Jaune was the first to attack.
He blurred forward in a burst of bloodlust, dust spiraling in his wake as he closed the distance in less than a heartbeat. Crocea Mors came up high, angled toward Roman's throat—a slash telegraphed just enough to sell the feint. Roman's eyes flicked to the blade exactly as Jaune wanted.
The real attack came from below.
Lux Aeterna snapped forward in a brutal thrust aimed straight for Roman's sternum.
But Roman wasn't fooled.
He shifted half a step, palm rising with an almost theatrical casualness. His hand slapped against the flat of Lux Aeterna's blade, redirecting the thrust just inches off target. Roman was stronger than his tacky faux-rich outfit suggested. His movements were clearly too precise to be anything but practiced.
Then Roman's leg shot forwards.
A perfect Spartan kick, center-mass and with enough force behind it to send a car flying through a building.
Jaune reacted by bringing Crocea Mors down in a chopping arc, aiming to intercept the leg or at least force Roman to abort the kick. But the man was already moving, expecting his interception. His cane hooked upward, catching Crocea Mors at the hilt with a practiced twist.
The cane suddenly shifted.
And what once had looked like an elegant, polished gentleman's accessory, suddenly elongated at the end with a fluid click of concealed mechanisms. Well hidden panels slid apart and components unfolded. At its tip, a thin blade of humming energy flared to life. It was bright, sharp, and positively lethal, like a sword forged from pure electric light.
It stabbed forwards toward Jaune's heart.
He twisted aside to doge but the energy blade skimmed still across his chest, slicing cleanly through the shimmering structure of his Rune Frame.
Fortunately he wasn't hurt, but the section of the Frame that protected his ribcage melted and deformed where the blade had touched it, carved like butter under a hot knife.
That weapon could kill him instantly.
Roman pressed the advantage, stepping in with the grace of a duelist. His cane swayed, then lunged, then slashed in a series of whip-fast strikes, each one so precise it bordered on surgical prowess. He was fencing, but greater, an accelerated, enhanced style turned into a deadly art.
Jaune blocked, deflected, twisted his blades in frantic parries.
Crocea Mors intercepted a downward slash and heat flared along its edge.
Lux Aeterna caught a thrust and its runic steel sang as it deflected.
Roman's movements were elegant but merciless, every step a measured rhythm, every strike a page ripped from a manual only he knew. Jaune tried to bait an opening, but Roman never stopped moving, never slowed long enough to create an opportunity. It was like fighting smoke armed with a scalpel.
Their weapons clashed in a final flurry—
—Then both sprang apart.
Jaune skidded back, armored form scraping across broken asphalt. He let out a harsh breath as his eyes flicked to his blades.
The portions that had met Roman's energy weapon were blackened and scorched, edges warped slightly from the heat. Not ruined—but close. A few more exchanges like that and he'd lose both swords. Crocea Mors trembled faintly in his grip from the unnatural heat it had absorbed.
That was bad. Crocea Mors's structure, due to Jaune wanting to keep the internal steel intact was slightly weaker in durability than Lux Aeterna. The difference was small, but in this moment it could become problematic.
Roman tapped his cane twice against the ground—tak, tak—and tilted his head in faux approval, as if he were evaluating a student's form rather than dueling to kill. The glowing blade at the end of his cane hummed softly, extending a fraction of an inch farther with each subtle shift of his wrist.
"Well now," Roman drawled, the smirk never leaving his face. "Your dual-wielding technique isn't half bad. Very impressive, to be honest. You've got a lot of spirit."
Jaune didn't answer. He adjusted his stance, keeping both swords angled to deflect rather than clash directly. He couldn't afford another direct meeting with that weapon.
Roman continued, unfazed by Jaune's silence.
"But what's far more fascinating," he said, tapping the cane toward Crocea Mors, "is that cute imbuement you're hiding in that blade of yours."
Jaune's eyes narrowed.
Roman's eyes gleamed. "I noticed it the moment we clashed."
A muscle in Jaune's jaw twitched.
Crocea Mors. The Rune he'd etched into it. Sword.
He'd practiced with that Rune for weeks before he'd switched to Teleport. It was powerful, yes—but something about the synergy had always felt off. Not wrong... but... just not right. Like it belonged to a different set. Teleport was perhaps a slightly better fit for his current combat style… but even Teleport didn't sync well with Weakness.
Rune Synchronization mattered. A lot more than most people realized.
Jaune tightened his grip around the hilts.
Roman watched the movement with a cat's amusement.
"So tell me, kid," Roman said, flashing a grin far too sharp for the tone he used. "What Rune did you carve into that sword of yours?"
Jaune narrowed his eyes. Why was Roman talking so much?
The last time Roman had stalled like this, he'd been buying time for that displacement user... Bob... to teleport everyone away. That memory was fresh but... currently... Bob... was being triple teamed by three Rank 2's.
Jaune glanced at the sky, where flashes of light and sound were exploding up high. It was... unlikely that he would be coming back to displace his group while he was busy. Especially when Jaune considered what Qrow said earlier.
About how Bob wouldn't be running away anymore, and this was the final fight.
In any case, Roman's attitude was suspicious. If he wasn't stalling for Bob, to displace them, then what was he stalling for exactly?
Perhaps... for that multicolored girl he saw standing next to the man earlier?
"You think I'm falling for that again? Where's that short-stack partner of yours, huh?" He angled his stance, pushing his awareness wider. "She going to stab me in the back while you keep running your mouth?"
Roman laughed. Almost delighted.
"Oh, kid… you really don't want to call her that to her face."
The hairs on Jaune's neck rose.
Roman spun the cane once, energy blade singing as it sliced a clean arc through the air.
And the grin he wore turned predatory.
But question kept needling the back of Jaune's mind.
Why wasn't Roman using his Runes? And most importantly, what exactly were they?
The last time they fought, before the Dragon Gang's teleport-drop at the gates, Roman had clearly exuded a low and commanding pressure that made his subordinates hang onto every flick of his hand. Which meant that he was clearly strong. Much stronger than every one of his "capable" subordinates.
And the gang members clearly weren't about to pile onto Jaune to help their "boss." They avoided Roman almost as much as they avoided him. Jaune didn't know if it was fear, respect, or simply arrogance—the belief that Roman Torchwick could win any duel he started—but the effect was the same: the two of them had been quietly, unofficially sectioned off from the rest of the battle, a private storm inside the greater one.
Jaune's reserves continued to slowly rebuild, the throb of Aura growing warmer along his limbs.
He didn't use Weakness, or even Teleport for that matter. No point wasting energy until he knew what Roman actually had in his pocket. Sure, his new understanding could push the fight in his favour in the short term, however, rune skills weren't something one could throw around endlessly. Jaune needed to pace himself. He needed to turn this into a spar of attrition, so he could help the LUCID members at his back.
But why was Roman holding back?
Roman raised his cane as if sensing Jaune's thoughts. "I know what you're thinking. 'Mr. Torchwick, why haven't you used any of your Runes yet?'"
Jaune snorted. "You're dreaming if you think I'm addressing you with a modicum of respect."
"Oh, that hurts." Roman placed a hand dramatically on his heart. "Here I am, trying to maintain the polite banter of a professional rivalry, and you spit in my face. Kids these days."
He twisted something near the cane's midsection with a lazy flick of his wrist.
The long, elegant blade of energy at the end gave a mechanical sigh, retracting with a hiss. Then the entire length of the cane shuddered, panels sliding against one another, internal components reshuffling with a metallic click-click-click. What emerged wasn't a blade at all.
It was a gun barrel.
A big one.
Jaune's eyes widened despite himself.
Roman grinned. "Alright, playtime's over. You and I alone, might not make too much of a difference if we fight here, but gods, is this conversation getting boring. Let's get back to me beating your ass black and blue, yeah?" He swung the barrel into aim. "Roman Torchwick style."
The shot wasn't light or fire.
It was violent, incandescent plasma. An explosive sphere of furious blue-white energy that screamed across the short distance between them like a tiny meteor.
Jaune had been waiting for that opening.
He teleported.
One blink and he was no longer where the blast had been meant to hit—he was in front of Roman, mid-thrust, Crocea Mors already cutting through the air toward the man's neck. The timing was perfect in such a way that the teleportation didn't give Roman enough time to adjust his stance, much less raise the cannon-barrel cane to block.
Behind him, the plasma round detonated with a concussive roar, digging a crater into the courtyard tiles and sending a hot wind spiraling outward.
Jaune saw Roman's smirk vanish.
Good. This would be a clean hit, and enough to take him out of the fi—
The world suddenly...reversed.
Not visually or spatially, yet something metaphysical seemed to grab at the direction of Jaune's momentum and invert it. One instant he was driving forward with killing intent; the next, that force whiplashed back against him and his blade which was an inch away from Roman's neck somehow snapped backwards and turned on him like it was committing treason.
The sword came at his own throat.
What saved him was blind luck alone. The angle wasn't perfect. Crocea Mors scraped brutally across the armored frame bracing along his collar and chest, biting deep into the alloy but missing his jugular by inches. Sparks burst around him as Jaune staggered back in shock, heart pounding in his ears.
He retreated several long strides, eyes scanning the air between them, looking for tripwires, glyphs or some kind of visible tell.
Nothing.
Roman stood exactly where he had been, cane casually balanced against his shoulder, smile returning with irritating brightness.
"Why are you hitting yourself?" he asked, utterly pleased with himself.
Jaune didn't answer. He was too busy analyzing the last second of movement in his memory frame by frame.
That wasn't recoil. That wasn't him misjudging distance. Something had taken hold of his momentum and clearly, without resistance, reversed it.
A Rune? Probably. But he didn't know what kind. Gravitational? Vector manipulation? Trajectory reflection? There were dozens of theoretical categories, and even more obscure variants that were listed in LUCID manuals.
The worst possibility was that Roman possessed a Rune built specifically to counter forward aggression. A complete directional inversion. A duel-ending ability if used at the right time.
But Roman wasn't activating a visible Rune glow. No surge of power, no colored flare, no ripple of energy.
At least… not one Jaune could recognize.
And that was a problem.
Jaune flexed his wrist where the impact had jarred it. Roman's little stunt had done no damage, but it had shredded his tempo, and tempo was everything in a duel like this.
Roman tapped the cane against his shoulder. "You know, spatial users with fancy teleporting tricks always assume you're the fastest thing on the field. It's cute. Really warms the heart."
Jaune forced the buzzing in his arms to settle. "That wasn't speed."
Roman's grin sharpened. "Oh? Do tell. I'm dying to hear the lecture."
Jaune didn't indulge him. He focused inward, checking his Aura levels. The recharge was steady but slow. Jaune was sure that if he were to simply just spam his Runes without caring of the cost, he could turn the fight around.
Jaune risked a glance behind him at the battles that was still occurring around. Yang and Ruby were now together, facing off against three awakened, shielding a fallen operative who was clutching his armored chest. Blood was pooling out of his lips.
Non awakened that were trapped at the top of the fortress were operating the turrets, shooting at a group of Dragon gang awakened. The group was deflecting the shots with their own rune skills. Others were dragging injured members back into the base to get patched up with single use healing runes.
Roman, meanwhile, was content to enjoy himself. That was the most infuriating part. He wasn't urgent. He wasn't threatened. He acted like he had all the time in the world to tease, posture, and make jokes while Jaune's comrades were being pounded into the pavement around him.
Jaune's grip tightened. This was a problem.
If Roman wanted to stall, Jaune needed to extract every drop of advantage from it.
But the momentum reversal weighed heavily on his mind. It meant any direct rush was suicide. It meant he couldn't commit to another teleport-thrust until he cracked the logic behind that ability. It meant Roman had at least one Rune Jaune didn't understand.
And Rank 1's had two runes, which meant that he still needed to figure out what his other rune did.
Roman flicked imaginary dust off his lapel. "So what's the plan, kid? Going to scowl at me until I die of guilt, or until all your friends fall? Because if so, you're welcome to keep trying. Really. Take your time."
Jaune didn't rise to the bait.
He watched Roman's feet. His shoulders. The subtle shift of weight when he settled the cane differently. The microscopic tells that might hint at a trigger condition.
Alright.
He knew the rhythm now.
Roman liked control. He liked dictating the pace of the fight. He liked throwing clever little tricks at people and watching the confusion bloom in their eyes. He expected Jaune to rush again, or freeze, or get flustered.
Fine.
If Roman wanted to play tricks, Jaune could do the same, but he needed an angle Roman wouldn't expect.
Which was why he decided to take a page out of his good friend, Nora Valkyrie's book.
If there was anything Nora Valkyrie excelled at, it was the kind of brute-force creativity that ignored the word subtlety and treated "environment" like a suggestion rather than a fixed feature of reality. Operatives were trained for precision, to pinpoint strikes, and optimize their Aura output. That meant energy-efficient movements that focused on condensing strength. But Rank 1 Awakened didn't simply earn the nickname building breakers because they were good at pinpoint strength.
They earned it because they could stop caring about finesse and simply impose absolute destruction on the world.
He shifted his weight. Roman's eyes narrowed at the change in stance.
Then Jaune lifted his leg—absurdly high, almost comedic, like he was about to bust into a dance routine—and brought it crashing down.
The ground detonated.
A geyser of broken asphalt and pulverized dust erupted upward in a violent plume, shrouding their fight location in a dirty gray bloom. Shards of stone skittered across the surface like ricocheting shrapnel. Roman flinched half a step, in genuine surprise.
Good. He hadn't expected that.
Before the dust had even settled, Jaune hurled both his blades straight up, metal flashing briefly before disappearing into the churning cloud above. Then he sank low, dropping into the horse stance that Ren had drilled into him until his legs had felt like noodles. His palms came together at his waist, his core twisting, breath tightening—
Then he struck forward with both hands.
A double palm thrust.
The force of his palm thrust + the use of aura echo tripling each strike, burst out from his limbs in a deep, concussive shockwave. And the dust cloud exploded outward, whipped into a spiraling wave that surged directly toward Roman Torchwick like a collapsing wall of smoke.
Roman covered his mouth with a sleeve on instinct, eyes narrowing as the gray torrent engulfed him. The cane twitched slightly as he raised it, perhaps preparing for Jaune's next charge.
Jaune vanished.
Teleport.
He reappeared high above, exactly where his blades had been arcing through the obscuring storm. The moment his form stabilized, he caught their silhouettes through the murk. Lux Aeterna glittered in his hand. Jaune didn't hesitate—he twisted, wound torque through his arm, and hurled the weapon downward like a javelin.
The blade became a streak of pure line, cutting through dust and shadow.
Jaune pushed off the air with a tiny pulse of Aura Echo under his boots—barely even a whisper compared to what he'd used moments ago, but enough to hurl his body after the thrown sword. He descended like a warhead, eyes locked onto the faint silhouette of Roman Torchwick below.
As expected, just as Lux Aeterna closed in, just as the blade was about to pierce Roman's sternum—
It flipped back.
Reversed violently. The exact same momentum inversion as before, as if an invisible hand had grabbed its flight path and snapped it backwards like a rubber band.
Jaune had been waiting for it.
He shifted his head an inch. The spinning blade whipped past his cheek, and he snagged the hilt mid-flight. The captured vector became his own. He twisted, redirected the force into a spiraling drop, accelerating toward Roman faster than any clean teleport-strike could have allowed. Crocea Mors glinted in his other hand.
The dust split open.
Roman Torchwick looked up, eyes going wide at the streak of whirling death hurtling down to slice his skull.
Jaune's blades came scissoring down in a brutal, killing cross-chop.
For one impossible sliver of time, their eyes met but then Roman's mouth curled, and he uttered a single word.
"Steal."
.
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AN: Advanced chapters are available on patreon