Morning sunlight bathed the cliffside, but the air was thick with anticipation. The platform buzzed with energy as students lined up, waiting for their initiation instructions. Jaune stood among them, trying to ignore the nervous pressure building under his skin. A pressure—heat rising beneath his skin.
The wind tugged at Jaune's hoodie, the launch pad thrummed beneath his boots, metal vibrating like a held breath. Ahead, the Emerald Forest stretched toward the horizon, wild and waiting.
The others were already in place.
Weiss stood poised with cold elegance, blade drawn and gleaming in the morning sun.
Blake moved with quiet precision, her eyes flicking between trees and students.
Ruby bounced on her heels, trying not to fidget—though her gaze kept darting toward him.
Yang stood tall, arms folded, hips cocked. Her posture was casual, but her eyes were calculating impact angles.
And Pyrrha.
Shield strapped to her arm, she stood near the edge, spear resting lightly in one hand. Her green eyes—storm-washed jade—found his, and softened.
A voice like a whip cracked the air.
"Mr. Arc."
Headmistress Glynda Goodwitch, heels ticking sharp across the stone. "Fashionably late, I see. Let's hope this isn't the beginning of a trend."
Jaune blinked, caught off guard. "Late? I—I thought initiation was today."
A pause.
Her eyes narrowed.
"It is. But your name was scheduled for the first wave. That was days ago." Her frown deepened.
His heart dropped. "I... I didn't know that. I just... showed up when they told me."
Restraining visible irritation, Glynda exhaled slowly. "Let's hope this isn't indicative of your future attendance record."
Then she glanced down—and her lips thinned.
"And I suppose you also forgot your weapon?" she asked, her tone a blade wrapped in disappointment. "Mr. Arc, not only are you late, but you're the only one on this launch pad without a weapon. That's not just unorthodox for a boy, that's unthinkable for a Huntsman."
Ruby's face fell, silver eyes snapping to his empty hands. A gasp ripped from her body.
"He—he doesn't have a weapon?!" she whisper-shouted, the disbelief cracking through her voice.
Her fingers jerked toward the latch on her back—instinctively—metal folding and clicking as her weapon sprang open into a scythe twice her size. Hand tightening on the grip, her scrutiny leapt from his hands to his face. Confusion radiated off her stunned face.
No weapon. No shape. No story. Her stomach twisted.
Yang's brows rose—half amused, half concerned. She stepped forward just a pace, the tilt of her shoulders tightening. Her mouth stayed shut, but her attention locked sharp on him.
Weiss scoffed, cutting her voice low. "Figures. Can't even be bothered to come prepared. Typical."
Blake said nothing—but her amber gaze narrowed, trying to read him like a page with missing lines.
Meanwhile, Pyrrha's fingers clenched around her spear. Her stance adjusted subtly, weight shifting toward him. A reflex. A protective one.
Jaune flushed. All eyes pressed on him. Each one burned.
He was already making a very bad impression, to the Headmistress no less. What was he supposed to say?
'I don't even remember if I ever had one? '
"I… forgot?" he offered, voice weak. "I wasn't sure what kind to bring."
The lie sagged in the air—flimsy, and trembling.
Glynda's eyes hardened.
"This isn't daycare, Mr. Arc. This is a live combat trial. No preparation. No weapon. No sense, apparently."
Her voice snapped like a branch.
"That's not just irresponsible—it's dangerous. And you, of all people, should know the kind of burden a male student carries at this academy. Without a weapon, you're not just an outlier. You're a liability."
"You will not be participating," Glynda continued coldly. "I will personally review your application once we're done here."
The words hit like a blow to the chest. Humiliation crawled under his skin. But worse than the shame—was the way he knew she was right. And still… he couldn't step back. Not now.
"I didn't come here to fail," Jaune said suddenly—his voice raw, the words tearing from his chest. "Please. I didn't come this far just to be sent back. I want this. I need this. I know how it looks. But I'm not asking for special treatment. Just... let me try. Let me prove I belong here."
He swallowed.
"Please."
The air on the platform tightened, a fellow spectator waiting for the inevitable crescendo
Glynda's mouth opened—but another sound interrupted.
Tap.
A soft, deliberate knock of wood on stone. Measured. Inevitable.
Professor Ozpin stepped forward .
He approached without hurry. A phantom in daylight. His cane tapped again, echoing against the arrested air.
Placing himself between Glynda and Jaune, his gaze lingered on the boy.
And Jaune felt it—again.
The moment warped. Morning light bent—slanting too far, too still: that creeping dissonance in the shape of a man followed by flash. A throne of black glass. Electrum firelight with no shadow. Time pausing just long enough to ask who you really were.
Jaune's Aura surged painfully behind his eyes—bright, wild gold.
He bit it down. Hard. The heat turned cold.
Ozpin smiled faintly.
"Mr. Arc," he said mildly. "It seems you've already made an impression."
Jaune tried to answer—but his voice caught in his throat. Ozpin's gaze unblinking.
Then, with a dry rasp: "I just want a chance. I need this."
Ozpin studied him a moment longer.
"Let him go." Ozpin spoke softly, almost amused.
Glynda turned, aghast. "You can't be serious. Professor, this isn't regulation. He's unarmed—unfit—"
Ozpin raised his cane, the line drawn with finality.
"And yet," the man said, "he is here. And that, at Beacon, has always meant something."
Glynda's lips pressed together. Her mouth worked silently for a moment. Then—biting off her fury—
"Very well," she snapped.. "But if he fails … it's on your head."
"I've borne worse," Ozpin deadpanned.
She flicked open her scroll. With a click and a hum, Jaune's platform powered up.
Around him, reactions shifted.
Ruby gave him a hesitant thumbs-up—hopeful, uncertain, like she wanted to believe in him but didn't know how.
Yang let out a breath and grinned, cocky but sincere. You're insane, it said. But maybe that's what it takes.
Weiss turned away, rigid. "This is absurd," she hissed. But her eyes—cold and sharp—lingered one heartbeat too long.
Blake leaned her head, catlike. A glint of curiosity passed through her yellow perusal. Then she turned back to the forest.
Pyrrha looked down, then back up again. Her fingers flexed over her shield. Then she shifted her stance. Not toward the forest. Toward him.
Jaune turned back to Ozpin. Swallowed the heat rising in his chest. "Thank you, sir."
But Ozpin's gaze lingered too long. Too deep.
And Jaune shivered.
'Why does he look at me like that?'
Glynda spoke again, voice snapping back into order.
"Now. I'm sure many of you have heard rumors about how teams are assigned."
Ozpin stepped forward, voice smooth.
"Each of you will be given teammates—today. And they will remain with you for the rest of your time at Beacon."
A ripple passed through the line. Tension bristled.
"The first person you make eye contact with after landing," Ozpin continued, "will be your partner for the next four years."
Murmurs swelled into a buzz.
Jaune didn't need to look around. He already knew. They were all hoping not to land near him.
Glynda stepped in again.
"After you've partnered, proceed to the northern end of the forest. There you will find opposition. Overcome it—or fail. Retrieve one of the relics from the temple and return here."
She paused.
Then looked at Jaune again. Direct. Unforgiving.
"And for the love of the gods—don't be late."
The platform vibrated beneath his boots. A rising swell.
No weapon. No memories. No safety net.
But Jaune inhaled. Held it.
The forest loomed, the waiting trees stretched toward the sky.
'I have no choice,' he thought. ' Whatever this is... whatever I am… it begins now.'
The platforms clicked.
The world held its breath
And the sky descended to meet him.
Wind brushed against his skin like roaring whispers.
The great trees surged upward, ancient and waiting.
Far below, the forest stretched like an open mouth. Sunlight scattered across the canopy in fractured shards—but to Jaune, everything was sharpening.
The wind no longer just roared. It threaded —curling, brushing, slicing past his limbs.
He felt the weight of sunlight on his skin. Heard the whip of distant wings. Smelled the moss and bark long before it should've been possible.
His heart didn't race.
A low pressure curled inside his chest. Coiled tight in recognition. Like some part of him had lived this moment before.
Then the drop hit.
A lurch in his gut.
Cold air. Cold Hands. Cold skin.
Pressure on his wrists. Limbs twisted the wrong way. Metal hissing against raw flesh.
He didn't remember it.
It came like an old bruise—deep and ugly. A body memory. Instinct recoiling from something the mind had buried.
It hit fast. Ugly. Passed too quickly to process.
Then—
A jolt.
Something yanked at his throat.
A sharp snap of strain—
His hood, pinned mid-fall by a spear—nailed through fabric to the limb of a towering branch.
For a heartbeat, he hung midair—neck wrenching, lungs locked. But the cloth gave way instantly.
The hood tore.
He was too heavy.
Too much mass coiled beneath the skin, weight reinforced by something more than muscle.
The fabric shredded. Gravity reclaimed him. His fall never slowed.
The earth surged up to meet him.
Impact.
Shoulder first, Jaune tumbled. Bark and moss tore at his back. Pain bloomed through ribs and jaw. A pop in his shoulder—but not a break.
Not enough. Not enough to stop him.
He slid to a stop across the ground with a grunt, teeth clenched, and tried to push himself upright.
No visible Aura. No glowing dome. No protective shimmer.
His Aura didn't stop the damage.
It corrected it.
Deep beneath the skin, he felt it, alive and crawling. A thrum like blood turned molten—wet and warm and eager. Surging through marrow and tendon—rebuilding, reinforcing, adapting, faster than his thoughts could catch up. Rushing to stabilize the damage before he could even name it. Bruised tissue thickened. Loose joints re-braced. Bone grew —heavier, harder, more true .
No glow. No flash.
Just pain collapsing inward into structure.
It burned. But the drain was minimal. Contained.
Jaune lay there a moment, staring up through the shifting leaves. Dappled light danced overhead. Breath sharp, but not ragged.
Already, his body had been re-knitted.
He clenched his jaw. Sat up. Muscles twitching beneath skin still raw.
And high above—her spear still quivered, buried in the tree.
She had tried to catch him.
Jaune stayed seated, drawing in a long breath.
His palms were no longer scraped. His shoulder no longer ached. His ribs no longer throbbed.
The pain had dulled to something distant—not erased, but… resolved. Not a wound per se but a warning.
Dirt clung to his hoodie. Bits of bark clung to his sleeves. He brushed both away with slow, grounded movements. The moss was damp beneath him. The air cool. A thin trail of ants weaving past his knee.
Everything was sharper now.
He could hear birds shifting in the branches above—dozens of them. One took flight with a panicked flutter, and it startled him more than he wanted to admit. His eyes tracked the silhouette—every beat of its wings, every flick of the wind against his cheek.
Jaune's stomach twisted. What little he had known flew out the window. He didn't know what his body was anymore.
Not willing to deal with it at the moment, Jaune focused on the attempted interruption of his fall.
Pyrrha had tried to catch him. His gaze lifted again to the tree branch, where the spear no longer quivered.
He exhaled, slower this time.
They'd only just met. But she'd seen something—enough to act on, he guessed. Enough to throw a spear.
So he waited.
He pulled his knees up, resting his arms across them, eyes never leaving her spear. The forest stretched out around him, wild and chattering.
Every leaf, every creak, every gust of wind was a presence now. Not background noise—
All signals.
Then—absence.
A stillness crept in.
Something was wrong with the wind.
Not wrong as in danger. More like a gap in the rhythm of the world, subtle as a skipped beat in a song you didn't know you were humming.
The birds had gone quiet. The forest held its breath.
Jaune's head lifted slowly. Every nerve pulled taut. The hairs on his arms prickled.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps. Weight moving over soil with too much purpose. A slow, scraping in the underbrush. No scent of bird or beast—just rot. Wet iron. Oil on fire.
Something unnatural was approaching.
He rose without thought. Breath low. Shoulders braced. The ground felt wrong beneath his boots, like it wanted no part of what approached.
A guttural growl rolled through the brush.
The leaves parted.
A Beowolf.
Tall. Gaunt. Its frame a woven tangle of bone and blackened meat. Red eyes smoldered like dying coals. Its breath came in thick, ghost-white puffs—despite the spring air.
It didn't charge. Didn't howl.
It watched him.
Jaune didn't flinch.
His heart thudded once—just once—then steadied. The fear was there, buried in sinew. But something other had risen with it. Something older. Hungrier.
Another growl answered, unbidden, rumbling from deep in his throat.
The Beowolf… paused.
And Jaune stared back.
No twitch. No shimmer. Just eyes—changing.
Gold bled through his irises. The whites of his eyes darkened like ink soaking parchment. His body tensed—not in fear, but in assessment .
Each claw twitch. Each rib angle. The subtle drop in the rear leg—
Data.
Openings. Leverage. Tendons. Weakness. Opportunities.
He wasn't bracing for a fight.
He was lining up an execution.
Then he blinked, anyone does while in thought.
And that changed something.
The Beowolf faltered. The low growl stuttered. Its hackles raised… in confusion.
And in that strange, impossible moment of quiet—
The Beowolf lunged.
A blur of black muscle and teeth crashed forward.
Jaune barely had time to breathe.
His body moved. Not with grace. Not with training. Just survival.
He dropped low, twisting as claws cleaved the air above him. A tree trunk behind him exploded with the force of the missed strike. Bark and splinters rained across his shoulders.
With a spin, Jaune launched a fist into its exposed flank.
Crack.
The sound echoed through his bones. Not breaking—connecting. The Beowolf reeled, skidding half a step. It may have absorbed the impact, but it registered. That blow had landed.
But no blood followed. No crack of broken ribs. Just dark fur, swaying, breathless.
Then it came again. This time, slower. Stalking. Feet thudding over roots, claws gleaming. Animosity radiating off it like heat.
He tried to keep moving, backing toward a cluster of boulders— too slow.
Wham.
A claw slammed his ribs mid-turn. He cried out, rebounding off a boulder and into a tree with a leaf-rattling crash.
Blood seeped through his hoodie. Not gushing. His Aura hissed beneath the skin.
Damage. Stabilize. Seal.
It obeyed.
He rolled just as another strike shredded through where he'd been.
Jaune came up swinging. His punch connected, clean under the Grimm's jaw with a jarring smack.
Its head snapped back. It stumbled. But again—no real damage.
No blood. Just fury.
Jaune didn't retreat. He pressed the opening. Shoulder-slam. The Beowolf hit the tree.
Snarling, it caught his forearm.
Riiip.
Claws shredded through hoodie and skin. Jaune howled, grabbed the Grimm's wrist, twisted. Used its own weight to pivot—
Slam.
The beast crashed into the dirt. Jaune leapt atop it, fists raining down. One. Two. Three.
Then it kicked.
BOOM.
Jaune flew through the air like a ragdoll. His body hit a branch, then a trunk, then slid face-first into a nest of roots.
The world spun.
Blood. Dirt. Breathing.
Still conscious.
Groaning, he shifted to his knees, spitting red into the moss. The Beowolf was already rising. Hunched. Growling. So was he.
Jaune pushed up, staggering to his feet. Unsteady. Bleeding. One eye swollen.
Shoulder socketing back into place with a sickening pop.
The Grimm paused.
Stomping his foot into the ground, Jaune charged.
Claws and fists collided. Raw. Brutal. Wordless.
Jaune ducked a wide swipe, burying his fist into its gut. His shoulder twisted. Tendons screamed. But he kept going. Hit. Hit. Three. Four. Five.
The Beowolf caught his leg. He awkwardly stumbled. Blood sprayed.
It surged. Fangs sank into his arm.
"AHHHH—!"
With his free hand, he hammered punches into its skull.
CRACK. CRACK.
Jaune shoved a thumb in its glowing red eye. It let go with a yelp. He reeled back, panting.
Flesh tugged inward, his Aura scalded, furiously working beneath the surface. The pain was unbearable.
But beneath it—a thrum.
Clarity. Focus. Strategy.
'Claws retract after lunge. Ribs open during feints. Weight shifts before a leap. Target sternum. Blind side left.'
His own snarl rumbled again from his chest.
The Beowolf again hesitated. This wasn't prey.
They clashed again. Animals now. No form. Just instinct, survival and hate.
A wide swing split across his chest—four ragged lines.
Didn't matter.
Jaune rammed it, crashing them into a rock. Something cracked—bone or stone. His foot snapped out, hitting the Grimm's knee. Forcing it to drop.
He didn't stop .
Unrelenting, he hammered the beast in the jaw. In the throat. He drove fists upward—elbow, backfist, forearm.
The Beowolf bit, tearing . White daggers clamped around his left shoulder. The Beowulf thrashed its head, attempting to rip Jaune apart. It banged him into the ground—then hurled him.
He crashed into the ground. Rolled. Colliding into a boulder.
Pain howled through every nerve. Blood soaked through his clothes—but still, he rose. Muscle flexed unnaturally, his bones cracking back into place, with a loud crunch.
The Beowolf circled. Howling.
Jaune crouched, then exploded forward, meeting it mid-pounce. The sound they made was like wet granite. His elbow smashed into its neck. The Beowolf raked his thigh. They impacted into the dirt, thrashing. Mud. Blood. Bone.
Each Grimm blow staggered him. Every counter scraped seconds off his Aura.
Every part of him hurt. His legs—stiff. Fingers—torn. Aura—fading. He could feel the cost.
But his body wouldn't stop moving. His mind wouldn't stop calculating.
'Claw trajectory. Counter-rotation. Target sternum. Piercing not bludgeon.'
He needed a weapon. He needed to kill.
The Beowolf lunged again—mouth wide, claws slashing forward in a blur.
Jaune screamed—raised his arm—
SHHHRRK!
A sound like skin splitting. Bones grinding. Flesh turning inside out.
His arm changed.
From shoulder to wrist, his limb twisted, blackened. Veins surged and pulsed. Bone fractured and wove. The skin transformed in segments—revealing glinting obsidian layers threaded with golden strokes, glowing like fault-lines in volcanic glass.
The limb wasn't metal. It wasn't forged.
It was grown.
A jagged blade erupted forward, twice the length of his forearm, glistening with a slick, semi-organic sheen. The edge quivered with hunger. The whole thing breathed.
It didn't feel wielded.
It felt born.
The Beowolf's claw struck the blade—and shattered on impact.
Fragments flew as Jaune pivoted, driving his new limb straight into the Grimm's chest. Blade-first.
CHUKK!
The blade sank through the bone and black sinew of the Grimm's sternum.
Then— It morphed.
The tip forked open, splitting into serrated petals—like an atramentous flower blooming inside the creature's torso. The gold runes pulsed once.
Jaune ripped it sideways.
Black ichor geysered across the clearing. The Beowolf howled a horrible, gurgling shriek as it shrank backward.
Jaune advanced.
His arm—his blade —still thrummed. Slick with Grimm blood. The fissures along its surface pulsed with each beat of his heart, the glow of his Aura pulsing brighter.
It didn't feel like a weapon. It felt like a limb that had always been waiting.
The Beowolf collapsed. It didn't dissolve. It twitched. Tried to rise—feebly. Instinct still alive.
Jaune raised his blade, and brought it down.
THUD.
THUD.
THUD.
Until the twitching stopped. Until his face and chest were caked with Grimm gore. Until something inside him… quieted.
The forest didn't rush back in. The birds didn't return. The wind didn't blow.
Jaune stood alone in the stillness, his blade-arm lowered, trembling faintly under its own weight. Black chunks slid from its edge in slow, viscous drops—like time had congealed around him.
Each breath came ragged. Every sound was too loud. The blood on his tongue tasted realer than the world. Like the earth had turned slightly off-axis, and he was the only one who noticed.
Leaves drifted down like falling ash.
Not peace.
Just the moment after screaming, before you understand why you did.
His body throbbed. He could feel it now—his Aura had rerouted to produce this… blade arm. It wasn't protecting him exactly. It was rebuilding him.
Internal bleeding sealed. Torn muscles repaired. Vital systems prioritized.
Then superficial damage. Combined with the blade arm, his Aura must have been working overtime during the fight.
He looked down.
From shoulder to fingertips, his right arm remained in its monstrous state—an obsidian greatsword fused to flesh. Its surface shimmered stygian and aureate, its edge twitching faintly. The gold fissures along its ridges still pulsed in slow rhythm, like the embers not yet done burning.
It looked like a sword. But it breathed, a living thing.
Jaune flexed. The blade shifted—obedient. Listening as if to say: Yes. I'm here.
And then—with a thought—he let go.
The blade receded, folding back in on itself. Segments folded inward like reversing armor plates. Gold veins dimmed. Flesh flowed like wax returning to its mold.
Muscle re-mended. Bone recompressed. Skin reformed.
His hand returned—human again. Trembling faintly.
Even after the blade's retraction, a faint shimmer lingered beneath the skin. A hunger. Like the weapon was still watching, waiting to be needed again.
He stared at his palm.
'This was me.'
His hand. His flesh. His wrath.
He could still feel the blade's hunger echoing in his bones—not for food, not for blood, but for dark purpose.
It hadn't come in glory. It had come in desperation. Born to preserve by destroying.
He flexed his fingers again. Flesh now. Not… bone-metal . But it remembered. And so did he.
He looked down at the broken corpse of the Beowolf.
"I guess..." His voice came quiet. Rough. "This is my Semblance?"
But a thought flickered—deep, quiet, almost gentle. Not a revelation, a rationale:
'Of course it was a Semblance. A weapon forged from need. Aura made flesh. What else could it be?'
A purr of approval curled beneath his ribs.
He didn't know what disturbed him more—that the blade had come so easily… or that he'd welcomed it.
If this was supposed to be his Semblance, it didn't feel like a gift.
It hadn't… asked for permission. It simply answered a need, as breath fills lungs. Not as armor. Nor as a shield. But a weapon, born from uncontrollable fury. From him.
It had cut too easily. Killed too completely. As if it had always known how. As if he had always known how.
He flexed his bare hand again, watching the skin ripple faintly where the blade had been. Aura still pulsed underneath, quiet and dark. And somewhere beneath even that—it waited. Still tethered. Still watching.
Was that what power felt like?
Or just consent to be something he didn't understand yet?
But before he could think any more—
The Beowolf… began to leak.
Not light. Not dissolution.
Smoke. Darkness. Memory.
Its essence didn't scatter like it should—it bled toward him. Not drifting, but drawn. Pulled like ink across paper. It didn't coat him. It poured in.
Tendrils of vapor slithered into his palm.
Up his arm.
Down his throat.
Through his lungs.
Between his ribs.
Beneath the skin.
Into the marrow.
Like it knew him. Like it remembered.
He choked—without air. The smoke folded around his spine. It slithered between his organs. Nested behind his heart. Wound through his core.
It was more than he could hold.
For a heartbeat—longer—he thought he'd rupture from the inside. Muscles spasmed under pressure. Skin stretched tight. His ribs braced outward.
His whole frame pulsed—not with pain, but with surplus .
His heart slammed once. Then again. A beat too fast. Too strong. Too loud.
Then—shift.
His Aura pulled inward.
Like a second set of lungs, it drank deep, drawing in the biomass. Processing it. Converting it. Filtering rage and instinct into fuel. The excess streamed not only into flesh—but into something else.
What didn't fit in the body— fit in the soul.
He wasn't just healing. He was changing. It was in him. Not just mass—presence.
A howl without sound. Rage without form.
Bedlam without peace.
It depressed against the inside of his skull, a wail that had nowhere to go. A death not fully died.
He wasn't just growing stronger.
He was being written on.
His Aura tried to parse it. It shouldn't have worked.
And the truth struck him.
Every Grimm he killed this way would leave something behind.
Not just biomass—but a residue. A plangency. A splinter of what they were. Or what they hated. And those abrasions would root themselves within him.
He was a carrier now.
Of what, he wasn't sure.
And for just a flicker— he saw her.
A flicker, golden-night.
A woman—not his mother, not a memory—screaming. Fighting. Dying.
It wasn't his thought.
It was hers.
For a second, she was there. A flicker—light and dark. Standing in the clearing. Sword raised. Screaming. Then gone. Like a glitch in reality. Like the forest itself had blinked.
The pressure inverted. Heat became reverberance. Strain became clarity.
A new sonority sprouted in his chest and limbs—like distant static tuning itself into song.
His limbs flooded with restored strength. Scars mended without effort. Fractures fastened. Blood vessels sank beneath flawless skin.
But then his Aura hit its limit.
Jaune dropped to his knees, choking—
—and vomited .
Black. Thick. Sludge-like. Hot and vile. The excess biomass spilled from his mouth in thick streams. It struck the moss, sizzled, then evaporated—like Grimm should.
He coughed. Hacked. Strands of it clung to his lips.
Only then did the pressure ease. In its place—
Resonance.
Not just strength.
Remembrance.
He gasped for air. And for the first time—he felt full.
Not bloated. Not burdened.
Complete.
His Aura thrummed—dense, restored...
Smarter.
He rose in the silence. Heart steady. Breath in slow gulps.
Jaune stood alone again in the clearing.
He should've been afraid.
His Aura had filled too fast. Grimm mass invaded his body and… being. The vanished blade still pulsed through his arm like a phantom limb.
The atmosphere around him felt heavier now—like it recognized what he'd done.
But he wasn't afraid, not of this.
He felt… aligned.
Not calm. Not proud. Just… ready.
It was strange—accepting that this thing, this abomination, might be his Semblance.
Stranger still that he could believe it. It hadn't come from training or lineage. It had come from panic. Pain. Something deeper than Aura. And yet—it fit.
A puzzle piece he hadn't realized was missing.
Deep beneath the churn of Aura—beneath the calm clarity of survival—another voice coaxed. Not with words. Just certainty.
You were made for this.
It didn't feel intrusive. It felt like something he'd always known, but never dared say aloud.
That scared him more than the absorption.
Because far beneath the silence—something roused. Suckled.
Not hunger. Not fear. Alien.
Breathing. Changed. Alive.
The wind reversed—faint and wrong. Teeth were coming.
Jaune remained in the clearing, blood caked on his hoodie, as the forest yawned around him like a throat about to close. Shapes moved between trees. Red eyes emerged one by one—two, five, ten.
A pack of Beowolves.
They didn't so much as growl. They vibrated. The sound traveled through the roots beneath him, a subterranean bassline of hate and hunger. They circled, not feral or frenzied, but precise.
This wasn't just a hunt. It was a reckoning.
They had come for the thing that made the wound in their world. The one who took Grimm and didn't die.
Jaune didn't speak. He didn't posture. He simply lifted his arm—no command, no flourish, just will.
SHHHRRK. The Eibon Fang returned.
His flesh split like it missed the pain. Segments peeled back. Luminous-streaked tar surged outward, shaped by furious remembrance. It formed faster this time—longer, heavier, wicked near the base with a crescent hook. The whole limb flexed, breathing with him.
He exhaled through his nose. The pack advanced, circling around Jaune, caging him as if he was the wild animal.
Five to his left. Five to his right.
Jaune clicked his tongue.
He wasn't surrounded. He was centered.
The solid ground cracked beneath his boot, Jaune issuing his challenge.
An older will stirred behind his eyes, unfolding with ritual lucidity. It remembered the order of violence. The ceremony of conquest. The Beowolves would not rush. The world witnessed the first breath of the Wound upon the World, and knew to offer itself, one monster at a time, to the mouth that would feed.
They charged. Not wild. Not sloppy.
Coordinated.
The first sprinted at him—mouth open, claws outstretched. Jaune pivoted and lashed out. The blade unraveled into a whip of serrated obsidian, the edge flexing like a serpent's spine. It caught the Grimm under the jaw and peeled it open—not a clean slice, but rather; a detonation of bone and shrieking fur. The top half of its skull corkscrewed skyward, trailing mist.
He slipped through the blood.
Another came in low, claws sweeping for his legs. Jaune dropped with it, let the ache in his ribs guide his movement. The blade "reversed", and he stabbed down. The tip extended mid-strike, narrowing into a surgical spike. Straight through spine and soil. Fluid. Certain.
Two down.
The third struck from behind. No time to brace. It slammed him sideways into moss and stone. Air punched from his lungs. Claws dug into his chest—deep into his ribs.His Aura screamed and flared, repairing the damage in real time.
The Grimm bore down. Jaune twisted beneath it, the claws exiting with a tear, and swept the blade around at waist height. CRACK. The legs kneeled like a rotted log. He never saw where the top half landed.
Three.
He rose, panting, ribs aching. Another leapt from the side. He let it.
Then he ducked, spun, and brought the blade around like a crescent guillotine. Segments unfurled mid-motion, lashing through face, neck, chest. The Grimm collapsed in a disjointed pile.
Four.
The temperature suddenly dropped. He didn't look.
He reached above, muscle memory, and the blade formed a hook. It caught the Grimm midair and drove it hard into the dirt. The sound of its snapping spine becoming its death knell. Jaune stabbed down. No scream. No struggle.
Five.
Another darted in—smaller, faster, angled for a sneak attack. It cut across his back. Deeper. Sharp white pain lanced down his spine as Aura frantically rewove nerves. He staggered.
The blade twitched in his grip like it wanted revenge.
He let it have its vengeance.
Jaune ducked low, then sprang up like a trap. The blade shifted to a spike, driven straight through the Grimm's jaw and into its brain. It twitched violently
Jaune twisted the "hilt."
The blade bloomed.
Serrated petals erupted inside the skull. A pop of bone, a hiss of black. The Grimm collapsed, limp and brainless.
Six.
Snarling, another Beowulf leapt, jaws flinging spittle. Jaune rolled beneath it, but not cleanly. Nails raked down his human forearm, slicing real skin.
He spun with the pain, letting momentum turn into power. The blade snapped open into a chain-lash, and it whipped out horizontally. It struck the neck, a screaming saw blade. Pop. Spray. Collapse.
Seven.
As he was dealing with the seventh, the eighth pounced and missed. Jaune extended his arm, javelin-style. The blade launched forward, tethered by dark biomass. It missed the heart—but snagged the leg. The Grimm howled in agony.
He reeled it in. The body scraped through root and stone.
He met it halfway, jumped, and brought the blade down without mercy. Once. Twice. A third time—for certainty.
Eight.
He stood, swaying. Blood spilled. His Aura flickered like a dying bulb.
Two more remained. One limping, one whole. They circled again like jackals—watching his knees shake, waiting for him to drop.
He didn't.
Jaune lunged. A feint. A pause. Then he planted his feet and shoved his blade into the ground.
The obsidian cracked wide, splitting into fanged segments. With a jumping heave, Jaune flipped dirt into the air, underground roots snapping from the force. The dust cloud blinded the Grimm, causing them to scratch at their irritated eyes.
He chose the limping one. Charged.
Hearing his hurried steps, it slashed weakly at his arm. The small gash didn't matter.
The blade swung wide, segmenting mid-swing like a saw made of screaming. It tore the Grimm's head clean from its body.
Nine.
The last turned and bolted.
He didn't hesitate. Flicking his arm. The blade launched again—missed—but the tether caught a small tree.
With a flex of his shoulder, he yanked.
The tree groaned as it pulled from the ground and smashed into the Grimm, the Beowulf rolling back towards him.
Jaune tackled it mid-roll and pinned it. The roar he let out wasn't human. The blade came down—all bone-metal and fury and will.
Ten.
He rose slowly. Breath ragged. Limbs trembling. Everything inside him pulsed—not with strength—but with sheer effort. His Aura wasn't shielding him. It was feeding him, devouring itself to repair the torn muscles and gashes that littered his body.
Now it flickered—drained, hollow, clinging to the last threads.
He looked down.
Smoke leaked from the corpses.
Black ichor curled from their bodies, slow and deliberate. It drifted toward him, pulled by something deeper than instinct.
He didn't resist.
He opened himself—his mouth, his wounds, the raw socket where the Eibon Fang had receded.
The first breath burned like cold water in an empty stomach. The second crashed like a wave. His skin stretched. Lesions flared.
But this time, his body adapted. He wobbled, dropped to one knee, clenched his jaw, and held it together. No vomiting.
He owned it.
Another flicker behind his eyes. As Jaune began to figure, it wasn't actually light.
A Grimm's scream. Faceless soldiers begging. A dying man's plea to his mother. None of them were here. But their shadows were.
A Remnant Echo.
The surge came fast—then faded, settling into silence.
His mind stilled as the wounds vanished. His Aura coiled inward—not shining, but ready.
He looked down at his palm. Still flesh. Still whole.
Not a weapon.
A crucible.
'I can control this.'
But even as he thought it, the thing inside him smiled.
A fresh breeze stirred the clearing at last—cooler now, as if the world had exhaled with him.
Jaune stood alone again. Still. Waiting. His eyes flicked to the treetop.
Pyrrha's spear remained lodged in the bark. She hadn't come. Minutes slipped passed—maybe more—but he stayed rooted to the spot. Because she had thrown it. Because she'd tried. And he wasn't going to leave before she arriv—
A sound. Thin. Far. Like glass cracking in fog. Metal clashing. Shouting. A voice broke through the trees, frayed and raw: "I'm coming Jaune!"
It hit him like a gut punch. Pyrrha. She was fighting without her weapon.
He sprinted for the tree. Boots met wood with desperate determination, and Jaune didn't stop. Each step propelled him higher in irregular bursts, Aura bracing his muscles, forging strength where none should exist. The trunk blurred beneath him, every footfall flung splinters into the air behind him.
At the top, his fingers closed around the spear. Warm to the touch. Perfectly balanced, even amid chaos. Not just a weapon—her. He crouched, pivoted, and launched himself into the open air.
Wind shrieked past him in ribbons, dragging sweat from his skin. Branches whipped beneath him, melding into a brown smear. He didn't really aim for his leap. He trusted the arc.
A clearing came into view like a curtain parting for a stage on fire.
Pyrrha Nikos stood surrounded. Twelve Beowolves in motion, their snarls overlapping into a constant, grating chord. Two others already lay dead—one twitching, one dismembered—but the others moved with growing urgency, tightening the ring. And beyond them all—
The Alpha. Massive. Watching. Commanding.
But Pyrrha did not cower. Shield in hand, she ducked beneath a lunging claw and rose into a countering shield bash, the metal rim cracking into the Beowolf's nasal cavity. She spun, vibrant red hair sticking to her face—and drove her heeled boot into the gut of a second Grimm, sending it crashing into a third.
Stance reset, her flawless form remained immovable despite exhaustion. She was slowing. She was outnumbered. The circle was closing and she was fighting without her spear.
"PYRRHA!"
He threw it with all his might. It whistled through the air, parting through the leaves, a bat out of hell. Pyrrha turned. Not with her eyes, but her whole body—instinct twisting her around as if drawn to the weapon mid-flight like a magnet. Her hand snapped up.
CLANG.
Miló resounded into her palm like fate on a rail.
The change was immediate. Survival became war. In one fluid motion came a flourish, too fast to see. Sweeping down with an overhead slash, Pyrrha cleaved into the skull of the nearest Beowolf before its paws could hit the ground. With her other hand, she clicked a switch. The blade receded with a sequence of clacks. The rifle chamber slid open.
BANG.
The shot tore through a second Grimm's chest like a cannonball, blowing it open mid-lunge.
Jaune landed behind her, hitting the ground in a three-point crouch. His body jolted as the shock hit—muscles adjusting to the velocity of his descent. Then— a bark to his right. The next Beowolf switched its focus to Jaune. The Eibon Fang surged from his flesh with a wet hiss, snapping into position. He rose to meet its strike. The blade split the Grimm's neck clean. Ichor sprayed across his hoodie. It collapsed in a heap of split meat.
Another came. He turned—too slow. The blunt side of a claw bludgeoned across his ribs, knocking him sideways. He grunted, as the world tilted. Regaining his balance, the weight in his arm twitched.
"Left!"
Pyrrha's voice called, firm and sharp.
He turned—
BANG.
The shot blared inches from his ear. The Grimm behind him fell, a ragged hole through its throat.
After that, they moved together. Not smoothly. Not yet.
But Jaune let her lead.
She danced between enemies, shield deflecting strikes as they came. Her feet glided over gravel and blood. Her grip shifted with each pivot, Miló transforming itself in her hands, an extension of her thoughts.
Combat became control. Speed followed her like a tide of steel—and yet there was no combustion. No trace of assisted acceleration.
And yet she moved faster than should have been possible.
Jaune couldn't tell how.
But she was winning. And it was all he could do to keep up.
He pressed in when she opened space. Swung wide when she fired. Their eyes barely met—but every glance was a direction. Every shout was a signal.
"Duck!"
He dropped. Another shot blasted the air above him.
He surged into a full-body charge, shoulder-slamming one Grimm into a tree hard, causing it to crunch as it fell over. His blade carved a downward arc too wide. He missed. Overextended.
Pyrrha filled the gap.
She spun around him—rifle folding, spear emerging—and swept low.
Slash.
The Beowolf's knees buckled. It shrieked once, before hitting the ground.
Jaune stumbled back, gasping. His movements were too raw and sloppy. Every swing dragged a second behind. Every dodge lagged behind the danger.
But Pyrrha—
She had endless precision.
She reversed the haft mid-motion, catching a Grimm in the throat, before firing the chamber into its chest point-blank.
It didn't even scream.
But Jaune wasn't looking at that one anymore.
The Alpha moved.
Not fast—deliberate.
It ghosted between trees, its bulk moved with a silence no beast its size should've managed. Its hulking frame crouched low, stalking around the edge of the fight, letting its pack wear Pyrrha down.
Jaune's attention flicked toward it as the rhythm of the battle changed.
Pyrrha spun, her spear slicing two Beowolves in a perfect diagonal. Her stance still held. Her knees bent ready to spring. Her shoulders squared to keep her stance tight—but her back was turned.
She didn't see the Alpha moving behind her. Didn't hear the charge. A thought lanced from his chest like a siren. ' Protect her!'
"Pyrrha—!"
He didn't have time to think. No time to call out again. His spine locked with a chill.
The Fang trembled violently, small spurts of liquid decrying its ousting.
Its glow faded as it retracted. It forcefully coiled back into his arm, dismissed—and overwritten.
In its place, his left shoulder ruptured open in a spiral of pain and light. Jet metal-bone plates spiraled from his upper arm, curling forward in snaggy arcs, writhing mid-air like a wretched flower in full bloom. Pulsing in sync with his heart, molten-gold filaments flexed like muscle, wrapping inward until they locked into a curved crescent shield that flared just in time—
CLAAANG!
The Alpha's claws smashed into the construct with a screech of bone and metal. Sparks exploded. Jaune slid back on his heels, boots gouging the earth—but the Dark Aegis held. It didn't block cleanly. It fought. Plates tensed, grinding into each other with a rising whine. The outer rim bristled , and with a burst like a shoving spring, the edge flared outward —
CRACK!
The Alpha snarled and staggered back, slashed along the forearm.
Pyrrha turned, stunned. "Jaune—what…?"
Jaune blinked. He hadn't willed it to strike.
"Just fight!" he barked.
She launched forward, planting one foot on the angled ridge of the shield like a springboard. It held —solid as stone beneath her step. She vaulted clean over Jaune's shoulder, flipping over the Alpha's rabid head. Her spear transformed mid-flight, blade retracting, barrel exposed.
Two shots rang out in rapid succession. One scraped the Alpha's flank with a shallow line of impact. The other struck deep—just beneath the shoulder—tripping the beast sideways.
As Pyrrha landed behind it, with surgical precision, her body twisted mid-fall, and Miló's blade carved through the thick hide. The Alpha bellowed, wounded but not yet slowed.
Behind them, the rest of the pack heed their leader's call. Eight Beowolves, eyes glowing, mouths slavering with frenzy.
Jaune stepped between them and Pyrrha. The shield on his arm molded—plates adjusting, tightening muscle bracing for impact.
The first Grimm collided with him. The aegis flexed, absorbing the momentum with a metallic shudder. Jaune held firm. Then the edge of the shield surged outward, snapping into a forward curve. The force drove directly into the Beowolf's throat, flattening it in one clean motion. The creature choked, unable to cry out, and fell limp before it hit the ground.
Jaune didn't stop. He swiveled his weight, swinging the shield like a battering ram. It struck another beast square across the upper jaw with a heavy thud, sending it reeling into the underbrush.
He moved without finesse. There was no formal training in his footwork—just survival, just raw instinct.
A third Grimm barreled toward him. He stepped forward, catching it with a straight punch to the chin, snapping the creature's head sharply to the side.
From behind, Pyrrha's spear crackled as it shifted to rifle mode and fired again. The Grimm's eye collapsed inward, its body crumpling at his feet.
Another shoved in with its entire weight. Jaune took the hit on his right shoulder, felt the jolt through the bones. He bit back a curse and absorbed it, locking his legs.
But one darted past him—straight toward Pyrrha.
The bulwark reacted. The curved ridges along its outer shell flexed, and one of them launched forward like a spring-loaded spike. It punched into the beast's side mid-pounce, lifting it off the ground. The Beowolf shuddered, then slid down the length of the spike, motionless.
Pyrrha's head snapped toward the shield. Her eyes widened. The gold fibers across its surface had pulsed—mirroring her breath, like it had momentarily synced to her.
She didn't understand what it was.
But she trusted it.
Jaune turned, as the Grimm to his right shoulder rounded again. He leapt into a dodge. The claws swept past his ribs, narrowly missing skin. He caught himself, and arced his left shoulder—slamming into the creature and dragging it down with him. He pinned it beneath him, raised his arm, and drove his fist down.
Once.
Again.
A third time.
The skull caved beneath the weight of his blow. The beast stilled. His hands were slick with ichor.
Behind him came a bay as a larger Beowolf launched itself toward his back. He didn't have time to counter. He raised his arm and braced for the fangs—
The claws scraped uselessly off the shield, sliding down its curved face. The structure trembled slightly, adjusting itself to absorb and redirect the force.
Jaune exhaled through grit teeth. He could feel it now. This transformation—this defense—it didn't drain him like regeneration did. Not all at once. It consumed slowly, precisely. Like it was rationing energy.
It knew when to act and knew when to wait. Choosing its moments.
"Two incoming!" Pyrrha called.
She moved past him, grace unbroken. Her hair clung to her cheek. Her chest rose and fell with exertion, but her rhythm remained unbroken.
Thrusting Miló low, the first Grimm was snatched behind the knee. As it dropped, she twisted the haft, converted it into rifle mode mid-motion, and fired over her shoulder.
The second Beowolf jerked, popped clean through the eye. It collapsed without a sound.
The first tried to stand again.
She spun and drove the butt of her weapon into its skull, then dropped it like a nailed tent post.
The final Beowolves hesitated.
The Alpha moved again—this time with precision. Its focused charge, swift. No feint. No intimidation.
Pyrrha stepped forward. She didn't yield ground.
Her shield rose. Steel screamed. But the force was redirected. She stepped into the momentum, twirled under the Alpha's swing, and struck upward. Her spear found the gap beneath its ribs.
The Alpha yelped—but it didn't fall.
It spun, impossibly fast for something so massive, and its claws slashed in a wild backhand arc.
Jaune was already moving to its rear.
He lunged from behind and threw his arms around the Alpha's throat, locking an awkward hold. The enormous wing-like shield dug into the dirt. The beast thrashed—
"Now! "
Pyrrha reversed her grip, stepped twice, and drove Miló forward—burying the weapon in the Alpha's exposed chest.
Its body spasmed. A wet crunch echoed through the trees. The beast groaned, shivered—and collapsed.
Jaune fell with it, riding the beast to the ground, arms still locked around its neck until it stopped twitching.
The other Beowolves hesitated. One whimpered, tail low.
Another sniffed the air—and bolted. The last two followed, crashing through the trees without a second glance.
Without the Alpha, they were just creatures again. Driven by hunger. Stripped of purpose.
But Jaune and Pyrrha?
They had fought like more than that.
For a moment, there was no movement. Just the sound of Pyrrha recovering her breath.
The clearing was deathly still, as if even the forest held its breath. The shapes of retreating Grimm flickered at the edge of the underbrush, but nothing dared cross the threshold. Not anymore. Not after that.
Jaune stood there, unmoving.
The strange crescent construct still quivered slightly, edges humming like a bowstring waiting to snap. Small pulses of golden light continued to flicker along the inner ridges, fading with each heartbeat.
Pyrrha turned toward him slowly.
Their eyes met—her exhaustion clashing against the bewildering clarity in his gaze.
Jaune lowered his arm.
The shield twitched once, like a living creature reluctant to be dismissed. Then, piece by piece, it began to recede.
Bone slid over metal. Plates folded inward with a breathy hiss. Gold filaments snapped back like tensed nerves retreating into flesh. With a low, wet shift, the entire structure slithered into his shoulder, drawn back by instinct like an animal retreating to its den, and vanishing beneath the skin.
Where it had been, his shoulder pulsed faintly. Jagged scars of light traced along his collarbone—residue from something that didn't belong to any known Aura. And then, with one final flicker, they were gone.
He flexed his fingers. No pain. No damage. His Aura felt… untouched. Not even strained. He'd taken no real hits.
Between Pyrrha's precision and whatever the shield had become, he hadn't taken a single real hit.
Whatever that thing was—it hadn't just defended him .
It had defended her .
"Jaune…"
His name, spoken so softly, it barely disturbed the air.
He flinched and looked up, expecting the worst.
Pyrrha stood just a few feet away—staring at him. Her shield hung forgotten at her side. Her face was pale. Her lips parted, but no words came. Green eyes, wide and searching, swept over his frame. Not in awe. Not in triumph. But like she was watching someone come apart.
She wasn't looking at him.
She was looking at what he had become.
'Right.'
His heart sank.
The blade. The shield. The way his skin had reshaped, not molded like Dust constructs or Semblance tricks, but grotesque living muscle—alien and hungry. She'd seen everything.
The weight of her silence pressed in, heavy and choking.
He tried to stay still, tried to prepare himself for the moment it happened. The rejection. The flinch. The careful step back.
Jaune decided to get ahead of it.
"I get it," he said, voice rough. "You saw what I did. What I am. If… if you want to pretend we didn't make eye contact, that's fine. You don't have to be stuck with—"
"Jaune, you're hurt!"
He blinked. "...What?"
Pyrrha suddenly rushed forward, armor clinking softly as her pace quickened. The moment broke like a dam.
Her boots skidded slightly in the dirt, armor chiming faintly as she closed the distance. Her eyes were frantic now, scanning him from head to toe, stopping at the torn fabric clinging to his sides, the dark, dry stains blooming across his hoodie and jeans. Her voice pitched, strained.
"There's blood everywhere—gods, you're bleeding—your clothes are shredded—what were you thinking?!" She reached out, her fingers trembling as they hovered over a shredded line near his ribs. Her voice pitched higher, strained and cracking with guilt. "Why are you still standing? This is serious! We need to get you help—immediately—"
"I—Pyrrha, I'm okay—"
"No, you're not!" she snapped, the force of her voice startling even herself. "You're bleeding, you're trembling—your shirt's ruined—Jaune, your jeans —"
He followed her gaze. His jeans were slashed wide open along one thigh, darkened with old blood.
'Ah.'
He'd forgotten.
His body was fine. His clothes… not so much.
"Pyrrha," he interrupted, desperate. "Please. Just listen. I swear, I'm not—"
But Pyrrha wasn't listening. Her expression had twisted into raw guilt. "I should've gotten to you sooner," she whispered."If I'd caught up faster—if I'd had Miló—Jaune, this is my fault—"
He tried to speak, but she cut him off, panic gripping her being.
"I'll forfeit," she said suddenly, her tone wild with conviction. "If it gets you medical attention, I'll do it right now. Initiation be damned. I'll carry you myself—don't try to stop me—"
"Pyrrha!" he shouted, both hands raised. "Stop! Just—stop! Look at me!"
Her mouth hung open, breathing shallow and fast.
He stared at her, heart hammering. "I'm not bleeding."
She blinked.
"…What?"
He took a step forward, hands out like he was calming an animal. "I know how it looks," he said, voice quieter now, but firm. "But it's not real. The blood—it's old. Not mine… Ok a little sorta—but I don't need it! My Aura's untouched. I'm okay."
She stared at him like he was speaking another language.
"I know I look wrecked," he continued, gesturing to his torn sleeves, the gashes across his chest. "But please. Just check. See for yourself. Touch me!"
A pause.
Then her eyes flicked down—toward the long, jagged tear over his ribs.
Red bloomed across her cheeks. "Jaune, I—"
Her voice faltered, caught somewhere between an apology and disbelief. Her expression twisted—abashed, confused. But his eyes…
There was something in them. Too vulnerable to dismiss. Too sincere to mock. Whatever embarrassment she felt dimmed beneath the quiet warmth of his gaze. He wasn't smirking. He wasn't teasing. His look held no expectation. Only… trust.
Trust that she'd see him. That she'd believe him.
So she would try.
Reluctantly, Pyrrha stepped forward. Her armor creaked faintly as she moved, each step careful, hesitant. Her fingers shook as she reached out, hovering over the tear in his hoodie. She braced herself for the feel of torn flesh. Of trauma.
Then she touched him. Her fingertips brushed the edge of the slash, right where blood had darkened the fabric over his ribs.
But all she felt was skin. Warm and unbroken.
No wound. No pain beneath her touch. Just Jaune.
She moved without thinking now, sliding her palm higher, up over his shoulder. Her fingertips pressed into the damp red where blood had soaked through. Still nothing. Just smooth skin and the steady heat of his body beneath it.
No cuts. No bruises. Not even the faintest flinch.
Only body heat. Breath. Muscle.
"…What in the world…" she whispered.
She crouched instinctively, falling into a battle-ready motion. She examined the slash across his thigh. Her gauntlet swept away the frayed denim to find—again—nothing but unmarred skin beneath.
She swallowed.
Another hole, near his side.
She slid her hand under the dangling threads, half-expecting—wanting?—to find something wrong.
But again: no injury. No scars. No bruises.
Just Jaune.
Her other hand moved on its own, checking the side of his waist. Then his lower back. Another tear. Another illusion of injury. Her hand traced the bare skin beneath—solid, alive.
Whole.
One by one, every sign of trauma melted under her inspection. What had looked like mortal wounds revealed themselves as nothing more than the tattered aftermath of something else entirely—cloth torn, blood spattered, but not a single injury on the man himself.
It didn't make sense.
This wasn't possible. Not with the state of his clothes. Aura didn't work like this. Even the best warriors took bruises, welts, scrapes, something. But Jaune…
As she relaxed, her eyes traced the lines of his form, subtle muscle flexing beneath the surface, steady with breath. She swallowed, aware—suddenly—of just how close she was. Of how solid he felt. Of how steady his breath was beneath her fingertips.
Her hand lingered longer than necessary. Traced the curve of his ribs. Brushed the tight dip of his waist. She wasn't thinking anymore—just moving, as her hands remembered something before her brain did.
Her thoughts darted back to earlier in the locker room.
And then it hit her.
The locker room. Earlier.
It rushed back like a struck bell—ringing through her senses.
He had stood there—bare from the waist up, utterly unbothered. She had watched him undress. Watched muscles ripple across his back as he pulled off his shirt. Watched the curve of his spine, the tension in his shoulders, the faint dusting of gold on pale skin. The way he moved—without shame, without pretense.
And then, of course—
The pants.
She hadn't meant to stare. Truly. She was a warrior, not a schoolgirl.
But she had. She had stared.
At his legs—solid, thick with functional strength. At the cling of his underwear. At the way the fabric framed him when he bent forward. That subtle shift. That moment where everything moved .
It had short-circuited her discipline.
She had walked into that locker room as Pyrrha Nikos, Mistral's Golden Girl. Undefeated Champion. Poised. Polished.
And she had walked out a girl with weak knees and a problem between her legs.
Now here she was again, crouched before him, her palm pressed flat to his side. Trying to administer first aid, yet reduced to a schoolgirl again. His breath rising beneath her fingers. And that feeling —that low, grounding, hungry feeling—was back.
She was eye level with his crotch. Her mind blanked. Her throat tightened.
She hadn't meant to. She hadn't wanted to. But there it was. Right in front of her.
Even clothed, even caged behind frayed fabric, it was there —weighty, proud, and obliviously perfect.
Her breath stuttered.
And then the memory came crashing in.
When he turned, his underwear shifted just enough. When every girl had fallen silent, Aura shimmering faintly in the charged air. When she had watched his bulge—framed in cotton, swaying with lazy confidence—as he bent to grab his combat pants. When her thighs had clenched and her nipples had ached and she had realized, in horrifying, holy clarity—
She wanted him.
Not just to fight beside. But to touch . To hold. To take.
And now it was back. The same outline. The same presence.
So close she could feel the heat radiating off of him. She could smell him now—clean sweat, faint blood, boyish warmth. Her hand trembled as she reached toward the tear near his waist, but her eyes refused to obey. They dipped. Dragged across the swell just inches from her nose.
She swallowed, hard.
It was impossible not to imagine it again. The shape. The slow shift. The slight swing of mass and heat behind thin fabric.
She'd seen it once—just a glimpse—and now, this close, her body remembered everything .
She imagined reaching up. Sliding her fingers along the curve. Pressing her lips to the fabric. Feeling the weight of him rest against her tongue before he even knew what was happening—
She snapped her gaze upward.
What the hell was she doing?
But Jaune hadn't noticed. Thank every god, he hadn't noticed. He just stood there—awkward and patient, like he didn't know he was standing like a divine test of restraint.
She moved quickly, covering the delay by running her hand across his hip, checking for another wound. But her fingers lingered again.
Because she knew what was right next to them. The fabric stretched tight across his groin. The memory burned behind her eyes like a brand.
And it had melted her.
She could feel the wetness now, sticky and hot beneath her battle briefs, soaking deeper with each shallow breath.
Her lips parted.
She almost moaned.
Almost.
But then she looked up.
And he was staring at her.
Not at her chest. Not at her flushed face. Not at her shaking hands near his waistband.
But at her.
Earnest. Gentle. Unaware.
Her eyes traced the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the flex of his obliques as he breathed. The way his body felt real under her hand. Bloody and unarmored.
And Brothers help her—he was still beautiful.
Not just in shape. Not just in body. But in how unaware he was. How unguarded. How trusting.
He was staring at her—those strange ringed eyes, blue threaded with faint darkness, soft and almost shy.
And he wasn't stopping her.
He wasn't stopping her.
She flushed. Hard.
'What is it about him that is so… intoxicating?'
Her hand still rested on his hip.
Until he coughed—gently.
Pyrrha's face violently flushed crimson, yanking her hand away like she'd been scalded.
"I—I'm sorry—I wasn't—!" she stammered, stumbling back to her feet.
He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks tinged with embarrassed color. "Uh. No, it's okay. I just… wanted you to know I'm not, y'know. Dying."
"No. You're not," she murmured, her voice still tight, hands clenched at her sides. Then added softly, "But gods, Jaune… you looked like you were."
The phantom of his skin still tingled against her palm.
She wasn't thinking about Aura anymore.
She was thinking about how unfair it was that he moved like that . That he breathed like that . That he looked at her like that. And just smiled with that… dorkish energy, casually dismantling her composure like it meant nothing.
Her legs still felt unsteady. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Touching him had made it worse.
Because now she knew . Now she could feel it. He was heat and weight and presence , all wrapped in honesty.
And she couldn't unfeel it.
He laughed breathlessly. "Yeah… I sorta get that a lot."
She exhaled, a shaky half-laugh escaping her lips despite herself.
Not afraid. Not frantic.
Just… close.
They stood there in the quiet aftermath. The forest chirped faintly around them, but for a moment, nothing else mattered.
And then he glanced back at her, more seriously this time.
"So, um…" he said, scratching his cheek. "I guess we made eye contact. Which means you're stuck with me." His voice turned sheepish. "Unless you'd rather not. I mean, if you want a different partner, I totally get it. I… kind of made a mess of things before we even launched. I'm— well— a guy. No weapon, showed up late, Ms. Goodwitch basically handed me my own ass in front of everyone. Just a disaster in a hoodie.…" His voice trailed off.
"We can say it didn't count," he finished quietly.
Pyrrha stared at him.
She saw the way he hunched his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched nervously at his sides. She saw the lingering angst in his expression—not fear of Grimm, but fear of her .
Of being too strange. Too monstrous. Too much.
A breath passed between them.
Then—
"No."
Her voice rang sharp and clear.
She said it like a vow.
Jaune looked up, surprised.
"I'm glad it was you," she said.
"You… are?"
She nodded, her cheeks pink but her smile radiant—like sunlight through leaves. "I hoped it would be. That's why I threw my spear—to try and keep you close. I knew you didn't have a weapon, and… I just—" she hesitated. "I didn't want you to be alone."
He stared at her dumbfounded. He opened his mouth, but no words came.
All the things Glynda had said—the humiliation, the doubt—slid off him like old scabs. Pyrrha didn't see any of that.
She saw him.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You stood your ground, even without a… traditional weapon.
"…Thanks," he said, voice quiet. "For wanting to be my partner."
She smiled again, softer this time. "I'm honored."
Their eyes held—longer this time. Steady. Warm. Something stirred there. A thread pulled taut between them—delicate, but real.
And then, off in the distance, a low howl pierced the quiet, followed by the peppering of gunfire.
The moment passed.
Pyrrha stepped back, clearing her throat. "We should get moving. The relics won't find themselves."
She extended her hand.
Jaune looked at it for a beat. Then at her.
And smiled.
He reached out—and took it.
Her grip tightened—firm, assured.
"Yeah," he said. "Let's go."
Together, they turned toward the trees.
And this time, they didn't move as strangers.
But as partners.