RWBY-The Path of Ascendance

"I'm sorry, Miss Schnee, but I don't think it is possible for me to fulfill your request," Professor Doctor Oobleck said, his voice jittery but measured, as was his usual manner.

His attire, however, left much to be desired. A white shirt half-tucked into dark-green pants with a raised collar that revealed a slack yellow tie. Mismatched brown and black shoes peeked out from under the desk, and his round, opaque glasses seemed to further obscure his perpetually disheveled appearance.

Oh, the possibility is certainly there, Professor. She maintained a serene expression despite her thoughts.

It's merely that my arguments have failed to sway you.

Still, his lack of outward decorum didn't diminish her respect for him. Professor Oobleck was a peer of intellect, someone worthy of esteem despite his… eccentricities. Weiss offered him a polite nod instead of pressing the matter further, allowing decorum to prevail.

"I understand completely, Professor."

She did not, and the admission grated against her pride, but let it never be said that Weiss Schnee lacked control over her emotions. 

Sure, maybe not always, she reflected, recalling her rather ungracious behavior during the early days of team formation. Her distaste over Ruby being assigned as team leader had been palpable, even embarrassing in hindsight. But mistakes were meant to be corrected. Learning, adapting, and improving—that was the true path of the enlightened, not stubbornly clinging to the illusion of perfection.

Winter had taught her that.

Weiss's lips softened into the faintest of smiles as she remembered one of her sister's lessons. It had been after a grueling fencing match, Winter effortlessly disarming her for the fifth time that evening. She'd told Weiss, 

"Perfection isn't about never faltering, little snowflake. It's about finding grace in the recovery." Her sister's hand had rested briefly on her shoulder then, steady and reassuring, as though anchoring her to that truth.

She missed Winter.

It had been barely half a month since her arrival at Beacon Academy, and already Weiss longed for her older sister's guidance. Not that Winter had been particularly present in recent years. 

As a specialist in the Atlesian military, Winter's duties took her across Remnant, leaving little time for familial visits. And yet, Weiss had always managed to send her letters, thanks to someone within the Schnee Dust Company ensuring their timely delivery.

The rare times Winter had returned home, it had always been under the guise of official business. General Ironwood and his senior staff often worked closely with Weiss's father, a connection Jacques Schnee never missed an opportunity to flaunt.

"A testament to our family's influence," he would say, his tone dripping with the kind of smug satisfaction that turned Weiss's stomach.

His sycophants would nod along eagerly, their jowls jiggling with every exaggerated movement. Promotions, raises, patronage—their desperation for favor was as pathetic as it was transparent. But none of them realized that they weren't the ones manipulating Jacques Schnee. No, their eagerness only fueled his control.

And Father wouldn't have it any other way, Weiss thought grimly.

"Miss Schnee, I understand your reasoning, and I can see you've put a great deal of thought into this proposal, but..."

Oobleck trailed off, his tone conciliatory yet firm. Weiss remained silent, watching the professor pace in his usual erratic fashion. It seemed he'd mistaken her quiet demeanor for disapproval, despite her earlier assurances. She considered clarifying that she had simply been lost in thought but dismissed the idea just as quickly.

 Interrupting a professor mid-sentence would hardly be appropriate, and besides, she wasn't about to undermine her own argument by appearing impatient.

"...I cannot, in good faith, exempt you from the melee weapons class and assign you to self-study," he continued. His voice quickened, as though propelled by the likely lethal amount of caffeine coursing through him.

 "You have made it abundantly clear that you consider Myrtenaster to be the be-all and end-all of close-combat weaponry for yourself, and that you have no intention of altering or modifying its functions in any significant way. I respect that, truly. It's a remarkable weapon, perfectly tailored to your fighting style."

Weiss inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment, though her posture remained poised and expectant.

"I also understand," Oobleck pressed on, "that your particular combat style is unique and thus not as easily enriched by the demonstrations provided in class. It is true that, given your skills and specialization, you may not benefit as much as your peers from the standard curriculum. And yes," he added, adjusting his glasses with a twitch, "Miss Goodwitch's course does cover huntsman-versus-huntsman combat extensively, so I shall not rely on the argument of opponent diversity..."

He paused, his rapid delivery halting just long enough to meet her gaze.

She nodded inwardly, satisfied that he had at least grasped the crux of her argument—what others might crassly (but not falsely) call the uselessness of this particular class to her in particular. 

It was only logical, after all, for her to focus her time and energy on pursuits that would yield the greatest improvement in her abilities and knowledge.

There were few things in this world Weiss truly believed defined her. Wielding Myrtenaster was foremost among them. The rapier was an extension of her very soul—a paradox of simplicity and complexity, ferocity and elegance. It demanded unwavering practice, patience, and precision. Every moment she spent with it in hand was a moment dedicated to perfecting herself.

And yet, Oobleck showed no signs of finishing his rebuttal.

"Alas, Miss Schnee," he continued, his words gathering momentum like a rolling avalanche, "as your sharp intellect has no doubt already surmised, there is a fundamental flaw in your reasoning..."

Weiss maintained her composed expression, though inwardly she braced herself. She most certainly did not frown.

"The opinions you've presented," Oobleck pressed on, adjusting his glasses with a flick of his wrist, "may, in my humble estimation, be rooted in a simple lack of experience in the field."

This time, she did frown, though she bit her tongue as Professor Oobleck continued to explain why, in his learned opinion, he knew better. To his credit, he most likely did. He was, after all, a distinguished professor. But it still stung to be regarded as a child—not just incapable of making the right decisions, but apparently blind to even recognizing the proper path forward.

It didn't help that Oobleck seemed to see right through her thoughts.

"Ah, worry not, Miss Schnee," he said with a reassuring wave of his hand. "I assure you, I will make a concerted effort to guide you toward..."

Oobleck's words trailed off abruptly, and Weiss's sharp ears caught the sound of the classroom door opening behind her.

"Ah, hello there, young man," the professor greeted with his usual brisk cheer.

Weiss turned her head slightly, curious despite herself. Could it already be time for the class to begin? That seemed unlikely. 

As this was technically a combat class, students were required to first stop by the armory to gather their equipment. She herself had rushed through the halls to ensure her conversation wouldn't be interrupted.

It seemed someone else had a similar idea.

The frown threatened to creep back onto her face, but she quickly suppressed it. It wasn't this person's fault; the fault lay with her for taking too long with her discussion.

She turned around, intending to offer a polite acknowledgment, but her slight annoyance gave way to confusion. It was the transfer student—the one who had caused such a commotion earlier.

His fight had been interesting, she couldn't deny that. She had even entertained the thought that he might be more intelligent than he initially appeared. However, those musings quickly evaporated as she took in his current state.

Either misinformed, inattentive, or simply suffering from the peculiar brand of stupidity that seemed to plague far too many teenage boys, Weiss thought, suppressing a sigh.

Why? Because he wasn't even equipped with his combat gear. Not a weapon, not a single protective item in sight.

Truly, the height of impropriety.