The cobblestone walls of Ansel rose before him. They were tall, weathered, and laced with crawling ivy. From a distance, the town looked like a sleeping fortress, its high towers seemed to be softened by the morning haze. The sun had barely climbed past the treetops, casting long shadows across the outer fields, and even the guards along the parapets moved with the slow rhythm of early dawn.
Jaune crouched low near the base of the wall and scanned the area.
His hidden entrance was barely noticeable.
A cluster of overgrown brush pushed up against a half-buried drainage pipe, camouflaging the hole he'd painstakingly widened over weeks of sneaking out after dark. It wasn't much—just a crawlspace between stone bricks and eroded mortar—but it had served him well.
Until it killed him, of course.
Now, it would serve him again.
He ducked inside, careful not to let the sword scrape against the stone. It was a tight fit, but it was familiar. His body knew the rhythm. Hands and knees, twist the shoulders and push forward.
Once inside the perimeter, Jaune took a minute to rearrange the brush and stones, concealing the passage once again. The key wasn't making it invisible—just uninteresting. Guards didn't check what they didn't notice.
With the exit sealed, he turned toward the west where the Arc Manor awaited.
The estate was a sprawling cluster of stonework buildings and manicured gardens located near the western edge of Ansel, nestled within the rich district. The proximity to the walls had originally been a minor point of concern for security… but for Jaune, it had been a blessing in disguise.
From his vantage point along the side alleys and rear paths, he could see the familiar outlines of the outer wall, the training yard, and the wrought-iron balconies of the main house.
The Arc family was not noble, not officially, but wealth had a way of forging its own form of nobility.
Both his parents possessed non-combat classes.
His father, Garric Arc, had a rare variant of the Merchant class, Merchant Lord, which granted his father additional proficiency that helped him to command fleets, bend trade deals, and manipulate supply chains across vast regions.
His mother, Selene Arc, wielded the Appraisal Master class—another variant form of the base Appraiser. Her skills could gauge, not just items, but even the relative worth of people, relationships, and opportunities.
Together, they were a match made in heaven.
It was said that his father had once outbid a noble house in Vaucrest, a Valean city, for a maritime trade route that spanned four coastal city routes. He had also, apparently, brokered a truce between two pirate factions in the southern sea by offering them shares in a legitimate shipping company.
Selene, meanwhile, was famous for having deconstructed an ancient vault mechanism, from an old Era past, by simply just observing the auctioned parts for ten minutes—then resold the components separately for four times the original value.
Their business empire was broad.
The Arcs owned a major trading hub, a multi-tiered auction house that specialized in rare equipment, and even ran contracts for specialized service providers—healers, curse-breakers and even bounty hunters. Their influence extended far beyond Ansel, touching nearby territories and coastal cities alike.
For merchants, they were monsters—in the polite sense.
Of the seven Arc children, six had inherited non-combat classes. There was an Enchanter, a Scholar, a Blacksmith, and one like their mother, gifted with the Appraiser class. Only one other daughter had inherited a Merchant class, and she was being groomed as the heir to the business.
And then there was Jaune.
A combat class.
A Swordsman, of all things.
A child born into a family of negotiation and balance… with a future built on blood and blades. It hadn't gone over well.
Jaune took a long, slow breath and slipped behind a line of trimmed hedges near the southern garden wall. He wasn't out of danger yet.
He looked down at himself—black linen damp with sweat and streaked with dried blood. The color helped, at least. Had he worn white or blue, he'd have looked like a corpse.
He peeled the shirt off carefully, flinching at the tender spot where the Beowolf's claws had once torn into his shoulder. There was no wound now—only faint pink skin, smooth and unfortunately, sensitive.
"Aura, really is broken," he murmured under his breath.
Still, the shirt had to go. It reeked of blood-iron and wet dirt. If a maid caught sight of it, they'd report it immediately. And then his parents would come asking questions.
He couldn't afford that.
'Gotta either burn it or wash it myself. No one else can touch it.'
From the manor yard, distant voices drifted toward him—some of the servants beginning their day. A cart rolled across the stone path. Boots scuffed near the side gate.
'Time to act.'
Jaune ruffled his hair to make it look damp from exertion and smeared a bit of dirt across his brow. With a few quick flicks of his wrist, he rearranged his expression—focused, tired, intense. Like someone who'd been training alone in the garden since dawn.
He stepped out into the yard, sword slung lazily across his shoulder, posture casual but precise.
Just a boy practicing swordsmanship before breakfast. Nothing suspicious at all.
The soft crunch of boots on gravel caught Jaune's attention.
He turned casually, the flat of the sword blade resting on his shoulder, as a fair figure rounded the far side of the garden hedges.
One of his sisters.
He couldn't quite remember her name right away as the memory fragments swimming around in his brain were still integrating slowly but the memories coalesced well enough, a moment later.
Lucille Arc. Technically, the third eldest since the first two were twins. Perhaps that made her the fourth eldest instead? In any any case, she had the Scholar-class and had a strong eye for economics and magical theory. The girl was known for her cold intelligence and sharp tongue. He'd once remembered that she'd shut down a visiting noble's son in a single sentence at an auction meet.
She stopped abruptly upon seeing him. Her eyes swept over his figure. Then widened.
"…Jaune?"
"Morning," he greeted, his voice was relaxed but a hint of hidden tension could be heard within. "Just finished up some early sword drills."
He didn't mention the Beowolf, the blood or the hole in the wall. Neither did he mention the fact that technically speaking, her little brother had effectively died in the woods not long ago and been replaced by an entirely different soul. Although the two of the were now one...
Well, it was minor details anyhow.
Lucille blinked.
Her gaze hovered on him longer than necessary.
And then lower.
Jaune, still shirtless, shifted awkwardly. His bare torso glistened with the sheen of dried sweat and his muscles were tight and defined from years of solo, backbreaking training. Without access to real field combat or proper dungeon runs, the original Jaune had pushed his body to its limit with physical training manuals. Weight training. Sword form repetition. Conditioning.
The result was a physique sculpted like hand-carved marble, each muscle layered with lean definition—earned through suffering.
Lucille's lips parted faintly.
Her eyes flicked up to his, then back down to his prominent abdominal muscles. Her cheeks took on a pale pink hue.
"I didn't know you were… that dedicated," she muttered. Her voice faltered near the end.
"Yeah," Jaune replied, oblivious. "Been pushing myself a bit harder lately. Thought I'd wander a little to clear my head. Didn't go far."
Lucille's eyes narrowed at the word "wandered," but only for a breath.
Then she looked away quickly, bringing a hand to her neck. "Right. Of course. Makes sense."
An awkward silence settled in the garden.
Lucille cleared her throat and tugged at the collar of her blouse as if the air had grown warmer.
"I—I should go. I need to… um… revise a draft report for the latest inventory scrolls."
"You do that," Jaune said, nodding.
She turned a little too fast and nearly tripped on the edge of the stone path. Her pace quickened as she hurried toward the manor, the blush still stubbornly clinging to her face.
Jaune watched her go, puzzled.
'What was that about?'
He shrugged and didn't think much more of it. Too many thoughts were already jockeying for position in his mind.
He had bigger concerns.
He needed to reach Vale—the capital and one of the four great cities. This time of year, the combat academies were opening once again, for new intakes.
If he could get in, he could bring himself closer to the potential plotline of this world. Not only that... freedom, access to resources, gear, and even proper battle experience.
But escaping Ansel wouldn't be easy.
His family didn't take risks lightly. If they noticed his disappearance, or even suspected he intended to abandon the life they'd carefully constructed for him—they would pursue. Certainly with bounty hunters. Some of them, in their direct employ. With influence, leverage, and eyes in every corner, the Arc family was certainly one to be feared.
Which was why Jaune needed to plan carefully. First, supplies. Food, coin, potions and most importantly, equipment. Second, an excuse—a reason to slip away from the manor for long enough to cover his departure. Third, a path—one that didn't put him in direct contact with guards, trade caravans, or anyone likely to report back to the Arcs.
And finally…
He looked down at the longsword in his hand.
'I need a better weapon.'
The one he had now was serviceable—but it was old and mostly built for training. It might have been sharpened to be strong enough to take on the grimm, and while it was fine for drills, long term use would only put him in danger.
'I'll have to find something better before I go. Maybe from the auction house stockrooms… or the private vaults.'
He exhaled slowly, letting his gaze drift toward the towering manor behind him. Jaune didn't want to steal anything but... he needed strength and fast.
Combat academies would only accept intakes that were level 10 and above. However, it was more than likely that the other candidates would be closer to level 17 or even 20.
Yes...
Jaune truly needed strength if he wanted to make it in.
The Arc estate might have been a gilded cage… but he had no intention of staying locked inside.
Jaune arrived at his room, shut the door to with a soft click and leaned against it for a moment.
Silence greeted him.
The polished wooden floors, soft grey drapes, and ivory wallpaper all felt strangely foreign now—familiar through borrowed memories, but emotionally distant. Like walking through a memory that wasn't fully his.
His gaze dropped to the ruined shirt still bundled in his arms.
He stepped forward, crouched, and lifted the edge of the mattress. The underside of the bed frame had a small hollow space—a gap between wood panels just wide enough to stuff the bloodstained cloth inside. He pressed it in deep, wedging it between floor and slats.
He'd burn or wash it later. When he was sure no one would notice.
Rising, Jaune let his eyes sweep over the room properly.
It was large, but not lavish. More practical than decorative. A bookshelf along the left wall held swordsmanship manuals, economic ledgers, and a few old historical texts. A desk stood by the window, scattered with notes and his training logs. Opposite the bed was a tall standing mirror framed in dark wood.
Jaune inched towards it, slowly.
He stopped in front of it and blinked.
His reflection stared back at him—a boy in his late teens, tall and broad-shouldered, with tousled blond hair that managed to look both messy and styled. His face was sharp in its angles, his jaw strong, and his eyes were an odd shade of blue, clearer than he remembered them to be.
His well-muscled chest was still bare, still damp from sweat and his abdominals were clearly defined. A body built for a warrior.
He felt strange looking at it.
Not exactly self-conscious but...detached.
'It's like I'm piloting someone else's body.'
The thought slid into his mind unbidden, and yet—familiar. He tilted his head slightly. Flexed his fingers. Blinked.
A sensation lingered and Jaune could easily describe it like playing a video game in first-person mode. He had memories of being this person… and yet a part of him knew the truth. He wasn't the Jaune Arc of this world. Not truly.
That boy had died in the forest. And now…
Now he lived. Now he was... more.
Still, he didn't linger.
There were more pressing things to do.
He stepped into the bathroom adjacent to his room and turned on the rune engraved tap, letting warm water cascade over his hands before stepping under the stone-tiled shower basin.
The water was bracing. Clean.
He scrubbed fast, watching streaks of hidden dried blood swirl down the drain. The anxious tension that his muscles held faded along with it.
He braced his hands against the cold stone wall and let the water hit his back, thoughts circling.
He needed a way out of Ansel. One that his family wouldn't be able to easily track.
That was step one. But the method… that would the challenge.
Option One: Run. Pack a bag with stolen supplies, scale the wall, vanish into the forest, and make the dangerous trek to Vale.
It was a stupid option. Grimm would kill him before he even got halfway there. He wasn't nearly strong enough to survive the wilderness with his current strength. While technically, his stats would probably equate to peak human physicality from Earth, he didn't have any survival skills to fall back on. And besides, the family would send scouts or bounty hunters after him within merely hours.
Option Two: Disguise. Forge a false identity and slip out as a servant or traveler. Unfortunately, it was quite risky. He didn't know enough about the town's movements to guarantee success and that would still cause his family to send people to bring him back.
Option Three: Pay someone to act as him while he vanished. But... there were too many variables he'd have to consider. He didn't know anyone desperate—or trustworthy—enough to pull it off.
While reviewing his options, an idea appeared to him.
A memory. A conversation. A plan.
His sister—Verona Arc, the second eldest—was heading out in two weeks on a business venture. She was the child that had the Merchant class and had been recently promoted to oversee trade expansions along the coastal route, south of Ansel.
She was set to travel east towards Seabranch, a major coastal hub. From there, she'd connect with a Skybound Terminal, one of the rare magic-airship services that ferried wealthy travelers and high-priority cargo between key cities—including Vale.
It was the perfect path.
He could join the caravan, and act as a younger brother who wanted to "gain exposure to the world."
Then, once in Seabranch—slip away.
He'd board an airship, change his appearance and disappear.
By the time anyone in Ansel realized he wasn't returning, he'd be in Vale, halfway through entrance trials.
While in Beacon, he wouldn't have to worry about his identity and could simply use his regular appearance. The four kingdom sanctioned combat academies were beyond even the reach of his affluential family. If they tried anything, it would ruin them politically as well as financially.
The plan had merit.
But it also had holes.
He'd need to:
Create a disguise for the later half of the journey to beacon, evade any trackers or magic-bound pursuers and somehow avoid arousing suspicion before the caravan even left Ansel.
He finished washing and stepped out of the shower, water trailing down his skin as he wrapped himself in a soft towel. Steam still lingered in the air, clinging to the mirror like fog.
His eyes found their reflection again.
Jaune no longer felt like just a boy. Now he felt more like a strategist.
A survivor?
A transmigrator armed with a secret stat and knowledge of a world that might still echo the story he once watched unfold on a screen.
"Seabranch first," he murmured to himself, voice low. "Then Vale. Then… whatever comes next."
He turned from the mirror, drying off, already calculating the next steps.
He'd need coin, equipment, a reason to join Verona, and a way to sever his ties without leaving blood behind.
Because if there was one thing Jaune Arc had learned in both worlds…
Freedom was never free.