This chapter gets a bit angsty so be warned. This series is near and dear to me so I'm going to be working on it methodically and slowly. Chapter 1 was short and this one and the last were extremely long. I couldn't even fit all I had planned into this chapter so I'm going to roll it into the next one which should be even longer than this one. I'm in Samsara baby! But yeah drop a review if you like this chapter and definitely leave a follow. Also I'm going to be working on some oneshots like Ronin of Misfortune which I've released between these chapters. Go check that out and also follow me since im going to be releasing a few other oneshots as I work on this. And hey if you like the one shots I might make it into a full series!
Your love is always appreciated and remember to leave your questions in the comments!
Also from here on out Alt-Pyrrha or Cortana Pyrrha as ive called her in drafts is going to be called Alt Pyrrha considering real Pyrrha is going to be involved more with scenes.
[/]
Jaune tested the leather restraints across his chest and wrists—firm, but not cutting off circulation. Professional. The familiar antiseptic smell and white walls registered before his conscious mind caught up.
"Beacon's infirmary." The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. How do I know that?
"Good afternoon."
The voice drew his attention to movement behind a privacy curtain. A woman emerged, her copper-colored fox ears twitching as she bundled bloodied linens from an adjacent bed. Her tail swayed in practiced efficiency as she worked, and Jaune found himself staring at the dual faunus traits.
She noticed his gaze without comment, sealing the soiled sheets in a biohazard container. "Figured you'd be conscious by now."
"This is the infirmary, right?" The question felt stupid, but he needed the confirmation.
"It is." She settled at a nearby desk, fingers already dancing across a keyboard. "Third major episode in three days, according to your file."
Jaune's stomach dropped. "How long this time?"
"Six hours total. You were lucid for about an hour before the sedative took hold." She swiveled in her chair, brown eyes scanning a tablet screen. "We ran a full workup while you were under—bloodwork, neurological assessment, toxicology screen." A pause. "Extensive testing."
"And?"
"Sleep deprivation." She set the tablet aside, fixing him with a clinical stare. "Your body's been running on fumes for approximately four weeks. No REM cycles, no restorative rest—just your episodes and whatever passes for consciousness between them."
That's not entirely accurate, Pyrrha murmured.
Jaune pressed his lips together, cutting off the internal conversation before it could show on his face.
"The concerning part," the nurse continued, "is that you're not presenting typical symptoms of severe sleep deprivation. No tremors, minimal cognitive impairment, reflexes still sharp. It's almost as if something else is maintaining your motor functions."
Something cold settled in Jaune's chest. "Is that... bad?"
"It's unprecedented." She leaned back, fox ears flicking once. "I'm Kitsune—Miss Tsune will do fine. I'll be overseeing your medical care during your stay at Beacon."
Her tone carried professional warmth, but Jaune caught the edge underneath. This wasn't a routine patient evaluation.
"I appreciate—"
"Don't." She held up a hand. "This isn't charity, Mr. Arc. Ozpin is currently explaining your 'unique circumstances' to faculty who weren't consulted before your arrival. They're not pleased."
The bluntness hit like a physical blow. Jaune tried to sit up straighter against the restraints. "They don't want me here."
"They want to protect their students. A young man with documented violent episodes and memory gaps represents a security risk." Miss Tsune's tail had gone still. "If the faculty raises formal complaints to the Vale Council, Ozpin's autonomy as headmaster becomes limited. They'll demand oversight, investigations, bureaucracy."
"I didn't have a choice." The words came out sharper than intended.
"No, but you're here now. And in—" she checked her scroll "—ten hours, you'll be taking initiation alongside the other first-years. You'll be expected to maintain academic standards, participate in combat training, and manage your condition without disrupting other students' education."
Tell her we can handle it, Pyrrha urged.
Jaune ignored the voice, focusing on Miss Tsune's expectant expression. "I'll do my best. I don't want these episodes either."
"Your best will need to be exceptional." She stood, gathering her papers. "The medication should help regulate your sleep cycle, but it won't address the underlying cause of your blackouts. That's something you'll need to work through with Headmaster Ozpin."
As she moved toward the door, Jaune called out, "Miss Tsune? Why are you helping me?"
She paused, fox ears swiveling back toward him. "Because everyone deserves a chance to prove they're more than their worst moment." A small smile. "Don't make me regret the recommendation."
The door clicked shut, leaving Jaune alone with the steady beep of monitors and the weight of expectations he wasn't sure he could meet.
The silence stretched longer than usual. Pyrrha's presence had retreated to whatever corner of his mind she occupied during her quiet moments, leaving Jaune with something he'd almost forgotten—solitude. He flexed his fingers, watching the tremor that had become constant over the past weeks. Just stress, he told himself. Nothing more.
The door's soft click made him tense, but Ozpin's measured footsteps were unmistakable. The headmaster entered alone—no Goodwitch hovering at his shoulder this time—and approached the bed with the same calm confidence he'd shown since their first meeting.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Arc." Ozpin settled onto a small stool beside the bed, leaning his cane against his knee. Despite the exhaustion evident in the lines around his eyes, his gaze remained sharp and assessing.
Jaune had to stop getting knocked unconscious. It was becoming a habit he couldn't afford.
"I trust Miss Tsune explained our preliminary findings?" At Jaune's nod, Ozpin produced a sleek black device from his coat. "This should help with the more immediate concerns."
The watch—if it could be called that—had no visible face or markings. Just smooth, dark metal that felt heavier than it looked. "What is it?"
"A monitoring system. Aura levels, vital signs, location tracking." Ozpin's tone carried the weight of uncomfortable necessity. "Our scans revealed something interesting about your episodes. When they occur, we detect two distinct aura signatures attempting to occupy the same space. The resulting interference creates neurological instability."
Jaune kept his expression neutral. "And this stops that?"
"In theory. The device monitors aura fluctuations and applies corrective electrical pulses when instability is detected." Ozpin's fingers drummed once against his cane. "If the interference becomes severe enough to trigger an episode, it will emit a stronger pulse—temporarily incapacitating you rather than allowing the blackout to occur."
The casual mention of being electrocuted should have been more alarming. Instead, Jaune felt only relief at the prospect of maintaining control. "What's the catch?"
"Several. The technology is experimental. The pulses will be painful. And if our hypothesis is incorrect..." Ozpin spread his hands. "Well, we'll learn that together."
"I'll take it." The words came without hesitation.
Ozpin's eyebrows rose slightly. "You haven't heard the full terms."
"I don't care." Jaune met the headmaster's gaze directly. "I've hurt people. I've lost time, lost control, and I can't even trust my own thoughts anymore. If this gives me a chance to be something other than a liability—if I can actually help when this disaster she keep hinting at arrives—then I'll take whatever risks come with it."
For a long moment, Ozpin studied him with the intensity of someone reading a complex text. The boy looked like he'd been through a war—hollowed cheeks, shadowed eyes, the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn't cure. But beneath the physical deterioration, something burned with quiet determination.
"Special indeed," Ozpin murmured, then reached into his coat again. "There's one more component to your treatment plan."
The pill case was small, holding a dozen thin white tablets in individual compartments. "Experimental psychiatric medication. If the episodes are purely psychological manifestations—hallucinations brought on by trauma—these should eliminate them entirely."
Jaune stared at the pills, understanding the implication. If Pyrrha disappeared...
"And if they don't work?"
"Then we'll know your situation is more complex than traditional medicine can address." Ozpin closed the case with a soft snap. "The choice is yours, Mr. Arc. You can take the medication at noon every day and potentially return to a normal life, or continue as you are and learn to manage your unique circumstances."
Jaune looked between the watch and the pill case, weighing unknown risks against unbearable uncertainty.
"How long before I know if they work?"
"Seventy-two hours for initial effects. Full evaluation within a week."
A week to learn if Pyrrha was real or if he really was losing his mind. A week to discover if he had a future as a huntsman or if he'd spend the rest of his life as a medical curiosity.
"I'll take both," he said finally. "The watch and the pills."
Ozpin nodded slowly. "Then we begin your real education tomorrow. Welcome to Beacon Academy, Mr. Arc."
Without ceremony, Ozpin placed the pill case in Jaune's lap and lifted the watch. "This may be uncomfortable."
"Wait, how does it—"
The device clamped around his wrist with mechanical precision, face pressed against the pulse point where his veins were most visible. Jaune had a moment to register the wrongness of wearing a watch backwards before pain lanced up his arm.
"Ah!" The needle that emerged from the watch face drove deep enough to find his radial artery, and Jaune could feel it moving, anchoring itself beneath his skin. "What the hell—"
"I apologize." Ozpin's voice carried genuine regret. "This particular implementation was mandated by the Vale Council. Previous versions proved... inadequate for your condition."
Jaune gritted his teeth as the device settled into place, a low vibration humming against his bones. "It's fine. Just—warn a guy next time."
The watch activated with a soft chime, and immediately Jaune's aura flared around him in chaotic golden spirals. For a heartbeat, he felt Pyrrha's presence surge forward—then a sharp buzz ran through his nervous system and both aura and voice cut out abruptly.
The silence in his head was deafening.
"Aura suppression will limit your capabilities during initiation," Ozpin explained, watching Jaune's reaction carefully. "If you approach episode conditions, extraction will be immediate."
Jaune flexed his fingers, testing the strange numbness where his aura usually hummed. "Understood." He met Ozpin's gaze directly. "I don't want to kill anyone again."
"As befits all huntsmen—"
"No." The word came out harder than intended. "I don't want to kill anyone again. There's a difference."
Understanding passed between them—the weight of taking a life, regardless of circumstances. Ozpin's hand settled on Jaune's forearm, the touch almost paternal in its steadiness.
"If you reach that point, I will intervene." The promise carried absolute certainty. "Mr. Arc, I know this feels like service forced upon you. The pain may seem endless, the burden too great to bear." Ozpin's gaze grew distant, his free hand lifting as if reaching for something only he could see. "But there is honor in the struggle itself. You are only truly defeated when you surrender hope."
The words had the cadence of personal experience, hard-won wisdom from someone who'd carried similar weight.
"Regular evaluations—mental and physical. Results remain confidential between myself, Ms. Goodwitch, and Miss Tsune." Ozpin stepped back, unfastening the leather restraints. "Now, I believe you have classmates to meet."
Jaune swung his legs over the bed's edge, surprised by how steady he felt despite the watch's constant hum. "Miss Tsune mentioned initiation."
"Tomorrow morning. Tonight, you'll join the other first-years for dinner in the main auditorium." Ozpin moved toward the door, cane clicking against polished floors. "An opportunity to form connections before team assignments."
"Teams?" Jaune fell into step beside him, the infirmary's sterile walls giving way to Beacon's grand corridors. Despite never having walked these halls, something about them felt familiar—right in a way he couldn't explain.
Because this is where we met, Pyrrha's voice whispered faintly through the suppression. Where everything began.
"Four-person teams, selected through initiation trials," Ozpin continued, either unaware of or ignoring Jaune's momentary pause. "I cannot influence the selection process, but I trust you'll adapt to whichever students fate provides."
The auditorium's distant sounds—conversation, laughter, the clatter of dining—grew louder as they walked. Normal sounds from normal students living normal lives.
Jaune wondered if he'd ever be normal again, or if that ship had sailed the moment Pyrrha's voice first echoed in his head.
"Professor?" He slowed his pace slightly. "What happens if the medication works? If she disappears?"
Ozpin's steps never faltered, but something in his expression grew thoughtful. "Then you'll discover whether you can be the huntsman you aspire to become on your own merits." A pause. "Though I suspect you may find the answer... illuminating."
The auditorium doors opened to reveal what looked like an indoor festival. Jaune stepped inside, overwhelmed by the sea of students sprawled across exercise mats with plates balanced on their laps. The casual atmosphere—part cafeteria, part sleepover—made his escort situation feel even more conspicuous.
His gaze swept across the colorful mix of future Huntsmen until it landed on familiar faces: the blonde girl and her red-haired partner from before. In the corner, a black-haired girl with a bow sat alone, picking at her food with deliberate isolation.
Don't stare, he told himself, but his eyes betrayed him again, finding the animated ginger-haired girl chatting with a stoic boy in Mistrali formal wear. The sight twisted something in his chest—a longing for normalcy he couldn't quite place.
"Is that the crazy kid?" The whisper carried despite the speaker's attempt at discretion.
"My friend said he was screaming when they brought him in," another voice added.
"That why that Goodwitch chick had her weapon out?"
"Maybe he's dangerous or something."
The murmurs grew bolder until Ozpin's cane struck the floor with deliberate authority. Silence rippled outward from where they stood.
"I regret that privacy was not an option in this matter," Ozpin said quietly, his voice meant only for Jaune. "The choice of when to reveal your... circumstances... should have been yours."
Jaune managed a weak smile. "It's fine. Can we just—" He gestured toward the food tables. "I can't remember the last time I ate."
Ozpin nodded curtly and led him through the line. The sight of the laden tables made Jaune's mouth water as he grabbed a plastic plate, his movements growing increasingly frantic as he piled on food.
A gentle hand touched his wrist. "Slowly," Ozpin warned. "Your body has been under considerable stress. Too much rich food too quickly could send you into shock."
Jaune reluctantly removed several pieces of fatty meat, replacing them with vegetables and lighter fare. The practical concern in Ozpin's voice reminded him just how fragile his situation really was.
"Should you need assistance—at any hour—contact me immediately." Ozpin's emphasis on 'you' wasn't lost on him. Not her. You.
"So if Pyrrha takes over again..." Jaune whispered.
Ozpin simply nodded and departed, leaving Jaune alone with his carefully portioned meal and a room full of staring students.
Even surrounded by armor and weapons, his simple country clothes made him feel like an exhibit. He found an empty section of wall and slid down it, focusing intently on his plate.
"You could have some of that meat, you know." Pyrrha's voice carried a note of gentle teasing.
"Ozpin said to wait." He kept his voice barely audible.
"I was merely suggesting—"
"I want to be alone right now."
"You're surrounded by people. Even without me, you'd hardly be alone."
"Aren't you supposed to be fixing whatever's wrong with my head?" The words came out harsher than he intended.
Her presence shifted, taking on an edge of worry. "I've managed a temporary solution. I'm trying to prevent the... bleeding through."
"The dampener and pills make everything fuzzy."
"Better than alerting the entire student body to your condition?"
Jaune winced. "Point taken."
"I apologize." The words carried genuine remorse. "My control... slipped."
"Yeah, well. I don't know what I expected coming here."
The silence stretched between them until Pyrrha spoke again, her voice smaller than before.
"She's me."
Jaune paused mid-chew. "What?"
"The girl you keep looking at. She's me." Fear crept into her tone. "Another version, but weaker. Untested. She doesn't know what I know, doesn't understand what you need."
His eyes involuntarily swept the room again, searching for the red-haired girl who'd caught his attention. "What am I supposed to do with that information?"
"Nothing." The word came out sharp, possessive. "Stay away from her. She can't help you like I can. Don't waste your time with her."
Jaune found himself searching the crowd despite her warning, but the girl was nowhere to be seen.
"I'll... keep my distance."
He felt Pyrrha's presence recede slightly, satisfied but somehow more distant than before.
[/]
Jaune's feet touched the forest floor with none of the dramatic flair his classmates had experienced. While they'd been launched from clifftops like human projectiles, Professor Goodwitch had simply lowered him with her Semblance—slowly, carefully, as if he might shatter on impact. The bemused expression on her face had said everything about what the faculty thought of his current state.
At least they're being cautious, came the familiar voice in his head. Better than being treated like a weapon.
"Find the relics," Jaune muttered, repeating Ozpin's instructions as he stepped over a moss-covered log. "First person to make eye contact will be your partner." The words felt hollow in his mouth. Crocea Mors hung at his hip, its weight both comforting and foreign—like everything else these days.
Distant gunfire echoed through the trees. Ruby's scythe, maybe, or Yang's gauntlets cutting down Grimm. His classmates were probably already paired up, already moving toward their objectives with purpose and certainty. Things Jaune couldn't quite remember having.
You're dwelling again.
"Can't help it." He touched the watch on his wrist, wincing as another sonar pulse pressed into his flesh. 12:16. The device had been monitoring his aura levels since he'd left Beacon's medical wing, searching for what Dr. Oobleck had called "contamination signatures." Every ping felt like an accusation.
His breathing suddenly slowed—not his choice, not his rhythm. The sensation was becoming familiar: Alt-Pyrrha's way of trying to calm him without fully taking control. It worked, sort of, the way a sedative worked. The fear remained, just muffled.
I'm not trying to sedate you, she said, and he could hear the edge in her mental voice. I'm trying to keep you functional.
"Same thing," he whispered, then caught himself talking aloud again. Another behavior that was becoming worryingly normal.
The forest stretched ahead, vast and green and full of students who would look at him with either pity or suspicion. Soon enough, he'd make eye contact with someone. Soon enough, he'd have to pretend to be a normal partner to someone who deserved better.
You're stronger than you think.
"We'll see," Jaune said, and kept walking into the emerald maze.
[/]
The forest had grown quieter. Too quiet.
Jaune's hand found Crocea Mors's hilt without conscious thought, fingers wrapping around the familiar leather grip. The medication made everything feel distant—his aura flickered weakly around him like a dying lightbulb, and his limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. But the primitive part of his brain that had kept humans alive for millennia was screaming danger.
Ragged breathing echoed from the shadows between the trees. Not his own.
The blade sang as it cleared its sheath, the sound sharp and clean in the oppressive silence. Then he saw them—massive red eyes gleaming from a gap in the canopy, ancient and hungry. His body went rigid.
Move! Alt-Pyrrha's voice cut through his mind like a whip crack.
Jaune threw himself right just as the King Taijitu's head—bone-white with crimson markings—slammed into the earth where he'd been standing. The impact sent splinters of wood and clods of dirt flying. His legs nearly buckled as the medication fought against his adrenaline.
Let me—
"No!" The word tore from his throat as he felt Alt-Pyrrha surge forward in his consciousness. The watch on his wrist sent another pulse through his system, and electricity arced across his nerves—the failsafe activating. His muscles seized, then released, leaving him gasping.
The massive serpent's black head emerged from the opposite side, eyes like chips of obsidian. Coils as thick as tree trunks began encircling the clearing, cutting off his escape routes one by one.
"What is that thing?" Jaune backed toward the center of the rapidly shrinking circle, shield raised.
King Taijitu, Alt-Pyrrha's mental voice was tight with barely controlled panic. Jaune, you can't fight this alone. Not like this. Let me—
Her emotions crashed into him—desperation, protective fury, the memory of countless battles fought and won. His body began to shake under the assault, his grip on Crocea Mors wavering.
He slammed the pommel into his thigh.
The sharp spike of pain cut through the emotional overflow like a blade, grounding him in his own body. The technique Pyrrha had warned him against, but it worked. His vision cleared, his breathing steadied.
"I'm not supposed to be here," he whispered, and suddenly memories were surfacing—not his own, but close enough to matter. A different forest. A different serpent. A different ending.
That was my fight, Alt-Pyrrha said quietly. This is yours.
But the memories kept bleeding through—not his own voice, but close enough to cut deep: "You don't belong here, Arc. You're a fraud. A wannabe huntsman who can't even hold a sword properly."
Something snapped.
Jaune surged forward, abandoning all pretense of technique. Crocea Mors drove down between the white head's scales, the point finding purchase in the gap between armor plates. The King Taijitu's shriek split the air as Jaune twisted the blade, carving deeper.
"I don't want to be here!" The words tore from his throat, raw and desperate. He stabbed again, and again. "I hate Grimm! I don't want any of this!"
Jaune, stop—
"You made me come here!" Another strike, wild and angry. "I was going to be a hero, maybe—maybe get a girlfriend, be normal! But now I'm just some sick kid who can't even be alone without supervision!"
The blade caught between ribs of bone. The Taijitu's massive body convulsed, hurling him backward into a tree trunk. His aura flared weakly on impact, barely cushioning the blow as his breath left him in a rush. The watch on his wrist began shrieking alarms.
"I can't even sleep without being drugged unconscious," Jaune wheezed, struggling to his feet. Blood ran down his forehead from where his head had struck bark. "And I can't die. Everyone listens to you instead of me. You brought us here."
That's not—
"I'm supposed to save people!" His voice cracked. "Help everyone! But I don't even know who I am anymore!" He stumbled upright, swaying. "I'm nothing. Just your ride."
The King Taijitu's dual heads swayed hypnotically, red and black eyes fixed on him. Death approaching with reptilian patience.
Jaune dropped his sword. Raised his fists in a clumsy boxer's stance he'd seen in movies—anything that felt like his own choice, his own technique.
"I can't die because of you," he said, steadier now. "As much as I want to sometimes. I need to survive." Foreign memories flashed behind his eyes—red roses scattered on stone, a dark scar across pale skin, golden hair and amber eyes filled with loss. "I can't let anyone else die because of me."
Jaune—
"Not again!" He charged forward, fists raised, no weapon, no plan—just the desperate need to prove he existed as more than a passenger in his own life.
A flash of emerald green cut across his vision.
The figure that leaped past him moved with fluid precision—twin pistols sliding from concealed holsters as he twisted through the air. Jaune watched, stunned, as bladed attachments deployed from the weapons, one catching the Taijitu's crimson eye and wrenching the massive head aside.
The Mistralian—it had to be someone from Haven, given that style—flipped onto the serpent's skull with impossible grace. His blades carved precise X-patterns along the creature's spine as he ran down its length, each cut surgical and deliberate. At the tail, he leaped clear, ejecting spent magazines with practiced efficiency.
"Cut it in half!" the boy shouted, submachine guns clicking as fresh ammunition locked into place.
Crocea Mors spun through the air, thrown with perfect accuracy. The blade buried itself in the earth beside Jaune's feet, vibrating with the impact. His aura responded—not the weak flicker from before, but something stronger. More focused.
Now, Alt-Pyrrha whispered, and for once her presence felt like support rather than invasion.
The Taijitu's white head lunged toward the green-clad fighter, neck extended and vulnerable. Jaune's charge carried him forward on pure instinct, Crocea Mors singing as it cleaved through scales and bone. The massive head tumbled free, dissolving into motes of darkness before it hit the ground.
For a moment, Jaune felt something like triumph. Wild laughter bubbled up from his chest as he turned to his unexpected partner, eyes wide with disbelief and adrenaline.
The Mistralian's small smile died instantly.
"Behind you!"
The tail-head, black as midnight with eyes like chips of obsidian, launched itself toward them with serpentine fury. Jaune's grip tightened on his sword as calculation replaced panic.
"Take its right side?" he called out.
A sharp nod. No hesitation.
They moved in perfect synchronization—not because of Alt-Pyrrha's influence, but because of something simpler. Trust. The black head came at them with fangs bared, maw wide enough to swallow them both. Jaune went left, his partner went right, and gravity did the rest.
Their blades found the soft tissue along the creature's jaw, momentum carrying them through membrane and muscle as they carved matching arcs. The Taijitu's remaining head split cleanly in two, the pieces already beginning to dissolve as they separated.
Silence settled over the clearing like dust. The King Taijitu crumbled into ash, leaving only two teenage boys standing among the scattered leaves, breathing hard and alive.
Jaune lowered Crocea Mors, suddenly aware that his hands were shaking again. But this time, it wasn't from fear.
A sharp pain lanced through the back of his skull, like ice picks driven between his vertebrae. He winced, pressing his free hand to his head.
"Are you hurt?" his partner asked, voice carefully neutral.
"No!" The word came out too loud, too sharp. Jaune forced his breathing to steady. "Just a headache. Sorry."
He extended his hand, trying for normal. The dark-haired boy studied it for a moment before accepting the gesture.
"Ren."
"Guess we're partners, Ren." Jaune managed a smile as they shook. "You wouldn't happen to know where these relics are?"
Pink aura flickered around him—so faint it was barely visible, like heat shimmer. The pain in his head began to recede, tension bleeding from his shoulders. Ren's Semblance, he realized. Emotion suppression.
He can sense something's wrong, Alt-Pyrrha observed quietly.
Before Jaune could respond, a voice echoed from beyond the treeline: "Waaagggghhhhaaaa!"
An Ursa crashed through the undergrowth—but instead of charging, it simply flopped onto its stomach like a deflated balloon. Atop its back, a red-haired girl slid down with practiced ease, a massive hammer slung across her shoulders.
Familiarity struck Jaune like a physical blow. He knew that hair, that confident posture, that—
It's not me, Alt-Pyrrha said quickly. That's not me.
"Do you know her?" Jaune asked, voice carefully level.
Ren stepped closer, nodding. "That's Nora."
The girl—Nora—transformed her weapon into grenade launcher configuration with a mechanical click. Her eyes found Jaune and her expression shifted, becoming guarded.
"Oh," she said, tilting her head. "It's the kook."
Ren shot her a warning look.
"What? You saw what happened!" Nora's hands went to her hips. "Medical wing, restraints, the whole—"
"It was a medical thing," Jaune interrupted, crossing his arms defensively. "Painkillers. The nurse said I was fine."
The explanation sounded hollow even to him. Nora's skeptical expression said she wasn't buying it either.
"Nora?"
The voice came from the treeline behind them—bronze armor catching sunlight as a familiar figure emerged from the brush. Emerald eyes swept the clearing, taking in the scattered Grimm ash, the assembled students, and finally—inevitably—landing on Jaune.
Time stopped.
Pyrrha Nikos stood twenty feet away, red hair catching the light, spear and shield held with casual competence. She was exactly as he remembered her from the videos, from the magazine covers, from his dreams of what Beacon might be like.
She was also nothing like the voice in his head.
Don't look at her, Alt-Pyrrha whispered urgently. Jaune, don't—
His watch began beeping frantically. The sound cut through the clearing like an alarm, harsh and mechanical. Static flooded his mind, Alt-Pyrrha's emotions crashing against his consciousness like a tsunami against a seawall.
"Shut up," he thought desperately, coughing into his hand to cover the device's noise. "Shut up, shut up—"
"Jaune?" Ren's voice seemed to come from very far away.
The emotional surge hit its peak and began to ebb, leaving him hollow and shaking. He forced himself to look up, to smile, to pretend.
"Yeah, sorry. Nerves." He gestured vaguely at the Grimm ash. "That was my first live kill."
The lie came easily. Too easily.
"Let's go find this relic," he said, already turning away. He nodded to Ren as he passed, carefully avoiding even a glance toward the bronze-armored figure who wore the face of the woman in his head.
Behind him, he heard her voice—lighter than Alt-Pyrrha's, more uncertain: "I'm Pyrrha. Pyrrha Nikos."
He kept walking.
[/]
The initiation ceremony should have been a moment of triumph. Instead, Jaune stood on the stage feeling like a specimen under glass, acutely aware of every eye in the amphitheater watching him. The massive screen displayed their images—Ren's calm composure, Nora's manic grin, Pyrrha's poised confidence, and his own deer-in-headlights expression.
The Brothers are laughing at me, he thought as Ozpin's voice echoed through the hall.
"Pyrrha Nikos, Lie Ren, Jaune Arc, Nora Valkyrie." Letters rearranged themselves on screen. "The four of you retrieved the white rook pieces. From this day forward, you will work together as Team PNJR, led by Jaune Arc."
His breath caught. Leader. Him. The applause felt distant, muffled, as if he were hearing it through water.
You deserve this, Alt-Pyrrha said quietly, but her voice carried doubt.
As the ceremony concluded, students began filing out toward their new dormitories. Jaune had made it three steps before a gentle touch on his elbow stopped him.
"I wanted to introduce myself properly," Pyrrha said, extending her hand with a warm smile. "We're going to be teammates."
"Oh." Jaune rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture automatic. "I'm Jaune."
Their hands met.
The reaction was immediate and violent. His watch shrieked an alarm as crimson aura erupted between them, identical energies clashing like opposing magnets. The force knocked their hands apart, scarlet light rippling through the air in waves.
Get away from her! Alt-Pyrrha's scream tore through his mind like broken glass. GET AWAY!
Jaune stumbled backward, hand flying to his forehead as pain lanced through his skull. The two images overlapped—Real Pyrrha's concerned face blurring with the battle-scarred warrior in his head, their features melding and separating in a nauseating kaleidoscope.
Real Pyrrha had jerked back as well, her emerald eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. She stared at him as if he'd struck her.
"Mr. Arc."
Ozpin's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. The overlapping images snapped apart, Alt-Pyrrha's presence retreating to the back of his mind like a wounded animal.
"Perhaps you should get settled into your new dormitory," the headmaster said, placing a gentle but firm hand on Jaune's shoulder. The contact was grounding, somehow—steady and warm and real.
Jaune nodded, not trusting his voice. "Yeah. Better get going."
He turned away from Real Pyrrha's stricken expression and walked toward the exit, leaving his new teammate standing alone.
[/]
The dorm room felt smaller with four people in it. Jaune sat on the edge of what was now his bed, hands clasped between his knees, watching his new teammates move around him with the careful politeness of people still figuring each other out.
Pyrrha had claimed the bed nearest the window, her shield and sword arranged on the nearby desk. Team leader. The announcement had been met with nods of approval from Ren and Nora—she was the obvious choice, skilled and level-headed.
Ren was unpacking across from him, each item finding its designated place. His partner. During initiation, when their eyes had met across that clearing, there'd been a moment of mutual assessment before Ren had given a simple nod. Professional. Efficient. No drama.
He doesn't know about the rumors, Jaune's thoughts whispered in his mind. Or if he does, he doesn't care.
Jaune's jaw tightened slightly.
"So," Nora said, bouncing on her bed hard enough to make the frame creak. "Team PLAN. I mean, it's not the worst name, right? Could've been Team JNPR or something."
"I think it's a perfectly respectable name," Pyrrha said, glancing up from organizing her gear. "We all performed admirably during initiation."
"Yeah, we did pretty good," Nora agreed, then her expression shifted slightly. "Though I gotta say, there were some weird rumors floating around the locker rooms before we got launched."
The room went quiet. Jaune felt his stomach drop.
Here it comes, Alt-Pyrrha murmured, and he caught something resigned in her voice.
"What kind of rumors?" Pyrrha asked, her tone carefully neutral as she continued unpacking.
"Oh, you know how people talk," Nora said, waving a hand dismissively. "Something about Professor Ozpin having to personally escort one of the new students. People were saying maybe someone had a breakdown or something before initiation."
She wasn't looking at anyone in particular as she spoke, but Jaune could feel the weight of unspoken questions in the air.
"People love to gossip," Pyrrha said firmly. "Especially about things they don't understand."
There was something protective in her voice that made Jaune look up. She was organizing her weapons with perhaps a bit more force than necessary, her jaw set in a way that suggested she'd heard the rumors too.
"I mean, yeah, but..." Nora trailed off, finally glancing around the room. "Look, I'm just gonna put it out there. If someone on our team is dealing with something—mental health stuff, PTSD, whatever—shouldn't we know about it? We're gonna be fighting together."
The silence stretched uncomfortably. Jaune could feel his teammates' eyes on him, putting pieces together. The timeline fit too well—Ozpin's escort, the medical wing visits he'd tried to keep quiet, the way some of the other students had started looking at him.
"The rumors are about me," he said quietly, surprising himself with how steady his voice sounded.
"we're so-" Ren began.
"It's fine." Jaune rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit he'd never quite shaken. "Yeah, Professor Ozpin had to escort me from the medical wing before initiation. And yeah, there were some... evaluations. But I'm cleared for duty. I wouldn't be here otherwise."
Lie, don't put them in danger, Alt-Pyrrha urged.
"What kind of evaluations?" Ren asked, and there was genuine curiosity in his voice rather than judgment.
Jaune considered how much to reveal. These people were his team now, his partner. They deserved to know what they might be dealing with.
"I've been hearing things," he said carefully. "A voice, sometimes. The doctors think it might be stress-related, or trauma from... from before I came to Beacon. Professor Ozpin wanted to make sure I was stable before putting me in combat situations."
"Hearing things like what?" Nora's voice had lost its usual cheer, replaced by genuine concern.
"Someone talking to me. Giving advice, sometimes warnings." Jaune met her eyes. "I know how that sounds. Trust me, I know. But I haven't had an episode during training or initiation. Whatever's happening, it doesn't seem to affect my performance."
Yet, he thought, and he pushed the thought away.
"Auditory hallucinations can be caused by a number of factors," Ren said matter-of-factly. "Stress, sleep deprivation, certain medications. You said the medical staff cleared you?"
Jaune nodded, grateful for Ren's clinical approach. No drama, no judgment, just information.
"Then we work with what we have," Pyrrha said firmly. "Everyone brings their own challenges to a team. What matters is how we support each other."
"Exactly!" Nora's enthusiasm returned in full force. "I mean, I have my own stuff too. t issues, explosive tendencies—literally explosive, I mean. We all got baggage."
"That's... not quite the same thing, Nora," Ren said gently.
"Maybe not, but the point stands." She turned to Jaune with surprising seriousness. "Look, if you're hearing voices or whatever, just... let us know if it's happening during missions, okay? So we can keep an eye on you?"
"I can do that," Jaune said, and meant it. "And if it becomes a problem—if I become a liability—I'll step down from the team."
"You won't have to," Pyrrha said immediately, then seemed surprised by her own quick response. She blinked, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. "I mean, we'll make it work. That's what teams do."
She's so sure, Alt-Pyrrha observed, and there was something almost possessive in her voice. She doesn't even know you, but she's already decided to protect you.
"Thanks," Jaune said softly, looking around at his teammates. "All of you. For giving me a chance."
"We're teammates now," Ren said simply. "We look out for each other."
As they settled in for the night, Jaune lay on his back listening to the soft sounds of his team adjusting to their new space.
There was nothing but the bridge to the temple. In front of Jaune laid a massive brick road suspended by great sandstone arches which stretched over a glimmering river. He stepped forward adjusting his stance as Crocea Mors gleamed in the firelight above him—he struggled to see as the bronze mask he wore had been cut in half. His burned eye gazing out into the end of the bridge. The bandages beneath his armor chafed and burned as blood soaked into them, making them uncomfortable beneath the heavy plate. His sword shifted in his grip and he winced as bandaged hands scraped against the grip, the leather worn off.
The first wave came like a black tide across the stonework.
Jaune didn't wait for them to reach him. He lunged forward, his damaged leg nearly buckling as he drove Crocea Mors through the lead soldier's chest plate. The blade caught on bone—he twisted savagely, feeling ribs snap before yanking it free with a wet grinding sound. No time for form. No time for honor.
A spear thrust came from his blind side. He ducked low, sweeping his shield in a vicious arc that caught the attacker's ankles. Bone cracked. The man screamed as he toppled—Jaune silenced him with a downward thrust through the throat, arterial spray painting his cracked mask.
Keep moving. Keep killing.
His sword arm burned, the bandages underneath his gauntlet slick with reopened wounds, but he pressed forward into the mass of bodies. A club whistled past his ear—he grabbed the wielder's wrist and yanked him forward, headbutting with his damaged mask. Bronze and bone met flesh. The soldier's nose exploded in a fountain of crimson.
Jaune's knee came up into the man's gut, doubling him over. No sword thrust—just his gauntleted fist hammering down on the base of the skull. The crack echoed over the river below.
Like animals. Fight like the animal you've become.
More pressed in from all sides. His shield work became desperate—not the clean blocks he'd trained for years to perfect, but wild swings meant to break bones and create space. When a sword slipped past his guard and opened a gash along his ribs, he grabbed the blade with his off-hand, ignoring how it bit through his palm, and yanked the wielder close enough to sink his teeth into the man's exposed throat.
The taste of copper filled his mouth as he tore away, spitting flesh and blood as he resumed his deadly dance.
Crocea Mors sang through the air, but its song had become discordant—no longer the measured rhythm of a knight's blade, but the frenzied percussion of a butcher's cleaver. He hacked at limbs, thrust at faces, used the pommel to cave in skulls when the edge grew too dull with gore.
His breathing came in ragged gasps now. The bronze mask had cracked further, cutting into his cheek with each movement. Blood ran freely down his face, mixing with sweat and the spray from his enemies.
A soldier tackled him from behind, arms wrapping around his neck. Jaune drove his elbow back repeatedly, feeling the man's ribs give way, but the grip held. Vision blurring, he reached back and grabbed whatever he could find—hair, he realized—and yanked forward with all his strength. The soldier flew over his shoulder and onto the stone bridge with a sickening crunch.
Jaune was on him instantly, shield raised high, bringing it down again and again until the stone beneath was painted red.
More coming. Always more.
A "herald" donned in a black coat with a white mask marked with crimson etchings stepped forward, holding a long horn bearing a banner with a complicated eye on black cloth.
"Queen Salem demands your surrender! The siege of Shade has gone on long enough!"
"Come on, Ruby," Jaune whispered, raising his sword.
"Surrender now and you will be granted mercy—the chance to leave with your life!" the herald continued. "The Silver-Eyed Warrior is to be handed over to us!"
Jaune shook his head. "I will not surrender!"
"Queen Salem demands it! If you lay down your sword, we shall spare the populace!"
"Liar!" Jaune spat blood onto the stone. "Your queen can't allow this many Huntsman trainees to survive. I'm not stupid!" He pulled the bronze mask from his face, revealing the burned right side, scar tissue twisted around a milky eye that had long since gone blind. His one good blue eye locked with the herald's gaze. "Now do your worst."
The horn's call echoed across the bridge.
The small army surged forward—men in plate armor with spears raised. Jaune ran to meet them, shoulder-first. His aura crackled weakly in the air, little more than sparks as it died, but the impact sent the first soldier staggering backward.
No time to recover. Jaune spun, driving his elbow into another's face. The metal guard caved in the soldier's sallet with a wet crunch. No aura came to defend the wearer.
"They don't have aura," he breathed, thanking whatever gods still listened.
He parried an overhead swing and stabbed forward in the same motion. Crocea Mors slid beneath a loose gorget, driving straight up through the chin. The tip emerged from the back of the helmet, crimson-stained and dripping. A gauntleted fist caught his jaw—his ears popped, vision swimming.
Jaune yanked his blade free and immediately grabbed it by the fuller, driving the crossguard into the attacker's helmet like a hammer. Metal buckled inward with a sickening crack.
Pain flared in his arm—a makeshift spear, little more than sharpened wood, had punched through his vambrace. He forced what remained of his aura out, just enough to stop the bleeding, then gripped the shaft and yanked. The wielder stumbled forward, off-balance. Jaune's blade found the eye slot of his helmet, sliding through with barely any resistance.
He tore the spear from the corpse's grip and spun it like a staff, the bloody point carving arcs through the air as the remaining warriors spread out, suddenly cautious.
"Come on!" Jaune screamed, backing toward the temple. "Are you afraid to die? That's how they felt! As you burned Vacuo to the ground, women and children feared just like this!"
One rushed him. Jaune planted his foot and kicked hard, launching the heavily armored man off the bridge. The splash echoed up from the water below.
Another came in low. Jaune drove his sword into the gap where the man's cuisses met his faulds—the uncovered groin. The warrior collapsed, screaming. Jaune stomped down on his neck, feeling vertebrae separate under his boot.
He hefted the spear and hurled it at the herald. The point took the man center mass, driving him backward into the ground. The herald's mask cracked as his head struck stone, a silent scream dying behind shattered porcelain.
Fresh war cries echoed across the bridge. A new wave—less armored cultists this time, but twice as many. They came like rabid dogs, all teeth and desperate hunger.
The cultists surged forward in a disorganized mass. Some tripped over the growing pile of corpses, stumbling as they tried to navigate the slick stones now painted with blood and worse. What had been plate armor before was now little more than cloth robes, and they fell like wheat beneath a scythe.
Jaune had retreated fifteen feet—now at the mouth of the bridge where it met the temple approach. The higher ground was his advantage as the cultists, armed with nothing but fire axes and makeshift weapons, scrambled up the incline toward him like animals clawing their way to slaughter.
A fire axe caught him in the chest plate, the impact reverberating through his cracked ribs. Pain shot through his torso as he staggered, but he recovered quickly—stabbing downward, Crocea Mors punched through the wielder's throat. The cultist collapsed, gurgling, but his hands shot out in desperation, clutching at Jaune's leg like he could somehow drag salvation from his killer.
Let go, damn you.
Jaune tried to readjust his footing, but the dying man's grip held firm, fingers scrabbling against his armor. From his left, movement—one of the knights he'd knocked down earlier, now back in the fight with a halberd raised high. Another cultist swung from his right simultaneously.
No choice. Jaune brought his sword up in a desperate parry. The blade bit into the halberd's wooden shaft, shearing the head clean off. He used the momentum to slide forward, Crocea Mors opening the knight's throat in a spray of arterial blood.
The other cultist's overhead strike came down hard—Jaune caught it on his pommel, driving the steel knob upward into the man's nose. Cartilage exploded in a fountain of crimson and bone fragments.
A swift backhand slash across the throat, and the cultist's head lolled backward at an unnatural angle before his body tumbled down the ramp, leaving a trail of red on the ancient stones.
More coming. Always more.
But before the next wave could reach him, fire erupted across the bridge in a roaring wall of flame. Cultists screamed as they were consumed, their makeshift weapons clattering uselessly to the stones as they burned.
A lone figure descended through the smoke and ash. "The ritual is almost done."
The Summer Maiden—copper-red hair ablaze with more than just reflected firelight—floated down as wind currents seemed to cradle her descent from the sky above.
"How's your aura?" she asked, her voice carrying easily over the crackling flames.
"Two percent," Jaune said, feeling the pathetic dregs of it flickering like a dying candle in his chest.
"We need your aura to be higher."
"I know!" he snapped, turning toward her. He felt himself wince internally as her eyes widened—probably seeing his scarred face clearly for the first time, the twisted flesh where fire had claimed half his vision.
"I need ten minutes. I don't know if it will be enough for the ritual," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "The Faunus's aura broke. Tyrian made it in."
"Is she alright?" Jaune asked, worry cutting through his exhaustion.
"If you get back now... maybe," she said, her tone carefully noncommittal despite the gravity of the situation.
"I can handle things on this side. Go to your team—Elias is readying the circle."
Jaune nodded and turned, running back toward Shade. Even as the familiar, powerful beating of wings echoed ominously in the distance, he kept his semblance activated. The slow, steady hum of his aura regenerating filled his mind.
Behind him, fire roared across the bridge as the Summer Maiden took his place in the battle. But ahead lay another fight entirely, and time was running out.
[/]
Jaune jerked awake with a strangled gasp, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape his chest. The dream—fire, screaming, ash falling like snow—clung to him like smoke, making it hard to breathe. His sheets were soaked with sweat, twisted around his legs like restraints.
The dorm room was dark, filled with the soft breathing of his sleeping teammates. Normal. Safe. But his lungs wouldn't cooperate, each breath coming in short, desperate bursts that never seemed to bring enough air.
Panic attack, some distant part of his mind recognized. You're having a panic attack.
He tried to slow his breathing, tried to ground himself in the present, but the phantom sensation of heat against his skin made his whole body shake. His vision started to tunnel, black spots dancing at the edges as his chest grew tighter.
Move. Get out. Don't wake them.
Jaune rolled out of bed as quietly as he could manage, his legs unsteady beneath him. The bathroom door felt impossibly far away, but somehow he made it, slipping inside and easing the door shut behind him. The soft click of the lock engaging was barely audible, but it felt like a gunshot in the silence.
He pressed his back against the door, sliding down until he was sitting on the cold tile floor. The shock of it against his skin helped, just a little. Real. Present. Not burning.
His hands found their way to his hair, fingers digging into his scalp as he tried to anchor himself somewhere other than the nightmare. The bathroom was small, cramped, but it felt safer than the open space of the dorm. No one could see him falling apart in here.
Breathe, he told himself. Just breathe.
But every time he closed his eyes, he saw flames. Heard screaming. Felt the weight of failure pressing down on his chest like a physical thing.
After what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, the worst of it passed. His breathing slowed, the shaking in his hands reduced to a fine tremor. Jaune pulled himself to his feet, gripping the sink for support, and looked up at the mirror.
His reflection stared back—pale, hollow-eyed, hair sticking up at odd angles. But as he watched, something shifted. His blue eyes flickered, a crimson glow bleeding through the iris like spilled wine.
The bathroom filled with a soft red light as Alt-Pyrrha materialized behind him, her translucent form more solid than usual. In the mirror, she looked almost real—almost alive.
Jaune splashed cold water on his face, hands shaking as he gripped the bathroom sink. Through the thin wall, he could still hear Nora's voice—muffled now, but the words "kook" echoed in his head anyway.
The translucent figure of Pyrrha flickered into view behind him, her form wavering in the bathroom's harsh fluorescent light.
"She defended you." Alt-Pyrrha's voice was soft, almost wondering. "I didn't expect... she barely knows you."
"She doesn't know me at all." Jaune's laugh was bitter. "None of them do. They just got stuck with the crazy kid who talks to himself."
"That's not—" She stopped, her expression shifting as she studied his face in the mirror. "You're spiraling again."
"Of course I'm spiraling!" He spun around to face her directly, that familiar vertigo hitting him as their eyes met. "You know what Im thinking I bet they think I'm broken. Dangerous. And maybe they're right."
"Jaune, listen to me—"
"No, you listen!" The words burst out of him, weeks of frustration boiling over. "You show up in my head, you don't explain anything, and now I'm living with people who are afraid of me! Having dreams of things I never saw of killing people! That girl in there—the real Pyrrha—she stuck up for me and I don't even know why!"
Alt-Pyrrha's form solidified slightly, red aura bleeding around the edges. "Because she's good. She's always been good, even when..." Her voice trailed off, something painful flickering across her features.
"Even when what?" Jaune stepped closer.
"I know what she becomes." The admission came out reluctant, weighted with old grief. "What she could become.. again."
"Again?" Jaune felt that familiar chill as pieces of a larger puzzle shifted in his mind. "What did you ruin before?"
"Everything." Her voice broke. "Everyone I cared about, everyone I was supposed to protect... I failed them all. And now I'm here and she's defending you and I can feel how confused she is about it, how she doesn't understand why she feels connected to someone she just met."
The bathroom light flickered as both their auras flared—gold and red swirling together. Jaune pressed his palms against his temples, fingers digging into his scalp. His reflection in the mirror looked hollow-eyed, trembling.
"This feels wrong. This is all wrong!" His voice cracked. "In the forest, when you were launched... what happened there? Why does it matter?"
Alt-Pyrrha's form wavered like heat shimmer. "I saved you last time. But this time Ren was there first." She pressed her translucent hand against her forehead. "Everything's different but the same and I don't... I can't tell what it means."
"Stop talking like that!" The words burst out of him, raw and desperate. "Just tell me what the hell I'm really doing here! What do you want from me?"
"You think I wanted this?" Her voice cracked as her form solidified further, red aura bleeding into the gold that flickered around his clenched fists. "You think I wanted to be stuck watching you make the same mistakes, knowing what's coming and not being able to... God, Jaune, I'm trying to help you!"
"Then tell me!" Jaune spun to face her fully, that familiar vertigo washing over him as his consciousness brushed against hers. "You keep saying we need to save everyone, but from what? How am I supposed to—"
"Because you're barely holding it together!" The words came out in a rush, desperate. "I can feel how confused you are, how scared... Your thoughts are all tangled up with mine and sometimes I don't know which feelings belong to who anymore. How can I dump everything on you when you're already drowning? How am I supposed to save you if you won't let yourself be saved in the first place!"
Jaune laughed, the sound brittle and wrong in the small space. "Oh, that's rich. Coming from someone who apparently couldn't save anyone the first time around."
He watched her flinch, watched something crack in that perfect composure. The small victory felt poisonous.
"You know what I think?" He stepped closer, his reflection multiplying in the bathroom tiles. "I think you're not here to save anyone. I think you're here because you failed, and now you need me to fix what you broke."
"Jaune—"
"How many people died because of your choices? How many are going to die because you're too scared to trust me with the truth?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Maybe those dreams where I die... maybe that's the only way this ends. Maybe that's what I'm really here for."
The bathroom light flickered more violently as both their auras flared—gold and red swirling together in a nauseating dance. For a moment, Jaune couldn't tell where his anger ended and hers began.
"Stop it." Her voice broke completely. "Please, just... stop. You don't know what you're saying."
"Why not? It's true, isn't it?" Jaune met her eyes in the mirror, seeing his own face overlaid with hers in the reflection. "Sometimes I can't tell if these thoughts are mine anymore. Sometimes I wish I'd just stayed down in that forest and let the Grimm finish what—"
"NO!" The word tore from her throat, raw and desperate.
Jaune felt his throat tighten, but not from panic this time. His breathing constricted as his own hand wrapped around his neck, muscles glowing with crimson aura that wasn't his. He tried to pull away, but his arm wouldn't respond—wouldn't obey.
He looked up and found emerald eyes staring down at him. Alt-Pyrrha was straddling him, her translucent form suddenly solid, real, controlling. Her eyes were wide, manic, filled with something that looked like desperation wearing the mask of fury.
"Do you know how hard I've fought?" Her voice cracked, oscillating between rage and pleading. "How long I've fought to save you? To protect you? How many times I've been cut, stabbed, burned, beaten! Every safe place, one after another being destroyed. Watching friends die! Watching everyone die!"
Gold and scarlet aura flared in the air around them, the colors bleeding together until Jaune couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. His vision started to blur at the edges, dark spots dancing as his oxygen-starved brain struggled to process what was happening.
"And now you want to throw it all away!" Alt-Pyrrha came closer, her face inches from his, eyes seeming to glow with their own light. "My one chance to make things right! My one chance to save what I couldn't save before!"
Jaune struggled against the grip—his own grip—but his body wouldn't listen. The boundary between them had dissolved completely, leaving him trapped in a prison of his own flesh while she wore his skin like a glove.
Eventually, his struggles weakened, his body going limp as darkness crept in from the edges. "Okay," he rasped out, the word barely a whisper. "Okay, just... please..."
The hand around his throat loosened immediately. Air rushed back into his lungs in great, gasping breaths that left him lightheaded and shaking.
But Alt-Pyrrha didn't disappear. Instead, her expression shifted completely—the manic desperation melting away, replaced by something tender and horrified. Her hands, still his hands but somehow hers, came up to cup his face with infinite gentleness.
"Oh, Jaune," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean... I just can't lose you again. I can't."
Her thumbs brushed away tears he hadn't realized were falling, the touch achingly familiar despite everything. The rage was gone, replaced by something that felt like love twisted into something desperate and possessive.
"I know it hurts," she murmured, settling beside him on the cold bathroom floor like a lover trying to comfort after a nightmare. "I know you're scared. But you have to trust me. You have to let me protect you."
Jaune pulled back, or tried to—but his body moved sluggishly, like he was underwater. The distinction between his emotions and hers had blurred beyond recognition. Was the terror his, or was it hers? Was the desperate need for comfort coming from him, or from the entity that had just used his own hands against him?
"I don't..." His voice came out small, broken. "I don't know what's real anymore."
"I'm real." Alt-Pyrrha's form flickered, becoming more translucent again, but her presence in his mind felt stronger than ever. "What we are together—that's real. Everything else is just... noise."
She reached out to touch his face again, and this time it was just her ghostly fingers, insubstantial but somehow more honest than when she'd worn his flesh. The gentleness was the same, but now he could feel the possession beneath it—the way she saw him not as a person but as a second chance, a do-over for all her failures.
"You should sleep now," she said softly, her voice carrying an undertone of command that made his eyelids feel heavy. "Real sleep. I'll make sure the dreams are... better."
Jaune wanted to resist, wanted to demand answers about what had just happened, but exhaustion weighed him down like lead. His body—his body again—felt foreign and unreliable. The bathroom floor was cold against his back, but he couldn't summon the energy to move.
As consciousness slipped away, he caught Alt-Pyrrha's reflection in the mirror above the sink. She was watching him with that same tender, possessive expression, her form more solid than it had any right to be.
And for just a moment, he could have sworn he saw his own face looking back at him through her eyes.
[/]
"Cardin Winchester… and Jaune Arc."
Professor Goodwitch's voice echoed through the training hall with the precision of a gavel strike, though a slight pause before the second name betrayed her hesitation. On Pyrrha's right, Ren and Nora exchanged a quick glance—silent, uncertain. Between them, Jaune rose.
He did not flinch. He did not blink.
Jaune stood with a quiet deliberation, every movement unnervingly smooth. His sword was already belted at his hip. Blonde hair hung low across his face, veiling his eyes, as though he had no need for them. He moved down the bleachers without urgency, each step controlled and even. His boots clicked in rhythm with the hush that fell over the arena.
At the base, he paused—then leapt.
In a single fluid motion, he vaulted onto the dueling platform. His knees bent as he landed in a crouch, and Crocea Mors sang a note of steel as the blade slipped loose from its sheath. He caught it by the handle before it could fall, the edge flashing white beneath the overhead lights. His scabbard spun naturally into his offhand, as if guided by unseen force.
Across the platform, Cardin Winchester grinned, already spinning his mace by the handle like a slugger warming up at the plate.
Jaune adjusted into a stance. Unorthodox. His legs spread wider than necessary, his shield held too high. The sword tilted unnaturally in his grip, its point subtly raised—his fingers tightening, compensating for the unusual balance. Not quite his stance.
"His stance looks familiar," Ren murmured, his gaze drifting sideways.
Beside him, Pyrrha sat rigid. Her fingers twisted into the fabric of her skirt, white-knuckled and unmoving. She said nothing, but her eyes remained locked on the boy in gold.
Professor Goodwitch recited the match parameters with measured authority, then stepped back. A moment later, the shimmering hum of the energy barrier sparked to life, fencing in the combatants with a low crackle of sound.
Across from Jaune, Cardin muttered something—low, condescending. Jaune didn't reply. He didn't blink. He merely paused, as if listening for something that wasn't Cardin at all.
Then Cardin charged.
Mace raised overhead, his steps heavy and unrefined, Cardin closed the distance. But Jaune moved first.
He dropped low—too fast, too smooth—and slid beneath the descending strike. A whisper of metal followed: Crocea Mors, guided with uncanny precision, slipped through the gap behind Cardin's knee.
A violent spark of Aura flared.
The armor did nothing. It wasn't meant to.
Cardin staggered—just in time for Jaune's shield to crash upward into his face. A crack, a grunt, a stumble. Blood mixed with light.
Jaune rose with eerie calm.
He stepped forward. Not rushing. Not triumphant. Just inevitable.
The rim of his shield met Cardin's chest, a glancing blow that forced the larger boy back again. Another step. Another wide, disjointed slash—strange in form, but brutal in function. The blade bit into Cardin's Aura again, undoing his balance with every misstep.
Clack.
Jaune's boots echoed, rhythmic and sharp, the sound like a metronome. A cadence. A dance not entirely his.
Cardin growled and lurched—too close to the edge now—but just as his boot caught the line of the ring, a hand seized the front of his armor.
Everything stopped.
Cardin froze mid-motion. Jaune held him there, unmoved. His hand gripped the collar of the boy's cuirass, fingers white against steel. His feet were planted—spurs biting into the ground as if to root him in place.
Then, without fanfare, Jaune pivoted.
Cardin's body left the ground.
He was flung bodily back into the arena. A flash of scarlet followed.
Crocea Mors spun through the air, and for an instant it looked aimed true—to kill.
The blade crashed down beside Cardin's throat, burying itself deep in the floorboards.
Too close.
The glow of his Aura flared one final time before fizzling out entirely, split apart by proximity alone. The edge of the sword hovered just millimeters from his jugular—close enough that the boy dared not move, dared not breathe.
Silence fell.
"The victory goes to Jaune Arc," Professor Goodwitch announced, raising her riding crop like a ceremonial blade.
Polite applause followed, a practiced rhythm the students offered after every duel. Yet beneath the surface, something faltered. A few claps slowed too soon. Some eyes didn't leave the platform.
Jaune stood motionless for a moment, Crocea Mors hanging loose in his grip. He started to shoulder it, paused, and then shook his head once—curt, deliberate. With a mechanical flick, he collapsed his shield, locking it back into scabbard form and sliding the blade home on his belt.
He turned without fanfare and walked.
His boots tapped softly as he climbed the bleachers. The light smile he wore didn't quite reach his eyes. Not false, not forced—just slightly misaligned, like a portrait hung askew.
He dropped into the seat beside Ren.
"Good job, Jaune!" Nora chirped, leaning across Ren with both fists raised in a celebratory bounce.
Jaune's smile twitched wider, though his gaze remained on the arena.
"Oh, it was nothing," he said, voice unnaturally chipper. "But thank you."
Ren glanced sideways, his expression unreadable.
Pyrrha's voice came more softly. "Your form was… excellent. Who trained you?"
Jaune turned his head to meet her gaze.
His emerald eyes fixed on hers, too still, too quiet.
For a heartbeat, Pyrrha forgot to breathe.