The sun had climbed well past its zenith by the time Jaune stepped onto the courtyard's worn stone tiles, the heat of the day was tempered by a cool breeze that rolled in from the western fields.
His training space was a nice, small, enclosed field courtyard that was flanked by tall hedges. It was separated enough from the main manor to offer privacy though not by much as the manor's windows had a clear view of the field.
But it was just perfect for some afternoon sword practice.
Jaune rolled his shoulders as he stepped onto the flattened training mat of grass and stone, a wooden rack of blunted swords leaning just off to the side.
But he didn't need those.
He drew his blade. Hi most favorite one. It had a familiar weight to it. The Jaune from this world had practiced with this very blade for many different years.
'Let's see what this body remembers.'
He closed his eyes, took a steadying breath then began the swordplay. His movements started slow—deliberate. One step forward, blade raised in a high arc. A basic overhead strike. He shifted smoothly into a lateral slash, pivoted, and executed a low sweep as though cutting through the legs of an imaginary opponent.
This was the first of three styles that he knew—offensive swordsmanship. Pure unadulterated, aggression. It relied on forward momentum and emphasized power, clean execution and overwhelming an enemy with continuous pressure.
He swung again, chaining his strikes like a flowing river. There was no pause between them, no hesitation. His body knew these patterns well. The second sequence came more cautiously.
The Second Style—defensive swordsmanship, had a broad, grounded stance. It was all about using the flat of the blade to absorb blows that he couldn't dodge or parry.
He imagined a strike coming from his left, pivoted and let his sword absorb the phantom blow, jumping backwards to simulate impact. Another came from above—he raised his blade, bracing it with both arms. Jaune moved like a dancer in slow motion, reading for attacks that didn't exist, reacting to pressure that only lived in memory.
This was more than physical training—it was shadow-swordsmanship. A mental forge for muscle memory.
Then came the Third Style—parrying and countering. It required him to move faster, sharper. Precision over brute strength.
He imagined a thrust aimed at his chest, turned his blade to redirect it with the edge, then stepped inward for a pommel-strike to the ribs. It was a style reliant on reading intent, reacting faster than thought, and delivering swift punishment.
This one… felt natural. Jaune halted mid-step. That wasn't just his training at work, his passive skill was enhancing him.
[Sword Mastery (Passive)]
He let the sword dip to his side and straightened, breathing lightly.
Sword Mastery was subtle, but powerful. Unlike active techniques that demanded mana or precise activation, this one worked quietly within him—quietly enhancing his ability to understand swords on an instinctive level.
When wielding not just his current weapon but any sword, his comprehension was elevated. A new technique he saw demonstrated could be replicated within hours of practice instead of weeks. His body adapted faster and even patterns clicked with fewer repetitions.
But it was more than just simple mimicry. It was understanding. He felt where the edge should move. How the momentum should shift. The angles, force, rhythm—all clearer, like a being lifted.
It was what made him dangerous even now at just Level 8. Even for a swordsman's first passive skill, his in particular was a cut above the rest.
Jaune let his blade rest against his shoulder as he reflected on that.
Passive skills varied per person. Some swordsmen received [Single Blade Precision], enhancing one-handed sword strikes. Others gained [Heavy Blade Instinct] or [Dual-wield mastery] depending on what the system granted them.
Everyone gained their first passive skill at Level 0, age 10, when their class first awakened. They would also gain new skills every ten levels—shaped by how they fought, how they lived, and the tendencies they honed.
So if Jaune focused on all-around adaptability and understanding…
What would he receive at Level 10? He wasn't certain but he was hoping to receive the most coveted skill that all swordsmen craved. And he was hoping to receive it as soon as possible.
Sword Aura.
It was legendary, even by Systems standards.
A manifestation of intent and mana that allowed swordsmen to extend their blade with magical force. A swordsman with this skill would be able to slice through enemies at range, parry attacks before they landed, or even launch shockwaves with their swings.
It wasn't just a combat boost but a mark of mastery. Only those who fully understood the spirit of the sword could invoke it. And even then, not everyone succeeded in receiving this sword skill.
Jaune didn't really understand what the spirit of the sword meant so was unlikely he would receive that skill any time soon. That was a high level skill that a rare few among swordsmen even could receive and Jaune hadn't even broadened his horizons, yet.
Jaune exhaled slowly, and resumed practice. He wanted that skill but not for pride or show. But because he knew—if he wanted to survive in the wild, defeat stronger Grimm, and rise to match the threats of this world, he would need every edge the System was willing to offer.
And this path—this blade—was the one thing that had always been his. So he trained.
Hours passed.
Sweat dripped down his neck. His arms ached. His feet grew sore. But still, he moved. Cut. Step. Parry. Counter. Defend. Lunge.
Just the whisper of steel through the air sang a symphony of metallic beauty that Jaune, oh-so adored. The song of a boy chasing the path to power, one swing at a time.
The rhythmic clack of his blade against wood echoed through the courtyard, sweat matting Jaune's hair to his forehead as he stepped back from the practice dummy—a simple training log reinforced with metal bands.
His breath came in slow, even pulls. Each swing had been tighter than the last. More fluid. He could feel that the movements were properly becoming his own, not just echoes of muscle memory that the previous him had retained.
But this wasn't enough. Not if he wanted to survive what came next. Jaune took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
'Time to test it further.'
He reached inward—to that wellspring of light nestled deep within him.
Aura.
It responded to his will instantly, a warm hum threading through his chest like a second heartbeat. It wrapped around him instinctively, settling into a faint shimmer just beneath the skin. Its default form—a protective forcefield. A defense against harm.
But Jaune wanted more so he focused his will.
Instead of passively letting it coat him, he tried to push it—redirect it. Toward his arms, into his hands, fingers and his blade.
There was resistance at first. Not from his Aura itself, but from the imprecision of his control. It was like trying to flex a muscle that he had only just learnt, existed. But eventually… it worked. His grip steadied, and his blade shimmered faintly with white-yellow light.
He swung again.
Whffft—THUNK.
The sword cleaved through the reinforced log with a clean slice, biting deep and exiting the other side with barely any resistance. He blinked.
That had never happened before.
'That's certainly and most definitely the Aura boost.'
Encouraged, Jaune tried to go further. He pulled the Aura into his legs, imagining it coiling around his thighs and calves. Strengthening the muscles. Enhancing speed.
Then he lunged at the beaten log.
And immediately stumbled as his body launched forward far faster than expected, far shooting past the training post. His foot slipped, and he tumbled into a rough roll, catching himself before he slammed into a hedge.
He groaned, brushing grass off his arms. "Too much," he muttered.
The sensation was difficult to describe—it wasn't just speed, it was as though his whole lower body had been kicked into overdrive, muscles suddenly operating at a pace his reflexes couldn't keep up with. He could feel the raw power, but lacked the coordination to wield it.
It threw off his balance and his rhythm. Still… it was very promising. If he could get used to his Aura enhancing him, perhaps he'd be able to fight greater, stronger grimm and level up faster from that.
He returned to the center of the courtyard and tried again. This time, he only focused on one leg—just a single burst of Aura, carefully controlled, for a step-slide into position. But even that felt jittery.
It was truly slow going. Much slower than he'd hoped.
Curiously, it was easier when he returned Aura to its natural state—projected across the skin, acting as a flexible shield. The familiar barrier shimmered back to life, cocooning his body in translucent light.
This, he could handle. The Aura was stable. It functioned as its own form of a passive-like skill. It protected him, buffered strain, made hits hurt less and even softened his fatigue.
But it didn't push him further. Not like when he infused it.
Unfortunately, the benefits came at a cost.
After nearly half an hour of start-stop testing—enhancing arms, enhancing legs, infusing his blade, toggling the shield—Jaune suddenly staggered.
His Aura… flickered and vanished. Not shattered or broken, just depleted.
Jaune dropped to a knee, panting. His blade dug into the dirt beside him to keep him steady. Then came the weird fatiguing sensation. It was an odd, metaphysical ache—not in the body, but through it. It was… deeper than simple muscle fatigue and stamina depletion.
Could it be...his soul?
He frowned, placing a palm over his sternum, but found no source of the strain. It was like his entire being had been wrung out—his mind felt foggy and his focus was now unsteady, like trying to breathe oxygen through smoke.
"So that's what happens when I run out of Aura." Jaune panted out.
It wasn't just energy. It was him.
He sat down fully, letting the sword rest beside him as he exhaled long and slow. The sun was dipping now, shadows stretching across the yard.
He had too many questions and too few answers to guide him. Aura was powerful, yes—but also volatile and very delicate. The shield was easy but the boost?
That would take time.
Still… Jaune had no intention of rushing it. He leaned back, eyes watching the clouds drift lazily overhead. Slow progress was still progress. He'd get there eventually.
Level by level and swing by swing.
And when he did—
He'd be a true combat classer.
Jaune sat with his knees pulled up and his arms resting atop them, the training sword half-buried in the dirt beside him. Jaune basked in the cool shade of long shadows that the sun casted across the trimmed hedges and cobblestone pathways,
His shirt clung to his back, soaked in sweat, but his thoughts had also cooled with focus. He needed a plan. Not a vague outline or half-baked improvisation—but a clear, actionable strategy.
First things first…
"A new sword," he muttered, then shook his head. "No… not yet."
Ironically, the one thing Jaune as a swordsman didn't need right now, was a sword.
'What I need is utility and flexibility. The ability to have options.'
And nothing provided that better than a storage pouch.
The enchanted bags were prized tools among adventurers, traders, and smugglers alike. The Arc family had several—he remembered that much from the half-integrated memories swirling in his head. They weren't mass-produced; each one had to be hand-enchanted with spatial compression glyphs and binding runes. Yes, these pouches were very rare and very expensive.
But the Arcs had at least a dozen sitting in the auction warehouse. Maybe more. Perks of being filthy-rich, Jaune supposed.
He'd need to steal one. That was non-negotiable.
With a storage pouch, he could pack days' worth of dried food, water flasks, extra clothes, and healing supplies—without carrying the weight. Even better, enchanted items stored inside wouldn't rot, spoil, or degrade so long as the enchantment remained intact.
'Perfect for travel and perfect for survival.'
Jaune clenched his hand into a fist and let it relax.
Once the pouch was secured, then he could worry about gear.
'Like that longsword…'
His memory flicked back to a particular blade kept within the estate's private vault—displayed behind glass, locked down, and rarely discussed. He didn't remember its name, but he remembered the shape—a long, elegant weapon, forged of a type of black-steel alloy that had a faint white sheen along the edge. It was not a ceremonial sword, but the family treated it as such. But Jaune knew that it was functional. Deadly.
That blade could last him well beyond the early stages of his journey.
But there was more.
'A sword alone isn't enough.'
If Aura failed—and from what he experienced today, it easily could—he needed something tangible between himself and a Grimm's claw.
Armor.
Not the heavy, bulky stuff that knights marched in. That would only slow him down, restrict movement, and clash with his Aura manipulation.
No—he needed lightweight armor. Preferably some type of leather-layered with metal reinforcement. Something to deflect grazing hits and keep blood inside his body, not painting the dirt beneath him.
Even if he learned to master Aura later, he couldn't rely on it fully. The depletion earlier had come fast, and the metaphysical ache afterward had been real.
In a real fight, that weakness would certainly kill him.
'Gear first, aura later and sword can be kept for last.'
Jaune dragged a hand down his face and exhaled slowly, his mind whirring with checklists and possibilities. There was two weeks left until Verona's departure. That was his window and so he had two weeks to scout the warehouse. Two weeks to sneak into the vault and secure the sword. Two weeks to "be himself" long enough that no one suspected otherwise.
He would also have to time the thefts carefully—preferably in the final two days before departure, when any delay in noticing their absence would give him enough headway to vanish from Ansel's reach.
Jaune leaned back, hands supporting him in the grass, and let his gaze wander to the sky.
Two weeks.
Two weeks to shed the shell of a docile son and become something else entirely. He'd played by their rules for long enough. Now, Jaune would make his own.
And to begin that process, he'd need to speak to the one person in this family who might actually help him
His sister, Jade Arc.
[Blacksmith].