Moonlight spilled across the polished floor of Jaune's room in pale, whispering strokes. The light washing over stone and silken drapes, appeared like ghost-light. All was still and even the world seemed to have fallen still, into the quiet hush of night.
And in that silence, Jaune Arc sat.
Cross-legged on the floor with his back straight, and eyes closed. His breath came out slow and deliberate, like each inhale drawn was the pull of a blade from its sheath. In the darkness, he chased stillness. And within that stillness, he chased understanding.
Understanding of his Aura.
It stirred beneath his skin like a quiet river just flowing over rocks. It was cool, patient and alive. It pulsed in tandem with his breath, each flow curling through his veins like a second heartbeat.
The light of the soul. That's what it was called.
He remembered that line from the show. If it was merely the light given form, what would the actual substance of his soul be? Jaune was unsure, but here, now, within this body that felt more and more like his own each day, Jaune was getting used to controlling and using it.
It wasn't unlike the "qi" of xianxia tales—the lifeblood of cultivation heroes. It shared similarities in some ways but... well, Jaune was no expert. He didn't even have mana to draw any experience from, after all, and since this was his first transmigration, he couldn't be called an expert in this subject.
Everything was conjecture and Jaune merely hoped that it would all work out in the end.
He focused it to his core—then split it down through his limbs, arms, chest, and down into his legs. There was no technique behind the process, no scrolls to guide his hand. Only instinct.
It was like learning how to walk again, one muscle at a time.
His aura was odd to use, wobbling at the edges, too diffused to control precisely. But the more he focused, the more it responded. Tighter. Denser. Not quite refined, but reactive.
When he pulled it into his thighs and calves, they twitched with tension, as though they'd been prepared to leap—but with no direction, it fizzled and faded.
Still, it was progress.
A breath escaped him, long and measured. His eyes opened slowly.
'It's working. Not well. Not perfectly. But… it's working.'
A grin tugged at his lips.
He reached over to the edge of the bed where his new sword lay propped in its sheathe—Jade's gift. A good blade. It had a nice, real weight to it. A true weapon meant for killing.
He ran a thumb along the hilt.
'It's not the Black Mithril, but it'll will serve me well.'
His mind drifted to their conversation in the hot forge. Jade's firm voice and her faith in him felt good. Even better, he would now have a supporter.
And the promise of armor—Black Mithril bracers and greaves, enchanted by Violet's hand.
'Things are moving. Finally.'
Still cross-legged, he turned and leaned back against the bed frame, eyes cast toward the open window. The wind stirred gently through the curtains, teasing the scent of grass through the air.
Out there, past the glowing estate lights and polished stone roads… was the wild. And in the wild, there were Grimm. He would hunt them tonight. Just as he did the night before.
Because if he wanted to reach Level 10 before Beacon, he'd need every moment of these next two weeks. No more leisurely training sessions. No more idle dreams.
It meant giving up his afternoons—trading sword drills for daytime sleep. Trading comfort for cold wind and black claws.
'It's a fair price,' he thought. 'More than fair, in fact.'
He rose, muscles already well warmed and ready. His hand tightened around the sheathed sword, sliding it into the storage pouch Jade had given him. A whisper of space folded in on itself, and the blade vanished into the enchantment without resistance.
His cloak followed and he moved. Out through the side panel of the servant's corridor, down the side path, through the hedges, into the narrow blind spot where the hole was hidden. Through the wall, Jaune crawled with a quiet crunch of grass beneath his body.
Then he quickly jogged forwards into the woods. The estate faded behind him fast and the night pressed in dangerously
Beyond the reach of Arc Manor's protective enchantments, the forest wore a different skin. The air was colder. The quiet wasn't peaceful—but watchful, as if something old and patient waited just beyond the edge of sight.
Jaune moved quickly, one hand resting near the hilt now returned to his waist. His eyes swept the trees, scanning for shapes, movement or a hint of white bone.
He didn't need to hunt far. Not tonight, at least.
The Grimm here were weak—strength close to around the level of a 1-10, combat classer, maybe a rare 11. The militia of Ansel did good work in keeping the region clean. Too good, maybe because it that meant Jaune had fewer prey to cull.
But it also meant the ones that survived… had learned to be careful.
Grimm didn't grow stronger through training. They weren't people. They didn't dream of advancement or forge skills in battle. They were hunger and hatred. Instinct given form.
And yet… the older they got, the more dangerous and the more powerful they became.
No one knew why.
Some creatures—manticores, sphinxes, megoliaths—were born powerful. But even the most common Beowolf, if left to age long enough, would one day become a threat no militia could ignore.
It wasn't fair. But that was the truth of this world. And for Jaune, it meant that every fight going forwards, carried weight. Every kill would bring him closer.
The wind shifted. A branch cracked somewhere ahead. A growl, low and guttural, rolled through the brush like distant thunder.
Jaune's hand drifted to his sword. His Aura pulsed faintly beneath his skin. He stepped into the shadows of the trees.
And the hunt began.
Jaune stood in the clearing's heart, the scent of damp moss and bark thick in his lungs. His breath came slow, deliberate. Calm.
And then—
A crash of underbrush followed by a breathless second.
Something black surged out of the thicket like a shadow made flesh.
The beast's roar split the stillness like a cannon.
It was enormous—its bulk covered in coarse, black, bristling fur and plated in sharp, ivory bone that jutted from shoulders, arms, even the top of its skull like a crown of fangs. Its crimson eyes burned like coals, locked on him with a hunger that wasn't animal, rather, a malice beyond instinct.
Jaune flinched but his feet shifted all the same and his stance changed.
'Third style… Counter.'
The beast charged, all fury, weight and reckless momentum. It was a newborn. He could tell. The way it rushed without thought, the sloppiness of its approach and the amount of bone plates on it—it had to be only a few weeks old, barely formed from the negative abyss it came from. It was still deadly, however.
The air seemed to shimmer with a residual heat as it lunged to him and Jaune moved forwards into its zone. Not with speed, but with practiced grace.
He jumped forward with a mighty leapt, flipping over the creature's charge and hunched back in one smooth, practiced motion. His new blade gleamed in his hands. As he passed above the Ursa, he slashed.
Steel met flesh and scraped bone.
The cut sank deep into the beast's upper spine, but not deep enough to cripple it.
He landed behind it, boots crunching against the grass as the Ursa whirled around with a howl of rage. Its massive paw swept toward him in a brutal arc, claws gleaming like hooked blades under the moon.
Second form. Defense.
Jaune's blade came up across his body as his aura flared. A pale film of light skimmed over his skin as instinct called it forth. The blow hit like a siege ram.
Pain bloomed through his arms—nerves flaring, muscles screaming—but the strike didn't break him. Aura absorbed the brunt, dulled it, and his footing slid only a few feet back, heels digging into earth.
Still…
'It's too clumsy and slow. I need to refine the channeling.'
The Ursa swung again.
Jaune ducked under the sweeping paw and lashed out low, his blade aiming to carve into the tendon behind the beast's knee. A wet slice—followed by a roar. Not of pain, but frustration.
It still wasn't enough.
He circled. The Ursa followed, limping now but undeterred, its wounded leg now twitching, barely usable. Moonlight painted them both in silver as they danced the deadly rhythm—Jaune's every strike was shallow but surgical, the beast's every blow was monstrous and heavy, meant to crush and not cut.
They moved through the clearing like shadows in a ritual—grace against fury, finesse against brute strength.
Jaune's body moved on muscle memory and instinct. Cuts traced across the Ursa's flank, legs, arms—none fatal. And yet the creature guarded its heart, its neck, seemingly learning from its previous attempts.
He could feel it in the way it watched. Even young, Grimm weren't dumb. They adapted and became stronger over time. Survived and grew.
Jaune exhaled. Sweat clung to his brow. His fingers ached from the shock of each parry.
'This is taking too damned long.'
And then, like a slow-building thunderhead, a thought formed.
'I should try it.'
He took a step back, planted his feet.
Then he focused.
The sword in his hand became an extension of his will.
Aura surged—not as a shield this time, but as power, pouring down his arms and into the blade like molten white through channels of flesh and thought. The metal began to shimmer faintly, humming with his soul.
The Ursa lunged, one last desperate swipe.
Jaune ducked, pivoted forwards into its strike and struck.
His sword cleaved through its raised limb in a single, seamless stroke.
Blood—thick, black, steaming—gushed as the arm fell away with a sickening thump. The Ursa roared, stumbling, rage and agony mingling in its howl.
Jaune didn't stop.
His boots slammed against the earth as he surged forward. With a cry and all the force he could muster, he drove his blade into the beast's chest—just beneath the sternum, angling for the heart.
Steel pierced deep, slicing into its vital organ. Victory had finally occurred, but only for a heartbeat.
And then—
A blur of motion.
The Ursa's remaining arm snapped forward in a vicious backhand. The strike was fast. Too fast for him to pull out his blade and dodge. A final revenge against its slayer.
Jaune barely registered the blow before it landed. Pain exploded in his ribs as the world spun. His sword was still stuck in the beast's body. Air left his lungs in a choked gasp.
The forest became a blur—trees, stars, leaves—until he crashed into a trunk with bone-rattling force. Bark cracked and air whooshed out of his chest without his control. He hit the ground hard, rolling, breathless, dazed.
The world spun slightly and his chest felt bruised. It was likely the hit had broken one of his ribs.
Across the clearing, the Ursa was sagging—its wounds leaking thick gouts of black Grimm ichor and its breath was ragged. Slowly, it fell forwards and turned into black ash, leaving his sword to clatter against the forest floor
Jaune groaned and felt the passive healing of his aura come into life, healing his chest. He moved forwards to pick up his blade amidst his coughing lungs.
"Note to self," Jaune huffed with an annoyed grimace, "be able multitasking using Aura simultaneously while fighting."
While he was practicing, it felt much easier to use but in battle it was distracting and caused his reaction speed to slow while focusing on two distinct things.
Jaune sighed. He hadn't leveled up either. It seemed that he would require a few more grimm kills under his belt to progress further.
===
The water ran hot over his skin, steam fogging up the mirror and curling like lazy ghosts across the marble tiles. Jaune stood beneath the showerhead, letting the flow of water sluice away the sweat, grime, and flecks of the wilderness that clung to him like dirt. His muscles ached faintly—not from pain, more from fatigue. A heavy sort of weariness that settled into the bones, softened only slightly by the heat.
He closed his eyes and let his mind wander.
Tonight had gone well, all things considered.
After that first brutal encounter, he'd ventured deeper into the thickets, navigating the wild growth and gnarled roots with decent stealth. The moon had risen higher in the sky by the time he stumbled upon another Grimm—a second Ursa, this one noticeably smaller. A fledgling really, barely a few days old.
It roar mimicked the first one, all aggression and malice with no finesse in its gait. Typical of younger ones.
Its movements had been clumsy and predictable. It charged at him like the last one, but slower and much more sloppier.
Jaune hadn't hesitated.
A few careful dodges and two deliberate slashes to the back of its knees, the creature had collapsed into the brush, still snapping its jaws in protest. He'd ended the fight with a clean, horizontal stroke—his blade slicing through neck and bone as smoothly as a ribbon through water.
No Aura or tricks. Simple practiced technique. And it had worked . Very well, in fact.
That was the strangest part of it all. How easy it felt. Not because he was stronger, but because he was learning how to fight smart. How to pick his moments and how to move with intent rather than instinct. He was gaining fighting experience. Experience that he sorely lacked.
He reached for the bar of soap slowly. The haze of memory was still wrapping around him like the steam in the air.
'I didn't even get scratched,' he thought. 'Just a few sweat stains and dirt. All in all, pretty good.'
Still, Jaune hadn't leveled up.
Jaune tilted his head back beneath the stream and let it run down his face, washing away the last remnants of the fight.
He could feel it, though—that faint instinct in the back of his mind. The System's presence, subtle but constant, like a pulse running alongside his own. His instincts whispered that he was roughly thirty percent of the way to his next level. A helpful quirk of the almighty interface… though it did little to speed things along.
He would either have to hunt a lot more weak Grimm—or find something stronger and more dangerous. The latter would be faster and much riskier. But time was ticking, and Beacon simply just didn't accept anyone.
He chuckled softly.
"Funny," he murmured, voice low beneath the hiss of water. "Almost can't believe that the first Grimm I ever fought killed me."
That Beowolf had been nothing like the Ursas—faster, leaner, more calculating. Its lanky, lupine frame had given it a burst speed the Ursas couldn't match. Its claws moved in arcs meant to sever and not bludgeon. He hadn't expected that. He could only learn so much from the bestiary, after all. Still, Jaune didn't understand how it had snuck up on him.
No... in truth he did know. Jaune had been too confident. Too arrogant. Too excited to prove himself a warrior.
And it had killed him.
And now here he was. Alive again. In a body not quite his own with a mind born of two worlds. On Earth, he was also a sixteen year old teenager, mirroring the age of the Jaune from this world's body.
"Does that make me 32 years old, technically?" Jaune muttered, slightly disturbed. Would that mean that he couldn't date anybody his age?
He wasn't certain. While he certainly felt a little more mature...
In any case, Jaune supposed that it didn't matter. Pushing himself through blood and mud and sweat to make up for lost time was the only thing that was important now.
He sighed, rubbing a hand through his damp hair.
Despite the long night, despite the fact that he hadn't leveled, Jaune felt… satisfied. Not content—he wasn't anywhere near safe or ready yet—but there was a growing sense of momentum. That all the planning, the practice, the battles—they were beginning to matter.
If he could keep this up for the next two weeks…
Level 10 was a given but Jaune needed to aim higher. 11 or 12.