The forest exhaled.
The oppressive stillness that had clung to the trees like a second skin began to peel away, leaf by leaf, branch by branch. The choking weight of ash and adrenaline, of blood and breathlessness, loosened its grip. Grimm decay hung in the air—sickly sweet, like burning oil soaked in rot—but it began to dissipate, much like their host.
For the first time in what felt like hours, the woods moved again.
Leaves rustled under a cautious breeze. Ferns stirred as if in quiet relief. A hawk called distantly, the first brave voice in the hush.
Jaune didn't speak. He didn't trust his voice.
He walked with his head down, shoulders still tight, boots crunching over pine needles and the brittle bits of charred bone. The trail ahead barely existed—just a game path, half-eaten by moss and time, like something made for creatures without words. His hoodie clung to his back with sweat. Blood dried rough beneath his fingernails. Every few steps, his fingers twitched, curling reflexively—as if remembering how they split open.
They followed the winding path in silence, the crackle of fir leaves underfoot now a gentler tempo—less a road, more a shared trail. The canopy above swayed, dappling their skin in moving light. Jaune kept his gaze forward, but his thoughts spun sideways with every step.
Beside him, Pyrrha Nikos moved as if she didn't just come from a life or death battle. Her spear rested across her back.
As far as he could recall, he'd never been alone with a girl for this long before.
Pyrrha Nikos, apparently a four-time regional champion, was walking beside him . Silent—but not from awkwardness. From… something that felt like peace.
Or maybe he was just fooling himself. Jaune wasn't exactly the best barometer for peace these days.
'Okay. Be cool. Don't say anything weird. Don't trip. Don't start talking about guts. Or bones. Or… whatever that black goop was.'
He risked a glance her way again. She was beautiful—undeniably so—but not in the way magazines might describe. Striking in the way she carried herself, even now, with armor dirtied and hair slightly tangled. Her poise felt comfortable and earned. And when she looked at him again, just for a second, her green eyes caught the sunlight and narrowed with the tiniest, bashful smile.
Jaune nearly tripped over a root.
He caught himself, coughing to cover the stumble. Pyrrha didn't comment. But she did smile wider, causing her freckles to scrunch around her nose.
The trail narrowed, then opened again near a shaft of pale light. Sunbeams filtered through the awning, catching flecks of grass still drifting down like lazy snow. For a moment, they walked through it together—step for step, shadow and sunlight—and Jaune had to remind himself to breathe.
Jaune swallowed, cleared his throat—then immediately regretted it when Pyrrha turned to him with open curiosity, just as he was still mentally yelling at himself.
"So," she started gently, voice warm but a little careful, "you… you were amazing back there."
Jaune blinked. "I—what?"
Her smile tilted, amused by his surprise. "The way you fought and held the line. You kept that attack from the Alpha from doing any damage long enough for me to finish it off. That takes courage."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Or recklessness. Honestly, I didn't think. I just… moved."
"I think that still counts." She looked away for a beat. "It reminded me of a match I had once. There was this girl in Sanctum—twice my size, used a hammer the length of my body. Everyone expected me to dodge and wear her down, but instead… I ran straight at her."
"Did it work?"
"I broke her collarbone."
Jaune gave a low whistle, then laughed. "Okay mental note: don't spar with you."
"You say that like I wouldn't pull my strikes."
He grinned playfully. "You say that like I'd believe you."
They walked a few more paces in silence—this time, less tense. A quiet kind of warmth threaded between them now, hanging unspoken in the pauses.
Passing beneath a crooked arch of branches, they emerged into a clearer patch of woods, where a stream ran shallow over smooth stones. The air here was cooler, harmonizing with the creek's lullaby. Birds sang in cautious accompaniment. Without a word, Pyrrha veered off toward the bank, crouching by the edge.
Jaune hesitated, then followed.
She scooped water in her hands, drinking with practiced ease. When she looked up, she motioned to him. "It's clean. Want some?"
He nodded, crouching beside her. "Thanks."
The water was cold and sharp, shocking his dry mouth in a way that made him grunt. Pyrrha laughed softly—more air than sound—and dipped her canteen in the stream.
"You've got blood," she said suddenly.
"Huh?"
She pointed to the side of his jaw. "Right there."
He touched it. His fingers came away red.
"Oh." He looked around. "I, uh… I'm sure my body will—"
Pyrrha reached for a strip of cloth from her belt pouch and wetted it in the stream. "Here. Hold still?"
He did. And then she was close.
Her hand was gentle as it dabbed the side of his face, wiping away blood and grime with slow, careful strokes. Her breath smelled faintly of mint and gunpowder. Jaune's heart thudded against his ribs, and he swore she could probably hear it.
"There," she said, voice low, almost fond. "Battlefield clean. Mostly."
He swallowed. "Thanks…"
She didn't pull away immediately. Her eyes lingered. So did his.
Then she blinked, as if realizing the moment, and sat back on her heels.
Silence again. Not awkward—but delicate, having found something too soft to name yet.
Pyrrha glanced away, brushing her bangs from her face. "You know, this is the longest I've ever spent with someone outside of a match."
Jaune blinked. "Really?"
She nodded. "Most people back home just… watched me. From a distance. I guess they thought I was hard to talk to."
"That's ridiculous."
Her smile was quiet. "Is it?"
He blushed. "Yeah. You're easy to talk to. I mean—you're kind. And strong. And really smart. Not intimidating at all."
"Not intimidating?" she echoed, raising an eyebrow.
"N-not like, in a bad way," he backpedaled. "More like… 'inspiring' intimidating? The good kind! If that makes sense."
She laughed—open and bright this time. "It does."
He grinned, relieved. "Good. Because I'm not sure I do."
She looked at him then— truly looked—and something in her expression softened. "You're different, Jaune. Not just because of what you can do. But because of who you are."
The words hung there, Jaune doing his best to parse their meaning.
He looked down again, a slow, uncertain smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "That's… kind of a lot, coming from you."
"Why?" she asked, brushing a loose curl behind her ear.
"Because you're… you. " He gestured vaguely toward her armor. "I mean look at you. Some kind of warrior-champion. Kind of perfect, really."
Her brows lifted. "Perfect?"
Jaune's mouth opened—then stalled.
He knew better. He did. But apparently, his mouth hadn't gotten the memo.
"I-I mean—you're not not perfect. Like… um, not in a fake way? Not like one of those posters. I just mean—uh—you're really good at stuff and people know it and… I'm going to stop talking now."
Pyrrha blinked. Then laughed like a surprise caught in her throat.
It hit her, strangely: she wasn't laughing at him. She just… liked the way he was so honest. So unguarded. It was the opposite of how people usually treated her. Yes she always expected admiration. But she rarely expected… earnestness.
"You're not very good at compliments, are you?" she teased gently, watching his ears go red.
"Apparently not."
"But thank you," she added, quieter now. "It means more than you think."
Jaune glanced over, his face still flustered. "You don't get told that? That you're… you know, good ?"
Pyrrha hesitated, gaze drifting down to the strip of cloth still in her hand. Her fingers folded it, once, twice, slowly. "Not like this," she said. "Not like this at all."
He blinked. "Like what?"
She met his eyes again. "Like it matters to the person saying it."
There was a beat. And then his expression changed—softened, just a little.
Her chest tightened, almost imperceptibly. She wasn't sure what she expected. But the way he looked at her now—like he really saw her, and didn't want anything back—felt like new territory. Not a battlefield. Not a stage. Just… this patch of forest and a boy with dried blood on his jaw.
Not knowing what to do with the quiet, he scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry for tripping earlier. That root kind of snuck up on me."
'Nice Jaune. Just keep running your mouth for no reason.'
"You recovered nicely," she said with a smile. "Almost like a combat roll."
He chuckled. "Totally planned. Super professional."
And Pyrrha laughed again, but this time she pressed her fingers to her lips, suddenly embarrassed by how easily it came out. She never laughed like this around boys. Or anyone, really.
Her hand dropped to her lap. Her knee brushed against his. It was barely anything. Just fabric meeting fabric.
But she didn't move it.
Neither did he.
Something twisted beneath her ribs—something warm and slow and uncertain.
She looked back at him. His profile was still, eyes focused on the stream. The sunlight caught the ends of his messy hair, turning it almost gold. He looked like a dork. An endearing, dirt-smudged, too-tall dork.
And for a moment, she imagined what it might be like if he turned and took her hand. No pressure. Just… held it.
Her cheeks warmed at the thought. She tucked it away.
"Jaune?" she asked softly.
He turned to her, blinking. "Yeah?"
She opened her mouth. Paused.
What had she meant to say?
"I…" Her voice faltered, then retreated behind a polite smile. "Never mind. Sorry. I think I was just… thinking out loud."
He tilted his head. "About what?"
She hesitated again. Then, shyly: "About how strange it is… to feel this calm after something so violent."
Jaune nodded slowly. "Yeah. Like the world's still catching up to us."
"Exactly." Her voice dropped into something more thoughtful. "But… I think I'm glad you were the one I ended up with."
She didn't look at him when she said it. Couldn't.
But she heard his intake of air. And that was enough.
They sat in silence again, the brook babbling between them and the leaves chiming above. Their shoulders barely touched now. Not leaning—but close enough that if one of them swayed just a little…
"I'm glad too," he said, finally. Quiet. Honest. Vulnerable.
Pyrrha didn't answer.
But she smiled.
He looked down at the stream, unsure what to say. That was when she asked, softly, "Can I ask you something else?"
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
"What you did—back there. With your arm. Was that… your Semblance?"
Unable to meet her question, he dropped his gaze to the stream. The surface caught the light of the sun through the canopy above, bending it into fractured sparkles. Jaune let it hypnotize him, only for a moment. Fractured light —whole and broken all at once.
His hand sat open on his thigh. Five fingers. Whole. Human. But it had been something else—minutes ago. It felt like a lifetime. He turned it over. Palm. Knuckles. The memory of the transformation still lived in the tendons. Remembering the split, the extension, the hunger. A blade born from him—but not of him.
"I… I think so," he said at last. The words felt too small. "I've never done it before."
She tilted her head. "You're… not sure?"
He could feel her look of confusion.
"Does it have a name?"
"No. I didn't… I mean, I've never even thought about naming it."
"Do you know how it works? Or what it draws on?"
"Not really"
Pyrrha's voice dipped, softer now. "Does it hurt?"
"…I think it does? But also not really? It happens too quickly for me to know." He looked away. "Sorry. I know that sounds weird."
Pyrrha listened without judgment, brows knit.
"I didn't even know I could do it," his voice went on, halting. "It was just—me, and a Beowolf. It lunged, and something inside me just reacted . My arm split open. It turned into a… a blade. And I stabbed it before it could bite me."
He observed as he flexed his hand again.
"Same thing with the, um… big shield? Danger was coming. I wanted to stop it. And then it was just there. " His voice cracked slightly. "I didn't think. I didn't choose."
He shook his head, frustrated at the fog of it all. "That's it. That's all I know."
Pyrrha didn't say anything at first. Her eyes flitted from his hand to his face, as though trying to seek his hidden answers. "That's… extraordinary."
"Or terrifying."
She scrunched her nose at that. "Why terrifying?"
"Because I didn't mean to do it!" The words escaped louder than he intended. Jaune flinched at his own voice, then lowered it. "Because it didn't feel like mine. It didn't feel like me. "
That admission came out an angry bite.
Pyrrha looked down at her boots.
"I… I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," she said quietly, fingers now tightly fisting the cloth, squeezing out small droplets of his blood.
"No—you didn't!" Jaune quickly assured. He turned to face her more fully. "It's not that. It's just…" He let out a slow, uneven breath. "I wish I had better answers. For you. For myself."
"I think your honesty is more important than answers," she said softly.
He looked at her. She was still turned slightly away, the curve of her speckled cheek faintly red.
"Do you…" she began, then stopped, voice faltering.
"What?" Jaune asked gently.
She shook her head, smiling—but it didn't reach her eyes. "It's nothing."
"No, tell me."
"I just thought… if I asked you about your Semblance, maybe you'd let me in a little more."
The words were quiet. Vulnerable. More than he'd expected.
"I didn't want it to be an interview," she added, fidgeting with the cloth she'd used to clean him. "I wanted it to be… a conversation. I don't know."
"It is, a conversation I mean." Jaune said. His voice came out lower than he intended.
She turned to look at him fully then, emerald eyes uncertain. "Is it?"
He hesitated. Then nodded. "Yeah. Just not the kind I expected."
Her expression turned sullen. "I'm not great at this," she admitted. "Talking to someone like this. Just… as Pyrrha."
He squinted at her. "Yeah well, I like talking to just Pyrrha," he said, the smallest of smiles curling his mouth.
And just like that, the moment that almost died bloomed between them—fragile and warm and budding. A new current under the old one. Not quite love, not yet. But its planting.
She looked at him like she might say something else. He looked at her like he might wait forever.
But then the moment tipped too far.
Jaune stood too fast, breaking the rhythm. Brushing off his hands like the moment could be shaken loose. "We should probably keep moving. Find that relic, right?"
He cursed himself immediately. The way her eyes shuttered. Graceful as ever, she stood as well, wiping her hands clean like he had. "Right," she echoed, polite and distant.
They walked in silence, the forest pressing in again. Leaves whispered secrets above them, roots tugged at their boots.
Jaune hated it. Hated that something had shifted and he didn't know how to fix it. The step between them that hadn't been there before. He wanted to say something. Anything. To rewind the moment and stay there a little longer.
'Should I have told her I was scared?'
Behind him, Pyrrha followed at a gentle distance—half a step, no more. Close enough to reach out. Far enough to feel too far.
She was overthinking, same as him. Replaying every word. Every silence.
Then, just as the quiet felt like it might swallow them whole, she spoke—barely above a whisper.
"You don't have to know everything yet, Jaune," she said. "You're still allowed to grow."
He didn't respond. Not out of dismissal—but because his chest ached in that good, terrible way that meant someone saw him.
And for the first time since his locker door, he thought maybe he could be something more than a mystery—even to himself.
Her smile this time was genuine, even if it was small.
And somehow, that made it worse.
He smiled back, but it didn't quite reach his eyes either.
They kept walking. Together. But not quite touching.
Aiming north, they remained like that for a while—half-shadows and hesitant distance. The stream faded behind them, the wood thickening once more. The hush returned, though this time it wasn't heavy. Just quiet.
Until it happened again.
Of course it was another root. This forest had it out for him.
He stumbled forward with a sharp yelp, catching himself on a tree—but not before instinct made Pyrrha reach for him.
Their hands met. Gripped. Held.
He turned to her, still steadying himself, her fingers curled tight around his wrist. For a second, neither of them moved.
And then they both started laughing.
It wasn't nervous this time. Or awkward. The kind that rose up unexpectedly and shook the weight from their shoulders. Pyrrha let go, covering her mouth as she giggled, and Jaune leaned back against the tree, chuckling like a fool.
"Okay," he said, breathless. "That's twice in one day I've almost face planted in front of you. I'm setting records here."
"World-class," she teased, brushing a leaf from his shoulder. "Though I think you might want to invest in better boots."
"Or a spotter."
Her fingers lingered for a moment on his shoulder before falling away. "I wouldn't mind."
His heart thumped again—louder this time, but steadier.
They resumed walking. This time, when their shoulders bumped, neither pulled away. And when the path narrowed again, Pyrrha didn't fall behind. She stayed beside him.
"Hey," Jaune said after a moment.
She glanced over. "Yes?"
"You asked earlier if it hurt. My arm, I mean."
She nodded.
"I don't know if it's pain," he said. "But when it happens… It's like something is uncoiling. Like there's a part of me that I didn't know was there, and it's waking up."
Pyrrha was quiet. Listening.
"And when it moves, it doesn't feel like a weapon. It feels like a… limb I forgot I had. Like I was meant to use it all along."
"That sounds lonely," she said softly.
He blinked. "Lonely?"
She nodded. "To have a part of yourself that's been asleep your whole life… only to wake up when no one else can explain it to you. That's a kind of loneliness, isn't it?"
He didn't have an answer. But the truth of her words settled somewhere deep.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, it is."
A pause began to stretch.
"Do you think we're a good team?" she asked abruptly.
The question caught him off guard. "I—I hope so. You carried most of the fight."
"That's not what I meant."
She turned to him, eyes bright. "We watched each other's backs. We trusted one another, even when we didn't have time to explain everything. That's not just skill—it's compatibility. That matters more than talent, right?"
Jaune met her gaze. "If that's what you mean… then yeah. I think we're a good team."
She smiled. Not shyly this time. Open. Honest.
"I'd like to think we would be good partners, Jaune. Do you… think so too?"
His chest squeezed. Not because he was surprised. But because, somewhere deep down, he already knew he wanted to say yes.
"Yes," he said.
The wind stirred the ivy behind them. The forest watched.
And the moment lingered—tentative, and new.
They walked back up a hill together, side by side. Not as strangers anymore. Not quite as teammates either.
The path narrowed, overgrown roots curling like fingers across the trail. The wind stirred the leaves above them, blending patches of light and shadow across their path.
Jaune didn't speak.
He kept walking, hands clenched in frustrating confusion, teeth working at the inside of his cheek. He hated that he felt he'd said too much. And that he hadn't said enough. That his chest felt something important had sweetly leaked out of him and he didn't know how to get it back. Why would he want it back?
Behind him, Pyrrha's steps were light. Thoughtful. Barely louder than the hush of the wind.
Then—quietly, as naturally as she could—she closed the gap between them.
A half-step. That was all. Just enough to be right beside him again.
And then—her fingers brushed his.
Barely.
It was a whisper of contact. Intentional, but unassuming. Like she didn't want to startle him, just remind him that she wanted to listen.
Immediately, Jaune looked down, broken from his thoughts.
That small contact felt… grounding.
Her hand didn't take his. She didn't force the moment. She just let the backs of their knuckles touch, then stay there—as if to say: I'm here, if you want me to be.
He glanced sideways.
She wasn't looking at him.
Her gaze was forward, jaw soft, eyes distant—like she hadn't done anything at all. But her cheeks were flushed in the light, and her grip on the cloth in her other hand had loosened slightly.
A silent offering. Kindness without a demand.
And man, did that make something in his chest ache. Slowly, he turned his hand—just slightly. Letting his pinky brush hers back.
After a few more steps, their hands still loosely twined, Pyrrha shifted. Closer. Purposeful, this time.
Her gloved fingers tightened around his with quiet resolution, as she let out a shaky breath. Like she'd reached a decision she didn't want to overthink.
"Um…" she said, voice hushed. "Would you mind if I… tried something?"
Jaune blinked. "Tried what?"
"I just…" Her gaze flicked sideways, then back to the path ahead. "I'd like to see if our Auras can resonate. Only for a moment. It's something I've always done—with partners. Even temporary ones."
He hesitated. "You might not get much."
"I don't expect to," she admitted. "But I'd like to try."
Disarmed, Jaune nodded.
They stopped walking.
Pyrrha turned to face him, cupping his hand in both of hers. She took a slow breath, closed her eyes… and reached.
At first, Jaune felt only her touch—calm, warm, intentional. Then something softer: a pulse of scarlet light, like the gentlest echo of a heartbeat brushing along his skin. Her Aura—reaching out.
But it never landed.
Pyrrha frowned slightly. Adjusted her focus. Her Aura brushed again. A little deeper.
Still nothing.
Her brows knit together. Not in frustration—confusion.
"I can't…" she murmured. "There's no surface. It's like your Aura isn't there."
"It is!" Jaune said quickly. "I think. It just… doesn't work the same."
"I noticed that earlier," she said. "During the fight, and when you… transform. It's not like mine. Or anyone's I have seen." She opened her eyes, expression uncertain. "It feels like it's not above your skin at all. It's… under. Inside."
Jaune swallowed. "I don't know how to control it. I don't even feel it unless I'm hurt or… transforming."
Pyrrha's thumb traced the back of his knuckles again, absentminded. "It's not just dormant," she said slowly. "It's almost… I do not know… sealed? Like there's something dense beneath the surface—but not asleep. It's not like Aura… it's more like…"
She stopped herself. Her lips parted, then closed again.
Jaune felt a tightening behind his ribs. "Like what?"
She hesitated, then said gently, "Again, I am not sure . Something meant to be alone."
He flinched.
Something in his chest drew back from the words like a flame from cold water.
"…Sorry," she said immediately, eyes doleful. "I didn't mean that in a bad way."
"No. You're probably right."
Pyrrha looked down. Her hands still held his. "I'm used to feeling someone's soul, just a little, when I try this. A flicker of intent. Of warmth. Or even frigidity. But with you, it's like standing beside a deep, dark lake with no ripples. Just… stillness."
Jaune tried to laugh. "I-Is that a bad thing?"
"No, it is not a bad thing," she said again, firmer. "Just different."
He looked at her.
She looked back. "I still want to try again. Sometime."
He nodded, relieved. "Yeah. Me too."
And then, without ceremony, she leaned her forehead to his.
Just for a second.
A contact not of Aura—but of presence. Of her warmth.
When she pulled away, her hand stayed in his. They resumed walking, this time slower. Closer.
She hadn't felt his Aura.
But he'd felt hers. Could still feel it, buzzing, tickling.
And in the quiet between them, some small piece of him at the furthest center reached—not in defense. Not in fear.
But in yearning.
They walked through the forest's song for a while after that. Birds trilled high above against the percussion of branches, layered by their footsteps crinkling against the moss and earth.
But Pyrrha barely heard it. Her thoughts were too loud.
'That wasn't how it was supposed to go.'
She'd done it dozens of times before—hundreds, really. Sparring partners. Teammates. Temporary allies. There was a rhythm to resonance. A familiarity that crossed all stylistic or cultural boundaries.
Aura—at least for most who had it awakened—was a second skin. A luminous pulse that hovered just beneath the surface of the body, constantly brushing outward in invisible waves. With the right breath, the right touch, two Auras could synchronize. Just slightly. Just enough to share intent. A heartbeat of empathy. A brief window into the current essence of someone.
With others, the resonance came gently. Naturally. The way warm water enveloped your hand. There might be slight resistance at first—everyone had walls—but she always felt the give. That moment of shared understanding, like fingers lacing together under the surface of the soul.
But Jaune?
Nothing. No give. No warmth. No chill. No shock. No pulse.
Just depth.
Not a wall. Not a block.
An abyss.
And yet—he had used Aura. She'd seen it. During the fight, during the transformations. His arm had become a weapon of bone and… flesh? And that shield—it had shimmered with something close to life. She'd watched it twist and twitch as if born from thought itself. Not Dust. Not tech.
Aura.
So where was it?
She thought back to that moment again. The sensation had startled her not because it was dark or cold, but because it had space.
Bottomless.
No barrier to press against. No surface to touch. Just the knowledge that something was there … miles below.
Pyrrha frowned as they walked, adjusting her Miló across her back. She let her free hand trail at her side, curling her fingers once, then twice. Testing the feel of her own Aura against the edge of her skin.
It was there. As always. Responsive. Familiar.
She glanced sideways at Jaune.
His stride was quiet now. A little looser. His shoulders still carried tension, but he wasn't as closed off as before.
He didn't seem to understand what it was. Not fully.
That thought should have alarmed her. Instead, it intrigued her.
Because if he wasn't hiding it—wasn't aware of it. Then whatever was beneath his skin wasn't deception. Was it hereditary? Or at least… innate.
Which meant whatever had buried his Aura so deeply had done so from the start. From the inside.
A ritual? A mutation? A scar left by trauma?
'No ,' she corrected herself gently. 'None of that explains what I felt.'
There had been something at the bottom of that still lake.
Just for a moment. Not hostile. Not warm, either. But… lurking.
Old.
Enduring. Like an antediluvian statue lost beneath the ocean.
She'd seen strange Auras before—disordered flows, frayed circuits, even repressed ones. But never internalized .
Never nothing and alive all at once.
She swallowed, watching Jaune's hand sway near hers as they walked. She didn't take it again. Not yet. But she wanted to. Not out of romantic impulse—but out of an almost overwhelming desire to try again. To reach him .
'It shouldn't be possible,' Pyrrha thought.
Aura didn't behave like that. Not even among the most eccentric Huntsmen. Sure, some people were more private, more closed off—some required emotional effort to reach. But not like this. Not with that much depth. That much pressure.
Perhaps there was something fundamentally wrong—or at least different —about how Jaune's soul sat inside his body. It didn't float like Aura should. It didn't pulse with instinctual resonance.
And more than anything… it felt like it didn't belong to the natural world.
She shivered slightly.
Then stopped herself. That was too much. Too dramatic. She was letting her imagination run wild.
Still… still.
Pyrrha let her gaze wander across the treetops, spotting the sky whenever it poked through. Let the rhythm of their walk soothe the noise in her thoughts.
'What do I actually know?' she asked herself, re-centering like she had during tournament prep.
Fact one: Jaune had Aura. That much was certain. It existed , even if she couldn't reach it. Even if it didn't act like Aura should.
Fact two: It wasn't shielding him. Not automatically, at least. No flare, no shimmer when hit. That should've been the first sign something was off.
Fact three: His body healed differently. Not like Aura stitching wounds from the outside in, but like his flesh rebuilt itself from within. Fast. Biological. Organic.
Fact four: His "transformations"—if they could be called that—weren't Dust-based. Nor mechanical. They emerged from his flesh. A spontaneous restructuring of matter. Bone, sinew, even armor.
That… wasn't Aura.
It was more like—
She stopped herself again.
Pyrrha frowned.
Aura was the soul made manifest. That was the line. Every academy repeated it. Every master taught it. So what did it mean when the soul manifested as something physical? Something internalized. Territorial. Buried.
Had he done it to himself?
'No…'
At least she didn't think so. She had observed him fight—raw power, yes, but untrained. Unaware. His footwork and timing were off. It spoke of someone who hadn't even known how to fight.
So then—
Was it trauma? Some kind of forced resonance? An accident with Dust? A failed transmutation? Maybe he'd overtaxed his Aura too early in life and it had retreated inward, burned out and pulled into the core?
Or…
Her thoughts stalled again.
There were old legends in Mistral. Quiet ones. Folktales no instructor would ever dignify in class. Whispers about rituals and weapons of the ancient wars—before Aura was understood. Before Semblances were trained.
She remembered one in particular. An old myth about a man who swallowed his own soul to hide it from the Grimm. A warrior who sealed his light inside his body so that darkness wouldn't find him.
It hadn't ended well.
But the idea lingered.
'What if…'
Pyrrha exhaled sharply, shaking the thought off like dust from her cloak.
That was superstition. Ghost stories wrapped in martial metaphors.
Whatever had happened to Jaune—it wasn't magic. It wasn't divine. It was just…
She glanced at him. Still walking. Still beside her. Still real.
It was him.
A boy with sorrow deep in his bones and something unknowable curled around his soul. Whatever he was, he wasn't cruel. He wasn't dangerous. Not to her.
And yet…
And yet—
She looked forward again, lips pressed in a thoughtful line.
'I'll learn,' she told herself. ' I'll find a way to reach him. If no one else can… I will.'
Because that depth didn't scare her. Not really. What scared her was how much she wanted to fall into it.
Jaune didn't say anything for a long time.
The silence wasn't awkward. It was thoughtful. Heavy, like breath held too long. But beneath that stillness—beneath the muted birdsong, the wind, the rhythm of boots on the forest floor—his thoughts were scraping.
'What was she trying to do?'
He hadn't known what to expect when Pyrrha asked to try something with their Aura. Honestly, he thought she'd just hold his hand tighter. Maybe do something cool and glowy, and he'd feel... something. Warmth. A spark. A tingle, like static.
Instead, it had felt like—
Pressure.
Not external. Not against his skin.
Inside.
Like a door deep within him had turned toward her. Not opened—just noticed .
He hadn't felt pain. Or fear. But there had been… scratches. At the edges of his mind. An old breath, sloughing slow and seraptic. A root-deep hollowhold so far down in the murk it wasn't even a thought.
And when her Aura touched him and failed to connect—when her light faded— something inside him reached anyway. Not outward. Just… toward her warmth. Like a hand brushing a window that would never open.
It wasn't the same sensation that had pressed the rim of his consciousness when the Beowolves surrounded him. When his arm split and reshaped. When the taste of blood and dirt in his mouth didn't trigger horror, but a clear tide that didn't belong to any known sea. A pulse not from his own heart.
But this was different.
It hadn't risen for threat.
It had stirred for her.
Not in warning.
In want.
Half-buried beneath the rest of him, it felt her kindness and… leaned in.
He flexed his fingers, remembering the heat of her hands in his. She'd been so careful—so focused—and still…
It had stirred.
That shouldn't have happened. Not from touch. Not from gentleness. And that's what frightened him.
Because Pyrrha hadn't really just failed to connect.
Something had intercepted her.
One part of him— one layer —had accepted her presence.
But that something else, deeper, had simply watched.
Not with judgment.
Not even interest.
Just… hope.
As if it had been waiting. Waiting so long.
And now, even though she hadn't reached him, it didn't retreat with anger.
It ached.
Quietly.
It had tried to hold onto her warmth, and couldn't.
There is one thing she got wrong. In the moments after, when Pyrrha had pulled away, Jaune hadn't felt alone.
He felt CROW DED.
As if there were two of him. Just like in Blake's story.
One that had wanted her to reach him.
And one that had tilted its head beneath the surface, curious—not at her, but at him. A mirror with its back turned.
And maybe that was the worst part. Not that he didn't know who he was. But something else inside him did.
' And what the hell did that say about him?'
He glanced toward Pyrrha.
She was pensive again now, walking beside him as if nothing had happened. Her gaze was somewhere far away—drawn inward, like she was still trying to understand what had gone wrong.
'Not wrong,' he corrected himself. ' Just different.'
That's what she'd said.
But it hadn't just felt different.
It had felt hidden.
Like his Aura—or whatever passed for it—wasn't something he could access. Wasn't even his to control. A knot with teeth buried in his core.
Was that really what you called different?
He didn't know.
He hadn't known much of anything, really—not since waking up on that airship. Aura, Semblance, Dust—those were words he barely understood. He didn't have any memory to work with.
He was just... him.
Just... Jaune.
Who healed too fast. Who bled too little. Who broke and changed and kept going .
Was that really Aura? Or something else?
Pyrrha had tried to reach it. And for a moment, he'd wanted her to. Wanted her to reach inside and tell him what it was, what he was. To name it. To make it make sense.
But nothing happened.
Not the way it should've.
And yet… he wasn't disappointed.
He was scared.
Because whatever had stirred inside him—it had been his.
And they had been waiting—not only for Pyrrha.
For him.
For someone he didn't remember being.
For the boy he might've been.
For when he was ready to stop being afraid… for him to figure it out.
They sat beneath the ruins of an old stone archway, just off the trail. Evening had settled across the forest like a soft exhale, and the air was cool with the smell of moss and ash bark.
Jaune leaned back against a crumbling column, arms over his knees, staring into the dying light. Pyrrha sat nearby, just close enough for comfort, not so close that it'd press him.
He hadn't said much since they stopped. And she hadn't pushed.
But now… the quiet felt safe enough to ask.
"Jaune?"
He blinked, turning his head slightly.
Pyrrha smiled—not the tournament smile, not the public one. The real one. Quiet. Kind.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
He braced, but gave a small nod. "Yeah. Sure."
She folded her hands in her lap. "Earlier, when I tried to reach your Aura… did you feel anything?"
Jaune looked down. "Kind of."
She tilted her head slightly, encouraging. "What did it feel like?"
He was quiet for a few seconds.
Then: "Like something… shifted. Inside me. But not because of you. More like… you poked something without meaning to."
He frowned, trying to find the words. "It wasn't warm. Or soft. Or even alive, really. Just… aware. Like you knocked on the door, and something deep inside turned its head."
Pyrrha's lips parted.
He glanced at her quickly. "Sorry. That sounds weird."
"No," she clarified gently. "Not weird. Just different."
She studied him a moment longer. "When I reach for someone's Aura, I usually feel the surface first. Like pressing two fingertips together—soul to soul. Most people give something off, even if they don't realize it. Intent. Emotion. Will."
She exhaled softly. "But with you, it felt like stepping onto ice that didn't crack. No response. Not even resistance. Like something deep down was choosing whether or not to be seen."
Jaune gave a dry laugh. "Sounds like me."
"I don't think it's about choice," Pyrrha said, more to herself than to him. "I think your Aura isn't where it's supposed to be. Not dormant. Not broken. Just... withdrawn. "
He didn't respond right away.
So she tried again, voice softer. "Have you always been like this?"
"I don't know," he said quietly.
She didn't say anything, so he went on.
"When I heal, it doesn't feel like a pulse of energy. It's more like my body just fixes itself. Like it remembers what it's supposed to be, and pulls the pieces back into place."
Pyrrha absorbed that in silence.
"And when I transform," Jaune added, "I don't just will it. I just get scared. Or angry. Or desperate. And then... they take over. Not all of me. Just my arm. Or my skin. Like it doesn't belong to me. But it's still me." He looked down at his palm. "Does that make sense?"
She nodded slowly. "In a strange way… yes."
Jaune ran a hand through his hair. "I thought I was just bad at this. That maybe my Aura was broken. But now I'm wondering if I ever had a normal one to begin with."
Pyrrha hesitated. "You do have a soul, Jaune."
He looked at her for a moment. "But what if it got twisted? Somewhere along the way?"
Pyrrha didn't answer immediately.
Then, with careful calm: "Do you want to find out?"
He blinked. "What?"
"I mean it," she said, turning to face him more fully. "Do you want to understand what you are?"
His first instinct was to retreat. To deflect. But the look on her face wasn't judgmental. It wasn't fearful. It was… steady. Grounded. Warm.
And for the first time all day, Jaune didn't feel like a walking question mark. He felt like someone she saw.
"…Yeah," he said quietly. "I do."
Pyrrha smiled again. This time, wider. Brighter.
"Then we'll figure it out," she said. "Together."
She held out her hand.
Not to shake. Not for Aura.
Just to hold.
And this time, when he took it, whatever stirred in his chest… stayed quiet.
Following a northern general direction, they reached the mouth of a cave tunnel just as light began slipping behind the treetops.
No relic pedestal. No signal beacon. Just brown stone yawning beneath an overhang, like the earth itself had been clawed open. It was marked with a symbol commonly used to indicate a tunnel.
Covering the entrance, faint claw marks scarred the edges of the rock, and a sickly miasma curled out of the dark like breath from a sleeping beast.
Jaune paused beside Pyrrha, catching the shift in her posture.
She wasn't relaxed anymore. Her hand hovered near Milo's hilt, her stance slightly lower.
"This feels wrong," she whispered.
He nodded. "'You will find opposition. Overcome it—or fail', right?"
So they stepped forward anyway.
The tunnel swallowed the light within five steps. A drop in pressure, a tang of iron on the tongue. Jaune felt it thicken with each step. Like wading into oil. Behind him, the fading daylight died.
Jaune's eyes changed before he even noticed.
Pyrrha flicked her wrist. With a click, Her shield detached from her back and snapped into place on her left arm. With her other, she readied Milo, elongating it into spear form. The steel hummed.
Jaune flexed his fingers.
'Shield,' he thought—his left shoulder pulsed, but nothing responded. His Aura felt sluggish, like tar in his veins. Still, he followed.
Then—sound.
First, a high pitched scrape. No, a clatter. Low and… chitinous.
Pyrrha stopped dead.
The tunnel ahead twisted left into darkness. But something shifted there. Not small. Not subtle. Something big.
A rustling hiss, like stale air passing through a narrow opening. A low-frequency thumping gurgled.
Then—light flared.
In the dark, ten pupil-less orbs opened at once. Wide-set. Low. Not eyes. Heat pits. Not for seeing, but for sensing heat.
And beneath them: a hulking body of armor, glinting black-red rust in the gloom. The carapace moved, segment by segment, until the full silhouette unfolded like a siege engine pulled from hell. A curled stinger rose, a hooked, reaping spire behind it. At its base, barbs shimmered with a wet, thick, dripping sheen.
A muscle deep in Jaune's gut clenched.
No thought. Just a reaction.
The stinger twitched, and something inside him lurched in kind—an animal stillness, skin prickling like cold breath on bare flesh.
The tip dripped.
His throat tightened. His mouth went dry. The air felt closer than it should've been
Then it screeched .
It was less a sound and more of an assault. Teeth-vibrating. Like nails driven into the soul.
Jaune flinched. His heart punched his ribs. Every survival instinct flared at once. Golden eyes engaged.
The Death Stalker lunged.
"MOVE!" Pyrrha barked, already dashing left.
The cave exploded—rocks shattered beneath the beast's limbs as it crashed forward, legs pulverizing into the ground, tail whipping down. Pyrrha rolled beneath it, spear slicing across its leg. Sparks. No wound.
Jaune dove right. The stinger struck where he'd stood, blowing the floor apart in a shockwave. He hit the wall shoulder-first, pain exploding through him. The rock cracked. His breath left him in a choked gasp.
Too big.
Jaune recognized the thought wasn't his. Not fully. It had no voice. Just a shape in his mind. A cold, precise conclusion.
He looked up.
It filled the tunnel. Ten feet across. Taller than both of them. Its front claws snapped like scissors from hell, slicing gouges into the walls as if it were wet clay, as it turned on Pyrrha.
She was already moving, trying to circle. Dancing backward in tight arcs, shield raised, Milo slashing and firing with each step. Gun bursts. Orange flashes. Sparks. No blood.
"Jaune!" she shouted. "Leg! Attack its joint— look out!"
The Deathstalker had locked onto him.
He scrambled to his feet, body trembling. ' ShieldShieldShieldShieldShieldSHIELD—'
A cold wave washed over his thoughts—not ice, but void. Panic receded. Fear blinked away like a snuffed candle. In its place: creeping clarity.
Like a door, deep inside, slowly creaked open, and not entirely his own.
A second awareness stirred.
A stilling of the self. Emotion fell silent. As if his heartbeat had been forgotten by time. As if the blood inside him remembered ancient proclivities—ones that had nothing to do with being human.
He breathed in.
The scream of the Death Stalker became distant. The world narrowed to geometry. Vectors. Angles. Impact zones. Not numbers—intuition. A blade of knowing, pressed to the back of his mind.
The cave unfolded like a carcass—veins of stone mapped in his vision, stress lines blooming like spider cracks across its spine.
The Death Stalker shimmered with weak points, not in armor—but in flow.
Patterns. Timings. Breaches between moments.
It was not machine logic. It was animal prophecy.
A prey-beast learning the steps of the predator's dance.
Stygian, auric eyes spasmed—no, were guided in a series of saccades.
Rear leg. Joint cluster. Timing: after the tail recoils.
Claw swings in two-beat patterns. Third is a feint.
Stinger barbs: paralytic sheen... possible venomous compound. Avoid direct hit.
He felt no certainty.
Only inevitability.
And then—
Veyl'thrim. Deploy. Now.
His left shoulder pulsed.
This time, it answered.
The Dark Aegis tore from his Aura—liquid shadow coalescing into an armored barrier, its shape unstable for a moment before locking into a curved, crescent bulwark. It twitched once as it sensed the air ahead—like it was bracing too.
The Death Stalker shrieked —a rattling, bone-deep cry—and charged.
Jaune braced just in time.
CLANG.
The first claw struck him like a battering ram. The impact shuddered through Jaune's whole body. The shield held—but the force threw him across the cave. He bounced off the stone floor, skidded, shield scraping sparks. Ears ringing. Blood tasted sharp in his throat.
The second claw followed. Jaune barely raised the Aegis again in time.
SMASH.
The shield twisted on impact—flexed—like it was trying to catch and redirect the force. Its edge shimmered, fractalizing briefly as if sprouting teeth.
It was adapting. But not fast enough.
The blows came again. And again.
Jaune couldn't hold ground. He slid backward with every hit, boots digging trenches into the rock, the soles tearing apart. His shoulder screamed. The Aegis held—but he couldn't push back. He couldn't move .
He was being overwhelmed.
The next blow dented it. Not visibly—but he felt the shield's whine.
One more slam.
This time the Aegis screamed—not with sound, but with pressure. It buckled inward like a living thing curling in pain.
'Too big. This thing's too big.'
Jaune winced. His arm continued to throb under the shield's mounting strain. It wasn't just defending—it was trying to defend. Like it didn't want to fail him.
"I know," he gritted through clenched teeth. "It's not your fault."
He growled and released the shield. The Dark Aegis shattered into retreating, motes of mass and fading light—dissolving reluctantly as it fled, like it didn't want to go.
His left arm dropped. Dead weight. Sockets wrenched out. The pain wasn't clean—it throbbed, as bone slowly untwisted.
'Change strategies.'
He reached for the darker pulse inside. Lower. Sharper.
'I need the edge.'
CRACK.
A claw clipped his shoulder, its size belying speed. Enough to send him flying into an outcropping. His vision blurred. Pain flared down his back.
Something popped.
His breath left in a choked rasp. His ribs flared with heat. This time, he choked on iron.
Pyrrha cried out, strained. He forced himself up.
She was still holding the front—shield against snapping claws, backpedaling. But she was beginning to buckle. Her Aura sparked visibly now, small sparks flying from each impact. Her counterstrikes were landing—but still not piercing. Her footwork slowing.
And the Death Stalker was only getting faster.
It wasn't just a mindless, wild beast. It was learning. Adjusting. Every blow was better timed. Every feint was sharper.
Jaune pushed himself up. Shaking. One hand down. The other curled. And even through the fog—he saw it.
The thing wasn't just armored. It was strategic.
Inside, Jaune adjusted in turn.
Again not with words. Not with the logic of a human mind.
Just a whisper, felt between heartbeats. A pressure behind the eyes. A needle of knowing, drawn through the center of his brain.
Not the legs. Third vertebra. Beneath the ridge. Not for blood. For breakage.
The thought hit him like a whisper between heartbeats—cold, instructive .
"Its legs!" Pyrrha called again, but Jaune's eyes were already tracking higher.
The Death Stalker's carapace shimmered under Dust light. Thick. Layered. But near the middle, just below the spinal ridge—he saw it. A slight imperfection. Not a flaw by design, but by growth. A tension line where armor met its own weight.
A wound waiting to happen.
' Weak spot.'
He exhaled slowly.
Reached inward, to the pulse beneath pain. The mangled breath behind the breath.
He released a loud, long grunt.
His right arm twisted—bones deforming, fingers merging into a wicked length of obsidian-black steel as it split free. The blade glinted like volcanic glass in the dark. It crackled as it formed, steam rising from the floor where the heat of transformation's speed seared the ground. His Aura burned against his ribs, screaming with protest. The Eibon Fang had arrived.
Then he ran, muscle and mass gathering in his calves. Legs low, blade tucked to his side. Target locked.
Swiveling past the legs, ignoring a cut from the biting claws—Jaune headed toward the back, toward the hinge of the tail. It reared. But not fast enough.
He ducked a back-sweeping claw. Then Jaune jumped —used a loose stone for height—and cleaved the jet blade downward.
The strike hit just above the third vertebra. Not a deep wound. But a crack spidered through the chitin with a sound like shattering glass beneath pressure. Black ichor burst from the seam, hissing on contact with the blade's edge.
Jaune landed hard—but his momentum didn't stop.
"Bloom," he hissed.
The blade heard him.
He twisted his arm at the elbow—the weapon's edge pulsing gold. The tip lodged in the fracture quivered, then opened. Segments split outward, forming jagged petals that anchored into the wound.
The Death Stalker shrieked—spasming, stinger shivering violently overhead.
He twisted.
For a moment, the chitin around the fault line peeled, the seam giving way to pressure it wasn't evolved to withstand.
Ichor gurgled around his sinister blossom.
Then— SLAM.
The tail rounded in a vengeful, desperate swing. Venom spitting wildly.
Jaune didn't fully dodge. The hammer blow force of the stinger hit like a freight train—snapping several ribs and flinging him back into the wall near the cave entrance. He folded on impact, gasping out blood, something inside tearing . His blade arm returned to normal. Vision dimmed as foreign liquid tried to make its way through his body.
Everything went white.
Then, with searing pain through every nerve, Jaune screamed.
Regeneration ripped through him, shredding fibers, burning through Aura like dry kindling. Nullified poison shoved out stretching pores. He choked down a rise of blood and clawed to his feet.
Behind him, the beast shifted awkwardly—its gait faltering. The fracture in its armor leaked steadily in vulnerability.
Pyrrha was at his side again, her shield dented, her face pale.
"We need to retreat," she breathed.
"Yeah," Jaune croaked. "But I marked it. Mid-spine. Right under the tail root."
She blinked.
"Shell's cracked. Next time, we break it."
She gave a nod. Together, they pivoted—Pyrrha, with a harsh growl, blocked the tail as it came again, redirecting it into the stone. Jaune lunged, slashing at the wounded shell again—not for damage, but as a reminder .
For he still had breath.
And the Fang still wanted to fight.
He stumbled upright and flicked his arm back. The blade snapped long, then whip-coiled once around his wrist like it was tethered to his spine. He launched it outward—
The obsidian chain struck just shy of the fracture and lashed across the edge like a signature.
The Death Stalker screeched and staggered back—more annoyed than wounded.
But Jaune met its pits as if to say: I marked you.
The blade rattled back into form.