The ship swayed gently as I settled into my seat.
The turbines hummed steadily, almost hypnotically.
Outside, the sky was a blend of gray and white, thick clouds blanketing everything as if the world itself wanted to hide Mistral.
Mistral was a dangerous place, except for the capital, of course. There, thousands of hunters, well-trained guards, and a vast array of weapons and protective systems ensured the city was virtually impenetrable.
But outside the capital... the contrast was staggering. Poor roads, isolated villages, and a scarcity of guards made any journey feel like a risky gamble. Grimm roamed the forests and mountains fearlessly, while bandits lurked around every corner.
It was eerily similar to Atlas and Mantle.
My father should have come with me, but he ended up leaving ahead of me, saying only:
"Whitley, my presence is required in the capital. The opening of the mining operation will be the perfect occasion to introduce my future heir to the world—and you'll be safe with the guards I've chosen."
I think he wants to make some kind of grand entrance for me.
It was typical of him: always above trivial concerns, as if only he possessed the complete vision of the situation.
Inside the Bullhead, besides myself, were a few guards assigned to protect me during my arrival in Mistral's capital.
The radio crackled, cutting through the constant hum of the turbines.
"Mr. Schnee, we have an unidentified traffic message," one of the guards said, frowning.
The sudden static from the radio startled me.
The voice that came through was calm, feminine, and almost cordial.
"Nave Schnee, this is Mistral Transport Control. Please divert to Landing Point Bravo. The main runway is temporarily unavailable due to... technical issues. Repeating, divert to Bravo."
The pilot exchanged quick glances with the guards, then nodded and began adjusting the course. The ship gently banked to the left, and the turbines shifted to a higher pitch.
"Understood, Mistral Control. Changing course to Bravo Point," the co-pilot replied over the radio.
A detour. Great.
I thought it was something important.
I almost shit myself for nothing. But then again, with these White Fang attacks happening, who wouldn't be tense?
I swear I saw a decapitated doll on TV with "Schnee" written on it.
It was fine to be angry with my father, but the name on the doll hadn't been Jacques Schnee...
Just Schnee.
The journey continued in silence for a few minutes.
The guards spoke in hushed tones, their voices muffled by the engines. I stared out the window—clouds, clouds, and more clouds. Nothing but white and gray.
We wouldn't be long now; we were already halfway to Bravo Point.
"Mr. Schnee, initiating descent. Please remain seated," the pilot announced.
The ship began to slowly lose altitude, piercing through the thick layer of clouds.
Soon, Mistral came into view—jagged mountains and deep valleys.
The wind buffeted the aircraft's wings, causing the entire hull to vibrate.
Bravo Point's runway was small, barely long enough for a cargo ship, but our private Bullhead made it seem even larger than it was.
The roar of the turbines gradually faded as we descended, until it became a distant hum.
"We've arrived, sir."
The guards began to rise, checking their weapons and opening the side compartment to disembark.
I looked out the window.
No ground crew. No transport vehicles.
Nothing.
Not even the landing lights were on.
One of the guards muttered, "Strange... they should have sent a team to greet him."
Another tried contacting the tower by radio, but only static came through.
The pilot frowned, looking around.
"Mr. Schnee, stay inside. We'll check the perimeter."
"Of course, check as you wish," I replied, trying to remain calm—but my hands were ice-cold.
They descended the ramp with their weapons drawn.
I waited a moment, a minute, two...
BANG! BANG! BANG!
As the bravest man on the ship, I dove under the chair and hunched my shoulders.
Shit, shit, shit...
More shots. Screams.
This continued for a few minutes until I heard the metallic clang of someone banging on the fuselage.
Then, silence.
Too much silence.
I swallowed hard. The echo of my own breathing seemed deafening in the confined space.
I slowly crawled toward one of the small cabin windows, trying not to make a sound.
Through the fogged glass, I saw only smoke... and then, something more.
Two bodies—motionless, sprawled on the floor, staining it crimson—were my guards.
My stomach churned.
GULP!
That sound was me trying to suppress the urge to vomit. Trying.
Then I heard heavy footsteps climbing the ramp.
CLANG!
Something struck the external lock of the door.
Again.
And again.
The sound echoed through the metal hull—CLANG, CLANG, CRACK!—until the metal gave way.
A hiss filled the air. The hatch began to slide open slowly, opening on its own.
No response. Only the low hum of the door and the cold wind seeping through the gap.
Before it could open fully, I threw myself back under the cockpit and clamped my hands over my mouth.
My heart was pounding so hard it felt like the ship's engine had restarted.
"Three guards in total... to protect a small Bullhead..."
The voice was hoarse, weary—but furious. It was the same voice from the radio...
"We lost one of our own in this operation, and for not a single speck of Dust! Can you believe it? A Schnee ship without DUST?!"
The sound of boots clanging on metal echoed through the ship.
I could see their shadows stretching across the floor... and for a moment, I wished my heart would stop beating just to avoid making any noise.
"How are we going to explain to Adam that when we finally got a Schnee Bullhead, it was a convoy with only three guards?!"
Adam?
The White Fang terrorist?
The guy who appeared in the newspaper holding that damned decapitated doll? No... What were the chances?
"And who the hell came to this damn ambush wearing lemon cologne?!"
Oh, heavens... I'm so dead.
Damn you, Klein, for making me smell so good.
"I swear I'll shoot anyone wearing this garbage right in the head...!!!" She paused for a few seconds, as if sensing the scent was coming from the cabin.
The moment I heard a footstep approaching, I stood up and raised my hands.
"G- gentlemen?" I whimpered, my voice trembling.
I took a good look at them and realised that, in addition to pointing their weapons at me, they were wearing Grimm masks.
Great, it really is the White Fang.
This made me sweat even more, but as long as they don't recognize me as a Schnee, I think I should be okay. They wouldn't kill a child, right?
"Is that a Schnee?" one of them asked, a mix of curiosity and anger in his voice.
"Let me shoot!" another shouted.
"No! I saw him first!" the third yelled.
Okay, this plan has completely fallen apart.
"My name is Whitley Schnee," I said. "I'm sure my father would be more than happy to give you a generous amount of Dust in ex-"
"I KNEW YOU WERE A SCHNEE!" one of them bellowed, as if he'd won a contest.
"I SAID I'D SHOOT FIRST!" the other roared, already raising his weapon.
I froze. I opened my mouth to say something clever, something that would prevent the shot, something that would prove I was more useful alive... but all that came out was:
"W-wait—!"
My elbow slammed into the navigation panel right in the middle of my desperate panic.
The button was large, red, and absolutely forbidden—so, of course, I pressed it.
Then came the BEEP.
That infernal BEEP.
The control panel lit up like a fireworks festival. The turbines let out a heavy, deep WHUM, full of bad news.
The nearest White Fang member shouted, "WHAT DID YOU DO?!"
I didn't have time to answer because the ship lurched forward as if it had been kicked by a Grimm Leviathan.
The ramp was still partially open, and with the sudden force, it transformed into a deadly catapult.
One of the White Fang members was flung out with a scream that was swallowed by the wind before fading into nothingness.
The other tried to hold on, but his grip slipped on the metal. He slammed his shoulder against the edge, cursed all the Schnees' ancestors, but ultimately met the same fate, vanishing into the void.
All I heard was:
"AAAAAAAAAAAA-AA!!!"
And then, silence.
Silence and the desperate roar of the crazed turbines.
I clung to my seat, or tried to, as the Bullhead hurtled aimlessly, bucking like a possessed bull. The floor vanished and reappeared before me as the Bullhead flipped sideways.
And then—
KRAMMMM-M!!
The impact hurled us around like rag dolls.
The Bullhead crashed into the ground, skidding, spinning, and rolling once, twice, three times—the world twisted with it, everything a dizzying blur—until it finally came to rest on its side, half-destroyed and half-buried in the earth, its hull groaning as if protesting its continued existence.
I coughed up blood, disoriented, struggling to distinguish the ceiling from the floor. The acrid smoke stung my eyes.
And then—CLANG!
The sound of the rear door being forced open.
Her.
The woman from the radio.
The eccentric who hates lemon cologne.
The only one who hadn't been hurled away.
She appeared in the cabin entrance, staggering, bleeding, but brimming with raw fury. Her eyes fell on a crushed body on the ramp—one of her companions.
Her expression froze.
Then melted into pure hatred.
"YOU KILLED HIM!"
"Technically, it was gravity!" I blurted out, because my brain clearly doesn't know how to choose appropriate phrases when facing imminent death.
She raised the gun at me.
I threw myself sideways, slamming into the control panel. The ship lurched with the sudden movement, and—CRACK!—the gun slipped from her hand, bouncing across the slanted cabin floor.
For a moment, everything stopped.
The gun slid slowly, spinning, until it came to rest right between us.
Silence.
Eyes locked.
The distant creak of metal, wind whistling through the holes in the fuselage, our ragged breaths filling the space.
It was as if the universe itself held its breath.
I lunged forward at the same moment she swooped down like a hungry hawk.
My feet lost traction on the mangled metal, and I crashed to my knees, but my hands still brushed against the gun's handle.
She fell on top of me like an avalanche.
The impact ripped a groan from my throat. The cabin rocked under our weight, creaking as if it might collapse at any moment. The White Fang woman jammed her knee into my stomach, and I gasped for air.
"Stay away from the gun!" she snarled, trying to wrench it from my fingers.
But I was driven by panic, desperation, and pure survival instinct. I gripped the handle as if it were the only thing keeping me from becoming another corpse like the guards.
She pressed her knee harder, crushing my lungs.
I tried to shove her off with my elbow, but that only made her angrier.
"You'll pay for what you've done!"
"I— I didn't even do anything!" My voice came out thin, almost a squeak.
She pulled the gun again, and its weight forced my arm down. The weapon twisted sideways, the barrel passing between us and pointing in a random, unsafe direction.
My fingers slipped on the sweat.
The cold metal vibrated in my hand.
And I felt it.
I felt my finger brush against the trigger.
BANG!
The gunshot exploded between us like thunder trapped inside the cabin.
The recoil slammed my wrist against the floor. She froze for half a second, surprised, her body still pressed against mine. I froze too, breathless, not knowing where the bullet had gone.
The acrid smell of Dust filled the air.
She froze and stared at me.
"Y-you son of a... bitch...!" she gasped, collapsing onto me.
Dead.
I rolled to the side.
And vomited everything I had—and everything I didn't:
BLEEEEEH!— HEGHH!— BLEEEGH!