The Remnant Arc (RWBY) concludes in the next chapter, in (P)(A)(T).

[WARNING! THE TEXT BELOW MAY CAUSE DISCOMFORT FOR SOME READERS DUE TO GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS!]

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The storm’s roar swallowed everything for a moment. Then came the cold, almost cutting wind, followed by the nauseating stench that filled both their nostrils. Rotten flesh, Simon instinctively knew. It was the same smell as that eye…

Simon looked around. He could barely see a few meters ahead, but for now, it was enough. There were no enemies in sight. The old angler signaled to the left and began walking, with Charles following closely.

Simon’s house was in the northwest part of the village, a bit removed from the sea, but not too far. He had chosen this location to be able to take morning walks, an exercise that helped stretch his muscles. Located on the outskirts of the village, it was surrounded by only a few small houses—just three or four.

Before they could advance a few more meters, their feet cautiously touching the white wooden road covered with wet sand and something red, something aggressively leaped from behind one of the nearest houses. Simon’s left ear started to tremble violently, and he attacked without hesitation, reacting with equal ferocity, without even trying to identify the enemy.

He pulled Charles back and wielded his fishing rod like a spear. The first strike pierced whatever it was. Only then did Simon stop to see: a man… or at least, what should have been a man, with his chest impaled by the rod’s tip.

The creature’s skin was a dark, sickly green, rotting and stinking worse than dozens of fish left in the sun for days. It snarled, trying to attack with its claws—not nails, but yellowed, opaque claws, as if made of pus. The growls coming from its mouth were bestial, as was the hungry expression on its face.

Two things caught Simon’s attention. First: the man—or rather, the thing that had once been a man—had no eyes. His eye sockets were empty, leaking an abnormally dark and thick blood. It looked as though his eyes had been torn out from the inside.

The second thing was even worse: Simon recognized the man, even in his bestial and decayed state. He was the fishmonger’s assistant, a young adult Simon used to tease, always joking about the young man’s infatuation with the fishmonger’s daughter.

For a brief moment, sadness overtook Simon, but he quickly drowned out those feelings and moved again. Twisting the fishing rod inside the creature’s chest, he felt the resistance as the being continued to try reaching him with trembling claws. Simon pulled the rod hard, making the brown, rotting blood spurt from the open wound before striking again.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he made the line of the fishing rod loosen, and in a fluid motion, wrapped it around the neck of what had once been the assistant. Channeling his mana into the thread, he saw it glow with a subtle green hue as he struck sideways, tightening the line around the creature’s neck.

The fishmonger’s assistant’s neck was easily sliced, his head separating from his body and flying away as the fishing rod struck it. The body fell lifeless into the sand, soaked with a red, bloody liquid. So much blood…

Tears! It’s not blood, just tears! Simon mentally screamed once more, repeating the words identically, like a desperate prayer…

“Is he…?” Simon heard Charles’s murmured question. It was faint.

“Dead. Something happened to him, I don’t know what, but don’t let anything like that touch you,” Simon replied, shouting against the wind. Something told him that getting injured by those things wouldn’t end well. “Don’t hesitate to attack as well. They’re no longer people… they’re monsters.”

Without waiting for a response, Simon pulled Charles toward the north side of the village, away from the rest of the houses. Something terrible had happened while they were asleep, and as heavy as his heart was, he would not be the hero risking his life to find out what it was or to save anyone.

He was too old for that. Saving Charles and himself was more than enough.

They moved quickly through the storm, with Simon leading the way. The fishing rod in his right hand, while his restless eyes scanned the surroundings for anything resembling that ‘non-assistant’ or the eye from before. Charles followed close behind, clutching the bluish dagger with trembling hands, both from the cold and the fear.

Simon stopped abruptly upon spotting yet another one of those creatures with dark green skin and a putrid odor emerging from behind one of the houses. He recognized who the thing had once been, just as he had recognized the assistant before. It was a woman—the wife of one of the dock vendors. Simon had bought some bait from him a few days ago.

The moment the creature noticed him, it charged toward him, which shouldn’t have been possible since it had no eyes. Yet, its head turned violently in their direction, as if it could sense them. Right behind her, another monster appeared, this time a man—her husband.

Simon reacted swiftly. Channeling his mana into the fishing rod, he made a cut close to the ground, then a precise thrust higher up. The line severed the woman’s legs, and the thrust pierced her head, the fragile, decayed skull yielding easily.

Simon twisted his arm to the side before raising it and delivering a downward blow with the fishing rod. The line followed the motion, wrapping around and lifting the woman’s body into the air as Simon grunted with effort. The body collided violently with the ground, hitting the second creature running toward him—the husband.

The old angler spun the fishing rod one last time, pulling it out. The woman lay still, but the man still moved until he was finished off with a quick stab at the base of his neck. He fell, lifeless. Simon turned the reel, pulling the line back, and resumed moving without saying a word, with Charles following him, mumbling something that was lost in the rain before Simon could hear.

“That damned crying noise won’t stop…”

The following minutes were a cruel repetition. More and more creatures emerged. Even walking through a more remote part of the village, those things seemed to sniff them out, and Simon recognized each one of them—residents of Blue Harbor, people he knew. The fishmonger and his young daughter, the fishermen he drank with, the restaurant owner… The children from the orphanage he visited every other day…

With a heavy heart, he killed them all, as his thoughts sank deeper into sorrow. The relentless rain and the putrid smell it seemed to carry didn’t help; it was as if he were wading through a sea of blood, surrounded by dead and decomposing bodies.

He was almost sure he saw Charles crying behind his glasses. The boy trembled like a thin twig and barely lifted his gaze from the sand, on the brink of collapse. Simon was not far from that state himself. His thoughts were erratic, there was a bitter taste in his mouth, but the worst was the exhaustion. His body, though fit, was no longer that of his youth.

He wanted to collapse and stay like that, motionless, until he woke from this damned nightmare… This red storm…

Look at the moon, it will end, just sleep, child of the sea…

Simon shook his head desperately, drowning out these thoughts in the same blood falling from the sky. Not now, stop this nonsense, Simon! he mentally growled. He was not alone there and needed to stay alert, if not for himself, then for Charles.

He still hadn’t seen another eye like that, which worried him deeply. His right ear was trembling so much it was starting to hurt, with no sign of stopping…

The worst happened when one of those things emerged from the forest, far from the village. He only noticed by sheer luck when a lightning bolt briefly illuminated the scene, staining everything with a blood-red color. Simon didn’t recognize the creature’s face, which was both horrible and a relief.

Relief, because he didn’t know if he could bear killing someone else he knew. Horrible, because he knew everyone in Blue Harbor, at least by sight. The fact that he didn’t recognize that thing could only mean one thing…

“Run to the beach! Now! Stay close to the sea!” Simon growled, keeping his voice low for Charles. He still didn’t know if those creatures could hear and didn’t want to risk it.

… That this was not just happening in Blue Harbor.

Charles didn’t even ask why; he just ran in panic toward the direction Simon had indicated. The old angler followed him, panting and exhausted. His arms and legs shaking from the effort of previous battles.

If it weren’t for his years of fishing, Simon felt his arms would have given out and fallen from his shoulders by now.

He grunted as he forced his body to keep going, until he suddenly stopped, nearly colliding with Charles, who had frozen in place. Simon understood why as soon as he followed the boy’s gaze toward the forest, where dozens—perhaps even hundreds—of those creatures were emerging.

But what made Simon’s panic reach its peak was not the creatures. It was the Terrarians among them. Hooded figures, wearing long red cloaks dragging on the ground, completely concealing their bodies.

“That’s what I feared…” Simon murmured, disgust and revulsion in his voice, before spitting out the leaves he had been chewing onto the ground. “This isn’t a disease… at least, not a natural one. Someone… completely deranged created this thing.”

Simon threw three more reddish leaves into his mouth, staring at the hooded figures from a distance. One of them, who seemed to be the leader, kept his arm raised, pointing directly at where they were. One by one, the other hooded figures also turned in their direction as lightning illuminated the scene, almost as if they wanted the two of them to see everything clearly.

Charles took a trembling step backward, almost falling on his rear in the wet sand. Simon grabbed him by the shoulder, steadying him. The boy seemed on the verge of collapsing. Simon didn’t blame him; it would be a good way to escape from this red night.

The old angler took one last look at the hooded figures, holding his gaze for a moment. Then, he shifted his focus to Charles, nodded to himself, and sighed, resigned. His lips trembled, not from the cold.

“… Charles, look at me.” The tremor and hesitation in Simon’s voice were swallowed by the blood falling from the sky. “Pay attention, boy, because I’m not going to repeat myself. Listen carefully.” Simon patted Charles on the shoulder, turning him towards him. The boy stared at him with terrified eyes behind his glasses.

Simon truly hoped his own weren’t like that, but he had little faith they wouldn’t be.

“Further north, following the beach, near the rocky part, there’s a cave. Inside it, there’s a tunnel that goes a few miles further north. I want you to run there as fast as you can. The entrance is somewhat hidden, but I trust you’ll find it.”

Charles’s eyes widened, realizing where this was going. Simon covered his mouth with his hand and didn’t let him speak. He feared that if Charles refused or said something, his own resolve would shatter. He had seen the speed of those things; there was no way they would both reach that cave without something… or someone, to stop them.

Look at the moon, the one blessed by the Duke, it will end then…

Simon growled and forced his gaze downward. Something was wrong; these thoughts didn’t really seem like thoughts…

“We don’t have time, let me finish!” He continued with even more urgency. “There’s a supply box in that cave, I restock it every few months. Inside it, there’s a map that leads to the kingdom. Grab what you can carry and be careful on the way…”

Simon averted his gaze from Charles, who was trembling and crying silently, and turned to the hooded figures and the creatures. They were all staring in their direction, motionless. Almost as if they were waiting for his decision.

Simon felt as though they were mocking him…

The old angler seized the moment to pull something from the inner pocket of his vest: a necklace with a pendant, both seemingly handmade. The necklace was a braided linen cord, while the pendant was a small box made of dried coconut.

The mystical symbols on the pendant kept it dry, untouched by the blood falling from the sky.

Simon handed the necklace to the boy, who took it with his free hand. At the same time, the old angler removed his gray hat—which somehow still retained its color—from his head. His gray hair was completely red, drenched. Simon swapped hats, taking Charles’s yellow hat and giving him the gray one.

“I said I’d swap my hat for yours when you caught more fish than I did in a day.” Simon didn’t have the courage to look at the boy at that moment. “My record was 369 in a single day. I trust you’ll surpass me soon, so I’m giving you my hat in advance. Take good care of it, boy, I’ve had it since I was very young…”

When Simon removed his hand from Charles’s shoulder, the boy almost fell but steadied himself, grunting. He gripped the blue dagger tightly and offered it back to Simon. His hand no longer trembled, though his lips still shook, stained with blood that seeped between the teeth he bit down on…

“Keep this. If something happens, you’ll need to defend yourself.” Simon refused the dagger and turned away. “Anyway, I don’t even know how to use that thing properly… Boy, can I ask you a favor?”

Charles didn’t answer, but Simon continued anyway.

“Find Gilbert. Tell him what happened here and to prepare for something bad… Very, very bad…” Simon was sure that what was happening here was only the beginning of something even greater… and worse. “… And tell him that, after all these years, I…”

Simon closed his eyes and shook his head vigorously.

“It doesn’t matter. Run, boy, now!” He shouted the command, his voice cutting through, for a moment, above the storm. Charles hesitated, reaching out towards the old man’s back, but soon turned and ran as fast as his legs could carry him.

The rain washed away his footprints as soon as they were made. The red-stained sand remained intact, as if no one had passed through it on this dark night…

The intensity of the thunder subsided, and darkness once again enveloped the area. Simon began to walk. One step… Two… The waves behind him seemed to try to catch up with him, pulling him back into the deep blue waters…

… The sea would hold his body, keep it as a mother would with her own child… Simon continued walking.

Step by step, slowly, the old man advanced toward the monsters in the forest, toward the hooded Terrarians. His footsteps left a bloody trail, but less red than the surrounding sand, of a cruel and sickly crimson…

The rain had drenched everything…

The old man frowned, gripping his fishing rod tightly, as he awaited what he was sure would be his final and bloodiest battle.

The fight didn’t come.

… But the blood did.

All the hooded figures and monsters followed Simon’s steps with their heads, motionless. They did not move, only watched. They did not attack, did not react. None of them tried to follow the young angler. None seemed interested in anything but Simon…

For a moment, the man felt regret. Perhaps, if he had run, he could have escaped with the young angler. However, that thought lasted only a short time. He knew he couldn’t escape. For some reason, this fact was clear to him.

These things, these hooded figures… they wanted him. And that terrified him more than anything else in his life.

His old bones were completely frozen, aching as if they were about to break. His muscles lost their strength, overwhelmed by the fear he felt. His blood seemed to run faster, injuring the veins it coursed through, almost as if it longed to join the blood falling from the sky.

His eyes burned, scorching within their sockets like two glowing embers. He had the urge to rip them out with his own hands, to use his fingers to pull them out as he often did when picking fruit from branches.

Simon raised his free hand to his eyes, forcing himself to keep his gaze fixed on the hooded figures in the distance, trying to ignore the horror swelling in his chest. His visceral and growing terror.

Close your eyes… It will end, you don’t need to fear… Just accept my gentle embrace…

Simon’s breathing quickened, and his heartbeat echoed in his head like drums. The blood falling from the sky mixed with his tears, forming unique drops that streamed down his wrinkled face…

When had he removed his glasses?… Simon’s thoughts were muddled. He looked around, distant. The figures were still far off, motionless, but why… did they seem somehow closer?

He took a deep breath, coughing up the blood he had swallowed, and removed his hand from his throbbing left eye. His ear had stopped trembling… — Why?. Simon gripped the fishing rod with his free hand, both trembling. The fishing rod, stained with blood-red, no longer seemed as reliable as before.

He took a step forward. The hooded figures seemed to recede. Another step. The distance increased. — What was happening?

He stopped walking, his legs nearly giving out. His knees trembled. Simon forced himself to look around once more, trying to understand where he was and why the distance seemed so confusing…

The sight only confused him further…

The red sand around him seemed to breathe, as if it were alive. A great lung. No mouth, Simon realized, no throat, but somehow, it seemed to be laughing. Something grotesque and insane, sickly… Almost joyful.

Bubbles formed between the red grains, growing like boils — a purulent and contagious disease. It reminded Simon of the skin of people marked by the worst diseases. A bubble burst, releasing a yellowish pus that nearly made him vomit, mixed with a rotting blood, not brown, but crimson.

His breathing became even more labored. He could barely inhale, the blood falling from the sky invading his mouth, choking him. Simon groaned, confused. — The yellow hat on his head… It shouldn’t be blocking the rain?

The thought made him stop. He raised his hand to his head and touched strands of wet, sticky, tangled hair stained with blood. He looked around desperately. — Where is the boy’s hat?… He can’t lose it, it’s important!

Everything around him was red, the purest crimson. From the sand beneath his feet to the houses and the port in the distance. Everything was blood-red… Everything was strangely visible, bright, as if it were day.

A movement in the distance made Simon turn his head, which made his neck ache — everything hurt. The green-skinned monsters had started to move, trembling in silence, as if they could barely wait to tear him apart right there.

The hooded figures, one by one, also began to move. Not in his direction, nor in any specific direction, but staying in the same place. Each one swayed back and forth, like the pendulum of an old, fancy wall clock.

The movement made Simon’s already throbbing head ache even more. His eyes seemed too large for their sockets, and his blood too fierce for such an old and tired body… He couldn’t hold it back and vomited…

Simon wanted to sleep, but knew the pain wouldn’t leave. Nor the fear, the terror, or the blood… The sound of tears falling from the sky was cruel…

In a disordered manner, without coordination, the hooded figures swayed back and forth. Some faster, some slower, but all had one thing in common: their arms outstretched, almost in prayer.

They didn’t sing, they didn’t pray, but it seemed like they did. Their movement slowly began to synchronize, everyone moving as one being, following the same rhythm. Simon could somehow feel the joy that seemed to emanate from their bodies, an euphoria that filled the air.

With each sway, the air felt heavier, laden with a foul and malevolent presence, something cruel and nauseating. Simon tried to move, despite the fear and terror he felt, a last instinct, his body moving on its own in an attempt to stop whatever the hooded figures were doing.

A final and fragile attempt at survival… A thin and fragile thread of light that lasted only a short while before being swallowed by a cruel and dark storm of blood.

On his first step, Simon’s legs gave out. His feet sank partially into the wet sand, almost as if it were trying to consume him. The blood seemed to stick to his body, viscous like sap. He would have fallen face-first into the sand if not for his reflex to use the fishing rod as an improvised crutch, holding him up on his knees.

Simon looked with trembling, swollen eyes from crying, red and fearful, at the scene before him.

One by one, each of those green-skinned monsters extended their arms forward and cupped their hands together, which quickly filled with the blood falling from the sky. As their hands began to overflow, the warm, thick liquid spilled through their fingers and down the sides of their wrists, and they brought their hands to their heads.

All at once, they began to pour the blood they had collected into their empty eye sockets, only stopping when the blood started to flow from the corners of their eyes like red, distorted tears.

It was like a macabre painting, and in a completely twisted way, beautiful in a sickening manner. Painted in blood, with blood, on a canvas already drenched in blood.

Then, as one, they moved again, extending their hands forward in a similar but different gesture. All of them intertwined their fingers in a strangely gentle way for monsters Simon had seen act so beastly.

At the same time, once more, they brought their hands to their faces, covering their blood-dripping eye sockets as if they were blindfolds. They trembled, Simon realized with the little sanity he had left, not in haste to tear him apart, but in fear.

… Those things were as terrified as Simon himself.

Then they fell to their knees, their bodies bending into a frightened position, almost as if begging for mercy. They pressed their faces to the ground, their bodies completely folded like servants. None lifted their heads, none moved, except for the slight and terrified tremors in their bodies…

They did not dare.

At the same time, the hooded figures stopped their slow swaying, standing straight like arrows, motionless as statues. As one being, they brought their hands to the hoods covering their heads, gently removing them, slowly and methodically, as if fearing to hurt themselves for some reason…

Simon began to cry at the sight that followed, his face trembling and twisted into an expression of sadness and terror, the face of an old man who was sure he wasn’t dreaming, so only one option remained…

… He was in hell.

Underneath the hoods of the hooded figures, their faces were no longer faces. Gigantic and nauseating eyes covered their entire faces. Some, the smaller ones, were the size of apples, distorting bones and skin, noses and mouths, like growing fungi, cross-eyed and crooked.

Others were large enough to begin touching and merging. Two eyes became one, two pupils fused into one, exuding a dizzying happiness. They were all joyful. They were all in celebration.

Finally, the leader, or what seemed to be the leader, the figure at the front. There was nothing above their neck; their entire head had disappeared completely. It was impossible to tell, from the face, whether that Terrarian had been a man or a woman… If they had been anything at all…

Only a single massive eyeball existed there, pulsating joyfully. Its red pupil somehow seemed almost to curve upward in a gentle and ecstatic smile…

They brought their hands together in front of their chests, the left covered by the right, as if representing a single being, a single eye, in a gesture of prayer. All fell to their knees and turned what was above their necks upward… Then, they prayed.

There was no sound, no words, nothing. But to any observer, anyone who was there to witness this macabre, sickening, distorted, and repugnant scene, it would be clear that they were praying with fervor…

… And Simon did the same.

The old man turned, dragging his body and arms slowly, until he faced the sea. The waters were no longer blue; the blood had taken over everything… Everything and everyone… As was his right.

The rain continued to fall, while the tens of thousands of eyes above, in the clouds, wept with joy, as one. The dark clouds covered almost everything above… Except for a single gap, where the full and bright moon was visible… Completely red.

Simon smiled, a relieved and joyful smile, finally understanding why his right ear had stopped twitching. There was no danger. There never had been… There never had been…

He just needed to step outside and take a long, soothing bath in the red moonlight…

The old man bowed, his hands joined in the same gesture as the hooded figures. He did not speak, for words were unnecessary. Just his gaze was enough, his eyes… which now floated beside his head, swaying rhythmically, like two pendulums, which one day, with blessing, might become one.

The blood moon shone… A tear of blood, streaming down as a sign of joy for all those who were there with it, slowly descending, as if it were the immense eye of the sky…

‘Drip…’

Then, a second and final tear, a gentle farewell, meant for all who, unfortunately, could not witness its grace…

‘Drop…’

And then, everything fell silent… Everyone continued praying…

…

…

…

[Simon, The Angler was slain…]

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