The door to Team JNPR's dorm creaked open like it was trying to warn them.
Inside, they found not a cozy sanctuary, not even something resembling a livable space, but an empty room so devoid of personality it made a tax form look inviting. Four blank walls. One flickering lightbulb dangling from a lonely ceiling socket. No beds. No desks. No chairs. Just a cold floor and colder vibes.
Nora stepped in first, hands on her hips, squinting at the barren void like it had personally offended her.
"Did we get here too early," she asked, "or are we supposed to build our beds like AEKI ninjas?"
Jaune's expression crumbled like a wet cookie. "You're joking."
Ren calmly stepped past them, crouching beside a dusty Beacon-issued crate labeled ASSEMBLY REQUIRED: SOME HOPE INCLUDED. He unfolded a parchment-thin instruction manual and studied it with the grace of a monk deciphering ancient runes.
"Beacon," he said, "where your first real combat test… is with an Allen key."
Pyrrha tilted her head, an amused smile on her lips. "Well, it does build character."
Jaune groaned and dragged his duffel bag into the room like it owed him money. "Yeah, well, my character sheet doesn't have a carpentry stat!"
What followed could only be described as a bed-building warzone.
Nora declared herself the General of Furniture. She assembled her bed using speed, brute strength, and maybe a bit of unholy sorcery. By the end of it, her bunk had cupholders, built-in spring launchers, and an emergency snack drawer. She christened it The Pancake Throne.
Ren, meanwhile, seemed to teleport through construction. One second he was screwing a bolt in with surgical precision, the next he was sipping green tea beside a neatly tucked-in bed like he'd been there for hours. His aura practically whispered peace and mid-century minimalist design.
Pyrrha built her bed the way one might prepare for the Olympics. She used exact measurements, laid out each part in symmetrical order, and tightened every bolt like she was on a world-record timer. Her sheets were hospital-perfect. There was not a wrinkle to be found.
And then there was Jaune.
Jaune was in a duel to the death with his mattress, which had folded into a hostile taco and was attempting to eat his arm. The bedframe wouldn't align. The screws had vanished into another dimension. The instruction manual was upside-down and possibly in ancient Atlesian. He tried to staple the fabric down, only to accidentally staple his glove to the mattress.
"AGH! Damned Vacuan hex magic!" Jaune shouted, flailing wildly with the entire mattress stuck to one hand.
Nora cackled, then flew into the fray like a gremlin on rocket fuel. "Fear not, weakling! I have constructed your sleep device!"
Three seconds later, and several hammer noises that really shouldn't apply to bedframes — Jaune's bunk stood pristine and gleaming like it had always belonged there. Nora wiped imaginary sweat from her brow.
"There. Behold: my greatest work. I call it Jaune's Napatorium."
Jaune sat on it warily. "It doesn't bite, does it?"
"No promises," Nora grinned.
Eventually, the dust settled. The war was over. Four beds stood where once there was nothing but echoes and despair.
Jaune flopped onto his, exhausted and slightly traumatized. "If this is what dorm life is like, I'm gonna need hazard pay."
Ren poured him a cup of green tea. "You'll adjust."
"I wanted pancakes," Nora muttered, eyeing Ren's tea like it was mocking her.
Pyrrha sat at the edge of her bed, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle from her blanket. "At least we're together."
That part was true. Despite the bruised fingers, broken pride, and Jaune's now slightly haunted eyes, they were all in the same room. Team JNPR had a home, kind of.
Jaune sat up, rubbing his sore thumb. "So, tomorrow we do actual training, yeah?"
Ren nodded.
"Good," Jaune said. "Because if I have to fight another mattress, it's going in the incinerator."
They all laughed.
Outside, Beacon's spires caught the last of the setting sun, and inside, a mismatched team of oddballs settled into the first night of what was going to be one hell of a school year.
----------------------
The classroom lights buzzed overhead as Team JNPR filed in, still rubbing sleep out of their eyes — or, in Jaune's case, trying to hold his eyelids open with pure willpower and a cup of gas-station-tier coffee.
The board was already filled with an incomprehensible swirl of writing, arrows, half-sketched battle formations, and what looked suspiciously like a diagram labeled "Oobleck's Plan to Retake Mantle With Only a Toaster."
Then he arrived.
A blur zipped through the door and ricocheted off the far wall before slamming into the chalkboard like a caffeinated comet. Books flew. Chalk shattered. Dust exploded.
"Good morning, students!" shouted Professor Oobleck, his voice coming at them with the force of a Dust-infused hurricane. "Welcome to the past — because we're going to blitz through history!"
Jaune blinked. Hard. Was the man vibrating?
"Today's topics! The cultural fallout of the War of the Shattered Crown! Dust warfare in post-Mistralian campaigns! And — my favorite — the strategic uses of portable kitchenware in high-combat scenarios!"
Yang leaned over from her seat behind Ruby and whispered, "Five lien says he makes a joke about frying pans in the next five minutes."
"He already did," Ruby whispered back. "You missed it while blinking."
At the front of the class, Oobleck launched into a monologue at sonic speed, words spilling out faster than any sane person could write them down.
"Now, Dust-enhanced combat is not merely explosions and flashy nonsense, no no no! It is art. It is finesse. Why, once I personally delayed a swarm of Centinels using nothing but Dust spheres and — a roll of duct tape!"
He held up a long strip of silver duct tape triumphantly.
Pyrrha nodded politely, her notes already in perfect cursive. Weiss was taking meticulous outlines. Ren, somehow, was sitting upright with his eyes open and yet deeply asleep.
Jaune, on the other hand, was just writing the word "PANIC" in increasingly larger letters.
"Dust is elemental. Dust is wild. Dust is — may I say — deliciously dangerous!" Oobleck zoomed from one end of the classroom to the other. His pointer stick snapped like a conductor's baton as he traced kingdom borders with one hand and spun his coffee thermos with the other.
He suddenly stopped, dead center, locking eyes with Jaune.
"You! Mister Arc! Tell me — how did the tactical mismanagement of Vale's eastern front during the Siege of Etrian lead to the invention of portable Dust filtration?"
Jaune stared.Then blinked.Then slowly turned his notebook around to reveal a stick figure drawing of a Beowolf with the words Angry Doggo underneath.
Oobleck gave no reaction. He simply continued. "Excellent! That is correct — in spirit, if not in fact!"
Jaune blinked again. "Wait, really?"
"No! But I appreciate the enthusiasm!"
The class giggled. Even Weiss cracked the faintest smirk.
"I think I just got educated and humiliated at the same time," Jaune muttered.
"Welcome to higher learning," Ren said, eyes still closed.
For the next twenty minutes, the classroom was a battlefield of ink, chalk, and caffeine. Oobleck zipped between desks like a lightning bolt on rollerblades, quoting ancient generals, drawing economic collapse charts, and yes — drawing Hoot, his pet owl, fighting a Nevermore.
Ruby was giggling behind her notebook as she doodled Oobleck in a superhero cape labeled Captain Coffee, flanked by "Team OWL-R" instead of "Team RWBY." Yang kept trying to sneak peeks and then snorting.
"I swear," Jaune whispered, "I'm learning more through osmosis than actual focus."
Oobleck clapped his hands together — creating a small sonic boom. "In summary! History is not about memorizing names or numbers! It is about context! Purpose! Understanding! The past is the roadmap to the future!"
The bell rang. Oobleck saluted the class with his thermos.
"CLASS DISMISSED! If you can remember one thing — remember this: A Huntsman who forgets history is like a Dust crystal without a casing — explosive and useless!"
And then he zipped out the door in a blur of green and silver.
The room sat in stunned silence.
Nora leaned over. "...What just happened?"
Jaune, eyes wide, still holding his coffee: "I think I passed through time."
--------------------
The classroom looked more like a museum than a place of learning.Mounted Grimm heads lined the walls, ranging from the mildly concerning to the how-is-that-even-legal. A stuffed Ursa loomed in the corner like it had unresolved trauma. There was even what appeared to be a broken Beowolf fang stuck in a framed portrait of Professor Port himself, mid-lunge, arm raised like he was casting a divine spell with a blunderbuss.
Team JNPR settled into their seats just as Professor Peter Port made his grand entrance — emphasis on grand.
"THE GRIMM!" he bellowed before the door even finished creaking open. "Some call them monsters! Beasts! Fiends of the dark! Creatures spawned from nightmare itself!"He stepped forward, puffing out his chest like a mighty hero about to monologue his backstory."But I… hahaaaaahhh... I simply call them… prey."
A dramatic pause.
Silence.
Not a single student clapped.
Didn't matter. Port gave a belly laugh so hearty it probably cracked his ribs. "HAH! A good one, I know!"
Jaune leaned over to Ren, whispering, "...Is it too late to transfer out?"
Ren blinked once. "I think I'm already gone."
As Port strutted down the aisle between desks, his mighty mustache bristling with pride, he launched into a tale that sounded like it had been edited by a drunk bard with a flair for the theatrical.
"It was the Year of the Roaring Eclipse," Port boomed, "and I was but a young man — only three years out of combat school — brimming with idealism and the finest beard oil this side of Anima. I was dispatched to a village under siege by a pack of feral Alpha Beowolves! A pack, I say! A dozen at least!"
Weiss raised her hand. "Sir, Alphas rarely travel in groups that large—"
"Correct, Miss Schnee! That is what makes this story so thrilling!" he shouted over her. "Now, I had lost my weapon in a tragic arm-wrestling match against a Goliath the night prior—"
"...What," Pyrrha murmured, furiously taking notes.
"—and was left with only my instincts! My wit! And my emergency grooming kit!"
Ruby had stopped even pretending to take notes and was now openly doodling a caricature of Port battling wolves with beard oil and a loofah. Yang peeked over her shoulder and burst into giggles.
Blake, meanwhile, was calmly reading a novel behind her notebook.
"And so, using the glistening shine of my magnificently oiled mustache," Port declared, "I dazzled the beasts! Temporarily blinded by my sheer masculine sheen, they faltered—"
Nora gasped. "He weaponized his face!"
"Indeed! And then! With but a spoon — yes, a spoon! Stolen from the very soup bowl I had slurped from only hours prior — I dueled each one, one by one, dodging claws, evading fangs, and delivering tactical blows to their pressure points—!"
"...How many were there again?" Jaune asked, torn between awe and existential dread.
"FOURTEEN!"
"Didn't you say twelve?"
"YES! But two were stealth Beowolves. I hadn't seen them until they pounced mid-monologue!"
Weiss facepalmed.
Pyrrha whispered, "He's either the greatest warrior alive or the best liar in history."
"OR BOTH!" Port thundered, slapping the wall so hard a framed fang fell off and hit the Ursa taxidermy in the snout. The impact triggered a motion sensor. The Ursa roared. Ruby screamed.
Port didn't notice.
"In the end, I stood atop a mountain of unconscious Grimm, victorious with only minor bruising and a small amount of third-degree facial oil burns. But the people — oh, the people — they hailed me! The hero of Dustfern! Slayer of shadows! The man with the mustache that shines like the moon!"
He paused, hands on his hips, glowing with pride.
Jaune leaned toward Ren again. "There's no way that's true, right?"
Port's head whipped around. "It is, I assure you, 100% true."
Ren nodded solemnly. "Then reality is broken."
At the front, Port struck a pose reminiscent of a romance novel cover. "But enough about me! Let us discuss you!"
He clapped his hands, and a crate was wheeled in — shaking violently and growling.
"Who among you dares prove themselves worthy of the Huntsman's path? Who possesses the five sacred qualities of honor, dependability, strategy, education, and wisdom?"
Nora's hand shot up like she was volunteering to blow something up. "JAUNE DOES!"
"Absolutely not," Pyrrha said automatically.
Weiss, already standing: "I do, Professor."
"EXCELLENT!" Port bellowed, unlocking the crate with theatrical flair. "THEN FACE… THE BOARBATUSK OF DESTINY!"
The door burst open. A large, tusked Grimm shot out like a hairy torpedo.
Weiss sighed, drew her rapier, and muttered, "I'm going to need a refund on this semester."
As the Boarbatusk charged, Ruby began waving a Team RWBY flag. Jaune, sipping coffee, mumbled, "Go for the belly. It's soft."
"SHUT UP, JAUNE!" Weiss shouted, already launching herself into combat.
---------------------------
The Beacon cafeteria was in full swing, a bustling chaos of clanking trays, shouted orders, and the eternal debate over which pudding flavor reigns supreme. The scent of mashed potatoes mingled with fries and the faint undertone of burnt toast—proof that the lunch lady was either experimenting or had given up entirely. Either way, it was home.
Jaune Arc, feeling every ounce of his dashing hero potential, slouched into the corner table like he was walking a runway. The man was holding two coffee mugs at once—one for now, one for later, or maybe for the emotional support of both hands. His eyes were bleary but alert, fueled by an ungodly amount of caffeine that made him look like a diva who just dropped a mixtape titled "Beans and Battlecries."
Nearby, Nora was in full pancake negotiation mode with the lunch lady, waving a fork like a peace treaty while demanding, "You can't call this food without pancakes! It's basic science!" Ren sat beside her, the human embodiment of "too zen to care," sipping tea with a salad abandoned halfway through, probably questioning the meaning of existence.
Across the room, Yang was holding court with a smorgasbord of puns ready to fly like a barrage of fists.
"Did you hear about the chef who got arrested? He just couldn't cut the mustard!" she cackled.
Ruby groaned so hard it echoed through the hall. "YAAAANNNGG..."
Yang grinned, not missing a beat. "What's the matter? Cat got your crackers?"
Ruby buried her face in her hands, whispering, "I swear, if you do another pun about food, I'm switching to salad."
Jaune raised a mug in solidarity, but only after accidentally dipping a piece of bread into his coffee. Noticing nothing, he took a satisfied bite.
Nearby tables caught the anomaly immediately.
Weiss, horrified: "Is he…?"
Pyrrha, horrified: "Is he really?"
Blake, eyes narrowed: "...That explains everything."
Jaune caught their looks and shrugged. "What? It's like dipping cookies in milk, right?"
Yang snorted. "Yeah, except the milk's on fire."
Just as the laughter began to bubble, the atmosphere shifted.
Velvet, quiet and unassuming, was making her way to a table when Cardin Winchester — the walking poster boy for bad decisions — decided to remind everyone why he was the cafeteria's unspoken tyrant. Without a shred of subtlety, he grabbed hold of Velvet's bunny ears.
Velvet winced, pulling away but clearly in pain.
Jaune stood up, eyes cold and voice low enough to make the whole room lean in.
"Didn't know you were the 'yank-a-bunny's-ear' kinda guy, Winchester."
Cardin sneered, smirking with the arrogance of a bully who's never met his match.
"What, Jauney boy? Didn't peg you for an animal lover."
Jaune took a slow sip of coffee, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Careful, Cardin. The last guy who touched a girl like that without consent ended up single, unemployed, and crying into instant noodles."
The cafeteria froze.
A beat.
Then the entire room erupted in laughter.
Even Blake cracked a smile behind her book.
Yang wiped a tear from her eye. Ruby snorted so hard she nearly choked on her cookie.
Cardin's face turned a furious shade of tomato soup as he stomped forward.
Before he could get anywhere near Jaune, a sharp voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
"What is going on here?"
Glynda Goodwitch appeared in the doorway, looking like a force of nature wrapped in a sharp skirt and heels that could puncture armor.
Cardin froze, his bravado deflating.
"This isn't over," he spat, retreating with his tail between his legs.
Jaune smirked, returning to his coffee like the hero who just dropped the mic, watching smugly as the bully ran.
"Thats what they all say"
The lunch bell rang, and whispers of "Did you hear what Arc said? Bro's got bars" echoed through the room.
---------------
If the air outside the classroom was warm and light, then the moment Glynda Goodwitch entered the arena, the atmosphere dropped ten degrees. Her heels clicked against the training floor with deadly precision, like the universe itself had lined up just to get out of her way.
Students straightened. Conversations died. Somewhere, Jaune felt his spine stiffen and his soul whisper, run.
But it wasn't fear, exactly. It was… reverence. Weight. Like the universe paused just a little longer in her presence. And maybe — maybe — just a hint of something else. Like deja vu in the bones. A chill he couldn't name.
"Welcome to Combat Fundamentals," Glynda said, her voice sharp and clean like a freshly unsheathed sword. "Today, we begin with live sparring matches. Nothing will teach you faster than facing another fighter."
Students around Jaune perked up — some nervous, others excited.
"I will call pairs. Each will fight until one's Aura drops to the safety limit. Our monitors will handle the tracking." She gestured to the sleek white Aura meters clipped to her hip. "When I say stop — you stop. Clear?"
"Yes, Professor!" the class chorused.
She didn't waste a breath.
"First match: Nikos and Winchester. Step forward."
Cardin looked smug. Pyrrha looked calm. Jaune looked like he was watching a slow-motion car crash.
Cardin strutted out, Executioner resting over one shoulder — the heavy Dust-embedded mace gleaming in the light. Pyrrha walked out with grace, Milo already shifting into spear form, Akouo strapped behind her.
"Ready…" Glynda raised a hand. "Begin."
Cardin charged like a freight train, mace swinging.
Pyrrha sidestepped.
He swung again.
She ducked, spun, and tapped him in the side with Milo's blunt edge. A warning.
Cardin snarled and powered up the Dust crystal, fire flaring at the mace's head. He brought it down hard—
—and Pyrrha deflected it with Akouo, twisted in, and hit him with the spear's flat end. His Aura meter dropped like a stock market crash.
Two more precise strikes. One vaulting flip.
Cardin hit the mat like a bag of bricks.
"Match over," Glynda said simply.
Cardin groaned and rolled off to the side. The humiliation was worse than the bruises.
Jaune winced. "Note to self: don't get on Pyrrha's bad side."
"Next pair: Valkyrie and Thrush."
Russel — tiny, twitchy, dual-wielding daggers named Shortwings — practically jittered across the floor. Dust canisters glowed faintly in the hilts.
Nora skipped into the ring like it was a playground. Magnhild, her monstrous hammer-grenade launcher hybrid, was slung over her back like a toddler's backpack.
"Ready…" Glynda nodded. "Begin."
Russel immediately booked it.
"Hey! No running!" Nora shouted, bounding after him like an excited golden retriever.
He tossed a Dust dagger over his shoulder — it exploded in a puff of wind that tossed Nora back.
"HA! TAKE THA—"
BOOM
Nora landed like a meteor, slamming Magnhild into the ground with enough force to stagger Russel mid-stride.
"Oh schnitzel," he squeaked.
She closed the gap like a pink thunderstorm.
Russel dodged. Once. Twice.
Then he tripped on his own feet.
BOOM.
Magnhild hit the holy groin.
Every guy in the room let out a synchronized, horrified "OHHHHHHHHHH."
Even Glynda twitched.
"...Effective use of weak points," she said after a long pause. "But perhaps avoid... those in the future."
Russel was stretchered off like a broken action figure.
Nora waved cheerfully. "Victory pancakes for meee!"
Jaune crossed his legs instinctively.
"Final match," Glynda called. "Arc versus Lark."
Sky Lark stepped up, spinning Feather's Edge, a halberd with a rifle built into the shaft — sleek, polished, clearly more for flair than function. He looked confident. Relaxed.
Jaune stepped up. Crocea Mors in hand. Shield at his side.
His stomach twisted. His heart thumped. Glynda approached with the Aura meter, pausing just a little closer than necessary.
There it was again — that warm static in his chest. He swore she glowed under the arena lights.
Then: beep.
The Aura meter lit up. One red bar. A green. A yellow.
A blue.
Then: x4.
The entire class gasped.
"Bro's got RAID BOSS aura!"
"IS THAT LEGAL?!"
"I don't even have TWO bars!"
Ruby: "Wait, wait — how many does he—? FOUR?!"
Yang: "...Suddenly I feel undergeared."
Jaune stared at his own meter like it had grown arms and punched him in the face.
"...Well. That's new."
Glynda narrowed her eyes. Not in disapproval — in curiosity. She said nothing. Just stepped back.
"Begin."
Sky moved first, lunging forward, halberd slashing sideways with practiced speed. Jaune raised his shield — CLANG! — and barely flinched. The hit took maybe 5% of one bar.
Sky blinked.
"...What are you made of?!"
Jaune grinned nervously. "Breakfast sandwiches and trauma."
He countered — not perfectly, but cleanly. Sword out. Swipe. Parry. Shield bash.
Sky backed off, spun the halberd, fired a Dust round — ice — and tried to freeze Jaune's feet.
Jaune jumped back, feet skidding, and surged forward again. This time, his swings weren't wild. He was learning. Adapting.
One feint. One overhead strike. A pivot.
Sky's Aura dropped hard.
Two more hits. Shield into ribs. Sword against halberd shaft.
Sky fell backward, sliding to a stop.
Aura flickered out.
"Match over."
Silence.
Then—
"YO HE'S HIM!"
"RAID BOSS JAUNE IS REAL!"
Ren just nodded. "Good form."
Glynda walked over, peered at the Aura meter, then at Jaune.
"Hmm… interesting."
She didn't elaborate.
But Jaune swore she almost smiled.
-----------------------
Beacon's cafeteria in the evening buzzed like a hive of sugar-fed students and emotionally unstable weaponry. The long dining hall echoed with laughter, arguments about Dust theories, and the occasional crash of someone forgetting their tray existed.
Team JNPR took their usual corner, dragging themselves in like war veterans returning from the front lines of Glynda's Combat Fundamentals.
Jaune slumped into his seat with the grace of a dead cat tossed onto a chair. Two coffee mugs clinked in his hands like sacred relics. His eyes were wide open, yet soulless — the perfect balance of divine exhaustion and bean-powered enlightenment.
Pyrrha sat across from him, delicately cutting into a garden salad with the poise of a queen.
Ren quietly sipped his tea beside her, attempting to center himself after witnessing Nora's war crimes.
Speaking of which—
"I WANT PANCAKES!" Nora roared, slamming her tray on the table hard enough to make nearby students flinch. She threw herself onto the bench beside Ren. "Ren, go get me some."
"There are no pancakes, Nora," he said, eyes blank.
"Well then go manifest them!"
"I will astral project into the kitchen and plead with the spirits of breakfast," Ren said in deadpan, staring into the abyss of his empty cup.
Nora gasped. "You're the best!"
Jaune, meanwhile, was dunking his bread — not into soup, but his coffee.
Pyrrha stared. "...Jaune?"
"Yeah?"
"Why are you soaking your bread in espresso?"
He blinked at the soggy mass. "Wait—what?"
Everyone at the table gave him a look. Even Blake, silently eating her grilled fish and reading a book titled Swords and Serenity, raised an eyebrow.
"It's... a technique," Jaune said defensively. "Arcadian. Very advanced. You probably wouldn't understand."
Pyrrha covered her mouth to hide her laugh. Yang didn't even bother.
"Ohh I get it! You're just loaf-ing around!"
Ruby groaned. "YAAANNGGG..."
Yang wasn't done. She pointed at her own plate. "Anyone want some fish? It's off the scales!"
Ruby dropped her forehead into the table with a thunk. "Make it stop."
Blake, without even looking up from her book, muttered, "I'll gut you."
Jaune, still caffeinated beyond reason, twirled his spoon and said, "At this rate, Yang's going to pun herself into a coma."
Ruby gave him a horrified look at the unintentional pun. "Oh my Oum its spreading"
Yang finger-gunned him. "You want soup with that sass?"
"I am soup with sass," Jaune said, striking a dramatic pose — one foot on the bench, coffee in hand like he was about to deliver a TED Talk titled Why I Am Built Different.
Pyrrha giggled. "I think the caffeine is winning."
"I never lose," Jaune whispered dramatically. "Except against math. And boarbatusks. And... feelings."
"Don't forget staples," Nora said cheerfully, biting into a suspiciously shaped fruit.
Jaune looked at her. "You weren't even in the room."
"I know."
Their chaotic dinner came to a momentary pause as Beacon staff delivered small packages to each table — part of their "Welcome Week" kits. Inside: a Beacon blanket.
Ruby picked hers up and gasped. "Guys... guys. This is... aggressively soft."
Jaune touched his. "Holy crap, it's like hugging a cloud made of alpacas."
Nora threw hers over her shoulders like a cape. "I shall use this to declare myself Queen of Pancake Land! All who oppose me shall taste syrupy justice!"
Ren stood up without a word and walked away. No one stopped him.
Jaune raised his mug in salute. "May his soul find peace."
Yang leaned in. "I swear, one day he's just gonna vanish mid-bite."
"Leave only tea leaves behind," Blake added.
The group fell into warm laughter, the kind that filled their corner of the cafeteria like home. Jaune leaned back in his chair, the energy of the day finally beginning to settle.
Despite the exhaustion, the chaos, and the growing suspicion that he might've accidentally triggered a mini panic with his Aura Boss Bar reveal — he felt good.
Tired. Over-caffeinated. Emotionally bruised.
But good.
------------------
The night wrapped itself around Beacon like a velvet curtain, soft and cool against the chaotic heat of the day. The sky above shimmered with a thousand stars, and on the rooftop of the dorm building, Jaune Arc stood at the edge of it all — a lone silhouette outlined in moonlight.
His coffee mug steamed gently in the night air. Still warm. Somehow.
Still caffeinated. Definitely.
He leaned against the railing, breathing in the quiet. Down below, the academy was slowly falling asleep — lights dimming in windows, laughter fading into the distance, the last echoes of sparring blades long since gone. It was the kind of stillness that asked nothing of him. Not grades. Not drills. Not expectations.
Just... be.
He sipped his coffee. Bread-crumb free this time. Progress.
Today had been — objectively — insane.
They'd built their own beds like overworked carpenters.
They'd endured Oobleck's class, which might've qualified as a war crime under Vale education law.
They'd fought Grimm, eaten food (sort of), and Jaune had roasted a racist in the cafeteria so hard he practically crisped the air.
And then came Glynda's class.
That still lingered in him — not just the boss-bar moment, though let's be honest, what the actual hell was that?! But her. Glynda Goodwitch. Sharp lines, sharper eyes, an aura like a thunderstorm about to break. When she'd entered, he'd felt something shift. Something in his chest had gone quiet and loud all at once.
He didn't have words for it. Not yet.
But something was… there.
Jaune exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
He wasn't a prodigy like Pyrrha.
He wasn't a strategist like Ren.
He wasn't Nora's whirlwind of happy chaos.
But he was still standing. And that had to count for something.
The door behind him creaked softly. He turned to see a figure slip out — dark hair, feline grace, a book still tucked under one arm.
Blake didn't say anything. Just gave him a quiet nod and moved to the other end of the roof, sitting with her knees drawn up, watching the sky as if it held answers she couldn't quite ask for yet.
It wasn't an invitation.
But it wasn't rejection either.
Just… presence.
Jaune returned the nod and looked back up. He wasn't sure what he was hoping to see.
A sign?
A Semblance?
A reason?
The stars blinked down at him. Distant. Indifferent. Infinite.
"I'm not the best fighter," he murmured into the quiet, not for anyone else but himself. "I'm not the smartest. Or the strongest. Or the fastest. But…"
He tightened his grip on the mug, warmth seeping into his palms.
"I'm here. I'm trying. And somehow… I'm still standing."
He chuckled softly, lowering the mug to his chest.
The wind blew gently. Below, the last lights flickered out.
Beside him, Blake turned a page without a word.
And above them, the sky listened.
--------------------------
Author's Note
WHEW. That chapter was a workout. We built beds. We broke egos. We brewed coffee strong enough to frighten Oobleck.
Big thanks for sticking around — whether you're here for the chaos, the combat, or just Jaune being a DIVA with a boss bar big enough to give RPG final bosses imposter syndrome.
Couple quick updates:
Jaune's Semblance? Nearly finished. We're talking two brain cells and a motivational playlist away from greatness.
His weapon concepts? In development. Blueprints are scribbled on everything from napkins to the margins of my tax documents. I might share schematics soon — depends if I can translate "cool swirly soul-blade thing" into actual art. Pray for me.
Legal jazz: I don't own RWBY. If I did, Glynda would've had a solo spin-off where she stares down entire governments into submission.
More nonsense, soul-deep moments, and recurring gags incoming. Stay tuned.
And as always…Stay caffeinated. Stay chaotic.Stay, above all else… AGGRESSIVELY SOFT.
-UB