Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun caught Albedo's horns at an angle that made them gleam like polished ivory. Jaune noticed this the way he noticed everything now, with a clarity that felt borrowed, like wearing someone else's glasses.

She walked beside him through downtown Vale, her long black hair swaying with each step, golden eyes occasionally flicking to passersby with an expression Jaune had learned to recognize as assessment of potential threats. Which was terrifying. But also sort of flattering?

"You're staring, my lord."

"Sorry." He wasn't sorry. "Just thinking."

Albedo's smile widened. She wore a simple black halter hoodie that exposed her pale midriff, fitted pants, and ankle boots, an outfit she had assembled from nothing the moment he had mentioned wanting to walk through the city. No incantation. No fanfare. She had simply willed it into existence, because apparently she could do that.

The frustrating part was that Jaune knew she could do that. He just didn't know why he knew, or where the knowledge came from, or when it would decide to surface next. It arrived like hiccups, inconvenient, involuntary, and impossible to predict.

He knew her name was Albedo. He knew she was the Overseer of the Guardians of Nazarick. He knew these things the way he knew how to breathe, except breathing didn't randomly dump information into his skull at awkward moments.

"Momonga-sama."

Albedo's voice pulled him from the spiral. She had stopped walking, and her expression had shifted to something soft and devoted that made his stomach do complicated things.

Sama, his mind supplied helpfully. Japanese honorific. Denotes respect. Roughly equivalent to "lord" or "master" in formal address.

Japanese. He knew what it was. Knew the characters, the sentence structure, the cultural context. None of it made sense. Where did a language nobody on Remnant had ever heard of come from? How was it just sitting in his head like he'd grown up speaking it?

And the world that came with it. Earth. A corporate hellscape of fluorescent lights and cramped apartments and corporate towers that stretched into smoggy skies, where salarymen worked themselves to death and called it living.

Compared to that, Remnant, with its Grimm and its bandits and its shadowy conspiracies, was a paradise.

Huh.

He caught his reflection in a boutique window. Blond hair, blue eyes, the same floppy mess he had been born with. But underneath, layered beneath like a transparency, he saw him. The Overlord. Skeletal majesty wrapped in regal robes, purple energy flickering in empty eye sockets, an aura of such overwhelming presence that it made his current form feel like a costume.

Two beings. One body. He didn't know where Jaune ended and Momonga began.

"Call me Jaune," he said.

Albedo tilted her head. The movement was graceful, almost too graceful, the kind of fluid perfection that reminded him abruptly that she wasn't real. Not in the way he was real. She had been created. That much he understood on some fundamental level. But the how and why remained locked behind whatever strange instincts now governed his existence.

She was devoted to him. Clearly. The way she looked at him made that obvious enough. But the depth of it, the intensity, the almost worshipful quality to her devotion, he didn't understand where that came from or what it meant.

He didn't know what to do with that.

Albedo's smile brightened. Something warmer than the soft devotion from before.

"Lord Jaune," she said, testing the name like tasting fine wine. "As you wish."

He resumed walking, and she followed, and somewhere in the back of his mind he felt the weight of an entire fortress, a pocket dimension containing an army of loyal servants and a throne room and treasure vaults beyond imagining, all of it coiled inside him like a sleeping dragon, waiting to be summoned.

No big deal. Completely normal Semblance. Definitely not worth mentioning to anyone at Beacon.

Right?

They passed a cluster of beggars huddled near an alley entrance, and Jaune felt it. Nothing. No pity, no discomfort, no urge to dig into his pockets for lien. Just a flat emotional silence where something should have been.

His stomach clenched. Or rather, the phantom sensation of a stomach clenching. Because something was wrong with him.

The Momonga part of him. The undead part. Jaune had contemplated this before, and the answer arrived through that strange instinctive bridge connecting him to what he now was. Undead did not feel emotions the way humans did. The skeleton mage had been insulated from the messy business of feeling things, his emotional responses dampened by his very nature.

And Jaune, whatever he was now, had inherited that.

He still had a beating heart. He still breathed. He still looked like a blond young man from a family of warriors. But underneath, he suspected the truth. If his heart stopped tomorrow, if his lungs ceased their rhythm, he would simply keep walking. Ambulatory. Functional. Dead in every way that mattered to biology, and completely unbothered by it.

That was fine. Probably. He could work with that.

"Where to, my lord?"

Albedo's voice cut through his thoughts. She walked half a step behind him, golden eyes bright with anticipation.

"Please," Jaune said, keeping his voice low. "Just call me Jaune. In public."

She tilted her head. Considered. Then her lips curved into something that made his throat go dry.

"Jaune."

His name in her mouth became something else entirely. Soft and honeyed, with a warmth that had no business existing in a single syllable. She said it like she was savoring the shape of it, like it was precious.

He gulped.

"Right. So." He cleared his throat. "I want a fallback. In case Beacon doesn't work out."

Albedo's expression shifted to attentive patience. Waiting.

Jaune had been thinking about this. He wasn't a studious person, never had been, but he had spent enough time perusing what he knew of Remnant's capabilities. Huntsmen and Huntresses. Aura and Semblances. Weapons forged from dust and steel. The Grimm, endless and hungry. The Kingdoms, barely holding on.

And then there was Nazarick.

Magic. True magic, not the pale imitation of Semblance or Dust. Spells that could rewrite reality, summon disasters, create life from nothing. Beings of such overwhelming power that the strongest Huntsman would crumble like wet paper. A fortress designed to challenge players who had reached the level cap of a game that made gods look like insects.

It wasn't even close.

Magic did not exist in Remnant as far as he knew, else you could call him the Rusted Knight. But it existed in him. In Nazarick. And that meant his group operated on a playing field entirely separate from anything this world understood.

Security. That was a possibility. Private military work. Consulting. The Kingdoms had to deal with threats that huntsmen couldn't handle alone. An organization with Nazarick's capabilities could name its own price.

Skip the school entirely. Skip the pretense of earning transcripts and faking his way into a combat school. Start working. Start building something real.

The merits were obvious. Financial independence. Practical experience. No need to hide what he was among people who wouldn't understand.

The demerits were equally obvious. No credentials. No network. No cover story that explained where a seventeen-year-old and his impossibly beautiful companion had come from.

"What do you think?" he asked Albedo. "Going into business instead of school?"

She regarded him with those golden eyes, and her expression softened into something almost tender.

"If that is what you wish, Lord Jaune, then I will support you fully. The Guardians will follow wherever you lead. Nazarick's resources are at your disposal." She paused, and a small smile played at her lips. "Though I confess, the idea of you attending a human school has its own appeal. Watching you navigate their social structures. Observing how they react when they inevitably underestimate you."

Her voice carried no judgment. Only quiet consideration, as if she were genuinely weighing the options alongside him rather than simply deferring to his authority.

"Both paths have merit," she continued. "The school would provide a public face. A reason to exist in this society. But if you prefer to operate independently, we have the means to establish ourselves quickly. The question becomes which approach serves your goals."

She craned her neck. "What are your goals, my lord?"

Jaune scratched the back of his neck.

"I'm winging it."

The words came out bashful, and he felt a flush creep up his neck. Not exactly the sort of answer a devoted follower wanted to hear from her supreme ruler.

"I'm not a genius. Never have been. Other people have these grand plans, these clear visions of what they want to accomplish. I just..." He gestured vaguely at the street ahead of them. "I'm figuring it out as I go. Making decisions based on what feels right in the moment. Survival with better PR, maybe. But leadership? I wouldn't call it that."

Albedo studied him. Her golden eyes traced the line of his jaw, the nervous set of his shoulders, the way his gaze couldn't quite meet hers.

Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

The motion was sudden but not aggressive. She pressed herself against his chest, her horns brushing past his cheek, her hands settling against his back with gentle firmness. He stiffened. Nobody had held him like this in years.

"You are stronger than you know," she said against his shoulder. "Strength is not merely the ability to crush one's enemies. It is the will to continue when the path is unclear. The courage to make decisions without certainty. You possess these things in abundance, Lord Jaune. That you cannot see them only proves your humility, not your weakness."

She pulled back slightly, enough to meet his eyes.

"I am here to help you. Not because I must, but because I choose to. Every resource of Nazarick, every Guardian, every speck of power at my disposal, all of it exists to serve your will. You need only ask. You need only allow yourself to be supported. I will never abandon you. I will never judge you for uncertainty or doubt. I will never waver in my devotion to you, regardless of what choices you make or what failures you perceive in yourself."

Her voice was steady. Unshakeable. The kind of certainty that came from somewhere deeper than logic or reason.

"Unconditional support means exactly this. No strings. No expectations beyond your existence. You could conquer this world or live quietly as a shopkeeper, and I would serve you with equal joy. That is my purpose. That is my choice. That is what I offer you, now and always."

Jaune's throat tightened.

He wanted that. Gods, he wanted that. Someone in his corner without reservation. Someone who believed in him without needing to be convinced. His parents loved him, truly and without condition. Seven sisters who would do anything for him. But none of them had supported his dream of becoming a huntsman. The love was unconditional. The support was not. And that distinction had carved something out of him over the years.

And here was this impossible woman, this being of immense power, offering him everything he had ever wanted without hesitation.

He didn't know how to accept it.

"I appreciate that," he said, and his voice came out rougher than intended. "Really. I just need some time to get my bearings first. Figure out which way is up before I start making any big moves. You know?"

Albedo's expression flickered. A brief shadow passed through her golden eyes, there and gone in an instant. Disappointment, maybe. Or something more complex.

But what remained was adoration. Pure, undimmed, almost painful in its intensity. She looked at him like he was the sun and she had been created to orbit.

Jaune's chest ached.

He didn't deserve that. He wasn't the person she saw when she looked at him. He was a confused kid with more power than sense and a dead man's memories rattling around in his skull. Sooner or later, she would realize that. Sooner or later, the illusion would crack.

But for now, she smiled at him like he was worth something.

"Of course, Lord Jaune. I will wait for as long as you need."

"We'll go legitimize the firm," Jaune said. "I figure there's probably some kind of office downtown that handles that stuff. We'll just head that way and figure it out when we get there. I'll check on the specifics later."

Albedo fell into step beside him, and he caught the slight tilt of her head. Her golden eyes held a knowing glint.

"My lord," she said carefully, "you haven't looked up the registration process yet."

Heat crept up his neck. She had noticed. Of course she had noticed. He hadn't done any research, hadn't prepared, was just walking in a direction hoping something official-looking would turn up. She caught his shortcomings instantly, and it made his face warm.

But Albedo only smiled.

"Your initiative is admirable, Lord Jaune. You take action rather than hesitate. That is a quality to be praised." Her voice was warm, genuine. "However, allow me to assist. Vale requires three things for a security license. Proof of citizenship within the Kingdom, the means to pay the licensing fee, and demonstration of capability to conduct security operations. There is no barrier beyond these. You need only be a citizen, possess the funds for the license, and prove you have the means to conduct business, meaning the ability to perform actual security work. The last can be satisfied through credentials, references, or a practical demonstration. There is no minimum number of employees required, nor any specific equipment standards."

Jaune stared at her.

"When did you even look all that up?"

Albedo smiled and produced his Scroll from the pocket of her fitted pants, the screen already lit with a government webpage.

"I borrowed this earlier, when we were getting to know each other. I hope you don't mind. I was perusing Vale's legal framework while we talked." Her expression flickered with something like concern. "I apologize if I seemed disinterested in our conversation. That was not my intention."

Jaune shook his head. "No, that's. That's normal. People check their Scrolls while talking all the time."

It was common here. And even in the corporate hellscape of Earth, people had walked through life with screens in their hands, half-present in conversations, minds elsewhere. The Japanese VR tech Momonga had used had its own variant of the behavior. Players checking interfaces while chatting, browsing forums mid-conversation, multitasking through a digital existence.

He had done it too. Maybe. Probably. The memories were slippery things, belonging to someone who wasn't quite him.

"Thanks for looking it up," he said. "So we need citizenship proof, money, and a way to show we can actually do the job. Where do we even go for the license?"

Albedo's smile turned knowing.

"The municipal building on Chen Street handles business licensing. Three blocks east, my lord."

Jaune's face warmed. She had caught him guessing.

They found the building after three blocks, just as Albedo had said. It looked like any municipal building from television. Beige walls, wide steps, official-looking signage, the kind of place where dreams went to wait in line.

Inside, they asked a receptionist and were directed down a hallway to a door marked Business Licensing. Jaune's steps slowed as they approached.

"The fee," he said quietly. "What if it's expensive? I don't actually have much lien on me. I didn't think about that part."

Albedo regarded him with curious golden eyes.

"What if you never do get the license, Lord Jaune?" Her voice was light, almost playful. "You do not lose your abilities. You do not lose me. We could simply go out there and pillage villages for treasure. The world is full of resources waiting to be claimed by those with the power to take them."

Jaune thought of the treasury in Nazarick. Trillions of gold coins. Mountains of wealth accumulated by forty-one players over years of dedication. Enough to buy kingdoms. Enough to buy entire civilizations.

No. That gold belonged to the guild. To Ainz Ooal Gown. It was earned by everyone, not just him. He wasn't spending even a single coin on something as lousy as a license.

He shook his head at Albedo's suggestion. "No. We're doing this legitimately. No pillaging, no shortcuts." Intellectually he noted he did not feel any empathy for the idea that would produce many victims, only that it required too much work.

Albedo's expression softened with something like admiration. He had refused the easy path. She had not expected that.

Jaune sighed as they stopped in front of the door. He glanced at her, and she smiled back. Warm. Patient. Ready for whatever came next.

He reached for the handle.

The inside was what you would expect. Fluorescent lights, linoleum floors, plastic chairs lined up in rows. A queue of tired people holding paperwork, waiting for numbers to be called.

They almost took their place at the end of the line before Albedo leaned close.

"My lord, by the pace these people are moving, lunch break will arrive before your turn. Perhaps you could use Charm Person."

Jaune knew the spell. A low-level enchantment that caused the target to see the caster as their best friend. As a friend, his words would carry weight. But it was not mind control. The target would not do anything wildly against their nature, would not forget themselves or abandon their duties entirely. It simply smoothed the path.

He wasn't reluctant to use it. The hesitation came from elsewhere.

"It might draw unnecessary attention. Someone noticing something off."

Albedo glanced up at the corner of the room, where a security camera hung from the ceiling. She pointed at it with a casual finger.

"See that? The small red recording light is dark. The lens is coated with a thick layer of dust. The cable running to it has come loose from the ceiling mount, exposing bare wire. That camera has not functioned in months, perhaps years. Government facilities in this world, much like any other, suffer from bureaucratic neglect. Budget allocated, work poorly done, and no one bothers to verify the results."

Her lip curled.

"Humans are so wonderfully incompetent."

Jaune looked at her.

"You know I look human, right? Do you think I'm human?"

Albedo turned to him. Her golden eyes softened, and she spoke his name like it was something precious.

"Of course not, Jaune."

The way she said it. Honeyed. Warm. Her smile curved slowly, her tongue briefly touching her lower lip, her pupils dilating until black nearly swallowed gold. Her gaze dropped to his mouth for a half-second before climbing back to his eyes.

He almost shivered.

"Right." He cleared his throat. "Charm Person it is."

Jaune knew the ethics of mind control. At least, the Jaune-before-Momonga had known them. There were lines you didn't cross. Violating someone's mind, even gently, was one of them.

He cast Charm Person anyway.

There was no visual indicator. No flash of light, no mystical shimmer. He simply focused on the man in front of them, a tired-looking fellow with a stack of forms, and willed the spell into existence. The man's posture shifted almost imperceptibly. His shoulders relaxed. He turned and spotted Jaune like an old friend he hadn't seen in years.

"Hey, buddy." The man smiled warmly. "You look like you're in a hurry. Why don't you go ahead of me? I'm not in any rush."

"Thanks," Jaune said. "I appreciate it."

"Don't mention it. Anything for a friend."

The woman ahead of him was next. Another cast. Another shift.

"Oh, it's you!" She beamed at him. "I was just saying to myself, I hope something good happens today. Running into you counts. Go on ahead, sweetheart. I insist."

They moved up. Then up again. Each person greeted him with easy smiles and generous gestures, happy to step aside for someone they now considered their closest companion.

"Go right ahead."

"After you, friend."

"No no, you first. I couldn't possibly."

Jaune didn't feel guilt.

That in itself was strange enough to make him pause. He should feel guilty. The old Jaune, the one raised on stories of heroes and honor, would have felt guilty. But this Jaune, this hybrid of small-town boy and undead sorcerer, felt nothing. Just a vague curiosity at the absence.

Was he incapable of guilt now? Incapable of morality?

No. He wasn't incapable of love. He loved his family. Seven sisters and two parents who had shaped him into someone worth being. And he was pretty sure he loved Albedo, if in a confusing, complicated, not-entirely-sane way.

The lack of guilt felt like a betrayal. A small treason against the boy he had been before Momonga's memories and power had merged with his soul. That boy would have been horrified. That boy would have called this wrong.

But like all morally questionable things that benefited an individual, the qualms were set aside.

They reached the front of the line.

The clerk behind the counter looked up as Jaune approached. Middle-aged, receding hairline, the kind of face that had long ago accepted mediocrity as a permanent roommate.

Jaune cast Charm Person.

The shift was immediate. The man's shoulders dropped. His eyes warmed. He smiled at Jaune like he was seeing his oldest friend walk through the door after years apart. Neither of them knew the other's name. That did not matter.

"Hey there! What can I do for you today?"

"I'm looking to start a security firm," Jaune said. "Need to get licensed."

"Security! That's great, that's really great. Good to see you pursuing your dreams." The clerk pulled out a form. "Let me just get your ID and we'll get this rolling."

Jaune pulled out his Scroll and opened the population registry app. A few taps and a QR code appeared on the screen. The clerk scanned it with a handheld device, and Jaune's information populated on his monitor.

The clerk's brow furrowed. His expression shifted to genuine concern.

"Listen, buddy, I'm looking at your background here. I don't see any combat training. No certifications. No huntsman academy record." He leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And between you and me, the licensing fee isn't cheap. You're gonna need liquid capital to prove you can actually operate. I want to help you out here, but I'm looking at this and I'm worried, you know? As your friend. I don't want to see you get in over your head."

Albedo stepped forward.

"Under Valean commercial law, Article 47, Section 9, any citizen possessing an especially unique Semblance may qualify for expedited licensing and government-backed startup loans, provided the business serves the interests of the Kingdom."

The clerk paused mid-reach for another form. He looked at Albedo, then back at Jaune. One eyebrow raised.

"You got one of those? A special Semblance?"

Jaune nodded.

It was not even a question.

The clerk held his gaze for a moment, searching for any sign of deception. Finding none, he simply shrugged and smiled.

"Oh, all right. Anything for you, my man. Let me get those forms."

Of course, invoking Article 47, Section 9 required a practical demonstration. The clerk led them through a side door and down a hallway to a testing room, a reinforced space with padded walls and observation windows.

"The guy who'll be testing you is one of the strongest combatants we have on staff," the clerk said. "Former Atlas specialist. Retired early, but he still likes to keep his hand in. Great guy."

The door opened.

The man inside was tall, with slicked-back brown hair, flushed white skin, and a charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin. A halberd leaned against the wall behind him, the blade gleaming under the fluorescent lights. He looked up as they entered.

"Russet Clay," he said, extending a hand. His name was a shade of brown, his surname earth. Classic color-coded Valean naming convention.

Jaune shook the offered hand. Russet's grip was firm, professional.

Then Russet's eyes landed on Albedo.

The shift was subtle but unmistakable. His posture straightened. His smile softened into something appreciative. His gaze traced the curve of her hips where the fitted pants hugged her, the strip of pale midriff exposed between hoodie and waistband, the way the black fabric draped over her chest and shoulders.

"Well," he said. "And who might you be?"

Albedo's lip curled. "His."

Russet chuckled, unperturbed by the frost in her voice. He leaned against his halberd with practiced ease.

"His what, exactly? Partner? Colleague? Lucky man to have someone like you at his side." His smile turned roguish. "Though I have to say, you seem like you'd be a handful. I wouldn't mind finding out."

Albedo looked at him like he was something she had scraped off her boot. Jaune caught the flicker in her golden eyes, the contemplation. She was weighing the effort required to squash him like an insect against the inconvenience of explaining the stain on the floor.

She could do it. Easily. Russet Clay had no idea he was flirting with a being capable of annihilating him before his neurons could fire.

Jaune stepped forward.

"Shall we begin?"

Russet's attention snapped back to him. He nodded, all business now, and reached for his halberd.

"Right. Where's your weapon?" He glanced at Jaune's empty hands. "Or is this amazing Semblance of yours sufficient to defeat me?"

Jaune nodded.

"Paralysis."

The word left his mouth and the spell followed. No incantation, no gesture, just intent given form. Paralysis. A spell that limited or prevented the target from using physical movement, though slight functions remained possible. Turning the head. Speaking. The barest twitch of a finger.

Russet Clay froze.

His halberd clattered to the padded floor. His eyes widened, the only part of him that could move with any real freedom. His fingers twitched uselessly at his sides. He could still turn his head, still speak, but nothing else obeyed him.

"What," Russet managed, his voice strained but functional, "did you just do?"

Jaune watched him struggle. In YGGDRASIL, Paralysis was nothing special. A basic spell, barely worth mentioning among the hundreds of abilities a high-level player could bring to bear. It was the kind of thing you used on trash mobs, on fodder that couldn't possibly threaten you.

Seeing it work on this man, this supposedly strong combatant, one of the most capable fighters on staff, Jaune wanted to laugh. The disbelief bubbled up somewhere in his chest, not quite reaching his face.

How fucking weak were the people of this world?

He turned to the clerk, who stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the scene with an expression of dawning comprehension.

"Is this enough?"

The clerk hesitated. His eyes moved from Russet's immobilized form to Jaune's face and back again, like he was trying to process something that didn't fit into his understanding of how the world worked.

"You can just," the clerk said slowly, "do that? Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Can you, I mean." The clerk swallowed. "Can you use this on multiple targets? At once?"

Jaune could do so much more than this. Time stop. Grasp Heart. Reality Slash. Black hole. Summon a horde of undead. Summon demons. Call down destruction that would level this building and everyone inside it. He had access to spells that would make Paralysis look like a party trick, abilities that could reshape the very fabric of reality.

But he kept his face neutral. Humble, even.

"This is my Semblance," he said. "It's what I can do."

The clerk nodded slowly, the smile of a best friend spreading across his features.

"That's incredible, man. Really incredible. We'll get that license processed right away."

Jaune released the spell.

Russet Clay stumbled forward, catching himself on instinct. He shook out his arms, rolled his shoulders, and stared at Jaune with something new in his eyes. Not fear, exactly. More like the careful respect of a man who had just learned that the world contained things he did not understand.

"That's some Semblance," Russet said. "Potent. Quick casting. No tells, no buildup. You could do real damage with something like that."

Not a Semblance.

Well, technically, Jaune supposed it was part of a Semblance. If his Semblance was melding with the consciousness of an undead mage from another reality and gaining the ability to summon the inhabitants and structure of a fortress designed for gods, then sure. This was his Semblance.

A very tiny, tiny pinch of it.

"I'm looking forward to seeing what kind of firm you put together," Russet continued. He retrieved his halberd from the floor, testing his grip. "Someone with your capabilities could go far. Vale could use more private security options, especially with the way things have been lately."

He glanced at Albedo. The appreciation returned to his expression, tempered now but still present.

"And I have to say, you've got quite the partner there. Beautiful, loyal, and clearly not afraid to speak her mind." He flashed her a grin. "You know, if you ever get tired of following this guy around, I could show you what a real halberd specialist can do. Up close and personal."

Albedo's gaze cut to him like a scalpel.

"The only thing you could show me is the limits of human incompetence. You possess the physique of a man who compensates for inadequacy with a large weapon and the wit of a brain-damaged Beowolf. If you ever touch me, I will peel the skin from your body one strip at a time and feed it to you while you scream. And I will enjoy every second."

Russet's mouth opened. A flush crept up his neck.

Then he laughed, genuine and unguarded.

"You got me there." He held up both hands in surrender. "She's a keeper, my man. Hold onto that one."

Jaune smiled politely.

He just wanted this to be over with.

The clerk returned with a woman in a sharp navy suit, her auburn hair pulled back in a tight bun. She introduced herself as Attorney Lin, and she carried a leather folder stuffed with documents.

They sat at a small conference table. Lin laid out the terms with brisk efficiency.

"The startup loan is provided at a fixed interest rate of four percent annually, compounding yearly. There is no mandatory repayment schedule. You may pay it back whenever your finances allow, though I would advise against letting it accumulate indefinitely." She slid a paper across the table. "You are free to pursue any clients you wish, provided your work does not disrupt the interests of the Kingdom of Vale. This includes no contracts with known criminal organizations, no operations that interfere with ongoing huntsman investigations, and no activities that threaten public safety."

She continued, outlining the yearly audit requirements, the insurance obligations, the tax filings. Jaune nodded along, understanding perhaps half of it. Albedo absorbed every word with the intensity of someone cataloging information for later use.

"And finally," Lin said, clicking her pen, "the name of your firm. What would you like it to be called?"

Jaune glanced at Albedo.

She met his eyes and smiled. Soft. Encouraging. The kind of smile that said she trusted him completely, that whatever he chose would be the right choice simply because he had chosen it. Her golden eyes held no judgment, only warmth.

"Whatever you decide, Lord Jaune," she said quietly. "I will support it."

He thought for a moment.

"Nazarick Security Consultation," he said. "NSC for short."

Lin raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She wrote it down, printed neatly in the designated field.

No one in this world knew what Nazarick was. No one except Jaune and Albedo. To anyone else, it was just a word. A name without history. But to them, it was a fortress. An inheritance. A promise.

Lin slid the final document across the table.

Jaune signed.

It was done.

That night in a motel room, Jaune sat on the edge of the bed with his Scroll.

Beacon crossed his mind briefly. The school he had dreamed of attending. The transcripts he had faked to get in. The huntsman career he had imagined for himself.

But that was done now. He was a working man. A business owner. Different path, same destination, maybe.

Albedo emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered, a towel wrapped around her body and another in her hands working through her damp black hair. Water droplets traced lines down her bare shoulders, catching the cheap lamplight. The towel clung to the curve of her hips, the swell of her chest, leaving her long pale legs exposed to mid-thigh.

She glanced at him and caught him looking.

Jaune's face warmed. He didn't look away.

Albedo's cheeks flushed pink. A small smile curved her lips, something pleased and shy and quietly thrilled all at once.

He cleared his throat and returned his attention to his Scroll.

There were several apps for private security contracting. He found one that seemed legitimate, created an account, and was prompted to verify his credentials. He snapped a picture of the identification Attorney Lin had provided, uploaded it, and waited.

Verified. He was in.

The app displayed a feed of job postings. Employers seeking security services, each post detailing requirements, duration, and compensation. He scrolled past most of them. The pay was high, sure, but the positions involved either relocating outside the city limits or coordinating with caravans traveling between kingdoms. Too much hassle. Too far from anything he cared about.

Then one post caught his attention.

His thumb stopped scrolling.

It was from Beacon Academy. A formal request, written in stiff institutional language, seeking a licensed security firm for ongoing contracted services on school grounds.

What the hell.

It was his dream to go to Beacon. He had fought for it, lied for it, trained for it in secret when no one believed he could. And now here it was, asking him to come.

He didn't need to be a huntsman anymore. His license gave him nearly the same privileges, and he had power that most huntsmen could only dream of. But getting paid to walk those halls, to exist in that space he had wanted so badly?

Vicariously living out his fantasy while someone else footed the bill?

Hell yeah.

He clicked apply.

Ozpin sat in one of his smaller offices, the one tucked away from the main tower where he could work without interruption. A laptop glowed on the desk before him, displaying the freshly filed documents for Nazarick Security Consultation. The name was unusual. Foreign. He made a mental note to investigate its origin.

His Scroll buzzed. Russet Clay's name on the screen.

"Report," Ozpin said, accepting the call.

"He's legitimate," Russet said, his voice carrying a note of grudging respect. "Paralysis Semblance. Instantaneous activation. No visible tells. I couldn't move a muscle, Ozpin. One moment I was ready to test him, the next I was helpless. Never felt anything like it."

"A potent ability."

"More than potent. He doesn't waste time, doesn't oversell it. Points at you, says the word, and you're done. No flashy lights, no dramatic gestures, just results. Clean and immediate." Russet paused. "Here's the thing, though. He just got this Semblance. Recently. And within hours, he's already formed a legitimate business, secured licensing, and has a striking faunus partner at his side. That's not normal initiative. That's someone who's been waiting for an opportunity."

Ozpin's eyes moved across the laptop screen, absorbing the details of Jaune Arc's file. Seventeen years old. No formal combat training. A family of warriors who, according to the records, had not supported his ambitions. And now, the moment power entered his grasp, he had pivoted immediately toward building something of his own.

This man had potential. Potential that Ozpin could craft.

The type was familiar. Hungry for everything the world had denied him. The kind of hunger that could be shaped, directed, pointed toward purposes greater than the man himself knew.

"Jaune Arc," Ozpin murmured, as if speaking the name aloud might grant him deeper insight into its bearer.

The Semblance to paralyze others was formidable, yes. But there would be foes who could work around such an ability. Huntsmen with sufficient Aura reserves. Grimm that felt no mortal constraints. Enemies who struck from distances beyond his range. Raw power alone would not sustain him.

It was good fortune that Beacon had managed to scoop him up so fast. Before anyone else could.

Ozpin closed the laptop and stood, walking to the window that overlooked the academy grounds. The lights of the dormitories glittered in the darkness. Young warriors preparing for battles they did not yet understand.

"A hungry man," Ozpin said softly to himself, "will follow whoever feeds him. We simply need to ensure we are the ones holding the spoon."

Chapter Text

The cheap motel clock read 11:47 PM when Albedo pulled up a real estate listing on Jaune's Scroll.

"This one," she said, tapping the screen. "A former insurance office in the commercial district. Three hundred square meters, existing reception area, two private offices, and a meeting room. The owner is motivated to sell. We could negotiate below asking price."

Jaune leaned over her shoulder, eyes scanning the numbers. The asking price might as well have been a million. He had maybe two hundred lien to his name, and the government loan covered licensing and basic startup costs, not real estate.

"We can't afford that," he said.

"Lord Jaune, we have access to the treasury and could easily purchase this property several times over with gold to spare."

"The treasury is off limits." He held up a hand before she could continue. "That's guild money. Everyone's money. I'm not spending it on office space."

Albedo's expression flickered with something he couldn't quite read. Respect, maybe. Or confusion at his refusal to take the easy path.

"Very well. We will find another solution."

She continued scrolling through listings, occasionally murmuring details about square footage and zoning restrictions. Jaune watched her from the corner of her eye. She had materialized new clothes at some point, a loose cream-colored sweater that hung off one shoulder, soft black leggings, no shoes. The outfit complemented her pale skin, the elegant line of her neck, the way her long black hair fell like spilled ink against the knitted fabric. Her golden eyes glowed faintly in the dim lamplight, and her horns curved gracefully from her temples, ivory catching the light with each small movement of her head.

He knew she had wings. Great black wings that sprouted from her hips, feathered and imposing. She had not manifested them here. Probably for space considerations. The motel room was barely large enough for the bed and the two of them.

"Are you sleepy?" he asked.

Albedo looked up from the Scroll. Her brow furrowed slightly, as if the question were strange.

"No, my lord." She held up her left hand, displaying a simple band on her ring finger. "This negates such needs."

Jaune stared at the ring. Silver, unadorned, unremarkable. But he felt the magic radiating from it, a subtle warmth against his awareness like standing near a space heater.

"Momonga-sama?"

Her voice was gentle. Questioning. She had noticed him staring, noticed the conflict that flickered across his face at the name.

He almost corrected her. Almost said "call me Jaune" the way he had earlier. But they weren't in public now. No one to hear. No mask to maintain.

And she said it with such reverence. Such devotion. But had he earned that? He remembered being Momonga. Remembered her as lines of code, an NPC with programmed responses. Now she was real, thinking and feeling and looking at him like he mattered, and he didn't know what to do with that. The devotion had not been earned through years of interaction or shared experiences. It was simply there, part of her being from the moment she opened her eyes in this new reality.

Two sets of memories. Two lifetimes. One skull.

The memories themselves were strange. Some things he knew without thinking, like the weight of a staff in his hand or the words to a spell he had never studied. They sat in his mind fully formed, accessible as breathing. Other things were gaps. Holes where knowledge should be. He would reach for a memory and find nothing, or worse, find the edges of something that dissolved when he tried to grasp it.

It was frustrating in a way that made him want to grind his teeth. If he had retained all his memories, both sets complete and intact, he could work with that. He could sort through them, build something coherent from the pieces. But this incomplete mess left him stumbling half-blind through his own existence, never quite sure what he knew until he needed it, and sometimes not even then.

How did you divide a self that had become two? Where did Jaune end and Momonga begin when the memories interlocked like broken gears? He remembered being a boy from Ansel who dreamed of heroism. He remembered being a salaryman in Tokyo who played a game to escape the grind. Both were real. Both were his. Neither felt complete on its own anymore.

"I'm not sure," he said quietly, "how to separate what I was from what I am. The line keeps moving. I remember being Jaune. I remember being Momonga. Both feel like me. Neither feels like the whole truth."

The words hung in the air between them. He hadn't meant to say it aloud. The admission felt like exposing a wound, raw and vulnerable.

Albedo set the Scroll aside. She turned to face him fully, her golden eyes soft with something that made his chest ache.

"You are who you are," she said. "Whatever that means. Whoever that is. You have my full support. My devotion. My loyalty. These things are not contingent on the name you bear or the memories you carry. They belong to you, Jaune. Simply because you are you."

Her voice was steady. She spoke with absolute conviction, without hesitation or doubt.

He swallowed hard.

"The ring," he said, needing to change the subject before his throat closed entirely. "What does it do?"

Albedo's expression brightened. A small smile played at her lips.

"I apologize if this is redundant, my lord. I know you possess this knowledge already. But if you would indulge me, I will explain regardless." She paused, waiting for his nod before continuing. "It is called a Ring of Sustenance. A magic item that eliminates the wearer's need to eat, drink, or sleep. The body still requires rest for physical recovery, but the mind remains alert. No fatigue. No exhaustion from lack of rest. It is quite common among the Floor Guardians, as our duties often require extended periods of vigilance."

She explained it casually, assuming he already knew the information. Asking him to indulge her gave him plausible deniability. A kindness, that. A way for him to learn without admitting ignorance.

Jaune filed the information away. Another piece of knowledge to add to the hiccups.

"Do I have one?" he asked.

Albedo tilted her head. "You have no need for such a ring, my lord. Your nature as an undead negates those requirements entirely. You do not need to eat. You do not need to drink. You do not need to sleep." She paused, golden eyes searching his face. "Did you not know this?"

He hadn't. Not consciously. But now that she said it, he felt the truth of it settle into place like a key turning in a lock. The restlessness that had plagued him all day, the sense that something was off about his body, it wasn't anxiety. It was his new nature asserting itself. His human form still functioned, still breathed and blinked and produced the illusion of life, but underneath it all, he was something else.

Something that didn't need to be alive to exist.

"I'm learning as I go," he admitted.

Albedo reached across the narrow space between them and took his hand. Her fingers were cool against his skin, smooth and strong.

"Then I will teach you," she said. "Whatever you need. Whenever you need it. You are not alone in this, Lord Jaune. You never will be again."

The clock ticked past midnight.

Jaune sat on the edge of the bed, a woman's hand in his, and wondered what it meant to be a dead man wearing a living boy's face.

He didn't have an answer.

But he had someone willing to help him figure it out.

The clock read 12:23 AM when Albedo set the Scroll aside entirely.

"Lord Jaune," she said, "have you considered summoning the others?"

His head tilted slightly to the side. "The others?"

"The Floor Guardians. Demiurge, Cocytus, Shalltear, Aura, Mare. And Sebas, of course." Her golden eyes held a careful neutrality. "They remain within Nazarick, awaiting your call. It has been some hours since our arrival. They may grow concerned."

Concerned. Right. Because a group of immensely powerful beings stuck in a pocket dimension with no communication from their master would definitely not do anything problematic.

"Okay," Jaune said. "Yeah. Let's do that."

He closed his eyes.

Nazarick sat in his mind like a weight. Not heavy, exactly. More like a presence. A thing he could reach out and touch if he concentrated. He pictured the throne room, the grand architecture, the spaces where his servants waited in suspended animation. He found them. He pulled.

The air in the motel room shimmered.

Six figures materialized.

The first was a tall demon with dark skin and neatly combed black hair. Round glasses sat on his face, and behind them, eyes that were not eyes at all. Instead of eyeballs, shining jewels with countless small cuts caught the cheap lamplight, refracting it into tiny rainbows. He wore a tailored three-piece suit in burnt orange, the jacket cut close to his frame with peaked lapels, a waistcoat beneath buttoned neatly, and trousers that fell in sharp creases over polished black shoes. A tie in a slightly darker shade of orange was knotted precisely at his throat. Behind his back, a silver tail coiled, covered in metal plates and ending in six long spikes.

Demiurge adjusted his glasses and bowed.

"Momonga-sama. It is a profound honor to stand before you once more. I am yours to command, now and always." His voice was smooth, cultured, with the measured cadence of a man accustomed to delivering reports in boardrooms. "I stand ready to assist in whatever capacity you require."

The second figure stood 2.5 meters tall. Cocytus had the appearance of an insect walking on two legs, a fusion between mantis and ant, his exoskeleton gleaming like sturdy ice. His tail stretched twice the length of his body, covered in sharp spikes like icicles. His jaw looked capable of snapping a man's hand without effort.

"Momonga-sama." His voice was deep, rumbling, and he spoke with strange pauses between phrases. "It is. An honor. To serve. I await. Your orders."

Next came two children. Dark-skinned, pointed ears, the clear markings of dark elves. The girl had golden hair and heterochromia, her left eye blue and right eye green. She wore reddish-black dragon scale leather beneath a white and gold vest embroidered with a sigil, matching white trousers, gold-plated shoes, and an acorn necklace that glowed with golden light.

Aura grinned and bounced on her heels.

"We're here! Finally! I was getting so bored waiting around!" She bounced again, practically vibrating with energy. "What are we doing? Where are we? Can we fight something? Please tell me we can fight something!"

Beside her, Mare looked nearly identical. Same dark skin, same pointed ears, same golden hair, same heterochromia. But he wore a blue dragon scale leather full-body suit beneath a white and gold vest with the same sigil, a forest green leaf cloak over his shoulders, and a short white skirt that exposed his thighs. An acorn necklace glowed silver at his throat. His slender hands were covered in white silk gloves, and he clutched a twisted black wooden staff.

"M-Momonga-sama," Mare said, his voice soft. "It's, um, an honor to be here. I'll do my best to serve you well." He glanced at Aura, then back at Jaune. "Please take care of us."

The fifth figure was short, with pale skin that seemed to shine in the dim light. Shalltear had half-lidded crimson eyes and fine facial features, delicate cheekbones, a small nose, lips just slightly parted. Her silver hair was tied in a ponytail by a large ribbon on top, leaving her face fully visible. She wore a soft black evening dress with a heavy skirt, lace embellished ribbon at her upper body, a short tailored jacket, and long lace gloves that exposed no skin at all.

"Momonga-sama!" Her voice came out eager, almost breathless. She curtsied with practiced grace. "I am so pleased you have summoned me! I have been waiting so patiently! Please, use me however you see fit! I am yours completely!"

The final figure stood apart from the others. An elderly man in a traditional black uniform, a double-breasted jacket with brass buttons, matching trousers, and polished black shoes. His hair was entirely white, as was his immaculate beard. Wrinkles lined his hollow face, giving him a gentle appearance, but his eyes were sharp as an eagle's. White linen gloves covered his hands.

Sebas Tian bowed at the waist.

"Momonga-sama. I am at your service." His voice was stoic, measured, the voice of a man who had delivered the same words countless times without ever losing the weight of their meaning. "Please give me your orders."

Jaune looked at them.

Six beings of immense power, crammed into a cheap motel room that suddenly felt very, very small. Albedo sat beside him on the bed, her expression warm as she watched her fellow Guardians pay their respects.

He had an army now. A proper one. Not just one devoted follower, but seven, each capable of things that the people of Remnant would consider impossible.

"Okay," Jaune said, his voice coming out steadier than he felt. "Let's talk."

The motel room was too small for seven people and too quiet for the conversation Jaune had intended.

He sat on the edge of the bed, seven beings of immense power arranged around him in various states of attention. Albedo beside him. Demiurge and Cocytus on the floor. Shalltear in the single chair. Aura and Mare squeezed into the corner by the bathroom door. Sebas standing near the entrance like a sentinel.

"So," Jaune said. "We need to discuss our situation. Our resources. Our options going forward."

"Indeed, Momonga-sama," Demiurge said. "Perhaps we should begin with an assessment of our current assets and potential avenues for establishing a foothold in this world's power structure. I have several proposals regarding information gathering and resource acquisition that may prove fruitful, pending your approval of course, and I believe Sebas has thoughts on local infrastructure that could be leveraged to our advantage. Additionally, we should consider the geopolitical implications of our presence here and how best to position ourselves for long-term influence."

The words kept coming. Exact, considered, filled with the kind of corporate strategic thinking that made Jaune's skull ache.

Shalltear leaned forward. "I am prepared to infiltrate any organization you wish, Momonga-sama. Simply give me a target and I will have them eating from your hand within a week." Her bloodthirsty smile gave him doubts.

"I could. Scout the. Surrounding terrain," Cocytus added. "And eliminate. Any threats."

Aura bounced on her heels. "I can set up traps! Defensive perimeters! We could fortify this entire building in an hour!"

Mare nodded silently beside her, clutching his staff.

They were ready for war. Ready for conquest. Ready for whatever grand plan their supreme leader had prepared.

Jaune had no grand plan. He had a motel room and a government loan application he still needed to submit.

The weight of their expectations pressed down on him. He remembered Momonga's memories of leading a guild, of making strategic decisions that affected forty-one people. But those memories were of a game, theoretical, different to governance in real life.

He needed time. Time to think. Time to figure out who he was before he could tell them what to do.

And honestly, after everything that had happened today, the last thing he wanted was another strategy session.

"You know what," he said, interrupting Demiurge mid-sentence, "let's do something else first. Something to relax."

They stared at him.

"Relax... Momonga-sama?" Albedo's head tilted.

"Yeah. We've all had a long day. We can do the serious stuff tomorrow." He looked around the room, searching for inspiration. His eyes landed on a small cabinet beneath the television. He crossed the room and opened it.

Inside sat a stack of board games left by previous guests. Scrabble. Checkers. A deck of cards.

And Monopoly: Vale Edition.

Jaune pulled it out.

"Anyone know how to play?"

An hour later, the talk had turned into a game.

Jaune stared at the board spread across the bed. The box art featured a stylized depiction of Beacon Academy where the standard version would have had a cartoonish man in a top hat.

"You have this game here," he said.

Albedo looked up from sorting her money. "Of course, Lord Jaune. It is quite popular among the merchant families." She paused. "Is this significant?"

"No, it's just..." He trailed off. In his memories from Earth, Monopoly was a staple of family game nights and ruined friendships. The mechanics were identical. Roll dice, move around the board, buy properties when you land on them, charge rent when others land on yours. The goal was simple: bankrupt everyone else while staying solvent yourself. Had someone on Remnant invented the exact same game independently? Convergent cultural evolution? Or was there some deeper connection between worlds that he didn't understand?

He shook his head. Not important right now.

"Nothing. Let's play."

Twenty minutes later, Jaune was losing badly.

His pile of colorful bills had dwindled to almost nothing. He owned two properties, Baltic Avenue and a railroad called the Argus Express, neither of which anyone had landed on in turns. The railroad was decent, it would generate more rent if he acquired the other three, but Baltic was one of the cheapest properties on the board. Even with houses, it would never generate significant income. Meanwhile, the others had carved up the board between them.

Demiurge sat cross-legged on the floor, his orange suit jacket unbuttoned, a neat stack of properties arranged before him. His jewel eyes caught the light as he examined the board.

"Albedo," he said, his tone gentlemanly. "I believe you owe me rent for Vale Commercial District. That will be one thousand, five hundred lien."

Albedo's expression remained pleasant. Too pleasant. "Of course, Demiurge."

She counted out the bills and handed them over, but her wings rustled at her hips, black feathers bristling as they manifested from the dark tattoos on her skin, spreading slightly in agitation before folding back against her body.

She was losing. Not badly, but losing. And she did not like it.

Jaune watched her turn her attention to Shalltear, who sat across from her with a pile of properties that had no business belonging to anyone this early in the game.

"Shalltear," Albedo said sweetly. "You landed on my property. Rent is due."

"Which property?" Shalltear examined the board, her crimson eyes scanning the spaces. "I don't see where I landed."

"The one you just passed. Emerald Forest Avenue."

"But I didn't land on it. I passed it."

"House rules," Albedo said, still sweet. "If you pass a property without buying it, and someone else owns the adjacent property, they can charge a passage fee."

"That's not a real rule!" Aura shouted from her corner. "You made that up!"

"I did not make it up. It is a perfectly legitimate variation."

"You made it up five minutes ago! I heard you!"

Shalltear pouted but counted out the money. She still had plenty. She had been rolling doubles consistently, which let her roll again, landing on every unowned property, and passing Go more times than anyone else, which gave her two hundred lien each time. Pure dumb luck, and it was driving Albedo insane.

"Momonga-sama," Albedo said, turning to Jaune. "Surely you agree that house rules should be respected?"

Jaune looked at his two nearly worthless properties.

"I have no opinion on this."

"You are too kind, Momonga-sama," Demiurge said, nodding. "Allowing us to resolve our own disputes. Truly, your humility is an example to us all."

That was the third time someone had called him kind or humble tonight. They thought he was letting them squabble because he was above such petty concerns. The truth was he just didn't know what the hell was happening.

Cocytus sat motionless, his insectile face revealing nothing. He had not made a single move in four turns. His money remained untouched. His properties nonexistent.

"Cocytus," Jaune said. "It's your turn."

"Ah." Cocytus picked up the dice with surprising delicacy. "I roll. Now."

He rolled. A three and a four. He moved his token, a small silver sword, seven spaces. He landed on a property that Demiurge owned.

"Rent is six hundred lien," Demiurge said.

"Understood." Cocytus stared at his money. Then at the board. Then at his money again. He made no move to pay.

Cocytus had absolutely no idea how to play. He had been pretending to understand for the entire game rather than admit confusion.

"Cocytus," Jaune said carefully. "Do you know how this game works?"

"It is. A game of. Strategy. And resource management."

"That's not a yes."

Cocytus remained silent.

In the corner, Aura was vibrating with frustration. Mare sat beside her, clutching his staff, looking like he wanted to sink into the floor.

They were both broke. Completely and utterly broke.

The problem was simple: they had landed on developed properties. Properties with houses. Houses made rent exponentially more expensive. Aura had hit a space with three houses, costing her nearly all her cash in one turn. Mare had followed shortly after, landing on a property with a hotel, the maximum development level, which had cleaned him out entirely. Between them, they had one property left, a utilities space that generated almost no income because it only charged rent based on dice rolls, not a fixed amount.

"This is rigged," Aura said. Her voice cracked. She was trying to sound tough, but her lower lip trembled. "This game is rigged. I'm not crying. I'm not."

"I know, sister," Mare whispered. He looked like he was about to cry. "It's okay. We can... we can watch."

"We don't want to watch! We want to play!"

"You are welcome to continue playing," Demiurge said. "Provided you can pay your debts."

"We can't pay our debts! We have no money!"

"Then I am afraid you are bankrupt."

Bankruptcy meant elimination. No more turns. No more chances. Just watching from the sidelines while everyone else continued without you.

Aura made a sound like a kettle about to boil. Mare buried his face in his hands.

Jaune felt terrible. They looked so young. They were ancient beings of immense power, technically, but right now they looked like children who had just learned that the world was cruel.

Then he noticed Sebas.

The elderly butler sat quietly in his chair, barely speaking, barely drawing attention to himself. But his pile of properties had grown steadily throughout the game. He owned all four railroads, which meant anyone landing on one paid him based on how many he owned, up to two hundred lien for all four. He had two complete color sets, which let him build houses and charge devastating rents. His money was organized in neat stacks, more than anyone else at the table.

He wasn't winning through luck like Shalltear. He wasn't winning through aggression like Demiurge and Albedo. He was winning through patient, methodical accumulation. Buying what others ignored. Trading for what he needed. Never overextending his cash reserves. Always having enough to pay rent when he landed somewhere dangerous, while quietly developing his own properties into rent traps that would bankrupt anyone unlucky enough to land on them.

Sebas caught Jaune's eye and gave the smallest nod.

Jaune nodded back.

The old butler was going to destroy everyone at this table, and he was going to do it so quietly that nobody would see it coming until it was too late.

The game ended at 4:47 AM and Sebas won. 

The elderly butler had methodically dismantled every other player at the table, bankrupting Demiurge with a devastating hotel on Patch Road, bleeding Albedo dry through repeated landings on his railroad monopoly, and finally cornering Shalltear, whose luck had run out at the worst possible moment. Aura and Mare had been eliminated hours ago, reduced to watching from the sidelines with wounded expressions.

Only Jaune remained technically solvent at the end, but that was because everyone had ignored him. His two worthless properties had generated nothing. His presence had been so inconsequential that the real battle had raged around him like water flowing past a stone.

Now morning light crept through the motel curtains, gray and pale.

Jaune sat on the edge of the bed, laughing so hard his ribs ached.

He couldn't help it. The look on Albedo's face when Sebas had presented the final bill. The way Demiurge had adjusted his glasses and muttered something about "accounting for variables." Shalltear's outraged shriek when her dice had finally betrayed her. Aura and Mare huddled together in the corner, traumatized by their first experience with capitalism.

"Momonga-sama," Albedo said, her voice strained. "I am pleased you found enjoyment in this... exercise."

"I'm sorry," Jaune wheezed. "I'm sorry. It's just your face when he pulled out that Chance card."

Albedo's cheeks flushed pink. The color spread across her pale skin, visible even in the dim morning light.

"That card was... unexpected," she said quietly. She kept her eyes fixed on the board, refusing to look at Jaune. "I should have accounted for it."

"Unexpected for some," Demiurge said. He adjusted his glasses, his voice smooth. "I, of course, saw this outcome the moment Sebas began his little accumulation strategy."

Sebas inclined his head slightly. "Is that so?"

"Obviously. Your approach was transparent. Buying railroads. Hoarding cash. Avoiding confrontation." Demiurge's tail clicked softly against the floor. "I could have dismantled you at any moment. I simply chose not to."

"You chose to go bankrupt first."

"A calculated concession." Demiurge's fingers curled against his knee, the fabric of his pants bunching under the pressure. "I allowed you your moment. Consider it a gesture of professional courtesy."

Albedo's head turned slowly toward Demiurge, her golden eyes narrowing. "You allowed him to win?"

"I recognized that Sebas has had few opportunities to demonstrate tactical capability." Demiurge's smile was thin, his jewel eyes cold. "His duties keep him occupied with mundane matters. I thought it would be... kind, to let him experience victory for once. However hollow."

The strange thing was, Jaune believed him.

Sebas's expression didn't change. "How generous of you."

"It was."

"To sacrifice your own dignity so completely."

Demiurge's smile twitched. "I sacrificed nothing."

"You sacrificed your position in the game. Your resources. Your pride." Sebas folded his hands in his lap. "All to allow a humble servant a moment of triumph. Your selflessness is inspiring."

"I am glad you recognize it."

"I recognize that you are angry." Sebas's voice remained perfectly calm. "Your tail has not stopped moving since the game ended. You adjust your glasses every twelve seconds. Your smile does not reach your eyes."

Demiurge's hand froze halfway to his face.

"You are furious," Sebas continued. "Because you lost. Because I won. And because you cannot explain how I did it without admitting you failed to see what was right in front of you."

"I saw everything." Demiurge's voice was tight. "I simply had no reason to interfere with your obvious and unimaginative strategy."

"Yet you interfere with everyone else's strategies constantly."

"Because their strategies mattered. Yours was irrelevant."

"So irrelevant that you are still talking about it." Sebas tilted his head slightly. "So irrelevant that you invented a narrative where you allowed me to win. So irrelevant that you cannot bring yourself to simply walk away."

Demiurge's tail lashed behind him, the metal plates clanking together.

"Careful, Sebas. Your continued service to the Supreme One is the only reason I tolerate your presence."

"And your usefulness to the Supreme One is the only reason I do not mention how thoroughly you were beaten. In a children's game. While you were busy explaining your brilliance to anyone who would listen."

"I was not explaining. I was coordinating."

"You were performing. And you failed." Sebas's tone remained light. "But please, continue telling yourself it was pity. Whatever helps you sleep."

Jaune watched them argue.

"Enough," Jaune said, still chuckling. "No fights. We're all friends here."

The words hung in the air. Neither Demiurge nor Sebas looked convinced.

Albedo cleared her throat. "Momonga-sama, I must apologize. My performance tonight was... lacking. You witnessed me make errors I should not have made. I allowed myself to become emotional over trivial matters." She finally looked up at him, her golden eyes pained. "I embarrassed myself before you. That is what troubles me. Not the loss itself."

"I don't think you embarrassed yourself," Jaune said. "I think you played fine."

"She invoked technicalities every time they benefited her," Demiurge muttered. "Yet somehow forgot those same technicalities when they would have cost her."

Albedo's wings flared at her hips, black feathers bristling. "I will not be lectured on consistency by someone who invented a pity narrative five minutes after going bankrupt."

"Better to bankrupt myself through choice than to win because no one considered me a threat." Demiurge glanced at Sebas. "At least I played the game. You simply waited for others to destroy themselves."

"It worked," Sebas said.

"A coward's way."

"The result is the same. I won. You lost. And you are still explaining why that does not count."

Jaune held up his hands. "Okay. I think we all need to calm down."

He stood, stretching his back. The clock on the nightstand read 5:23 AM. He still needed to fill out that government loan application. There was an app for that, thankfully. He could do it here, on his scroll, without having to go anywhere.

The thought was a relief. He wasn't ready to leave yet. Wasn't ready to face the world outside this room, with all its complications and expectations.

"All right," he said. "I need to concentrate on some paperwork. You all can... do whatever you want. Rest. Talk. Whatever."

He pulled out his scroll and sat back down on the bed, the glow of the screen illuminating his face as he navigated to the application form.

Albedo immediately moved to stand beside him. "I will assist you, my lord. I have extensive knowledge of bureaucratic procedures."

"I don't need assistance. I just need to fill out some forms."

"Then I will observe. In case you require anything."

Shalltear rose from her chair. "I will remain as well. My presence will ensure no interruptions."

Aura bounced up from the corner. "Me too!"

Mare nodded silently behind her.

Cocytus looked up from his dice. "I will. Guard. The door."

Sebas remained seated, folding his hands in his lap with an air of quiet satisfaction.

Demiurge stayed where he was, arms crossed, tail still swishing in agitation.

Jaune looked at them. Really looked. At Albedo's flushed cheeks and worried expression. At Demiurge's barely concealed fury. At Sebas's calm superiority. At Shalltear's wounded pride. At Aura and Mare's resilience. At Cocytus's quiet confusion.

He had known them before. In another life. As game characters, as pixels on a screen, as voices in his head when he played Momonga. But that knowing had been distant. Theoretical.

Tonight had been different.

Tonight he had watched them laugh and rage and cheat and lose. He had seen Albedo invoke precise technical interpretations when they helped her and fall silent when they didn't. He had watched Demiurge posture and scheme and concede for reasons Jaune still didn't understand. He had observed Sebas dismantle everyone without saying a word. He had comforted Aura and Mare when capitalism crushed them. He had tried to explain Monopoly to Cocytus and failed.

They were real now. Not just followers. Not just NPCs. People, in their own strange way.

And he was glad. Glad he had played. Glad he had laughed. Glad he had this moment of normalcy before whatever came next.

"Thank you," he said quietly, returning his attention to his scroll. "For playing with me."

The room went still.

"It was..." Albedo's voice was soft. "It was my honor, Momonga-sama."

Jaune smiled and began filling out the application.

The others settled into their own activities. Albedo remained standing beside him, watching his screen with intense focus. Shalltear found a spot against the wall, her arms crossed, her expression brooding. Aura and Mare whispered to each other in the corner. Cocytus returned to his dice, seemingly content to roll them for the rest of eternity. Sebas sat motionless, his eyes closed, looking for all the world like a man at peace.

Demiurge stayed where he was, still seething, occasionally shooting glares at Sebas that the butler completely ignored.

The morning light grew stronger.

And for a little while longer, the motel room felt almost like home.

The morning light had shifted from gray to gold by the time Jaune finished the application.

7:00 AM.

He stared at the confirmation message on his scroll, the small green checkmark indicating successful submission. A moment later, a second notification appeared at the top of the screen, sliding down with a soft chime.

BEACON ACADEMY PROCUREMENT OFFICE

Request for Interview - Nazarick Security Consultation

Please report at your earliest convenience

Jaune read it twice. Then a third time.

They wanted to see him. Today. His earliest convenience.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Nazarick Security Consultation. His company. Actually getting a shot at real work.

He lowered the scroll and looked around the room.

Seven beings of immense power, arranged in various states of rest. Albedo standing beside him, alert as ever. Shalltear against the wall, eyes closed but clearly not sleeping. Aura and Mare whispering in the corner, their earlier trauma apparently forgotten. Cocytus still rolling dice with mechanical regularity. Sebas seated in quiet contemplation. Demiurge in the far corner, arms crossed, tail finally still.

The room was small. Overcrowded. Bursting with bodies that had no business fitting in a space meant for two.

Jaune tilted his head, studying the sight. Trying to understand why this felt right.

The noise, he realized. The warmth. The constant presence of other people, filling every corner, breathing the same air, existing together in a space that should have been too tight but somehow wasn't.

It reminded him of home.

Not the motel. Not any of the places he had stayed over the years.

Home. Ansel. The house he had grown up in, with its creaky floors and drafty windows and the perpetual chaos of seven sisters running through the halls. His parents in the kitchen, his father telling stories while his mother laughed at the embellishments. The noise that never stopped, the warmth that never faded, the press of bodies on the couch during movie nights because no one wanted to sit apart.

Even after Saphron had left for Argus to live with Terra, the house had never felt empty. Just... differently full. One voice missing from the choir, but the song continued.

This was like that.

These weren't his sisters. They weren't his family, not in any way that made sense. But they were here. Present. Real. And the room felt warmer for it.

Jaune's smile softened.

Jaune pushed himself off the bed. "I've got somewhere to be."

He held up his scroll, showing the message. "Beacon wants to meet about the security contract. My earliest convenience is now."

Albedo straightened immediately. "I will accompany you, Momonga-sama."

"The rest of you should return to Nazarick." He kept his voice even, channeling something that felt like authority. "Rest. I'll summon you when I need you."

The Guardians exchanged glances. A silent communication passed between them, some understanding that Jaune wasn't privy to.

"Of course, Momonga-sama," Demiurge said, rising to his feet with practiced grace. His earlier fury had been folded away, tucked behind the mask of professional deference. "We await your summons."

One by one, they vanished.

Shalltear first, her form dissolving into nothing. Aura and Mare next, the dark elf girl bouncing on her heels even as she disappeared, her brother clutching his staff and nodding silently before fading. Cocytus paused, rolling the dice one final time.

"Good fortune. In your. Endeavors."

Then he was gone.

Sebas rose, smoothing his butler's coat with deliberate care. He glanced once at Demiurge, something unspoken passing between them, then inclined his head to Jaune.

"May your meeting prove fruitful, Momonga-sama."

He vanished.

Demiurge was last. His tail swished once, his jewel eyes meeting Jaune's with that unsettling intensity.

"We await your command, Supreme One."

Then he, too, was gone. Returned to Nazarick through the strange power of his Semblance.

Jaune stood in the sudden silence, his scroll still glowing in his hand. Only Albedo remained, her golden eyes fixed on him with that familiar intensity.

He looked at the bed. At the large duffel bag sitting beside it, overstuffed with clothes. T-shirts and hoodies, some with faded logos from bands he used to like. Jeans in various states of wear. Shorts for warmer weather. Jackets and sweaters folded and refolded until they fit. Underwear and socks bundled together. Enough clothing to last weeks without laundry, all of it crammed into a bag that was never meant to hold so much.

He had overpacked. He knew that. Seven sisters meant hand-me-downs, and hand-me-downs meant never throwing anything away. The bag was heavy with fabric, with memories, with the scent of home he couldn't quite bring himself to wash out.

He should bring it. Wherever he was going after this meeting, he would need clean clothes. Basic supplies. The tools of a life that was still taking shape.

But carrying it through Vale, to Beacon, felt wrong. Cumbersome. A reminder of a transience he was trying to escape.

He reached for the bag and stopped.

His Semblance. That strange power that had melded him with Momonga, that housed Nazarick in some space he still didn't fully understand. If it could hold an entire tomb, if it could hold beings of immense power, then surely it could hold this.

Jaune focused. A mental reach, a flexing of that power.

The bag vanished.

One moment it sat on the bed, bulging with clothes. The next, it was elsewhere. Stored away, retrievable with a thought.

Jaune stared at the empty space where it had been.

"Huh."

He had wondered if it would work. Now he knew.

"Momonga-sama?" Albedo's voice was careful. "Is something wrong?"

"No." Jaune shook his head, a strange lightness in his chest. "No, everything's fine."

He turned toward the door, scroll in hand, the confirmation message still glowing on its screen.

Nazarick Security Consultation.

His company. His future.

"Let's go."

"Momonga-sama." Albedo said. "May I suggest Gate?"

Gate.

The word surfaced in Jaune's mind, accompanied by a flood of knowledge that felt like it had always been there. A spell that created a portal between two points. Unlimited range. No chance of mishap. The highest tier of teleportation magic, capable of transporting any number of people instantly. Shalltear could cast it too.

The convenience was undeniable.

However, there was a problem.

"Even if no one sees me appear out of thin air," Jaune said slowly, thinking it through, "people will still notice. Beacon has records. Sign-in sheets. Security logs. If I show up for a meeting without any record of entering through the front gate, without a ticket from the airship port, without any physical trace of how I got there... someone's going to start asking questions."

He paced slightly, working through the logic.

"Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually, someone's going to look at the security footage and wonder how I got in. Or someone's going to check the visitor logs and notice there's no record of me arriving. The more successful this company becomes, the more people are going to be paying attention. And if they start digging into how I operate..."

He shook his head.

"Better to establish a pattern now. Arrive like a normal person. Leave a paper trail. Give them nothing suspicious to find."

Albedo's expression shifted. Understanding flickered in her golden eyes.

"You are concerned about drawing attention to yourself before you have established your presence."

"Basically, yeah. I don't want people wondering how the hell I got there without walking through the front gate."

"Your caution is wise." Albedo's voice softened. "A being of your power could simply take what they want without thought for consequence. The fact that you consider such things, that you temper your overwhelming might with restraint and foresight..."

She pressed a hand to her chest, her wings rustling at her hips.

"It is yet another example of your boundless wisdom, Momonga-sama. You possess the ability to reshape the world, yet you choose to move within it carefully. Deliberately. You honor the very systems that lesser beings have constructed, not because you must, but because you understand the value of patience."

Her eyes gleamed.

"Such restraint is the mark of a true ruler. One who does not need to flaunt his power because he knows, with absolute certainty, that power is his to command at any moment. You are magnificent. Truly, utterly magnificent."

Jaune stared at her.

He had just... said he didn't want people asking questions. And somehow she had turned that into a treatise on his supposed greatness.

He should have found it strange. Overwhelming. Too much.

Instead, he felt warm.

She meant it. Every word. The sincerity in her voice, the way her whole being seemed to light up when she spoke about him. It wasn't flattery. It wasn't manipulation. It was just... her.

And it felt nice. Being seen. Being appreciated. Even if the appreciation was for things he wasn't sure he deserved.

He looked at the way her golden eyes shone with devotion. At the slight smile tugging at her lips. At the way she held herself, like she was waiting for something.

"You're pretty good at that," he said quietly.

Her smile faltered. Confusion flickered across her features. "Good at... what, Momonga-sama?"

"At making me feel like I know what I'm doing. Even when I don't."

He paused. Then, carefully, he added:

"You're good at a lot of things, Albedo. I'm glad you're here."

Albedo's cheeks turned pink. The color spread across her pale skin, visible even in the dim light of the motel room. Her wings fluttered at her hips, the tattoos darkening as the feathers bristled with barely contained emotion.

"You... you are glad?" Her voice came out slightly strangled. "That I am here? With you?"

"Yeah." Jaune shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "I mean, yeah. You've been helpful. And you're... you're good company."

Albedo's blush deepened to a vivid red. Her hands clasped together in front of her chest, her fingers intertwining.

"Momonga-sama..." She breathed the words like they were sacred. "Your praise is... I am unworthy of such kindness. And yet you bestow it upon me freely. I do not know what I have done to deserve such benevolence, but I will spend every moment of my existence striving to be worthy of it."

Her smile was radiant. Genuine. The kind of smile that transformed her whole face into something almost delicate.

"Thank you, my lord. Thank you."

Jaune cleared his throat, suddenly aware that his own face felt warm.

"Yeah. Uh. You're welcome."

He turned toward the door, his scroll still in hand.

"Come on. Let's go catch an airship like normal people."

Jaune paused at the door, his hand on the frame.

"Albedo."

"Yes, Momonga-sama?"

He turned to look at her. At the black wings that sprouted from her hips, the feathers still slightly ruffled from her earlier emotional display. They were beautiful. Striking. Part of what made her who she was.

And they had to go.

"You need to hide your wings," he said quietly. "For now."

Albedo tilted her head. "May I ask why, my lord?"

"People have seen you already. Walking the streets. At the motel. They've seen your horns but not your wings." He gestured vaguely. "If someone who saw you before sees you again with wings you didn't have before, they're going to ask questions. And you're not a Faunus, so there's no easy explanation."

He swallowed.

"I'm sorry. I know it's not fair. But anything that makes you stand out right now, anything that people can't easily explain... we need to minimize it. At least until we're established."

Albedo's expression didn't change. No disappointment. No resentment. Just calm acceptance.

"It is not a burden, Momonga-sama." Her voice was soft. "If you wish me to hide them, I will hide them. Your will is my command."

The wings at her hips seemed to fold inward, the feathers pressing flat against her skin before dissolving entirely. Within moments, they were gone. Only the faint outline of the tattoos remained, barely visible beneath the fabric of her sweater.

Jaune felt a pang of something in his chest. She shouldn't have to hide. Any of it. Not the wings, not the horns, not any part of herself.

But the world wasn't ready. Not yet.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for." She smiled, and it was genuine. "Shall we go, my lord?"

The streets of Vale were beginning to fill with morning traffic. Commuters heading to work. Shop owners opening their doors. The hum of a city waking up.

Jaune and Albedo walked side by side, searching for transportation to the airship port. Taxis were scarce this early. The bus routes were circuitous. They needed something direct.

Albedo wore a loose cream-colored sweater that hung off one shoulder, revealing the pale curve of her collarbone. Soft black leggings hugged her legs, tucked into simple black ankle boots with a low heel. She looked effortlessly elegant. Understated. Beautiful in a way that drew the eye without screaming for attention.

Well. Almost without screaming.

The horns were still there. Ivory curves that rose from her dark hair, impossible to miss. And her face, her figure, the ethereal quality of her movements, all of it combined into something that made people stop and stare.

A car slowed as it passed them. The driver, a man in his thirties with a receding hairline and a hopeful expression, leaned toward the passenger window.

"Need a ride somewhere, miss?"

Albedo turned to look at him. Her yellow eyes assessed him in a single glance. Then she glanced back at Jaune, a slight smile playing at her lips.

"This cretin is clearly hoping to leverage basic transportation into an opportunity to leer at me," she said, her voice barely audible. "His intentions are transparent. He sees a beautiful woman and thinks himself worthy of her attention."

She paused.

"Shall I eviscerate him verbally, or would you prefer I simply tolerate his existence?"

"Let's just tolerate him," Jaune said, keeping his voice low. "We need the ride."

"Very well." Albedo's expression shifted instantly. The coldness vanished, replaced by a warm, grateful smile. She approached the car with a graceful sway of her hips, leaning slightly toward the window.

"Thank you so much," she said, her voice sweet and sincere. "We're heading to the airship port. Would that be too much trouble?"

The man's face lit up. "Not at all! Hop in, I'll take you right there."

He unlocked the doors, and Albedo slid into the back seat with fluid grace. Jaune followed, settling beside her as the car pulled away from the curb.

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror, his eyes lingering on Albedo's reflection.

"So what's a beautiful woman like you doing walking the streets this early? You a model or something?"

"Something like that," Albedo said, her smile never wavering. "My companion and I have business at Beacon Academy."

"Beacon, huh? Fancy. You a student?"

"No. We have a meeting."

"Must be important. You need a ride back after? I could wait for you. Show you around the city, maybe."

Albedo's eyes flickered to Jaune, a flicker of amusement visible.

"That is very kind of you," she said smoothly, "but we have other arrangements. Thank you for the offer, though."

The driver nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned his attention back to the road.

Jaune watched Albedo's reflection in the window. The way her smile remained perfectly pleasant. The way her eyes held nothing but cold calculation beneath the warmth.

She was terrifying. And impressive. And somehow, despite everything, he was grateful she was on his side.

The car pulled up to the curb outside the Vale Skyport, a sprawling complex of terminals and platforms that serviced the steady flow of airships arriving and departing throughout the day. Unlike the commercial port down by the water, where cargo ships and freighters hauled goods across the kingdom's waterways, the Skyport handled passengers and priority transport. Beacon Academy maintained its own dedicated terminal here, separate from the civilian traffic.

Jaune fished a handful of lien from his pocket and pressed it into the driver's hand.

"Thanks for the ride."

"Anytime." The man grinned, his eyes sliding back to Albedo one last time. "You ever need another lift, just flag me down. I'm usually around this area."

"We will keep that in mind," Albedo said, her smile pleasant and utterly hollow.

The car pulled away, merging into the stream of traffic that circled the Skyport's entrance. Jaune watched it go, then turned to survey their surroundings.

The area was a small ecosystem of travel infrastructure. Several hotels clustered near the main entrance, their facades promising comfort and convenience for travelers with early departures or late arrivals. Rental agencies advertised vehicles of all types, from compact city cars to rugged terrain models. Taxi stations with orderly queues of waiting cars occupied the eastern edge of the complex. Convenience stores offered last-minute essentials, their windows displaying everything from bottled water to headache medicine.

And then there were the gift shops.

Jaune eyed a display in one window. A simple Vale keychain, the kind that would cost three lien anywhere else, was marked at twelve. A postcard set showed fifteen lien. A stuffed bear wearing a tiny Beacon Academy sweater sat on a shelf with a price tag that made him wince.

"Tourist traps," he said.

"The markup is approximately four hundred percent above standard retail," Albedo said. Did she look this up too? "A predatory but predictable business model. They capitalize on the captive audience of travelers who lack the time or knowledge to seek alternatives."

"Yeah. Let's avoid those."

They made their way toward the main terminal building, a broad structure of glass and steel that rose three stories above the platform. Signs directed passengers to various destinations. Civilian flights to outlying settlements. Commercial routes to Atlas and Mistral. A private terminal for government and academy business.

Jaune's scroll buzzed. He glanced at the screen, where the confirmation message from Beacon still glowed.

BEACON ACADEMY PROCUREMENT OFFICE

Request for Interview - Nazarick Security Consultation

Please report at your earliest convenience

He looked up at the signs overhead, searching for the right direction.

"Beacon terminal should be that way," he said, pointing toward a corridor marked with the academy's emblem. "Private flights and authorized personnel."

Albedo nodded, falling into step beside him as they made their way through the crowd.

The Beacon terminal was smaller than the civilian section, but no less busy. Students in uniform mingled with faculty and staff. A few hunters in traveling clothes waited near the departure gates, their weapons conspicuously absent or carefully stowed. The air hummed with the low thrum of engine maintenance and the occasional announcement over the intercom.

Jaune approached the counter, his scroll in hand.

"Nazarick Security Consultation. I have a meeting with the procurement office."

The attendant, a middle-aged woman with graying hair and a tired expression, glanced at his scroll. Her fingers moved across her terminal, pulling up the appointment.

"Nazarick... yes, I see it here. 8:30 AM interview." She gestured toward a gate at the far end of the terminal. "Shuttle departing in ten minutes. You'll need to present your scroll at the gate for verification."

"Thanks."

They made their way through the sparse crowd. A few glances followed Albedo, but not because of her horns. Faunus were common enough in Vale that animal features barely registered. A pair of ears here, a tail there, horns or scales or fur, none of it was remarkable.

What drew attention was her face. The elegant architecture of her features, pale skin smooth as porcelain, golden eyes that caught the light. The curve of her neck where it met her shoulder, exposed by the loose sweater that hung off one side. The way the fabric draped over her chest and cinched at her waist, accentuating the generous swell of her hips. The subtle sway of her body as she walked, fluid and graceful, like water flowing over stone.

Men stared. Women stared. Students forgot to watch where they were going. A hunter nearly walked into a support pillar.

Albedo noticed none of it. Her attention remained fixed forward, her expression serene, as if the admiring gazes were simply part of the background noise of existence.

Jaune noticed all of it. And he felt a strange mix of emotions he couldn't quite name.

The gate attendant scanned Jaune's scroll, nodded, and waved them through. Her eyes lingered on Albedo for just a moment too long before returning to her work.

The shuttle was a smaller vessel, designed for short hops between the Skyport and Beacon Academy. Maybe twenty seats in total, half of them occupied. Students mostly, their faces blank with early morning exhaustion. A couple of older passengers in business attire. No one paid them much attention as they found seats near the window.

Jaune settled into the worn fabric, the cushion sagging slightly under his weight. Albedo sat beside him, her posture perfect even in the uncomfortable seating.

The engines hummed to life.

The vessel lifted off.

And Jaune felt his stomach lurch.

It was a familiar sensation. The queasy roll of motion sickness, the creeping nausea that had plagued him since childhood. Car rides had been bad enough. Airships were worse. The disconnection between what his eyes saw and what his body felt, the subtle shifts in altitude and direction that his inner ear registered as wrong.

He gripped the armrest.

But then... nothing.

The sensation was there, lurking at the edges of his awareness, but muted. Dull. Like a memory of nausea rather than the real thing. His body recognized the signals but couldn't quite muster the full response.

Undead. The word surfaced in his mind. He was undead now. Or something close to it. The transformation, the merger with Momonga, had changed things he was only beginning to understand. His heart didn't beat the way it used to. His lungs didn't demand air with the same urgency. And apparently, his digestive system no longer reacted to motion with the same violent protest.

Small mercies.

He breathed slowly (despite not needing to breathe), relaxing his grip on the armrest.

A soft sound beside him.

He turned to find Albedo staring at him, her golden eyes wide. Her face pale, her lips slightly parted. Her hands had frozen in her lap, her fingers curled into tight fists.

"Jaune?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "Are you... are you unwell?"

She had noticed. Of course she had noticed. She watched him with the vigilance of a guardian, the dedication of someone whose entire purpose revolved around his wellbeing. Every twitch, every tension, every subtle shift in his expression, she catalogued and analyzed.

And she had seen the signs. The grip on the armrest. The tightening of his jaw. The moment of stillness as he fought against the phantom nausea.

She was alarmed.

"Hey." Jaune kept his voice low, soothing. "I'm fine. Just a little motion sickness. Or almost motion sickness, anyway."

Her eyes searched his face. "You are certain? I can cast a restorative spell. I can summon healing items. If there is anything..."

"Albedo." He reached over, placing his hand over hers. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly. "Look at me."

She met his gaze.

"I'm okay. It's already passing. Whatever happened to me, whatever changes came with... all of this, they seem to have dulled the worst of it. I'm not actually sick. Just a little uncomfortable."

He squeezed her hand gently.

"I promise. If I needed something, I would tell you."

The tension in her shoulders slowly eased. Her fingers uncurled, relaxing beneath his. The panic in her eyes faded, replaced by something softer. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude.

"I apologize for my reaction." Her voice was quieter now. "The thought of you experiencing discomfort, of suffering in any way... it is intolerable to me. I should not have assumed the worst."

"You don't need to apologize for caring." Jaune let his hand linger for a moment longer before withdrawing. "I appreciate it. Really."

Albedo's cheeks colored faintly. She turned toward the window, her reflection showing the slight smile that tugged at her lips.

"Thank you, Jaune."

The shuttle banked slightly, adjusting its course. Through the window, the spires of Beacon Academy came into view, rising against the morning sky.

The shuttle descended toward a landing platform jutting from the side of Beacon's central spire. Smaller than the main docks, this port serviced priority traffic and official visitors. The landing gear touched down with a muted thump, and the engines wound down to silence.

Jaune stood, steadying himself against the seat in front of him. The phantom nausea had faded entirely, leaving only a vague memory of discomfort. He would have to test the limits of this new resistance later. For now, he had a meeting to attend.

He and Albedo made their way off the shuttle and onto the platform.

The area was modestly busy. A handful of students milled about, their uniforms crisp and well-fitted. Older students, clearly. Upperclassmen who had returned early for one reason or another. Some carried books or equipment. Others stood in small clusters, talking quietly amongst themselves. A few glanced at Albedo as she passed, their conversations pausing briefly before resuming.

But it was the other people Jaune noticed.

A woman in a gray uniform pushing a cart of cleaning supplies through a side door. A man in work clothes inspecting a console near the platform's edge. Another figure moving between the landing struts of a parked vessel, checking connections and logging readings on a tablet. People who existed at the edges of the academy's daily life, essential but invisible. The kind of staff that kept Beacon running while students and teachers occupied the spotlight.

Jaune approached the man inspecting the console.

"Excuse me."

The worker looked up. A face weathered by years of outdoor work, eyes tired but alert. He straightened slightly, his tablet clutched in one hand.

"Yeah?"

"We're looking for the Headmaster's office. We have a meeting with the procurement office, but we figured the Headmaster's building would be the place to start."

The man's expression shifted, something between confusion and recognition. His gaze flickered to Albedo, lingering for a moment on her horns before returning to Jaune.

"Procurement, huh. That's in the administrative wing, not the Headmaster's tower. Different building." He gestured vaguely toward the campus below. "Go down the main stairs, cross the courtyard, and head left toward the building with the white columns. Sign out front says Administration. Can't miss it."

"Thanks."

"Sure thing."

The man returned to his console, already losing interest. Jaune and Albedo moved toward the stairs leading down from the platform.

"They separated procurement from the Headmaster's tower," Albedo said as they walked. "I would have expected centralized authority under a single structure. Dividing administrative functions seems inefficient."

"Different departments, probably. The Headmaster handles the big picture stuff. Procurement handles the day to day purchasing. Makes sense they'd have their own space."

"Perhaps."

They descended the stairs, the sprawling campus of Beacon Academy spreading out before them. Stone pathways wound between manicured lawns and ancient trees. Buildings rose in elegant clusters, their architecture a blend of old world grandeur and modern function. Students moved along the paths, their voices carrying in the morning air.

The administrative building was easy to spot. White columns framed the entrance, and a tasteful sign beside the door read ADMINISTRATION in gold letters.

Jaune took a breath.

"Here we go."

He pushed open the door, and they stepped inside.

The interior of the administrative building was quieter than Jaune expected. Polished floors reflected the morning light filtering through tall windows. A reception desk sat empty, a small sign indicating that the attendant had stepped away. Doors lined the hallway, each marked with plaques designating various departments.

Jaune was about to start checking plaques when he heard voices.

"...renovations will need to be completed before the new semester begins. The eastern dormitory requires significant structural work, and I'm told the contractors have already delayed twice."

"Professor Ozpin, I understand the urgency, but the budget allocation for this quarter was already approved. Shifting funds now would require going through the council, and that could take weeks."

The voice came from an open door down the hall. Jaune glanced at Albedo, who gave a slight nod. They approached the doorway.

Inside, two men stood over a desk covered in blueprints and financial documents. One was middle-aged, wearing the rumpled suit of a career administrator. The other was older, with silver hair swept back from a lined face and a pair of thin glasses perched on his nose. He leaned on a cane, his posture relaxed but commanding.

The older man turned at the sound of footsteps.

His gaze found Jaune first, then shifted to Albedo. His expression shifted to one of polite surprise.

"My, my. I don't believe we've met." His voice was warm, unhurried. "Might I ask who you are?"

Jaune tilted his head.

Something stirred in the back of his mind. The part of him that was Momonga, that understood the flow of magic and the currents of power, recognized something in this man. A faint hum of energy. A subtle resonance that spoke of arcane capability. Magic.

This man had magic in him. Not the overwhelming surge that Jaune himself possessed, but something quieter and older and woven into his very being.

Jaune had wondered before whether magic existed in this world. His own abilities, the Guardians, the strange powers that came with his Semblance, they could have stemmed entirely from the merger with Momonga. A power foreign to Remnant, transplanted into a world that had no framework for it. But seeing it in someone else, someone who appeared so ordinary on the surface, confirmed that magic was not unique to him.

And yet the man showed no sign of recognizing anything unusual in Jaune. No flicker of awareness, no subtle tension that would indicate he sensed the vast reservoirs of power that lurked beneath the surface. Nothing.

Jaune considered this. The part of him that was Momonga had access to spells and abilities he was still discovering. Protective enchantments. Concealment magics. Was it possible that something in his very existence generated a passive effect, a spell that hid his true nature from detection?

He filed the observation away for later.

"Jaune Arc," he said, stepping forward. "This is my associate, Albedo. We're here for a meeting with the procurement office. I applied through a security contracting app for a contract with Beacon."

He held up his scroll, the confirmation message still visible on the screen.

"Nazarick Security Consultation."

The older man's eyes flickered with something. Interest, perhaps. Or recognition.

"Ah." He straightened slightly, turning to the man beside him. "I believe I'll handle this one personally, Harold."

The administrator, Harold, looked at him with a mixture of surprise and resignation.

"Professor Ozpin, are you certain? The procurement process is fairly straightforward, and I have the forms ready to..."

"I'm certain." Ozpin smiled, the expression kind but firm. "I have a feeling this particular matter requires a more... personal touch."

Harold sighed, gathering his documents.

"You're the boss."

He offered a polite nod to Jaune and Albedo before slipping past them and out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him.

Ozpin turned back to his visitors, his hands folded over the head of his cane.

"Now then, Mr. Arc. Why don't you tell me more about Nazarick Security Consultation?"

Chapter Text

Ozpin walked at a measured pace through the cobblestone paths of Beacon Academy. His cane clicked softly with each step. The sun cast long shadows across the courtyard, where a handful of second and third-year students lingered near the amphitheater steps, their conversations dying to curious murmurs as the headmaster passed with his two unusual guests.

"It is quieter than usual." Ozpin gestured toward the scattered clusters of students. "Most first-years have not yet arrived for enrollment next week. Those you see are upperclassmen returning early from break, along with our maintenance staff preparing the grounds."

Jaune walked beside him, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that seemed at odds with his youth. Albedo followed a half-step behind and to his right, her ivory horns catching the light. A pair of groundskeepers pushing a cart laden with gardening tools slowed to stare, one elbowing the other and whispering something about faunus.

Albedo's golden eyes flicked toward them with a look that promised violence, but a subtle tilt of Jaune's head smoothed her expression back to pleasant neutrality.

"Beacon has an impressive campus," Jaune said. "Very... prestigious. The architecture alone must require significant maintenance. And funding."

"Indeed," Ozpin agreed. "Which brings me to something I have been meaning to discuss." He stopped at a bench near the fountain, turning to face Jaune directly. "Your firm applied through our posting. Nazarick Security Consultation. I must confess, I am curious. What exactly distinguishes your services from the other contractors who applied? The posting was for security, yes, but I find the details often reveal more about an organization than their general category."

Jaune glanced toward Albedo. The succubus stepped forward. She winked at him, gold eyes dancing.

"Nazarick Security Consultation offers a comprehensive suite of protective services tailored to individual client needs," Albedo said, her voice smooth and measured. "Primary offerings include static site security, facility protection, perimeter monitoring, access control, and personal protection details. What some would call bodyguard services. We also provide threat assessments, asset recovery, and specialized consultation for high-risk scenarios."

She clasped her hands before her. "Our operatives are highly trained, discreet, and capable of operating across a range of environments. We pride ourselves on results rather than optics."

Ozpin raised an eyebrow, his gaze sliding from Albedo back to Jaune. "Impressive. And you founded this organization yourself?"

"Uh, yes. That is... yes. I did." Jaune nodded once, then seemed to catch himself and nodded again more firmly. "Founded it. As the founder. Which is me."

Albedo's expression remained serene, her gaze warm as it settled on Jaune.

"With assistance, of course," Jaune added quickly. "From capable people. Very capable. I have good people. Behind me. Supporting the endeavor."

"Clearly." Ozpin studied him for a long moment. "You are remarkably young to have built something of that scope. Most men your age are still determining their career paths, not establishing firms that offer services at this level."

"Well, you know what they say. Age is just a number. And I have always been very... numbers-oriented. In business. The business sense came early." Jaune laughed, a short sound that he cut off almost immediately. "Not that I am that young. In the professional sense. Which is the sense that matters. Professionally."

"Indeed." Ozpin turned his attention to Albedo. "And you, Miss Albedo. Forgive me if I looked into your history during my due diligence. I find it prudent to know who I am dealing with."

Albedo's smile did not waver, though something behind her eyes sharpened.

"Your search likely yielded little of substance," she said.

"Correct," Ozpin confirmed. "Which is itself notable. Most people leave footprints. You seem to have arrived fully formed, as it were."

Jaune waved a hand. "Right, yes. Albedo's background is, um. Complicated. She was in a very remote area. Very remote. The kind of place where records are not really... recorded. Because there is no one to record them. So there is nothing to find. Because nothing was written down. In the traditional sense. Or any sense, really."

"An isolated environment," Ozpin repeated.

"Exactly. That is the word. Isolated. Remnant has many such places. Blind spots. Where the CCT does not reach and the kingdoms do not map." Jaune nodded as if this was a complete explanation.

Ozpin hummed, his grip adjusting on his cane. The fountain burbled behind them, filling the silence. A third-year student with a rapier at her hip hurried past, doing a poor job of pretending she was not staring at Albedo's horns.

"I see," Ozpin said finally. "Well, I respect a person's privacy, particularly when their present conduct speaks well enough on its own. Your bearing, Miss Albedo, suggests extensive training. Military? Private sector?"

Albedo's smile remained pleasant, her tone even. "I have had the benefit of rigorous instruction across a variety of contexts. The specifics are somewhat difficult to translate into conventional categories."

"Diverse experience is valuable." Ozpin began walking again, leading them toward the main administrative building. "I wonder if you might be interested in a more detailed conversation about what Nazarick Security Consultation could offer Beacon. We have, on occasion, contracted private security for certain events. The Vytal Festival, for instance, draws significant crowds and, consequently, elevated risk profiles."

Jaune fell into step beside him. "We would be most interested in such a discussion. And opportunity. To discuss. The opportunity, I mean."

"Excellent." Ozpin smiled, though the expression did not quite reach his eyes. "Then let us continue this conversation in my office. I have a few more questions, and I suspect your answers will be most illuminating."

They passed through the arched entrance of the administrative building, their footsteps echoing against polished stone floors. Jaune caught Albedo's gaze for a moment, and she gave him a small, reassuring nod.

So far, so good. He hoped.

They reached the elevator at the end of the corridor. Jaune stepped inside after Ozpin, Albedo following, and watched the headmaster press the button for the top floor. The doors slid shut with a soft chime.

"If I may ask," Jaune said as the elevator began to rise, "why hire us? I mean, specifically. Nazarick Security is new. There have to be more established firms with longer track records."

Ozpin clasped his hands over the head of his cane. "A fair question. The larger security contractors have their merits, certainly. But they also have existing obligations, bureaucratic overhead, and reputations that sometimes precede them in ways that complicate matters."

"Complicate how?"

"Let us simply say that the times we live in demand a certain... flexibility." Ozpin's gaze drifted to the elevator doors. "The kingdoms face challenges that did not exist a decade ago. Threats that move faster than institutional processes can accommodate. I need security personnel who can adapt quickly, who do not require weeks of committee approval to adjust their protocols."

Jaune nodded slowly. "So you want something less official."

"I want something effective. The established firms have their place, but they are often entangled in politics. Their hiring practices, their reporting structures, their public visibility. All of these things can become liabilities when circumstances shift rapidly." Ozpin looked at him. "A newer organization, one with fewer entanglements, offers certain advantages. Provided, of course, that they can deliver on their promises."

The elevator came to a smooth stop. The doors opened onto a spacious office dominated by a massive clockwork mechanism that filled the far wall, interlocking gears turning in silent rhythm. A large desk sat before the windows, and beyond them, the Beacon grounds spread out beneath an overcast sky.

"Please, sit." Ozpin moved behind his desk and lowered himself into his chair. "Now, let us discuss terms. What compensation structure does Nazarick Security typically work with? I imagine you have standard rates."

Jaune settled into one of the chairs across from the desk, Albedo taking the seat beside him. "We have... rates. Yes. Standard ones. For standard situations."

"And what constitutes a standard situation for your firm?"

Jaune opened his mouth, then hesitated. He glanced at Albedo.

"Compensation is negotiated on a case-by-case basis depending on the scope and duration of the assignment," Albedo said smoothly. "Factors include the number of personnel required, the level of risk involved, and the length of commitment. We are prepared to offer Beacon competitive pricing, particularly for an ongoing partnership."

"An ongoing partnership." Ozpin leaned back slightly. "Are you proposing a retainer arrangement, then? A yearly contract?"

Jaune straightened. "Well, that would depend on what Beacon needs. We are flexible. Very flexible. But we also have other clients, so we need to balance our commitments."

"What Mr. Arc means," Albedo interjected, her tone pleasant, "is that Nazarick Security Consultation prefers arrangements that allow for mutual adaptation. A fixed yearly contract can become restrictive if circumstances change. We propose a renewable agreement with defined review periods. This allows us to adjust our allocation of resources as Beacon's needs evolve."

Ozpin raised an eyebrow. "And your other clients? Would they not take issue if we required an expanded presence?"

"We do not abandon prior commitments," Albedo said. "Any adjustments to our service with Beacon would be communicated well in advance. We pride ourselves on maintaining professional relationships with all our clients. Beacon would receive ample notice before any changes in personnel allocation."

"So you would not simply withdraw if a more lucrative offer presented itself."

"Absolutely not." Albedo's expression remained serene. "Our reputation depends on reliability. We honor our agreements."

Ozpin was quiet for a moment, his fingers drumming against his cane. "That is reassuring to hear. Many new firms overextend themselves chasing the highest bidder. Discipline in this area speaks well of your organization."

Jaune nodded, trying to look like this was something he had planned all along. "Exactly. Discipline. That is us. Very disciplined."

Albedo's gaze warmed as it flickered to him briefly before returning to Ozpin.

"Then perhaps we can discuss specifics," Ozpin said. "What size security detail would you be able to provide, and on what timeline?"

The negotiation stretched on for the better part of an hour. Numbers were discussed, terms outlined, and various scenarios examined. By the end, Jaune felt like his brain had been run through a wringer, but Albedo seemed entirely unbothered.

"Then we have an agreement," Ozpin said, setting down his pen. "Three assets from Nazarick Security Consultation, assigned to Beacon on a renewable contract with quarterly review periods."

"Three," Jaune confirmed. "Sword, Shield, and Spear."

Sword for himself. Shield for Albedo. Spear for Sebas. Simple designations that conveyed their roles without unnecessary elaboration.

Ozpin's fingers tapped against his desk. "Designations rather than names. I confess I find that somewhat unusual."

"Operational security," Albedo said. "Our personnel are accustomed to working under call signs. It maintains a layer of separation between their professional and personal identities."

"I see." Ozpin did not look entirely convinced, but he let the matter drop. "And these three. You are confident in their capabilities?"

"Very confident."

"The file you provided lists some rather extraordinary claims regarding their combat ratings." Ozpin flipped through the papers on his desk. "If these numbers are accurate, each of your assets would qualify as a high-tier huntsman individually. Collectively, they would rival some of the more elite teams operating in the kingdoms today."

Jaune shrugged. "The numbers are accurate."

"With all due respect, Mr. Arc, numbers on paper do not always translate to field performance. I have seen many confident reports that failed to materialize under actual conditions."

"Then test them."

Ozpin paused. "Excuse me?"

"Test them," Jaune repeated. "Put them in a situation. See what they can do. You are not hiring us for paperwork, you are hiring us for results. So verify the results."

Albedo's lips curved slightly. "Mr. Arc speaks plainly, but his point is sound. We would welcome a demonstration of our capabilities if Headmaster Ozpin requires reassurance."

Ozpin studied them both for a long moment. "That is... a reasonable offer. Unusual, but reasonable." He leaned back in his chair. "As it happens, I was planning an expedition outside the city in the coming days. A survey of certain outlying regions that have reported unusual activity. I had intended to bring a small security complement."

Jaune tilted his head. "You want to bring us along."

"I think it would be an ideal opportunity to evaluate whether your assets perform as advertised." Ozpin smiled faintly. "Consider it a trial run. If your people deliver on your claims, I will have no reservations about the contract. If they do not..."

"They will," Jaune said. The words came out flat, almost bored. "You will see."

Something flickered across Ozpin's face. Perhaps he had expected Jaune to hedge, to offer caveats, to show the nervousness that had been on display earlier. Instead, Jaune simply sat there, utterly unbothered by the prospect of his people being tested.

"You seem certain," Ozpin said.

"I am."

"Mr. Arc, with respect, you are a young man leading a new firm. Confidence is admirable, but overconfidence has a way of humbling people. I have seen it many times."

Jaune leaned back in his chair. "Headmaster, I appreciate what you are saying. Really. But here is the thing. I know what my people can do. I have seen it. I have seen them handle situations that would make most huntsmen teams turn around and call for backup." He shrugged. "So when you talk about testing them, I am not worried. I am not trying to sound arrogant or whatever. I am just telling you how it is."

Albedo's expression remained professionally neutral, but there was a warmth in her eyes that had not been there before.

Ozpin was quiet for several seconds. His gaze moved from Jaune to Albedo and back again, searching for something.

"Very well," he said finally. "The expedition departs in three days. I will have the details sent to your firm's contact information. Bring your three assets. We will see what they are capable of."

"Sounds good." Jaune stood and offered his hand. "Looking forward to it."

Ozpin rose and shook it. His grip was firm, his expression unreadable. "I suspect this will be an illuminating experience for all of us."

Albedo rose as well, her movements graceful. "We appreciate your trust, Headmaster. You will not be disappointed."

"I hope not." Ozpin walked them to the elevator. "Three days, then. I will be in touch."

The elevator doors closed, and Jaune let out a breath he had not realized he was holding.

"That went well," he said.

Albedo's professional demeanor softened the moment the doors were sealed. "You handled yourself admirably, Lord Jaune. I was particularly impressed with how you addressed his skepticism."

"I figured there was no point dancing around it. He was going to be suspicious no matter what I said. Might as well just be honest." Jaune scratched the back of his head. "Besides, it is not like we have anything to worry about. Sebas alone could probably handle whatever he is planning to throw at us."

"Indeed." Albedo's smile turned slightly predatory. "Though I confess I am eager to see the Headmaster's face when he witnesses true strength for the first time."

"Yeah." Jaune grinned. "That should be fun."

The airfield sat on the outskirts of Vale, a private strip owned by a man whose name Jaune had seen in financial reports more than once. Aurelius Sallow. A Dust magnate of sorts, though not in the traditional sense. His company did not mine Dust or refine it. They built the equipment that did. The drills, the excavators, the filtration systems. Every major mining operation on Remnant either leased or purchased Sallow Industries hardware at some point. The man had cornered the market on the tools of extraction, and his wealth reflected it.

Three airships sat parked on the tarmac, sleek and expensive-looking, bearing no kingdom insignias. Private vessels, unconnected to any official channels.

"He has been a friend for many years," Ozpin said as they approached. "We met during a rather unfortunate incident in the Argus mining districts. His operations had attracted some unwelcome attention from certain elements who believed they could pressure him into selling. I was able to assist in resolving the matter."

"He owes you," Jaune said.

"Let us simply say he is generous with his resources when I have need of them." Ozpin gestured to the woman walking beside him. "Mr. Arc, allow me to introduce Glynda Goodwitch. She serves as a professor at Beacon and will be accompanying us on this expedition."

Glynda Goodwitch was a striking woman. Blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun, wire-framed glasses perched on her nose. She wore a white blouse tucked into a charcoal pencil skirt, dark stockings, and practical low-heeled shoes that somehow still managed to look elegant with the overall ensemble. In her hand, she held a riding crop.

Jaune's gaze lingered on it for a moment. An unusual choice for a weapon. Most huntsmen favored something with a bit more reach or stopping power. He guessed it was tied to her Semblance somehow. A focus, maybe, or a conduit.

"A pleasure," Glynda said, her voice crisp and professional. Her eyes swept over him with the kind of assessment that suggested she was cataloging every detail. "You are younger than I expected."

"I get that a lot."

"Hm." She did not sound convinced, but she offered a curt nod all the same.

Jaune stood in his armor, black as pitch and fitted to his form. Medieval in style, the part of him that was Momonga noted. The term itself was Earth-born, a distinction that had no real meaning on Remnant, but the aesthetic had its parallels. Plate and mail, articulated joints, a design meant for a world of swords and shields rather than firearms and Aura. Though on Remnant, the Grimm made such things more relevant than they might otherwise be. The armor was gorgeous, unmarred by scratch or dent, and it caught the light in ways that seemed almost unnatural.

"Allow me to introduce my assets," Jaune said. "Sword."

He gestured to himself.

"Shield."

Albedo stepped forward. She wore casual clothes, a simple blouse and skirt combination that highlighted her pale skin and shapely figure. Her long black hair spilled down her back like liquid silk, her ivory horns catching the sunlight.

"You are one of the combat assets?" Glynda asked, her tone carrying a note of skepticism.

"I am," Albedo said pleasantly.

"And Spear."

Sebas emerged from behind them. An older man, handsome in a rugged way. Lines carved into his face, grey streaking through his hair. He wore a butler's suit, immaculately tailored, not a thread out of place. White gloves covered his hands. He walked with his weight evenly distributed, each footfall landing at the same measured pace, neither hurried nor sluggish. When he stopped, his feet settled parallel to each other, shoulder-width apart, and his hands folded behind his back.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance," Sebas said, bowing from the waist. His voice was calm, even. "I look forward to serving your needs during this expedition."

Ozpin stared at him. Then at Albedo. Then back at Sebas.

"Your... combat assets," Ozpin repeated slowly.

"Yes."

"The butler and the woman in casual attire."

"That is correct."

Glynda's riding crop tapped against her thigh. "Mr. Arc, I hope you understand our concern. We are venturing into potentially hostile territory. Appearances can be deceiving, but surely you can see why we might question your judgment in this matter."

"Headmaster, Professor." Jaune smiled brightly. "I completely understand. Really, I do. But like I said in your office, feel free to test us. You will get your answers soon enough. Now, shall we get going? I am excited to see what this expedition is all about."

He clapped his hands together cheerfully.

Ozpin and Glynda exchanged a look.

"Indeed," Ozpin said after a moment. "Let us be on our way."

The airship they boarded was lighter than the standard kingdom vessels. Jaune noticed the hull plating was thinner, sacrificed for speed. What it lacked in armor, it made up for in armament. Turrets lined the underside, positioned for both anti-air engagements and surface bombardment. A fast strike craft, designed to hit hard and get out before anything could catch it.

The pilot, a lean man with a scar running across his jaw, settled into the cockpit. "Destination, Headmaster?"

"Thornhollow," Ozpin said. "The abandoned settlement northeast of the city."

The pilot nodded and began his preflight sequence.

"Thornhollow," Jaune repeated. "I have heard the name before."

"It was a mining town, some decades ago. The deposits played out and the residents moved on." Ozpin settled into one of the passenger seats. "Or so the official records state. I have had my eye on it for some time. The Grimm population there has been growing, and it sits close enough to Vale that it will eventually become a problem if left unaddressed. Far enough, however, that certain parties in the council would rather pretend it does not exist."

"Politics," Glynda said, the word carrying a sharp edge.

"Indeed." Ozpin adjusted his glasses. "But there is another reason for this particular trip. A Dust hunter who occasionally does work for Beacon came to me with an interesting claim. He believes there may be an untapped Dust deposit beneath the old mines. Secondary veins that the original surveyors missed."

Jaune raised an eyebrow. "And nobody else knows about this?"

"The Dust hunter was discreet. I compensated him for the information and he agreed to keep quiet." Ozpin smiled faintly. "If his claims prove accurate, we will have a valuable asset on our hands. The finder's fee for a confirmed Dust deposit is quite substantial."

Jaune leaned back in his seat. "Forgive me if this sounds rude, Headmaster. But I did not take you for someone so... financially motivated."

Glynda's posture stiffened. Her fingers tightened around her riding crop. "The headmaster's interests are entirely for the benefit of the academy and the kingdom. Any funds acquired through such discoveries go directly toward improving Beacon's facilities, scholarships for promising students, and equipment for huntsmen in training. It is not greed. It is practical resource management."

"I apologize," Albedo interjected smoothly, her voice warm. "My employer did not intend to imply anything improper. What he meant to express was surprise that a man of your position would involve himself in such practical matters directly. Most individuals of comparable standing delegate such tasks to subordinates."

Glynda's expression softened slightly. "I understand. But please, do not mistake the Headmaster's hands-on approach for anything untoward. He has always preferred to see things personally rather than rely on secondhand reports."

Jaune glanced between Glynda and Ozpin, then at Albedo. He understood now. Glynda was not just a professor. She was Ozpin's right hand, the one who smoothed over his rough edges and defended his reputation. The dynamic was not so different from his own relationship with Albedo.

The airship lifted off, engines humming as it banked toward the northeast. Through the cockpit windows, Jaune watched Vale shrink beneath them. The city walls came into view, thick fortifications bristling with anti-air batteries and gun emplacements. Sensors and monitoring arrays tracked everything that moved in or out of the airspace.

A communication crackled through the cockpit speakers. "Unidentified vessel, transmit your authorization codes."

The pilot tapped a few keys on his console. "Transmitting electronic clearance now. Beacon Academy expedition, authorized by Headmaster Ozpin."

A pause. Then the voice returned. "Codes confirmed. You are cleared to proceed. Safe travels."

The airship passed through the defensive perimeter, leaving the city behind. Ahead, the wilderness stretched out in endless green and brown, dotted here and there with the ruins of older settlements. Grimm territory.

The airship cruised over the wilderness, dense forest rolling beneath them in waves of green. Jaune sat across from Ozpin, Albedo and Sebas flanking him, while Glynda remained standing near the cockpit.

"I realize we never discussed specifics," Ozpin said. "What exactly are your Semblances? It would help to know what capabilities we are working with before we reach Thornhollow."

Jaune nodded. "Fair enough. Mine is called Paralysis. I can paralyze targets. The only limitation is line of sight. I need to see them at least once to establish the connection. After that, I do not need to keep looking at them."

"Line of sight activation," Glynda murmured. "That is a significant limitation but the effect itself is potent. Complete paralysis?"

"Complete. They stay frozen until I release them or I run out of Aura."

"I see." Ozpin turned his attention to Albedo. "And you, Miss Albedo?"

Albedo rose from her seat. In a fluid motion, black metal manifested across her body, plates of armor forming over her blouse and skirt. A helm materialized in her hands, which she set upon her head, obscuring her features save for the golden glow of her eyes through the visor. A bardiche appeared in her grip, the blade radiating a sickly green light. Dark wings unfurled from her hips, spreading wide within the confines of the cabin.

"My Semblance is called Triumphant," Albedo said. "It allows me to manifest this armor, this weapon, and these wings. The armor generates a protective field around me. The wings grant me flight."

She dismissed the conjurations. The armor, helm, and bardiche dissolved into black mist, leaving her in her casual clothes once more. The wings folded and vanished.

"That is quite a transformation," Ozpin said. "The protective field, is it a barrier?"

"Of sorts. It absorbs and deflects incoming attacks. The strength of the field correlates with my Aura reserves."

"Fascinating." Ozpin looked to Sebas. "And you, Mr. Sebas?"

Sebas remained seated, his posture perfect. He raised one gloved hand and touched the white fabric.

"My Semblance is called Idle Stance. When I move, my strength is amplified. The faster or more forceful the motion, the greater the amplification."

"That is it?" Glynda asked.

"Yes, Professor. That is it."

Glynda exchanged a glance with Ozpin. "A strength amplification Semblance tied to movement. Simple but effective."

"Indeed." Ozpin stroked his chin. "You know, your Semblances remind me of Professor Goodwitch's in a way. Her Telekinesis is, on its face, quite straightforward. She can move objects with her mind. But the applications are multitudinous. She can shield, attack, restrain, manipulate the battlefield in countless ways. Simplicity in description often belies complexity in execution."

Albedo inclined her head. "You are too kind, Headmaster."

Jaune kept his face neutral. The whole thing was a pile of bullshit. His actual Semblance had melded him with Momonga, granted him access to Nazarick in another dimension, and let him summon its inhabitants or the structure itself. Paralysis was just one spell among hundreds, a fraction of a fraction of what he could actually do.

Albedo and Sebas had their own vast libraries of abilities from YGGDRASIL. Skills, spells, passives, active effects. Explaining all of that would be impossible, so they had settled on cover stories that gave them the most flexibility. Albedo's "Triumphant" was a convenient excuse for her armor, weapons, and flight. Sebas's "Idle Stance" justified his absurd physical strength without raising too many questions.

Ozpin seemed satisfied with the explanations, though Jaune caught the way the Headmaster's eyes lingered on each of them. Evaluating. Calculating.

Glynda's riding crop tapped against her palm. "Well. If your Semblances are as capable as you claim, this expedition should go smoothly."

"We will do our best not to disappoint," Albedo said.

Jaune smiled pleasantly.

The pilot's voice crackled through the cabin speakers. "Grimm sighted. Multiple contacts. Bearing two-seven-zero, altitude matching."

Jaune moved to the observation window. Black shapes wheeled through the sky ahead, their forms cutting sharp silhouettes against the clouds. Nevermore. Grimm as black as night, their bodies sleek and predatory. Armored exoskeletons covered their skulls, and red eyes burned like embers in the daylight.

The airship's underside turrets swiveled, tracking the approaching flock. Muzzle flash erupted as the guns roared to life, tracers stitching lines through the air. The first Nevermore took a burst to the chest and tumbled from the sky, dissolving before it hit the treeline.

"We can fight them off and outspeed them," the pilot reported. "But a prolonged engagement is going to eat through our ammunition stores. We will be running light before we even reach Thornhollow."

More Nevermore dove toward the airship. The turrets tracked and fired, but the Grimm were fast, jinking between the bursts.

Albedo rose from her seat. "If I may, Headmaster?"

Ozpin studied her for a moment. Then he nodded. "You have the floor."

Black mist swirled around Albedo. Armor plates materialized across her body, followed by the helm settling over her head. The bardiche appeared in her grip, its blade pulsing with that sickly green glow. Wings unfurled from her hips, spreading wide.

She moved to the side door and opened it. Wind rushed into the cabin.

"I will signal when the airspace is clear," Albedo said. Then she stepped out.

Her wings caught the air. She shot upward, climbing above the airship in a steep arc.

The pilot's voice came through again. "I have a visual on your asset. Adjusting fire solutions to avoid her airspace."

The turrets continued their barrage, but now they carved careful lanes through the sky, leaving gaps where Albedo flew. Jaune pressed his face to the observation window, watching through the reinforced glass.

Albedo descended on the Nevermore flock like a hawk diving on sparrows. Her bardiche cleaved through the first Grimm in a single stroke, the blade trailing green light. She spun, bisecting a second, then a third. The Nevermore scattered, trying to surround her, but she moved too fast. Her wings beat once and she was among them, her weapon singing through the air.

Grimm fell in pieces. Those that dove toward the airship found themselves intercepted, cut apart before they could close distance. Albedo's flight was precise, economical. She wasted no motion, each swing of her bardiche claiming a kill.

"Contact count dropping," the pilot reported. "Forty percent. Thirty percent."

Jaune watched a particularly large Nevermore try to flank her from above. Albedo twisted midair, her free hand catching the Grimm by its beak. She crushed it. The skull crumpled like paper and she flung the body aside.

"Fifteen percent. Ten. Sky is clear."

Albedo hovered for a moment, scanning the airspace. Then she descended toward the airship, her wings folding as she landed inside and sealed the door behind her.

"The immediate threat has been neutralized," she said, her voice slightly muffled by the helm. She dismissed the armor in a swirl of black mist, returning to her casual attire.

Glynda stared. Her riding crop had frozen mid-tap against her palm.

Ozpin's expression remained unreadable, but his fingers tightened around his cane.

"Clean work," he said quietly. "Very clean work."

The airship touched down in a clearing at the edge of Thornhollow. Jaune stepped onto the landing ramp and surveyed the scene. The abandoned town sprawled before them, buildings in various states of collapse, roofs caved in, walls crumbled by decades of neglect. Streets had been reclaimed by weeds and creeping vines. Beyond the settlement, the old mine works jutted from the hillside, rusted equipment and collapsed shafts marking where the original excavations had taken place.

Somewhere beneath all of that, according to Ozpin's source, lay an untapped Dust deposit. Secondary veins the original surveyors had missed. Jaune could not see it from where he stood, but he found himself curious what raw Dust looked like in its natural state.

"Albedo," Jaune said. "Guard the airship. Make sure nothing happens to it while we are gone."

"Understood, Lord... Sword." Albedo caught herself, her tone remaining professional. She took up position near the landing ramp, her gaze sweeping the perimeter.

Glynda frowned. "You are splitting your forces? We are heading into hostile territory. Surely having all three assets would be more prudent."

"The airship is our only way back," Jaune said. "I would rather not leave it unguarded. Besides, Sebas and I can handle ourselves."

"I hope you are right." Glynda did not sound convinced.

Ozpin adjusted his glasses and started toward the town. "The mine entrance should be on the northern edge of the settlement. Shall we?"

Jaune fell into step beside him, Sebas walking a few paces behind. Glynda brought up the rear, her riding crop held at the ready. They passed the first row of buildings, their footsteps echoing in the silence.

Then the ground trembled.

Jaune stopped. The trembling grew stronger. Dust rose from the cracked pavement.

"Something is coming," Sebas said, his voice calm.

A building to their left exploded outward. Stone and timber flew in all directions as a massive shape burst from the ruins. A Goliath. An elephantine Grimm, its body dark as night, its sheer bulk blocking out the sun behind it. White bone formed an exoskeleton around its skull, and its red eyes burned with primal malice. It had been hiding in the collapsed structure, waiting.

The Goliath trumpeted, a sound that tore through the air. Jaune's skull registered the vibration. A living man would have felt his teeth rattle from the sheer force of it. Jaune simply noted the sound and remained still.

The Goliath lowered its head and charged, each footstep cracking the earth beneath it. The ground shook. A building in its path crumpled like cardboard under its bulk.

Glynda raised her riding crop. Ozpin's grip tightened on his cane.

Jaune lifted his hand. His eyes locked onto the charging Grimm.

"Paralysis."

The Goliath froze mid-stride. Its legs locked. Its trunk went rigid. The massive body teetered, momentum carrying it forward but the spell holding it in place, muscles locked and unresponsive.

Sebas stepped forward. He moved past Jaune, past Ozpin, past Glynda, his stride unhurried. He stopped beside the paralyzed Goliath's front leg. The limb was thick as a tree trunk, wrapped in dark muscle beneath the bone-white armor plating.

Sebas pulled back his gloved fist. He punched the leg.

The sound was wet and final. Bone cracked. Muscle shredded. The leg buckled at an angle legs were not meant to bend. The Goliath's massive body tilted, the paralysis the only thing keeping it upright.

Sebas stepped back. He looked up at the Goliath's head, still frozen in place above him.

He jumped. The motion was a blur to Ozpin and Glynda, but Jaune tracked it easily. Sebas rose to meet the Goliath's skull, his fist swinging upward into the underside of its jaw.

The uppercut connected. The force traveled upward through bone and flesh. The Goliath's head split apart from the jaw to the crown, dark mist erupting from the wound. The Grimm's body lost cohesion even as it began to fall. Sebas landed lightly on his feet, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve.

The Goliath dissolved completely before it hit the ground.

Silence returned to Thornhollow.

Glynda's riding crop had frozen in midair. Her mouth was slightly open.

Ozpin stared at the spot where the Goliath had been. Then he looked at Sebas. Then at Jaune.

"Well," Ozpin said. "That was informative."

They pressed deeper into Thornhollow, weaving between collapsed structures toward the mine entrance on the northern edge. The shaft gaped like a wound in the hillside, timber supports rotting where they had not already given way.

"The main excavation should be about two hundred meters in," Ozpin said, producing a flashlight from his coat. "According to my source, the secondary veins were detected in the lower galleries."

He clicked the light on. The beam cut through the darkness ahead.

"I will take point," Jaune said. "Sebas, rear guard."

"Understood." Sebas turned to face the way they had come, his posture relaxed but alert.

Jaune moved ahead of Ozpin and Glynda, his armored boots crunching on loose stone. The tunnel walls were rough-hewn, marked with old pickaxe scars and the remnants of long-dead support beams. The air smelled of dust and something older, something rotten.

They had gone perhaps fifty meters when the ground shifted.

Something burst from the wall to Jaune's left. A Graeveling. Mole-like Grimm, its body sleek and dark, oversized claws designed for tunneling through earth and stone. Red eyes gleamed in the darkness. It lunged at Jaune, claws raking toward his chest.

Jaune caught the creature by its throat with his gauntleted hand. His fingers closed. The Graeveling's neck crumpled, bone and cartilage crushing like wet paper. He flung the body aside, where it dissolved before hitting the ground.

"Contact," Jaune said flatly. "More incoming."

Two more Graevelings burst from the opposite wall. Jaune stepped into the first, his gauntlet connecting with its skull in a straight punch that caved in the bone plating. The second made it past him, scrambling toward Ozpin and Glynda.

It did not get far. Sebas's hand closed around its hind leg. He swung the creature into the tunnel wall. Stone cracked. The Graeveling collapsed in a heap and dissolved.

"There are likely more," Sebas said calmly. "These tunnels honeycomb the hillside. They will have established nests throughout."

Ozpin's flashlight swept the walls. "Can you sense them?"

"No. But their kind tends to travel in groups."

As if on cue, the tunnel erupted. Graevelings poured from holes in the walls, the floor, the ceiling. A dozen at least, then more, their claws scraping against stone as they surged toward the group.

Jaune planted himself between the swarm and Ozpin. His gauntlets rose. The first Graeveling to reach him took a backhand that shattered its ribcage. The second caught a knee to its face. The third and fourth came simultaneously, and Jaune grabbed both by their necks, slamming them together with enough force to pulp their skulls.

He breathed harder than necessary. "There is a lot of them. I need to pace myself."

In truth, Jaune felt nothing. His reserves were effectively bottomless compared to these creatures. Every kill cost him a fraction of a fraction of his actual capacity. But the act was important. Humans tired. Humans needed to conserve. He was supposed to be human, or at least something close enough to pass.

Behind him, Sebas worked. A Graeveling lunged from the shadows. Sebas drove his fist through its chest, black mist spraying from the exit wound on its back before the creature collapsed. Another came from the right. Sebas sidestepped, caught its skull in his palm, and squeezed. The head popped like a grape. He flung the body into a third approaching Grimm, sending both tumbling in a heap of limbs. Two more rushed him together. He kicked the first in the throat, crushing its windpipe, then brought his elbow down on the second's spine. The crack echoed through the tunnel.

Glynda watched both of them with growing unease. Her riding crop hovered at the ready, but she had not needed to use it. The Grimm were dying faster than they could close distance, and neither Jaune nor Sebas seemed to be struggling.

"You are holding up well," Ozpin observed. His voice carried a note of calculated assessment.

"Training," Jaune said between exaggerated breaths. "Lots of training."

The last Graeveling lunged from the ceiling. Jaune caught it by the throat and crushed its windpipe before it could screech. He let the body drop.

"Clear," he announced.

The tunnel fell silent save for the distant drip of water somewhere deeper in the mine. Jaune and Sebas could see perfectly in the darkness, their eyes registering shapes and movement without need for illumination. But both of them kept their attention on Ozpin's flashlight, pretending to rely on its beam.

"Should we continue?" Sebas asked.

Ozpin studied them both for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Lead on."

The tunnel opened into a wider chamber, the ceiling lost in shadow above them. Jaune's boots crunched on loose stone as he stepped inside. The floor was uneven, piled with debris that had been shoved to the sides to create a narrow path. Rusted equipment lay scattered throughout, abandoned picks and carts and the skeletons of machines that had once hauled ore from the earth.

The far wall told a different story. A massive scar ran across the stone, the rock face jagged and broken where something had collapsed inward. Chunks of granite the size of men lay piled against the edges, their surfaces rough and unplanned. In the center, a passage had been carved through the rubble, the stones stacked neatly to either side. Pick marks scarred the larger boulders, some fresh, some weathered by time.

Ozpin swept his flashlight across the gap in the debris. The beam caught something that glittered.

"There." He moved through the cleared passage, stepping over smaller stones that had been left where they fell. The light revealed crystalline formations jutting from the stone behind where the collapse had occurred. Veins of Dust, raw and unrefined, threading through the rock in patterns that suggested significant deposits beneath the surface. Red and blue and yellow, the colors mixing where the veins intersected.

"This matches the description," Ozpin said. "Professor Goodwitch, if you would?"

Glynda stepped over the rubble, her heels finding purchase on the unstable footing. She raised her riding crop. A purple glow surrounded the crystals, her telekinesis testing the structure of the surrounding stone. "The veins run deep. This is not surface exposure. There is a primary deposit further in, likely where the original surveyors stopped their excavation."

"Can it be extracted?"

"With proper equipment, yes. The yield would be substantial." Glynda lowered her crop. "Your source was correct."

Jaune stood near the entrance to the chamber, his arms crossed. Sebas took position on the opposite side, both of them watching the tunnels for any further threats. The Dust sparkled in the flashlight's beam, beautiful in its raw state.

"How was this missed?" Jaune asked. "Surveyors are supposed to be thorough."

"The collapse happened during the mine's final year," Ozpin replied, gesturing to the piled stone. "Three men died. The company decided the remaining veins were not worth the cost of excavation. They sealed the upper tunnels and walked away."

"Your source cleared all this?"

"Three weeks of work. He was convinced there was something worth finding." Ozpin adjusted his glasses. "Most would not bother. The risk, the time, the uncertainty. He took a gamble."

Jaune did not care.

Nazarick's Treasury held hundreds of billions in gold coins. Entire mountains of wealth sat in vaults beneath the tomb, artifacts and resources accumulated through years of YGGDRASIL gameplay and now made real. If he wanted, he could likely seize this mine by force, extract the Dust himself, and sell it on the open market. The profits would be a drop in the ocean compared to what he already possessed.

But he wanted Nazarick Security Consultation to be legitimate. A real business with real clients and real transactions. Something that operated above board, that paid taxes and filed paperwork and existed in the light of day rather than skulking in shadows. Taking what he wanted by force would undermine that. It would be the easy path, and it would lead exactly nowhere he wanted to go.

So he stood guard. He watched the tunnels. He let Ozpin and Glynda pore over the Dust veins, making notes and calculations.

"The council will need to approve any mining operation," Glynda said. "But the finder's fee alone will be significant."

"I will handle the paperwork," Ozpin replied. "There are channels for these things."

Jaune tuned them out. His attention remained on the darkness beyond the chamber, where more Graevelings might lurk. Sebas caught his eye and gave a small nod. They understood each other. The real job was not the Dust. The real job was the contract, the relationship, the foundation of something that might grow into more.

The Dust was Ozpin's concern. Jaune was here to prove that Nazarick Security Consultation delivered on its promises.

Minutes passed. Ozpin made his notes. Glynda conducted her measurements. The crystals glittered in the dark.

"I believe we have what we need," Ozpin announced finally. "We should return to the airship before something larger takes interest in our presence."

Jaune pushed off from the wall. "Agreed."

The ground shuddered.

Jaune's head snapped toward the far end of the chamber. Stone cracked. Dust fell from the ceiling.

"I thought you cleared the tunnels," Glynda said, her riding crop rising.

"We did not venture beyond this section." Ozpin's grip tightened on his cane.

The wall exploded.

An enormous shape burst through, scattering rubble across the chamber. A Graeveling, but nothing like the ones they had faced in the tunnels. This one stood twice Jaune's height, its body thick with muscle and scarred bone plating. Claws the size of swords curved from its forelimbs. Red eyes burned with ancient malice, and behind it, in the darkness of the tunnel it had carved, more Graevelings poured forth. Dozens of them, flanking their elder.

An elder Grimm. Grimm did not die of age. They grew larger and stronger with every passing decade so long as they survived. This one had been here for years. Decades. Perhaps longer. It had fed on hatred and grown fat in the dark, becoming something far deadlier than its younger kin.

The elder Graeveling opened its jaws and roared. The sound shook the walls.

Ozpin and Glynda moved at once, falling into combat stances. Jaune felt the shift in the air, the tension that came before violence.

He raised his hand.

"Paralysis."

The elder Graeveling froze mid-roar. Its jaw hung open, its claws locked in place. Behind it, the smaller Graevelings stumbled and went rigid, their bodies seizing as the spell took hold. Every single one of them, frozen in place like statues.

Silence fell over the chamber.

Jaune lowered his hand. "There."

Ozpin's eyebrows rose slightly. Glynda's riding crop hovered in the air, its tip pointed at nothing.

Sebas stepped forward, surveying the paralyzed Grimm. He tilted his head, examining the elder Graeveling's massive form. Then he turned to Ozpin and Glynda.

"Would either of you care to dispatch some?" Sebas asked. "It seems a shame to let the opportunity go to waste."

Ozpin stared at him. "You are offering us the kills?"

"If you wish. They are not going anywhere."

Glynda's mouth tightened. Her eyes moved across the frozen Grimm, lingering on the elder. Something flickered behind her glasses. Hatred. Old and deep and carefully controlled, but present nonetheless.

"Professor?" Ozpin asked quietly.

Glynda did not answer with words. She raised her riding crop. Purple light flared. The elder Graeveling's body twisted, invisible force crushing its skull from multiple directions at once. Bone cracked. Flesh ruptured. The massive head caved inward like a crushed can, and the body collapsed, already dissolving into dark mist.

More purple light surged through the chamber. Glynda swept her arm to the side. Paralyzed Graevelings flew into the walls, their bodies breaking against stone. She pulled downward. Others slammed into the floor, their spines shattering from the impact. Her face remained impassive, but her motions carried a weight that spoke to something beneath the surface. A hatred that had festered for years, channeled into precise, devastating action.

Ozpin watched her for a moment. Then he stepped forward, his cane in hand.

He approached a paralyzed Graeveling. The creature's eyes rolled wildly in its frozen skull, unable to move, unable to flee. Ozpin raised his cane. The shaft gleamed in the flashlight's beam.

He brought it down on the Graeveling's skull. The impact cracked bone. He struck again. Again. Each blow precise, measured, the cane's reinforced length doing the work that a lesser weapon could not. The Graeveling's head shattered under the fourth strike, and the body dissolved.

Ozpin moved to the next. His expression remained calm, his posture relaxed. But there was something in the way he struck. A finality to each blow. A quiet satisfaction that surfaced and submerged in the span of a heartbeat.

Jaune watched them work. He understood what he was seeing. Huntsmen and huntresses did not just fight Grimm. They hated them. Even the composed ones, the controlled ones, the ones who smiled and taught classes and signed paperwork. The hatred was there. It had to be. Grimm killed people. Grimm destroyed homes. Grimm had taken things from everyone who chose this life.

Ozpin and Glynda just knew how to keep it contained.

The last Graeveling dissolved under Glynda's telekinesis. The chamber fell silent again, the only sound the distant drip of water.

"Thank you," Ozpin said, adjusting his glasses. "That was... cathartic."

Sebas inclined his head. "A pleasure, Headmaster."

They emerged from the mine into daylight. The air tasted cleaner here, away from the dust and the dark. Jaune led the way back through the ruined streets of Thornhollow, Sebas bringing up the rear. Ozpin and Glynda walked between them, their earlier catharsis settled into professional quiet.

The treeline came into view. Beyond it, the clearing where they had left the airship.

Smoke rose from the ground.

Jaune increased his pace. The trees thinned, and the clearing opened before them.

The airship sat where they had left it, intact but scarred. Scorch marks blackened its hull. Claw gouges ran along one side. The landing ramp was down.

Around the vessel, Grimm lay scattered across the grass. Nevermore with broken wings. Graevelings with shattered limbs. A few larger shapes that might have been Beowolves, their bodies twisted at unnatural angles. None of them moved, but none of them had dissolved. They simply lay there, breathing in ragged gasps, their red eyes dim with pain.

Albedo stood among them. Her armor was summoned, her bardiche resting against her shoulder. Not a scratch marked her.

"Sword," she said pleasantly as Jaune approached. "Spear. Headmaster. Professor. I trust your expedition was successful?"

"It was," Jaune replied. He surveyed the wounded Grimm. "I see you had company."

"They arrived shortly after you departed. Flying Grimm from the north, burrowers from the south. I handled them." Albedo gestured to the fallen creatures with her free hand. "I thought about killing them. But then I considered that you might want the exercise."

Jaune understood. This was not about exercise. Albedo had incapacitated them, hurt them, and left them alive because she enjoyed their suffering. The sadism ran deep in her. It was part of what made her effective.

"Sebas," Jaune said.

Sebas stepped forward. He moved among the fallen Grimm with unhurried purpose. A Nevermore tried to raise its head. Sebas brought his heel down on its skull. The crunch was wet and final. He continued to the next, a Graeveling with both forelimbs crushed. He knelt, took its head in his hands, and twisted. The spine snapped.

Jaune walked the perimeter. A Beowolf with a caved-in chest tried to crawl toward him. Jaune placed his armored boot on its throat and pressed until the thrashing stopped. Another Nevermore, one wing bent at an impossible angle, screeched as he approached. He grabbed its beak and crushed it in his grip.

The work took less than a minute. Bodies dissolved into black mist around them, the last traces of the attack fading into nothing.

"All clear," Jaune announced.

Albedo shifted her grip on her bardiche, the sickly green glow of its blade catching the afternoon light. "I took the liberty of informing the pilot that we would be departing soon. The vessel is flight-ready."

"Good." Jaune turned to Ozpin and Glynda. "Headmaster, Professor. If you would board first."

Ozpin studied the scorch marks on the hull. "The damage?"

"Superficial. The pilot confirmed all systems are operational."

Ozpin nodded slowly and ascended the ramp. Glynda followed, her riding crop still in hand. Jaune waited until they were inside before he and Sebas boarded.

The ramp sealed behind them. The pilot's voice crackled through the speakers.

"Everyone aboard? Good. Taking off."

The airship lifted from the clearing. Through the observation windows, Jaune watched the ruins of Thornhollow shrink beneath them.

A shadow fell across the glass. Albedo flew alongside the vessel, her wings spread wide, her armored form keeping pace with the aircraft. She banked left, then right, scanning the airspace for threats.

Glynda watched her through the window. "She does not tire?"

"She has remarkable endurance," Jaune said.

Ozpin settled into his seat, his cane across his lap. "Well. This has been an illuminating day."

The airship hummed steadily as it cruised toward Vale. Jaune sat across from Ozpin, the Headmaster having turned his seat to face him directly. Sebas had taken a position near the cockpit, his hands folded behind his back, eyes closed as if resting. Glynda had reclined in her seat, her pencil skirt riding slightly higher on her thighs as she crossed one leg over the other. The dark stockings clung to the curve of her calf, her low-heeled shoes pointed toward the cabin floor. The collar of her blouse had shifted during the day's exertions, sitting slightly open at the hollow of her throat. She caught Jaune's gaze through his visor and held it, her expression unreadable behind her glasses.

Ozpin adjusted his own glasses, drawing Jaune's attention back to him.

"Mr. Arc, I must admit, I find myself curious about Nazarick Security Consultation." Ozpin's voice was measured, thoughtful. "It appeared quite suddenly. No history, no reputation, no prior contracts that I could uncover. Yet here you are, with capabilities that rival or exceed established huntsman teams."

"We keep a low profile," Jaune said.

"Evidently." Ozpin smiled faintly. "But setting that aside, I must say I am impressed. The Goliath alone would have required significant effort from Professor Goodwitch and myself to neutralize. You handled it in seconds. The Graevelings in the mine, the elder that emerged, the assault on the airship. All of it dealt with an ease I have rarely witnessed."

"We aim to deliver results."

"You have certainly done that." Ozpin leaned back in his seat. "I had my doubts when we first met. A young man, a new firm, claims that seemed too good to be true. But you have proven yourself. All three of you."

His gaze moved to Sebas, then to the window where Albedo's shadow passed.

"Shield is remarkable. Her combat prowess, her endurance, her ability to operate independently. Spear, for all his unassuming demeanor, possesses strength that belies his appearance. And you." Ozpin's eyes returned to Jaune. "A Semblance that can paralyze multiple targets at once, including an elder Grimm, with no apparent strain. Combined with your physical capabilities and your tactical judgment."

"I appreciate the kind words, Headmaster."

"It is not flattery but fact." Ozpin's fingers drummed against his cane. "I am glad to have Nazarick Security Consultation contracted with Beacon. Very glad. Whatever arrangements we make going forward, I believe this partnership will prove beneficial for both parties."

Jaune inclined his head. "I feel the same way. Beacon is a prestigious institution. Working with you is an opportunity we value."

Glynda's riding crop tapped once against her thigh. She uncrossed her legs and recrossed them, her posture straightening. Her gaze lingered on Jaune a moment longer before she turned to look out the window.

"I look forward to seeing what else your firm can accomplish," Ozpin said. "This expedition was merely the beginning, I hope."

"It was," Jaune agreed. "We are just getting started."

Ozpin nodded. The airship banked slightly, adjusting course. Through the window, the walls of Vale grew larger on the horizon.

The contract was secure. The relationship was established. Nazarick Security Consultation had taken its first real step into the light.

Chapter Text

The night air carried salt and the distant sound of waves. Jaune walked along the narrow strip of sand, the water lapping at his boots. Albedo and Sebas followed a few paces behind, their footsteps quiet on the wet shore. The airship carrying Ozpin and Glynda shrunk in the distance after Jaune had asked them to drop him off here.

The beach was small. A sliver of coastline where the ocean met the land, hemmed in by rocky cliffs on either side.  Out where the narrow channel opened into the larger ocean, layers of heavy iron grates sat beneath the surface. Jaune could see the outline of them even in the darkness, thick bars sunk into the seabed to prevent anything large from slipping through. Patrol boats cruised the waters on the safe side of the barrier, their decks mounted with defensive armaments. Automatic cannons sat on rotating turrets, fed by ammunition belts loaded with high-explosive rounds designed to detonate on impact or after penetrating a target's hide. Depth charge launchers lined the aft decks, their racks holding drums packed with explosives that would sink to a preset depth before detonating, creating pressure waves capable of crushing internal organs. Some vessels carried surface-to-air missile racks, the projectiles guided by infrared seekers that locked onto body heat, their warheads armed with shrapnel loads to shred wings and flesh alike.

A dangerous world. The defenses were necessary. The grates, the boats, the weapons, the constant patrols. All of it existed because the ocean was not safe. It never had been.

Jaune stopped at the water's edge. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

The fake transcript. He had paid good money for it. Falsified records, invented grades, a fabricated history that would have gotten him into Beacon through lies. He had been ready to use it. Ready to cheat his way into a school for warriors, hoping he would not die in the process.

It seemed a lifetime ago. His acquisition of Momonga's memories, his melding with the undead overlord, his access to Nazarick and all its power, the summoning of Albedo and Sebas and all the others, all of it had happened so recently. But the boy who had clutched this transcript and prayed for a chance felt like a stranger.

He did not need it anymore.

Jaune held the paper in his open palm. He focused. A spark of flame ignited at his fingertips, orange and warm in the darkness. The fire spread across the paper, consuming it in seconds. The edges curled and blackened, the ink vanishing in smoke. Ash scattered in the wind, drifting out over the water.

The flame died. His palm was empty.

Albedo stepped forward, her gaze on the water. "Do you regret it? The path you nearly took?"

"No." Jaune lowered his hand. "I just remember who I was when I made that choice. It helps me understand who I am now."

Sebas’s attention remained on the patrol boats in the distance. The searchlights continued their sweep. The ocean breathed against the shore.

"Shall we return, my lord?" Albedo asked.

Jaune watched the last traces of ash disappear into the darkness. "Yes. We have work to do."

They left the beach behind, ascending a rocky path that connected to the main road. The pavement stretched ahead, a ribbon of grey cutting through the darkness toward the distant glow of Vale. Streetlights lined the roadside at regular intervals, their light pooling on the asphalt.

Patrols passed them on motorcycles, pairs of soldiers riding in formation. Night vision goggles obscured their faces, the lenses reflecting green in the street light. Sidearms sat on their hips, and the bikes themselves carried mounted rifles, the barrels gleaming dull black under the stars.

Jaune watched them pass. Not huntsmen. He could tell. Huntsmen carried guns, yes, but they also bore personal weapons. Swords, axes, scythes, hammers. Things that reflected their style, their Semblance, their identity. There was a flamboyance to huntsmen, a theatrical quality that set them apart. These soldiers lacked that. Their equipment was standardized. Practical. Interchangeable. They were trained killers, but not warriors in the way huntsmen were.

A howl split the night.

Jaune's head turned. The soldiers on the nearest bike braked hard, their boots hitting pavement as they dismounted and unslung their rifles.

Beowolves. A pack of them, emerging from the treeline on the left. Lupine shapes, black fur drinking the darkness, white bone exoskeletons covering their skulls. Red eyes burned like coals. The lead Beowolf charged, its claws tearing up earth as it closed the distance.

The soldiers opened fire. Muzzle flash strobed in the night. Rounds tore into the Grimm's chest and shoulders, black mist spraying from the wounds. The Beowolf stumbled but kept coming. A second volley caught its skull, shattering the bone plating. The creature collapsed and dissolved before it hit the ground.

More Beowolves poured from the trees. The soldiers adjusted their aim, firing in controlled bursts. Two more Grimm fell. A third broke through the gunfire and lunged at the nearest soldier, claws extended. The soldier raised his rifle to block, the impact sending him sprawling.

More soldiers arrived, their bikes skidding to stops along the road. They added their fire to the chaos. Beowolves dropped in heaps, but more kept coming. The pack was larger than anticipated. The line wavered.

Jaune watched. His eyes found each Grimm in turn.

"Paralysis."

The Beowolves froze mid-stride. Claws halted inches from flesh. Jaws hung open around half-formed roars. The entire pack stood motionless, their bodies locked in place.

The soldiers opened fire. The paralyzed Grimm fell in waves, their bodies riddled with bullets before they dissolved into mist. The pack was wiped out in seconds.

Silence returned to the road. Smoke drifted from rifle barrels. The soldiers scanned the treeline for more threats, found none, and lowered their weapons.

One of them turned to Jaune. The soldier's night vision goggles met his visor. A moment passed. Then the soldier nodded, a brief dip of the head, and returned to his bike. Others did the same. They did not ask what had happened. They did not question it. They simply accepted that something had occurred, that Jaune was responsible, and that they were alive because of it.

The engines roared to life. The patrol continued down the road, disappearing into the night.

Albedo stepped closer to Jaune. "My lord, if I may ask, why intervene? These soldiers are not our concern."

"They would have died."

"Indeed they would have." She inclined her head. "Forgive my curiosity. I merely wish to understand your reasoning."

"It costs nothing to help."

Sebas inclined his head in agreement. "A measured response, my lord."

Jaune resumed walking. Albedo and Sebas fell into step behind him. The lights of Vale grew brighter on the horizon.

The walls of Vale rose before them, stone and steel rising high into the night sky. Multiple gates dotted the perimeter, wide ones for vehicles and smaller pedestrian entrances spaced between them. LED lanterns and spotlights illuminated the entrances, casting pools of brightness against the dark stone.

Guards manned the walls in force. Gun emplacements sat behind crenellations, their barrels pointed outward at angles designed to cover both sky and ground. Jaune's eyes traced the weapons as they approached. Heavy machine guns with water-cooled barrels for sustained fire against swarming Grimm. Autocannons with rotating magazines, meant to tear through larger targets with high-explosive rounds. Anti-air batteries sat on raised platforms, their radar-guided tracking systems sweeping the sky for aerial threats. A few positions held recoilless rifles mounted on swivels, their breech-loaded tubes capable of firing explosive shells into charging packs at medium range.

Soldiers with rifles patrolled the walkways, their eyes scanning the darkness beyond the walls. Searchlights swept the approaches, their beams cutting through the night.

Among the soldiers moved figures that stood out. Huntsmen and huntresses, humans and faunus alike, their weapons visible on their backs or at their hips. They carried themselves differently from the regular guards, their discipline of a different sort. Where soldiers held to formation and protocol, huntsmen held to the rhythms of combat. Their stance was relaxed but ready. Some wore distinctive armor. Others favored practical clothing that still bore marks of individuality.

Jaune approached the nearest pedestrian gate. A guard stepped forward, rifle held across his chest.

"Halt. State your business."

"Nazarick Security Consultation," Jaune said. 

The guard's eyes moved from Jaune to Albedo to Sebas. He took in the armor, the weapons, the way they carried themselves. His posture shifted slightly, tension easing into something more respectful.

"Huntsmen?"

"Private security."

The guard waved over a superior, who examined documentation and cross-referenced it with a tablet. The process took minutes. Credentials verified, contract confirmed, names logged.

"Welcome back." The superior stepped aside and waved them through.

They passed through the gate. The streets of Vale stretched before them, alive even at this hour. Late-night vendors operated under awnings, their battery operated LED lanterns casting warm light. Civilians walked the streets in pairs and groups, some heading home from work, others enjoying the night air. Restaurants spilled light and music onto the cobblestones. Patrols moved through the intersections, their presence a comfort rather than a warning.

Albedo walked at Jaune's left, her gaze sweeping the streets. "The defenses are adequate."

"Though they could use some improvements," Sebas added from the right.

Jaune had seen the walls from the outside, the layers of protection, the constant vigilance. Vale was a fortress, but fortresses had weaknesses. Every wall had a gate. Every gate had a guard, and guards could be killed, bribed, or bypassed.

The privilege of huntsmen and huntresses was freedom of movement. They could go where civilians could not, act where soldiers would hesitate, fight where others would flee. Jaune's status as a security contractor granted him something similar. The paperwork was different. The oversight was different. But the result was almost indistinguishable.

He found it funny, in a way. Huntsmen and huntresses trained for years. Some went through academies like Beacon. Others found mentorship under veterans when they lacked access to formal schooling. Either path demanded sacrifice, discipline, and struggle. Yet here he was, walking through the same gates, enjoying the same privileges, because he had filled out the right forms and paid the right fees. Technically his job was not to hunt Grimm. It was to provide security. But the difference was semantic in practice. A legal fiction that opened the same doors.

He could walk these streets at any hour. He could carry weapons openly. He could expect cooperation from local authorities rather than suspicion. His firm focused on security. Protecting locations. Escorting clients. Guarding assets. Urban work, rural work, anything a client might pay for. Some jobs took them into territories where Grimm roamed. That was where the overlap with huntsmen and huntresses existed. But the focus remained on security, not extermination.

Somewhere in the distance, a clock tower chimed the hour. The main avenues thrummed with life, restaurants and taverns spilling light onto cobblestones, electric streetlamps casting steady white pools of illumination at regular intervals. The iron posts stood shoulder-high, their glass housings protecting bright bulbs that hummed faintly with power. Well-dressed couples walked arm in arm. Shopkeepers closed their storefronts, pulling down metal grates and locking doors behind them. Children chased each other around fountain squares while their parents watched from nearby benches.

Then the streets narrowed. The lamps grew sparse, their glass panes cracked or missing, their bulbs dimmer or burnt out entirely. The buildings pressed closer together, their facades worn and weathered. Here the vendors sold cheaper goods from rusted carts and folding tables. The laughter was louder, rougher, tinged with desperation. Men and women lingered on corners with hollow eyes, their hands extended toward passersby. A fight broke out in an alley, the sounds of fists on flesh echoing off brick walls before someone shouted and the combatants scattered.

Jaune walked through it all without changing pace. Albedo and Sebas flanked him, their presence drawing looks from those they passed. The woman in armor with wings folded against her back. The elderly man in the butler's suit, his posture perfect, his gaze serene. The young man in the black armor, his face hidden behind a dark visor. People gave them room.

Albedo's attention lingered on a patrol that crossed their path. Four men in matching uniforms, rifles slung over their shoulders, their movements coordinated.

"How humorous," she said.

"What is?" Jaune asked.

"Those soldiers."

She gestured to the patrol as it disappeared around a corner.

"I looked up the history of Vale on the journey here. The kingdom disbanded its standing army after the Great War. A gesture of peace, a rejection of militarism. Officially, they have no military forces. Atlas alone maintains a proper army."

"Then what are those?"

"Militia. Reserve defense forces. City watch. Constabulary." Albedo's voice carried a faint edge of amusement. "They have many names for it. But those men train together. They wear matching uniforms. They carry standardized weapons. They follow a chain of command. They patrol in formation and respond to orders."

She gestured to another patrol crossing an intersection ahead.

"Call them what you like. In practice, they are soldiers. The kingdom simply refuses to acknowledge it."

"A distinction without a difference," Sebas said.

"Indubitably." Albedo's wings rustled against her back. "Vale prefers the illusion. They tell themselves they are different from Atlas. More peaceful. Less aggressive. But when Grimm threaten the walls, it is not only huntsmen who answer. It is men with rifles and cannons and organized tactics. The function remains the same. Only the label changes."

Jaune watched a group of children run past, their clothes patched and worn, their faces bright with borrowed joy. A woman called after them from a doorway, her voice tired but fond.

"Does it matter?" he asked.

"Perhaps not." Albedo's gaze swept the street. "But it speaks to character. A kingdom that lies to itself about what it is. A kingdom that wraps its soldiers in softer names and pretends the violence is something else."

"Every kingdom has its fictions," Sebas said.

"True," Albedo said. "But acknowledging the fiction is the first step to understanding the truth beneath it."

Jaune's footsteps slowed as they passed beneath a streetlamp that flickered with dying light.

"I've been thinking," he said.

Albedo turned her attention to him. "Yes, my lord?"

"The privileges. Freedom of movement. Carrying weapons openly. Access to restricted areas. Cooperation from authorities." Jaune's visor swept the street ahead. "Security contractors have nearly the same access as huntsmen and huntresses. The paperwork is different, but the result is almost identical."

"Astute observation, my lord."

"So why isn't everyone doing it?" Jaune asked. "If the barriers to becoming a security contractor are lower than becoming a huntsman, why aren't more people taking that path? Why go through academies or find mentors when you could simply... register a firm and start taking contracts?"

"The privileges are similar, yes,” Albedo said. “But the prerequisites are not." She walked beside him, her armored boots clicking against the cobblestones. "Consider what a security contractor actually does. They protect clients. They guard locations. They escort people through dangerous territory. All of these tasks may involve combat."

She gestured to the darkened windows they passed.

"Now consider what dangers exist in this world. Bandits. Criminals. Grimm. Soldiers kill Grimm regularly. We saw it ourselves on the road. Guns, cannons, coordinated fire. These things work. But huntsmen and huntresses do more with less. Aura grants them protection that armor cannot match. It lets them fight longer, harder, without counting every bullet or worrying about running out."

Albedo's wings rustled against her back.

"A soldier with a rifle can kill a Beowolf. A team of soldiers can hold a position against a pack. But they burn through ammunition. They take casualties. They get tired. A huntsman with trained Aura can do the same work with a blade and their own two hands, for hours if necessary, and never run dry. The difference is not whether they can kill. It is how much killing they can do before they have to stop.

"People do become security contractors without attending academies. Former soldiers. Those trained by private tutors. Anyone with sufficient combat experience can register a firm and take contracts. But the work is harder for them. The margins are thinner. They lack the tools that let a huntsman keep going when the fight drags on."

Albedo's expression softened.

"My lord is different. Your power renders such concerns irrelevant. But for most, the academies and mentorship programs offer something they cannot obtain elsewhere. Not just the ability to fight, but the ability to keep fighting. That makes all the difference."

"Competence precedes credentials." Sebas said. "Without the former, the latter is merely a certificate of foolishness."

Albedo inclined her head toward the older man. "The registration is easy. The survival is not. That is why most pursue formal training first. They know the work will eat them alive otherwise."

Jaune considered this. The logic was sound. The privileges were meaningless if you lacked the strength to exercise them.

"Fair point," he said.

The streets grew narrower. The electric lamps here were fewer, some dark entirely, their bulbs shattered or stolen. Graffiti covered the brick walls, tags and symbols layered over each other in competing colors. Jaune did not recognize the neighborhood. He would need to check a map later to place it.

The buildings here were older, their facades cracked and stained. Fewer people walked the streets, and those who did moved with purpose, heads down, eyes forward. A group of teenagers lingered on a stoop, their conversation dying as the three strangers passed.

"How do we maximize the defenses of our clients?" Jaune asked. His voice carried through the quiet street.

Albedo answered first. "Eliminate every potential threat before it can manifest. Those who might one day pose a danger to our clients should be removed from the equation entirely. Preemptive action ensures complete security."

"Murder," Jaune said.

"And pragmatism," Albedo concurred. "A dead enemy cannot harm a client."

Sebas walked with his hands folded behind his back. "An alternative, my lord. Rather than hunt those who might threaten, demonstrate that attacking our clients is impossible. Make the attempt so costly, so devastating in its consequences, that no rational actor would dare try. Those who do attempt it become examples. Living warnings."

Albedo's wings twitched. "That approach allows the disrespect to occur. It permits attackers to raise their hands against those we protect. They will fail. Their efforts will amount to nothing. But the insult remains. It is like being spit upon. The spit does not harm, but the act itself is intolerable."

She turned to Sebas.

"You would allow our lord to be spat upon?"

Sebas did not break stride. "You equate an attack on a client with an insult to Lord Jaune. The two are not the same. Your analogy fails because it assumes our lord shares your standards. You do not speak for him."

Albedo's hands curled at her sides. For a moment, something flickered behind her eyes. Then she inclined her head.

"Naturally. Only my lord may determine what is intolerable for himself. I await his judgment on the matter."

Jaune's attention had drifted to a wall ahead. The brick was faded, the mortar crumbling between the stones. Someone had painted a figure there, large and imposing. A skeleton in a black cloak, its eye sockets empty, a scythe clutched in bony fingers. The blade curved over a hunched figure with animal ears, a faunus cowering beneath the shadow of death.

Beneath the image, words had been scrawled in red paint:

FILTHY ANIMALS DESERVE THE REAPER

HANG THE FAUNUS SCUM

THEY BREED LIKE RATS AND STEAL OUR JOBS

Jaune studied the art itself. The proportions were solid. The cloak had weight to it, the folds suggesting a wind that did not exist. The scythe's edge caught a metaphorical light. Whoever had painted it had skill.

"Not bad," he said.

Albedo followed his gaze. "The execution is impressive. The artist understood form and shadow." Her tone was dismissive. "The subject matter is beneath notice. Humans squabbling with faunus. Both are lesser creatures. Their hatreds are as irrelevant to me as the quarrels of insects."

Sebas regarded the mural with polite neutrality. "The technique demonstrates competence. The message is regrettable, though such conflicts are common among mortals."

Jaune noted the responses. Neither Albedo nor Sebas were human or faunus. They were something else entirely, beings formed from the game that had become his inheritance. Their loyalty belonged to Nazarick and to him. Everything outside that circle was, at best, a curiosity. The racial tensions of Remnant held no more weight for them than the territorial disputes of ants.

He looked at the image a moment longer. The Grimm Reaper. A figure of fear, twisted into a symbol of hatred. But the art itself had merit.

He walked on. Albedo and Sebas followed.

The street opened into a small plaza. A fountain stood at its center, dry and cracked, filled with old newspapers and broken glass. Four men leaned against the basin, their eyes tracking the newcomers as they approached.

One of them pushed off from the fountain. He was tall, wiry, with a shaved head and a tattoo of a fanged skull on his neck. The others followed, spreading out to block the path.

"Well, well." The shaved-headed man grinned at Albedo. "Look at this. A pretty one."

His eyes traced over her. The white horns curving from her temples. The wings folded at her hips. The long black hair spilling over her shoulders.

"What are you supposed to be, sweetheart?" He stepped closer. "Got wings on your hips. Horns on your head. What kind of faunus are you? A bat? A goat?" He laughed. "Some kind of mutt breed?"

The others joined in.

"Bet she takes it like an animal too."

"Look at those horns. Wanna see if she knows how to use them."

"Gonna spread those wings and ride her all night."

The shaved-headed man turned to Jaune and Sebas.

"You two. You can walk away. Nothing to do with you." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Just leave the faunus whore with us. We'll show her what she's good for."

One of his companions spat. "Freaks associating with animals. Fucking pathetic."

Jaune looked at them. Four men planning assault. Talking about violation. And accusing him of degradation.

The irony was almost funny.

The shaved-headed man pulled a knife from his belt. He waved it lazily, the blade catching the dim light.

"I know what you are. Huntsmen. Or close enough. Got that look." His grin widened. "But here's a newsflash. I got Aura too. Semblance and everything."

He tapped the side of his head.

"My Semblance? I look at you, and your Aura stops working. Your Semblance stops working. Just shuts right down." He spread his arms. "So go ahead. Try something."

The three men behind him pulled guns from their jackets. Jaune recognized the shapes. Semiautomatic pistols. Fifteen-round magazines, likely. Nine millimeter. The Remnant equivalents of firearms he knew from Earth. Functional. Reliable. Deadly against unshielded targets.

The gunmen aimed at the three travelers. Smug satisfaction settled on their faces.

The three stared back.

A single second passed and the shaved-headed man blinked rapidly as three bodies hit the ground.

Jaune had glimpsed it. A flash of movement from his left. Albedo crossing the distance in a blur, her hand rising in a single fluid motion. Her palm struck the side of the first gunman's neck. Flesh and bone parted. The head separated from the shoulders and tumbled through the air, blood fountaining from the stump before the body even began to fall.

From his right, Sebas’s fist drove into the second gunman's face. The skull collapsed around his knuckles. Bone fragments and brain matter sprayed backward as his hand punched through to the other side. He withdrew his arm, and the ruined head lolled, the face a crater of red ruin.

Jaune's own hand had found the third gunman's jaw. His fingers hooked behind the bone, thumb pressing against the chin. He pulled downward and sideways with force that tore through the tendons and ligaments connecting the jaw to the skull. The bone ripped free with a wet tearing sound. The violence of the motion wrenched the man's head at an angle that snapped the cervical spine. The body dropped, the severed jaw still clutched in Jaune's grip.

The shaved-headed man stood frozen. His knife hung forgotten at his side. His eyes darted between the three corpses and the three figures who had killed them.

"How?" His voice cracked. "How can you move like that? Without your Aura? Without your Semblance? I turned them off. I turned them off."

"You didn't turn off anything," Jaune said. "We don't have those."

His Semblance had melded him with Momonga. It had opened a door to Nazarick, allowed him to summon it across dimensions. But once that access was granted, the Semblance went dormant. Inert. He had checked. The power was there, but it had done its work. What remained was what Nazarick provided.

And what Nazarick provided was more than enough.

Albedo walked toward the shaved-headed man. Her steps were slow. Deliberate. Her wings unfolded from her hips, spreading wide, black feathers rustling against the night air.

"You spoke of what you would do to me." Her voice was low. Seething. "You described the violations you would inflict. As if I were a thing to be used. As if I could be claimed by filth like you."

She stopped inches from him. Her golden eyes burned.

"I will remove your tongue. I will flay the skin from your limbs. I will break every bone in your hands and feet and leave you to drag yourself through the streets like the worm you are. I will carve your eyes from your skull so the last thing you ever see is my face as I take you apart piece by piece."

Her hand closed around his throat.

"No one touches what belongs to my lord. No one speaks of it. No one thinks of it. The mere suggestion that a lesser creature like you could defile one of Nazarick, that offense cannot be forgiven."

The man's legs kicked uselessly in the air. His hands scrabbled at Albedo's wrist, nails scraping against armor.

"Wait." The words came out strangled. "Wait. You don't understand. I work for someone. Someone important. More important than you know. More important than this."

He gasped for air.

"If you kill me, he'll find you. He'll hunt you to the ends of Remnant. He has resources. Connections. You'll have nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. Let me go, and I'll forget this happened. We can all walk away."

Albedo tilted her head. A smile played at the corner of her lips.

"Threats." Her voice was sweet. Almost gentle. "A lesser creature, dangling in my grip like a broken toy, and it threatens me."

She pulled him closer. His feet dangled a foot above the cobblestones.

"You speak of this master as if it should frighten me. As if I should tremble at the thought of more insects swarming to avenge their kin." Her wings fluttered. "Tell me. What happens when more ants attack? Do you know?"

The man's eyes widened.

"I step on them."

Her right hand rose. The gauntlet covering it shimmered and faded, vanishing as if it had never been. Jaune recognized the effect. Magically equipped armor. She had unequipped it at will.

Her bare hand was pale and elegant, slender fingers tapering to nails that gleamed black as obsidian. As pretty as the rest of her. She raised it to the man's face. One finger extended. The nail was long and curved. She pressed the tip against his cheek, just below the eye.

"Shall I show you what happens when you threaten what belongs to my lord?"

The nail sank into flesh. Not deep. Just enough to catch. Then she pulled downward. The skin separated from the muscle beneath with a wet peeling sound. A strip of pale red meat glistened in the dim light as the flap of skin dangled from his face.

The man screamed.

Jaune sighed.

"Grasp Heart."

A phantom shape materialized in his hand. A heart, translucent and pulsing with fading rhythm. The man's eyes bulged. His actual heart, still inside his chest, began to spasm in sync with the phantom. Jaune's fingers closed. The phantom heart crushed. Inside the man's ribcage, his real heart collapsed in on itself, muscle fibers tearing, chambers rupturing, blood vessels bursting inward. Cardiac tissue liquefied under the magical pressure. The man's mouth opened in a silent scream. Then he went limp.

Albedo held the dangling body for a moment. Then she let it fall to the cobblestones.

"My lord." She inclined her head. "I apologize if you had intended this one for yourself. I became... carried away."

"It's okay," Jaune said.

He looked at the four corpses. Three gunmen. One with the Semblance. Bodies still warm, flesh still fresh.

In the game, Death Knights were temporary summons. They rose, fought, and dissolved when their duration expired. But this was not the game. Here, things that should fade sometimes persisted.

He wondered. “Death Knight.”

Jaune extended his hand toward the bodies. Black smoke poured from his palm, thick as sludge, pooling on the ground before crawling toward the corpses. It merged with flesh and bone, sinking into the wounds, filling the empty spaces where life had been.

The bodies convulsed.

Flesh swelled and stretched. Bones lengthened and thickened. Skin darkened and hardened into something like metal. The four corpses rose, no longer human, no longer the men they had been. They stood at two meters tall, their bodies crooked, their forms twisted into something new.

Armor covered them. Black metal with red bloodlines engraved across its surface. Sharp thorns jutted from shoulders and gauntlets and greaves, cruel points that caught the light. Two demonic horns protruded from each helmet. Beneath, faces were visible. Rotted. Decay made manifest. Empty eye sockets filled with hate and killing intent, glowing with a flashing red light.

Each Death Knight carried a rippled sword, a Flamberge, its edge wavy and cruel. Each bore a Tower Shield, huge and thick, a wall of black iron.

They stood silent. Waiting.

Jaune studied them. The lore described them as incarnations of violence. In the game, they had been disposable tools. Here, they felt more substantial. More permanent.

Albedo clasped her hands together, her wings fluttering with delight.

"Magnificent, my lord. Your power grows more splendid with each display." She gestured to the buildings flanking the plaza. "Shall I enter these structures? There are surely more within. I can drag their corpses out for your use. A hundred Death Knights. Two hundred. More, if my lord desires."

Sebas said, "Such inelegance. Slaughtering civilians in their homes." He folded his hands behind his back. "If more bodies are required, would it not be better to hunt more of that trash? Those who share the beliefs of these four. They, at least, have earned death through their actions."

Albedo's wings snapped rigid. Her gaze sharpened.

"Inelegant? You call me inelegant?" She stepped toward Sebas. "I offer what makes sense. Ready targets, within arm's reach. And you suggest we wander the streets hunting for specific filth? A waste of time. A waste of effort. Unless..."

Her voice dropped.

"Unless you find treasonous empathy with these lessers, Sebas. Do you? Do you feel pity for them?"

Sebas met her glare without flinching. "They insulted our lord. They threatened one of Nazarick. They spoke of violations against what belongs to him. Do you believe that is acceptable?"

Albedo's hands curled into fists at her sides. "No. It is not acceptable. Those worms deserved worse than what they received. But my suggestion still makes sense. Corpses are corpses. The dead do not care why they died. They only serve."

"The method reflects upon our lord," Sebas replied. "Getting results without thought is not the same as getting results the right way."

"That’s enough, guys," Jaune said.

Both fell silent.

"I was testing," Jaune said. "The spell. The summoning. I needed to see if it worked here. If it persisted."

He looked at the four Death Knights. They stood motionless, awaiting orders. Inside his chest, he searched for something. Revulsion. Guilt. Horror at what he had done. The men he had killed. The bodies he had desecrated.

Nothing came.

He had slain two men tonight. Ripped the jaw from one. Crushed the heart of another through magic. A normal human, one unaccustomed to violence, should feel something. Should carry weight.

He felt only curiosity.

"Hide," he told the Death Knights. "Remain out of sight. Attack only in self-defense. I’ll call you when I have need."

The four creatures moved. They stepped into the shadows between buildings, their armored forms melting into the darkness. Within seconds, they were gone.

Jaune turned back to the street. Albedo and Sebas waited, silent, attentive.

He walked on. They followed.

They passed beneath a bridge. The underside had been claimed by the homeless. Cardboard sheets laid out in rough rows. Shopping carts filled with salvaged goods. A fire pit built from loose bricks, ashes cold and gray. But the space was empty tonight. Its usual inhabitants had found shelter elsewhere.

Jaune slowed his pace.

"Albedo," he said. "Your suggestion earlier. Eliminating every potential threat before it could manifest. The approach has merit."

He walked past a cardboard shelter, its walls sagging with moisture.

"But it's crude. A security firm that assassinates rivals draws attention. Suspicion. Investigation. We need something subtler."

He stopped walking.

"Instead of attacking threats directly, we place a threat of our own. The largest criminal organization in Vale. The most feared gang, the most connected syndicate. All of it secretly answering to us. Managing elements that a legitimate firm cannot touch. Moving through channels we could never publicly access."

He turned to face Albedo and Sebas.

"For that, I need someone who can learn to navigate that world. Someone I can trust to build something from nothing."

He had a good feeling about what came next.

Jaune extended his hand, palm downward, fingers spread.

The air tore open.

A rift yawned in the space before him, edges burning with orange light. Smoke poured from the wound in reality, thick and sulfurous. Something moved within the darkness. A shape, pulling itself free from the void.

Demiurge stepped through.

He stood taller than Sebas, his frame lean and elegant. An orange British suit clothed him, single-breasted, tailored to fit without a wrinkle. The jacket fell to mid-thigh, its fabric crisp and immaculate. Beneath it, a white dress shirt with a high collar, buttoned to the neck. A black tie, knotted perfectly. Matching orange trousers, creased sharp as blades. Black leather shoes, polished to a mirror shine.

Spectacles sat on his face, round lenses catching the dim light. Behind them, ruby eyes glowed with quiet intelligence. His lips curved into a devilish smile.

A silver tail whipped behind him. It was covered in metal plates that overlapped like armor, and at its tip, six long spikes jutted outward.

He folded his hands before him and bowed.

"My lord." His voice was smooth, cultured, warm. "How may I serve you?"

Jaune removed his helmet and returned the smile.

"Welcome, Demiurge."

Chapter Text

Jaune sat on a plastic chair outside a convenience store. The sign above the door read "Sun-Up Mart" in green letters. Fluorescent lights hummed through the windows. A slushie machine churned inside. Shelves of chips and candy and bottled drinks lined the walls. A bored teenager worked the register.

He cracked open a can of soda. Carbonation hissed. The drink was sweet, overly so, with a citrus bite that reminded him of Mountain Dew. Not quite the same. Close enough.

He found it funny. No 7-Eleven on Remnant. But this might as well have been one.

The door chimed. Demiurge stepped out.

Illusion magic clung to him like a second skin. The silver tail was gone. The ruby eyes had faded to brown. The metal plates along his spine had vanished. He looked like a man in an orange suit, unremarkable, forgettable. The kind of face you passed on the street and forgot three seconds later.

"My lord." Demiurge took the chair across from him. "I have completed the initial acquisitions."

Jaune took a sip of his soda. "Talk me through it."

"The drug dealer near the docks came first. A man named Castellan. He moves Dust derivatives, cut with cheaper compounds, sells to teenagers looking for a cheap high." Demiurge folded his hands on the table. "I tracked his suppliers over three nights. Identified his warehouse. Paid him a visit."

"Details."

"I broke both his arms. Six places total. His jaw. Four ribs. His left knee." Demiurge's voice was calm, clinical. "Then I healed him. Every fracture. Every bruise. Left him whole and trembling on his own floor."

Jaune nodded.

"He wept. He begged. He swore loyalty." Demiurge smiled. "I believe him. Men who have felt their bones snap tend to remember the lesson."

"And the others?"

"A loan shark named Bracken. Operates out of a butcher shop on Kettle Street. A gang calling themselves the Red Hands. They run protection on Meridian Street. A smuggler. A fence. An enforcer who worked for a pimp in the southern district." Demiurge leaned back. "Each one visited. Each one broken. Each one healed. Each one given the same choice."

"Submission."

"Submission. A percentage of earnings. Information on request. Loyalty on demand." Demiurge adjusted his spectacles. "They call me the Gentleman now. A convenient fiction. Men fear what they cannot name. In fact, there was this one…"

The basement smelled of copper and mildew. A single bare bulb swung overhead, casting shadows that danced across the damp stone walls.

The drug dealer lay crumpled on the cold floor. His left leg folded beneath him at the calf, the shinbone jutting sideways while his foot lay flat against his own thigh, toes pointing toward his hip. His right leg doubled back on itself, knee beside his hip, the lower portion trailing off so that his ankle rested near his shoulder blade, his toes curling against his upper back. Demiurge had broken them at the start, simple snaps of bone that had dropped the man where he lay before he'd even begun the real work. The man couldn't run. Couldn't stand. Couldn't do anything but lie there in a heap while Demiurge crouched beside him, adjusting his glasses with one clawed finger.

The man's torso was a study in contrast. From the collarbones down to the waist, Demiurge had flayed the skin away in long, even strips. The exposed tissue gleamed wet and crimson under the bare bulb. Individual muscle groups were visible, their fibers glistening with a slick sheen of blood and lymph. The pectorals twitched and jumped with every breath, their striations clearly defined without the obscuring layer of skin. Between them, the sternum showed as a pale ridge, and the intercostal muscles along the ribs contracted in rapid, shallow rhythm. Lower, the abdominal muscles bunched and clenched involuntarily, the fascia over them slick and glistening. Thin trickles of blood wound down the grooves between muscle groups, pooling in the hollow of his navel.

The man's shoulders and upper arms remained unskinned, pale and sweating, making the transition at the delts all the more jarring. Where skin met raw flesh, the edges curled slightly, the dermis peeling back to reveal the wet red beneath.

"Shall we continue?" Demiurge asked pleasantly.

The man's chest heaved in ragged, hyperventilating gasps. "I, I swear!" the man sobbed, tears cutting tracks through the blood on his face. "I swear fealty! To you! Whatever you want! Please, please, please stop."

Demiurge tilted his head, the motion almost avian. "Hmm. You swear fealty to me?"

"Yes! Yes! I'll serve you, I'll do whatever you say, just, just stop, please."

The blade stilled. Demiurge set it down on the stone floor with a soft clink, then turned back to the man with a warm, disarming smile that reached his squinted eyes. "Well, that wasn't so difficult, was it?"

He raised one hand, and pale light gathered at his palm. The healing magic washed over the drug dealer like a warm tide. Flesh knitted together, raw muscle found its covering again, and the man let out a shuddering gasp as the agony faded to nothing. In moments, his skin was whole, pale and new, slightly pink and tender, but intact. His ruined shirt lay in tatters nearby, beyond any magic's repair. Even his legs straightened with wet pops, the bones fusing back to wholeness.

The man panted, staring at his own hands in disbelief. "Oh god. Oh god, thank you, thank you."

Demiurge held up a finger. "Ah. Before you get too comfortable." He leaned in, his smile never wavering. "I couldn't help but notice something, you see. When you swore your fealty just now, there was still an inkling of doubt. A small, stubborn kernel of resistance."

The man's face drained of color. "No. No, I meant it, I swear I meant it."

"Did you?" Demiurge's tone remained conversational, almost curious. He picked up the blade again, turning it so the light caught its edge. "I have excellent hearing, you know. And your heartbeat, it stuttered. Just slightly. Right around the word serve."

"Please." The man scrambled backward on the floor, his newly healed skin already prickling with goosebumps. "I'll do better, I'll prove it, just give me a chance."

"All in good time," Demiurge said warmly.

He pressed the blade to the man's shoulder, and began again. This time, he started at the left deltoid, carving a line around the joint. The skin separated cleanly, peeling away from the fascia beneath. He worked his way down the upper arm, stripping the skin in one long, continuous piece. The biceps and triceps emerged, their muscle bellies slick and wet, fibers visible in tight parallel bundles. Blood welled up in thin lines along the incision edges. The man screamed until his voice cracked, then screamed some more.

Jaune drained the last of his soda. He crushed the can in his grip.

"Good work."

Demiurge bowed his head. "It is my pleasure to serve, my lord."

Jaune set the crushed can on the table.

"Do you know what to do from here?"

Demiurge went still. The smile on his face widened. His eyes gleamed behind his spectacles.

"Ah." His voice was warm. Appreciative. "A test. I understand, my lord."

He leaned forward.

"The foundation is laid. Criminal elements now answer to me. But they are merely the beginning. From here, I expand upward. Coercion first, always coercion. The criminals provide leverage. They know secrets. They know names. They know which cops take bribes, which politicians frequent which brothels, which business owners look the other way."

Demiurge's fingers drummed on the table.

"I apply pressure. Subtle at first. A word in the right ear. A photograph delivered anonymously. A campaign donation from an untraceable source. The legitimate people fall into line. Police. City councilors. Judges. Anyone with power that can be turned."

His smile sharpened.

"Some will not bend. Stubborn men. Principled men. They require different handling. Fix them through scandal. Ruin their reputations. Destroy their families. Or, if they prove truly troublesome, kidnap them. Torture them. Send pieces to the next in line. A finger here. An ear there. The message travels quickly."

He adjusted his spectacles.

"Others will bend but harbor their own ambitions. They smile. They bow. They serve. But behind my back, they plot. Those I watch closest. If their plans interfere with your clients or your interests, I find an excuse. A crime boss has many enemies. A territorial dispute. A deal gone wrong. A violation of the code we establish. I manufacture the grievance and crush them for it. The others see a boss punishing disloyalty. They do not see a servant protecting his lord's interests.

"The web grows. Strand by strand. Until every thread leads back to me. And through me, to you."

Jaune nodded. His expression was solemn. Thoughtful.

"Excellent work, Demiurge. You've thought this through."

What the fuck was he talking about? Jaune had just been making small talk. Did Demiurge always have plans like this ready? Was this what he did when left to his own devices?

The NPC behavior from the game had carried over. Complex personalities. Hidden depths. Demiurge was not following a script. He was improvising.

Jaune picked up the crushed can and tossed it into a nearby bin.

"Keep at it."

Demiurge bowed his head. "As you command, my lord."

Demiurge's hands stayed folded on the table, his posture shifted. Subtle. Attentive. Like a man waiting for something more.

"My lord." His voice was careful. Measured. "How have you fared? In the days since I began my work, I have wondered. Hoped that all is well."

The words were polite. The intent beneath them was obvious. He wanted to stay. Wanted to talk. Wanted to be near his lord.

Jaune made a decision.

"Weekly updates," he said. "We'll meet once a week. You can tell me what's happening with your end. I'll tell you what's happening with mine."

Demiurge's smile softened. "That would be... most agreeable, my lord."

"I've been busy. There's a morgue on the east side of the city. Medical examiner's office attached. I've been visiting it at night."

He gestured vaguely with one hand.

"Did you know there are so many ways for people to die? I've seen corpses with hearts that stopped during surgery. Lungs that filled with fluid. Brains that bled into themselves. Livers that rotted from drink. Bodies crushed by machinery. Bodies burned by fire. Bodies broken by falls. Bodies twisted by disease. The variety is astonishing."

He shook his head.

"And the price tag. Funerals cost money. Cremations cost money. Even storing a body costs money. The city pays for the unclaimed, but the budget is thin. The drawers fill up. The examiners feel pressure to clear space. When someone offers to take the problem off their hands, they don't argue.

"The people who work there. The attendants, the clerks, the examiners. They could have drawn attention. So I took care of them. Bribes for some. Coercion for others. A few needed more direct encouragement. They look the other way now. They see nothing. They say nothing."

Jaune folded his arms.

"I'm selective. The homeless men and women who froze to death in alleyways. No family to claim them. No one to ask questions. The junkies who overdosed in vacant buildings, needles still in their arms. Their friends are other junkies who won't go to the authorities. The elderly who died alone in hospital beds, outliving their children, their spouses, everyone who might have cared. The unidentified bodies pulled from the river, from abandoned buildings, from ditches. No names. No records. No one looking."

He paused.

"Then there are the ones the authorities don't want found. Criminals who died during deals gone wrong. Bodies with too many questions attached. The examiners are relieved when those disappear. Easier than paperwork. Easier than investigations. They don't ask where the corpses go. And if anyone tries to betray me…"

The city morgue hummed with the low drone of fluorescent lights. Stainless steel drawers lined the walls, each bearing a tag with a name or a number. Some had names. Many did not.

Jaune walked between the rows, pulling open drawers one by one. He inspected each corpse with a clinical eye, sorting them into categories only he could see. This was not his first time here. He had made this visit a regular occurrence, each time arriving after hours, each time selecting the bodies no one would miss, each time dealing with whatever staff happened to be on duty. Some had been easier than others. A few had even come around quickly, recognizing the wisdom of cooperation. Others had needed more convincing. But all of them, eventually, had fallen into line. Carla and the coroner's assistant and Pete were simply the latest, the most recent employees at the morgue to be brought into the fold. He would keep coming back, as many times as it took, whenever new staff rotated in or old ones were replaced. There was always another visit, always another conversation to be had.

The first body he pulled out was a John Doe, mid-fifties, found frozen in an alley behind a liquor store. No identification, no missing persons report matched his description, no family coming forward to claim him. The city would cremate him in a week and forget he ever existed.

The second was a woman in her thirties, no fixed address, dead of an overdose in a public bathroom. Her next of kin was listed as a sister who had not returned any of the morgue's calls. The sister lived a continent away and had not spoken to the woman in four years.

The third was an elderly man, no known relatives, found in a single-occupancy hotel room. The landlord had discovered him three days after he died. The room had been paid up through the end of the month, and no one had come looking.

The fourth was a young man in his twenties, gang tattoos visible on his neck and forearms, dead of a gunshot wound in what the police had classified as a gang-related incident. His file noted that no family members had inquired about his body.

Jaune pulled drawer after drawer. The homeless with no one to miss them. The drifters who had drifted so far from anyone who cared that their absence was simply the natural order of things. The criminals whose associates preferred them silent and dead. The forgotten elderly whose children had died before them or never existed at all. Each one a small life that had winked out, leaving no ripple in the world behind them.

Behind him, three morgue workers stood frozen in place. The paralysis magic held their muscles locked, their eyes wide and darting, their jaws clenched against the spell's grip. A thin sheen of sweat covered their faces. The morgue attendant, a heavyset woman named Carla, stood with one hand still reaching toward the phone on the wall. The coroner's assistant, a young man with a clipboard, had been mid-stride between the filing cabinet and the desk. And the security guard, an older man named Pete, had his hand on his holster, fingers frozen around the grip of a pistol he would never draw.

Jaune closed the latest drawer and turned to face them. His expression was calm, gentle.

"You can go," he said.

The paralysis melted away. Carla stumbled forward, catching herself on the edge of a gurney. The coroner's assistant nearly fell, grabbing the desk for support. Pete staggered, his hand dropping from his holster.

"I'm done with you for now," Jaune said, turning back to the drawers. "Go home. Forget you were here tonight."

He pulled open another drawer, inspecting the corpse inside. A woman, sixties, no next of kin listed. He slid the drawer shut and moved to the next one.

Behind him, the three workers exchanged glances. Carla mouthed the word "go" and started toward the door. The coroner's assistant followed, his legs still shaky.

Pete hesitated. His hand drifted toward his pocket, toward his scroll. He glanced at Jaune's back, then at the other two workers walking toward the exit.

He pulled out his scroll. His fingers moved quickly, unlocking the screen, pulling up the phone app. He tapped in the number for the police, his thumb hovering over the call button. He looked at Jaune again. The man's back was still turned, his attention on the drawers.

Pete pressed call.

The scroll dialed. One ring. Two.

Pete's shadow peeled away from the linoleum, rising off the surface where his body had cast it against the light. The two-dimensional silhouette gained depth and mass, and became something else entirely. A figure of living darkness, humanoid in shape but wrong in proportion, with limbs too long and fingers that ended in points like blades.

Pete's eyes dropped to it. His mouth opened to scream.

The shadow demon's hand plunged into his chest. Ribs cracked. Blood sprayed across the linoleum in a wide arc. The shadow-fingers closed around his heart and pulled, tearing it free through the ruined cavity of his chest.

Pete's body hit the floor before the scroll had finished its third ring. His chest was a ruin of shattered bone and torn flesh, blood pooling beneath him and spreading in a dark stain across the gray floor. His heart lay beside him, still twitching, the valves opening and closing on nothing.

The shadow demon dissolved back into two dimensions, flowing across the floor and settling into the dark shape cast by Pete's lifeless body, still and motionless now that the man who cast it was dead.

The scroll clattered to the ground beside Pete's corpse. The call connected, and a distant voice asked what the emergency was. No one answered.

Carla and the coroner's assistant had turned at the sound of the body hitting the floor. They stared at Pete, at the ruin of his chest, at the heart still twitching on the floor beside him, then at Jaune, who was now facing them, his expression unchanged.

"I want you to understand something," Jaune said. "There are shadow demons inside each of your shadows. They're there right now, lurking in the darkness you cast on the floor and the walls, watching everything you do, everything that happens around you."

Carla's hand flew to her mouth. The coroner's assistant took a step backward, nearly tripping over his own feet.

"Pete couldn't play nice," Jaune continued. "He was going to call the police, and that would have complicated things. You understand, I'm sure."

He walked over and stepped on the scroll, crushing it under his heel. The distant voice on the other end went silent.

"I know that sounds frightening," Jaune said, holding up a hand in a placating gesture. "But it doesn't have to be. I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to offer you something. A place in the new order. Nazarick Security Consultation is going to change this city, and you can be part of that. You can have purpose. Security. A role that matters."

He let that sink in for a moment.

"But you have to play nice. That's all I ask. Cooperate, and you'll find me a very reasonable person to work with. And if you try to contact anyone about what you've seen here, well." He gestured toward Pete's body. "Unfortunate."

Carla, still pressed against the wall, nodded frantically. The coroner's assistant managed a jerky, desperate nod.

"I'm trying to be good here," Jaune said, his voice softening. "I could have killed all of you and raised you as mindless undead. I've done that before. It's easy. But I'm trying something different. You have a place in what's coming. A purpose. A role. You can be useful, and valued, and protected. All I ask is that you play nice. Can you do that?"

More nodding. Faster this time.

"Good." Jaune smiled. It was almost warm. "Now help me move these bodies to the loading dock. And Pete too."

Carla's eyes went wide. The coroner's assistant stared at him, uncomprehending.

"Waste not, want not," Jaune said, the most reasonable thing in the world. He gestured toward the corpse. "He's already here. Might as well put him to use."

The two workers stared at Pete's body, at the ruin of his chest, at the blood still spreading across the floor. Carla looked like she might be sick. The coroner's assistant's mouth worked silently, no words coming out.

"Go on," Jaune said, his tone patient. "The gurneys are right there."

He turned back to the wall of drawers and began pulling them open again, one by one, selecting the corpses that would become his new soldiers. The two workers moved like people in a dream, lifting bodies onto gurneys and wheeling them toward the back exit. When they reached Pete, Carla hesitated, her hands shaking so badly she could barely grip the gurney's rails. The coroner's assistant had to help her lift him, his own fingers slick with blood that was not yet cold. They wheeled his body alongside the others, their faces pale, their eyes hollow.

When Jaune had gathered what he needed, eighteen bodies laid out in a row on the cold concrete floor of the loading dock. The homeless, the forgotten, the unloved, the unwanted. And Pete. Each one a vessel waiting to be filled.

Jaune stood before them and raised his hand.

"Death Knight."

Dark energy gathered in his palm, swirling and coalescing into something thick and viscous. It looked like oil, black and iridescent. The smog flowed from his hand in streams, one for each corpse, snaking across the floor and climbing onto the bodies like living things.

The smog seeped into their pores, their wounds, their open mouths. It filled the empty spaces where life had once been, and then it began to reshape them.

Flesh knitted together. Wounds closed. The ruined cavity of Pete's chest rebuilt itself, bone knitting to bone, muscle regenerating in dark, twisted configurations. The dead eyes snapped open, glowing with a cold, malevolent light. Armor materialized around their bodies, black and spiked, forming from the same darkness that had animated them. Each Death Knight rose to its feet, standing two meters tall, their forms twisted into something stronger, faster, more terrible than human. In one hand, each gripped a Flamberge, its rippled blade catching the fluorescent light with an evil gleam. In the other, they bore Tower Shields, huge and imposing.

Eighteen Death Knights stood in a row, their hollow eyes fixed on Jaune, awaiting orders.

Jaune lowered his hand and regarded his new soldiers with satisfaction. Carla and the coroner's assistant would keep their positions, their shadows watched, their loyalty enforced by the demons lurking in the dark they cast. The others he had visited before, the day shift workers, the night supervisor, the pathologist, all of them already in line, already playing their parts. And now these two as well. And when new staff were hired, as inevitably they would be, he would return and have the same conversation, make the same offer, deliver the same consequences if necessary. The morgue was his, and it would stay his, and no one would ever know.

"Welcome back," he said.

"I've been making a lot of Death Knights. Like, a lot. I stopped counting after fifty."

Demiurge's hands tightened on the table.

"The Grimm," Jaune continued. "They're drawn to negative emotion. That's their thing. They sense despair, fear, hatred, pain. They come running. And Death Knights, like most undead from Yggdrasil, produce a lot of negativity. It bleeds off them. Like a stench. Like a beacon.

"Fifty plus Death Knights hidden around the city, radiating negativity. That's not nothing. The Grimm might sense it. They might come in force. Swarm the walls. Break through the defenses. The local hunters might not hold.

"But if they fail, that's an opportunity. Nazarick Security Consultation steps in. Shows what we can do. Proves our worth to the kingdom. We become indispensable."

Demiurge began to shake. His shoulders trembled. His fingers quivered against the tabletop. His smile stretched wider, wider, until it seemed it might split his face.

"My lord." His voice was breathless. Reverent. "Such foresight. Such vision. You anticipate disaster and prepare to turn it into triumph. You build an army in secret while the world sleeps. You see angles that lesser minds cannot comprehend."

He bowed his head low.

"I am humbled to serve you. Humbled and honored. Your brilliance knows no bounds."

Jaune watched the demon shake with excitement.

"Thanks, Demiurge."

The words felt inadequate. But Demiurge accepted them like they were gold.

Jaune checked the time on his scroll. The screen glowed in the dim light.

"I should head back. Beacon's expecting me. The freshmen arrive today."

He stood, brushing off his armor.

"There's an orientation tonight. Then they sleep in the hall. All of them. On the floor. Together." He shook his head. "Strange ritual. Ozpin's idea, apparently. Something about building camaraderie before the test. I don't know."

Demiurge's laugh was sudden. Sharp. It bubbled up from his chest and spilled out in a harsh bark.

"Sleeping on the floor. Like animals. Huddled together for warmth." He wiped a tear from his eye. "These lesser creatures require such absurdities to feel connection. How quaint. How pathetic. How delightfully stupid."

His laughter continued, rich and mocking.

Jaune laughed with him. It came out awkward. Forced. He was not sure what else to do.

"Right. So. Tomorrow is the test. They get launched into the Emerald Forest. Have to find their way to relics. Partner up along the way. The partnerships determine their teams for the next four years."

He stretched his arms above his head.

"Normally, the upperclassmen keep watch. Surveillance cameras scattered through the forest. Monitor the students. Make sure nothing goes wrong. That's what Ozpin told me."

Jaune looked back at Demiurge.

"I suggested something different. My group takes part in security. We patrol the forest. Watch for problems. Handle anything the cameras might miss. Plus, it gets us inside the operation. We see how Beacon handles its initiations."

He picked up his helmet from the table.

"I also pitched an internship program. The kids who don't make the cut. They wash out of the test, they have nowhere to go. But what if Nazarick Security Consultation offers them something? An internship. They learn the ropes of being a contractor. They get supplementary lessons from Beacon's professors. Combat training. Dust handling. Whatever they need to prepare for next year."

He shrugged.

"They get another shot at becoming huntsmen. We get free labor and potential recruits. The school gets to say they're supporting students who didn't make it. Everyone wins."

Ozpin also won, though Jaune blushed at how it almost felt like a bribe, recalling the incident.

The afternoon sun hung low over the golf course, casting long shadows across the manicured greens. Jaune Arc and Ozpin sat on the patio of the clubhouse, a small table between them bearing the remnants of a respectable lunch and a bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne nestled inside, waiting.

The membership here had not been cheap. Exclusive clubs never were. But Demiurge had proven remarkably adept at generating revenue from Vale's criminal element, taxing the gangs and syndicates that operated in the city's shadows, extracting a percentage of their profits in exchange for the privilege of continuing to operate. Those same criminals, some of them now enslaved through shadow demons lurking in their shadows, had then been set to work laundering those funds through a web of shell companies, front businesses, and seemingly legitimate transactions. By the time the money reached Jaune, it had passed through so many hands and accounts and jurisdictions that tracing it back to its source would require an investigation spanning years and crossing dozens of legal boundaries. Small deposits spread across multiple accounts. Payments for consulting services from companies that existed only on paper. Returns on investments in businesses that had no actual operations. A dozen different streams, each one unremarkable on its own, all of them converging in ways that looked like nothing more than the diversified income of a successful young entrepreneur.

Jaune leaned back in his chair, satisfied. The round had gone well. He had not won, exactly, but he had not embarrassed himself either, and Ozpin seemed to enjoy the opportunity to get away from Beacon for a few hours. The headmaster's silver hair caught the light as he watched a bird land on the railing of the patio, its wings folding neatly against its body.

"Thank you for this," Ozpin said, his voice warm. "It has been some time since I had an excuse to leave the tower."

"My treat," Jaune said, waving a hand dismissively. "Least I could do after the contract you gave us."

Ozpin smiled, that knowing, measured smile he wore like armor. "Nazarick Security Consultation performed admirably. I believe the phrase is 'above and beyond.'"

"We aim to please." Jaune reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He set it on the table between them and slid it across. "Speaking of which."

Ozpin raised an eyebrow. He picked up the paper and unfolded it.

It was a map. Not a standard topographical chart or a geological survey, but something far more detailed, hand-drawn with a steady hand and obvious care. The region around Vale sprawled across the page, its forests and mountains and river valleys rendered in clean, confident lines. And scattered across the landscape, marked with small red circles, were locations. Eight of them. Each one labeled with coordinates and a brief notation about the type of dust deposit suspected beneath the surface.

Jaune had found them through Momonga. The various magics melded to the undead sorcerer, combined with having Nazarick sitting in another dimension at his beck and call, meant that surveying the landscape for resources was almost trivially easy. Scrying spells, divination rituals, elemental mapping, all of it filtered through the vast intelligence network of the Great Tomb. The deposits had been catalogued, cross-referenced against known mining claims and geological surveys, and verified three times over before Jaune had ever put pen to paper.

"Undiscovered dust mines," Jaune said. "Or deposits, I guess. Untapped ones. Some of them are in areas that survey teams have combed over multiple times, according to my research. Nobody's found them yet."

Ozpin's eyes widened.

He looked at the map. He looked at Jaune. He looked at the map again.

"Jaune," he said slowly, his voice carefully controlled. "Where did you get this?"

"Found it," Jaune said lightly.

Ozpin traced one of the circles with his finger, his brow furrowed. "These are... how? The geological surveys don't indicate these formations exist. The mining companies have no records of claims in these areas. How did you find them?"

Jaune waved a hand. "Trade secrets. NSC has its methods."

Ozpin held his gaze for a long moment, then let out a breath and shook his head. "You continue to surprise me, Jaune Arc."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

Ozpin chuckled. "The jury is still out."

He picked up the map again, unfolding it, studying the marked locations with renewed interest. His lips moved silently as he calculated something, probably the approximate value of the finder's fees these discoveries would generate.

"This is extraordinarily generous," Ozpin said. "Beacon's operating budget will benefit immensely from this. You could have taken these finder's fees for yourself, or for Nazarick. Why give them to us?"

Jaune shifted in his chair. He rubbed the back of his neck, a bashful gesture that seemed almost incongruous with the man who had, moments ago, been so casually confident.

"Actually," he said, "I was hoping I could ask you something. In return. Sort of. Not really in return, more like... while we're on the subject."

Ozpin set the map down and gave Jaune his full attention. "Go ahead."

Jaune took a breath. "The initiation. Beacon's initiation exam. Every year, there are students who don't pass. Who aren't quite ready. Who need more time, or more training, or just... more." He met Ozpin's eyes. "I was wondering if it would be okay if I could recruit some of them. For internships. At NSC."

Ozpin stared.

"Only the ones who fail, I mean," Jaune added quickly. "I don't want to step on Beacon's toes or anything. I know those who pass get assigned to teams and everything. I just thought, you know, the ones who don't make the cut, maybe they could still get something out of the experience. Learn some skills, get some field time, maybe come back and try again next year with a better foundation."

Ozpin was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled, and it was a genuine smile, warm and unguarded in a way that Jaune rarely saw from the headmaster.

"Jaune," Ozpin said, "I would be delighted to allow you to recruit interns from Beacon's student body. And not just those who fail initiation."

Jaune said, "Huh?"

"Even those who pass," Ozpin said, his tone kind, "could benefit from an internship with Nazarick Security Consultation. The practical experience, the exposure to professional operations, the opportunity to see how a successful security firm functions in the real world. It would be an invaluable complement to their education at Beacon."

Jaune stared at him. "You'd let me recruit from students who passed too?"

"I would encourage it," Ozpin said. "Clearly, being an intern for NSC is only a benefit. It would be remiss of me to deny my students that opportunity simply because they happened to pass a single exam."

Jaune opened his mouth, then closed it. A slow smile spread across his face. "Ozpin, you old schemer. You're trying to get your students professional experience without having to pay for it."

"I prefer to think of it as fostering partnerships," Ozpin said, his eyes twinkling. "But yes, that is essentially correct."

Jaune laughed. He reached for the bottle of champagne in the ice bucket, the condensation slick against his palm. He pulled it free and began to work at the foil wrapping around the cork.

Ozpin raised an eyebrow. "A bit early for champagne, isn't it?"

"You're the one who said fostering partnerships," Jaune said, peeling the foil away. "I'm fostering. With alcohol." He worked the wire cage loose and set it aside. "Besides, we just closed a deal. That's worth celebrating."

"We just had a conversation," Ozpin corrected.

"Same thing." Jaune pointed the bottle away from both of them and began to work the cork. "Also, I already paid for the bottle. It would be a shame to let it go to waste."

Ozpin shook his head, but he was smiling. "You are impossible."

"I prefer 'charming.'" The cork loosened. Jaune eased it out and it came free with a soft pop. A wisp of vapor curled from the neck of the bottle. "Also, I've been practicing my restaurant skills. Watch and learn, Headmaster."

He poured two flutes, the champagne bubbling golden in the afternoon light, and handed one to Ozpin. The headmaster took it, still shaking his head, still smiling.

"A toast," Jaune said, raising his glass. "To partnerships. And finder's fees. And students who are about to get way more than they bargained for."

Ozpin raised his own glass. "To partnerships," he echoed. "And to the impossible young men who make them interesting."

They clinked glasses. The champagne was cold and crisp and effervescent, and the afternoon sun painted the golf course in shades of gold and green, and for a moment, just a moment, it felt like the simplest thing in the world.

Jaune set his glass down and leaned back in his chair, satisfied. Ozpin did the same, his expression thoughtful, his eyes distant.

"Jaune," Ozpin said after a moment. "I have to ask. Those locations on the map. The ones that no survey team has ever found. How did you discover them?"

Jaune smiled. "Trade secrets."

Ozpin held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded slowly. He did not press the issue. He folded the map carefully and tucked it into his jacket pocket, next to his pocket watch, where it would be safe until he could have it properly analyzed and the claims filed.

"Trade secrets it is," Ozpin said.

The afternoon stretched on, warm and lazy, and the two men sat on the patio of the clubhouse and watched the shadows lengthen across the green.

Demiurge's laughter had faded. His expression was thoughtful now.

"Elegant, my lord. You create value from failure. You turn rejection into opportunity. And you position yourself within the school's most critical event."

He bowed his head.

Jaune said, "I look forward to your next report."

Jaune walked to the curb and raised his hand. A yellow taxi pulled over. The paint was chipped. The bumper was held on with wire. The engine knocked when it idled.

He climbed into the back seat.

"Vale port. The airship docks."

The driver pulled away from the curb. He was a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a stained jacket. The smell of cigarettes clung to the upholstery.

Jaune stared out the window. This was burdensome. Waiting for rides. Relying on strangers. He had an army now. Resources. Power. But he was still hailing cabs like a civilian.

"What's your name?"

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror.

"Wilhem. Wilhem Blues."

"Wilhem." Jaune reached into his inventory. A stack of hundred lien bills appeared in his hand. He held it up where the driver could see it.

Wilhem's eyes widened. The car swerved slightly before he corrected it.

"How would you like a new job? Personal driver. For me and my associates. Better pay. Better hours. You don't have to crawl these streets picking up strangers anymore."

Wilhem's throat worked. His eyes kept darting to the stack in Jaune's hand.

"I... what kind of work? Who do you work for?"

"Nazarick Security Consultation. We're new in town. I need someone I can call when I need to go somewhere. Someone reliable. Someone discreet."

Jaune set the stack on the center console. Wilhem stared at it like it might bite him.

If the man knew how Jaune had gotten that money, he would have run screaming. But he did not know. He only saw the numbers. The possibility.

"I'll buy you a new car," Jaune said. "Something clean. Reliable. Presentable. You drive for me, you drive something that reflects well on the firm."

Wilhem's hands tightened on the wheel. His knuckles went white.

"Yes." The word came out hoarse. He cleared his throat. "Yes. I'll do it. When do I start?"

"Now. Take me to the port. Then we'll work out the details."

Wilhem nodded. His foot pressed harder on the accelerator. The taxi lurched forward, engine groaning, transmission whining.

Jaune sat back and watched the city pass, then reached the drop off point and thanked the driver. “I’ll see you later, Wilhem.”

Jaune stepped through the sliding glass doors of the Vale Skyport and into a wall of noise.

Announcements crackled over the intercom, listing arrivals and departures in a monotone drone that barely rose above the din of conversation. Travelers streamed past him in both directions, some hauling luggage on wheels that rattled against the polished floor, others clutching tickets and checking watches with frantic expressions. The smell of coffee and overpriced pastries drifted from a kiosk near the entrance, mingling with the faint chemical tang of fuel.

He moved with the flow of foot traffic, his eyes tracking the signs overhead. TERMINAL A. TERMINAL B. BEACON ACADEMY.

The Beacon terminal branched off from the main concourse, a separate wing marked by the academy's crest stenciled onto frosted glass doors. Through the windows, he could see the landing platforms outside. Airships in various sizes sat docked at their berths, some unloading passengers, others refueling for their next departure. Ground crews in high-visibility vests moved between vessels, checking systems and waving guide signals.

A line had formed at the ticket counter.

Jaune joined it, his scroll already in hand. The queue moved slowly. He watched the people ahead of him, prospective students by the look of it, some accompanied by nervous parents, others chatting excitedly with friends. A girl in front of him kept adjusting her bag, her fingers fidgeting with the straps.

When he reached the counter, the woman behind it barely looked up.

"Destination?"

"Beacon Academy. One ticket."

Her fingers moved across her terminal. A small frown creased her brow.

"I'm sorry, but most of our shuttles are fully booked today. We have a large influx of prospective students arriving for enrollment." She finally met his eyes, her expression apologetic. "The next available flight is Flight 214 at gate seven in two hours."

Jaune sighed.

Two hours. He could wait two hours. It wasn't ideal, but it wasn't catastrophic either.

He considered, briefly, using Gate. The spell sat ready in his mind, a doorway he could open with a thought. Step through and arrive at Beacon instantly. No waiting or tickets or wasted time.

But that would raise questions. Beacon had security. Records. People who noticed when someone appeared without a paper trail. If he showed up without a ticket, without a record of passage, someone might eventually wonder how he got there. The mundane trails of ordinary travel, tickets purchased, shuttles boarded, verification at gates, they served a purpose. They made him visible in the right ways. Invisible in the ways that mattered.

He acquiesced.

"Two hours. All right. Thanks."

The woman nodded and returned to her work. Jaune stepped away from the counter and scanned the terminal for a place to sit.

He found a bench near a large window that overlooked the landing platforms. Airships rose and descended in steady rhythm, their engines glowing as they ferried passengers to and from the academy. Students gathered in clusters, some nervous, some excited, all of them dressed in the varied clothing of those who had not yet received their uniforms.

Jaune sat down and let his mind wander.

Dust.

The crystalline substance that powered so much of Remnant's technology. He had grown up with it, learned about it in school, seen it used in weapons and machinery and the very vessels that now floated beyond the window. It was energy given form, a resource mined from the earth and refined into something that could channel elemental power.

But it was finite. The mines would eventually run dry. The crystals would eventually be exhausted. And what then?

His mind drifted to Earth. The memories he had inherited from the merger, of a world of technology and innovation, where energy came from oil and nuclear fission and the burning of ancient organic matter. Where electricity flowed through grids and powered cities without a single crystal of Dust.

He wondered about the alternatives. Solar power, capturing the light of the sun. Wind turbines, harnessing the movement of air. Hydroelectric dams, drawing force from flowing water. Geothermal energy, tapping the heat beneath the earth's crust. All of it crude compared to the elegant power of Dust, but sustainable. Renewable.

And then there were the more exotic possibilities. Nuclear fusion, the process that powered stars themselves. Theoretical in those inherited memories, but within reach. A source of energy that could outlast civilizations.

Did such things exist here? Could they exist? Or was Remnant too dependent on Dust to consider alternatives?

He watched an airship rise from the platform, its engines glowing with the telltale light of Dust infusion. Beautiful. Efficient. And ultimately, temporary.

Something to think about.

He kept returning to it for some reason, and pondered why, scrutinizing the web of thoughts that drew his conscious mind to what his subconscious had already noticed ahead of time. What was it? Dust… Earth…

Jaune realized that this world relied on Dust for everything. The miracle mineral of Remnant. It powered weapons, machinery, airships. The very vehicles that crawled through Vale's streets ran on refined Dust, processed into combustible fuel that burned cleaner and hotter than anything else available.

He thought about Earth. About gasoline. Diesel. Things Earth used. Entire economies built on the remains of ancient life, pressed and heated and transformed over millions of years into sludge that could be pumped from the ground and refined into power.

Remnant had no such industry. Dust was so ridiculously malleable that it could serve as alternatives for gasoline and diesel. It was easier. Cleaner. More versatile. No one had bothered looking for anything else. Why drill into the ground for thick black liquid when crystals grew in caves and could be mined with picks and shovels?

But having actual gasoline and diesel as alternatives would still be a massive boon. Dust was finite. The mines would run dry eventually. The kingdoms knew this. They feared it. A secondary energy source would be invaluable.

Fossil fuels. Untapped. Unknown. An entire energy sector that did not exist.

Jaune pulled out his scroll and opened a notes application. His fingers moved quickly.

Survey potential reserves. Geological surveys from Earth knowledge applied to Remnant geography. Oil, natural gas, coal. The raw materials were there. They had to be. The planet had not skipped the carboniferous period. The fossil record existed. The deposits existed.

No one had looked.

He could be the first. Could claim rights to resources no one knew they needed. Could build an infrastructure that would make him indispensable to every kingdom on the planet.

Jaune could provide that replacement.

His mind raced. He pulled up a search engine on his scroll and began typing.

Medicine first. Remnant had hospitals. Doctors. Surgeries. Pharmaceuticals. Painkillers. Antibiotics. Anesthetics. The drugs themselves were similar to Earth's. Acetaminophen. Ibuprofen. Morphine derivatives. But the manufacturing process was different. Refined Dust was combined with organic compounds and chemicals to synthesize molecules that Earth produced through petroleum-based reactions. The end products were nearly identical. The pathways to reach them were not.

Nuclear power. He searched for uranium, fission, radiation. Nothing. Remnant had no nuclear industry. No atomic theory in the public consciousness. The concept of splitting the atom for energy simply did not exist.

Electronics. Scrolls were everywhere. Communication devices. Computers. But the components were different. Dust-based processors instead of silicon. Power sources that burned crystals instead of relying on batteries. The technology worked, but the underlying principles diverged from what he knew.

Synthetic materials. Nylon existed. Polyester existed. Spandex existed. Dust was processed and combined with other elements to produce the polymers needed for synthetic fabrics. But Dust was finite. Dust was expensive. Dust was needed for weapons, for vehicles, for machinery, for power plants. Every yard of nylon produced meant less Dust available for everything else. The competition drove prices up and quality down. Manufacturers cut corners. Used less Dust per batch. The result was inferior fabrics that wore out faster and cost more than they should.

Plastic. He found the manufacturing processes quickly enough. Dust was refined and treated, its crystalline structure broken down and reformed into polymer chains. The resulting material was as efficient as any plastic on Earth. Varying quality depending on the manufacturer, same as anywhere. But like everything else on Remnant, it relied on Dust. A finite resource. A resource that weapons manufacturers needed. That power plants needed. That vehicle manufacturers needed. That the military needed. Every ton of plastic produced meant less Dust for critical industries. The competition for raw materials never stopped.

If Earth-style plastic could be introduced, petroleum-based polymers derived from oil drilling rather than Dust refinement, the strain on Dust supplies would ease. An alternative source. A secondary option. The market was there. The need was there.

Jaune added it to his notes. Another avenue to explore. Another industry to understand and potentially control.

Jaune shook his head.

The Schnee Dust Company.

He had known the name. Everyone knew the name. The logo appeared on every Dust cartridge, every fuel cell, every crystal sold in every shop across the four kingdoms.

But sitting here, thinking about it, he understood the scale. Dust powered everything. Transportation. Communication. Agriculture. Military. The entire modern civilization of Remnant rested on crystals pulled from the earth and processed in Schnee facilities.

It was not a monopoly. Other companies existed. Other mines operated. But the SDC had such a head start, such a grip on the industry, that it might as well have been one. The kind of power that toppled governments and started wars.

And Dust was finite. The mines would run dry. Not tomorrow. Not next year. But eventually. The crystals took eons to form, and humanity was burning through them in centuries. When the last vein was tapped, what then? Civilization would grind to a halt. Kingdoms would collapse. The Grimm would have no opposition.

Jaune looked at his notes. Oil. Natural gas. Coal. Nuclear. The alternatives that Remnant did not know it needed. The industries that did not exist. The markets that were empty.

He could fill them. He could build something that stood beside the Schnee Dust Company and said here is another way. Here is power that does not require crystals. Here is energy that does not come from mines. Here is a future that does not end when the last Dust crystal is pulled from the earth.

A rival. He could become a rival to the most powerful corporation on the planet.

He almost laughed.

The speaker crackled overhead. Flight 214 to Beacon Academy, now boarding at gate seven.

Jaune stood. He pocketed his scroll and walked toward the gate.

The airship interior was packed. Students filled every seat, their luggage stuffed into overhead compartments, their voices a constant murmur of nervous excitement. Jaune walked the aisle, looking for space.

He found a seat next to a woman. Quite short compared to him, though slender. White hair pulled back in a ponytail. Snow white skin. Blue eyes. A scar on the left side of her face, running from her eye down her cheek. She wore a white bolero over a white dress, combat shoes on her feet.

She was pretty. The scar only made her more so.

She noticed him looking.

"What?" Her voice was haughty. Sharp. "Do you have a problem with my face?"

He sat down beside her.

"I like your scar."

She raised a brow.

"Oh?"

She turned slightly to face him.

"Expand on that."

Jaune considered his words.

The melding had changed him. Momonga's memories, Momonga's perspective, they sat atop his own like a second skin. He remembered being Jaune. Remembered feeling things simply, directly, without analysis. A pretty face was a pretty face. A kind word was a kind word. Now everything passed through a filter of calculation and detachment. He could not say that aloud. Could not explain that he was two people pressed into one, that the elder had subsumed the younger's capacity for genuine emotion.

"I've been thinking a lot lately," he said. "About what I find beautiful. What I find interesting. I used to have a clear sense of these things. Now it's harder. More abstract. I look at something and I have to consciously decide if it appeals to me. The process is different than it was." He paused. "Your scar appealed to me. It adds character. Depth. A story written on your skin. That's what I find myself drawn to now. Evidence of living. Evidence of surviving."

She stared at him.

"You are Jaune Arc."

He regarded her. His eyes dropped to the symbol on her bolero. A snowflake. Elegant. Unmistakable.

"You're Weiss Schnee."

"I am." She folded her hands in her lap. "I have heard good things about you."

"How so?"

"Ozpin has been recommending you. In the ways people of importance spread news to other people of importance. Galas. Business summits. Private correspondence between council members and CEOs and heads of state. My father receives dozens of letters each week. Half of them mention names worth watching. Yours has appeared more than once."

She crossed her pale bare legs. The movement was smooth. Unconscious. The hem of her dress rode up slightly. Slender legs, toned from what must have been years of training, the muscles defined beneath porcelain skin.

She kept her scrutiny on him. Ice blue eyes, clear and cold and searching.

Pretty.

Her white face flushed red.

Jaune felt heat rise to his own cheeks.

He had said that aloud.

Weiss turned her face away, her nose lifting slightly.

"How bold of you. Flattering a woman you've only just met. I suppose I should be grateful you didn't comment on my legs as well."

He had noticed those too.

The airship hummed beneath them. Vale's skyline receded through the window, replaced by the green expanse of the Emerald Forest approaching in the distance.

"So," Weiss said. "Tell me about yourself. What brings you to Beacon?"

"Business, mostly. The security firm I run needed a presence here."

"Where are you from originally?"

"Ansel. Small town. Everyone knows everyone. Not exactly a corporate hub."

She tilted her head.

"Ansel. I have heard of it. Quiet place. Do you miss it?"

"Sometimes. The quiet. The space. But Vale has its good points. The food is better. More variety. And the people are interesting, when they are not trying to rob you."

Weiss's eyebrow rose.

"Rob you?"

"I have met people who are not quite nice company. Walking home late. Wrong place, wrong time." He shrugged. "You learn to be careful. Though I will admit, I am still figuring out how to read people. Never had training in that."

Weiss nodded slowly.

"I have heard similar things. Our employees deliver Dust throughout the city. Not the shops that sell it, but the distributors and business contacts who manage local sellers. They report troubling news. The White Fang has been growing bolder in Vale. Attacks. Threats. Intimidation."

Her voice carried an edge.

"It is deeply frustrating. The organization is composed entirely of faunus, and while I have nothing against faunus as people, their chosen representatives seem determined to destroy everything my family has built. They target our shipments. Harass our workers. As if the SDC is responsible for every injustice they have ever suffered."

She smoothed her skirt.

"There is also Roman Torchwick. A common thief, but a dangerous one. He has been stealing Dust across the city. A bastard with no respect for law or property. Father is livid."

She leaned slightly closer.

"And there are whispers. Shadows. A new figure calling himself the Gentleman. A would-be crime lord, perhaps. The information is scant. A few of our distributors mentioned that criminals who once answered to established gangs now pay tribute to someone new. Someone they have never seen clearly. Names change. Loyalties shift. It is difficult to track."

Jaune watched her.

"Huh."

"That is your response?"

"You know a lot. I barely know how to read a profit statement. Had to learn that on the fly."

"I am a Schnee. Information is currency."

She studied him.

"Your rise fascinates me. You did not inherit anything. You did not spend your childhood in boardrooms. You have no family legacy to lean on. I have been trained since birth to one day lead the SDC. Tutors. Internships. Meetings. You had none of that. Yet you built something from nothing. A rocketing rise to success. How does a young man from Ansel with no training accomplish that?"

Jaune regarded her.

"You figured all that out just from talking to me?"

"I am a Schnee. We notice things."

He almost smiled. She had no idea.

The airship banked slightly. Through the window, Beacon's tower rose above the treeline.

"So your Semblance," Weiss said. "If you do not mind my asking. What is it?"

"Paralysis. I see someone, and their body locks up. Cannot move. Cannot speak. They stay that way until I release them or enough time passes."

He shrugged.

"Works at range. Through clothing. Armor too. The duration depends on how much effort I put in. A few seconds if I am lazy. Hours if I am serious."

Her eyes widened.

"That is potent."

"It works well enough. Useful for security work. Subduing threats without lasting damage."

"Most people would kill for a Semblance like that."

"Maybe."

He looked out the window.

"The world frustrates me. I have opportunity now. Real opportunity. But only because of my Semblance. Without it, I would still be in Ansel. Nobody. Nothing. That bothers me. The randomness of it all. One gift, one stroke of luck, and everything changes. I did not earn this. Not really. I just... received it."

He paused.

The melding with Momonga had given him power. Access to Nazarick. An army at his command. But it had taken something in return. The dullness. The emotional flatness that sat where passion used to be. He could think about his situation, analyze it, understand intellectually that he should feel frustrated or grateful or angry. But the feelings themselves came through muffled. Distant. Like hearing music from underwater.

He knew he should feel the frustration more deeply. He did not. That absence gnawed at him in a distant, abstract way.

Weiss was quiet for a moment.

"I understand frustration." She smoothed her skirt. "Though mine comes from a different direction. I inherit everything. My name. My position. My responsibilities. The expectations placed upon me before I could speak. None of it was my choice."

She gestured vaguely at herself.

"People look at a Schnee and see the company. The wealth. The influence. They do not see a person. They see an heir. A symbol. Something to court or criticize or tear down. I had no say in any of it."

She met his gaze.

"But you cannot control where you start. Only what you do from there. You make the best of what you have. Turn circumstance into opportunity. That is all anyone can do."

Jaune regarded her.

"That is surprisingly humble. For a Schnee."

Her cheeks colored.

"I am being realistic. Not humble. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yes." She lifted her chin. "Humble means I undervalue myself. Realistic means I see my situation for what it is."

The airship began its descent toward Beacon's landing platform.

Jaune grimaced.

"Weiss. Are we friends?"

She looked at him like he had grown a second head.

"No."

The word was flat, immediate and without hesitation.

Jaune reached into himself. The magic was there, waiting. A spell from Yggdrasil, one of dozens he now carried in his mind. He pulled it forward, wrapping it in metamagic. Silent Magic. It allowed the next spell to be cast without sound.

Charm Person.

The spell settled over Weiss like a blanket. A simple enchantment. It made the target perceive the caster the way one perceives a best friend. That sense of comfort when you sit beside someone and the tension drains from your shoulders. The ease of speaking without weighing every word. The warmth of knowing you can be yourself without fear of judgment. Trust that runs deeper than logic. The feeling that this person accepts you, flaws and all, and genuinely cares about your wellbeing.

It was not mind control. The subject would not take actions they found repugnant or that violated their core principles. They simply saw the caster through the lens of genuine affection that would normally take years to build.

Her eyes flickered. Something shifted behind them, subtle, almost imperceptible.

"What about now?"

Weiss stared at him. Her expression hardened. Then, slowly, it softened. The suspicion remained, but something else joined it. A warmth that had not been there before.

"What did you do?"

Her voice was sharp. Demanding. But the edge was duller now.

"I feel... strange. Like I am sitting next to someone I trust completely. Someone I could talk to for hours without fear of saying the wrong thing. Someone whose presence makes me feel..." She pressed a hand to her temple. "Safe. Accepted. This feeling is unfamiliar. I do not know what to do with it."

Jaune smiled.

"Weiss. That means we're friends!"

Her scowl returned.

"That is not how friendship works."

"Sure it is. I decided we're friends. Now we are."

"That is ridiculously simplistic."

"It's easy."

She glared at him. The scowl deepened. Then, slowly, her lips twitched. The corners of her mouth fought against something. She looked away, then back, and the scowl softened into something closer to exasperation.

"You are insufferable."

"But we're friends."

"I did not agree to this."

"Too late. Paperwork is filed. Friendship is official."

She made a sound somewhere between a huff and a laugh. Her arms crossed over her chest, but the tension in her shoulders had eased.

"You are absurd."

"Thank you."

"That was not a compliment."

"I'm taking it as one anyway."

The airship touched down on Beacon's landing platform. The doors hissed open. Students began filing out. Weiss stood, smoothing her skirt, her chin lifted.

"This conversation never happened."

"What conversation?"

"Good."

She walked toward the exit. Jaune followed, smiling faintly.

Chapter Text

The luggage claim area was crowded. Conveyor belts carried suitcases in lazy circles. Students grabbed their bags and jostled past each other. The noise was constant.

Weiss stood before three trolleys. Each one was stacked with matching white luggage, elegant and expensive. She stared at them with an expression that suggested she had not thought this through.

Jaune stepped beside her. He took two of the trolleys and began pushing them toward the exit.

"My, what a gentleman." Weiss's voice was light. Teasing. "Carrying a lady's bags without being asked. However will I repay such chivalry?"

"You could say thank you."

"I just did."

"That was mockery, not gratitude."

"Same thing."

He snorted.

Someone stumbled forward into his path.

A girl. Slender, but athletically firm. Shoulder-length dark red hair. Silver eyes that caught the light strangely. She wore a black dress with a high collar and red trim, a waist cincher with red lacing, a matching skirt with red lining. Black tights fading to red near the ankles. Combat boots with red laces and red soles. A red hooded cloak fastened to her shoulders by cross-shaped pins. A silver buckle on her belt, angled across her hips. A pocket and a row of bullets attached.

She pitched forward, about to crash into the trolleys.

Jaune moved. He stepped between her and the luggage, catching her by the shoulders before she could knock everything over. The trolleys stayed upright. Weiss's bags stayed secure.

Weiss sighed.

"Thank you." Relief colored her voice. Then her expression hardened. She turned on the dark-haired girl. "Watch it, you dolt!"

The silver-eyed girl blinked in rapid succession.

"I'm not a dolt!"

"Then watch where you are going!"

"I was watching! I was watching for my suitcase!" The girl gestured vaguely at the conveyor belt. "It's a really nice one. It has wheels and everything. And my sister said she packed cookies in there and I really want those cookies because the airship food was terrible and they didn't even have strawberries and I was just trying to find it before someone else grabbed it by mistake!"

"Nobody cares about your cookies!"

"My name's Ruby." The girl straightened. "Ruby Rose. And I'm not a dolt. Dolts can't build high-velocity sniper scythes from scratch."

Weiss's eye twitched.

"Did you just brag about a weapon while almost knocking over my luggage?"

"Maybe."

"You absolute child."

Jaune released Ruby's shoulders. She steadied herself, brushing down her cloak.

"Sorry about that," she said. "I get excited about cookies."

He reached into himself. The magic stirred. Silent Magic wrapped around the spell. Charm Person settled over Ruby Rose.

Her silver eyes softened. The tension in her posture faded. A smile tugged at her lips. She looked at him with an expression of comfortable familiarity, like seeing an old friend after a long absence.

"Wow. You're really easy to talk to. I feel like I've known you forever. That's weird, right? We just met. But I already feel like we're friends."

She tilted her head, considering.

"That doesn't usually happen to me. I'm kind of awkward. People don't usually like me right away. But you're different."

Weiss stepped up beside him. Her voice was dry.

"He has that effect on people."

Ruby's attention shifted to Weiss. Something flickered across her face. Irritation, quickly smoothed over. The Charm made her view Weiss as a friend of a friend. Someone trusted because Jaune trusted her. But the underlying personality clash remained, muted but present.

"So you two are together?"

Weiss bristled.

"We are not together. We are acquaintances. Who happen to be traveling in the same direction. At the same time. Through coincidence."

"Riiight." Ruby grinned. "That's what they all say."

"We are nothing of the sort."

"Whatever you say, ice queen lady."

Weiss's nostrils flared. Jaune saw her hands clench. The telltale signs of temper rising. But then she stopped. Took a breath. The anger did not explode the way it should have.

He made an educated surmise. Charm Person made the target view the caster as a dear friend. It did not make them docile. It did not erase their personality. But it added a weight to the caster's opinions and relationships. Weiss disliked Ruby. But Weiss liked Jaune. And because Jaune had accepted Ruby, tolerated her, treated her as worth saving from a fall, Weiss's anger cooled into something manageable.

The spell worked in subtle ways. This was one of them.

Ruby retrieved her suitcase. A large black case with red trim. She hoisted it onto a trolley with surprising ease.

"So," she said. "Orientation tonight. Sleeping in the hall. Super weird, right?"

"Deeply strange," Weiss agreed. "I fail to see how sleeping on a floor builds character."

"My sister says it's supposed to bond us before initiation. Something about shared suffering."

"That sounds like something someone says when they want to justify making teenagers sleep on concrete."

Ruby laughed. Weiss cracked a small smile. Jaune pushed the trolleys toward the exit.

The three of them walked together. A strange little group. Held together by magic and circumstance and the promise of something more.

The auditorium buzzed with conversation. Freshmen filled the rows, their voices overlapping in a steady murmur. The stage at the front held a podium, behind which stood Professor Ozpin, his silver cane resting against the wood.

Ozpin adjusted his glasses.

"Education," he said, "is the foundation upon which we build our future. Here at Beacon, you will learn to harness your abilities. You will learn to work together. You will learn to face the darkness that threatens our world.

"But education takes many forms. And tonight, I would like to introduce a new opportunity."

He gestured to the side of the stage.

"Jaune Arc, of Nazarick Security Consultation."

Jaune walked to the podium. The murmur in the auditorium shifted. Curious eyes followed him.

"Nazarick Security Consultation is now partnered with Beacon Academy," Jaune said. "We provide security services throughout the four kingdoms. Bodyguards. Convoy protection. Asset retrieval. Threat neutralization. The kind of work that overlaps significantly with what huntsmen and huntresses do."

He let that sink in.

"We are offering an internship program. For those of you who do not pass tomorrow's initiation, this is an alternative path. You work with us. You learn the trade. You receive supplementary lessons from Beacon's professors to prepare for next year. And for those who do pass, the internship remains available. Part-time work during your studies."

He smiled faintly.

"It pays."

The murmur in the auditorium grew louder. Students straightened in their seats. Money. Real money. For work that actually mattered.

"Now, just because it is an internship does not mean it is easy. Security work is demanding. Dangerous. You will be trained, and you will be tested. But for those willing to put in the effort, the rewards are substantial."

He stepped back from the podium.

"My associate is passing out fliers with more information. If you are interested, take one. Read it. Consider your options."

At the back of the auditorium, Albedo moved through the crowd. She wore a crisp white blouse tucked into a pencil skirt that hugged her hips and emphasized the curve of her waist. The fabric strained slightly against her chest. Heels clicked against the floor, accentuating the length of her legs. Her skin was pale, white as bone, more unnatural than Weiss's but beautiful in an unsettling way. Silky black hair spilled down her back. Sharp ivory horns elegantly curled from her temples.

Her black feathered wings remained hidden, folded invisibly at her hips through magic.

She handed fliers to students with a practiced smile. Some flinched at the horns. Others stared too long at her figure. Most simply took the paper and murmured thanks.

Jaune watched her work.

The internship would give him access to failed students. Potential recruits. Potential assets. And if any of them showed promise, showed loyalty, showed value, he could bring them into the larger organization.

A net beneath Beacon's feet. Catching those who fell.

All according to plan.

The hall was filled with sleeping bags and scattered luggage. Students milled about in various states of preparation, claiming patches of floor and arranging their belongings. The energy was a mix of nervous anticipation and forced camaraderie.

Jaune found Weiss and Ruby near the center of the room. They were not alone.

A third girl stood with them. Tall. Blonde hair that cascaded in loose waves past her shoulders. Lilac eyes that caught the lamplight with an easy warmth. She was bosomy, the curves of her figure impossible to miss. A cheerful grin sat naturally on her face.

All three wore sleepwear. Weiss had changed into a pale blue nightgown, silk or something close to it, thin straps leaving her shoulders bare. The fabric clung to her slender frame, the hem falling to mid-thigh. Ruby wore an oversized black t-shirt with a rose emblem on the chest, the collar slipping off one shoulder, and red sleep shorts underneath. The blonde had on a yellow tank top that strained against her chest and orange sleep pants patterned with what appeared to be tiny chibi ducks.

Jaune's gaze moved over them. Appreciation was a distant thing now, filtered through the dullness of the melding. But he could still recognize beauty. The slope of Weiss's neck where the nightgown left it exposed. The way Ruby's bare legs looked against the cold floor. The generous curves the blonde's tank top could barely contain.

"Jaune!" Ruby's face flushed red. "I didn't know you weren't a student! I thought you were like Weiss! Someone about to inherit a company, not someone who already runs one!"

Weiss pinched the bridge of her nose.

"I told you. Multiple times. He owns Nazarick Security Consultation. It was in the orientation."

"I thought that was metaphorical! Like student council president!"

"That is not the same thing at all."

The blonde stepped forward, extending her hand.

"Yang Xiao Long." Her grin widened. "Ruby's sister. So you're the guy who's got these two all worked up. Gotta say, I'm curious. How'd a kid our age end up running his own company?"

Jaune reached into himself. Silent Magic. Charm Person.

The spell settled over Yang.

Her lilac eyes flickered. Recognition passed through them. She knew something had happened. Could feel the shift in her perception, the sudden warmth toward this stranger.

"Okay." She tilted her head. "That was something. Felt like you’re my warmth and fuzzies."

Weiss and Ruby spoke in near unison.

"We know."

"He has that effect on people," Weiss added.

"Like magic," Ruby said. "You just suddenly want to be his friend. It's weird but nice."

Yang laughed.

"Fair enough. So, Jaune. Tell me everything. How does a guy from nowhere become a CEO before he can legally drink?"

Jaune considered the question.

"I awakened my Semblance," he said.

His mind's eye drifted to the past, when he had first summoned his great tomb.

Albedo knelt before him. Naked. Pale skin glowing in the dim light of Nazarick's throne room. Her black wings unfurled, the feathers brushing against her curves, teasing along the swell of her breasts and the dip of her waist. She looked up at him with golden eyes filled with adoration.

"Momonga-sama."

The name echoed. The melding had been disorienting at first. Two consciousnesses pressed together. Jaune Arc and Momonga. A farm boy from Ansel and an undead overlord from another world. The boundaries had blurred. He remembered being both. Remembered the dullness that came with it. The emotional flatness. But also the power. The spell list. The army. The loyalty of beings who would die for him without hesitation.

He blinked rapidly. The vision faded. He was back in the hall, three girls watching him expectantly.

"Paralysis," he said. "That's my Semblance. I look at someone, I can freeze them in place. Seconds. Minutes. Hours if I push it. Works through armor. Works at range."

He shrugged.

"Useful for security work. Someone causes trouble, they stop moving. No damage. No mess. Clean and simple. I started contracting. Built a reputation. Hired people. Expanded. Now we have clients across Vale and beyond." An embellishment but what will eventually become the truth won’t hurt them.

Weiss nodded.

"Useful for the industry. Minimal collateral damage. High demand for non-lethal threat neutralization. A Semblance well-suited for rapid advancement."

Yang whistled low.

"Not bad. So you just paralyzed your way to the top?"

"Something like that."

In truth, Paralysis was a low tier spell. One of dozens he could cast. But they did not need to know that. They needed a simple story. A Semblance that explained everything.

The lie sat easily on his tongue.

After the brief talk with the three wonderful ladies, Jaune moved through the hall. Students approached him in clusters. Curious. Eager. Some wanted advice. Others simply wanted to say they had spoken to him. He answered with patience, gave measured responses, smiled when appropriate.

A tall boy with orange hair and heavy armor shouldered his way to the front.

"Cardin Winchester." The boy grinned. Confident. Bordering on arrogant. "Heard about your internship. Sounds like a good time. Real combat, not just sparring with practice weapons."

"We do real work," Jaune said. "Dangerous work."

"That's what I'm hoping for."

Jaune liked his spunk. Too many students here seemed soft. Sheltered. Cardin had an edge to him. A hunger.

"Apply. Pass or fail initiation, we can talk."

Cardin nodded and moved on.

Jaune continued through the hall. His eyes found a figure in the shadows.

A woman. Black hair. Amber eyes that caught the dim light with a feline quality. Similar to Albedo's golden gaze, though different in ways only someone who had spent time with the succubus would notice. A black bow sat atop her head, large enough to conceal something beneath.

She sat in an alcove. A book rested in her hands. An electric candle glowed beside her, casting pale light over the pages, but he doubted it provided enough illumination for comfortable reading.

Two possibilities. She was a faunus, and the bow hid her ears. Faunus could see in the dark. Or her Semblance granted her night vision. Both were plausible.

Jaune himself had magic for that. A simple spell. He had not needed to cast it.

She wore a yukata. Deep purple fabric patterned with faint white designs. The garment wrapped around her frame, cinched at the waist with a black obi. The cloth followed the lines of her body. The curve of her hips. The gentle swell of her chest. Modest, but not hiding what was there.

She looked up as he approached. Her amber eyes met his.

"Jaune Arc," he said.

"I know who you are." Her voice was low and composed. "Everyone knows. The boy who built a company from nothing. The internship everyone is talking about."

"Blake Belladonna," she offered. "I read the flier your associate was distributing. I am curious about the internship."

"What draws you to it?"

"Practical experience. Field work. Something beyond classrooms and simulations."

She closed her book but kept her place marked with a finger.

"Is it true you accept anyone? Regardless of background?"

"We accept anyone who proves themselves capable."

Jaune sat across from her. The alcove offered some privacy from the bustling hall.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"Novel. A man with two souls fighting for control." She tilted the cover toward him. "Found it in a secondhand shop in Vale. Old printing."

Funny you should say that, he thought. "Sounds heavy."

"It is."

She set the book aside. Her amber eyes studied him.

"Your company. Nazarick Security Consultation. Does it hire faunus?" 

How peculiar a question considering Albedo was obviously a member, and would be easy to mistake for a faunus.

"We hire qualified candidates."

"Without prejudice?" she asked.

"Prejudice is bad for business." He kept his voice even. "A competent employee is a competent employee. Anything else is distraction."

"Hmm. Vale has been tense lately,” she said. “The White Fang. Protests. Violence on both sides. Some people think faunus should be grateful for what they have. That demanding more is asking for trouble."

"Some people are fools."

"Most people are." Her gaze held his. "But fools in large numbers become dangerous. The SDC has faced accusations for years. Unsafe conditions. Unfair wages. Mistreatment of faunus workers. The company denies it. But the accusations persist."

"Accusations are easy. Proof is harder."

"True." She leaned back slightly. "But where there is smoke, there is often fire. And when the powerful abuse the powerless, the powerless find ways to push back. Sometimes violently. Sometimes... otherwise."

He understood what she was doing. Testing. Probing. Looking for cracks in his facade.

Jaune did not care about prejudice. Not because he was virtuous, but because it was inefficient. People would always find reasons to oppress each other. Race. Class. Religion. The justifications changed. The cruelty remained constant. Better to be honest about power than dress it up in moral language.

But he did not say that.

"Discrimination wastes talent," he said. "A faunus who can fight, who can think, who can work, is worth more than a human who cannot. Anything else is stupidity."

Blake's lips curved slightly.

"That is a sensible answer."

"I'm a sensible person."

"I'm starting to see that."

She picked up her book again. 

Jaune stood.

"Good luck tomorrow. Initiation."

"You as well." Blake's voice was polite and distant.

He reached into himself. Silent Magic wrapped around the spell. Charm Person settled over her.

Blake's amber eyes flickered. The change was subtle. A softening around the edges. Her shoulders relaxed. Her breathing shifted.

"It was nice meeting you," she said. Warmer now. Genuine.

"You too."

He turned and walked away. A few steps. Enough distance.

He glanced back.

Blake watched him go. Her gaze had changed. No longer assessing. No longer guarded. It was softer. Hungry.

Her cheeks had flushed pink. Her chest rose and fell with slightly quicker breaths. One hand rested on her thigh, fingers pressing into the fabric of her yukata. Her legs shifted, pressing together.

She noticed his glance. Her eyes widened. The flush deepened.

Then she turned away, pulling her book up to cover her face. The motion was casual. Natural. As if she had simply returned to reading. But beneath the black bow, something moved. Twitched. A subtle shift under the fabric, low on the sides of her head where human ears would not be.

Jaune continued walking.

The bow hid something. Given her amber eyes, her preference for shadows, her ability to read in low light, the answer seemed clear. Faunus. Cat, most likely, for no logical reason than it would be adorable. The bow concealed her ears.

He considered what else he had seen. Charm Person created trust. Affection. The sense of a deep bond with the caster. It did not create arousal. That was a different kind of magic entirely.

So why had she responded that way?

He made a surmise. The spell forged an emotional connection. For someone isolated, someone guarded, someone who kept others at arm's length, that sudden intimacy might feel overwhelming. The walls coming down. The safety of true trust. For a person starved of genuine connection, that release could manifest in unexpected ways. Physical response to emotional closeness. The body following where the mind had been forced to go.

Blake Belladonna hid in shadows. Read alone. Kept her distance from the crowd. A woman accustomed to solitude, suddenly confronted with the feeling of a true friend.

Perhaps her body was simply reacting to what her heart had been denied.

He filed the observation away.

The quarters were modest. A single room with two beds, a desk, a small bathroom. Beacon was not designed for luxury.

Jaune sat on the edge of his bed. The night had been long. Conversations. Planning. The constant murmur of students in the hall below.

The bathroom door clicked open.

Albedo stepped out. She had changed.

Her sleepwear was a sheer black negligee. The fabric was thin, almost translucent, clinging to the curves of her body. Lace trimmed the hem, which fell to mid-thigh. The neckline plunged deep, exposing the pale skin of her chest. Her black feathered wings unfurled behind her, no longer hidden by magic. They stretched wide, then folded against her back.

She smiled.

"Jaune-sama."

Her voice was soft. Warm. Filled with devotion.

"You should get some rest," he said.

"I do not need rest. Neither do you." She crossed the room. Her hips swayed with each step. "I would rather spend the time with you."

She sat beside him on the bed. Close. Her thigh pressed against his. Her wing brushed his shoulder.

"Albedo."

"Yes?"

"You're being pretty forward here."

She tilted her head. Confusion flickered across her face.

"I am yours. Completely. Why would I not be forward?"

"Because we're not... that's not what this is."

Her golden eyes dimmed slightly.

"Have I displeased you?"

"No." He breathed slowly. "You haven't displeased me."

"Then what prevents this?" She leaned closer. Her breath was warm against his neck. "I know you feel it. The tension. The need. I can sense it in you."

He could feel it. The paradox of his existence. His body was both living and undead, caught between two states. The biological urges that came with flesh and blood. The heat of her skin against his. The scent of her. The way the negligee left so little to imagination. His heart could race. His blood could warm. And yet he did not need to breathe. Did not need to sleep. Did not feel fear or panic or joy the way he once had.

Tabula Smaragdina had created her. Designed her. She was the NPC of a guild member, a friend, someone who had poured his creativity into her existence. To take her like this, to use her for his own pleasure, felt wrong. A violation of something that belonged to another.

Even if that other was him. Momonga. The Overlord of Nazarick. He was both Jaune Arc and Momonga, two beings merged into one. The memories, the identity, the power, all of it was his now.

But did that mean he could ignore her feelings like that? She was her own woman and to define her by the shadow of her creator was to diminish her individuality.

He couldn’t do it, not like this.

"Not tonight," he said.

Her wings twitched. Disappointment crossed her face.

"But soon?"

"Maybe."

She smiled. Accepted. Did not push further.

She shifted on the bed, settling beside him. Her wing draped over his shoulders. Her head rested against his arm.

"Then I will wait. For as long as you require."

The night stretched on. Neither slept. Neither needed to.

They sat together in the quiet.

The morning air was crisp. Beacon's launch platform overlooked the Emerald Forest, a sea of green stretching to the horizon. Students gathered at the cliff's edge, standing on stone platforms that hummed with energy.

Ozpin stood beside Jaune, his silver cane resting against his palm.

"The initiation process is unconventional," Ozpin said. "We launch them from these platforms. Each student is propelled into the forest below. They must navigate the terrain, locate relics, and return. Partners are determined by first eye contact.

"The specifics change each year. We vary the relics, the landing zones, the objectives. But the pattern remains similar. A test of skill. A test of character. Thrown into the unknown and forced to adapt."

Jaune watched the stone platforms. They looked like ancient catapults.

"And us?"

Ozpin gestured to the side. A small airship waited on a separate pad. It was compact. Sleek. Significantly smaller than the transport vessels that had carried students to Beacon.

"You and Spear will take the airship. A more dignified descent." Ozpin smiled slightly. "And it allows you to observe the students from above. Assess potential candidates for your internship."

Sebas stood by the airship's ramp. The elderly butler was immaculate as always, his white hair combed back, his posture perfect.

Jaune studied the small vessel.

"This one is smaller than usual."

"Custom model. Designed for discrete transport. Fewer seats. More maneuverability."

Jaune turned back to the launching platforms.

"Isn't it risky? Throwing students off a cliff?"

Ozpin's eyes glinted with amusement.

"Even those with the lowest Aura reserves can survive the fall. The impact is absorbed easily enough. It is the forest itself that poses the true challenge."

Jaune laughed.

"Fair point."

He did not mention that before his Semblance had awakened, he had possessed no Aura at all. None. He had been a young man with dreams of heroism and nothing to back them. His original plan had been to attend Beacon anyway. To fake his way through. To hope that somehow, impossibly, he would survive.

That fall would have killed him. The Grimm would have finished what the launch started.

A strange thing, to owe his life to a power he had never earned.

The ramp lowered. Jaune boarded the small airship. Sebas followed. The interior was sparse. Functional. A cockpit, a passenger area, a small cargo hold.

Through the window, Jaune saw her.

Albedo flew alongside the airship. She wore her armor now. Black plates that covered her completely, encasing her from neck to foot in dark metal. A bardiche was held in her grip, the massive axe gleaming in the morning light. Her wings beat steadily at her hips though intellectually he knew she was flying with magic not biology. She kept pace with the vessel effortlessly.

She caught his gaze through the glass. Smiled.

Jaune looked away.

The airship lifted off. Below, the first student launched into the sky, a streak of color plummeting toward the forest.

Jaune settled into a seat. The small airship buzzed around him, its engines a low thrum beneath the floor.

He reached into his bag and pulled out a laptop. Standard model, purchased from a tech shop in Vale. He opened it and set it on the folding table before him.

From the same bag he produced three drones. Compact quadcopters. They resembled the consumer models from early 21st century Earth, the kind Momonga remembered from old documentaries and archives. Plastic frames. Rotor blades. Small camera housings beneath the body.

He had bought them from a supplier downtown. Off-the-shelf surveillance equipment used by private investigators and security contractors. The control interface was a standard application that came with the unit. He had installed it on the laptop the night before, following the setup wizard and calibrating the signal receiver.

He plugged the receiver into the laptop's USB port. The software recognized the device automatically. Three windows opened on the screen, each displaying the drone's status.

Ready. Battery charged. Signal strong.

He placed the drones on the floor near the cargo ramp. A tap on the keyboard. The launch sequence initiated.

The rotors spun up. The drones lifted off one by one, hovering for a moment before zipping out through the open ramp.

The screens shifted. Status displays gave way to live feeds. Forest canopy from three different angles. Green and brown blurring past as the drones descended toward the treeline.

"Good for two hours," Jaune said. "I have more in the bag."

Sebas stood nearby, watching the screens with quiet interest.

The drones spread out. One tracked a group of students running through the underbrush. Another circled a clearing where a Beowolf had fallen, its body already dissolving into black mist. The third scanned the canopy, searching for movement.

Jaune's fingers moved across the keyboard. Adjusting angles. Zooming in on faces.

Through the third drone's feed, he saw it.

A shape in the sky. Large. Black wings beating against the wind. A Nevermore, rising from the forest with a screech that the drone's microphone picked up as a sharp crackle of static.

The Grimm's beady eyes found the airship. It angled upward, wings spreading wide as it climbed toward them.

"Albedo," Jaune said.

She was already moving.

Her wings carried her forward from her position alongside the airship. She met the Nevermore as it ascended. The bardiche swung in a single arc. The massive blade caught the Grimm across the neck.

The head separated from the body. Black ichor sprayed. The corpse tumbled past her, falling toward the forest below. It hit the canopy and dissolved into dark smoke before it reached the ground.

Albedo hovered outside the window. Her armor was spotless. Her expression was calm.

She smiled at Jaune.

He returned to the laptop. The feeds continued. Students ran. Grimm fell. The forest churned with activity.

Jaune's eyes moved across the three feeds. Students scattered through the forest. Some moved in pairs. Others still ran alone.

One figure caught his attention.

A girl with bright orange hair tied in a high ponytail. An athletic frame. She engaged a Beowolf with a spear and shield. The Grimm lunged. She shifted her weight, let the claws pass inches from her shoulder, and drove the spear through its skull in the same motion. She pivoted on her heel. Her shield came up. A second beast slammed into it. She let the momentum carry her backward, rolled, and came up with the spear already thrusting. The blade pierced the Grimm's throat. It dissolved before it hit the ground.

Two more kills in quick succession.

Sebas leaned forward slightly.

"Pyrrha Nikos," he said. "Four-time regional champion. Celebrity status in Mistral. She has promise."

Jaune nodded slowly.

"If she fails initiation, the firm can scoop her up."

"Unlikely," Jaune said. "She will pass."

He turned his attention to another feed. A pair of students struggling against an Ursa. One was firing wildly. The other was trying to flank. Threw a Dust vial exploding upon the Grimm’s back. Fire latched to its hide.

"Dust," Jaune said.

Sebas said, "Sir?"

"The energy economy of Remnant. It revolves entirely around Dust. Mining, refining, selling, shipping. Every major power depends on it."

He gestured vaguely at the laptop screen.

"No one set out to discover Earth alternatives. But mining societies stumble into other materials. Always. Coal seams near the surface. Oil seeps from the ground. Bitumen pools. Natural gas vents. Sulfur deposits. Metal ores. Odd combustible residues that burn strange or smell wrong. These things are hard to miss forever when a civilization is already digging, refining, transporting, and industrializing at scale.

"They may not become dominant. But complete ignorance over centuries? That stretches belief. My guess is that alternatives exist in niche or underdeveloped form. Dust remained so much better, so culturally central, that nobody pushed them far."

His fingers drummed against the table.

"But I find it absurd that these alternatives, if they exist, have not grown. Even a secondary market. Even a backup option. Something."

Sebas was quiet for a moment.

"Selfishness is a mighty thing," he said. "Consider the SDC. The largest Dust producer on Remnant. Their entire business model depends on Dust remaining essential. Unquestioned. Irreplaceable."

He clasped his hands behind his back.

"If an alternative emerged, cheaper or more abundant, their market position would erode. Their profits would shrink. Their influence would wane. The same holds for the kingdoms that tax Dust production, the shipping companies that move it, the banks that finance the mines, the politicians whose campaigns are funded by industry interests. All of them benefit from the status quo."

Jaune studied him.

"You seem well-informed for someone who has not been here long. Glued to your scroll like Albedo?"

Sebas smiled faintly.

"I prefer books to scrolls, sir. I have spent my evenings in the Beacon library."

"Books written in a language you did not know until recently."

Sebas reached into his coat. He produced a pair of spectacles. Thin wire frames. The lenses had a faint shimmer, like oil on water.

"You loaned these to me, my lord. Magic Translating Glasses. Anything I read through them appears in a language I understand. The pen works similarly." He produced a sleek black pen. "Anything I write is translated to the reader's native tongue."

Jaune turned the glasses over in his hands. He remembered now. Sebas had approached him before they departed for Beacon. Asked if he might borrow some items from the treasury. Jaune had been reviewing supply manifests at the time, distracted, and simply waved a hand. Take what you need. He had not asked for specifics.

"I had forgotten," Jaune admitted.

"A blanket permission, my lord. I did not wish to trouble you with each individual request."

Jaune set the glasses down.

"You and Albedo have been using translation magic to communicate with locals?"

"Yes, sir. Though you have no need of such things. You are native to Remnant."

"I am," Jaune said. "The language was never the issue. I never saw Albedo using glasses or a pen."

Sebas's expression shifted. Thoughtful.

"Albedo was created by Lord Tabula Smaragdina. He likely left her something for such matters. I do not know the specifics."

He retrieved the glasses and pen, tucking them back into his coat.

"What I can say is that suppression of alternatives is not unique to Remnant. Power protects itself. The tools differ. The instinct does not."

He nodded toward the forest below.

"A coal seam discovered in Atlas. An oil reserve found in Vacuo. These would be suppressed. Bought and buried. The patents would vanish into corporate vaults. The researchers would find themselves reassigned or discredited. The mines would close for safety reasons that no one could verify."

"Regulatory capture," Jaune said.

"Among other methods. Lobbyists who shape policy. Media campaigns that frame alternatives as dangerous or inferior. Economic pressure on smaller competitors. The tools are many.

"The SDC is not alone in this. The Mistral trade guilds. The Mantle industrialists. The Vacuan mining consortiums. Anyone with a stake in Dust has reason to ensure that nothing else rises."

The feeds continued. Jaune watched as students filtered through the forest, converging on a single location.

A ruined temple. Ancient stone pillars jutted from the earth, covered in moss and creeping vines. At the center stood a pedestal. Chess pieces rested atop it. White and black. Kings, queens, rooks, bishops, knights, pawns. Each piece appeared twice.

Students approached in pairs. Some grabbed matching pieces. Others stared at the selection, trying to coordinate.

"The relics," Sebas said. "Each student takes one. Identical pieces form teams."

Jaune nodded. The system was straightforward. Strategic, even. Forced cooperation without overt direction.

He scanned the feeds. Pairs formed quickly. Ruby and Weiss. Blake and Yang. Cardin and another boy in armor.

Then he saw her.

Pyrrha Nikos stood apart from the others. She held a white rook in her hand. Her orange ponytail caught the sunlight filtering through the canopy. Her posture was composed. Controlled.

But her eyes were distant. Lonely.

She had no partner.

Sebas noticed as well.

"Miss Nikos appears to be without a match," he said quietly. "A curious thing. One would expect her to have found someone."

Jaune watched the feed. Pyrrha lingered near the pedestal, glancing occasionally at the other students. None approached her.

Then two figures broke from the crowd.

A girl with orange hair, bouncing on her heels as she walked. Bright energy radiated from her even through the grainy camera feed. Beside her walked a young man with black hair tied in a ponytail, his expression calm, measured.

They approached Pyrrha. The girl spoke. Gestured. Smiled wide enough that Jaune could see it from the drone's camera. Pyrrha's shoulders relaxed slightly. The boy said something quieter. His hand rested briefly on her arm.

Nora Valkyrie. Lie Ren. Sebas had identified them from his reading.

Pyrrha's loneliness faded. Not erased, but eased. She was no longer alone.

Jaune felt something stir. Not emotion, exactly. The melding had dulled those. But an urge. A pull.

These three. He wanted to meet them.

He turned to the cockpit.

"Take us down. Near the temple."

The pilot nodded. The airship banked, descending through the canopy toward the clearing below.

The airship descended through the canopy. Albedo, who had been flying alongside the vessel, angled downward.

She struck the ground with a thunderous impact. A shockwave rippled outward, kicking up dirt and fallen leaves in a wide circle. The force bent nearby saplings and sent smaller debris scattering. Students stumbled back, raising arms to shield their faces from the gust.

Albedo rose from the crater her landing had carved. Her black wings spread wide at her hips, crackling with residual energy. The bardiche gleamed in her grip. The armor caught the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, dark metal almost drinking the light.

She reached up and removed the helmet.

Her face emerged. Pale skin. Golden eyes that swept across the assembled students with calm superiority. Lush black hair spilled over her shoulders.

"Announcing the arrival of Jaune Arc," she declared. "Lord of Nazarick Security Consultation."

The students stared. Some had gone pale. Others simply gaped.

The airship settled behind her. The ramp touched grass. Jaune descended, Sebas following two steps behind.

He walked to the center of the clearing. The students parted for him. He let his gaze sweep across them.

"Congratulations," he said. "You found the relics. You found your partners. Initiation is nearly complete."

His eyes found the three he sought.

Pyrrha stood apart, holding a white rook. Alone.

Nora and Ren stood together, the other white rook in Nora's hand. They were partners. Matching pieces with Pyrrha's.

Two rooks. Three people. One team, incomplete.

"I notice you're missing a fourth," Jaune said.

Pyrrha straightened.

"I have not found a partner."

"She has us, though!" Nora said brightly, gesturing to herself and Ren. "Same pieces! We're a team!"

"A team of three," Ren added quietly.

Jaune nodded.

"I have an arrangement with Professor Ozpin. For teams that are incomplete, my firm can provide oversight. Not a teammate, exactly. A representative. Someone to aid you in the field. Limited authority in scholastic matters, but full support otherwise."

Nora's eyes widened. She bounced on her heels.

"Wait, seriously? We get our own handler? Like a cool secret agent thing?"

"Something like that."

Pyrrha glanced at Ren. He gave a slight nod.

"That would be acceptable," Pyrrha said. "Thank you."

A student pushed forward. Jaune recognized him from the feeds. He had no relic in his hands.

"Hey! If they need a fourth, I can partner with Pyrrha! I didn't get a piece, so let me join instead!"

"The pairing is locked once you retrieve a relic," Jaune said. "You failed to reach the temple. That is not something I can change."

"That's not fair! I got lost, and the Grimm were everywhere, and I couldn't find the temple in time!"

"Take it up with Professor Ozpin."

The student's mouth opened, then closed. He stepped back, muttering.

Jaune turned to the three.

"Come with me. We'll discuss details on the airship."

He gestured toward the ramp. Nora practically bounded ahead. Pyrrha and Ren followed at a measured pace. Sebas brought up the rear.

Jaune lingered for a moment. Watching them board.

He wanted them. These three. The pull was irrational. Inexplicable. He had no logical reason to favor them over any other students.

He wondered, briefly, if in another world these three might have been his friends. Might have stood beside him. Might have mattered.

He did not know why the thought felt so certain.

He filed it away and boarded the airship which then lifted off. Jaune sat across from the three students. Sebas stood nearby, hands clasped behind his back.

"Can I offer you anything?" Sebas asked. "Water? Tea? We have limited provisions, but I can prepare something."

"I'm good!" Nora said, grinning. "This is already way cooler than I expected. Private airship! Fancy butler guy!"

Ren placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you for your hospitality," he said.

Pyrrha sat straight-backed, hands folded in her lap. Her eyes moved across the cabin, taking in details.

"So," Jaune said. "Nora and Ren. You two have known each other a long time?"

Nora launched into an explanation. Something about a childhood in a village, Ren's family, traveling together, applying to Beacon on a whim. The words tumbled over each other. Ren occasionally interjected with quieter clarifications.

Pyrrha listened. When the story turned to her, she offered a brief summary. Regional tournaments. Mistral. The decision to come to Vale.

"Four-time champion," Nora said. "That's insane! I saw some of your matches. You were amazing!"

"It was... isolating, sometimes." Pyrrha spoke carefully. "People saw the champion. Not the person."

Jaune understood that. The weight of expectations. The distance it created.

"But you came here anyway," he said.

"Beacon is an opportunity. A fresh start. Though perhaps I should have simply applied to your firm directly. Skipped the academy entirely."

Nora shook her head. "Pyrrha, no! Beacon has, like, everything! Combat training! Dust classes! Famous hunters as teachers!"

Ren nodded. "Credentials matter in this profession. Beacon carries weight. A firm internship could supplement that, but the foundation comes from the academies."

Jaune said, "He's right. Beacon offers things my firm cannot. Formal certification. Access to the Hunter network. Structured education. I would not recommend bypassing that."

Pyrrha smiled slightly.

"I suppose you have a point. All three of you."

The conversation flowed easily. Surprisingly so. Jaune found himself enjoying the back-and-forth. Nora's energy. Ren's quiet observations. Pyrrha's measured but genuine engagement.

It felt natural. Comfortable.

Strange, for someone who felt little these days.

Outside the window, the forest shrank beneath them. Other airships descended toward the temple, picking up clusters of students. Larger vessels hovered at altitude, their hulls bristling with weaponry. Rotary cannons. Missile pods. Gravity dust projectors designed for air-to-ground suppression.

Beacon took its security seriously. Or perhaps the kingdom did. Either way, the firepower was substantial.

Jaune turned back to the conversation.

Nora was explaining her weapon. A hammer that transformed into a grenade launcher. Ren showed his pistols. Pyrrha described her spear and shield with characteristic modesty.

Jaune listened. Asked questions. Let the conversation wander where it would.

Sebas watched, a faint smile on his face.

"Speaking of impressive," Nora said, leaning forward, "what was up with your bodyguard? The winged lady? She landed like a meteor!"

Pyrrha nodded. "The impact alone was substantial. I've seen huntsmen land with less force. Her control must be exceptional."

"And the armor!" Nora threw her hands up. "All black and scary and cool! And the wings! And the way she just stood up from that crater like it was nothing!"

Ren stroked his chin.

"The showmanship was effective. A dramatic entrance establishes presence. Authority. She commanded attention before she even spoke."

They had only seen the landing. The armor. The wings. The crater. None of them had seen her fight. None of them knew the extent of what she could do.

And still they were awed.

Jaune felt pride stir in his chest.

"Albedo is one of my finest," he said. "A representative of Nazarick Security Consultation. Her combat capabilities are exceptional. Her loyalty is absolute."

Nora practically vibrated in her seat.

"She's so cool! Is she going to be working with us?"

"Someone from my firm will be assigned to your team. Albedo has other duties. But you will be in capable hands."

Pyrrha's eyes brightened. Calm, controlled, but genuine interest underneath. She got a glance at Sebas and said, "Someone of that caliber. I would appreciate the opportunity to train with them. If they are willing."

Ren simply nodded.

"An asset to the team. We are fortunate."

Jaune allowed himself a small smile.

"They will be pleased to hear that. My people enjoy being appreciated."

Outside, the airships continued their work. The forest grew smaller. Beacon loomed on the horizon, its tower catching the afternoon light.

The conversation turned to other topics. Classes. Teams. What came next.

But Jaune found himself watching the three students with something approaching satisfaction.

They were worth the investment. He was certain of it.

Chapter Text

The auditorium buzzed with whispered conversations. Students stood in loose clusters, still processing the events of initiation. The stage at the front held a podium. Behind it, a large screen displayed the Beacon emblem.

Ozpin approached the podium. The murmuring died down.

"Congratulations," he said. "You have completed initiation. You have retrieved your relics. You have found your partners. Today, you become teams."

He tapped his scroll. The screen flickered. Names and images appeared.

"Ruby Rose, Weiss Schnee, Blake Belladonna, Yang Xiao Long." Four faces appeared on screen. "You retrieved the white knight pieces. You are now Team RWBY, led by Ruby Rose."

Ruby's face went slack with shock. Weiss sputtered beside her. Yang whooped and clapped her sister on the back. Blake offered a small nod.

The screen shifted.

"Cardin Winchester, Russel Thrush, Dove Bronzewing, Sky Lark." Four male faces. "You retrieved the black bishop pieces. You are now Team CRDL, led by Cardin Winchester."

Cardin smirked. His teammates gathered around him.

Ozpin paused. The screen shifted again. Three faces appeared this time.

"Pyrrha Nikos. Nora Valkyrie. Lie Ren."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Three names. Three faces. No fourth.

"You retrieved the white rook pieces. However, your situation is unusual. A team of three is informal. Unconventional." Ozpin's eyes glinted. "As such, you will be overseen by Nazarick Security Consultation, in accordance with our arrangement. You will have guidance. Support."

He smiled faintly.

"You will not, however, receive special privileges. Your coursework, your duties, your expectations remain the same as any other team."

Pyrrha straightened. Nora bounced on her heels. Ren remained impassive.

"Pyrrha Nikos, Nora Valkyrie, Lie Ren." Ozpin let the names hang. "You are Team PNR, pronounced 'Pine'. Led by Nora Valkyrie."

Whispers erupted throughout the auditorium. Jaune caught fragments.

"Wait, the champion isn't leading?"

"Nora? The hyper one?"

"I thought for sure Pyrrha would be leader. She's Pyrrha Nikos."

"Maybe Ren? He seems more... stable?"

"Did Ozpin make a mistake?"

Eyes turned to Pyrrha. The champion. The four-time regional winner. The obvious choice. Then to Ren. Calm. Composed. The steady presence. Then to Nora. Who was currently whispering something to Ren and giggling.

Jaune watched from the back of the room. He remembered the temple. Nora had been the one to approach Pyrrha first. Nora had bridged the gap. Nora had carried the conversation on the airship, filling silence with energy and warmth.

She was chaotic. Unpredictable. Utterly lacking in conventional leadership qualities.

She would be an amazing leader.

Jaune smiled.

The auditorium emptied. Students filtered out in clusters, chattering about team assignments and leadership choices. Jaune lingered near the entrance, watching the crowd thin.

A familiar group approached.

Ruby led the way, her silver eyes brightening when she spotted him. Weiss followed, posture immaculate as always. Blake drifted at the edge of the group, amber eyes watchful. Yang brought up the rear, hands in her pockets, lilac eyes sharp.

They reached him. Ruby smiled wide.

"Jaune! Hey!"

"Hello, ladies."

The warmth in their voices was immediate. Genuine. The Charm Person had done its work well. To them, he was emotionally equivalent to a lifelong best friend. Someone they trusted implicitly. Someone they were genuinely thrilled to see.

Jaune found it strange. These four beautiful women were strangers to him. Yet they greeted him with the enthusiasm of old companions. A visual treat, certainly. He was content to indulge the illusion.

Weiss clasped her hands in front of her.

"It is good to see you. The ceremony was... informative."

Blake's ears twitched slightly beneath her bow. She glanced at him, then away. A faint flush crept across her cheeks.

"Hi, Jaune."

Two words. Soft. Almost bashful. The kind of greeting reserved for someone close. Someone trusted.

He had not earned that familiarity. He knew this. But delight stirred nonetheless.

Yang grinned and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Long time no see, buddy. You catch that landing earlier? Pretty sure your winged lady made a crater just for the drama of it."

Ruby shifted her weight. Her smile faltered slightly.

"Jaune, can I ask you something? It's about Pyrrha's team. The whole special arrangement." She hesitated. "I don't want to sound mean, because Pyrrha seems really nice, but... it feels kind of unfair? Like, she already has so much going for her, and now she gets a whole security firm backing her?"

Weiss cleared her throat.

"While I would not phrase it quite so... directly, Ruby does raise a valid point." Her tone was measured. "Professor Ozpin claimed no special privileges, yet one cannot help but observe the advantages already in place. A private airship. Personal oversight. These are not trivial things."

Blake spoke quietly.

"She left with you. On your personal vessel. The rest of us had the general pickup." Her amber eyes met his. "That difference says something."

Yang stopped in front of him. Arms crossed.

"Look, I'm just gonna say it. Pyrrha gets special treatment from day one. Now Nora and Ren are along for the ride. You're telling us 'no privileges' but come on. We're not blind."

Jaune regarded them. Four young women. Four different approaches. Ruby earnest. Weiss polite. Blake discreet. Yang blunt. All pointing toward the same conclusion.

"You are right," he said.

They stared.

"It is special treatment. They are receiving advantages others are not. The claim of no privileges is, at best, a technical truth. The reality is more complicated."

Yang narrowed her eyes.

"Then why do it?"

"Because I wanted to." Jaune shrugged. "And because I could. Pyrrha Nikos interests me. Nora and Ren interest me. They have potential I wish to cultivate. But you’re mistaken if you think you lack advantages of your own."

Weiss frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"You’re speaking to me. Right now. Openly. Without hesitation. You approached me the moment you saw me." Jaune gestured between himself and the group, feeling like an idiot though unable to deny that it was a privilege due to his newfound powers. "How many other students would do that? How many would feel comfortable walking up to the head of a security consultancy and voicing their complaints?"

Ruby tilted her head.

"We're... friends?" Such a strange question for one affected by the spell.

"Exactly. And that is a privilege. One I intend to indulge."

He smiled.

"Come. Let me buy you dinner. Somewhere nice. We can discuss your grievances in detail."

Yang's expression shifted. Suspicion gave way to a slow grin.

"Dinner? You're buying?"

"I am."

"Somewhere nice?"

"The finest establishment in Vale, if you wish."

Ruby bounced on her heels.

"Really? Like, a real restaurant? With menus and everything?"

"Of course."

Weiss raised an eyebrow.

"You expect us to simply forgive the favoritism because you are offering food?"

"No. I expect you to enjoy the meal and extract additional concessions later. That is what friends do, is it not?"

Blake's lips quirked.

"He has a point."

Yang clapped Jaune on the shoulder.

"Alright, hotshot. You want to hang out? Fine. But you're carrying our bags when we go shopping afterward."

"Deal."

"And you're answering every question we ask. No dodging."

"Within reason."

"Within reason," Yang agreed.

Ruby threw her arms up.

"This is gonna be so fun! Oh! Oh! Can we get dessert too? Like, actual fancy dessert? With the little chocolate things?"

"Whatever you want."

Weiss sighed, but a small smile tugged at her mouth.

"I suppose I can make time in my schedule. For... networking purposes."

Blake nodded.

Jaune walked with them toward the exit. The evening air greeted them. Vale sprawled below, lights flickering to life as the sun dipped toward the horizon.

He watched the four women chatter among themselves. Ruby gesturing wildly. Weiss correcting her with scholarly precision. Blake offering quiet observations. Yang laughing loudly at something or other.

They treated him like a lifelong companion. Extracting promises. Setting conditions. The way close friends did when they knew they could get away with it.

Strange. He barely knew them.

But they were beautiful. And he was enjoying himself.

The transport descended toward Vale's commercial district. Jaune sat across from Team RWBY, watching the city lights grow larger through the window.

A landing pad awaited them. Beside it sat a sleek black limousine. Newly purchased. The kind of vehicle that turned heads without trying.

A man stood beside the rear door. Middle-aged. Thinning hair combed back neatly. A clean dark suit. Professional.

Wilhem Blues.

Jaune remembered him differently. Stained jacket. The smell of cigarette smoke. A different man entirely. The firm had changed that.

Wilhem opened the door as the group approached.

"Sir. Ladies."

"Thank you, Wilhem."

Jaune gestured for the four women to enter first. They filed in. Ruby dove toward the window seat. Yang claimed the opposite side. Weiss sat with practiced grace. Blake slipped in last, settling quietly.

Jaune followed. The door closed. The limousine pulled into traffic.

Ruby turned to him first.

"Jaune, look! That building with the spiky top! Do you know what it is?"

He glanced out the window.

"Dust refining facility, I believe."

"Valean Crystalline," Weiss said. She sat straighter. "One of the larger independent refiners in the kingdom. My father negotiated a contract with them two years ago. SDC supplies raw Dust. They handle the refinement and local distribution."

"Convenient."

Blake did not look at Weiss. She did not inflect. The word fell into the conversation like a stone into still water.

Weiss's shoulders drew back. Her chin lifted.

"It is a mutually beneficial arrangement. Valean Crystalline gains access to higher-grade materials. SDC expands its market presence without additional infrastructure costs."

"And the workers?"

"Blake," Yang said.

"I'm just asking." Blake's amber eyes met Weiss's. "Independent refiners often use Faunus labor. Long hours. Minimal oversight. Convenient for companies that want to keep their own hands clean."

Weiss's face flushed.

"That is not what I meant. I am not responsible for every labor practice my father's company contracts with."

"Different topic," Jaune said. He kept his voice light. "We're heading to dinner. Not a board meeting."

Blake glanced at him. Her expression flickered. Something like guilt crossed her features.

"Right. Sorry."

Weiss smoothed her skirt. She addressed Jaune directly.

"I hope the restaurant meets reasonable standards. I have certain expectations."

"You'll survive," Yang said. "Jaune's buying. That's what matters."

"Yang," Ruby said. "Be nice."

"I am nice. I'm just also honest."

Weiss folded her arms but said nothing more.

Jaune watched the exchange. The way they orbited around him. Ruby deferred to his presence when the conversation lagged. Yang used him as an audience for her teasing. Weiss addressed him when she wanted validation. Blake contributed when she could frame it through his perspective.

Even the friction between Weiss and Blake had smoothed over when he redirected. The Charm Person bond made them trust him. Trust his judgment. Accept his interventions.

They were strangers. Different backgrounds. Different personalities. No shared history.

But they shared him. The bond made that connection instant. Effortless. He was the common denominator. The relay point that made conversation possible without the usual friction of unfamiliarity.

It was like watching four people who had just met at a party, all grateful for the one friend who introduced them and kept the conversation flowing.

Except he had not introduced them. The bond had.

Ruby and Yang moved differently around each other. No hesitation. No calculation. The ease of a shared childhood. Sisters, clearly. But Jaune noted the differences. Rose and Xiao Long. Different surnames. Silver eyes versus lilac. Dark hair tipped with red versus flowing gold. Different builds. Different coloring. Half-sisters, perhaps. Or something more complicated. But natural nonetheless.

Even they turned to him occasionally, drawing him into their rapport, making sure he was included.

The others navigated through him. Weiss measured her words, then looked to him for approval. Blake offered observations, then caught herself, as if unsure whether she had overstepped, before his presence reassured her.

Strange and artificial but functional.

Wilhem drove through Vale's streets. The restaurant awaited them.

Jaune leaned back and let the conversation wash over him.

The restaurant was called The Midday.

It occupied the top floor of a Valean high-rise, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the harbor. Dark wood, soft lighting, white linen. A pianist played something understated in the corner. The kind of place where the prices weren't listed because if you had to ask, you couldn't afford it.

Jaune had no reservation. He didn't need one.

The maître d' looked up as they entered. His professional smile flickered, just for a moment, as he took in the group. Four young women who looked like they had just crawled out of a forest. Which they had. Dirt smudged on cheeks. Hair tangled with leaves and twigs. Combat boots leaving faint traces of mud on the immaculate floor. Their clothes bore the evidence of initiation: torn hems, grass stains, the occasional scorch mark from a Death Stalker's carapace or a Nevermore's feather.

Ruby had a scratch across her jaw that she hadn't noticed yet. Yang's jacket was missing a sleeve. Weiss's side braid had come partially undone, pale hair escaping in wisps around her face. Blake's bow was askew, one ear threatening to poke through.

They were a mess.

They were also stunning.

That was the thing about huntresses. They didn't need polish. Didn't require the careful presentation that lesser people relied on to make an impression. Their bodies were weapons, honed and disciplined, and they moved with the unconscious confidence of people who knew exactly what they were capable of. Dirt on their cheeks didn't diminish them. It enhanced them. Spoke to a life lived in motion, in combat, in survival.

Ruby's silver eyes caught the candlelight as she looked around the restaurant, wide with wonder. Weiss carried herself like a queen despite the state of her hair, chin lifted, daring anyone to comment. Blake moved like water, fluid and aware, her amber eyes tracking exits without conscious thought. Yang owned every room she entered, and this was no exception. She strode through the space like she belonged there, which she did, because Yang Xiao Long belonged everywhere she decided to be.

The other diners stared. Some with curiosity. Some with disdain at the disheveled newcomers. Some with appreciation that they probably thought was subtle and absolutely was not.

Jaune walked to the maître d'.

"Table for five."

The man's smile tightened.

"Sir, I'm afraid we have no available..."

Jaune placed a lien card on the podium. Black. Unadorned. The kind of card that certain establishments recognized on sight.

The maître d' glanced at it. His expression changed.

"Of course, sir. Right this way."

The private room featured a round table dressed in cream-colored cloth. Candles flickered in glass holders. A window dominated one wall, offering a view of the harbor lights reflected in dark water.

Ruby pressed her face against the glass.

"It's so pretty!"

"Ruby." Weiss tugged at her collar. "You're fogging it up."

"Sorry, sorry!" She pulled back, leaving a smear of breath on the pane. Yang reached over and wiped it away with what remained of her jacket sleeve.

Jaune pulled out a chair. Weiss paused, then accepted the gesture with a small nod. He continued around the table until all four were seated before taking his own place.

Menus appeared. Leather-bound. Heavy. Ruby opened hers and her eyes went wide.

"There's no prices!"

"That's because I'm paying," Jaune said. "Order whatever appeals to you."

Yang's grin turned predatory. She flipped through the menu with the focus of a woman who had just been handed a blank check.

"Oh, this is gonna be fun."

The appetizers arrived first.

Seared scallops on a bed of microgreens. A charcuterie board with cured meats and artisanal cheeses. Lobster bisque in shallow bowls. Something involving foie gras that Weiss identified by name while Blake quietly moved it to the other side of the table.

Ruby attacked the charcuterie board with enthusiasm. Yang claimed the scallops. Weiss sipped the bisque with precise, measured spoonfuls. Blake picked at the cheeses.

Jaune watched them eat.

"So," Ruby said, a piece of prosciutto still half in her mouth. She swallowed, gesturing with her fork toward Yang. "You wanna know the funniest thing about my sister? She cannot cook. Like, at all. Back home on Patch, we don't exactly have a professional fire department, you know? It's mostly volunteers. Old Mr. Henley and his truck that's older than he is. And they still know Yang by name."

"I was twelve!" Yang protested.

"You were fifteen."

"It was a faulty alarm!"

"The curtains were on fire."

Yang opened her mouth to respond, then seemed to think better of it. She turn to Jaune instead, grinning. "She's exaggerating. Patch is tiny. The volunteer department responds to everything. A cat in a tree counts as a major incident. And I've improved since then. Significantly."

Ruby's eyes sparkled. "Last month she burned water."

"That's not possible."

"She managed it."

They were both looking at him now. Not at each other. At him. Like the story wasn't complete until he reacted to it. Like his laughter was the point.

Weiss set down her spoon.

"Jaune," she said, and the way she said it was strange. Not the careful pronunciation of a new acquaintance. Something easier. Like she'd said his name a hundred times before. "What do you prefer? Fish or red meat?"

"Both have their merits."

"Yes, but if you had to choose."

"Red meat, I guess."

She nodded, as if this were important information. As if she were filing it away for later use.

Blake reached over and adjusted his napkin where it had shifted too close to his plate. Her fingers brushed the fabric for just a moment, tucking it back into place with the casual familiarity of someone who had done it a hundred times.

Then she froze. A flicker of confusion crossed her face. She pulled her hand back slowly, staring at it for a moment, like she wasn't quite sure why she'd done that.

"Sorry," she murmured. "I don't know why I..."

She trailed off.

Ruby turned to Blake.

"You should try the bisque, it's really..."

Blake's response came a beat too slow, polite and measured.

"I'm fine, thank you."

The words hung in the air. Ruby blinked, something flickering behind her eyes, and then turned back to Jaune, the ease returning to her expression.

Yang stole a scallop from Weiss's plate.

Weiss's hand shot out, sharp and genuine, swatting Yang's wrist.

"Get your own!"

"Too slow, princess." Yang popped it in her mouth, already turning to Jaune. "So, the ribeye here is supposed to be incredible. What do you think?"

Weiss rubbed her wrist, lips pressed thin. She didn't respond to Yang. Instead, she looked at Jaune.

"My mother mentioned the sea bass here was exceptional. She dined at The Midday during her last visit to Vale." A pause. "The Schnee name carries certain privileges. Information among them."

The conversation flowed. But it flowed through him. Ruby told him things. Yang addressed him. Weiss sought his input. Blake included him. And when they spoke to each other, there was a politeness that hadn't been there when they spoke to him. A distance. A carefulness.

Ruby and Yang were different. Sisters. They had a rhythm that predated him, a shorthand of glances and interruptions and half-finished sentences that the other caught without effort. When Yang teased Ruby, it landed. When Ruby pouted at Yang, it worked. They didn't need him to translate.

But the others orbited him like planets around a sun, and when he stepped back, the orbits wobbled. A question from Weiss to Blake would hang in the air for a moment too long. An offer from Ruby to share her dessert would be accepted with that same careful politeness. Yang could bridge the gap sometimes, her natural charisma forcing connections, but even she defaulted to addressing him when the conversation lagged.

Weiss and Blake sat next to each other, and the space between them was careful. No accidental touches. No shared looks. When Blake reached for the salt at the same moment Weiss did, they both pulled back, murmured apologies that were too formal, too quick, and then sat in silence until Jaune asked Blake a question about the book she'd mentioned on the airship.

They were strangers to each other. Strangers who happened to share a very specific, very artificial bond with the same man.

He took a sip of wine and let the moment persist.

The main courses came.

Ruby had ordered the duck confit because the description mentioned "cherry reduction" and she liked cherries. Yang went for a ribeye that cost more than most people's weekly grocery bills. Weiss selected a sea bass with saffron risotto. Blake chose a mushroom risotto that was technically vegetarian, which seemed to amuse her.

Jaune had the lamb.

They ate. They talked. The conversation ranged freely: initiation stories, Beacon gossip, speculation about their upcoming classes. Ruby recounted her dramatic landing with increasingly exaggerated details. Yang corrected her at intervals. Weiss offered technical commentary on the physics of terminal velocity. Blake contributed occasional dry observations that made Ruby snort.

At one point, Yang leaned back in her chair, steak knife still in hand, and pointed it at Jaune.

"All right, hotshot. Time for some answers."

Jaune raised an eyebrow. "When did I promise answers?"

"Right now." Yang grinned, twirling the knife between her fingers. "You're promising them right now. See? Easy."

Weiss stifled a laugh. Blake's lips twitched. Even Ruby giggled around a mouthful of duck.

Jaune shook his head. "Fine. Within reason."

"Within reason," Yang acknowledged. "First question: What's the deal with you and Nazarick? And don't give me that 'security consultancy' line. Private airships. Personal drivers." She gestured at the room around them. "Dinners like this. That's not a normal security firm. That's something else."

Jaune set down his fork.

"Nazarick is what it says it is. A security consultancy. We do protection, intelligence, strategic consultation. That kind of thing." He paused. "Look, I get it. The name's weird. The resources are... a lot. But that's just how the company operates."

Weiss leaned forward.

"Who funds you?"

He thought of Demiurge. "Private interests."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the answer you're getting tonight."

Weiss's lips thinned. But she nodded. The Charm Person smoothed her frustration into acceptance.

Blake spoke next.

"Albedo." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "What's her role in all this? She seemed... important."

Jaune considered the question. Albedo was many things. A creation. A guardian. A reflection of desires he no longer remembered having. Loyal to a fault, in ways that were sometimes uncomfortable to witness.

"She's my second," he said. "Handles operations when I can't. Someone I trust completely."

Ruby tilted her head.

"Do you have a lot of people working for you?"

"Enough."

"That's still not really an answer," Yang said.

"It's the best I can offer right now."

Yang studied him. Lilac eyes sharp. Then she shrugged.

"Fine. For now."

She returned to her steak.

The conversation shifted. Ruby asked about Vale's shopping districts. Weiss offered opinions on fashion. Blake mentioned a bookstore she'd heard about. Yang demanded dessert.

Jaune ordered three different options.

The desserts arrived.

A chocolate fondant with a molten center. A crème brûlée with a perfectly caramelized top. A tower of profiteroles drizzled with dark chocolate sauce.

Ruby's eyes went wide.

"It's like a castle! A dessert castle!"

"Technically, that's a croquembouche," Weiss said.

"Bless you."

"Ruby!"

Yang laughed and reached for a profiterole. Blake carefully cracked the top of her crème brûlée with the back of her spoon, a small smile crossing her face at the sound.

Jaune watched them.

This was strange. He was under no illusions about that. These women treated him with a familiarity he had not earned. They shared details about their lives, their hopes, their frustrations, as though he were a confidant of years rather than days.

Ruby had a spot of chocolate at the corner of her mouth. She hadn't noticed. Yang was pretending not to watch Weiss's reaction to the fondant. Weiss was pretending not to enjoy herself. Blake was doing neither, simply present, simply eating, simply existing in the moment.

They were beautiful. Not just in appearance, though that was undeniable. In motion. In interaction. In the small, unguarded moments that the Charm Person made possible.

He had made this. This warmth. This ease. Through magic, through manipulation, through a spell that rewrote emotional connections.

But the laughter was real. The smiles were real. The pleasure they took in each other's company, and, strangely, in his, was real.

The realization sat uncomfortably in his chest.

Yang caught him watching.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"Just taking it in."

"That's still staring." She grinned. "You like what you see?"

The question was teasing. Flirtatious. The kind of thing Yang did naturally, he suspected, Charm Person or no Charm Person.

He considered his response.

"I'm having a good time," he said. "Really."

Yang's grin widened.

"Good answer."

She reached across the table and stole a bite of his chocolate fondant.

The bill arrived in a leather folder.

Jaune glanced at the number. Substantial. The kind of sum that would make most people wince. He placed his card inside and handed it back without a second thought.

The money didn't matter. Not really.

He remembered the conversation. Demiurge standing at attention in his office, hands clasped behind his back, tail swaying slowly as he delivered his report with the careful attention of a subordinate who understood exactly who he was addressing.

"I've identified the relevant criminal enterprises," Demiurge had said. "Remnant's underworld is remarkably organized. Money laundering operations already exist. The trick was simply... redirecting them."

He'd paused, a small smile crossing his features.

"The ones who refused initial overtures required persuasion. I find that the cycle of near-death and complete healing, repeated several times, tends to focus the mind wonderfully. Most became quite cooperative after the third or fourth iteration." Another pause. "One held out until the seventh. I admit to a certain admiration for his fortitude. Misplaced, of course, but admirable nonetheless."

Jaune hadn't asked for details after that.

The result was a fortune that existed in the light. Traceable. Legal. Beyond reproach. Money that could buy dinners like this without raising questions. Money that could fund a security consultancy with private airships and personal drivers and all the trappings of legitimate enterprise.

The irony was not lost on him. He was funding his hero's journey with villain's gold.

But then, maybe he had never been meant for heroism to begin with. There had been a time, before Momonga, before Nazarick, when he'd genuinely wanted to be a hero. When the idea of saving people had felt like the most natural thing in the world. He'd been naive, obviously. Stupid enough to think that wanting it badly enough could substitute for having the strength to actually do it.

But what really stuck with him, what still gnawed at him late at night, wasn't the melding or the power that came after. It was the transcripts. The fake transcripts he’d since discarded. He'd never even used them in the end, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that he'd been willing to do it. That when faced with the choice between honesty and his dreams, he'd chosen to lie. To cheat. To forge documents that would have let him skip the qualifications that existed for a reason.

That wasn't heroism but desperation wearing a hero's mask. And maybe the fact that he'd been willing to go that far, that he'd been ready to build his entire future on a foundation of fraud, said something about him that no amount of power could change.

Ruby groaned.

"I ate so much. I'm gonna roll back to Beacon."

"We could walk," Blake suggested. "The night air might help."

Weiss looked skeptical.

"In these heels?"

"Take them off."

"Weiss Schnee does not walk barefoot through the streets of Vale."

"Weiss Schnee could try something new," Yang said.

Weiss shot her a look.

Jaune stood.

"How about a compromise? The limo can take us partway. We walk the rest."

Ruby raised her hand.

"I vote walking!"

"You don't have to vote," Yang said. "It's not a democracy."

"It is when I'm involved!"

They filed out of the restaurant. The valets brought the limousine around. Wilhem held the door open, expression professionally neutral.

The drive took them through downtown Vale, past shops closing for the night and late-night cafés just coming alive. Yang pressed against the window, pointing out establishments she wanted to visit. Weiss offered commentary on each one: too crowded, too loud, too common.

Blake was quiet. Her eyes tracked the streets outside. Occasionally, her gaze flickered to Jaune. Quick glances. Assessing.

He met her eyes. She looked away.

The limousine stopped near a promenade that ran along the harbor. The water reflected city lights in broken patterns. A few couples walked the path. Street musicians played soft jazz from a corner.

They stepped out. The night air was cool, carrying the salt-smell of the sea.

Ruby immediately pulled off her shoes.

"Oh, that's so much better."

"Ruby, you can't..."

"Watch me!"

She took off running down the promenade, silver dress catching the light. Yang sighed and followed, leaving Weiss and Blake to exchange glances.

"Children," Weiss muttered.

But she was smiling.

They walked. Ruby and Yang ranged ahead, chasing each other like overgrown puppies. Weiss walked with careful steps, one hand occasionally reaching for Blake's arm when the cobblestones proved uneven.

Jaune followed.

The Charm Person thrummed beneath the surface of every interaction. Every laugh. Every casual touch. Every moment of genuine connection.

They trusted him completely and unquestioningly because he had made them and he was enjoying it.

That was the part that gnawed at him. Not the magic itself. He had made peace with that. But the enjoyment. The genuine pleasure he took in their company, knowing it was built on a foundation of lies.

Was it still real if the feelings were manufactured?

He didn't have an answer.

Yang dropped back to walk beside him.

"You're quiet."

"Just taking things in."

"That’s what she said.” She cackled, then added, “There's that thing again." She bumped his shoulder with hers. "You do that a lot. Watch. Calculate. What's going on in that head of yours?"

"Stuff."

"Care to share with the class?"

He looked at her. Lilac eyes in the harbor light. Blonde hair catching the breeze. She was beautiful, and she was treating him like a friend, and both of those things were true in ways that weren't true at all.

"I was thinking," he said, "that I'm glad I offered to buy you dinner."

Yang grinned.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good." She bumped his shoulder again. "Because I had a great time. Even if you are being mysterious and evasive and probably hiding a bunch of shady stuff."

"Glad you enjoyed yourself."

"Don't let it go to your head. You still owe us that shopping trip."

Did he? "Haven't forgotten."

"Good. Hey, Jaune?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For this. For... all of it." She gestured vaguely at the promenade, at her sister running ahead, at Weiss and Blake walking together. "I know it's weird. We barely know you. But it feels like..." She trailed off, frowning. "I don't know. Like we've been friends for longer than a few days. Isn't that strange?"

"It is."

"Does it bother you?"

He considered the question.

"No," he said. "It doesn't."

Yang studied him for a moment. Then she shrugged.

"Me neither. Which is also weird. But I'm gonna go with it."

She jogged ahead to catch up with Ruby, leaving Jaune alone with his thoughts.

The Charm Person made them trust him. Made them feel connected to him. Made them overlook the strangeness of instant intimacy with someone they had just met.

But it didn't make him trust them. It didn't manufacture his enjoyment. His pleasure in their company. His genuine interest in their lives and personalities.

That was all him.

Ahead, Ruby had climbed onto a bench and was posing like a statue. Yang was trying to push her off. Weiss was telling them both to behave. Blake was watching, a small smile on her face.

Jaune walked toward them.

The night was still young.

The limousine drove along the streets of Vale, carrying them back toward the airship that would return them to Beacon. The city lights streaked past the tinted windows, casting shifting patterns across the interior. Full stomachs and pleasant exhaustion had softened the edges of the evening. Ruby was curled against the window, fighting to keep her eyes open. Weiss sat with her posture immaculate despite the hour, though her blinks were growing longer. Blake had found a corner and settled into it like a cat claiming territory.

Yang sprawled across her section of the seat, legs stretched out, head tilted back.

Jaune watched them. His hand rested on his knee, and without quite meaning to, he raised it toward the ceiling of the vehicle, fingers curling slowly, as if trying to grasp something that wasn't there.

"Do you ever believe in destiny?"

The question hung in the air. Ruby stirred from her half-doze. Blake's amber eyes flickered toward him. Weiss turned her head with the measured attention of someone deciding whether a topic warranted her engagement.

Yang lifted her head from the seat.

"Destiny?" She stretched the word out, testing it. "That's a heavy topic for a post-dinner drive."

"Just curious." Jaune's hand lowered back to his knee. "It's something I've been thinking about lately."

Weiss raised an eyebrow.

"The CEO of a security consultancy thinking about destiny? That's rather philosophical for a businessman."

"Maybe." Jaune glanced out the window. The harbor lights reflected off the water, broken and shimmering. "Before I got my Semblance, things were different. I wasn't..." He paused, choosing his words. "I wasn't where I am now. Not even close. The Semblance opened doors that would have stayed shut otherwise. Paralysis. That's what the records say. Anyone I look at, I can freeze them in place."

He let that sit for a moment.

"It's useful. Incredibly useful. For security work, for negotiations, for situations where you need someone to stop moving and start listening." His voice was even, almost detached. "But before I had it? I was floundering. No direction, no prospects, nothing that set me apart. And then suddenly I had this ability, and everything changed. I rose through the ranks of society because of it. Because of something I was born with, not something I earned."

Yang shifted in her seat.

"That sounds like a good thing."

"It is." Jaune's tone didn't change. "I'm not complaining about the results. But it's made me cynical. When you see how much of success is determined by factors outside your control, by the circumstances of your birth, by the abilities you never chose..." He trailed off. "It makes you wonder how much of what we call destiny is just luck wearing a fancy mask."

Yang considered this for a moment, then shrugged with the easy confidence of someone who had never doubted her place in the world.

"Could be worse. Could be born without anything and still be stuck." She grinned, lazy and unconcerned. "At least you got the lucky ticket."

Blake spoke next. Her voice was quiet but firm.

"I don't believe that."

Jaune turned to look at her.

"Don't believe what?"

"That destiny is just luck. That people end up where they are because of some predetermined path they can't escape." Her amber eyes were steady, something hard beneath the surface. "There are people who weren't born great. People who are still struggling, every day, just to survive. People who work harder than anyone with power or privilege ever will." She paused. "If destiny is real, if it's something that decides our fates before we're even born, then that means all that suffering is intentional. That it's supposed to happen. And I can't believe that."

Her voice had sharpened on the last sentence. Not angry, exactly. Resolute. The kind of statement that came from somewhere deep.

Weiss tilted her head.

"Perhaps you're both missing the point."

Blake's gaze shifted to the heiress, a flicker of something passing across her features.

"Oh?"

"Destiny is only what we make of it." Weiss spoke with the easy confidence of someone who had been taught from birth that her choices mattered. "I was born into wealth. The Schnee name, the Dust Company, all of it. But that birth means nothing if I can't make something good of it. If I simply inherited power and did nothing with it, I would be no better than..." She caught herself. "Than those who waste their advantages."

Blake gave her a sidelong look. It was subtle, easily missed, but Jaune caught it. A slight narrowing of the eyes. A tension in her face that hadn't been there a moment before.

"Nothing," Blake said, her voice carefully neutral. "You would be nothing."

Weiss didn't notice the edge. Or if she did, she chose to ignore it.

"Exactly. Destiny isn't about where you start. It's about what you do with the journey."

Ruby, who had been listening with her chin propped on her knees, finally spoke up. Her voice was soft, carrying that particular earnestness that seemed to bypass cynicism entirely.

"I don't know if destiny is real or not," she said. "But I think it doesn't really matter."

Yang turned to look at her sister, something warm and fond flickering in her lilac eyes.

"What do you mean, Rubes?"

"I mean..." Ruby's brow furrowed as she searched for the words. "Whether or not destiny is true, whether or not there's some big plan for everyone, we still have to make the best of what we do possess. Always. Right?" She looked around the limo, silver eyes wide and guileless. "Like, if destiny is real, then we should still try our hardest. And if it isn't, then we definitely should. Either way, we have to do our best with what we have."

She said it so simply. So matter-of-factly. As if the question that had occupied philosophers for centuries could be resolved by the straightforward logic of a fifteen-year-old who still believed in the fundamental goodness of effort.

Yang's expression softened. She reached over and ruffled Ruby's hair, earning a squawk of protest.

"That's my sister," she said, and the pride in her voice was genuine.

Ruby swatted at her hand, then settled back against the seat with a small smile.

Jaune watched the exchange. The Charm Person hummed beneath the surface, weaving connections that shouldn't exist, forging bonds that had no right to be this strong this quickly.

But Ruby's words had landed. Not because of magic. Because they were Ruby's words, and Ruby believed them, and belief like that was hard to ignore.

He thought about the fake transcripts. The willingness to lie, to cheat, to forge his way into a future he hadn't earned. He thought about Demiurge's careful attention, the redirected criminal enterprises, the fortune built on suffering and persuasion. He thought about the Charm Person, the spell that made these women trust him, like him, feel the best of him.

He wondered what they thought of the future. Of how they stood beneath the shadow of his firm. Of the greatness that would seize Remnant, drag it into the future.

The return trip was spent in silence.

“There's nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be...” - John Lennon

Chapter Text

They stood in the hallway outside the dormitory room, the four young women of Team RWBY still bearing the evidence of their earlier trials. Dirt smudged on questionable places, hair that had been hastily finger-combed, and the general dishevelment that came from a day spent fighting for survival through a forest.

"Well," Jaune said, gesturing to the door, "shall we see what accommodations Beacon has provided?"

Ruby pushed through first, her earnest enthusiasm undiminished by exhaustion. "Oh wow! It's so... roomy!"

The room was modest by most standards but functional. Four beds lined the walls, and along the opposite wall sat four individual closets, one for each student. A door at the far end presumably led to a shared bathroom. Standard dormitory fare, really.

Yang dropped onto the nearest mattress, bouncing slightly to test the springs. "Not bad. Could use some personality though." She craned her neck back toward her sister. "Hey Rubes, what do you think? Bunk beds?"

Ruby's silver eyes lit up with an almost childlike excitement. "Yes! We could be on top and Weiss and Blake could have the bottoms!"

Weiss, who had been examining the closet doors with polite interest, turned with a carefully maintained smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I appreciate the gesture, but I'm not certain bunk beds are entirely necessary. They seem rather juvenile."

Blake, who had positioned herself near the window, offered a quiet nod of agreement. "I have to agree with Weiss. The beds are perfectly adequate as they are."

"Come on, you two." Yang grinned, rolling onto her back. "It'll be fun. Like a sleepover every night."

Blake's amber eyes shifted to Weiss, who had begun tidying the bedspread with scrupulous, almost compulsive movements. Something flickered across Blake's expression, a subtle change that Jaune caught with the keen perception of someone who had grown up with seven sisters. He knew this pattern well. Two of his sisters would argue, and afterward, any opinion one expressed, the other would contradict out of lingering spite. Never mind that they had agreed moments before. The grievance remained fresh, and contradiction became a petty form of retaliation.

"Actually," Blake said, her voice carrying a distinct edge, "on second thought, bunk beds could be workable. Saves space."

Weiss’s hands stilling on the bedspread. "I thought you just said otherwise."

"I changed my mind." Blake's gaze met Weiss's directly, a flicker of defiance in those amber depths. "Is that a problem?"

Weiss's brow furrowed. "No, I simply find it confusing."

"Good. Then it's settled." Blake turned away.

Jaune leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, filing away that interesting little dynamic. The rivalry between these two was going to be entertaining to watch unfold.

"I could have materials sent over," he offered. "If you're serious about the renovation."

Weiss's polite smile softened into one more genuine, a shy warmth creeping into her expression that she tried to suppress with limited success. Her cheeks colored faintly. "Jaune, you've already paid for dinner. We couldn't possibly accept more."

"Nonsense." Jaune waved dismissively. "Consider it a gesture of goodwill from Nazarick Security Consultation to Beacon's newest team."

Ruby practically vibrated with joy. "Does that mean yes? Can we really do bunk beds?"

Yang pumped her fist. "Knew I liked this guy."

Jaune smiled benevolently at the four of them, these huntresses clearly affected by his magic, and not just in the figurative way.

Jaune bid the four young women goodnight and made his way down the corridor, a low whistle on his lips.

He turned a corner and nearly collided with two figures emerging from the shadows of an adjacent hallway.

Ozpin stood with his characteristic stillness, white hair catching the dim light of the corridor, his dark green suit immaculate despite the late hour. Beside him, Glynda Goodwitch adjusted her glasses, her blouse and pencil skirt as pristine as ever, riding crop tucked under one arm like a scepter.

"Mr. Arc," Ozpin said warmly. "A good evening to you."

"Headmaster Ozpin, Professor Goodwitch." Jaune inclined his head respectfully. "A pleasure as always."

Glynda's gaze flickered in the direction Jaune had come from. "I understand you spent the evening with Team RWBY. A rather unconventional introduction, but then, you seem to specialize in the unconventional."

"Guilty as charged." Jaune smiled easily. "They're an interesting group. Talented, too. Beacon is lucky to have them."

Ozpin's eyes gleamed behind his glasses. "And did you enjoy spending time with people your own age? A rarity for you, I imagine, given your responsibilities."

"I did, actually. More than I expected." He looked wistfully. "Makes me wonder what it would have been like. If I had come to Beacon as a student instead of... this."

He gestured vaguely at himself, at the invisible weight of the role he had taken on.

"Whether we would have been friends," he clarified. "Guess I'll never know."

Ozpin tilted his head slightly. "As we discussed, the internship program with Nazarick Security Consultation allows students to gain real world experience while affording you time to know them better. You may find that friendship yet."

Jaune's expression brightened, though inwardly his thoughts turned contemplative.

"You're right, of course," he said. "I'll have everything ready by the start of the semester."

"Wonderful." Ozpin gestured down the corridor. "Shall we take a stroll? The grounds are quite lovely at night."

The three fell into step together, footsteps echoing softly against the stone floors.

Jaune maintained his pleasant demeanor as they walked, nodding at Ozpin's observations about Beacon's curriculum and Glynda's occasional interjections about disciplinary concerns. But his internal thoughts had drifted elsewhere.

It was different.

Being an employer, a figure of authority, a contractor with resources and connections. People behaved differently around that kind of power. They smiled more readily, agreed more quickly, laughed at jokes that were only moderately funny. Even with the Charm Person smoothing the way, even with genuine warmth beneath the enchantment, there remained an unbridgeable gap.

An equal stood beside you. An employee stood beneath you, no matter how much either party pretended otherwise.

He would never know what it might have been like to simply be Jaune Arc, fellow student, struggling through the same courses, nursing the same insecurities, building friendships on the unsteady ground of mutual hardship.

This was fine. He had chosen this path, and he did not regret it.

But still.

The three continued their stroll through Beacon's moonlit corridors, and Jaune's smile never wavered.

The coffee room was a modest affair, tucked away on the ground floor of the administrative wing. A few armchairs surrounded low tables, and a kettle sat steaming on a counter beside an assortment of teas and instant coffee.

Two men occupied the space when Ozpin guided Jaune and Glynda inside.

The first was a man with wild green hair that seemed to defy gravity, his lanky frame draped in a long sleeve dress shirt and tie, plain pants, and polished shoes that resembled Vale's equivalent of Oxford footwear. He moved with a restless energy, hands never quite still. Jaune observed the way his weight distributed evenly across both feet at all times, knees slightly bent even when standing apparently at ease. The man's wrists, visible where his shirt cuffs rode up during animated gestures, bore the kind of corded definition that came from repeated strain. When he reached for his coffee mug, his forearm flexed in a way that suggested tendon strength developed through swinging something heavy at high velocity. His shoulders sat just a touch too broad for his narrow frame, the result of muscle built in specific patterns rather than general fitness. His fingers were calloused, but not at the fingertips. At the palms and the webbing between thumb and forefinger, the kind of wear that came from gripping a weapon's handle for thousands of hours.

The second man could not have been more different. Stout and broad, with a bushy beard that dominated his face, dressed in a suit of varying brown tones. At first glance he appeared fat, the kind of soft roundness that suggested too many hearty meals. But Jaune looked closer, as Momonga's instincts demanded, and saw the truth. The suit fabric stretched not from excess flesh but from the bulk of dense muscle beneath. The man's forearms, where his sleeves had ridden up, were thick and roped with veins. When he shifted his weight, the suit pulled across shoulders that could likely bear a Beowolf's full tackle without buckling. This was a man who could crush Grimm with his bare hands and laugh about it afterward.

"Ah! Headmaster!" The green haired man shot to his feet with startling speed, his motion carrying no wasted movement despite its suddenness. "And our new contractor! A pleasure, a true pleasure!"

He extended his hand, shaking Jaune's with enthusiasm that bordered on aggressive. "Dr. Bartholomew Oobleck, but please, do call me Oobleck. Everyone does. Ozpin briefed us on the contract recently. Security consultation for Beacon! Very exciting! The implications for student safety alone are tremendous!"

"Let the boy breathe, Oobleck." The stout man rose more deliberately, his bushy beard twitching with a wide smile. He clasped Jaune's hand in a grip that could have pulverized stone. "Peter Port. A genuine pleasure to meet you, young man. A CEO at your age! Reminds me of my own youth, in a way."

Port chuckled, a deep resonant sound that seemed to originate from his very bones. "I was quite the success story, if I do say so myself. Found a massive gold deposit in my younger years, you see. Could have kept it, could have made myself a king in all but name. But I was an honest man, still am, and I handed every speck over to Vale proper."

He shook his head, still marveling at the memory. "Imagine my surprise when they handed me a finder's fee that left my bank account bursting with lien. Had no idea what to do with it, honestly. Still don't. The investments just sit there, growing and growing. But what does an old hunter need with that kind of money?"

Jaune smiled politely. "That's quite a story, Professor."

"Please, call me Peter. Or Port. Whichever suits you." The man's enthusiasm was genuine, almost disarmingly so.

Oobleck pushed his glasses up his nose. "Now then, Mr. Arc, a question if I may. Would you be interested in sitting in on our classes? Purely as an observer, of course. No obligations."

Jaune tilted his head slightly, processing the unexpected offer. "I appreciate the gesture, but I'm not certain I understand the purpose. My contract with Beacon pertains to security consultation. I'm not sure what value I could provide sitting through lectures."

Ozpin raised his coffee mug, taking a sedate sip before responding. "Consider it an opportunity for familiarization. Understanding how Beacon operates, how our students are trained, the methodologies we employ. It would allow you to better tailor your security protocols to complement our existing framework rather than work alongside it blindly."

The headmaster's eyes glinted. "And, of course, it would provide further exposure to the student body. You may find the investment of time worthwhile."

Jaune considered this. The logic was sound, from a certain perspective. And it would give him reason to be present without raising questions.

"I would be honored," he said. "When should I begin?"

The history classroom was arranged in neat rows of tables and desks, a chalkboard dominating the front wall beside a projector screen. Students filtered in, finding their places with the practiced ease of those who had done this before. Jaune entered through the side door Oobleck had indicated, taking a seat at the back where he could observe without intruding.

Professor Oobleck stood at the front, his thermos already in hand, steam rising from whatever caffeinated concoction it contained. He adjusted his glasses and surveyed the room with barely contained energy.

"Good morning, students! Today we have a special guest! Mr. Jaune Arc, CEO of Nazarick Security Consultation, our new security partners here at Beacon!"

Murmurs rippled through the classroom. Heads turned toward Jaune, who raised a hand in acknowledgment.

"I trust you are all familiar with Mr. Arc's background by now," Oobleck continued, "but for those who may have been living under a rock, or perhaps a particularly isolated cave, would you be so kind as to introduce yourself briefly?"

Jaune rose from his seat, smoothing his jacket. "Of course. I'm Jaune Arc, co-founder and CEO of Nazarick Security Consultation. We specialize in comprehensive security solutions, threat assessment, and protective services. I look forward to working with Beacon and its students in the coming months."

He sat back down, and Oobleck launched into his lecture with characteristic speed. Something about the Great War and its economic ramifications. Jaune listened with half an ear, his attention drifting to the students themselves.

Near the middle row, a familiar head of red hair caught his eye. Pyrrha Nikos sat with perfect posture, taking notes in neat, organized handwriting. Flanking her were her teammates, Nora Valkyrie and Lie Ren.

The three person team. An unusual arrangement, but one that seemed to suit them.

Jaune had greeted them after initiation, a brief but pleasant exchange.

Now Pyrrha glanced up from her notes, her green eyes finding Jaune's in the back row. She offered a small, tentative smile. He returned it with a nod.

Nora noticed the exchange and elbowed Ren, whispering something that earned her a stern look from Oobleck, who had not missed the distraction.

"Miss Valkyrie! Something you wish to share with the class?"

Nora straightened. "No, Professor! Just admiring the... historical significance of this moment!"

Oobleck blinked three times, then nodded rapidly. "Quite right! Every moment is historical in its own way! Excellent perspective! But please do call me doctor. Now, where were we?"

Oobleck's lecture accelerated through decades of conflict, his words tumbling over one another in rapid succession. Jaune caught fragments here and there, dates and treaties and economic shifts that shaped the kingdoms into their current forms.

"Of minor historical note," Oobleck said, tapping the chalkboard where a brief entry had been scrawled, "the discovery of viscous hydrocarbon deposits in the northern territories. An interesting curiosity! Early settlers found black liquid seeping from the ground, flammable but unstable. Some attempts were made to refine it for fuel purposes, but the discovery of Dust rendered these efforts obsolete almost overnight!"

The professor shrugged, already moving on. "A footnote, really. Dust was cleaner, more efficient, and far more versatile. The hydrocarbon deposits were largely forgotten. Now, the Mantle industrial revolution, on the other hand..."

Petroleum. A footnote.

Jaune knew what that substance had done for Earth. The empires that had risen and fallen over it. The wars fought, the economies built, the entire global order shaped by who controlled the flows. Internal combustion engines, plastics, synthetic materials, pharmaceuticals. An entire civilization's infrastructure resting on that black liquid.

Here, it had been discarded. A curiosity that led nowhere because Dust offered something better.

The divergence fascinated him. Remnant had never developed petroleum technology because it never needed to. No petrochemical industry. No oil barons. No pollution from burning fossil fuels across centuries. But also none of the materials and technologies that petroleum had enabled on Earth.

The substance still sat in the ground, untapped.

There was opportunity there. Something the people of Remnant had overlooked in their centuries of Dust dependency.

Oobleck had moved on to the Faunus Rights Revolution, his voice carrying the same breathless enthusiasm. Jaune turned his attention back to the lecture, but a small corner of his mind remained fixed on that footnote.

Jaune's attention shifted from the petroleum footnote to a subtle commotion near the front of the classroom.

Four sets of eyes had fixed on him with an intensity that bordered on unsettling. Ruby was waving with both hands, mouthing something that looked like his name. Weiss sat rigid beside her, maintaining a facade of attentiveness to the lecture while her gaze drifted toward Jaune every few seconds. Blake had angled her body just enough to glance backward without appearing obvious, though her amber eyes remained fixed on him. Yang had given up all pretense and was outright grinning, giving him a two-fingered salute.

The Charm Person effect was a curious thing. To these four, the warmth they felt toward him was genuine, indistinguishable from the bonds of friendship forged over years. Their hearts told them Jaune Arc was a dear friend, someone they trusted implicitly, someone whose attention they craved. Their minds simply filled in the gaps with whatever reasoning felt natural.

Jaune caught Ruby's eye and raised an eyebrow.

She beamed and mouthed, "Hi!"

Weiss nudged her, hissing something about decorum. Ruby's expression shifted to mild offense, and she nudged back. Blake had produced a small notepad from somewhere and was scribbling something, which she held up just long enough for Jaune to read.

"Enjoying the lecture?"

The dry humor in those three words was unmistakable.

Yang leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms behind her head. "Hey Jaune," she said, her voice carrying just enough to draw a sharp look from Oobleck, who had not stopped lecturing but had definitely noticed.

Jaune offered them a small wave, his expression warm.

The four of them lit up like children receiving praise. Weiss's cheeks colored faintly. Ruby practically vibrated in her seat. Blake's lips quirked into a genuine smile before she turned back to face forward. Yang pumped her fist.

Oobleck's voice cut through the moment. "I see our guest has fans among the student body! Wonderful! Engagement is the foundation of learning! However! Perhaps engagement during the lecture on the Faunus Rights Revolution could be deferred until after class, yes?"

Ruby shrank slightly. Weiss straightened. Blake became very interested in her notebook. Yang just grinned wider.

Jaune inclined his head apologetically. "My apologies, Professor. I'll refrain from distracting your students."

Oobleck nodded rapidly. "Quite all right! Enthusiasm is to be commended! Now! The Battle of Fort Castle!"

The Grimm Studies classroom was a far cry from Oobleck's modest lecture hall. Jaune descended a short flight of stairs into a small amphitheater arranged in a semicircle, each row of seats angled downward toward an arena of cracked stone and scattered boulders, designed for practical demonstrations. No barrier separated the seating from the fighting space below.

Near the podium sat a large wooden crate, covered with a thick cloth. Something inside growled, a low rumbling sound that made the cloth shudder. The box rattled as its occupant threw itself against the walls. Jaune's eyes lingered on it for a moment. A Grimm, most likely. Captured for demonstration purposes.

Professor Port stood at the podium, a small microphone clipped to his collar. His bushy beard twitched as he surveyed the incoming students, his barrel chest swelling with pride.

"Welcome, welcome! To Grimm Studies! The most essential course in your Huntsman education!"

Jaune took a seat near the back, positioning himself where he could observe both the professor and the students filing in. Team RWBY entered together, and Ruby immediately spotted him. Her face brightened, and she tugged at Weiss's sleeve, gesturing in his direction. The four of them made their way up the steps and settled into seats nearby.

"Good to see you again," Yang said, dropping into the chair beside him.

"You as well," Jaune replied.

Port's voice boomed through the speakers mounted along the walls. "Now! I know what some of you are thinking! Why study Grimm when we could simply kill them? A valid question! But I ask you this!"

He thrust a finger toward the arena below. "Would you charge into battle against an enemy you do not understand? Would you face a Nevermore without knowing its flight patterns? A Beowolf without understanding its pack dynamics? A Death Stalker without knowledge of its nesting grounds?"

Port chuckled, a deep resonant sound that echoed through the amphitheater. "I think not! Knowledge is the hunter's greatest weapon! Stronger than any blade! Sharper than any claw!"

He began to pace, his footsteps heavy on the floor. "In my many years as a Huntsman, I have encountered Grimm of every variety! From the smallest Creep to the mightiest Goliath! And I stand before you today because I took the time to understand them! To learn their behaviors! Their weaknesses! Their patterns!"

Port stopped at the center of the podium, spreading his arms wide. "This course will teach you what textbooks cannot! Practical knowledge! Hard-won wisdom! And yes, thrilling tales of my own adventures, from which you may glean valuable lessons!"

Weiss leaned slightly toward Jaune. "He does love his stories," she murmured.

Blake, seated on his other side, nodded. "I've heard upperclassmen refer to this class as 'Port's Theater.'"

“Hey guys, I wanna hear his stories,” Ruby said though her silver eyes sparkled with amusement. Jaune didn’t miss Weiss’s scoff.

"Now then!" Port continued, his beard waggling with enthusiasm. "Let us begin with the fundamentals! The nature of the Grimm! What drives them! What they desire! And most importantly, how to use that knowledge to ensure you return home victorious!"

Port's eyes gleamed as he turned toward the covered crate. The growling intensified, the cloth shuddering more violently as whatever lay inside sensed the proximity of potential prey.

"But theory alone will only take you so far!" Port declared. "One must witness the Grimm in action! Feel the weight of their presence! Understand the primal fury that drives them!"

He approached the crate and tapped the wood fondly, almost lovingly. Not out of any mercy for the creature within, but with the delight of a man who relished the prospect of combat. The box rattled harder, claws scraping against wood.

"I have brought a specimen for today's demonstration! A Boarbatusk! Nasty temper! Excellent for teaching the fundamentals of Grimm behavior!"

Port surveyed the amphitheater, his bushy eyebrows raised. "Now! I require a volunteer! Someone willing to face this beast in single combat! To put theory into practice! Who among you is brave enough?"

Ruby and Weiss were already whispering furiously at each other.

"You never listen to my ideas!" Ruby hissed.

"Your ideas involve rushing in without a plan!" Weiss shot back. "Some of us prefer strategy over chaos!"

"At least I actually try to include everyone instead of acting like I'm better than everyone else!"

"I am better trained! That is simply a fact!"

The bickering continued in hushed tones, growing more heated. Yang leaned back with a grin, clearly entertained. Blake had buried her face in a book, pretending not to notice.

Jaune listened for a moment. The argument stemmed from something deeper, tensions that had been building since initiation. The Charm Person made them see Jaune as a confidant, someone whose opinion mattered, but it did not erase the friction between them.

He leaned forward slightly. "If you two keep arguing like this, you're going to distract everyone from the lesson. Professor Port is asking for a volunteer. Why not settle this by seeing who's actually ready to face that thing?"

Both girls turned toward him. The Charm Person stirred, that artificial warmth flooding through them at the sound of his voice. He was their friend, their closest friend, and what he said made sense. More than sense, it felt right. The anger that had seemed so important moments ago now felt petty, not worth pursuing when he was watching, when he had offered a reasonable path forward.

"You're right," Weiss said, her voice losing its edge. "This is not the time for squabbling."

Ruby nodded, still looking at Jaune. "Yeah. Sorry, Weiss."

Jaune observed the exchange with quiet interest. The Charm Person smoothed conflicts when he engaged, when he directed their attention toward him. The enchantment did not erase their grievances, but it made those grievances feel trivial in comparison to maintaining his good opinion. Left to their own devices, the underlying tensions remained. But his presence, his voice, his involvement acted as a balm.

Was he a selfish prick or what? Had he been more moral or ethical he would probably feel guilty about the magical effects. He checked deep inside himself and found nothing.

Weiss rose from her seat, her posture immaculate, her expression determined. "I volunteer, Professor."

Port nodded approvingly. "Ah! Miss Schnee! A bold choice! Very well! Go retrieve your weapon and meet me in the arena!"

Weiss gave a curt nod and briefly departed through a side door. Moments later, she returned descending the stone path that led from the seating area to the arena floor below. In her hand she carried Myrtenaster, her rapier.

The weapon was a masterpiece of engineering and wealth combined. Silver-gray in color, the blade gleamed under the amphitheater lights. The hilt possessed four prongs that encased a revolver-like chamber around the ricasso, a design utterly unlike the bow type hand-guard common among most rapiers. The arrangement resembled a swept hilt, elegant yet functional.

The revolving chamber could be controlled entirely by the sword-hand, enabling Weiss to seamlessly cycle between different Dust types mid-combat. Jaune remembered her mentioning during their dinner together that the six slots contained vials of Dust. Red, cyan, violet, white, yellow, and blue. The weapon was a statement as much as a tool. Where most Huntresses relied on ordinary ammunition, Weiss carried a rotating arsenal of refined elemental power. The sheer expense of keeping such a weapon stocked spoke to the Schnee fortune more eloquently than any words could.

Weiss reached the arena floor and took her position, Myrtenaster raised.

Port positioned himself near the crate, one hand on the cloth. "Ready yourself, Miss Schnee! Show us what you can do! The class is watching!"

Port gripped the cloth and yanked it free. He opened the reinforced crate's door, metal hinges creaking.

The Boarbatusk emerged, a hulking quadruped that bore the features of a boar twisted into violence. Cloven feet scraped against stone. A coarse line of hair sprouted from its spine, bristling as it registered the presence of prey. Its snub snout twitched, scenting the air. Four tusks jutted from its jaws, two curving outward in massive arcs while two smaller sets framed them.

Four eyes gleamed with malevolent intelligence, set deep beneath a bone-like mask that seemed fused to its face. Black vein-like organic tethers strapped the mask in place, pulsing visibly. Plates of bone armor covered its back and thighs, forming a natural shield against attack.

Port gave the Boarbatusk a kick, sending it sliding toward Weiss.

The creature scrambled to its feet and charged.

Weiss's eyes widened, startled by the sudden assault. But her training held. Myrtenaster flashed, the revolving chamber clicking into position. White light gathered along the blade as ice Dust activated.

She thrust forward, and a sheet of ice erupted across the arena floor, rushing to meet the Boarbatusk's charge. The creature's legs locked in place as frost climbed its body, freezing it mid-stride. The Boarbatusk snorted, its four eyes fixed on Weiss with naked hatred.

Weiss lunged. Myrtenaster struck the creature's armored side with a sharp ring of metal against bone.

The blow glanced off.

The plates along the Boarbatusk's back held firm, absorbing the impact with barely a scratch. Weiss's eyes narrowed. She struck again, aiming for a gap between the plates. Again, the armor deflected her blade.

A low growl rumbled from the frozen creature. The ice around its legs began to crack. Thin fractures spiderwebbed outward as the Boarbatusk strained against its prison, muscles bunching beneath its armored hide. Another crack. Then another.

Weiss took a step back, her grip on Myrtenaster tightening. Jaune could see her reassessing, calculating. The creature was breaking free faster than she had likely expected.

Ruby leaned forward in her seat, her voice carrying across the amphitheater. "Weiss! Hit its underside! It's not armored there!"

Weiss did not turn. Her gaze remained fixed on the Boarbatusk, her stance unchanging. She struck again at the creature's plated flank, Myrtenaster scraping uselessly against bone.

"Weiss, listen to me! The belly is vulnerable!"

"I heard you the first time!" Weiss snapped, not taking her eyes off the creature. She lunged for another strike at the creature's shoulder, her blade bouncing off once more.

The Boarbatusk wrenched one leg free from the ice. Then another. Its four eyes burned with anticipation.

Jaune watched from his seat. A simple solution presented itself. The creature's death would solve the immediate problem and preserve Weiss's pride in front of her peers.

He focused, drawing upon the well of power that lay within him. Silent Magic. A metamagic technique that allowed his next spell to be cast without vocal incantation. Weiss raised Myrtenaster for another strike.

As her blade came down toward the creature's armored back, Jaune released the spell called Death.

The spell took hold the instant Weiss's blade connected with the Boarbatusk's armor.

No gesture or spoken word or flash of light or crack of energy. Simply the cessation of life.

The Boarbatusk collapsed beneath Weiss's strike. Its legs buckled, and the creature crumpled to the arena floor, motionless. The four eyes that had burned with hatred moments before now stared at nothing, glazed and empty. Then the corpse began to dissolve, black smoke rising from its form as the body unraveled into wisps of darkness that dissipated into the air.

Jaune felt a flicker of surprise. The spell had worked. He had not been certain it would. Grimm were creatures of shadow and malice, lacking souls, lacking true life in any meaningful sense. Whether Death would affect something that was not truly alive had been an open question.

Apparently, it did.

Weiss stood over the empty space, Myrtenaster still raised. She stared, momentarily uncertain, but the timing had been perfect. Her blade had struck, and the creature had fallen. The conclusion seemed obvious enough.

Ruby's brow furrowed. "Did... did that just happen?"

Yang shrugged. "Looks like Weiss got it."

"But she hit the armor. That shouldn't have killed it."

"Excellent work, Miss Schnee!" Port's voice boomed through the speakers, his bushy beard stretching with a wide grin. But Jaune caught the brief flicker of confusion in the professor's eyes before the man smoothed his expression into theatrical pride. "A decisive victory! You have demonstrated admirably the importance of persistence in combat! Even when initial strikes prove ineffective, a true Huntress does not falter!"

Port clapped Weiss on the shoulder. "The creature has fallen! Return to your seat with honor!"

Weiss sheathed Myrtenaster, her expression caught somewhere between satisfaction and uncertainty. She had won. The how of it seemed less important in the moment.

Glynda's classroom mirrored Port's amphitheater in layout, with tiered seating descending toward an open arena floor. The key difference lay in the faint shimmer that ran along the edges of the fighting space. Jaune observed the mechanism built into the walls, projectors positioned at regular intervals. A force field, controllable from the instructor's podium. Dust-powered, most likely.

Glynda stood at the front, her riding crop tucked under one arm, her glasses catching the light as she surveyed the incoming students. Her posture was rigid, her expression businesslike. Jaune took a seat near the back, positioning himself where he could observe both the instructor and the students.

Team RWBY filed in together. Ruby caught sight of him and immediately detoured, pulling the others along.

"You're sitting in on this one too?" she asked, settling into the seat beside him.

"Professor Ozpin suggested I observe multiple classes," Jaune replied. "Get a feel for how Beacon operates."

"Cool!" Ruby grinned. "Maybe you can give us tips!"

Weiss, seated on Ruby's other side, nodded. "Your combat experience could be valuable."

Jaune almost burst out laughing. The only ‘experience’ he had was the overwhelming power at his disposal which trivialized most conflict, leaving him lacking for actual expertise.

Glynda tapped her riding crop against the podium, drawing the class's attention. The murmur of conversation died down.

"Welcome to Combat and Dueling. I am Professor Glynda Goodwitch. In this course, you will learn to apply your skills against live opponents in controlled conditions."

She began to pace, her heels clicking against the stone floor. "Some of you may wonder why we dedicate valuable time to dueling when your true enemy is the Grimm. A reasonable question. The answer is simple."

Glynda turned to face the class. "The Grimm are predictable. They attack with fury and instinct, following patterns that can be studied and anticipated. A human or Faunus opponent is not. They think. They adapt. They exploit weaknesses you did not know you had."

She gestured toward the arena below. "Dueling teaches you to read an opponent in real time. To adjust your strategy on the fly. To remain calm under pressure when your adversary is every bit as intelligent as you are. These skills translate directly to survival in the field, where you may face not only Grimm but those who would do harm to the innocent."

Her gaze swept across the students before settling on Jaune.

"Mr. Arc. I understand you have been observing classes today. I wonder if you might be willing to assist with a demonstration."

Jaune raised an eyebrow. "Me?"

"You are a trained combatant with significant experience. A practical demonstration would be more valuable than theoretical discussion." Glynda adjusted her glasses. "Unless you feel unprepared?"

"No, but are you sure?" Jaune leaned forward slightly. "You've seen me fight. You know what I'm capable of."

"I have. I observed your engagement with the Grimm during your early operations in Vale. You dispatched them with remarkable efficiency. That is precisely why I am asking."

She turned to address the class. "Mr. Arc's participation serves multiple purposes. First, it will demonstrate the gap between student and professional. Second, it will show you techniques and decision-making processes that only experience can teach. And third, it will illustrate that raw power is insufficient without proper application."

He thought she was bullshitting. A skill all orators clearly shared. There would be no ‘techniques’ if he just one-tapped the opposition unconscious.

Glynda adjusted her glasses. "One condition, Mr. Arc. I ask that you refrain from using your Semblance during this demonstration. Paralysis would end any duel before it begins, and I want the students to observe proper technique, not a brief cessation of movement."

Paralysis. A low-tier spell in YGGDRASIL, hardly worth mentioning among the truly devastating magic at his disposal. Yet here it was treated as a formidable ability worthy of restriction. He had publicly claimed it as his Semblance, a look that could freeze opponents in place. The deception had served its purpose.

"Of course, Professor," he said. "Though it hardly matters how strong an opponent is. Skill finds a way."

Glynda nodded and produced a device from beneath the podium. A wrist-wrapped gauge, sleek and compact, with a small display built into its surface. She handed it to Jaune.

"An Aura gauge. It will project your Aura levels onto the screen above so the class can observe the ebb and flow of combat."

Jaune slipped it onto his wrist. Above the arena, a multi-sided screen descended from the ceiling, its panels angled so every seat had a clear view. His Aura registered as a solid bar, the numerical value displayed beside it.

"Now then," Glynda continued, turning to the class. "I need a volunteer to face Mr. Arc. Who among you wishes to test themselves against a professional?"

A hand shot up.

Pyrrha Nikos rose from her seat in the middle row, her ponytail swishing as she moved. Her emerald eyes gleamed with something between eagerness and calculation. She descended the steps toward the arena floor with the practiced grace of a seasoned fighter.

"Pyrrha Nikos," she announced, reaching the bottom. "I volunteer."

Glynda handed her a second Aura gauge, which Pyrrha strapped to her wrist without hesitation. The screen above updated, displaying two bars side by side.

Jaune studied his opponent. Champion of Mistral. Four-time winner of the Mistral Regional Tournament. A prodigy whose reputation preceded her.

He shook his head slightly. "You're more talented than I am, Miss Nikos. I only became competent after my Aura and Semblance were unlocked. You've been honing your skills for years."

Pyrrha's expression softened, warmth blooming behind those emerald eyes. "Jaune, you don't need to diminish yourself around me. And please, call me Pyrrha. We're friends. Capability cares little for who deserves it. Someone may train for decades while another is simply born with greater gifts. Whether that is fair or deserved matters not at all. What matters is what is." A gentle smile crossed her features. "Now please, treat me as a serious opponent. I want to see what you can really do."

Jaune regarded her for a moment, then gave a small nod.

"Very well, Pyrrha."

Glynda raised a hand before the match could begin.

"Mr. Arc, will you be using your weapons for this demonstration?"

Jaune regarded the question for a moment. He had Crocea Mors, Yellow Death, passed down from his great-great grandpa who used it during the Great War. There were also items within his inventory which were artifacts of YGGDRASIL, their properties far beyond what this world would consider normal. Revealing them openly might raise questions better left unasked.

He had no interest in using either. 

"My fists are my weapons," he said.

Pyrrha nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Then I will retrieve mine as well."

She turned slightly, as if moving toward the edge of the arena and briefly depart to fetch her possessions. Then her body pivoted with blinding speed, her leg sweeping upward in a vicious arc toward Jaune's head.

He raised his forearm and caught her shin against it. The impact produced a sharp crack that echoed through the amphitheater.

Jaune grinned. So Pyrrha had decided to go without weapons as well. A spur of the moment choice, testing herself against him on equal footing.

Glynda let out an exasperated sigh. "Miss Nikos, I did not authorize an unarmed exhibition."

Pyrrha hopped back, her emerald eyes bright with focus. "My apologies, Professor. But if Mr. Arc requires no weapon, then neither should I."

Glynda's lips pressed into a thin line. She looked ready to intervene, but after a moment she simply shook her head. Pyrrha Nikos was not a first-year student to be coddled. If the champion of Mistral wished to handicap herself, that was her decision.

"Very well. Proceed."

Pyrrha launched forward.

Her attacks came in rapid succession, a flurry of strikes that displayed years of disciplined training. Fists, elbows, knees, and feet wove together in combinations that would overwhelm most opponents. Each blow was faultless, targeting vital areas with the competence of someone who had studied the human body extensively.

Jaune absorbed them.

Her fist connected with his ribs. Her elbow struck his shoulder. Her knee drove toward his stomach. He allowed each hit to land, his body barely shifting under the impacts.

The screen above told the story. Pyrrha's Aura bar remained relatively stable, each hit she landed shaving off small increments from Jaune's gauge. But the reduction was almost negligible. His Aura bar sat stubbornly high, a wall of white that seemed immovable.

Then Jaune threw a punch.

Pyrrha twisted, attempting to dodge, but his fist clipped her shoulder. Her Aura bar dropped visibly, a significant chunk vanishing in an instant. She rolled with the impact, creating distance, her eyes wide.

Another exchange. Pyrrha landed three quick strikes against his torso. Jaune's Aura dipped if he squinted. He caught her wrist and pulled her off balance, his other hand driving into her midsection.

Pyrrha's Aura plummeted.

She disengaged, breathing harder, recalculating. Her hits required commitment now, because staying too close meant risking another blow from those deceptively slow-looking strikes. Each one carried weight far beyond what his frame suggested.

Pyrrha's breath came faster now, but her face held something unexpected. Joy.

She moved like water, circling, testing, probing for weaknesses that did not exist. Her years of tournament experience showed in every motion, each strike flowing into the next with practiced skill. She tried grappling, attempting to use leverage against his larger frame. He simply stood immovable, then drove an elbow into her side that sent her skidding across the arena floor.

She rolled with the impact and came up smiling.

Jaune found himself smiling back.

The memories of being called Momonga stirred. The late nights in YGGDRASIL, the guild wars and skirmishes, the duelists who had understood that combat was a conversation rather than a grudge. PvP had been a joy when both parties approached it with the right spirit. Win or lose, the thrill lay in the exchange itself.

Pyrrha feinted left, then drove her knee toward his ribs. He caught it and shoved her backward. She stumbled, recovered, and launched herself at him again.

"Not bad," he said.

Her eyes sparkled. "I'm just getting started."

She tried speed, darting around him in quick circles, looking for blind spots. She tried power, committing fully to strikes meant to overwhelm. She tried misdirection, her movements designed to draw his attention before snapping attacks toward unexpected angles.

None of it worked.

His Aura remained an immovable wall. Hers dwindled with each exchange, chunks vanishing whenever his fists connected. The screen above told the story in stark numbers, but neither combatant looked at it.

Pyrrha's ponytail had come loose, red hair framing her flushed face. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her breathing was ragged. But her emerald eyes still blazed with determination.

She planted her feet and threw everything she had into one final combination. Left jab. Right cross. Spinning back kick. Each strike landed. Each did nothing.

Jaune caught her ankle on the last attack and held her suspended for a moment. Then he simply released her, letting her momentum carry her backward.

She hit the ground hard.

"Oof."

For a moment she lay there, staring up at the ceiling. Then laughter bubbled up from her chest, bright and genuine.

Jaune extended a hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet. Her Aura gauge flickered, the last dregs of her reserves visibly crumbling.

"That was wonderful," she breathed, still smiling.

"It was," he agreed.

Her grin widened, triumphant despite her loss. "Again sometime?"

"Anytime you want."

The remainder of the class passed in a blur of student matchups that felt almost pedestrian after what the amphitheater had just witnessed. Teams partnered off, Aura gauges tracking exchanges that lacked the ferocity and joy of the previous demonstration. Jaune observed from his seat, noting techniques and tendencies, filing away information for later use.

When the final pair concluded their match, Glynda dismissed the class with a wave of her riding crop. Students filtered out through the exits, chattering among themselves. Jaune made his way down to the arena floor where Pyrrha was already being swarmed by her teammates.

Nora Valkyrie practically vibrated in place, her hands clutching Pyrrha's shoulders as she bounced on her heels.

"That was AMAZING! You were all whoosh and bam and then he was all nope and you were all fine then take this and then he caught your leg and you went flying and then you laughed and oh my gosh you were laughing on the ground like it was the best day ever and was it the best day ever because it looked like the best day ever!"

Ren stood beside her, his usual calm demeanor softened by a small smile. "You fought well. Both of you."

Pyrrha giggled, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep in her chest. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair still disheveled from the match, but her emerald eyes shone with an almost euphoric light. She seemed lighter somehow, as if a weight she had carried for years had momentarily lifted.

Jaune noted the strangeness of it. The euphoria seemed disproportionate to a simple sparring match. But he found he did not mind. Pyrrha's joy was genuine, infectious even.

"It was wonderful," Pyrrha said, her voice carrying a dreamy quality. "He's incredible. Did you see how he just absorbed everything? I threw everything I had and it was like hitting a mountain."

"A very polite mountain," Nora added, finally releasing Pyrrha to beam at Jaune. "Who smiles! Smiling mountains are the best kind."

Glynda's heels clicked against the stone floor as she approached the group. Her expression was composed, professional, though something in her posture suggested weariness.

"Mr. Arc. Thank you for your demonstration today. It was instructive for the class."

He doubted that. How was him just standing there like a wall instructive? Still, he said, "You're welcome, Professor."

She turned to Pyrrha. "And you, Miss Nikos. Your willingness to participate was appreciated."

Pyrrha's giggle had subsided, but the warmth in her eyes remained. "It was my pleasure, Professor."

Glynda adjusted her glasses, a small frown creasing her brow. "I should note that I am not typically so permissive with first-year students regarding unauthorized modifications to class structure. Miss Nikos's decision to forgo weapons was not cleared with me beforehand."

Her gaze shifted between Pyrrha and Jaune.

"However, Pyrrha is a special case. Her experience level exceeds most of her peers significantly. The standard rules that govern first-year engagements do not always apply to someone of her caliber."

The frown deepened slightly. Glynda seemed to be wrestling with something internally.

"Favoritism sits poorly with me. Every student deserves equal treatment, equal opportunity to learn and grow. But there is a difference between favoritism and appropriate recognition of skill. Placing a four-time tournament champion against standard first-year opposition serves neither the champion nor her opponents." She smoothed her expression back into neutrality. "That is my justification, at least. Whether it holds water remains to be seen."

She gave a curt nod. "You are dismissed. I trust you will all attend your next classes promptly."

Glynda turned and strode back toward the podium, her riding crop tucked once more beneath her arm.

Nora watched her go, then leaned toward the group conspiratorially. "She seems fun."

Ren placed a hand on her shoulder. "Nora."

"What? I meant it as a compliment!"

The councilor sat in his office, the only light coming from the tablet on his desk and the faint glow of Vale's skyline through the window behind him. The darkness suited him. It always had. Shadows made it easier to think, easier to see what others preferred to keep hidden.

Beacon Academy was Vale's crown jewel, its training ground for the next generation of Huntsmen and Huntresses. Officially, those graduates owed no allegiance to any single kingdom. In practice, there were always ways to entice them, to ensure that their swords swung in the right direction when it mattered. It stood to reason that the council kept watch on what went on inside those walls. Not out of distrust but due diligence. The students who walked those halls today would be the ones holding the line tomorrow, and it was the council's responsibility to ensure that line held firm.

He swiped through the dossier on his screen, his eyes tracking the details with the ease of a man who had spent decades reading between lines. Beacon Academy had become entangled with something, and that something had a name.

Jaune Arc.

The tablet displayed the young man's photograph, and the councilor's lip curled. The first image was from before, a gawky teenager with too-pale skin and a stance that screamed insecurity. Awkward in every sense of the word. But then the images progressed, and somewhere around seventeen, a change took shape. The jaw hardened. The shoulders squared. The eyes lost that deer-in-the-headlights quality and was colder and more certain. The transformation was stark enough to give the councilor pause.

The Semblance registration had come shortly after. Paralysis. A single word, unassuming on its face, but the councilor had been in the game long enough to know that Semblances were rarely as simple as their descriptions suggested. A man who could stop his enemies in their tracks, who could freeze them where they stood and carve them apart at his leisure. The implications wrote themselves.

And then there were the others. The councilor swiped to the next set of images. A woman with horns curving from her head. Albedo. A faunus, according to the official records. The old man stood beside her in the next photograph, besuited and unremarkable. Spear. No last name, no history, no nothing. Just a name and a face and the knowledge that these three had been found together.

Based on what information the councilor had been able to glean, these three were monsters. Each one of them could slaughter their way through a battalion without breaking a sweat.

But there was something amiss.

The councilor steepled his fingers as he read through the latest reports from his spies. They had infiltrated Beacon, planted in the menial positions that kept the academy running. Custodians who mopped the floors and emptied the trash. Administrative assistants who filed paperwork and fetched coffee for professors who never learned their names. Cafeteria workers who served meals and listened to conversations that students forgot were public. Maintenance staff who fixed broken windows and overheard things through walls. People whose presence was so routine, so forgettable, that no one thought to watch what they said around them.

And what those people had reported was troubling.

The young Arc had been interfering with the academia itself. Not through direct confrontation, nothing so clumsy as that, but through insinuation and influence. He had declared a guardian from his coterie to monitor a three-unit team composed of Nora Valkyrie, Lie Ren, and Pyrrha Nikos. The first two were of no regard. A hammer-wielding loudmouth and a quiet fighter with a pistol fetish. Neither of them would shape the future of anything.

Pyrrha Nikos was different. The councilor tapped her photograph, enlarging it on the screen. Pyrrha Nikos. The Invincible Girl. Four-time champion of the Mistral Regional Tournament. A warrior whose potential was matched only by her marketability. If the faiths favored Vale, she would be tied to the kingdom more tightly than to her original homeland. A prize like that, cultivated properly, could shift the balance of power for a generation.

But to be shaped by a security company. By Nazarick Security Consultation. That was not good. That was, in fact, precisely the kind of thing that the councilor had spent his career preventing. A young woman of Nikos's caliber should be shaped by institutions, by Vale, by men who understood the weight of power and how to direct it. Not by a private firm with unknown loyalties and questionable methods.

The councilor swiped to the next report. Arc had been seen showing favor to Team RWBY as well. He had taken them to dinner at The Midday, that absurdly luxurious restaurant where a single meal cost more than most families earned in a month.

Weiss Schnee of the SDC was part of this team. The heiress. The future of the largest Dust company on the continent. And she was being wined and dined by a young man with monstrous power and questionable loyalties.

The councilor set the tablet down and stared into the darkness of his office.

Clearly, the young Arc had ambitions. The question was what kind, and whether Vale could afford to let him pursue them unchecked.

The councilor picked up his scroll and dialed a number he knew by heart. It rang twice before the line clicked open.

"Councilor." Harold's voice was as dry as ever.

"Harold. I need a sounding board."

The sound of a chair creaking. "By all means."

The councilor had practiced law himself, years ago, before he had climbed to his current heights. He knew the statutes better than most, knew the gaps and the gray areas where intent mattered more than letter. But there was value in speaking his thoughts aloud, in having another mind confirm what he already suspected.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Beacon Academy. There's a security firm that's embedded itself there. Nazarick Security Consultation. They've been granted access to students, influence over curriculum, the works. Tell me where the law stands."

A thoughtful hum came through the scroll. "Beacon operates under its own charter, as you well know. Founded with the explicit purpose of training Huntsmen and Huntresses, granted considerable latitude in how it achieves that end. The academy's curriculum, its internal policies, its choice of instructors and partners, all fall under the headmaster's discretion. Vale's laws still apply in full, of course. Beacon is not a sovereign state. Its students and staff are still subject to Vale's regulations and oversight. But when it comes to the day-to-day running of the institution, Ozpin has broad authority. He can bring in outside consultants, security firms, whatever he deems necessary to fulfill Beacon's mandate."

The councilor's hand curled into a fist on the desk. "So he's broken no law."

"None whatsoever. Unusual, certainly. Beacon has always kept its distance from private interests. The kingdoms fund the academies precisely to maintain that independence. For Ozpin to open the doors to a private security firm, to allow them this level of access and influence over his students, that's a departure from precedent. But perfectly legal."

"That's what concerns me." The councilor stared at the tablet, at Jaune Arc's photograph still glowing on the screen. "Ozpin is not a fool. He does not make decisions lightly, and he certainly does not allow outsiders to embed themselves in his academy without good reason. If he has been swayed this thoroughly, then whatever Nazarick offered him must have been compelling."

"Or threatening."

The councilor grunted. "Perhaps. Either way, the result is the same. Beacon's purpose is to serve the kingdoms, to produce Huntsmen who will protect the people of Remnant. If Nazarick's interests align with that purpose, then this arrangement is merely unusual. But if their interests diverge from Vale's..."

"Then you have a problem," Harold finished. "Vale has laws against private armies, against unauthorized military organizations operating within its borders. You know this better than most, you wrote half of them. But Nazarick isn't an army. They're a security consultancy, properly licensed, contracted by Beacon to provide services. If they decide to steer those students toward their own agenda instead of Vale's, you'd have to prove intent, prove that they're building something that violates those laws. Right now, all they're doing is providing security services to an academy that has every right to hire them. You can't take this to the courts, councilor. Not yet. You'd have to fight it in the council chamber, through funding and oversight and political pressure."

"Political pressure requires leverage." The councilor rubbed his temples. "And leverage requires information, which is what I lack. I have photographs and hearsay and the ramblings of cafeteria workers. I need to know what Nazarick wants. What they've promised Ozpin. What they intend to do with the influence they're accumulating."

"And if Ozpin won't tell you?"

The councilor's smile was thin and cold. "Then I'll have to find out another way."

Chapter Text

The cafeteria stretched wide beneath vaulted ceilings, long tables arranged in rows that accommodated the student body with room to spare. Jaune had procured his lunch from the serving line, a plate of roasted chicken breast with herb seasoning, steamed vegetables, and a small bread roll. A glass of water sat beside the tray. He picked at the food more out of habit than need, moving pieces around the plate.

The undead status that had come with Momonga's essence meant his body no longer required sustenance. Eating, drinking, breathing, sleeping. All had become unnecessary. He could still do these things, still simulate the motions of mortal life, but the urges that drove living flesh held no power over him.

He settled at a table near the windows, afternoon light streaming across the surface. Within moments, chairs scraped against the floor as Team RWBY and Team PNR claimed the surrounding seats.

Ruby Rose dropped onto the bench beside him, her own tray piled high with an assortment that seemed to consist primarily of cookies and what might generously be called vegetables. Weiss sat across from them, her posture immaculate even while eating. Blake had found a seat at the corner, a book open beside her plate. Yang sprawled with easy confidence, her plate balanced on her knee.

Team PNR occupied the remaining space. Pyrrha sat across from Jaune, her earlier euphoria settled into a warm contentment. Nora had claimed the spot beside her, chattering already about something Ren was only half-listening to as he ate with quiet efficiency.

"So," Yang said, gesturing with her fork, "anyone actually looking forward to the afternoon classes?"

Weiss sighed. "Mathematics is essential for trajectory calculations and Dust infusion ratios. It is not about enjoying ourselves, Yang, but refining our competence."

"Trajectory calculations," Ruby groaned, slumping forward. "Why do we need to calculate bullet drops when Crescent Rose uses .50 caliber rounds? They punch through just about anything."

"Because not every Grimm stands still waiting for you to hit it," Weiss replied primly. "And some of us prefer accuracy over raw stopping power."

"Raw stopping power works," Yang grinned. "But I'm with Ruby on this one. Math is not my friend."

Ren spoke between bites. "Mathematics also applies to Grimm population tracking, migration patterns, and resource allocation for extended missions. The practical applications extend beyond combat."

Nora gasped, pointing her fork at him. "Ren! You're supposed to be on my side! Math is the enemy!"

"I am on your side. I am also correct."

Blake looked up from her book. "What about Law? That's the other afternoon option for some tracks."

Weiss nodded. "Legal frameworks for Huntsman operations. Jurisdiction boundaries, property damage liability, acceptable use of force in civilian zones. Necessary knowledge for anyone operating within kingdom borders."

"Sounds thrilling," Yang said flatly.

"It sounds exhausting," Ruby muttered into her cookies.

"What about the firearms course?" Pyrrha asked, her voice pleasant. "I heard Professor Ashe covers weapon maintenance and modification for those whose Semblances complement ranged combat."

"Oh, that one's actually useful," Yang perked up. "I've been meaning to ask about Ember Celica's recoil dispersal. Could probably get another ten percent efficiency out of the mechanism."

Ruby nodded enthusiastically. "And Uncle Qrow always says you should know your weapon inside and out. Even if you're mostly melee, knowing how guns work helps when you're fighting against them."

Weiss sniffed. "Myrtenaster requires no modifications. It is already perfect."

"Of course it is," Yang rolled her eyes.

Jaune listened without contributing. His attention drifted over the conversation, cataloging the information without real investment. Mathematics for trajectory and Dust ratios. Law for jurisdiction and liability. Firearms for maintenance and modification. All useful knowledge for Huntsmen operating within Remnant's constraints.

But Jaune was not constrained by Remnant's rules.

Momonga's spell list stretched vast and comprehensive in his mind. Need to remain undetected? Invisibility, Perfect Unknowable, Silence. Need to traverse distance? Gate, Teleport, Warp. Need to analyze a situation? Various divination spells, detection magic, Appraise Item. Need to escape? Time Stop allowed him to act freely while the world froze around him.

What use did he have for trajectory calculations when he could simply will a target to die? What need for jurisdiction laws when he operated outside mortal governance? What point in learning firearm maintenance when magic accomplished what bullets could not?

None of it applied to him.

But he sat and listened anyway, his expression attentive, nodding at appropriate moments. The social dynamics interested him more than the curriculum. Team RWBY's easy banter, the undercurrents of friendship and friction. Team PNR's quieter dynamic, Nora's exuberance balanced by Ren's calm and Pyrrha's gentle warmth.

These were the students under his client's protection. Understanding them mattered.

"So Jaune," Yang said, leaning forward with a grin, "you've been holding out on us. That fight with Pyrrha? Your Aura is insane!"

Ruby nodded vigorously, crumbs from her cookies dusting her chin. "Yeah! Pyrrha was hitting you with everything she had and your Aura barely moved! And then you hit her once and her Aura just cratered!"

Weiss set down her fork, her expression uncharacteristically soft. "The disparity in raw power is remarkable. Most fighters must rely on technique to compensate for lesser Aura reserves, but you simply do not need to."

Blake glanced up from her book, her amber eyes flickering toward Jaune before returning to the page. "Effective." She turned a page with deliberate casualness. "Very effective."

Jaune waved a hand. "What can I say? I have a lot of Aura and my hits hit hard."

"That's so humble!" Ruby beamed at him. "See, this is why you're the best."

Yang slung an arm around his shoulder. "Seriously, where have you been all our lives? It's like we've known you forever."

Weiss nodded, her pale blue eyes warm. "It is rather remarkable. One might expect such power to come with arrogance, yet you remain grounded. It is a commendable quality."

Pyrrha watched the exchange with a tilted head, her emerald eyes curious. Nora leaned forward, her gaze bouncing between Team RWBY and Jaune. Even Ren's calm expression shifted slightly, his attention sharpening.

"You all seem remarkably close to him," Pyrrha observed. "We met him during Initiation when he picked us up on his airship, yet you speak as though you've been friends for years. We've barely had a chance to speak with him outside of today."

Nora nodded. "Yeah! It's like you're best buddies or something. What's up with that?"

Ren's voice was quiet. "The difference in familiarity is noticeable. We have had limited interaction with him since Initiation."

Team RWBY exchanged glances. Ruby scratched her head. Yang shrugged. Weiss's brow furrowed slightly as if trying to articulate something she could not quite grasp.

"I dunno," Ruby said finally. "He just clicks with us, you know?"

Yang nodded. "Yeah. It's like, we met him and it just felt right. Like we were supposed to be friends."

"It is difficult to explain," Weiss added, her tone thoughtful. "There is simply a natural affinity. One does not question such things."

Blake turned another page. "Some people just fit."

Jaune felt the weight of Team PNR's curious gazes. The Charm Person spell worked subtly, weaving affection that its victims rationalized as natural connection. Team RWBY did not know they were enchanted. They only knew that being near Jaune felt right, that his opinions mattered, that his presence brought warmth.

He had contemplated extending the spell to Pyrrha, Nora, and Ren. A simple casting, a few words of power, and they too would look at him with the same unguarded affection. It would be easy. Simple.

But something held him back.

Momonga's memories carried the weight of a guild that had been built on genuine bonds. The NPCs of Nazarick loved him, or at least behaved as though they did. He could only surmise this was by design, their devotion woven into their very nature based on how consistently they treated him. But his fellow players had chosen him. Chosen to stand beside him. The difference mattered, even if he could not fully articulate why.

Could ordinary friendship still be achieved? Could these three come to care for him without the artificial scaffolding of magic?

He was curious to find out.

"What can I say?" Jaune shrugged, adopting an easy smile. "Great personalities recognize each other. It's like a sixth sense."

Yang snorted. "Your personality is terrible and you know it."

"Terrible personalities recognize each other too."

Ruby giggled. "That doesn't even make sense."

"Neither does your cookie-to-vegetable ratio, but here we are."

Ruby looked down at her tray, then back up at him with wide eyes. "I don't understand the problem."

Weiss sighed, though fondness crept into her voice as she looked at Jaune. "He has a point. A deeply concerning one."

Blake turned another page without looking up. "He's not wrong."

Nora eyed Ruby's tray. "Ooh, cookies! Can I have one?"

"Get your own cookies!" Ruby shielded her tray protectively. "You already ate your lunch!"

Nora pouted. "But my lunch didn't have cookies. That's not fair. I've been wronged. Ren, tell her I've been wronged."

Ren's calm voice cut through. "You have not been wronged. You simply failed to acquire cookies."

"Betrayed by my own teammate!"

Pyrrha laughed, the sound bright and genuine. Her eyes met Jaune's across the table, warmth in her gaze that felt different from the enchanted affection of Team RWBY. Less intense. More tentative.

He found he preferred it.

The laughter cut through the cafeteria's ambient noise, loud and grating.

Jaune's attention shifted toward the source. A group of four students occupied a table near the center of the room. The largest among them, a broad-shouldered boy with orange hair and armor styled after medieval executioners, held something in his grip.

A girl. Brown rabbit ears protruded from her hair, and the boy's hand was wrapped around one of them, tugging.

"Come on, bunny," Cardin Winchester laughed, his grip tightening. "Let's see if they're real. How sensitive are these things anyway? I heard animals like you can feel everything through them."

The girl, Velvet, winced. "Ow! Please, let go!"

"Animals are so much easier to train than humans," Cardin continued, yanking harder. "Maybe if I pull hard enough, you'll do a trick. Can you hop? Go on, hop for us."

His teammates roared with laughter.

Velvet's face flushed with humiliation. Her hands grasped at Cardin's wrist, trying to pry herself free, but his grip was iron.

"Look at those ears twitch! Hey, does anyone have a carrot? I think the little bunny's hungry!"

More laughter. Some students at nearby tables watched with uncomfortable expressions. Others looked away entirely.

At Jaune's table, the mood had shifted drastically. Ruby's earlier giggles had died. Yang's fork had bent in her grip, the metal warped between her fingers. Blake's book lay forgotten, her amber eyes fixed on the scene, her bow slightly askew as her shoulders hunched inward. Weiss's lips pressed into a thin line of disgust.

Pyrrha's expression had hardened, the warmth from moments before replaced by cold disapproval. Nora's usual exuberance had vanished, her eyes narrowed. Even Ren's calm demeanor had grown rigid.

Yet none of them did anything.

Jaune observed their stillness with detached curiosity. They were disgusted. Abhorred, even. But they sat frozen, watching the humiliation unfold without intervention. The bystander effect. A psychological phenomenon where individuals were less likely to act when others were present, each assuming someone else would take responsibility.

He could understand it intellectually. The calculation that intervening meant conflict, meant drawing attention, meant potential consequences. It was easier to remain passive, to rationalize inaction as not one's place.

Jaune turned his attention to Velvet. The rabbit Faunus. A stranger. He tried to summon something for her plight. Empathy. Outrage. Anything.

Nothing stirred.

She was not his concern. Her suffering held no weight against the vast indifference that had settled into his being alongside Momonga's essence. She existed, she suffered, and the universe continued its march without pause.

But Ruby's expression was pained. Weiss's hands had clenched into fists beneath the table. Blake's fingers had gone white against the edge of the table. Yang's knuckles whitened around her fork. Pyrrha's eyes glistened with suppressed emotion. Nora's lip trembled. Ren's breath had grown shallow.

These seven, he cared about. Their distress mattered.

Jaune sighed.

He snapped his fingers.

The cafeteria doors swung open. A figure emerged. White hair swept back from a weathered face, a neatly trimmed beard framing features that belonged to a grandfather rather than a warrior. His butler suit was pristine, black fabric pressed to perfection, white gloves immaculate. Yet the suit could not hide the breadth of his shoulders, the thickness of his neck, the way his jacket strained slightly at the arms.

Sebas Tian. Butler of the Great Tomb of Nazarick.

Each step of his approach landed with rigor, his weight distributed evenly, his arms swinging in perfect counterbalance to his stride. No wasted motion. No unnecessary adjustment. A man who knew exactly where every part of his body was at all times.

Conversation died as students turned to stare at the newcomer. Sebas paid them no mind. His attention was fixed on a single point.

Cardin Winchester.

The bully remained oblivious, still laughing as he twisted Velvet's ear. "Maybe I should keep one as a souvenir!"

"Release her."

The command was quiet and polite and even. But it carried the weight of absolute authority.

Cardin's head snapped around. His eyes raked over Sebas with dismissive scorn. "Who the hell are you? Some kind of servant? Beat it, old man. This doesn't concern you."

Sebas continued walking. His stride never quickened, yet he crossed the distance with impossible speed.

"I will not repeat myself. Release her. Now."

Cardin's expression twisted. "You think you can just walk in here and!"

Sebas's hand shot out. His fingers closed around Cardin's wrist like a vice. The bully's eyes widened, confusion flickering across his features as he tried to pull away. Then the grip tightened.

A crack echoed through the cafeteria. Cardin's Aura, that protective barrier all Huntsmen relied upon, shattered like glass. His face went white.

"Wha!"

Two of Cardin's teammates rose from their seats, chairs scraping back. "Hey, get off him!" one shouted, stepping forward with fists raised.

Sebas turned his head. He looked at them. Just looked. Flat and cold.

Both boys froze. The fight drained from their posture. They looked at each other, then back at Sebas, and very slowly sat back down.

Sebas returned his attention to Cardin. His free hand clapped against the boy's face, his palm engulfing the entire skull. Then he dragged Cardin forward, slamming their foreheads together with controlled force.

Cardin staggered, dazed, his Aura shattered. Blood trickled from his nose.

Sebas leaned close, his voice low but perfectly audible in the silent room.

"Next time, obey."

Cardin's teammates had frozen in their seats. The cafeteria held its breath.

"You!" Cardin stammered, clutching his broken nose. "You can't just assault me! There are rules! The professors!"

Sebas tilted his head. "If there are rules, then I will face the consequences of killing you and going to jail."

The words hung in the air, delivered with the same calm one might use to discuss the weather.

"Are you ready to die?"

Cardin's mouth opened. Closed. His face had gone pale as ash. His entire body began to tremble, the reality of his mortality suddenly crystal clear in those cold eyes.

Sebas released him.

Cardin stumbled backward, nearly falling over his own chair. His teammates scrambled out of the way, their earlier bravado utterly evaporated.

Sebas turned away from them as if they no longer existed. He approached Velvet, who stood frozen, clutching her abused ear. His posture shifted subtly, his shoulders relaxing, his hands clasping gently behind his back.

"Are you harmed, Miss?"

Velvet blinked in surprise. Tears welled in her eyes. "I'm okay. Thank you."

Sebas produced a handkerchief from his jacket and offered it to her. "You need not endure such treatment. No one has the right to touch you without your consent."

At Jaune's table, seven pairs of eyes watched the scene unfold with varying degrees of shock.

Weiss's hands trembled against the table. Her face had gone pale, her eyes fixed on the spot where Sebas had stood.

"That was wrong," she said, her voice quiet. "Murder shouldn't be used as persuasion. That man threatened to kill a student over harassment. That's excessive. That's monstrous."

Blake's head snapped toward her. "Typical Schnee. Coming to the defense of a racist."

Weiss bristled. "I am not defending him! What Cardin did was repulsive and inexcusable. But threatening to murder someone in cold blood is not justice!"

"It stopped him, didn't it?" Blake shot back. "Funny how violence only becomes a problem when it's used against someone like Cardin. But when Faunus get harassed in broad daylight, everyone suddenly wants to talk about proportionality and appropriate responses."

"That is not what I said! I am talking about the sanctity of life!"

"Ask the Faunus who worked in your family's mines about the sanctity of life! Oh wait, you can't, because they're dead!"

Ruby raised her hands between them. "Guys, please, let's just calm down!"

Yang moved to intervene as well. "Blake, Weiss, come on. This isn't the time!"

Jaune turned away from the escalating argument. He looked at Pyrrha, Nora, and Ren.

"What do you three think?"

Nora glanced at Ren. He gave a small nod.

"When Ren and I were young," Nora said, her voice losing its usual brightness, "we didn't have anyone. Just each other. We traveled from place to place. We saw a lot of bad things. People doing cruel things because they could. Because no one stopped them." She looked at her hands. "Sometimes the only thing that stops cruelty is someone willing to be scarier than the cruel person."

Ren softly added, "My parents died saving me from a Grimm attack when I was young. Kuroyuri was destroyed. After that, Nora and I had to fend for ourselves. We learned that consequences only exist for those without power. The powerful do what they wish. Cardin believed himself powerful. Today he learned otherwise."

Pyrrha had remained silent through the exchange. Her emerald eyes were fixed on the table, her expression troubled.

"I think," she said slowly, "that we should be ashamed."

Weiss and Blake's argument stuttered to a halt. Ruby and Yang turned to look at Pyrrha.

"We watched," Pyrrha continued. "All of us. We sat here and we watched a girl be humiliated. We felt disgust. We felt anger. And we did nothing." Her hands curled into fists against the table. "I am a four-time champion. I have trained since childhood to fight, to protect, to stand for something. And I sat on my hands like a coward."

Her voice dropped.

"We are training to become Huntsmen. To protect people. To fight monsters. But Cardin was right there, and Velvet was right there, and we all told ourselves it wasn't our place. That someone else would handle it. That causing a scene would be worse than the scene itself."

She looked at Jaune.

"Thank you. For calling your butler. For doing what the rest of us should have done."

Weiss stared at him, her eyes widening. "That was your butler?"

Jaune nodded. "He works for Nazarick Security Consultation. My company."

"Oh." Weiss processed this. "I see."

Jaune looked at Weiss and Blake. The two girls were still glaring at each other, the argument merely paused rather than resolved. The Charm Person spell hummed beneath the surface of their emotions, pulling at them, insisting that Jaune mattered, that his opinion held weight, that his presence was a comfort.

"Please," Jaune said, his voice gentle. "Calm down. Both of you."

Weiss's hands pressed flat against the table. Her eyes flickered toward Jaune, and the tension in her shoulders eased despite the anger still simmering beneath.

"I..." She took a breath. "Fine. For you."

Blake's arms were crossed, her body rigid. But when Jaune's gaze met hers, her shoulders dropped a fraction.

"Whatever," she muttered. "But this isn't over."

"No," Weiss agreed, her voice tight. "It is not over."

But both of them settled back in their seats. The argument had been postponed, not resolved. The Charm Person spell smoothed the edges, made indulging Jaune feel natural, made his request into something they wanted to fulfill.

But the anger remained. Buried. Waiting.

The cafeteria had begun to empty when a staff member approached Jaune's table.

"Mr. Arc? Headmaster Ozpin has requested your presence. One of the administrative offices in the east wing. He asks that you bring your... associate."

Jaume looked up. Sebas had already stepped away from Velvet, his duties complete. The butler moved to stand beside Jaune, awaiting instruction.

"Of course," Jaune said.

He stood, catching Ruby's curious glance.

"We'll catch up later," Yang said. She was still watching Blake and Weiss carefully, the argument from earlier still lingering in the air.

Jaune followed the staff member through Beacon's corridors. Sebas walked a half-step behind him, silent and composed.

As they passed a cluster of students near the administrative wing, Jaune caught fragments of conversation.

"Russel's uncle works for the Councilman, he already sent word!"

"Lawyer's supposed to be here any minute!"

"Someone's gonna get expelled for sure!"

Jaune filed the information away. Cardin's teammate had called in family connections. A lawyer was coming.

They arrived at the office. The staff member knocked, and a voice from within bade them enter.

The office was smaller than Ozpin's primary quarters, tucked away in one of Beacon's administrative wings. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a modest desk sat beneath a window overlooking the courtyard. Jaune occupied one of the guest chairs. Sebas stood at attention beside him, hands clasped behind his back.

Ozpin sat behind the desk, his fingers steepled. Across from them, a woman rose from her chair.

"Mr. Arc," Ozpin said. "Thank you for coming. Mrs. Sangria arrived shortly ago on behalf of the Winchester family. She has raised some concerns regarding today's incident in the cafeteria."

Jaune's gaze shifted to the woman. She wore a Sangria-red blazer over a matching pencil skirt, the fabric tailored snugly to her frame. Eyeglasses perched on her nose, and a small beauty spot marked the left side of her chin. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun.

Cardin sat in the corner, his face still pale, his hands trembling in his lap. He refused to look at Sebas. Every few seconds, his gaze would dart toward the butler, then snap away as if burned.

Mrs. Lacey Sangria turned her attention to Jaune.

"This is an outrage," she said, her voice crisp. "Your institution allows a mercenary from some backwater security firm to assault a student, shatter his Aura, and threaten his life, and walk away without consequence?"

Ozpin's expression did not change. He steepled his fingers.

"Mrs. Sangria."

"Let me be clear." She cut him off. "I have reviewed the accounts from over two dozen witnesses. This man seized my client by the wrist, crushed his Aura with his bare hand, struck him in the face, and explicitly threatened to kill him. In a school. Filled with children."

Her finger jabbed toward Jaune.

"And this young man, who claims ownership of this mercenary, simply snapped his fingers and summoned violence against a student who was engaged in nothing more than harmless teasing."

Harmless teasing. Right…

Mrs. Lacey continued. "What happens the next time one of your hired thugs takes offense to something a student says? What happens when the next threat is carried out? You have set a precedent, Headmaster Ozpin. A precedent that mercenaries from private security firms can roam your halls, assault your students, and face no repercussions."

She straightened, smoothing her blazer.

"Cardin Winchester comes from a respected family. His father sits on the Vale City Council. His mother chairs the Huntsman Accreditation Board. Do you understand the position this places you in?"

Ozpin watched her. His green eyes traced the lines of her face, the set of her shoulders, the calculated placement of her hands. Jaune recognized that look. He had seen it on his father's face whenever the Arc children presented their demands. New toys. Birthday presents. Trips to the coast. His father would study them the way Ozpin studied Mrs. Lacey, working through the puzzle of how to manage the family budget while keeping everyone happy.

But Ozpin lacked the care. Only the calculation remained.

Mrs. Lacey pressed on.

"You are liable for these!"

Ozpin sighed. He reached beneath his desk and produced a small scroll, setting it on the surface between them.

"To be honest, Mrs. Sangria, under normal circumstances, I would agree with you."

He tapped the screen. A video began to play.

The footage was grainy, clearly captured from a distance. A Goliath Grimm, one of the elephantine giants that roamed the wilderness beyond the kingdoms, trampling the ruined building under hoof. The creature towered against the skyline, its bulk massive enough to crush houses beneath its heft.

Sebas walked toward it.

The butler moved at the same measured pace he had shown in the cafeteria. The Goliath did not charge. It suddenly stood frozen in place, as if rooted to the ground. The camera had not captured Jaune paralyzing the creature. It simply showed the giant standing motionless while Sebas approached. When Sebas reached it, he threw a single punch.

The Goliath's front leg buckled. The limb bent at an angle legs were not meant to bend.

The video ended.

Mrs. Sangria stared at the screen. Her mouth opened, then closed.

"Mrs. Sangria," Ozpin said, his voice calm, "Mr. Arc and a third associate, whom I shall call Shield, have demonstrated capabilities on par with what you just witnessed. I am reasonably certain the three of them could raze this kingdom to the ground if they chose to."

Cardin made a small sound in the corner. His trembling had worsened.

Ozpin turned his gaze to the boy. His expression was polite, almost gentle.

"Mr. Winchester, I want you to understand something. You have my empathy, insofar as anyone in your position deserves it. What happened to you today was frightening. It was, from your perspective, unjust. I recognize that."

He paused with curious regard.

"However. You were harassing a young woman. You were touching her without consent. You were using racial language to demean her. The fact that you faced consequences for this behavior is not a tragedy. It is a lesson."

Cardin's face flushed red. He said nothing.

Ozpin turned back to Jaune.

"Feel free," he said, "to do whatever it is you want."

Mrs. Sangria gasped. "What law is this? What precedent allows!"

Ozpin tilted his head. "What about it?"

"I! You cannot simply! There are rules! There are procedures!"

"Mrs. Sangria." Ozpin's voice remained mild. "I am here to kill Grimm. That is my purpose. That is my duty. Everything else, equality, justice, procedure, comes second to that singular goal."

He straightened his tie.

"Nazarick Security Consultation has demonstrated the capacity to destroy Grimm that would require entire teams of Huntsmen to bring down. They have shown themselves willing to operate within our borders. They have shown themselves capable of protecting those who cannot protect themselves."

His eyes flickered toward Cardin.

"Mr. Winchester chose to make himself an obstacle. Mr. Arc's associate chose to remove that obstacle. The outcome speaks for itself."

Mrs. Sangria's face had gone pale. Her carefully constructed argument lay in ruins around her.

"This is! You cannot! The Council will hear of this!"

"They may hear whatever they wish." Ozpin steepled his fingers once more. "But they will hear it from me as well. And I will tell them exactly what I have told you. Nazarick Security Consultation is a valued ally. Their methods may be unconventional, but their results are undeniable. And any kingdom, any council, any individual who chooses to make an enemy of such a force would find the consequences... immediate and absolute."

Silence fell over the office.

Cardin stared at Ozpin with an expression of utter betrayal. Mrs. Sangria's hands shook against the surface of the desk.

Jaune watched it all with quiet interest.

Mrs. Sangria gathered her things in sharp, jerky movements. Her face had gone from pale to red, her lips pressed thin.

"This is not over," she hissed. "You will hear from the Council, Headmaster. You will hear from the Accreditation Board. This school will answer for what it has allowed."

She turned on her heel and stormed out. Cardin scrambled after her, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to escape the office.

The door slammed shut.

Jaune sighed.

Ozpin regarded him with curiosity. "What will you do now, Mr. Arc?"

Jaune stood. He smoothed his jacket, his expression settling into something calm and assured.

"Nothing," he said. "I will do nothing. Because there is nothing to be done. Justice was served today in that cafeteria. A young woman was protected from humiliation. A bully learned that actions have consequences. A school was reminded that the strong have a duty to shield the weak, not to ignore them while hiding behind procedure and precedent."

Sebas nodded solemnly beside him.

"Mrs. Sangria speaks of law. She speaks of rules. But there is a higher law than the one written in statutes. The law of conscience. The law of basic human decency. When a man grabs a woman by her ears and calls her an animal, he has already abandoned the social contract. He has already placed himself outside the protection of civilized society. What happened to Cardin Winchester was not an injustice. It was the natural consequence of his own choices."

Jaune's voice was measured. Each word landed with weight.

"I will continue to fulfill my contract with Beacon. I will continue to protect this institution and its people. And should I encounter injustice in the future, I will address it as I addressed it today. Not because I seek conflict. Not because I wish to impose my will upon others. But because I believe in a simple truth. That those with the power to act have the responsibility to act."

Sebas placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head.

Ozpin watched them both. His green eyes betrayed nothing.

Mrs. Lacey Sangria's house sat in a quiet neighborhood on the eastern edge of Vale. Brown brick, trimmed hedges, a modest gate. Two security guards stood at the entrance. Two more patrolled the grounds.

She entered through the front door, her heels clicking against hardwood. Her bag landed on the entryway table with a thud. Her hands still shook with residual fury.

She would make calls. The Council. The Accreditation Board. The press. Someone would listen. Someone had to listen.

She moved toward her study, already reaching for her scroll.

A sound from outside. A wet thump against the front window.

She turned.

A body lay crumpled on her lawn. One of her guards. His neck bent at an angle that suggested a very quick, very violent end. A second body landed beside the first. Then a third. The fourth crashed through the bay window, glass shattering across the floor.

Mrs. Sangria stumbled backward. Her hand fumbled for the panic button on her scroll.

A figure stepped through the broken window. Glass crunched beneath polished shoes.

He wore an orange three-piece suit, the fabric tailored to absolute perfection. A matching orange waistcoat hugged his torso. A pocket square sat impeccably in the breast pocket. Orange tie, knotted with exacting care. Orange gloves. An orange handkerchief tucked into the sleeve.

Eyeglasses sat on his face, the lenses catching the light. Behind them, ruby eyes gleamed with something between amusement and hunger.

His tail swished behind him. Silver, covered in metal plates that caught the afternoon sun, ending in six long spikes that gleamed like daggers.

"Greetings," he said, his voice smooth and cultured. "I am known as the Gentleman. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Sangria. Though I fear our meeting will be brief."

Mrs. Sangria's back hit the wall. Her scroll slipped from her fingers.

"You! What do you want?"

"Want?" The Gentleman tilted his head. "I am a simple burglar, madam. I break into homes. I take what I please. Sometimes I encounter the owners. These things happen."

He adjusted his eyeglasses.

"You have lovely things, I am sure. Jewelry. Art. Documents. I will find them eventually. But first, I must ensure there are no witnesses to my intrusion."

"Please! I have money! Take whatever you want!"

"I intend to." He smiled. The expression was gentle. Almost kind. "Starting with your silence."

His tail moved. The six spikes at its tip spread outward like the petals of a metallic flower. Mrs. Sangria had time to draw breath to scream before the tail pierced her throat. It slid through flesh and cartilage with practiced ease. She gagged. Blood bubbled between her lips.

The Gentleman withdrew his tail. She crumpled to the floor.

He looked up at the corner of the ceiling. A small camera lens stared back at him.

He smiled wider, showing teeth, and waved.

Then he stepped over Mrs. Sangria's body and walked out the front door.

Chapter Text

Jaune pushed open the door to his assigned quarters at Beacon and stepped inside.

He stopped.

Albedo lay sprawled across his bed. Her white skin stood in stark contrast against the dark sheets, luminous in the afternoon light filtering through the window. Ivory horns curved elegantly from her temples, gleaming with a subtle inner light. Her long black hair spilled across the pillow in silken waves, some strands trailing over her shoulder, some pooling on the mattress beside her.

She wore boxer shorts. His boxer shorts. The fabric was stretched taut across her hips, the waistband resting low enough to hint at the curve beneath. The rest of her was bare. Her large breasts lay heavy against her chest, pale and flawless, the pink of her nipples soft in the relaxed state. The underswell curved gently where they met her ribcage. Her stomach was flat, her waist narrow, her long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle.

Eyeglasses perched on her nose. A pen twirled between her fingers. A newspaper puzzle lay spread across her stomach, and she tapped the pen against her lips as she studied it.

"Welcome back, my love," she said without looking up. Her voice was warm. Affectionate. Casually intimate. "How was your meeting with the Headmaster?"

Jaune did not answer immediately. His eyes traced the line of her body. The casualness of it struck him. The domesticity. She lay there as if she belonged there, as if this was ordinary, as if solving puzzles while half-naked in his bed was simply what she did.

The eyeglasses made it worse. Or better. They lent her an air of intelligence, of focus, of mundane normalcy that clashed beautifully with the impossible perfection of her form. She should have looked absurd. Instead she looked like something from a dream.

"Jaune-sama?" She glanced up at him. Golden eyes met his, and a small smile curved her lips. "Is something wrong?"

He still did not answer.

Albedo tilted her head. The puzzle rustled against her stomach as she shifted. The movement made her breasts sway slightly, the soft flesh rippling with the motion.

"You're staring."

He was.

She smiled wider. Set down her pen. Folded the newspaper and set it aside on the nightstand. Then she stretched, her arms reaching above her head, her back arching, her chest rising as she extended herself like a cat.

"Would you like to join me?"

Jaune nodded. Dumbly. His legs carried him forward without conscious input.

Albedo sat up as he approached. Her hands found his, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight.

"Let me," she said.

Her fingers went to his jacket. She undid each button with care, sliding the fabric off his shoulders. The jacket fell to the floor. His shirt followed. Then his belt. Her movements were gentle and candid and devoted.

"Lie down, my love. On your stomach."

He obeyed. The sheets were cool against his bare chest. He turned his head to the side, his cheek pressing into the pillow. It smelled like her. Like flowers and something darker beneath.

Her hands found his shoulders. Her thumbs pressed into the muscle along his spine. She worked with firm, kneading strokes, finding knots he had not realized were there.

"You carry tension here," she murmured. "And here." Her fingers traced the line of his shoulder blade. "The meeting was difficult?"

"Yes." The word came out muffled against the pillow.

Her hands continued their work. Down his back. Along his sides. The heels of her palms grinding into the tightness of his lower back. It felt good. Grounding. Her touch anchored him to the present moment.

Her bare chest pressed against his back when she leaned forward to reach a stubborn knot near his neck. The soft weight of her breasts. The heat of her skin. The subtle friction of her nipples against his shoulder blades.

He shifted.

"Albedo."

"Yes, my love?"

"Why are you dressed like that?"

Her hands paused. "Dressed like what?"

"Wearing my boxers. And nothing else."

She resumed her massage. "I asked for your permission, Lord Jaune. You granted it."

He frowned. The pillow muffled the movement. "I don't remember that."

"You were distracted at the time. It was this morning. I asked if I might wear something of yours while I solved the crossword puzzle. You said yes." A pause. "You may not have been listening closely."

He tried to recall. There was something. A vague memory of her voice while he was reading reports. A nod. A murmur of assent without processing the question.

"That was what I agreed to?"

"It was."

He let out a breath. Her hands worked lower, soothing, but his mind was elsewhere. The weight of her against him. The casual ownership of her wearing his clothes. The way she acted as if this was normal.

She leaned close. Her lips brushed his ear.

"Is it distracting, my love?"

"I enjoy it," he admitted. His voice was quiet. "I enjoy you. Being here. Like this."

Her hands stilled against his back.

"But?"

He hesitated. "I'm not sure if I'm ready for... more. For sex."

The words hung in the air. He felt her shift behind him. Her body weight settled more fully against his back. Her chest pressed flat against him, her breasts soft and warm, the peaks of her nipples settling against his shoulder blades.

"That is perfectly acceptable, Lord Jaune."

Her voice was soft. No disappointment. No frustration. Only warmth.

"I can wait however long you need. Days. Weeks. Months. It does not matter." Her lips brushed the back of his shoulder. A featherlight touch. "I am not pressuring you. I would never pressure you. You are Momonga-sama. My master. My everything. Your comfort matters more to me than any desire of my own."

She stretched out along his back. Her legs tangled with his, her thighs smooth and cool against his calves, the fabric of his boxer shorts brushing against his bare skin where they stretched across her hips. Her arms wrapped around his chest, pulling him closer. Her stomach pressed flat against the small of his back, soft and yielding. She draped herself over him like a blanket, her weight settling across him in a way that felt protective rather than confining.

"If you enjoy my presence, if you enjoy me simply being myself, that is enough. More than enough." She buried her face in the crook of his neck. Her breath was warm against his skin. "I spent so long loving you from afar, never daring to hope you might look at me the way you look at me now. This, right here, is more than I ever dreamed possible."

Her fingers traced idle patterns across his chest. Slow circles. Gentle lines. The touch was soothing. Hypnotic.

"You are warm. Alive. Here. With me. I require nothing else."

He felt the tension drain from his body. The weight of the meeting, of Mrs. Sangria, of the careful dance with Ozpin, it all receded. There was only the bed beneath him. Only her warmth above him. Only the steady rhythm of her breathing against his neck.

"Thank you," he said.

She pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "There is nothing to thank me for, my love. Being near you is its own reward."

Jaune groaned. The sound was low, content.

He said, "Massage my front next."

Albedo lifted herself from his back. The loss of her weight and warmth was immediate, almost jarring.

"As you wish, Lord Jaune."

He rolled onto his back. The sheets were cool where his chest had pressed against them. He looked up at her.

She straddled his thighs. Her weight settled across his legs, pinning him to the mattress. The boxer shorts stretched taut across her hips, riding up slightly from the position. Her bare chest was fully exposed to him now. Her large breasts swayed with the motion of her settling, pale and heavy, the nipples soft pink and relaxed. The curve of her waist narrowed above the hem of the shorts. Her white skin seemed to glow in the afternoon light.

Her hands found his chest. She began to work the muscles along his pectorals. Her thumbs pressed into the tissue, kneading in slow circles.

"Is this acceptable?"

He nodded. His eyes traced her form as she worked. The way her breasts moved with each motion of her arms. The subtle flex of her stomach as she leaned forward. The cascade of black hair that spilled over one shoulder, a few strands trailing across his chest.

"You're beautiful," he said. The words came without thought.

Her hands paused. A flush crept across her cheeks, the same blush that always appeared when he complimented her.

"Thank you, my love." Her voice was softer now. Almost shy.

She resumed the massage. Lower now. His stomach. His sides. Her fingers pressed into the muscles along his ribs. It felt good. The combination of her touch and the visual of her above him, bare except for his boxer shorts, her body on display for him alone.

Her breasts swayed as she worked. The underswell shifted with each movement. Her nipples, soft before, had begun to tighten slightly from the air or the intimacy of the moment.

She leaned forward to reach his shoulders. Her chest came closer to his face. He could see the fine details now. The faint blue veins beneath the pale skin. The way the flesh curved and settled with gravity. The small bumps around her areolas.

"Your muscles are very tight here," she murmured. Her breath was warm against his collarbone.

He was not thinking about his muscles.

She kept working. Her hands moved lower, pressing into the muscles of his stomach. Her palms slid across his abdomen in long, firm strokes. Her fingers dug into the tissue along his sides, finding tension he had not known he carried.

The motion made her body shift with each movement. Her breasts swayed forward and back, a gentle pendulum rhythm that matched the pace of her hands. The pale flesh rippled slightly with the momentum. Her nipples had tightened further, standing out now against the soft curves of her chest.

She leaned forward to reach his shoulders. The angle changed. Her breasts hung directly above him now, swaying just inches from his face. He could see the subtle sheen of sweat beginning to form in the valley between them. The skin stretched and moved with each breath she took. The boxer shorts had ridden higher on her thighs, the fabric straining across her hips.

"Your shoulders are quite tense, my love." Her voice was clinical. Focused. As if she were discussing anatomy rather than straddling him half-naked.

She shifted her weight to reach his other side. Her hip pressed against his thigh. The smooth warmth of her bare skin slid against his.

He watched her work. The concentration on her face. The way her brow furrowed slightly as she found a knot. The way her lips parted when she applied pressure. The way her entire body moved with the effort, her breasts rising and falling, her stomach flexing, her hair trailing across his chest.

She was utterly focused on his comfort. Treating the massage as sacred duty. Oblivious, or perhaps simply unconcerned, with the effect she was having on him.

Or perhaps not oblivious at all.

She glanced down at him. Their eyes met. A small smile curved her lips.

"Enjoying yourself, Lord Jaune?"

He did not bother lying.

"Yes."

Her smile widened. She leaned forward, her chest brushing against his as she worked his shoulders. The contact was brief. Deliberate. Her nipples grazed his skin through the motion.

"Good."

She kept kneading his shoulders. Her hands worked the tissue with devoted attention. Above him, her breasts swayed with each motion, pale and heavy.

He watched. A bead of sweat formed at the base of her throat. It grew, trembled, then broke free. The droplet traced a slow path down her chest, sliding between the valley of her breasts, catching the afternoon light.

Another bead formed at the crest of her left breast. It rolled downward, following the curve, tracing a glistening line across the pale skin. It moved slowly, teasingly, before pooling at the underside where flesh met ribcage.

He reached up. His hands found her breasts. He cupped them, feeling their weight settle into his palms. The soft flesh yielded against his fingers. She stiffened above him, her massage halting.

"Lord Jaune?"

"You're sweating." His voice was low. "Let me help."

He lifted his head. His lips found the curve of her left breast. He traced the path the bead had taken, his tongue dragging across the damp skin. Salt and warmth. Her flesh was soft against his mouth.

He moved higher. Found her nipple. Took it between his lips. He sucked gently, feeling the peak tighten further against his tongue. His hands squeezed, kneading the soft weight of her breasts as his mouth worked.

Albedo made a sound. A sharp intake of breath. Her hands flew to his shoulders, gripping hard.

"L-Lord Jaune!"

Her hips moved. She ground against him without conscious thought, her body responding to the stimulation. The borrowed boxer shorts rubbed against his thighs as she gyrated. Her back arched, pressing her chest further into his hands and mouth.

He switched to her other breast. His tongue circled the nipple before he sucked again, harder this time. She gasped. Her fingers dug into his shoulders hard enough to bruise.

"Ah! My love! I!"

She could not finish the sentence. Her hips continued their rhythm, grinding against him through the thin fabric. Her thighs clenched around his. Her head fell back, her black hair cascading down her spine.

He released her nipple with a soft pop. Looked up at her face. Her expression was dazed. Flushed. Her golden eyes had gone half-lidded.

"Still want to focus on the massage?" he asked.

Albedo's chest heaved. Her golden eyes burned down at him. When she spoke, her voice was thick. Unsteady.

"I want..." She swallowed. "I need to know. What else can your mouth do?"

Her hands gripped his shoulders. Her hips still moved against him in restless circles.

"Please, my love. Show me. I want to feel you. Your lips. Your tongue. Everywhere."

The words tumbled out. Rushed. Desperate. Raw. Nothing smooth about them. Nothing planned. Just honest need.

"Let me show you."

He pulled her down. His mouth found the hollow of her throat. He kissed the rapid pulse there, feeling her heartbeat against his lips. His hands slid up her sides, tracing the curve of her ribs, the narrow of her waist.

He had imagined this. Holding someone. Feeling the warmth of another body pressed against his. The reality was different. Better. She was so soft. Her skin yielded beneath his fingers like silk over water.

He knew what she was. A warrior. A guardian. The magic that had brought her from a video game into reality had preserved her stats, her abilities, her terrifying strength. She could crush boulders with those hands. Could tear Grimm apart with her bare fingers. Could level buildings if she chose.

But here, now, she was simply soft.

His lips traveled lower. Down her chest. Between her breasts. He felt them press against his cheeks as he moved. Her skin was warm. Smooth. Tasted faintly of salt from her exertion.

His hands found her back. He traced the line of her spine. Vertebrae beneath silk skin. The delicate shape of her shoulder blades. The graceful curve where her back narrowed into her waist. She shivered under his touch.

"Jaune..."

His hands continued downward. Over the swell of her hips. He cupped her ass through the boxer shorts. The fabric was thin. He could feel the shape of her beneath. Round. Firm. Yielding slightly when he squeezed.

She moaned. The sound was quiet. Almost pained.

"Please," she whispered. "Don't stop."

He pulled her closer. His arms wrapped around her, cradling her against his chest. She settled onto his lap, her weight warm and yielding.

"You're beautiful," he murmured against her skin. "So beautiful."

He kissed her collarbone. The curve of her shoulder. The line of her jaw.

His fingertips found her back. He traced a slow line down her spine. Her skin was smooth. Unblemished. The ridges of her vertebrae bumped lightly beneath his touch. He drew a circle between her shoulder blades. Felt the faint rise where muscle layered over bone. Another circle. Lower. The valley of her spine deepened as it curved toward her waist.

He splayed his fingers wide. Dragged them up her back in parallel lines. Ten faint trails of pressure across silk skin. He felt the warmth of her. The subtle dampness of sweat forming beneath his touch. The way her flesh gave slightly under the pressure of his fingertips, then rebounded when he lifted away.

Her shoulder blades shifted as she moved. The bone pressed against her skin when she arched, creating small mounds he could trace with his thumb. The muscle alongside them was firm but yielding. He pressed deeper. Felt the layers of tissue slide beneath her skin.

She shivered under his touch.

"I've imagined this," he said. "Having someone to hold. Someone real. Warm."

She fit against him perfectly. Her thighs straddled his hips. Her stomach pressed to his. Her breasts cushioned against his chest. She was so soft everywhere. The hard planes of muscle he knew she possessed were hidden beneath layers of yielding flesh.

She smelled of flowers. Jasmine and gardenia. Beneath that, warm musk and the salt of her skin. The combination was intoxicating. He breathed her in, pressing his face into the crook of her neck.

"My love," she whispered. Her voice cracked. "Jaune," she said his name reverently.

He pulled back slightly. Reached up. His fingers found the eyeglasses perched on her nose. He slid them off slowly, folding them and setting them aside on the nightstand.

Her golden eyes were bare now. Vulnerable. Wet with emotion.

He cupped her face. Brought her mouth to his.

His lips met hers. Wet. Warm. The moisture of her mouth transferred to his lips at the first contact. He did not rush. He pressed against her softly at first, learning the shape of her mouth. The slick glide of her lips against his. The warmth of her breath. He tilted his head, fitting their mouths together more fully. His lower lip caught between hers. He tugged gently. Released. Caught it again. A thin strand of saliva connected them when he pulled back, catching the light before breaking.

His tongue traced the seam of her lips. A slow sweep. A question. She opened for him. He slid inside, finding her tongue with his. The wet heat of her mouth enveloped him. He felt the slick muscle of her tongue sliding against his. Tasted her. Clean and warm and slightly sweet. Saliva gathered at the corners of their mouths. He stroked along her tongue. Around it. The wet sounds of their kiss filled the silence. Soft clicks and smacks as their mouths worked against each other.

He explored her slowly. The roof of her mouth. Smooth and ridged. The sharp edge of her teeth. The softness of her inner cheek. Each discovery he savored. His hands cradled the back of her head, fingers tangling in her silken hair, holding her in place while he took his time.

He kissed her with all the hunger he had kept locked away. The nights he had lain awake wondering what it would feel like to have someone want him back. The fantasies he had built in his head and then felt ashamed of after. The way he had practiced in his mind what he would do if he ever got the chance. He kissed her like he was trying to prove something. Like he was trying to convince himself this was real. His lips pressed harder. His teeth scraped against her bottom lip. An old habit made him try to draw breath through his nose, though his body had no need for air. The reflex was pointless but instinct died hard. His hands pulled her closer. Closer. Until there was nothing between them but heat and want.

She made a sound against his mouth. A whimper. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. She pressed closer, chasing him when he pulled back even a fraction. He answered by deepening the kiss. Slower still. Taking more of her.

She melted against him. Her arms wrapped around his neck. She pressed herself closer, as if trying to merge their bodies into one.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard. Only one needed to. A glistening trail of saliva connected their lips for a moment before snapping.

"I don't want this to end," he said. "Not today. Not ever."

Her answer was another kiss.

He considered it. His hands rested on her hips. The thin fabric of his boxer shorts was the only barrier between them. He could slide them off. Remove his own pants. Take what she was so clearly offering.

He wanted to. His body ached with the want.

But he also wanted this. The quiet. The warmth. Her weight against him. The steady rhythm of her breathing. He wanted to hold her and be held.

He shifted. Pulled her down beside him. They settled onto their sides, facing each other on the narrow bed.

"Cuddle with me," he said.

She did not question it. She pressed herself against him, fitting her body to his. Her chest met his. Her legs tangled with his. Her face tucked into the crook of his neck.

She was still half-naked. Still wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. The eroticism of it did not fade. Her bare breasts pressed soft against his chest. The curve of her hip rested against his groin. Her thigh slid between his. Every shift of her body reminded him of what lay beneath the thin cotton.

But it was also gentle. Intimate. A different kind of want.

He stroked her hair. Her horns curved from her temples, ivory and smooth. She nuzzled against his neck, pressing her face into his skin. The tips of her horns came close to his jaw. Close enough that he should have felt them. But she moved with impossible care. The curved bone grazed past without touching. Without scratching. As if she had memorized the exact distance needed to keep him safe.

What were they? Lovers? Master and servant? Something else entirely? She was so utterly devoted. So completely his. He wondered sometimes if it was simply her nature. Or if it was because she came from Nazarick. Because she was an NPC, made to serve.

He thought about it. Turned the question over in his mind.

Then he let it go.

It did not matter. She was here. She was warm. She wanted him. That was enough.

Her fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest. She pressed a kiss to his collarbone. Soft. Brief. Another kiss to his shoulder. His neck. The corner of his jaw. Small pieces of love given freely.

She smiled against his skin. He smiled back.

They lay in silence. The afternoon light shifted through the window. Her body was warm against his. Soft. Yielding. Still achingly erotic in the borrowed boxers. But also comfortable. Safe.

"The merge," he said quietly. "It was the best thing that ever happened to me."

Albedo lifted her head from his chest. Golden eyes found his. Curious. Attentive. The way a child might look at a storyteller beginning a tale.

"What was it like?" she asked. "To be merged?"

He frowned. Tried to find the words.

"It's strange. Difficult to explain." His fingers traced idle patterns on her shoulder. "I feel like I've always been both. Like there was never a time when I was just one or the other. But I remember. I remember what it was like before."

"What do you remember?"

He stared at the ceiling.

"I remember being Jaune. Just Jaune. A boy who wanted to be a huntsman so badly he paid someone to forge his documents. Who lied to his family. Who traveled across Remnant with a sword he barely knew how to use and a desperate hope that somehow, impossibly, he would prove himself worthy."

"I remember the fear,” he continued distantly, ponderously. “Every day. Waking up knowing that today might be the day everyone figured out I was a fraud. That I didn't belong. That I had cheated my way into a world I had no right to enter."

Albedo's hand pressed flat against his chest. Over where a heart should beat. As she shifted, black feathers unfurled from the splendid tattoos on her hips. Her wings spread outward. Beautiful. Lustrous. Each feather catching the afternoon light like polished obsidian.

She was lying on her side. The wings bent at an awkward angle behind her.

He shifted. Guided her onto her back. Adjusted her wings so they lay spread comfortably across the mattress on either side of her. The feathers were soft beneath his fingers. Warm.

"Better," he murmured.

She smiled at him.

"And I remember being Momonga. The last member of Ainz Ooal Gown. Sitting alone in the throne room as the servers wound down. Watching the countdown. Knowing that when it reached zero, everything I had built, everyone I had known, all of it would disappear."

He paused.

"I remember the guild members who left one by one. I remember promising we would stay in touch. I remember watching those promises fade as real life pulled them away. I remember being the only one left. Holding onto a game that no one else cared about anymore because it was all I had."

Albedo watched him. Her golden eyes wide. Her lips slightly parted. She looked like a child hearing a fairy tale for the first time. Entranced. Wanting to understand but not quite able to grasp the shape of it. Her wings twitched slightly, feathers rustling against the sheets in small, unconscious movements. A tell he was beginning to recognize as concentration.

"I remember both," he continued. "But I am both. And being just either one of them feels wrong now. Like trying to write with my non-dominant hand. Like trying to see with one eye closed."

He looked down at her. This lovely creature sprawled beside him. Half-naked in his borrowed boxers. Wings spread across the bed like a dark halo. Watching him with such earnest fascination.

"Does that make sense?"

She tilted her head.

"I think so," she said slowly. "You are more now than you were. Complete in a way that neither half could be alone."

He had not thought of it that way.

"Yes," he said. "That's exactly it."

He looked at her.

Her white skin glowed against the dark sheets. Her black hair spilled across the pillow in silken waves. Her horns curved elegantly from her temples. Her wings spread wide on either side of her, feathers dark and lustrous.

Her bare chest rose and fell with each breath. Her large breasts lay soft against her ribcage, nipples pale pink and relaxed. The borrowed boxer shorts stretched across her hips, the waistband low enough to hint at what lay beneath. Her long legs stretched out, smooth and pale. Her feet were bare. Delicate.

She was beautiful. Achingly so. Every curve. Every line. Every detail.

She was also sexy. The way her chest moved when she breathed. The way the boxers clung to her hips. The casual exposure of her body. Like she had no idea the effect she had on him. Or like she knew exactly what she was doing.

And she was cute. The way she looked up at him with wide golden eyes. The way her wings twitched when he touched them. The way she smiled at him like he had hung the stars in the sky.

His hand found her cheek. Cupped her face. He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. She leaned into the touch.

His fingers traveled down. Along her neck. Over her collarbone. Across her shoulder. He memorized the texture of her skin. The warmth of her.

He leaned down. Kissed her forehead. Her nose. Her lips. Soft. Brief. Lingering.

His hand continued. Down her arm. Over the curve of her breast. She inhaled sharply but did not move away. He palmed the soft weight. Felt her nipple tighten against his hand. Squeezed gently. Released.

Down her ribs. Her waist. The flare of her hip. His fingers traced the edge of the boxer shorts. The line where fabric met skin.

She watched him. Silent. Breathing hard. Her wings rustled against the sheets.

"I love you," she whispered.

He kissed her again.

He shifted beneath her. Guided her body upward until she lay draped across him. Her chest pressed against his. Her stomach settled against his. Her legs tangled with his. Her wings folded against her back, feathers brushing against the sheets.

He enjoyed the weight of her. The warmth. The soft press of her breasts against his chest. She was aware of it. He could tell by the way she settled against him. The way she fitted herself to his contours. The small smile that curved her lips.

She liked it too.

"The first years have a field trip coming up," he said. "To Forever Fall."

She tilted her head. Her horns grazed past his jaw without touching.

"What will they do there?"

"Collect sap. Or something." He frowned. "Red sap from the trees. Professor Peach assigned it. Glynda Goodwitch will accompany them. I'm not a student, so I don't have to go. But I've been wondering what the point is. What benefit does gathering tree sap provide?"

Albedo was quiet. Thoughtful. Her fingers traced idle patterns on his shoulder.

"The forest is full of Grimm, yes?"

"Yes."

"Then the sap collecting is not truly about the sap. It is about the other lessons. Moving through dangerous terrain. Maintaining situational awareness while focused on a task. Working as a team in an unfamiliar environment. Learning to complete objectives while under threat."

She settled back against his chest. "The sap is merely the excuse. The real training is survival."

"Consider ants," Albedo said. "They are small. Fragile. Anything could crush them. Birds. Other insects. Children with nothing better to do. And yet they survive. They learn. They adapt. They work together and build and protect their colonies."

Her fingers traced lazy circles on his chest.

"It is the same for these lesser creatures. Humans. Faunus. Most of them cannot even fly. Those who can cannot sustain it indefinitely. They are grounded. Limited. Vulnerable."

She shifted slightly against him. Her wings rustled.

"Flight alone offers advantages beyond simple mobility. When one flies, one does not use feet. No footsteps to muffle. No twigs to snap beneath one's weight. No ground vibrations to give away one's position. The usual limitations of walking simply do not apply. One need not worry about terrain or footing or the countless small sounds that betray a ground-bound approach."

Her voice was matter-of-fact. Like she was explaining something obvious. As if discussing the behavior of insects rather than people.

"I do not need such things, of course. The Ring of Sustenance means I do not need to eat or drink or breathe or sleep. I can operate indefinitely without the vulnerabilities that plague organic beings. And I do not need to be stealthy. Anything that opposes me, I simply kill.

"But it is typical of lessers to worry about such things. Survival. Stealth. Teams. They lack the power to simply take what they want, so they must learn to navigate around those who do."

His hand moved down her back. Over the curve of her spine. Down to the swell of her hips. He cupped her ass through the boxer shorts. Squeezed gently. The fabric was thin. He could feel the shape of her beneath. Round. Firm.

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband.

She smiled. The expression was sultry. Knowing.

"My love," she murmured. "Are you even listening to me?"

He cupped her bare ass. His palm pressed against smooth skin. The flesh was warm. Soft on the surface but firm beneath. He felt the muscle shift as she arched her back slightly, pushing her hips into his touch. The curve where her cheek met her thigh. The delicate skin near the crease of her hip.

"Of course I'm listening," he said.

Her smile widened. Her voice was indulgent. "I know you are. In your own way."

Normally it would take weeks if not months to produce a massive investigation. Bureaucracy moved slowly, and the wheels of justice ground even slower. But the councilor had power, as was the right of those who managed the kingdom of Vale's fate. What would have taken another man a lifetime to authorize took him a single afternoon. Phone calls were made. Favors were called in. Names were dropped that opened doors which had been bolted shut for decades.

In days, a covert investigation took place.

It started with the question that had first gnawed at the councilor's mind: where was Jaune Arc, an ordinary boy of seventeen, getting his money? It was easy to found a company. A few forms, a nominal fee, and anyone could register a business with Vale's Commerce Ministry. But founding a company and funding one were two very different things.

The councilor had already known about The Midday from his spies' reports. Arc taking Team RWBY to dinner at that overpriced restaurant had been noted, but the details had been sparse. His people had simply observed the outing and reported it. Now, the councilor wanted more.

The airship rental had been the first thread the investigation pulled. A transport company called Vale Air Charters had logged a rental agreement for a private vessel, paid in full upfront, to one Jaune Arc. The manager, a portly man by the name of Gregor Hast, had been all too happy to discuss the transaction when the councilor's people came asking. Hast remembered the boy clearly. How could he not? Seventeen years old, walking in like he owned the place, flashing a black card like it was nothing. The kind of card that the Bank of Vale only issued to clients who maintained minimum balances in the high seven figures.

The limousine had been simpler. A dealership in Vale, Vale Luxury Motors, had processed a cash purchase for a vehicle that cost more than most houses. The salesman, eager to boast about his commission, had spoken freely. The boy had walked in, pointed to the model he wanted, and paid with the same black card. No haggling. No financing. No hesitation.

And then there was The Midday. The restaurant's proprietor, a thin man named Vener Mold who had built his reputation on discretion, had proven more difficult to crack. But everyone had a pressure point, and Mold's was his liquor license, which had been renewed under circumstances that would not bear close scrutiny. Once that leverage was applied, Mold talked. The boy had not made a reservation. He had walked in with his party, seated himself at the best table as if he owned the establishment, and paid for everything with that same black card. Course after course, everything in the menu picked as if by a hyperactive child with their parent’s credit card, the bill climbing into thousands of lien, and the boy had not blinked.

The Bank of Vale was where the trail grew more interesting. Black cards were not handed out like candy. They required either a proven history of substantial deposits and impeccable credit, or an institutional sponsor willing to underwrite the card with verified assets. Jaune Arc had no financial history. No credit. No record of any kind prior to a few months ago. The boy had simply appeared, and with him had appeared the money.

When the councilor's people inquired about Jaune Arc's account, they were told that the boy's application had been approved on the basis of corporate assets tied to Nazarick Security Consultation. The bank had verified the company's accounts, seen the balances, and issued the card without hesitation. No history required. No credit check necessary. Just the money, which had materialized from nowhere and was substantial enough to make the bank look the other way.

But where had those balances come from?

The councilor's people started at the Commerce Ministry. A clerk by the name of Della Hartwell, a middle-aged woman who had spent twenty-three years processing business registrations and who owed the councilor a favor after he had quietly intervened to keep her son out of legal trouble over a minor Dust licensing violation. She provided the initial filing documents for Nazarick Security Consultation, including the listed assets and the bank accounts attached to the corporate identity.

From there, the trail was passed to Thaddai Quill, a financial analyst who worked in Vale's Treasury Department. Quill had been cultivated by the councilor's office years ago, a quiet asset who understood that his career advancement depended on his willingness to answer certain questions with discretion. Quill traced the bank accounts to their sources, and that was where the picture became strange.

Money flowed into Nazarick's accounts from dozens of vectors. Shell companies registered in Mistral. Investment returns from Atlas-based financial instruments. Consulting fees paid by legitimate Vale businesses for services that may or may not have been rendered. Real estate transactions that generated paper profits. Each individual stream was perfectly legal, each properly documented and taxed, each innocuous on its own. But taken together, the pattern troubled Quill. He had seen this kind of structure before, in the files of organizations that wanted to move money into a company while making it nearly impossible to trace where that money had originally come from. It was not proof of money laundering. It was the architecture that money laundering would use if it were trying to hide in plain sight.

And that was the problem. Suspicious was not the same as illegal. Quill had been explicit about that in his reports. The structure looked like money laundering, walked like money laundering, talked like money laundering, but proving it was another matter entirely. Every transaction was documented. Every fee was taxed. Every shell company was registered in jurisdictions that required little more than a name and a filing fee. The Mistrali corporations were opaque by design, their ownership structures buried beneath layers of holding companies and nominee directors, but opacity was not illegality. Mistral's laws permitted such arrangements, and Vale's laws did not prohibit doing business with entities that took advantage of them. The Atlas investments were through recognized financial institutions, subject to Atlasian regulatory oversight. The consulting fees were paid by businesses that existed, to a company that existed, for services that could be defined however the parties chose to define them. Nothing was falsified. Nothing was forged. Everything was technically, provably, legally above board.

You could not prosecute a man for having a financial structure that looked suspicious. You needed proof that the money itself was dirty, that it came from illegal activity, that it was being deliberately concealed to evade detection. And Nazarick's money, every last lien of it, appeared to be clean. The trail did not end in crime. It ended in fog. Fog was not evidence. It was merely absence of evidence, and absence of evidence was not grounds for action, not against a company that had broken no laws and employed people who had committed no crimes.

The councilor received updates through a secure line that routed through three different relay points before reaching his personal scroll. Quill would compose his findings in coded language, sending them to an intermediary named Cora Velez, a retired intelligence operative who now ran a small bookshop in downtown Vale. Velez would decode the message, add her own analysis, and forward it to the councilor's chief of staff, who would brief the councilor during his morning schedule review. By the time the information reached the councilor's ears, it had been vetted by two separate sets of eyes, ensuring accuracy and minimizing the risk of interception.

And what the councilor heard troubled him deeply.

The amounts were staggering for a company that had existed for less than a year. The flows were consistent, never stopping, never faltering, as if Nazarick had access to a reservoir of wealth that never ran dry. And the sources, while individually legitimate, collectively painted a picture of an organization that had gone to considerable lengths to obscure the true origin of its funding.

The councilor sat in his office, the latest report glowing on his tablet, and considered what it meant. A seventeen-year-old boy with no visible means of support had founded a company that was receiving millions of lien through channels designed to hide where the money came from. That boy had then used that money to embed himself in Beacon Academy, to gain access to some of the most promising students in Vale, and to position himself at the center of a web of influence that grew more tangled by the day.

This was not the behavior of a security consultancy. This was the behavior of something far more ambitious.

And yet, for all the investigation had uncovered, it was worthless. The councilor could not act on suspicion alone. Money was a weapon, and Nazarick had demonstrated that they knew how to wield it. If he moved against them openly, they could drag the proceedings through the courts for years, and his name would be attached to every filing, every hearing, every headline. The political cost would be staggering. Even if he used a proxy, some councilor or official who could be trusted to take the lead while he pulled strings from the shadows, the attention itself would be a problem. Someone would inevitably grow curious about where this proxy was getting ideas, and that curiosity would lead to questions, and those questions would lead back to the councilor.

Worse still, there were others who might side with Nazarick regardless of the councilor's concerns. Moguls and councilors who had long opposed him would see an opportunity to align themselves with a newly wealthy and influential player, if only to spite him. And outsiders like the CEO of the SDC, who had no love for Vale's internal politics but plenty of interest in anyone who could move that kind of capital, might decide that friendship with Nazarick was worth more than friendship with the councilor.

He needed something more concrete before he could act. Suspicion and pattern were not enough. He needed proof, something undeniable, something that would justify moving against a company that had broken no laws and a boy who had committed no crimes. Until he had that, all the investigation had given him was a map of the battlefield.

The councilor did not need a map. He needed a weapon.

His scroll buzzed.

He glanced down at it, expecting another coded message from Velez, another layer of financial obfuscation to add to the pile. Instead, it was a news alert. A homicide. The councilor's eyes narrowed as he read the headline.

Mrs. Sangria, a lawyer who had worked for the Winchester family for over a decade, had been found dead in her home. Killed, along with her entire security detail. The police were investigating, but the details that had already leaked to the press were disturbing enough. Security cameras had captured a figure entering the property. A man, besuited and bespectacled, with a tail covered in metal plates that ended in six long spikes. A faunus. He had walked through Sangria's security like they were not there, dispatching trained professionals with an ease that spoke of either extensive combat experience or something far beyond what any civilian should possess. And then he had killed Sangria herself.

A criminal, clearly. One with formidable abilities and no qualms about using them.

But the councilor's attention had snagged on two details that the press had overlooked.

The first was that nothing had been stolen. No jewelry, no cash, no documents. A professional hit, then, not a robbery gone wrong. Someone had sent this faunus to kill Sangria specifically, and he had done so without leaving a single thing out of place.

The second detail was one that only the councilor knew, because his spies at Beacon had reported it earlier that day. Mrs. Sangria had been at the academy, arguing with the staff. She had been representing the Winchester family's interests in a dispute regarding their son, Cardin. The boy had been threatened with bodily harm by a subordinate of Nazarick Security Consultation. The same old man who appeared in the photographs alongside Jaune Arc and the horned woman. Sangria had come to Beacon to oppose this, to demand consequences for a man who had laid hands on a student under the academy's protection.

And now she was dead.

The councilor set the scroll down and stared at the wall.

It proved nothing. A lawyer had been killed in her home by a faunus with a distinctive tail. That same lawyer had recently been involved in a dispute with Nazarick Security Consultation. The connection was circumstantial at best, a coincidence that would never hold up in any court or council chamber. Nazarick had not ordered the hit. There was no evidence of that. The faunus was not one of the three individuals the councilor had identified as being associated with Jaune Arc. There was no proof, no trail, no smoking gun.

But the councilor had been in politics long enough to recognize the shape of a thing even when he could not see its face.

Mrs. Sangria had been positioning herself to oppose Beacon's new arrangement with Nazarick. She had been a threat to their interests, or at least a nuisance. And now she was dead, killed by someone who had not bothered to steal a single thing from her home.

It proved nothing.

But it was suspicious. Damned suspicious.

The councilor picked up his scroll and began composing a message to his chief of staff. He wanted everything on this faunus. Every camera feed, every witness statement, every scrap of intelligence that could be gathered. If this killer could be connected to Nazarick in any way, no matter how tenuous, the councilor wanted to know.

What did that man think in that devious mind of his? Jaune Arc, the councilor thought, wanting to pry his head. Little did he know he was not alone in that rumination and was beaten to the punch.

The fading afternoon light slanted through the window of his room at Beacon, casting long golden rectangles across the floor, across the bed, across the pale expanse of Albedo's bare back as she knelt between his legs.

Jaune's fingers were tangled in her hair, his grip firm but not rough, and his other hand had found her horn, the smooth curve of it fitting into his palm like it had been made to be held. He groaned, low and quiet, as her mouth worked over him, her lips stretched around his cock, her tongue doing something that made his hips twitch involuntarily.

The light was turning amber, the sun sinking toward the horizon, and he had remembered that he had things to do, responsibilities, people he needed to check on. Team RWBY was leaving for Forever Fall tomorrow, and he had wanted to make sure they were prepared, that they had everything they needed, that they were ready for whatever the trip might bring. He had told Albedo that he needed to leave, that he was going to check in on them, and she had shifted against him on the bed and pressed herself against him and kissed him, and he had felt the heat of her body through the thin fabric of his boxer shorts that she wore, and then somehow her hands were at the zipper of his pants and she was sliding down his body and she was taking him into her mouth and he had not stopped her.

He had not stopped her.

That was the thing. He kept not stopping her. Every time she pushed, he gave ground, and every time he gave ground, she pushed again, and now here he was, sitting on the edge of the bed with her mouth around his cock and his hand on her horn and he was wondering what was stopping him from pushing her down onto the mattress and spreading her legs and fucking her until she screamed his name.

The room was filled with sound. The wet, slick noise of her lips sliding along his shaft, the soft pop of suction breaking when she pulled back, the rhythmic glide of her tongue against the underside of his cock. Her breathing, soft and quick through her nose, punctuated by little hums of pleasure that vibrated along his length and made his toes curl against the floor. His own breath, harsh and uneven, the occasional groan that escaped his throat when she did something particularly clever with her tongue. The soft rustle of his boxer shorts against her thighs as she shifted her weight. The wet sound of her mouth taking him deeper, the subtle catch in her throat when he hit the back of it, the muffled moan she made around him when his hand tightened in her hair.

His breath hitched as she took him deeper, her throat relaxing around him, and he tightened his grip on her horn, using it to guide her, to set the pace, and she made a sound that made him grunt.

She was loosening his sexual restraint. That was the truth of it, the thing he did not want to examine too closely. Before her, he had been in control. Before her, he had been able to think of a beautiful woman and appreciate her beauty without wanting to throw her down and take her. Before her, his desires had been manageable, containable, something he could push aside when he needed to focus on other things.

Now, though.

Now he thought of Blake and wondered how she would feel in his arms. Now he thought of Weiss and wondered what sounds she would make if he kissed her throat. Now he thought of Yang and imagined her beneath him, her golden hair spread across his pillow, her lilac eyes hazy with want. Now he thought of how they would taste, how they would sound, how they would look with his cock inside them.

And it was Albedo's fault. She had done this to him. She had opened something inside him that he had kept locked away, and now it was spilling out, coloring every interaction, every glance, every conversation in his memory.

He wondered what it would do to him. He wondered what it would do to the women around him. He wondered if they could see it in his eyes, the hunger, the want, the thing that he was barely managing to keep leashed.

He wondered what would happen when he could not keep it leashed anymore.

Albedo pulled back, her lips leaving him with a wet pop, and she looked up at him with those golden eyes, her lips swollen and glistening, her breath coming in soft pants.

"Master," she said, and her voice was rough, wrecked, the voice of a woman who had been doing exactly what she had been meant to do. The first syllable of succubus sounded like suck for a reason. "Do you want me to continue?"

He stared down at her, at the perfection of her face, at the want in her expression, at the way her body was displayed for him like a gift, and he thought about how good she felt, how good she made him feel, how much he wanted this to continue.

"Keep going," he said, and his hand tightened in her hair, and her eyes fluttered closed, and she took him back into her mouth with a sound of pure contentment.

Jaune sat there with his hand on Albedo's horn and his cock in her mouth and watched drool escape her lips to wet her cleavage.

He should put a stop to this, said no sane man ever, and stood up to fist her silky black hair none too gently and fuck her throat.

Chapter Text

Night had fallen. Tomorrow the first years would travel to Forever Fall, accompanied by Professor Goodwitch and Nazarick Security Consultation.

The fun with Albedo was finished (for the moment) and Jaune now stood in the doorway of Team RWBY's dorm. He had come to check on them. To make sure they were prepared. That was his job, after all. Security consultation.

But if he was honest with himself, he was also here because he was inexplicably fond of them.

Yang lay on her bed, scrolling through her scroll. Her golden hair spilled across the pillow. She glanced up as he entered, flashed him a grin, then returned to whatever had captured her attention.

Blake sat in the corner at her study table. A book was open before her. Her amber eyes moved across the pages with practiced ease. She acknowledged his presence with a slight nod, then returned to her reading.

Weiss sat at a table by her bed, muttering to herself. A briefcase lay open before her, transformed into a mobile laboratory. The interior was lined with small compartments and slots, each holding vials of Dust in different colors. Red. Light blue. Dark purple. Pale green. A small scale sat in one corner. Tweezers and measuring tools hung from clips along the edge. A magnifying lens on a swivel arm extended over the workspace. Tiny labels marked each section. Everything had its place.

Her hands moved with careful skill as she swapped canisters from her weapon, replacing the contents with what she deemed necessary for tomorrow's expedition.

"Fire Dust for offense," she murmured. "Ice for control. Gravity for mobility. No, no, the gravity canisters are too volatile in forest terrain. Wind instead. Wind for evasion."

Her fingers danced across the array of tools and containers. She did not look up.

Ruby sat on the floor beside a bag. Crescent Rose lay disassembled before her, parts spread across a cloth. She hummed to herself as she worked, a tune that rose and fell in patterns.

"Jaune," she said without looking up. "Can you hand me that piece? The one by your foot?"

He glanced down. A metal component lay near his boot. He picked it up and passed it to her.

"Thanks!" She took it and began oiling the mechanism. "The bolt carrier goes in next, then the firing pin assembly, then we check the recoil spring..."

Her humming continued. He listened. The tune was clearly a mnemonic device. Each phrase corresponded to a step in the reassembly process.

"Bolt carrier, firing pin, recoil spring, check the sear..." She fitted the pieces together with practiced ease. "Barrel locking lug, gas block, align the recoil rod..."

Her hands moved without hesitation. She knew this weapon intimately. Every part. Every mechanism. The humming was not because she needed help remembering. It was simply how she worked. How she thought.

"Magazine catch, trigger group, safety selector, test the action..." She slid a component into place. "Mechashift relay, transformation spring, blade lock, verify the hinge..."

She paused. Inspected a connection. Nodded to herself.

"Scythe mode extension, check the cable tension, sniper barrel alignment, scope mount secure..."

The weapon began to take shape beneath her hands. The .50 caliber sniper rifle. The scythe that could extend into a polearm. Both forms contained within the same elegant mechanism.

She lubricated the blade. Checked the edge. Ran her fingers along the red-and-black metal.

"Almost done," she sang. "Almost done."

Ruby slid the final component into place. Crescent Rose clicked shut, fully assembled. She ran her hand along the barrel, checking the alignment. Satisfied, she reached for her ammunition bag.

She counted the magazines. Her face fell. "Aw, crud."

Jaune said, "What is it?"

"I'm low on magazines." She held up two, then gestured to the one already loaded in the weapon. "Only two spares plus the one in the magwell. That's not enough for a forest operation. What was I thinking?"

She was already on her feet, Crescent Rose collapsing into its compact form. She grabbed a peach hoodie from her bed and pulled it on over her black tank top. The hem fell to the middle of her short running shorts. She slipped into slip-on shoes by the door.

"Jaune, come with me? The ammunition shop closes in an hour and I need to restock before tomorrow."

He nodded indulgently. "Sure."

Yang raised a hand in a lazy wave without looking up from her scroll. Blake gave a small nod over the edge of her book. Weiss glanced up from her briefcase laboratory.

"This girl, honestly," Weiss muttered, shaking her head.

Ruby was already at the door, grabbing Jaune's wrist and pulling him into the hallway.

"Come on come on come on! We don't have much time!"

He let himself be dragged out, the door swinging shut behind them.

They walked through the hallway at a light pace. The evening had quieted the school. Most students were in their dorms, preparing for tomorrow or already asleep.

"So," Jaune said. "Why .50 caliber?"

Ruby glanced up at him. Her silver eyes were bright.

"You want to know about ammunition?"

"I'm not much of a gun expert," he admitted. "I know some of the terms. Caliber. Gauge. Magazine. But I can't really translate that to what a weapon can actually do. I never focused on it before. And now I have other options available to me."

"Other options" was one way to put it. When you could cast spells that leveled city blocks, the specifics of bullet diameter seemed less relevant.

"But I'm curious," he added.

Ruby beamed. She loved talking about this.

".50 caliber is perfect for what I need," she said. "Blake's Gambol Shroud uses 9mm when it's in its compact pistol form. That's fine for close to mid-range. 9mm is lighter. Easier to control. You can carry more of it. But it lacks stopping power. Against Grimm, especially the bigger ones, you need something that hits hard. 9mm just bounces off a lot of targets."

She held up her hands, gesturing as she spoke.

"Yang's Ember Celica alternates between 12-gauge and 20-gauge shotgun shells. 12-gauge hits like a truck at close range. Massive impact. But the spread means accuracy drops off fast. 20-gauge gives her more control and range, less recoil, but less damage. She switches between them depending on the situation. It works for her fighting style."

They turned a corner. The hallway stretched ahead, empty and quiet.

"My .50 caliber rounds give me the best of both worlds. High velocity. Flat trajectory. Excellent range. And the stopping power is incredible. One shot can take down a Beowolf. Two can drop an Ursa. The trade-off is recoil and weight, but Crescent Rose's design handles the recoil, and I've trained to manage the weight."

She said this with the casual confidence of someone who had spent years mastering her weapon.

"What about Weiss?"

Ruby made a face. "Myrtenaster is different. It's a Multi Action Dust Rapier. It doesn't use bullets at all. It uses Dust vials. Fire, Ice, Lightning, whatever she needs. It's flexible. Really flexible. She can switch between effects mid-fight. But..."

She trailed off.

"But?" Jaune prompted.

"Dust is expensive. Really expensive. And each vial only holds so much. Once she's out, she's out. Bullets are pretty much everywhere. Any weapons shop stocks them. Any hunter carries spares. You can find them in most towns. Dust vials? Not so much. You need a specialized supplier. You need lien. And you need to know what you're buying because Dust quality varies."

Ruby shrugged.

"Weiss makes it work because she's a Schnee. But for most hunters? Bullets are just more practical."

Jaune contemplated her words and frowned slightly recalling what he had seen. "I have doubts about that."

Ruby's pace slowed. She looked up at him. "About what?"

"A .50 caliber round dropping a Beowolf in one shot. Two dropping an Ursa." He shook his head. "I've seen soldiers using them. It takes more than that."

Ruby's eyes narrowed. A playful glint entered them. "Do you think I'm a liar?"

"I don't think you're a liar." He held up his hands. "But maybe your memory is faulty."

She gasped in mock offense. "A doubter! Jaune Arc, you are a doubter!"

He played it off with a shrug. "Just saying what I've seen."

"What you've seen?" She crossed her arms over her chest, still walking. "What exactly did you see?"

Jaune thought back. "Once, walking along a road outside Vale, I saw militia engaging Grimm. Motorcycles with mounted rifles. It took them more than a few shots to bring down a Beowolf."

Ruby tilted her head. "Militia? Not huntsmen?"

"Officially, Vale doesn't have an army. In practice, they do. They call them militia."

Ruby nodded slowly. "Okay. So these were regular soldiers. Not huntsmen or huntresses." She held up a finger. "First question. What rounds were they using?"

"I don't know. Standard issue, I assume."

"Standard issue for militia mounted rifles is usually 7.62mm," Ruby said. "Maybe 5.56mm if they're running lighter setups. Neither of those is .50 caliber. Both are significantly less powerful."

She held up a second finger.

"Second question. How close were they to the Grimm?"

Jaune considered. "Close. They were on motorcycles, so they were moving, but they were engaging at relatively short range."

"That's the problem." Ruby shook her head. "Huntsmen and huntresses can go up close and personal. We train for it. Our weapons are designed for it. Even the ranged forms are meant to complement our melee capabilities. We don't need to unload entire magazines because we can get close enough to hit vital points."

She spread her hands.

"But militia on motorcycles? They're staying mobile because they have to. They can't afford to stop and engage in melee. So they're firing from closer range than I would be, but they're also firing on the move. Less accuracy. Less time to aim. And they're using rounds that don't hit as hard."

They turned another corner. The ammunition shop was visible at the end of the hallway, its lights still on.

"A .50 caliber round from Crescent Rose at range? I can hit the spine. The skull. The heart. One shot, one kill on a Beowolf because I'm hitting where it counts. Two shots on an Ursa because the first breaks through the armor and the second hits the vital underneath."

Jaune considered this. "Maybe an unarmored young Ursa."

Ruby gave him a look. A dubious, slightly condescending look.

"Fine," she said slowly. "I'll give you that a young Ursa with lighter bone plating might go down easier. But you clearly haven't seen what I can do with carefully placed shots against an older one." She grinned. "I'd love to test that sometime. Let you see exactly how an older Ursa's durability holds up against a .50 caliber round when I'm the one pulling the trigger."

Jaune raised an eyebrow. "Are you inviting me to watch you fight Grimm?"

"I'm inviting you to watch me prove I'm right. Two shots. One to break the armor, one to hit the vital. Finely timed, carefully placed. That's all it takes when you know where to aim."

They reached the Beacon Academy ammunition store. The lights were dimming. The metal shutters were halfway down.

A man stood at the counter. Dirty blond hair poked out from beneath a cap worn backwards. A light beard covered his jaw. He was counting the register, clearly ready to leave.

"Excuse me!" Ruby called out. "Can I buy some ammunition? .50 caliber rounds?"

The man looked up. Shook his head. "Sorry. We're closing. Come back tomorrow."

"We won't be here tomorrow," Ruby said. "We have a field trip to Forever Fall. I need these tonight."

The man shrugged. "Not my problem."

Ruby's shoulders slumped. She looked at Jaune with wide, pleading eyes.

Jaune stepped forward. He focused. The metamagic activated. Silent Magic. His next spell would be cast without words, without gestures, without any visible sign.

Charm Person.

The man's expression shifted. His eyes softened. His posture relaxed. He looked at Jaune with sudden warmth, as if seeing an old friend walk through the door.

"Hey," the man said. His voice was friendlier now. "What's up?"

"Can you help us out?" Jaune asked. "My friend here needs .50 caliber rounds. I know you're closing, and I know it's a hassle. But I'd really appreciate it."

The man scratched his beard. "I dunno, man. Rules are rules. Can't just open up for anyone."

"Pretty please?"

The man hesitated. Charm Person made him view Jaune as his best friend. It did not make him ignore every rule he had. But being a best friend made some things easier.

Jaune reached into his pocket. Pulled out several hundred lien bills. Held them up.

"For your trouble."

The man's eyes flicked to the money. A grin spread across his face.

"Well, for my best friend?" He pushed the shutter back up. "I guess I can make an exception."

Ruby's face lit up. She bounced on her heels as the man unlocked the display cases.

"Thank you thank you thank you!"

She rushed to the counter, already listing the specific loads she needed.

Ruby counted the lien in her wallet. Her face fell.

"Oh, cookies," she muttered. "Fudge muffins. Sugar snaps."

She looked up at Jaune with a pained expression. "I don't have enough. I brought money for two boxes but I need at least four and I only have enough for maybe two and a half and I really need these for tomorrow and..."

"I think the 'for your trouble' I gave him is sufficient," Jaune said.

The man behind the counter nodded sagely. "Your friend's right. That covers it. And then some."

He reached beneath the counter and pulled out an eco bag with reinforced handles and little green leaf prints on the side. He handed it to Ruby.

"Here. Put 'em in this. Easier to carry."

Ruby stared at him. Then at Jaune. Then back at the man.

"Wait, really? All of them?"

"All of them," the man confirmed. "Your friend paid for plenty."

Ruby snatched the bag. She moved with the speed that had earned her a place at Beacon, scooping boxes of .50 caliber rounds into the eco bag with gleeful efficiency. One box. Two. Three. Four. She paused, looked at the remaining stock, then grabbed two more.

"These are spares," she said, as if justifying the extra ammunition. "For emergencies."

The man chuckled. "Sure they are."

Ruby hugged the bag to her chest. The cardboard boxes rattled inside. Her silver eyes were bright with joy.

"Thank you," she said to Jaune. "Really. Thank you. I'll pay you back, I promise."

"Don't worry about it."

"I will worry about it," she insisted. "This is a lot of ammunition. I'm not going to just..."

"Ruby." He put a hand on her shoulder. "It's fine. Consider it an investment in tomorrow's success."

She looked up at him. Her expression softened from gleeful to genuinely grateful.

"Okay," she said quietly. "Thank you."

The man closed up the register. "You kids be careful out there tomorrow. Forever Fall's no joke."

"We will be," Ruby said. She held the eco bag tightly. "We will be."

They walked back through the halls of Beacon. Ruby's steps were lighter now. The eco bag swung gently at her side, filled with ammunition boxes. She hummed as she walked, a familiar tune.

".50 cal, .50 cal, sniper rounds and scythe and all," she sang softly. "Big bore life, no compromise, Crescent Rose will make them fall..."

Jaune listened. The melody was catchy. He tried to join in.

".50 cal, .50 cal, something something... wall?"

Ruby stopped. She looked at him with mock horror.

"Something something wall?" She put a hand to her chest. "Jaune. Jaune. That's not how the song goes."

"I don't know the words," he admitted.

"Then why were you singing?"

"I wanted to join in."

She laughed. The sound echoed through the empty hallway. "You can't just make up words to a weapons song. That's sacrilege."

"Sacrilege?"

"Absolute sacrilege." She grinned up at him. "Weapons songs are sacred. You have to know the words or you're not allowed to sing."

"Seems exclusive."

"It is." She nodded seriously. "Very exclusive club. Members only. You need to pass the initiation."

"What's the initiation?"

"Knowing the words."

He laughed. She laughed with him. Their footsteps echoed in tandem as they continued down the hall.

Jaune looked at her. The way her eyes crinkled when she smiled. The way she hugged the eco bag like a treasured possession. The way she walked with barely contained energy, as if she might burst into petals at any moment.

She was ridiculous. She was wonderful.

Ruby caught him looking. She smiled softer now. Not the manic grin from before. Something warmer.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing." He shook his head. "Just glad you got your ammo."

"I'm glad too." She bumped her shoulder against his arm. "Thanks for the help. Really."

"Anytime."

They walked in comfortable silence. Ruby started humming again. This time, Jaune just listened.

They returned to the dorm room. Weiss looked up from her briefcase laboratory.

"Finally." Weiss stood and crossed the room in quick, purposeful strides. "I'll take him next, if you please."

She grabbed Jaune's wrist and pulled him toward the door. Ruby waved happily, eco bag clutched to her chest.

"Have fun!"

Jaune let himself be dragged. He was curious where this short, slender woman was taking him. He found himself admiring her from behind as she walked. Her white hair was pulled into its signature ponytail, swaying with each step. The pale locks caught the hallway light, smooth and fine. Her back was straight, posture perfect, shoulders back. The white silk tank top clung to her frame, revealing the delicate line of her spine, the subtle definition of her shoulder blades, the narrow of her waist.

Her sapphire satin dolphin shorts ended mid-thigh, showing pale, toned legs. Her feet were clad in fluffy bedroom slippers, but even these were clearly made of fine materials. Soft white fur lined the interior. The exterior was embroidered with tiny snowflake patterns in silver thread. The soles were supple leather. In Remnant, rubber production competed with other Dust-based industries for resources, making it expensive enough that quality leather remained the standard for fine footwear. Everything about her, even her sleepwear, spoke of quality.

"You look angry," Jaune observed.

Weiss glanced back at him. Her ice-blue eyes were sharp with frustration.

"My Dust cartridges are insufficient." She continued walking, pulling him along. "The loadout I prepared for tomorrow is wrong. I need different types. More variety."

Jaune wondered if this was another ammunition quest. Another late-night run to a closing store. Another chance to use Charm Person and bribe money.

"No," Weiss said, as if reading his thoughts. "This is not like Ruby's situation. There is a third year student who sells what I need."

She turned a corner. Her slippers padded softly against the floor.

"How do you know him?" Jaune asked.

"His father owns a small company that produces cartridges and other tools for Dust users. They are not a major manufacturer, but their quality is excellent. I became acquainted with him during my first week at Beacon when I was sourcing alternatives for Myrtenaster."

She paused at an intersection, then turned left.

"The SDC also produces cartridges, of course. But the SDC focuses primarily on Dust extraction. Mining. Refining. Purification. That is where our expertise lies. It is sometimes easier to make deals with smaller companies to produce finished tools, so the SDC can focus on what it does best."

She stopped in front of a door. Knocked twice.

"We could manufacture everything ourselves. But specialization exists for a reason."

Jaune's gaze fell on Weiss.

He had always known she was beautiful. But standing here in the hallway light, wearing what she was wearing, it was impossible not to notice. The white silk tank top clung to her slender frame. Without a bra beneath it, the shape of her breasts was visible against the thin fabric. The slight chill of the hallway had done its work. Her nipples pressed faintly against the silk. The neckline dipped low enough to show the pale curve of her chest.

The sapphire satin shorts were equally snug. They hugged her hips. Clung to the curve of her ass. The fabric shifted with each step she took, revealing and concealing in equal measure.

She was stunning.

She was also standing in a hallway where anyone could see her.

Jaune shrugged off his jacket. He held it out to her.

"Put this on."

Weiss stopped. She stared at the jacket. Then at him. A flush crept across her cheeks.

"What are you doing?"

"I want you covered up."

Her flush deepened. But it shifted. The pink in her cheeks darkened. Her eyes narrowed.

"You think you get to decide what I wear?" Her voice was sharp. Indignant. "You think you can just... just hand me your jacket and tell me to cover up? As if I need your permission to..."

"That's not what I meant. I don't want to decide what you wear. I want you all for myself."

Jaune felt his face heat up.

"I mean..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "That came out wrong. I just meant... I don't want other people seeing you like... like that. When you're dressed like... I mean, you look really... and anyone could just walk by and..."

He trailed off. His ears were burning.

"I just want to be the only one who gets to see you," he mumbled. "Like this. Is that... is that weird? That's probably weird."

Weiss stared at him. Her ice-blue eyes were wide. The flush on her cheeks had spread down her neck. Her hands hung at her sides, forgotten.

"You..." She swallowed. "You can't just say things like..."

But she took the jacket. Her fingers closed around the fabric. She pulled it on, her movements automatic, dazed. The jacket was too big for her. The sleeves hung past her hands. The hem fell past her hips, covering the snug shorts.

She looked up at him. Her cheeks were still pink. Her mouth opened to say something else.

The door opened.

A man stood in the doorway. Brown hair, swept back from his face and styled with just enough product to hold its shape. The sides were shorter, tapering cleanly above his ears, while the top was left longer but pushed back so nothing would fall into his eyes during a fight. It looked good. Put together. But it was also practical. Nothing to grab in close combat. Nothing to obscure his vision when it mattered. Bottle green eyes caught the hallway light. He was muscular, broad-shouldered, with the build of someone who trained regularly. A guitar hung from a strap across his chest, his fingers still resting on the strings from whatever tune he had been playing.

"Weiss." He smiled. "Back again so soon?"

His gaze shifted to Jaune. His eyes widened with recognition.

"You're Jaune Arc." He extended his hand eagerly. "Sylvan Ferrum. Good to meet you."

Jaune shook his hand. The grip was firm. Enthusiastic.

Sylvan. Of the forest. Green. Ferrum. Iron. Grey. A name rooted in color, following the old tradition. Many families of hunt or adjacent bloodlines still followed the custom, even when not required. It marked you as part of a certain world.

"I've heard plenty of good things about you," Sylvan said. "And about Nazarick Security Consultation. Rising fast. Making waves. People are talking."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. Handed it to Jaune. The card was cream-colored, embossed with a simple logo: a hammer crossed with a gear, and beneath it, "Ferrum Munitions." Below that, smaller text listed contact information and services.

"My father's company," Sylvan explained. "Cartridges, tools, Dust delivery systems. We're not SDC-sized, but we fill the gaps they leave. I hope we can make friendship."

Weiss stepped forward. "I need cartridges. Fire, Ice, Lightning, and Wind. Standard Myrtenaster compatibility."

Sylvan nodded. "How many?"

"Four of each."

He turned back into his room. Returned moments later with several bags of cartridges. Handed them over without hesitation.

Jaune reached for his wallet. "How much do I..."

"Nothing." Sylvan winked. "Friends help friends."

Understanding settled over Jaune. This was the way of the rich. No money changed hands. No debts were tallied. Just favors. Connections. You gave freely now, knowing the relationship would pay dividends later.

Weiss accepted the bags as if this were expected. As if this were simply how business was conducted among people of a certain station.

"Actually," Sylvan said, leaning against the doorframe. "Could you send some Dust imports my way? The usual shipment from Atlas. My father's been trying to source better Fire Dust for a new line."

Weiss pulled out her scroll. Dialed. Spoke briefly, her voice clipped and professional. Names, quantities, dates. She ended the call.

"Done," she said. "It will arrive by the end of the week."

Sylvan grinned. "Pleasure doing business."

He turned back to his guitar, already strumming a new tune. The door closed behind them.

Jaune took some of the bags from Weiss. They walked back toward the dorm.

Weiss stopped just before the door. She turned. Glared at him.

The look she gave him could have frozen a Grimm solid. Icy daggers, aimed straight at his chest. But even those daggers were beautiful. The way her pale blue eyes narrowed. The way her lips pressed together in a thin line. The way her whole face seemed to sharpen.

"What?" Jaune asked.

"What do you mean, what?" she asked sternly. "You cannot just... just say things like that and then walk me back to my room as if nothing happened."

"Say things like what?"

Weiss's eye twitched. "That you want me all for yourself. That you don't want other people seeing me. What does that even mean?"

Jaune considered the question. "It means what I said. I don't want other people seeing you like that. I want to be the only one."

"You seem sweet enough with Albedo already."

"I am."

Weiss stared at him. She had clearly not expected that answer.

"And you seem the same with my teammates," she continued. "Ruby. Yang. Blake. You're sweet with all of them."

"I am."

Her cheeks were starting to flush.

"So you just... you just go around being sweet to everyone? And you think that's enough? You think your sweet talk will be enough to woo me?"

Jaune tilted his head. "I don't really think like that."

"What does that mean?"

"It means my heart is big." He shrugged. "If I love someone, I just love them. I don't think about whether it's enough or if it will work or what I'll get out of it. I just do."

He paused. Internally, he wondered at that. He found it strange that he felt this way about Team RWBY at all. He had not known them long. And yet here he was, buying ammunition and giving away his jacket and wanting to keep them all close.

Weiss's pale skin had gone quite red. The flush spread from her cheeks down her neck. It was fetching. Very fetching.

Jaune smiled. "Cute."

Weiss stomped inside.

Yang looked up from her scroll. "Hey, Weiss, how did..."

She trailed off. Her eyes landed on Weiss. On the jacket she was wearing. The jacket that was clearly too big for her. The jacket that clearly belonged to Jaune.

A slow grin spread across Yang's face.

"Is that Jaune's jacket?"

Weiss did not respond. She walked stiffly to her bed and began organizing her new cartridges with far more intensity than necessary.

Yang's gaze shifted to Jaune. Her grin widened. She waggled her eyebrows.

"Giving her your jacket, huh? That's classic. What's next? Lending her your scroll? Sharing a milkshake with two straws?" She leaned back on her bed, clearly enjoying herself. "You two are adorable."

Weiss's ears turned pink.

"Shut up, Yang."

Blake, in the corner, pouted. She pointed her fore and middle fingers at Jaune. Then she pointed at the door. Then she snapped her fingers, as if summoning him.

She walked out without another word.

Yang watched her go, then turned back to Jaune with an even wider grin. "Looks like you're being summoned. Blake's got you on a leash already?"

Jaune sighed. That was quite accurate, actually. He would probably follow her if she wanted him to.

He did not know why. He did not understand this feeling. This pull toward these four girls. This need to be near them. To protect them. To love them.

But it was addictive. This emotional bond. He could not get enough of it.

Blake was waiting for him in the hallway.

She wore a black crop top that exposed a sliver of her midriff. Gray yoga pants clung to her legs, hugging the curve of her thighs and the shape of her calves. Her feet were in indoor shoes with cushioned soles and arch support visible at the edges, the kind meant for hours of walking without fatigue, but the upper was sleek black fabric with purple thread woven in delicate patterns along the seams. A bow sat atop her head, black ribbons hiding the cat ears beneath. Jaune knew they were there.

She squinted at him with keen amber eyes. "What is this?" 

Jaune tilted his head. "What is what? I'm just standing here. Minding my own business. Not doing anything at all."

Blake's eyes narrowed further. She craned her neck, drawing attention to the long line of her throat, and nodded toward a door at the end of the hallway. A door that led upward.

He followed.

They ascended the stairwell in silence. Blake moved ahead of him, her footsteps silent even on the concrete steps. The yoga pants shifted with each movement. The crop top revealed glimpses of her back. Her bow stayed perfectly in place.

The door opened onto the rooftop.

The wind was strong tonight. It pulled at Jaune's hair, at his clothes, at the hem of Blake's crop top. She did not seem to mind. She walked to the edge of the roof and stopped, looking out.

Beacon had lights. Wall-mounted electric torches with filament coils behind frosted glass, lampposts running on the same technology, and the glow from windows. But it was far enough from the city that light pollution was scant. The sky above was dark and deep and endless. Stars scattered across it like spilled diamonds. More than he had ever seen in Vale. More than he had ever seen anywhere.

The stars were beautiful.

Blake stood at the edge, silhouetted against that sky. The wind pressed her clothes against her frame. Her hair streamed behind her, black ribbons mixing with black locks. Her amber eyes reflected the starlight.

She was beautiful. Next to her, even the stars seemed dim.

The wind caressed her hair, pulling at the black strands, sending them streaming behind her like ribbons of shadow. The stars reflected in her amber eyes. She did not look at him.

"What do you think?" she asked, probably a prelude to small talk as an excuse for her to spend time with him the way Ruby and Weiss did. Charm Person had that kind of byproduct.

Jaune stepped closer. He stood beside her at the edge. The wind pulled at his clothes too, but he barely noticed.

"I think it's a shame," he said.

Blake turned her head slightly. "A shame?"

"That you're hiding your ears. I think they would be quite beautiful."

Blake twitched.

Her whole body went rigid. She turned to face him fully, and her eyes were wide with shock. The amber seemed to burn in the starlight.

"Don't tell me." Her voice was barely a whisper. Then it rose. Hissing. "Don't tell me you brought me up here to... to what? To corner me? To use this against me? Is that what this is? You find out my secret and suddenly you think you can..."

She took a step back. Her hands were fists at her sides.

"You think you can what, exactly? Blackmail me? Threaten to expose me? Tell everyone at Beacon that the quiet girl on team RWBY is a filthy Faunus? And then what? You get your way with me? Is that the plan? You think because you know something about me that I owe you something? That I have to... to..."

Her voice cracked. But the anger did not fade. It grew.

"That I have to spread my legs for you because you figured out what I am? That I owe you... what? A kiss? A fuck? Is that what Faunus are worth to you? One secret and you think you own me? You think you can just..."

She was trembling now. Her bow was askew. Her eyes were wet but fierce.

"You think you can just take what you want because you have something over me? Because you know something I didn't want anyone to know? Is that the kind of man you are? Is that what Nazarick Security Consultation really is? A front for..."

"No, Blake." Jaune wanted to cover his face. What the hell was she saying?

She stopped. Stared at him. Her chest heaved.

"Albedo told me," he said. "She noticed."

Blake's eyes narrowed. "Of course she did. Another Faunus spotting one of her own."

Jaune did not correct her.

It was a lie. Albedo had not told him. But people assumed Albedo was a Faunus because of her horns, and he had assumed that Blake believed that Faunus could discern each other, which seemed to be the case. The lie would hold.

Blake's eyes narrowed further. "Then why bring me up here? You said you wanted to talk, but this... this feels like you led me here on purpose. Like you planned this."

Jaune raised an eyebrow. Her saying he wanted to talk meant she wanted to talk. He said, "I led you here? You're the one who snapped her fingers and pointed at the door."

Blake opened her mouth. Closed it. A flush crept across her cheeks.

"I... that's..." She crossed her arms. "Back to the main issue! What do you want?"

Jaune considered the question. The wind pulled at his hair. The stars burned above them.

"I want you to be true to who you are," he said.

Blake stared at him. "What?"

"It's hypocritical of me to say that." He leaned against the rooftop railing. "I'm not completely honest with you either. There are things about me I haven't told you. Things that... if you knew them, I think they would frighten you."

Blake sniffed. "I doubt that."

Jaune pushed off the railing. He stepped away from the edge. Then he rose.

His feet left the ground slowly and smoothly. He floated upward until he was level with her eyes, hovering a foot above the rooftop.

Blake gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth.

"You can... is this because you're using paralysis on gravity? To keep it from anchoring you to the earth?"

Jaune felt silly. "Sure. Let's go with that."

In truth, he had cast Fly silently. A simple spell. But her explanation was as good as any.

Blake stared at him. Her amber eyes were wide. The wind caught her hair, sent it streaming behind her.

"I have dreams about this," she said. Then her eyes widened. "Not like that! Not... not perverted dreams or anything! I just mean... dreams where I'm flying. Where I'm free. Not... not anything weird!"

Jaune smiled. He extended his hand.

"Want to find out what it's really like?"

Blake looked at his hand. Then at his face. Then past the ledge at the ground far below. Then back at his hand.

She took it.

He pulled her close. Wrapped an arm around her waist. And then they were rising.

The rooftop fell away beneath them. The wind rushed past. The stars grew closer, brighter, as if they could reach out and touch them.

Blake screamed. Then laughed. Then screamed again.

She clung to him as they soared over Beacon, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her face pressed against his chest. The crop top offered little protection from the wind. The yoga pants whipped against her legs.

But she was laughing.

She looked so happy.

Her face was tilted up toward the sky. Her amber eyes reflected the stars. Her hair streamed behind her. The bow had been torn away by the wind when they launched from the rooftop, lost somewhere below, and now her cat ears were fully visible, twitching in the wind. Her lips were parted in a laugh that seemed to pour out of her, unguarded and free.

Jaune watched her. The way the moonlight caught her features. The way her ears flattened and perked with each gust of wind. The way she held onto him like she would never let go.

Her face was getting closer.

He thought she was moving toward him. But then he realized the trembling in her body was not from the cold. It was not from the wind.

He was the one nearing.

His heart hammered in his chest. His arm tightened around her waist. His other hand came up to cup the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair, brushing against the soft fur of her ears.

She gasped. Her eyes widened.

And then he kissed her.

His mouth crashed against hers with a hunger that burned through him. Desire. Need. Want. He felt the softness of her lips, the warmth of her breath, the way her body pressed against his chest. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. Her heart pounded against his ribs, fast and frantic, matching his own beat for beat. The wind howled past them but he barely heard it over the sound of her breathless gasps, the small whimpers she made against his mouth, the way their lips pressed together and then parted just enough for breath before pressing again, her lower lip caught between his, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth before she opened for him and he slid inside, tasting her, her tongue meeting his, stroking against it, her hands fisting in his hair now, pulling him down into her, his grip on her waist tightening until there was no space between them, her mouth opening wider under his, swallowing his breath, her teeth catching his lower lip and tugging, his hand sliding from her hair to the small of her back and pressing her flush against him so he could feel every curve of her body, her legs wrapping around his waist as they hovered there, her cat ears flattening against her head before perking forward, her moan vibrating against his mouth as he kissed her harder, his tongue sweeping past hers, exploring the warmth of her mouth, feeling the texture of her, learning the shape of her, her nails raking down his back through his shirt.

Remnant's shattered moon hung above them. Its broken surface cast silver light across their faces.

Blake made a sound against his lips. A whimper. A moan. Something between the two.

He did not stop.

Her legs tightened around his waist. Her fingers twisted in his hair, pulling him closer still. Her mouth moved against his with a desperation that matched his own. Every movement of her body pressed him closer, deeper, refusing to let him pull away.

They kissed under the shattered moon, floating above Beacon, and for a long moment neither of them came up for air (not that Jaune needed it).

"Fucking pervert rich CEO," Blake said as they descended.

Jaune kissed her again. Their lips met, parted, met again. A strand of spit connected them when they finally separated.

Blake wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her cat ears were twitching. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing ragged.

"You're evil," she said. "Pure evil. Capital E-V-I-L."

Jaune raised an eyebrow. "E-V-I-L?"

"Emotionally Violent Irresistible Lothario."

"That's... surprisingly creative."

"I'm a writer." She crossed her arms, then immediately uncrossed them because it pushed her crop top up. She tugged it down instead. "I don't know how you charmed my heart so quickly. But if you think this means you can just... just do whatever you want with whoever you want..."

She pointed at him. Her finger was inches from his chest.

"Infidelity. I won't tolerate it. If you're the kind of man who spreads his affections around like... like..."

Jaune's expression shifted. The playfulness faded. What replaced it was sincerity.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I can't help who I love."

Blake scoffed. "That's the excuse of someone who can't control his pants."

"It's not about pants but the heart. I love who I love and I'm not going to stop loving one because I love another.” It felt strange due to how muted his emotions typically were but when he was drawn to someone it was a moth to flame. “That's not how it works for me. If that's not something you can accept, I understand. But I won't lie to you. I won't pretend I feel less than I do."

Blake stared at him.

The wind caught her hair. The moonlight caught her eyes. Her mouth opened, then closed.

She had no response.

He was still carrying her. They had landed on the rooftop. Her legs were still wrapped around his waist. Her arms were still around his shoulders. She had not moved.

She could not move.

Yang was leaning against the rooftop railing. Her scroll was in one hand. Her mouth was hanging open in a perfect O of shock.

She gawked at them. At Blake's visible cat ears. At Blake's legs around Jaune's waist. At the obvious flush on both their faces.

Then she grinned.

"So," Yang said. "You get her bow off on the first date, or did you just have really good takeoff?"

"Yang!" Blake squirmed in Jaune's arms, trying to slip free.

Jaune held her firmly in place. His grip was secure. Unyielding.

Blake's blush deepened. She was utterly vulnerable. Her bow was gone. Her ears were exposed. Her legs were still wrapped around Jaune's waist. And Yang was walking toward them with that look in her lilac eyes.

Yang stopped in front of them. Her gaze traveled up to Blake's cat ears. The black fur. The way they twitched.

"Beautiful," Yang said.

Blake's ears shot straight up. Her mouth fell open slightly.

"These." Yang's voice was earnest. Sincere. "Why would you hide these? They're gorgeous."

Blake stammered. "I... it's... people don't... Faunus aren't..."

Yang held up a hand. "Blake. You're my partner. Anyone who has a problem with you has a problem with me. And trust me." She cracked her knuckles with her other hand. "Nobody wants a problem with me."

Blake stared at her. Her ears flattened, then slowly perked forward.

Yang turned to Jaune. She beamed at him. "I didn't know you could fly."

"It's a recent development."

"So many secrets coming out tonight, huh?" Yang's grin was wide. Knowing.

Jaune's gaze shifted to Yang. She was in her casual bed-wear. A low-cut orange tank top that strained against her chest, leaving little to the imagination. The fabric was thin, soft, clearly made for comfort rather than modesty. Short shorts that hugged her hips, showing off the toned length of her thighs. Bare feet on the cold rooftop floor, seemingly unbothered by the chill.

She caught him looking. Her grin widened. She knew exactly how attractive she looked. She shifted her weight, just slightly, drawing attention to the curve of her waist.

"Looks like someone's got a new boyfriend," Yang said, nudging Blake's knee with her elbow. "Flying you around Beacon. Kissing you under the moonlight. Very romantic. Though from the way his eyes are wandering, he's already looking for the next stop on the tour."

Blake scowled. "He's not my boyfriend. He's just... he has a big heart, apparently."

She said it like it was a curse.

Jaune turned his attention to Yang. "Speaking of beautiful things," he said. "Did you roll out of bed looking like that, or did you put in effort?"

Yang laughed. A full, warm sound that echoed across the rooftop.

"Flatterer."

Jaune walked to the edge of the rooftop. He sat down on the ledge, Blake still in his lap, his shoes dangling over the edge alongside Yang's bare feet.

Blake tried to bury her face in Jaune's shoulder. Her ears flattened against her head.

"Stop," she muttered. "Let me go. I need to find my bow."

"Your ears look cute when they're flat like that," Jaune said.

Blake's head snapped up. "They're not for looking at. They're a target. Something for people to stare at and use against you and hate you for."

"They're soft too." Jaune reached up and brushed his thumb along the edge of one ear. "Very soft."

Blake shuddered. Her ear twitched violently under his touch.

"Don't."

"And the way they perk up when you're surprised? Adorable."

"Stop it."

"And when you're angry they go all flat and pressed against your head. Like a grumpy little cat."

"I am not a cat!"

Yang leaned over and scratched behind Blake's other ear. Blake yelped and nearly jerked out of Jaune's lap.

"Softest ears I've ever felt," Yang said. "And I've felt a lot of ears."

Blake glared at both of them. "Stop. Stop giving me empty words. You don't actually think they're beautiful. You're just saying that because, because..."

"Because what?" Yang tilted her head. "Because I'm your partner? Because I'm supposed to be nice to you?" She leaned closer. "Blake. I've seen a lot of Faunus ears in my time. Rabbit ears. Deer ears. Mouse ears. Yours? Top tier. Eleven out of ten. Would scratch again."

Blake opened her mouth. Closed it. Her ears were slowly rising again, despite her best efforts to keep them flat.

"I mean it," Yang said. Her voice was softer now. Genuine. "You're beautiful, Blake. All of you. Ears included. And anyone who says otherwise can answer to Ember Celica."

Blake's ears perked fully upright. A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"You're both insufferable," she said.

Blake's ears twitched. Her gaze dropped to her hands, still resting on Jaune's shoulders.

"What if Weiss finds out?" Blake said quietly. "Just my luck that I’m teammates with the heiress of the Schnee Dust Company. The company that used Faunus labor. That still uses Faunus labor in some of its mines. The heiress of the people who see me as... as less."

"Weiss isn't that bad," Yang said.

Blake turned her head and squinted at her. Jaune gave a helpless shrug.

Yang sighed. "Okay. Maybe she is that bad. Sometimes. But she's not her father. She's not her company. At least, she doesn't have to be."

"She's still a Schnee."

"And you're still my partner." Yang reached over and squeezed Blake's shoulder. "You've got me. You've got Ruby. And you've got Jaune, apparently, who can fly and has a big heart and gives out his jacket like it's nothing."

Jaune nodded. "Weiss will come around. Give her time."

Blake's ears flattened again. "What if she doesn't? What if I have to leave Beacon?"

"You won't have to leave Beacon."

"But if I do..."

"Then you come work for me."

Blake's ears shot straight up. Her mouth fell open slightly. "What?"

"As an intern," Jaune said. "At Nazarick Security Consultation. You'd start at the bottom, learn the ropes, and once you finish your training period, you become a security contractor. It's pretty much the same thing as being a huntress. Just change Grimm to security threats. There's overlap. A lot of overlap, actually. You'd still be fighting. Still be protecting people. Just with better pay and fewer bureaucracy issues."

Blake stared at him. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"You're offering me a job."

"I'm offering you a safety net."

Blake hummed contemplatively. Her ears rose slightly, then fell.

"Fucking rich CEO," she muttered.

Yang burst out laughing.

Jaune looked between them, confused. "What?"

Yang wiped at her eyes. "You don't know? Really?" She grinned at Blake. "He doesn't know."

"Shut up, Yang."

"Know what?" Jaune asked.

"Smut," Yang said. "Romance novels. The kind with shirtless men on the cover and titles like 'The CEO's Secret Mistress' or 'Bound by the Boardroom' or 'The Billionaire's Bargain.'" She leaned back on her hands. "Our dear Blake has quite the collection."

Blake's face turned scarlet. "I do not..."

"You absolutely do. I've seen them hidden under your mattress. Rich CEOs sweeping innocent employees off their feet. Having their wicked way with them in boardrooms and luxury airships."

Jaune's brow furrowed. "That... doesn't sound particularly appealing."

Yang raised her eyebrows suggestively. "You'd be surprised."

"I really don't think..."

"You'd be surprised," Yang repeated, her grin widening.

"Those books are not... I am not... it's research!" Blake sputtered.

"Research," Yang echoed flatly.

"Research!"

"Uh huh."

"I hate both of you."

Yang stretched her arms above her head, her tank top riding up slightly. "So," she said. "What were you two doing up here before I crashed the party?"

Blake's ears flattened. "We were just... discussing... team dynamics. And Beacon's structural integrity. The rooftop access. Very boring stuff."

"We were making out," Jaune said.

Blake's head whipped around. "Jaune!"

Yang gawked. Her mouth fell open. A flush crept up her neck, spreading across her cheeks.

"You... what?"

"Making out," Jaune repeated. "Kissing. Lips. Tongues. The whole thing." He tilted his head. "Want to try?"

Yang's mouth opened and closed. Her lilac eyes darted to Blake, then back to Jaune, then to Blake again. The flush deepened.