The Boarbatusk found him first.
Jaune had heard the clatter of its hooves and the crunch of shattered pavement just a second before he saw it. Its squeal rattled his chest like a demented boom-box. He turned just in time to see the dream creature charging from in-between two ruined houses, its tusks gleaming in the dull light of the blood-moon above.
He had little time to think so he simply jumped back to give himself space, barely avoiding the initial slam as the boar barreled past. It pulverized the brittle wall of a building behind him. Plaster, brick, and bone-dry wood exploded outward in a storm of debris.
He landed in a crouch, eyes narrowed in concentration.
'Okay,' he thought grimly, fingers tightening around his sword hilt. 'Guess that answers the question of who found who.'
He'd spent what felt like half an hour combing the dilapidated neighborhood—searching door to door, weapon drawn and his nerves sharp for a confrontation. He'd thought he was being cautious.
But the Boarbatusk didn't care about caution. It simply charged like a demented hell pig.
Jaune wasn't the same weakling that he was a couple days ago. He was no longer the same kid who flinched at the sound of his own footsteps. Now, he had options instead of running and hoping for the best.
The Boarbatusk roared again, snorting steam from its cracked black nostrils. The bone-white plates along its body glowed with faint red lines that traced odd, geometric patterns through into its flesh. Its armor appeared like the edges of buried circuitry, tell-tale sign of its nature. It scraped one hoofed foreleg across the concrete—a challenge to Jaune.
He didn't flinch or back away. Instead, he rolled his shoulder and exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Alright," he muttered. "Round two, porky."
He remembered the last fight. The frantic dodging, screaming and those desperate, panicked swings.
And he remembered the opening—brief, but real enough to make the difference. The underbelly.
When it curled to spin and got stuck on the debris, the underside was exposed. No plates existed there. No dream-iron skin.
Just vulnerable flesh. Which meant that was his target.
The Boarbatusk screamed like a broken record and spun as another of its kind had once done before, exactly as he expected.
As it launched into its saw-like roll, its momentum built almost instantly. It became a blur of jagged bone and death tearing through the street like a pig-shaped buzzsaw, gouging cracks through concrete and flinging dust skyward in a line of destruction.
Jaune strafed sideways, ducking behind a crumbling sedan as the beast rolled past, clipping a car hard enough to flip it. The vehicle soared end over end and crashed into another, across the street.
Jaune didn't look.
He leapt forwards instead, closing the distance between them, his every footstep calculated well. And his three points in Body aided his movements with great precision. The creature slowed its spin, skidding to a stop, thick hooves cracking pavement as it turned toward him again.
He tightened his grip on the sword and readied his stance.
"Come on, then." Jaune muttered.
The Boarbatusk squeal—and lunged forwards again.
Jaune didn't dodge this time, instead, he sprinted faster towards it and waited—waited until the beast curled, waited until the blur of tusks and steel began to form—
Then he skidded forwards diving low, just like last time—but angled inward this time, not away. His shoulder barely brushed the street. His eyes tracked the creature's belly.
He lashed out with a foot, kicking the beast before it could fully form into a saw, titling it off balance and removing its leverage.
It twisted onto its back pitifully, squealing like a fat pig in heat.
Time stretched.
He lunged forwards with a pierce, sword lashing out with all the force he could manage.
Steel met flesh.
The blade bit deep into the exposed underbelly—just as the creature's own struggles to right itself carried it into the strike. A wet, sickening tear of sound followed, and the Boarbatusk let out a distorted shriek that was equal parts organically animal and insectoid in nature, a insidious howl of death.
The beast legs flailed upward, trying to kick at him with its hooves. A trail of black ichor sprayed across the street. Jaune backpedaled, scrambling backward to avoid its flailing limbs, sword still slick with nightmare blood.
He got his footing fast.
The Boarbatusk writhed, snarling, then forced itself up with trembling limbs. It bled heavily now—its spinning form broken and coordination ruined.
Jaune didn't wait.
He rushed in once again, this time from the side, ducking away from its tusks. It tried to turn but it was too slow. His blade flashed upward, slicing through one rear leg with a crunch.
The beast fell sideways, unable to support its own weight. Still, it roared and still, it tried, lashing out wildly, but Jaune was already past it—circling, aiming for the head.
One more, one last blow.
The sword pierced forwards, right into the creature's eye.
Its squeals stopped.
The Boarbatusk jerked once—then went still. Its limbs twitched weakly. Then even that faded. A moment later, its body began to break apart—like the other Dream Creatures. Dissolving into flickers of light, fading into black mist.
Jaune watched coldly, as the thing disintegrated completely.
Then there was silence, broken only by the sound of his own breaths and the chime from the Nightmare system, signifying the creatures death.
He stood there for a long moment—then let out a sigh, gripping his sword like a tightly. His arms trembled slightly, from effort.
And… something else.
Satisfaction?
He wasn't proud or thrilled but there was something clean in the victory. Something sharp-edged and undeniable.
He'd fought and won against it, easily too. No tricks, flukes or traps. Just timing and strategy.
Borne from his own power.
Jaune breathed in deep through his nose and let the cold air of the ruined world fill his lungs. The night air here always smelled the same—like ozone and rust. Like something old, electrical, and dying.
He mechanically wiped the blade on his pants, even though the dream blood had already evaporated.
Then he looked down at his hands. They still didn't feel powerful.
"I need to kill more. Bring my body stat to five at the very least, today.
He turned his head, scanning the street for more movement. Nothing, for now so Jaune kept moving forwards.
He hadn't even realized where he was headed until he reached the intersection. A fork in the road, with one path leading deeper into the wreckage of suburban homes and collapsed fences, and the other veering towards the train station.
Jaune hesitated at the corner, thinking over his options. His hand still clutched Crocea Mors, the weight felt much more familiar now—comforting, even.
He rolled his shoulder to loosen up the non-existent stiffness and frowned.
"That's where the pack of beowolves were," he muttered to himself.
A few days ago—though it felt like it had been weeks—he'd stumbled into that train station by choice.
It had nearly ended him, bringing the creatures back with him to his house. But that wasn't who he was anymore.
He wasn't running now.
His grip tightened, and he turned to the station.
Maybe there'd be another pack. Maybe there was another Nightmare-mist that would spawn more of those creatures.
That word—Nightmare—echoed oddly in his head. Not just as a descriptor, but a type of thing. A proper noun. He remembered the exact way Raymond Red had said it.
"You ran towards a Nightmare without backup."
Not the nightmare. A Nightmare.
Was that what the mists were? Nightmares? Anchors of some sort? Rifts? The source of these monsters?
Jaune didn't really understand.
His shoes echoed louder as the houses thinned out. Streetlights, bent at odd angles, stood like skeletal remains of a world that had stopped existing.
He thought of the bear again.
Ursa.
It had been different. Stronger, more violent and more intelligent. It had bled like the others, but something about its presence felt... heavy. Like it had more meaning. Like it wasn't just some random dream-thing conjured up by fear.
Maybe the Nightmare had created it specifically to counter his presence. Spawned it like an apex predator from a hive just to take care of him. He was snooping around it without care, after all.
Truly, dream creatures were an interesting enigma.
But no, that wasn't quite right either.
The man in the skull-helmet had called them something else, hadn't he?
Jaune slowed his pace as the memory resurfaced.
That building-top—wind slicing past him, dust in his mouth, the taste of fear and sweat. Raymond standing like a wall in front of him, and the skull-faced man just… watching. Laughing, even.
"Creatures of Grimm," he had said.
Not Dream Creatures. Creatures of Grimm.
Jaune mouthed the phrase slowly, letting it sit on his tongue like something bitter.
"Creatures of Grimm..." he echoed aloud. It didn't sound like something made up on the spot. It had the weight of a title—something already defined, something understood.
So what were they, really? The nightmare system didn't call them that. It simply said things like rank 0 beast slain...
Jaune pulled up his status to asses the system.
.
[Jaune Arc]
[Rank: 0]
.
Aura: 0
Will: 0
Body: 3
.
Runes: 36
.
He simply didn't have enough information to come up with any theories but Jaune supposed that the name fit. Creatures of Grimm. Evil beasts that hungered for living flesh. Their presence were nightmares in this ruined realm of dreams.
Distracted, his foot caught on a broken curb, and he stumbled slightly. He cursed under his breath and kept moving.
The station was just up ahead now. He could see the broken arch that had once held a clock—shattered, the hands missing. The platform stretched out beyond it, empty and busted, with debris and concrete littered around like carcasses of architecture.
The broken moon cast all of it in a surreal crimson hue. Like something painted in ink and rage. Jaune slowed and crouched behind a broken sign near the platform's edge.
He listened.
Nothing.
Just the wind whispering through rusted rebar and warped train tracks.
Still, his eyes scanned the perimeter, checking the rooftops and corners for movement. You couldn't assume silence meant safety here. That's what the dream creatures—no—the creatures of grimm had taught him.
He crouched there for a long moment, sword resting carefully against his shoulder, mind circling back to the things he'd heard—things that hadn't made sense at the time but were starting to now.
There were clearly layers to this place he hadn't even begun to uncover. Histories and Organizations that were built to handle it—and rogue elements like that man who were trying to burn it all down.
And Jaune?
He was just some sixteen-year-old kid who got yanked in.
He sighed and shifted his stance, eyes narrowing as he scanned a particularly dark corner of the station's far wall. Still no movement or growls.
No mist nightmare things either.
It seemed that Jaune would have to sweep the area. Check the shadows.
But as he crouched there in silence, sword in hand, heartbeat steady and breath measured—he couldn't help but ask himself:
Was this going to be his life now?
Not Beacon? Not homework or cafeteria food or hanging out with Ruby, Yang, Ren and Nora?
This.
Dreams full of monsters. People dying in front of him. A world that twisted physics and conjured death from mist.
.
.
AN: I have just finished writing the first volume.