her state of terror, she is thankful to have her sense of self-preservation intact. She is clutching an arm, which is bleeding and barely held together by a few strands of flesh. She staggers through an empty hallway with a broken leg, the calf having been nearly torn to pieces. She is leaving a blood trail – another path for him to follow in case he doesn't hear her hyperventilation. But it would be impossible not to hear her now, especially when his own voice was so close.

“After all, it's not like you have anywhere to hide. In this place... in this world... I am everywhere.”
She can hear his footsteps, slow and deliberately so. He knows her condition. He knows that she is fading, and as much as she's trying to hold on, her struggle won't last long. He knows that it is only a matter of time before she is cornered, before he finally has a chance to have his way with her. The thought of the inevitable shakes her terribly, simultaneously serving as her fuel to keep going and the break in her sanity. He knows this, and that's why he is taking his sweet time. He wants to savor every drop, to make this particular hunt last as long as possible. He is the hunter, and she is the delicious, delectable meat.
“You are just a beast. A dumb, lumbering beast. And it is only nature that beasts are slain by glorious hands of man. But I'm no barbarian, make no mistake. Once I'm finished with you, you'll hold a special place on the face of my wall. Just like all the others I've hunted, you'll be remembered until the day I die. It's the only kindness that you animals deserve.”
She shuts her eyes tightly, but is unable to prevent the tears from spreading down her cheeks. But she is forced to open them again once she hears the click of a gun's safety taken off. She stops in her tracks, frozen in terror as she looks at the figure in front of her. In response, he holds a smile that the foolish would've deemed to be disarming.
“Found you.”
He pulls the trigger, and his bullets tear through her heart.

When one kills another, they are effectively taking the victim's life into their own hands. The fact that you have the power to end a life may be more addicting than the thrill of danger itself. It is something always meant to be in the control of a God and a God alone, something wrong to do with the hands of a mortal – at least, that's what they say. What do I say? Hah! It's nothing but a bunch of Ursa manure, an attempt to instill control over the sheep of Remnant's population. If God didn't want us killing each other, than why did he not keep that very thought of it from crossing our heads? Why didn't he just chop off our hands? No, it is a right and not a privilege to spill the blood of another person.
In other cases, there may not be a genuine reason to take part in war. Sometimes, war is just merely an excuse to do what you please. Maybe you have someone you want to eliminate. Maybe you want an entire group of someone you want to eliminate. Maybe you don't want to eliminate them. Maybe you want them to suffer instead. Go on ahead and do what you please. Everyone's too busy killing each other in order to pay much attention to how you do your thing. Yes, war is quite liberating in that sense. After all, rules cannot dictate how senseless chaos can be. In the midst of the battlefield, you are free to do whatever you wish.
It is upon that note that I bring up another.
War can bring out the worst in people – at least, what is defined as “worst” by the likes of them.

It is raining, and the water mixes with the blood that stains the ground. It is raining, and the droplets soak the clothing and skin of numerous corpses as well as the various weapons dropped from the dying's hands. The small of the liquid masks the stench that these dead bodies would've given off otherwise, keeping the full weight of the battlefield from crashing down onto any unwitting passerbys. Thunder crackles and lightning flashes, making a perfect backdrop for the tragedy that has taken place.
It is raining.
But that does nothing to stop those that are left.
Situated over the form of a corpse are the forms of a man and woman, both of them on opposite sides of this particular battle. The man's upper armor has been discarded, leaving behind a demonstration of well-toned muscles and scarred skin. His pants are slid down just enough to expose the butt. The woman, on the other hand, is stark naked with her articles of clothing, armor and weaponry off to the side. She is on her hands and knees in a criss-cross over the body, the raindrops washing away what would've been quite the amount of sweat.
He is behind her, thrusting himself into her with relentless and unmerciful force. His hips crash into her backside, causing her nerves to light up with incredible sensation. His breaths are throaty, giving her the impression that she is being taken by a monster instead of a man. The very thought serves as fuel for her heat and her ecstasy, and she is quick to emphasize this with her own breathy moans. As much as she attempts to, she finds it hard to move to his rhythm. Her knees are pressed against the side of the corpse she is hovering over, and his hands have control of her hips. He is keeping her still, making her sit and take the pounding he is giving her. Her “helplessness” spurs them both on, and it isn't long before their movements become more aggressive and passionate.
Eventually, she breaks first. Her breaths become full-blown moans, which finally escalate to a joyous scream as she reaches her limit. She releases herself on him, all of the built-up sensation within her physical let loose in one sitting. It is a catalyst for him; he lets out a groan, gripping her hips tightly and digging his nails into her skin as he loses himself inside of her. They are both taken to their highest point of mind, their rhythm ceased and their bodies falling under the process of recovery. It takes a matter of seconds for them to come down from their high, and when they do, she hangs her head and nearly falls onto the corpse. He nearly falls down in his deliberate motion of lowering himself down to her level, his chest pressing against her back. His mouth is near her neck and his breath causes her to shiver as he speaks.
“I believe I've won you, woman.” He whispers, allowing one of his hands to wander. Fingers trail over her rear, fingers teasing at the skin before his hand gives a firm squeeze. She gives a small moan of approval, which persists when he allows his fingers to trail over the skin of her flank upwards. “From this point onward, you are mine for the rest of your days.” His hand found one of her breasts as a target, giving it the same respect that it had shown to its prior target before snaking further upwards, gently wrapping around her neck. “No one else will be allowed to have you.”
She looks over her shoulder to meet his gaze. “And no one else will be allowed to have you,” She breathes, prompting him to slowly lean in. “My dearest enemy.”
Their lips meet.

Sometimes, the most bizarre spectacles happen under the shroud of war. An enemy army, saluting defeated rebel prisoners as if they were saluting an officer. Two bitter enemies suddenly teaming up against a mutual adversary. A male and female soldier on both sides of a war finding an interest in one another and the room to act on it while in the midst of conflict. Such sudden, abrupt and unpredicted developments, indeed! These are the moments that history does not and will not keep track of! These are the moments that only the soldiers involved can speak of, the things that not even gravedigging can bring to the light! It is simply another trait that demonstrates just how beautiful war can be.
But there are many that denounce this. There are idiots who claim these actions as “unethical”, “degrading”, “unbecoming” and the like. Bah! What do they know? They know nothing about the mind of a soldier and how it goes with its processes once things go into full swing. They have never seen blood being spilled on a mass-scale. They have never seen the expressions worn by warriors during battle, nor have they felt the emotions those warriors have felt. They are blind, kept under the dark by the so-called “informative” media that only wishes to exploit. As far as I am concerned, everyone would be better off without that worthless propaganda. Hmph...
I digress.
All of these things, as I mentioned before, can end up transforming someone into something else. Whether the results are good or bad are up to circumstance and the will of the affected.

He walks. There is a slight bounce within his casual step, almost as if he was going for the most cheerful walk ever. The blade of his blood-stained longsword rests on one shoulder, and he is whistling an upbeat tune that echoes through the empty streets. He feels relaxed, a sense of homeliness within this place. He doesn't care about the bodies laid out and strewn about his path. He doesn't care about the death rattles or the desperate cries of the fading. He doesn't even bat an eyelash when more enemies converge on his position, blocking his path and leveling various sorts of weaponry at him. All he does is pull that blade off of his shoulders and ready it in preparation to cut even more of his foes into pieces. All he does is smile, his expression and body language giving off the impression that he was making tea for a guest rather than readying himself to kill. It unnerves them greatly, but if he takes notice of it, he doesn't let it show.
He charges, still whistling his tune even as bullets are fired in his direction.

No matter what kind of changes that are made, a survivor will come out hardened. Maybe they have become numb to all of that shock they had experienced so many times over. Maybe their minds and bodies grew accustomed to it, adapting to it as a chameleon's skin color adapts to its environment. But once you have been exposed long enough, it all comes down to the same result. You come out stronger, learning a lot more about yourself and others than you would've realized on your own. But most importantly, you will come to realize just how mortal you really are in the cycle of life. You will enter feeling invincible, and you will come out feeling like you've lost everything dear to you – even if you haven't lost anything of real value.
War is truly a fascinating thing. Its effects, positive and negative, will be an essential part in this tale that I tell. Other parts will include the struggles of humanity against itself and the Grimm, the potency and strength of the spirit, the breaking of boundaries while still retaining your humanity and so forth. There will be happiness. There will be sadness. There will be celebrations, and there will be tragedy. I will guide you through it all, telling you word for word about select individuals who have made it a lifestyle to be in the throes of conflict. But be forewarned. This story is not for the faint of heart or the immature. We will be crossing into boundaries the innocent and pure would not dare to go, and in time, you may find yourself just as corrupted as I am. For those who fall into that category, please turn away and spare your minds.
For those who have chosen to stay, I hope you have a wonderful time.
Ready?
Let's go. Into the void...
- 1
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RWBY: The Knights of Cerberus