The professor's words began to taper, his marker clattering faintly against the ledge of the whiteboard as he brought the lecture to its close. "That is all for today. Consider the implications of each moral tradition for your next assignment: where do your loyalties lie—duty, consequence, or virtue? Dismissed."
The room filled with the muted shuffles of students packing bags, the scrape of chairs against tile, the low hum of casual chatter. Pyrrha capped her pen and closed her notebook with practiced neatness, though her eyes lingered on the boy beside her.
Jaune Arc.
He was a little slow to pack, fumbling with his pages of notes, brow still faintly furrowed as though his mind lingered on the debate of categorical imperatives versus ends-justify-the-means. He still looked ordinary. Like someone who might forget his homework or someone who might laugh awkwardly at a bad joke.
And yet, that ordinariness itself had become a paradox.
Pyrrha inhaled quietly, then turned slightly toward him. It was a small risk—reaching out, breaking the polite barrier of classmate distance—but she found her words before she could second-guess herself.
"Jaune," she said softly.
He looked up, blinking at her with the faintest trace of surprise, like he hadn't expected her to speak at all.
"Would you like to walk to... the 'clubroom' together?" Pyrrha asked, steadying her tone into something calm, casual. "Since we're both members of the same club now, it might be… good to get to know each other better."
There. Simple and reasonable. Entirely justifiable.
Jaune's eyes widened for only a fraction of a second—then his eyes flicked towards his other side. Toward Blake.
Pyrrha's gaze followed, and for the barest instant, her composure wavered. He wasn't answering yet. He was… asking Blake. With his eyes, with the subtle tilt of his head.
And Blake, quiet, reserved Blake, returned the silent exchange without missing a beat. Her golden eyes met his, then dipped in a near-imperceptible nod.
"I'll come too."
"Sure," Jaune said then, smiling faintly. "We can all go together."
Pyrrha smiled in return, automatic and poised, but inside there was the faintest dissonance. Confusion. She replayed the moment. Had she been wrong earlier, in her assumptions? Was Blake not simply a curious observer, but something more? The invisible current between the two of them felt a little practiced, familiar even.
Her chest tightened for half a breath before she forced the thought away. No. She was being foolish again, spiraling into interpretations without evidence. Surely Blake was just… interested, the way everyone was interested in Jaune Arc, the boy who had somehow broke the Dream's rules.
"After you," Pyrrha said lightly, rising from her seat and gesturing toward the aisle.
The three of them filed out, the professor's droning still faintly echoing in her ears. For all her efforts to remain composed, she was too aware of the strange little triangle they formed. Pyrrha to his left, Jaune in the middle and Blake at his other side. Like an equation whose balance she could not quite solve.
Halfway down the hall, Jaune suddenly stopped short, patting his head with an awkward laugh. "Ah, right—forgot something."
Both girls glanced back at him curiously. He looked faintly sheepish, scratching the back of his neck. "There's a couple places I need to stop by before heading to the club. Totally slipped my mind earlier. It's on the way, though. Do you guys want to come along?"
Blake's response was instant. "Sure, lead the way." No hesitation or guarded pause. Just quiet agreement, her voice level but sure.
Pyrrha blinked. The speed of the answer caught her off-guard.
And there it was again—that tug of unease, sharp and uninvited. Was this… was this the real picture? Had she misread everything? Was Blake not simply curious, but invested in Jaune? And if so, was Jaune inviting her—Pyrrha—along merely out of politeness? Was she about to intrude where she was not wanted?
She hesitated, her throat slightly tight with the familiar uncertainty that came whenever the rules of battle didn't apply, whenever victory was not earned with power and strategy but with something as elusive as human connection.
For a heartbeat too long, she said nothing.
Then Jaune looked at her. Neither impatiently or coldly. Just… expectantly. His blue eyes carrying a question as plain as the words he'd spoken.
And Pyrrha, feeling the weight of that gaze, forced herself forward.
"Yes," she said, her voice as steady as she could make it. "I'll join you."
The faintest relief softened Jaune's expression, and he gave a small nod. "Great. Then let's go."
Pyrrha followed, her stride composed, her posture calm. But inside, the questions spun tighter.
If Blake was interested in Jaune—truly interested—then what did that mean? Did Pyrrha even have the right to dwell on it? She was not trying to steal anyone's man. She reminded herself of that firmly. This was not about romance or rivalry. It was simply about curiosity. About understanding. About what his existence meant for all of them.
And yet…
Her hand brushed the strap of her satchel, tightening briefly before relaxing again.
Even if Blake did have feelings for him—even if Jaune one day returned them—wasn't she still allowed to want to know?
The hallway lights gleamed faintly above as the three of them walked side by side, an odd little procession threading its way toward some unseen future.
Pyrrha lifted her chin, steadied her breath, and pushed down he thoughts where it could not be seen.
.
.
The training hall smelled faintly of lacquered wood and old polish. It was quieter than the simulation chambers in LUCID—less technological hum, more of a grounded, physical stillness.
Jaune pushed open the door with a certain familiarity, stepping inside without hesitation. Pyrrha and Blake followed a half-step behind, their shoes clicking softly against the smooth floorboards.
It looked like a miniature dojo, old-fashioned compared to the sprawling modern facilities Beacon boasted. Tatami mats stretched across the center. Wooden weapon racks lined the wall. There was a clean, disciplined air to the space, like the residue of years of practice still clinging to the air itself.
And in the middle of that stillness, a man stood.
Third year, Pyrrha guessed immediately, judging by his bearing and looks. He was tall, athletically muscular and had his grey hair tied loosely back. A wooden practice sword rested in one hand. Yet it wasn't his appearance that caught her attention—it was the way he moved when he turned to greet them.
Graceful and fluid. Each motion was economical and deliberate, refined down to an art. Even the act of shifting his stance as he noticed Jaune had a weight to it. No wasted effort.
Pyrrha's comprehended Rune pulsed faintly in her soul. She could sense subtle currents, threads of refinement in his body. She couldn't put words to it. It wasn't strength, exactly. Nor speed. Something else. Something hidden beneath the ordinary layer of flesh. Her instincts whispered that this was no simple upperclassman with a hobby for kendo.
But she blinked, dismissing the thought. It was far more likely that he was simply that good—a swordsman honed through years of practice. She'd met his kind before, in exhibitions. Their skill could mimic something superhuman, even if they were still bound to the normal world.
Though, this was the first time she had sensed this feeling from a normal human, using her rune.
Jaune lifted a hand in greeting. "Hey, Grise."
The man—Grise—gave him a nod and a faint smile. "You're back. And with company."
"Yeah. Uh—these are my classmates." Jaune gestured between them. "Pyrrha Nikos and Blake Belladonna. This is Grise, he's been teaching me… you know, how to not chop my own feet off."
His humor earned the faintest curve of Grise's lips.
Pyrrha inclined her head politely. "It's a pleasure."
Blake mirrored the gesture.
But Grise's eyes sharpened when Jaune spoke her name. Recognition flickered there, subtle but unmistakable. Pyrrha's stomach tensed. She knew that look—she had seen it countless times in tournaments, in interviews, on the faces of strangers.
'He knows who I am.'
Her smile stayed fixed, polite, though inwardly she winced. Please don't make a scene. Please don't bring it up.
Thankfully, Grise only inclined his head in return. "I've heard of your career," he said simply, voice neutral. No praise or fawning commentary. Just acknowledgment.
Relief loosened the knot in Pyrrha's chest.
Jaune, oblivious to the tension, scratched at his cheek. "So, uh, sorry I haven't been around the last two days. Things got… busy with other afterschool stuff."
Pyrrha understood instantly. Of course he couldn't tell Grise about LUCID. The organization was secret for a reason. To everyone outside it, Jaune was just another student juggling commitments.
Grise studied him for a moment, then raised a brow. "Other activities, hm? You've improved quickly for a beginner. Skipping practice so soon is dangerous. Your fundamentals still need work."
"I know." Jaune rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I'll try to make it when I can, but my schedule's going to be tighter from now on."
There was a pause. Pyrrha watched the exchange closely. Grise's eyes lingered on Jaune for a fraction longer than necessary, as if amused by something unseen. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Tuesdays and Thursdays, I have a free block before classes end," Grise said at last. "I can open the dojo earlier on those days. If you're serious, find me here then. Otherwise, you'll stagnate."
"Got it." Jaune brightened faintly, relief and gratitude slipping into his voice. "Thanks, Grise."
The older student's hand came down lightly on his shoulder—a gesture both supportive and oddly scrutinizing. Then, with nothing more, he turned back toward the racks, resuming his quiet work.
Jaune waved goodbye, motioning for Blake and Pyrrha to follow him out, even as other students started to fill into the small dojo.
As the door slid closed behind them, Pyrrha let out the faintest breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Grise. His movements had been like water poured into the shape of a blade. She couldn't help but wonder how her own skills might compare against his. The competitor in her longed for the test. Yet she knew it would be no fair measure. Not now, when she was walking this half-life between worlds.
Ten percent. That's all her true strength she retained in reality. Ten percent of a peak Rank 1. Against a normal human, even one at the height of skill, she could never test herself honestly. It would be like bringing a storm to a duel.
She pushed the thought aside. It wasn't the time for vanity.
"Grise seems like a good teacher," Blake said quietly as they made their way down the hall.
"Yeah." Jaune smiled faintly, but there was something subdued in it. "He's been patient with me. More than I probably deserve, to be honest."
Pyrrha studied his face for a moment. The brightness didn't quite reach his eyes. Something else weighed there, some other thought tugging at him.
He led them upward, toward the third floor. His pace slowed slightly, as if each step made him heavier.
"There's one more stop before the club," he said finally. "Something I asked someone to research for me. I'll… explain later."
Blake's brow furrowed minutely, but she didn't press.
Pyrrha, however, caught the flicker of hesitation in Jaune's voice. The way his shoulders seemed to tense. Whatever this stop was, he wasn't looking forward to it.
The stairwell opened onto a quieter corridor, lined with clubroom doors. Music Club. Debate Society. Robotics Workshop. Their footsteps echoed softly against the tiles.
Then Jaune stopped.
Before them stood a heavy door, darker than the others, adorned in weird glitter and its sign carved in odd red lettering:
Occult Research Society.
Only the Enlightened may enter.
Pyrrha tilted her head, surprise flickering across her face. Of all places…
She glanced at Jaune. His expression was taut, as if bracing himself against a blow only he could see.
What in the world had he commissioned from them?
And why did he look as though he would rather be anywhere else?
Pyrrha folded her hands loosely in front of her, watching him with quiet curiosity. The air around the door felt heavier somehow, like the threshold itself resisted their presence.
So this was the next piece of the puzzle that was Jaune Arc.
.
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