The Head of the Schnee family looked over the gathered audience as he finished his speech, an absolutely chill-inducing address, as expected of his father. Whitley had to resist the urge to clap. Clapping was for the masses, not for leaders. Leaders exuded quiet confidence, and Whitley prided himself on at least trying to emulate that standard.
His father closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose as though already dismissing the situation. As expected of him!"You know what to do."
With that, the crowd was dismissed without ceremony. The staff dispersed in a flurry of movement, each returning to their tasks without miling as servants of the Schnee house were ought to do.
His father's eyes, which still carried that fearsome glow from his earlier declaration, flickered briefly in the direction of Whitley and Winter. His gaze lingered only a moment before he gave them a firm nod and turned on his heel. With a stride that was equal parts precise and elegant; he made his way toward his wing of the manor to surely plot further. Whitley could only imagine what brilliantly fearsome counteroffensive his father was planning against their enemies.
He'd almost pitied the Faunus. Almost
Winter straightened beside him and excused herself. "I'll be back in a moment. Wait here for me."
Whitley sighed and rolled his eyes as she strode after Father, undoubtedly to accuse him of something or pester him with questions. Likely both.
watching her go, his irritation lingered as he stayed put, though his thoughts inevitably wandered to what he had just witnessed.
While he hadn't fully understood the specifics of Father's orders as he wasn't privy to every detail yet, he grasped the sheer gravity they carried. Jacques Schnee wasn't a man to speak lightly, and his words struck with precision and purpose.
The declaration had been somewhat expected, but that did not mean it was easy to digest. Whitley could see that, even without having watched the faces of the staff too closely. But it was even harder for him to accept, knowing that everything his father did was clearly for his protection. That knowledge that he needed to be cuddled and protected gnawed at him, feeding into a quiet feeling of helplessness he fought to keep buried.
'He was a Schnee. Helplessness had no place in his life.' Whitley tried to assure himself.
He wasn't sure it was working.
He shook his head, and slapped is cheeks a couple of times.
Still, Whitley couldn't deny that the manor's staff and guards had placed their faith in Jacques, whether out of loyalty, fear, or some mixture of both. Not that it mattered. Results were what mattered most. Intentions were irrelevant.
And the idea that his father could inspire only fear was… laughable. Jacques Schnee was far too brilliant for such a limited effect.
the sound of clicking (or rather stomping) heeled-boots snapped him out of his thoughts.
As expected, Winter returned within minutes, and as expected, she looked dejected. Doubtlessly because Father had refused to humor her lack of respect... and manners. Whitley fought down the pink threatening to rise in his cheeks as he recalled her shameful display.
He bit his tongue, refraining from delivering the barbed jab that rested on the tip of it. For Father's sake, and because Jacques had stooped so low as to ask for Winter's assistance for Whitley's sake, he decided to tolerate her presence.
Barely.
With an unspoken agreement, the siblings turned and began making their way to the training area. Walking behind the Specialist, Whitley's thoughts inevitably drifted back to his father.
'Power.'
It was the only word that fit what he had just witnessed. Standing before the assembled staff, Jacques Schnee had embodied strength, wealth, and influence were all aspects of power in its purest form.
The way he carried himself as proud and commanding. How every soul in the room hung on his every word as though it were gospel. Whitley had always known his father was a formidable man, but today? Today, Jacques Schnee had seemed like something more. Something untouchable.
'You become God.'
His lips curled upwards at remembering those words.
Whitley wasn't a huntsman, nor did he aspire to be one, but he had spent enough time around them to recognize the magnetic pull they seemed to have. Huntsmen always carried an undeniable presence, a quiet force that drew the attention of everyone around them.
That presence was what the rest of the world knew as Aura.
It was, oddly enough, a talent Whitley had discovered he alone possessed in their family.
"A special gift for a special boy," Grandfather Nicholas had told him long ago, ruffling his hair affectionately. Whitley had carried that memory with him, even as the years passed.
And though his own Aura remained locked, he could sense the distinct energies of those around him. Each one had a unique feel.
Grandfather's Aura had felt like sunshine: warm, steady, and reassuring. It was the sort of warmth that made one feel safe and whole. Willow's Aura had once held a similar warmth, though it had long since faded, leaving behind only a hollow echo of what it once was.
He cast a brief glance at Winter's back as she walked ahead.
Winter's Aura was cold, but not harsh. It reminded Whitley of the quiet calm after a fresh snowfall: still, steady, and oddly soothing not that he'd ever tell her that. Weiss, however, was another matter entirely. Her Aura always gave off an unbearable clinginess, an incessant need to reach out as though she could wrap him up in it like some comforting blanket.
It was maddening. That sort of behaviour, so desperate, so undignified, was entirely unbefitting of a Schnee.
Still, as different as they all were, the Auras of his siblings, and of his grandfather, had one thing in common: they offered a sense of security. When they were near, Whitley could feel their presence as a shield.
His father's Aura, however, was something else entirely.
Whitley wasn't the least bit shocked to learn that Jacques Schnee had his Aura unlocked, unlike the rest of the household. No, what surprised him was how utterly dense everyone else was for not realizing it sooner. Of course,e Father would have his Aura unlocked. How could he not? He wasn't the sort of man to leave himself vulnerable.
Father always played his cards close to his chest, always prepared for every possibility. To think otherwise would be laughable.
Jacques Schnee, formerly Jacques Gélé, was a man wrapped in mystery. Even now, as one of the most powerful figures in Atlas, the details of his past were a tightly guarded secret. What the public saw was an illusion, and a performance polished to perfection.
Even Whitley, who liked to think of himself as closer to Father than anyone else, knew next to nothing about the man's younger years. Jacques never spoke of them.
The only certain fact was that he had been born in Mantle. That much Willow had told them once, years ago, back when she remembered her children existed, and back when Father and she still exchanged words without barbs. Beyond that? Nothing.
Jacques Schnee's early life was as much a blank slate as the pristine white halls of their estate.
And yet, for all that Father's unlocked Aura didn't surprise him, the nature of it had caught Whitley entirely off guard.
The first time Whitley had felt his father's aura, it had been during the chaos of the medical emergency after the manor was attacked days prior. Father, who had valiantly fought the terrorists and made sure that not a single trace of them remained, had been bleeding out, and Whitley was too busy shouting at the guards to notice much else. But even then, there had been something… wrong about it.
Today, there was no mistaking it.
His father's Aura wasn't warm like Grandfather's or serene like Winter's. It didn't radiate hope like Weiss's, though calling anything Weiss did "hopeful" was already stretching the truth. No, Jacques Schnee's Aura was... something else.
It was heavy, suffocating, and deeply unsettling. It didn't shield or inspire; it loomed. It didn't comfort; it threatened. To others, it must have felt like standing too close to a roaring furnace, except instead of heat, it blasted you with the emotional equivalent of pure dread.
Whitley was almost certain that if the staff could feel it, half of them would faint and the other half would sprint to the nearest airship out of fear of being evaporated by Father's sheer existence.
And yet, to Whitley, that wasn't a bad thing. Not at all.
Father's Aura didn't offer the soft comforts others seemed to prize. Instead, it provided something stronger. Who needed warmth or beauty or hope when you could have power? Protection implied something passive. And weak. Father's Aura wasn't about protecting.
it was about dominating.
It was brilliant, really. Where others saw an ominous, seething storm, Whitley saw unparalleled control. Father's overwhelmed the very space around him. The darkness, the despair, those weren't flaws. Those were tools.
Sure, it might make everyone else feel like they were being swallowed by a black hole of existential dread, but maybe that was the point. Who dared cross a man whose very existence was so imposing, so utterly oppressive? If his Aura was a seething mess, then it was the most effective seething mess in all of Remnant.
Yes, that was it.
Whitley felt a spark of pride at his own realization. His father's Aura wasn't bad. It was just... misunderstood. The others simply lacked the sophistication to see the genius behind it.
People fear what they don't understand.
Only Whitley could understand Father.
Jacques Schnee didn't need his Aura to be warm, hopeful, or beautiful. Such trivialities were for lesser men. For a moment, his father surrounded by his Aura had looked almost… godlike.
Of course.
You become God.
'That,' Whitley thought, his chest tightening with ambition, 'That is what I must become.'
Fuelled by this revelation, Whitley straightened his posture, and his steps turned a bit more purposeful. He could hardly wait for Winter to begin his training.
"Are we unlocking my aura today?" he asked with anticipation as he followed her through the halls.
"No," Winter replied. "That will come later."
She glanced over her shoulder at him and smiled. "First, we'll create a proper training regimen and adjust your diet. The physical boost aura provides is directly tied to your condition beforehand. The better your shape now, the more impressive the results will be."
That explanation made sense, he supposed. At least she wasn't entirely useless, despite his initial concerns.
When they reached the door to the manor's training area, Winter stopped, gesturing for him to proceed.
It didn't escape his notice that this was his late grandfather's old training arena, but he held his tongue from asking why.
With a mental shrug, he stepped forward.
As the youngest Schnee, Whitley still had unrestricted access to parts of the house that were now off-limits to Winter after she departed, or ran away, depending on how one chose to frame it. He stepped ahead of her, placing his palm on the scanner and watching as the door slid open.
Before entering, he cast a glance back at her.
"Just so you're aware, the servants haven't finished fixing it yet."
Jacques Schnee strutted down the halls of his grand manor, a smirk plastered on his face like he'd just pulled off the greatest heist in Remnant. Honestly, he might as well have. Bullshitting his way with the servants? Escaping that conversation with Winter without explaining a damn thing?
Pure genius.
The smooth marble floors echoed the clicking of his shoes as he headed for his sanctuary: his bedroom. The annoyances of the still young day's were actually starting to press on him, and his injured body throbbed and wined with every step.
Still, Jacques was determined. To sleep that is. He actually doubted that he'd manage anything else right now.
Right now, sleep was his most valuable weapon. Not wisdom, not cunning; he was self aware enough to know he didn't excel in those areas. Sure, he could bullshit spectacularly with the best of them, but that was a different skill entirely. For now, he just needed sleep, and rest.
The world could wait. The legacy of the Schnee family could wait. Even those bastards who attacked his manor could wait. Seven o'clock was still seven o'clock, and a man had to have his priorities straight.
It was seven o'clock, after all. Priorities mattered.
Besides, as much as he hated to admit weakness, his injuries were taking a huge toll. The pain was wearing him down, fraying his nerves, and making him irritable—childishly irritable, if he was honest.
If this kept up, he wouldn't just be cranky; he'd probably start hallucinating. And if he didn't trust himself at full capacity, running on fumes was a disaster waiting to happen.
Reaching the door to his room, Jacques pushed it open with just enough force to feel satisfying but not so much as to appear rushed.
A Schnee never looked rushed, his body seemed to say to him. Whatever you say, man. I just wanna sleep.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a sharp click. The quiet and dimness of the room welcomed him. The heavy curtains were drawn to shut out the world beyond. Just the way he preferred it.
Jacques let out a weary sigh, his shoulders drooping as much as his battered body allowed. He tugged at his coat with a practiced motion, discarding it onto the nearest chair.
The garment landed in an ungraceful heap that had his 'Jacques senses' tingle like an alarm, but he barely spared it a glance.
Even someone as meticulous as Jacques Schnee should have their limits, and this morning, his patience had run threadbare.
His bed, wide and ludicrously plush, seemed to call to him like a beacon. Right, Beacon. Should probably see what I can find about it later, he reminded himself.
He briefly considered collapsing onto the bed, face-first, but common sense prevailed. His shoulder wouldn't forgive such recklessness, and he wasn't in the mood to make things worse.
Instead, he eased himself onto the edge of the mattress, hissing softly at the dull ache radiating from almost every corner of his body. He worked his shoes off methodically, setting them neatly beside the bed. Old habits, even in exhaustion, were hard to shake.
For a moment, he simply sat there, staring ahead as the quiet of the room seemed to press in. It was the kind of silence he usually found comforting—a rare reprieve not like the one where you sit in the shower wondering which bill you forgot to pay because you have fifty bucks more than you should.
The steady thrum of his Aura was almost soothing except for the occasional flicker of that… oddness.
"Chaotic," Winter had called it. Wild. Evil.
Jacques snorted softly at the memory. Evil, huh? Maybe. But he wasn't about to waste his precious energy on moral debates. Whatever his Aura was, it had kept him alive so far.
That was good enough for him.
If she wanted to moralize, she could do it without him.
He tilted his head back, gazing at the ceiling as he leaned further into the bed. The ache in his chest surged with every breath. Not even the absurd luxury of his duck-feather—or was it goose?—pillows could dull the sting of his injuries.
Fourteen hours.
The thought anchored him. Fourteen hours, and Tranquil Deer would be his. That was all that mattered now. Healing himself, and making it through the next steps. It was the single thread keeping him from letting the pain drag him down entirely.
And there was plenty of it. His ribs throbbed with every movement, his legs burned, his shoulder screamed, and his head pounded like a bell. Even his arms hurt like they'd been through a meat grinder.
Honestly, it was faster to count what didn't hurt.
Jacques let out another huff of breath, shaking his head slightly. Fourteen hours. He just had to hold on.
Jacques sniffled, the silence of his room pressing down on him. Soundproofed, of course, old Jacques had been thorough. At first, it felt like a blessing, but now it was maddening, leaving him alone with his thoughts and demons.
He stared at the ceiling.
"..."
A snort escaped him, sharp enough to jolt his ribs, but it turned into a laugh even so. Before long, he was laughing fully. It hurt like hell, but he didn't stop.
"Really," Jacques muttered to himself between breaths, wiping the corner of his eye. "Is this the part of the story where I start reflecting on the life I left behind? The noble protagonist moment where I think about why I'm here?"
It was, wasn't it? The part where he's supposed to regret and miss what he left behind. A shitty job? A so-so life? Fucking aimlessness all around? The horrors!—and then give himself a pep talk, raise his hand into the light, and make a fist. Fucking lol. Lmao even.
Sure, there were a few people he might've missed, but anyone who actually mattered—anyone he truly loved—was long dead.
And even if they weren't, clinging to the past? Not his style. Never had been, never would be.
So what if he lost twenty-seven years of his life?
So what if he had to fight for survival?
So what if he wasn't the same man anymore?
None of it mattered. The only direction worth looking was forward. Always forward.
'Remember, Jack, bitching about life is for losers and people who put ketchup on steak.'
Damn straight, Pa.
"Protagonist, my ass," he grumbled, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. If anything, he was the villain in half the world's story. Or the comic relief for whoever brought him here. Either way, He's not in a rush for a redemption arc.
He shifted on the bed, wincing as his bruised body protested, and muttered to himself, "If this is supposed to be my turning point, I'd better wake up with a damn revelation tomorrow. Or at least a sexy woman with big tits waiting for me. Then, we'll talk."
With that, he pulled the blanket over himself, closing his eyes as his Aura flickered faintly around him, chaotic and wild but stubbornly alive.
Hours later, Jacques was ripped from his blissful slumber by the sound of someone rudely pounding on his door like they were trying to break in, or perhaps just trying to ruin his life. Either way, mission accomplished.
Jacques groaned, burying his face deeper into the absurdly soft pillow. For one precious moment, he debated pretending he hadn't heard it. Maybe if he stayed very, very still, whoever it was would go away.
The knocking came again, sharper this time.
"Jacques!" A muffled, but somehow familiar in a painful an violent way, voice called from the other side. "Open the door. It's urgent."
Jacques peeked out from under his pillow, his face twisted in irritation. Urgent. Of course, it was urgent. It was always urgent. People didn't bother him for anything else. Couldn't it wait until he'd slept off the overwhelming burden of being amazing?
With a great deal of reluctance and a very theatrical sigh, Jacques swung his legs over the side of the bed, muttering curses under his breath. He grabbed the robe hanging off the nearby chair and draped it over his shoulders like a king reluctantly returning to court.
"This better be good," he snapped. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" Stalking toward the door, he yanked it open just enough to glare at the unfortunate soul standing on the other side.
The unfortunate soul standing on the other side of the door wasn't just any servant. No, it was none other than his estranged "wife," who, if memory served, had broken a damn bottle of wine over his head just days ago. Yippee!
Jacques blinked and stared at her, momentarily taken aback by her presence. She stood there, a scowl painted across her face. Her body was stiff and tense looking like she had just swallowed something she wasn't sure how to digest.
She was still stunning in that almost-impossible way she had—ten out of ten; six-year-old him would've gotten in a van if she told him to—but there was a certain... like she was trying to work out something deeply unpleasant but had yet to come to terms with it.
Or she was constipated.
Both seemed equally plausible.
"We need to talk, Jacques."
"Huh," he muttered to himself, eyeing her with faint amusement. "So there really was a big-titted sexy woman waiting for me when I woke up."
"What?"
He lifted his eyes to the ceiling with a resigned sigh, then glanced back at her, his smirk widening.
"Well played, God."