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Chapter Text

The Bullhead’s engines droned low and steady, filling the silence between them. 

Jaune sat on the inward bench, wrists resting loosely on his knees, breathing through the phantom ache rattling in his body. A mixture of ozone and burnt sweetness filled the cabin air, as the engine exhaust burned with the combinations of Dust that powered them. It clung to him, the smell keeping him from getting lost in his thoughts. 

‘Sure Jaune, I am sure it's just the engines.’

Across from him, Glynda stood near the cockpit bulkhead, scroll in hand, her gaze fixed on a stream of incoming data. If she noticed him watching, she gave no sign.

Jaune turned away, eyes peering through the narrow viewport. Forest canopy rolled beneath them, blemished with broken trees and battle-scorched earth, proof of the myriad Grimm battles from students hoping to make it in initiation. His arms still trembled faintly—not from fear, he told himself, but from whatever the hell his body had done back there. The pink, tender skin along his forearms itched under his shredded sleeves.

The cabin jolted as the craft began its descent. Beacon’s cliffside platform emerged into view—white stone and steel, backlit by the faint orange light of the coming evening. Lights began to flicker on around the academy. A few other airships were already docked, their engines winding down.

Silent for the entire ride as well, Glynda closed her scroll with a decisive click. “On your feet.”

He obeyed, his legs protesting the motion. The rear hatch hissed open, letting in a rush of cooler air carrying the faint tang of salt from the sea far below.

Jaune didn’t resist as they disembarked without a word. Glynda’s stride was brisk, her heels striking sharp against the stone as she led him past the main docks toward a narrower hall cut into the cliff, slightly away from the Academy proper.

Every motion still felt a fraction behind his thoughts, like his nerves were struggling to remember the order of movement. His shirt hung in ribbons. Dried blood crusted his sleeves. His pants were intact—mostly—but a diagonal tear across the thigh and another down the seat left little to the imagination.

He tried not to think about it. Tried not to think at all.

“Is this… about the fight?” he asked finally.

Her eyes didn’t leave the path ahead. “This is about ensuring you can remain at Beacon without becoming a danger to yourself—or others.”

He swallowed whatever reply was forming. Her tone didn’t invite comfort. Only compliance.

Ahead, a set of double doors slid open, the scent of antiseptic drifting out, revealing Beacon’s field nurse station. White walls and gleaming floors lit by sterile white lights. Medical equipment buzzed, blinking with a myriad of lights faintly in the corners.

Just beyond the opening, the half-open door framed a familiar voice—
“—I said I’m fine,” Yang drawled, exasperated but good-natured. “It’s not like this is new. I’ve had my Semblance kick in from paper cuts.”

Inside, a stern yet equally exasperated voice sighed, “Protocol remains. Semblance activation via self-inflicted damage must be monitored for escalation risk. Please remain still.”

“Ugh,” Yang groaned, growing huffy. “‘Semblance escalation.’ What is this, Atlas? I literally used it to body a Nevermore. On purpose! For style points! That’s healthy!”

Glynda sighed softly beside Jaune as they slowed to a stop while the nurse’s voice ignored Yang’s defense. “Its just one more quick scan, Miss Xiao Long, then you can get out of here. I promise.”

Minutes later, Yang stepped out into the hallway, tousling her golden hair with one hand. Her jacket hung loose, faint soot-scuffs staining the sleeves. She looked like she’d walked through a firefight and enjoyed it.

Her eyes lifted—and lit up as she hopped in place. Jaune didn’t have the mental energy to lie to himself. It's nice when she bounces. 

“Jaune! You made—”

Her smile vanished in real time, her expression collapsing into stunned silence as her eyes swept him.

“…Oh.” Her voice fell. “Oh, shit .”

“Language, Miss Xiao Long,” Glynda said crisply.

With the magic girls seemed to have, Yang’s gaze pinned him in place as it swept over him, scanning his torn shirt, bruised chest, drying blood, and pants that barely maintained plausible deniability. She looked—

Furious. And scared.

‘Should I even try?’ Jaune raised a hand weakly. “I’m fine—”

“You are so not,” she cut in, voice tight. “You look like you got mugged by a Deathstalker and then crashed down a cliff! The hell happened?!”

He flinched, surprised by the intensity.

‘What is she psychic?’

“Yang—really. I’m okay.” He tried to sound calm, but was too tired to be convincing.

“You’ve got blood all over your abs,” Her fists clenched. “Don’t try to sell me on ‘gritty cosplay.’”

“Miss Xiao Long.” Glynda cut in with administrative edge.

“Mr... Arc’s condition has been assessed. I am escorting him to receive immediate post-field treatment. Your concern is noted. Now please step aside.”

It was polite. Professional. Unmistakably final.

Yang heard it. But she didn’t move.

Her knuckles turned white as her fists tightened—then slowly uncurled. Her expression shifted, softening at the edges. Her eyes scanned Jaune again—slower this time. More careful. There was a protectiveness in the way she looked at him now, but something else, too. Something that made his throat go dry.

“Probably shouldn’t have ‘forgotten’ your weapon, huh?”

Then, with a sigh, she unzipped her jacket. The warm brown fabric came off in a smooth motion, revealing an expanse of a defined upper body almost glowing, fair skin. She stepped close—closer than she had to—and held his gaze with a softness that didn’t match her usual swagger.

“Look… maybe you are fine,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “But your ass is literally hanging out. And you’ve got enough girls staring at you already.”

He blinked, looking down. ‘Oh. Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.’

Internally bracing, Jaune’s eyes snapped back up to Yang’s, ready for more of her teasing. 

Instead, she wrapped the jacket around his waist. Loosely and carefully. No smug grin. Tying the sleeves low and loose to cover the worst of it. The jacket was warm. Not just body heat— her warmth. It clung to him like sunlight trapped in cloth. Rich with the faint scent of sweat and gunpowder and something uniquely Yang. He didn’t know if it was perfume or just her—but it made his thoughts stumble.

“There,” she said, brushing imaginary dust with a lopsided smile. “Now you’re Beacon injured, not Beacon indecent.”

A faint, professional blush rose as Glynda looked aside, muttering. “My oversight. Thank you, Miss Xiao Long.”

Yang shrugged, pleased. “Someone’s gotta look out for the guy.”

She was still close. Still standing in front of him, now wearing only her yellow crop top. The toned curve of her midriff rose and fell with quiet breath. Her abs tightened faintly with each motion, and above them; her breaths were slow and steady; her breasts shifted under sweat-damp fabric. Taut, high, and barely restrained. Yang made no move to cover herself.

She’d caught him looking once before, on the airship. Teased him in the locker room. She hadn’t minded.

Then her lilac eyes locked with his, and stayed there. That stopped him cold. Because the playfulness was gone. They shimmered in the warm infirmary light, focused entirely on him. Not on the blood or the jacket or the wreckage of his fight. On him . Her pupils adjusted faintly, like she was seeing something past the bruises. Past the mess.

Jaune, for a small breath, forgot the heaviness of the last few hours.

They stared at each other longer than either meant to.

But more than that— she was kind .

The first person he saw when he woke up. The first to speak to him. The first to defend him. And here she was again, peeling off part of herself to protect his dignity, without asking for anything in return.

He felt his throat tighten. A different kind of warmth spread through his chest—slower, deeper. Less heat, more light.

Without thinking, Jaune spoke.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Yang blinked.

His voice had dropped—low, husky, and warm. Sincere in a way she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t flirty. It wasn’t bashful. It was grateful —so full of affection it hit like a sudden, soft punch to the heart.

The air between them shifted.

She opened her mouth, closed it again.

Her eyes widened just a fraction, breath catching as if something had landed deeper than she meant to let it. Her usual confidence wavered—just enough to show the girl behind the swagger.

“I—uh—yeah,” she muttered, smile flickering. “Just… y’know. Honor. Whatever.”

Trying to rally, Yang broke the moment with a smile—faint, not smug. Almost... shy. Nudging his shoulder with a small fist bump, Yang skipped back in a small retreat, “Don’t forget blondie, you owe me that jacket back. So, uh… you’d better come find me! 

She hesitated, then added a little too fast but achieved a sly glint. “Oh! And ask for a modesty kit! You’ll give Ruby a heart attack.”

With a toss of her golden hair, she turned on her heel before he could answer, briskly walking away. As consolation, Jaune watched her leave—his eyes trailing the sway of her lush hair and the crop top clinging to her back in ways that begged him to follow.

Jaune stared after her, half-dazed—his hand brushing the warm leather now tied at his hips.

“Come,” Glynda said, having composed herself. “Time is short.”

She guided Jaune toward the medical bay, the doors sliding open with a quiet chime.

Peeking around the corner, Yang watched him go. When the door sealed, her hands fell; her knuckles went white before she forced them to loosen. Spinning, She pressed her back to the wall, hidden from sight, and let herself breathe.

Around the corner, Yang leaned against the wall, trying to catch her breath. Her mind began to race about… everything.

‘Open. Vulnerable.’ Yang blinked.

‘Of course he looked. They always look. That’s fine.’

And damn it all if he wasn’t hot when he did it.

She tried not to think about the way his shirt clung to him, torn and crusted with blood but still tight across his chest. Or how his voice dipped low when he thanked her, thick with something real. Or how even banged up and dazed, he looked more like a warrior than a student.

It reminded her of the locker room—how one look at his back, his shoulders, that casual, unthinking strength had shut her up before she could even think about joking. Just heat. Raw presence. No act.

It would be easier if he were just pretty. She knew how to handle pretty. Pretty boys didn’t matter. They stared, they sputtered, they pretended not to look. Like Jaune had in the locker room. Only… he hadn’t looked away either. Not really.

And she hadn’t stopped him. And Brothers, she hadn’t even wanted to.

Besides, it's what co-ed locker rooms were for, right?

When he’d stripped right in front of them like it was nothing, she’d gawked. Gods, she’d practically salivated.

She’d kissed boys before. Once or twice. Enough to say she had. But girls had always been easier—safer. Especially the ones who knew what Aura was all about. Less complicated, less… whatever this was. 

But this?

She barely knew him. Met him yesterday . This wasn’t supposed to happen. Just a couple of good moments, and suddenly her heart was off running without permission.

He made Ruby feel secure about herself last night. Yang couldn’t forget that. He’d seen her then too. Just nodded like it was nothing. But Yang had seen it—seen the way Ruby lit up when she talked about it afterward. And Blake... Blake had been willing to throw down just to protect his sleep.

She’d already been a little too soft on him since the airship. That smile, those eyes… it was too easy to fall in.

That moment in the ballroom stuck with her, too—Blake curled against his shoulder, Ruby defending him like he was already family. 

That wasn’t how she did things. Not anymore. 

Which was exactly why she had to shove it back down. Because that kind of feeling didn’t stay. Not for her. Not since Raven. Not since—

Yang clenched her jaw. ‘ Don’t go there.’

 It was just adrenaline. Just heat. Just him being decent. That’s all.

He almost told her the truth back in the airship. She’d made it hard for him—pressing in, teasing, whispering into his ear like she didn’t know exactly what she was doing. But she did. She always had. Because even if her hands flirted, her heart… 

And her mind, traitorous as ever, replayed what just happened anyway.

Open. Vulnerable.

He wasn't just gawking at her. He wasn’t flinching like a boy who got caught or trying to play it smooth. He was just… looking at her with those eyes. Dark ringed blue, but this time, with flecks of gold. He looked at her like she was the only thing that was real. Like she mattered. 

Like he wasn’t afraid to let her see that he found her beautiful.

She felt it in her stomach first. Then her ribs. Then a little higher, buzzing behind her sternum. Lifting her hands, she watched as her Aura hummed, a yellow glow beginning to rise all around her. Looking down a little further, she noticed she was presenting twin headlights. 

Not the first time he made her body betray her. That damn morning… She’d walked away flushed, thighs clenched, heart racing—and all because of one slow lean into his locker.

‘Just when I thought I wouldn’t care for bras. Heh.’

She’d been the first to lean in. Back then and just now. First to tease. First to offer warmth. Maybe she wanted to believe he’d offer it back.

Her usual confidence wavering, her tongue darted out, wetting her lips. She tried for a smirk, but it didn’t quite land the same. So instead, she leaned her head back against the wall, settling for a real, genuine smile. She let the feeling have its moment. Entertained a daydream. 

Before shutting it down.

It wouldn’t be good to get attached. Intimacy was fine. Especially when it was fun or useful. That’s how she liked it—low-stakes. No messy expectations. No one to let her down. Get too close, too fast that’s how you get burned.

‘One step at a time, girl. It's okay to play, but you got to be okay if he leaves you.’

Yang pushed off the wall, steadying herself. Still—

Blake had called him a comfort. Ruby said he made space. And Yang…

Yang wasn’t sure what she wanted from him yet. Only that whatever it was—it felt too real, too soon, and far too open.

“Someone better be keeping him safe in there,” she muttered—then turned to find her sister, and figure out wherever her new partner went. ‘ Probably reading that weird book again.’

But her heart was still racing. 

Already missing the sound of his voice.

As Glynda nudged the door open with a gesture of her scroll, Jaune stepped through behind her, posture loosened, only to stiffen with awkwardness as he glanced around the room.

Beacon’s field infirmary hummed alongside the occasional beeps and boops from the medical equipment. It was white. Sterile. Clean curtains divided exam beds. The air smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol and lemon balm.

A woman at the far desk glanced up.

Silver hair, loosely pinned back in a bun that had lost the morning’s battle with gravity. Reading glasses dangled from her collar, a pen at home behind one ear. Her uniform sleeves were rolled to the elbow. She looked like she’d long since given up pretending to be impressed by Beacon’s rotating cast of disasters.

One brow arched, her eyes did a once-over. Torn hoodie and shirt. Dried blood. Scorch marks on the shirt. Pants barely holding integrity. A brown jacket tied around the waist like a makeshift skirt.

She didn’t bother to hide the sigh. 

“Let me guess,” she said flatly. “Initiation. Male. No armor. No luggage. No clue.”

Glynda said nothing.

Jaune blinked. “Is it that obvious?”

The nurse flipped a page on her clipboard. “Twelve years in this chair, sweetheart. I can smell ‘poor life choices’ before the door finishes opening.”

He stepped forward, sheepish. “Uh, I was told there’s a… modesty kit?”

Without missing a beat. “What, your junk blew out during battle?”

Jaune turned a vivid shade of crimson. “Not—no—I mean, not out, just… I had an incident with a cliff, and then a Grimm, and then gravity—”

She was already at a cabinet. “Say no more.”

Returning with a soft-sealed pouch, she handed it over without ceremony. Jaune tried processing it again, in case he somehow got it wrong the first time. 

The pouch was pink. Floral trim.

He stared. “I… think this is the wrong one?”

“Nope. Standard issue.”

“But—there are panties in here.”

“Technically, tactical bloomers. Breathable. Reinforced seams. Ready for what we call ‘combat confidence.’”

Jaune wanted to crawl into the nearest wall panel and disappear.

“Relax,” she added with the ghost of a grin. “The girls complain too.”

He muttered, “Do you… have anything not pink?”

She gave him a level look. “Did you see many guys come through Beacon’s gates? We haven’t had any in two years. You’re lucky it’s not sequins.”

Jaune hesitated. Then took the kit like it might detonate.

Sarcasm softening a fraction, she pulled open another drawer producing a neatly folded black undersuit—Beacon standard. “Here. Unisex. It stretches.”

‘Oh sweet mercy thank you.’ He nodded, grateful.

“But I want it back. Don’t get blood on it.”

‘Oh sweet mercy help me’, he nodded, tentatively.

Glynda cleared her throat. “Miss Cross.”

The Nurse Cross turned. “Headmistress.”

“I’d like him to be given a complete work-up,” Glynda said. Crisp. Clinical. “Not just vitals—full screening. Blood panels, cellular makeup, aura-resonance profile. Every detail logged.”

Nurse Cross’s gaze remained on Glynda for a full breath. “That’s… thorough.”

“Late arrival,” The Headmistress stated, as if that explained everything. “Beacon should know exactly who’s walking its halls. I prefer to be certain before we proceed further.”

The nurse’s eyes flicked to Jaune, then back. Another breath stretched.

“Ah,” she said finally, voice warm but edged. “One of those check-ups.”

Glynda’s mouth pressed into a line. “Just ensure nothing is… overlooked.”

“Mm.” Cross’s smile was polite. Too polite. “In that case, you’ll understand if I follow protocol to the letter.”

“Infirmary protocol 4.3,” she said, nodding toward a small plaque on a wall composed of them. “Medical staff have full domain during intake and treatment. Which means right now, this space is mine. Mine alone. ”

The Headmistress did not look pleased. “A moment, Matylda?” Her head gestured toward the infirmary entrance.

With another quick look to Jaune, Nurse Matylda Cross followed Headmistress Glynda Goodwitch outside. The doors sealing out any eavesdropping. Or at least, it was supposed to. 

Swallowing, Jaune’s eyes dropped, as his ears strained—picking up what usual ears shouldn’t.

“Matylda. There is a possibility that this… potential student may present an ongoing risk,” Glynda said, voice low. “His abilities are undocumented. His origins—”

“Are not going to stop me from treating him  like a human being,” the Cross cut in with a calm chill. 

“Matylda, you don’t understand—”

“Oh? Then by all means enlighten me. What am I looking for? Disease? Viruses? Pests? Tell me, if it’s that urgent.”

A taut silence hung in the air.

As he stared at the floor, Jaune clutched the pink pouch like it might burst.

“You can have your report. But you don’t get to stand over my shoulder while I collect his samples. Dignity matters. Even if you suspect more than you can say.”

Glynda exhaled through her nose. “...Very well. Send him to the observation room when you’re done.”

“Of course,” the Nurse Practitioner Cross said pleasantly. “And Headmistress? If you want him cooperative—don’t hover.”

Glynda didn’t answer, as what Jaune suspected were heeled boots tapped down the hall. 

The door hissed open as Cross returned. 

“Well,” she said, hands on her hips. “You always make that kind of impression?”

Jaune tried to smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m workshopping it,” he muttered, tugging at what was left of his shirt collar, frayed and clinging on with the power of hope.

The nurse clicked her pen and gestured to the nearest bed. “Strip to your unders. Top and bottom. Then hop up.”

He obeyed, fingers working at half-speed. Everything still itched. His hoodie came off with a snap, his shirt disintegrated into pieces. Only the Beacon-standard boxer-briefs and Yang’s jacket around his waist preserved a scrap of modesty. 

Only to receive a huff just short of impatient from Nurse Cross. Getting the hint, Jaune carefully undid Yang’s jacket from his waist, setting it gently on the bed.

With a nod, she pulled gloves on with a snap and retrieved a clipboard.

“Name?”

“Jaune Arc.”

Turning to her terminal, she typed without looking at him.

‘Is she… pulling a file?’ 

Trying not to look obvious, Jaune leaned onto his toes. The screen blinked. A search bar. Then—his name. His heart fluttered.

Matylda squinted at the surface details.

“Really?” she said dryly. “You look older.”

“I—uh, I get that a lot?” He offered, shrugging while still craning to read.

“Blegh. Kids like you either look too young or too old. Never in the middle.”

Her tone didn’t change, but she kept scanning.

“What’s the D. stand for?”

“P-Pardon?”

“Your middle initial, Jaune D. Arc. Just curious.”

“Um… I don’t know. It's just always been there?”

“Fair enough.” With a shrug, Nurse Cross continued, “Let’s see… hometown Ansel. Outside Vale, but not remote. So probably not carrying anything exotic.” 

She scrolled further. 

“No familial history of disease. No behavioral flags... Huh. You got a pat pass?”

Trying to swallow, Jaune's mouth went dry. “Uh… a-a pat pass?”

“Lingo,” she said, not looking up. “For the Pathfinder Admission Track program. First-timer, non-traditional applicant. PAT pass. You one of those?”

Flipping a coin, Jaune nodded, slow and cautious.

Matylda glanced over the rim of her glasses. “First male in the family, too, huh?”

He stiffened, then gave a slow nod again. “Yeah.”

The Nurse Practitioner studied him. Then:

“Figures. Probably explains why you look older. Stress ages fast. So do sleep deficits. Must be hard, trying to make something outta nothing.” She gestured vaguely to the state of him. “No offense, but shredded clothes, dried blood, secondhand confidence—it’s a lot. Workshop those first impressions. Nurse’s orders.”

He met her gaze with as much resolve as he could muster

Matylda paused. Then made a soft tsk under her breath and nodded once—approval buried under a mountain of sarcasm.

“I know,” he said. “But I still want this.”

She approached, stethoscope in hand. Her expression stayed wry, but her touch was steady. The diaphragm pressed to his chest, the cold raising goosebumps.

“Breathe in,” she instructed. “Again. Deep.”

Her pen scratched notes on the clipboard. “Lung rhythm stable. Heartbeat elevated—I’m guessing the usual nerves.”

She stepped back, peeled off the gloves, replaced them with fresh ones.

“Okay,” she said, voice clipped. “Turn your head and cough.”

Jaune blinked. “Wha—oh.”

He obeyed. Her hand was clinical—two fingers pressing lightly to his scrotum through the waistband. 

He coughed.

“No masses.” She nodded. “Congratulations. You have testicles and they aren’t trying to kill you. Next.”

He exhaled. It wasn’t exactly comfortable—but it was normal. Medical. Clean.

Then came the needle.

“Blood draw,” she said, unwrapping the kit. “You’re hydrated enough. Veins should be easy.”

She moved fast. Blood draw. Quick. Minimal sting. Three vials. Labeled. Bagged.

So far, so good.

She peeled off her gloves again and rubbed the bridge of her nose with the back of her hand.

“…Alright,” she said, half to herself. “Now something’s not adding up.”

Jaune tensed. “What’s wrong?”

Nurse Cross crossed her arms, eyes narrowing, “What’s wrong is first impressions.”

She began to pace slightly in front of the bed Jaune sat on, looking less like a nurse and more patrol officer. “Let’s recap. You walk in half-shredded. Hoodie and shirt torn open, pants barely holding together. Dried blood all over. That’s red flag number one.”

“But your skin?”, gesturing loosely to his body, “Not a scratch. No bruising. No burns. No inflammation. You’re pristine, Arc. Which doesn’t match the ‘threw myself off a cliff’ story. Red flag number two.”

“I—I don’t know,” Jaune offered weakly.

“You’re telling me you fell off a cliff, fought Grimm, got your clothes turned into confetti, and your skin’s still baby smooth?” Her tone was skeptical, but not accusatory. “Aura protects the body. That’s normal. But it also protects gear. If your Aura flickered hard enough for that kind of damage, it should’ve left some trace.”

Jaune fumbled. “I… I guess I just got lucky?”

“‘Lucky,’” she echoed, clearly unconvinced.

Pausing her pace, she studied him another moment, then her shoulders eased just slightly. Her tone cooled—not exactly in temperature, but in temperature control.

“You been feeling… off lately?” she asked, her voice more subdued. “Low energy? Depressed? Mood swings? Anything like that?”

Wavering, Jaune admitted, “I mean… yeah, I guess. But not… not enough to see a doctor or anything.”

Matylda didn’t write anything.

“Any headaches? Night terrors? Blackouts? Gaps in memory?”

His stomach gave a small lurch. Those last words tugged at a blank space in his chest—like reaching for a doorknob that wasn’t there.

“I… I don’t think so.”

That gave her pause. Her brow lifted slightly. Her eyes narrowed again, but not unkindly.

“Any history of trauma? Stress injuries? Emotional overload? Loss of appetite?”

“I’ve never really trained,” he deflected. “I just… wanted to try. At Beacon, I mean.”

“No prep school?” 

He shook his head.

“Right,” she muttered. “Pathfinder pass.”

She moved back to her clipboard in front of her but still didn’t write anything right away. Her eyes stayed on him. Thoughtful. Assessing.

“Aura instability isn’t uncommon in new students,” she said, voice slipping into clinical rhythm again. “Especially ones without formal grounding. Stress, suppressed emotions, even identity confusion—they all mess with resonance.”

She let the sentence hang. 

Then her tone dipped—still quiet, but more intimate now. Like a real human speaking beneath the nurse.

“You feeling safe here, Jaune?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Safe. At Beacon. Around people.”

He flinched, ever so slightly.

“I’m fine,” he said—quick. Too quick.

Matylda didn’t move. Just watched him for a beat too long.

Then, with deliberate calm, she stepped to the desk and flipped a switch on her terminal. The monitor dimmed.

“I’m not Glynda,” she confessed. “Whatever she asked for, whatever she’s hoping I find—I’m not her spy.”

He looked up, wary.

“I can’t promise she won’t see the final chart,” Matylda continued. “But anything you say to me? In here? That stays here. Patient-nurse confidentiality. And I don’t break it. Ever.”

For a second, Jaune wanted to say something. To have a real ally. To tell her the truth. Or at least a truth.

The low thrum returned, hush under thunder.

Not yet. Not her. Not here. Stay still. Stay quiet.

Stay unknown.

“I appreciate that,” he said carefully.

“But?” she prompted, reading him too well.

“But I really don’t know what to tell you.”

That was honest. Honest enough.

Matylda watched him for a few seconds more, then gave a dry sigh. “You’re a better liar than most,” she said. “But not by much.”

He looked away.

She didn’t push.

Instead, she just gave a short nod—professional again.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s move on. I’ll even skip the scan. Just, think about it, alright?”

Matylda exhaled through her nose and moved to the supply drawer beneath the counter. She rummaged for a moment—too long for just gauze or wipes—long enough to make Jaune’s gut tighten.

She glanced over her shoulder. Her face had shifted again. Still professional, still calm—but with that faint grimace people wore before delivering bad news.

Then she returned with two containers. Both labeled.

“Alright,” she said finally, her tone rising, but sounding a little defeated. “Now for the awkward part.”

‘That wasn’t the awkward part?!’

She handed him the first. “Urine. Pee in the bottle. Wipe after. Standard drill.”

“Got it,” he nodded. 

‘That’s not so bad?’

Then she handed him the second.

“And this one’s for semen.”

A beat passed.

Jaune looked at the bottle. Then at her.

“…You’re joking.”

“I wish.”

“...You’re serious ?”

Matylda winced. “Yeah. Collection protocol. Bodily fluids. Hormonal baselines. And, unfortunately… Headmistress orders.”

Mortified, Jaune stared at Matylda, wishing she was kidding about being serious.

“I can usually joke my way through this,” she said, tone faltering. “But yeah. This is the weird one.”

“I—do I have to?”

She hesitated. “I’m afraid so. Unusual request, but Glynda’s not the type to pull that out of nowhere. If she wants the full chart, she has her reasons.”

Jaune looked down at the bottle like it might start screaming.

Matylda tried again. 

“You’re a teenage boy,” she said with a half-hearted grin. “Figured this part would be easy. Just… think of someone cute and go to town?”

It fell flat. He didn’t laugh. Just flushed—deeply—and looked away. 

She exhaled through her nose. The sarcasm drained.

“…I’m sorry,” she said more softly. “Most of my patients are girls. I guess I’m a little out of practice with dignity-preserving boy talk.”

“It’s… it’s fine,” Jaune mumbled.

She sighed, then stepped back and tried to start over.

She paused, then nodded to the small private bathroom. “Through that door. Take both bottles. Pee first. Wipe clean before you, uh… start round two. Don’t touch anything until you’ve washed your hands.”

Ignoring the absolute look Jaune sent her way, she reached behind the counter. A drawer clattered.

Then reached behind the counter.

She returned holding two battered magazines and a faded plastic case. She eyed the case with suspicion, as if it might bite.

“I got these in a donation box years ago. A stupid prank. One’s old-school nudie mags. One’s… I don’t know, probably home-shot. Might have some bondage. You like BDSM?”

Jaune turned scarlet.

“I-I—”

“Never mind,” she said quickly, stacking the items and offering them with all the energy of a hostage trade. “Just figured I’d offer. Might help. Probably won’t.”

He took the stack like he was accepting a live explosive.

Matylda softened again. The grin faded. Her eyes met his with quiet sincerity.

“Jaune,” she said gently. “It’s okay. I know it’s weird. I know it’s uncomfortable. But no one’s watching. No one’s judging. You’re just helping me do my job. ”

He swallowed. Nodded.

“I’ll be outside,” she added. “Not outside the door—outside the room. I won’t let anyone near.”

Jaune paused. Then:

“Thanks.”

She smiled. “Go on.”

He turned and walked to the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him.

Matylda leaned back against her desk, folding her arms. She glanced at the open charts, then at the door Jaune had vanished behind.

“…What in the Brothers’ name are we doing, Glynda?”

The bathroom was clean.

Too clean.

Bleached tile. Steel fixtures. The antiseptic hum of a light above the mirror. The faint scent of lemon balm doing little to mask the sharp bite of sterilization. It felt like a lab. Or a morgue.

The door clicked shut behind him, the lock snapping like a gunshot. Jaune stood still. 

In one hand: two plastic containers. In the other: a stack of faded porn and outdated shame.

One for urine. One for more shame.

Stalling for time, Jaune set the porno down on a nearby bench, took some wet paper towels and wiped the crusts of dried blood on his body, listening to the sink fill the space.

After filling the trash can, he tightened the faucet shut with a squeak. His breath fogged faintly on the mirror. He didn’t wipe it away.

For a long moment, he just stared at the figure in the glass.

Hair matted into damp spikes. His boxer-briefs clung damply to his hips. No cuts. No scrapes. Just pale skin and muscle. But he remembered hitting the rocks. He remembered the pain. 

Blue eyes stared back—but distant. Pale at the edges. Flecks of gold from jet rings shot across his irises, like stars skimming the sea.

He reached up. Touched his cheek.

Still Jaune.

But wrong.

His fingers felt too long. Pulling them back slowly, he rubbed thumb to fingertips.

Warm. Callused. Familiar.

But not his.

The face in the mirror didn’t blink with him.

He looked away.

The toilet sat in the corner, sterile and quiet. He shuffled toward it and braced one hand on the handicap rail. The steel chilled his skin.

“Okay,” he whispered, voice flat. “Let’s get this over with.”

First bottle.

He lowered the waistband and positioned the container beneath himself and waited.

…And waited.

Still nothing.

Brows pulled low. He shifted his weight, tried to coax the reflex. Pushed against the bottom of his stomach.

Still nothing.

No pressure. No ache. No urge.

It wasn't nerves. It was… absence.

A crawl slipped down his back: Steel restraints. Cold tables. Dim light bleeding red through his eyelids. A clinical and curious voice of someone looking through him: “Metabolizes mass directly. No waste products. No digestive output. Fascinating.”

The bottle stayed dry in his hand. He set it aside. Picked up the second one. This one trembled slightly in his grip.

He stared at it for a long time.

“…Okay,” he said again, more quietly. “Just… think of something.”

He sat on the bench tucked into the corner. Sat slowly. The tile walls leaned close around him. The hum of the overhead bulb buzzed in his teeth. 

Every motion echoed. The creak of his waistband. The catch of breath. The flex of knuckles.

He closed his eyes.

He tried to think of the others. Anything to coax his body into cooperating.

Yang, radiant and golden, stretching in her crop top—her tits straining at the seams as she leaned back, knowing exactly the kind of damage she was doing. Her voice like sunshine laced with sin, whispering heat into his ear.

Ruby, flustered and frozen, fumbling at her corset, her cheeks pink and her silver eyes wide with shy panic. She’d hidden behind her cape, but her scent, her softness pressed against him in that crowd—those lingered.

Blake, moving like a shadow. Her thong eaten by curves that defied modesty. Unbothered. Bare. Her hips had rolled as she bent over, ass stretching that violet strip to near-invisibility, like she had no idea—or worse, like she knew exactly what she was doing and simply didn’t care.

Weiss, taut and defiant, standing in sheer blue lace that hugged her like winter’s kiss. The flicker in her eyes when he’d looked. Not approval. But not rejection, either. She’d let him see. And let him feel it.

Each memory sparked heat. Electric. Bright. Fleeting.

But then—

Thought of Pyrrha.

Not just her face. Not just the way she looked when she smiled. Not just the strength of her thighs or the way her armor hugged her curves. But how she looked at him—that stunned, trembling awe as she sat in his lap. How her body moved with him—thighs astride, skin flushed, breath trembling—like he was something holy.

He remembered the way she asked him.

“May I?”

Like touching him was a privilege.

His cock stirred—slow, sluggish. A machine warming up.

He looked down. 

There it was. Half-hard. Visible.

It felt like looking at someone else.

Still, he lowered his waistband. Took himself in hand.

His palm was warm.
His skin responded.
His breath adjusted.

He started slow. Soft strokes. The rhythm Pyrrha had used. Press of the thumb. Firm squeeze near the base. Up. Down. Up. Down.

His cock swelled under his palm, growing heavier with each glide. His grip adjusted, rougher now, and the way his hips twitched—like he couldn’t help it—sent a ripple across his abs. Tension laced his shoulders. A drop of sweat curled down his chest.

His breath hitched. Thighs flexed. He leaned into the movement—not just jerking himself off, but offering himself to the memory, as if he could coax it into something real.

Long limbs. Strong hands. A core that tightened with every pulse. Veins riding his forearms. Shoulders broad and marred with bruises. Every part of him working—straining—to believe he was wanted. That he could be. 

His body wasn’t perfect. But it was honest.

But it wasn’t just her body.

The heat of her. The sway of her hips, slow and rhythmic against him, not just for friction but for resonance. For rhythm. That practiced grace unraveling into raw need. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Her nose brushed against his. Her forehead against his. Shaking, as her moan when she climaxed— because of him.

She wanted him. Not just the cock. Not just the friction. But him. His weight. His heat. His need.

His hips twitched.

The sound of movement—wet and skin-on-skin—seemed louder here. Echoing off the tile like a confession. Each stroke audible. Measured. Desperate.

And when he moaned—just under his breath—it wasn’t crude. It was vulnerable. Open. Afraid of being heard, but more afraid of not feeling .

And the way she touched him afterward. The reverence in her strokes. The way she wanted him to cum. Her eyes, hungry and kind, fixed on his face like he meant something to her. Her fingers wrapped around his cock like it was something precious. Not as a means to an end. Not mechanical. But intimate.

He remembered the feeling of her body trembling on his lap. Her sweat. Her scent. Her hands—small, strong, determined—stroking him, coaxing him, guiding him toward something that felt less like lust and more like proof.

And the way she wore his cum with pride. Like he’d given her something she’d always wanted. Not because it was dirty. But because it was him.

His hips twitched. The memory stung with clarity.

That moment—Pyrrha whispering against his lips, "This  wasn’t a favor. It was an honor,” —played again like a sacred refrain.

The memory hit him harder than he expected.

He clung to it. Let it guide his rhythm.

Faster now. His hips rolled up to meet his hand. His abs tensed and relaxed with the motion. Jaw slack. Mouth parted. His cock flushed, slick, needy in his grip.

He imagined Pyrrha again. Riding him. Kissing him. Eyes wide with trust. Her thighs tightening around his hips, her hands clutching his shoulders, her body rocking with practiced rhythm. Her voice, breathy and reverent, whispering his name like it was sacred. Her breasts swaying, slick with sweat, her moans fluttering against his throat as he thrusted up into her.

The pressure built.

Then, like a match to dry tinder—his mind caught fire. The boundary blurred. The fantasy bled outward, uncontrolled. Pyrrha’s hips rolled again—and suddenly, it wasn’t her.

Now it was Yang grinding on top of him—wild and golden, tits bouncing as she grabbed them herself, licking her lips and daring him to touch more, fuck harder. Sweaty hair clung to her neck as he devoured her, her laughter echoing in heat. Pinning each other’s hands as they were fiercely guided by heat and hunger.

Then Ruby—pressed beneath him, gasping on her back, legs wrapped around his waist, her cape pooling like a rose beneath her back. Her face flushed red, biting her lip as her silver eyes locked onto his, shocked by her own arousal, but too breathless to stop. He’d never imagined her like that before. But now? Now he couldn’t stop.

Blake—her body arching like a ribbon of shadow as she bent over with impossible grace. Her ass swayed in needy invitation, the perfect pillow to slam against. Her breath came soft—but her eyes burned as he mounted her, her thighs trembling as her slick heat swallowed him whole. Her thong long gone. Her grip white-knuckled on the sheets as her pussy clamped around him in aching, pulsing waves. Her voice, when she finally moaned, a curse meant only for him.

Weiss followed—cold and perfect in pale lace, one leg draped over his shoulder as she let him pound into her, icy voice cracking with desperate pleasure, trying and failing to hold on to pride as her hips bucked into every thrust. “You’re insufferable,” she’d hissed, panting, “and I never want you to stop.” Even as she moaned, she looked up at him like he’d unraveled something inside her—something tender and terrifying.

And Nora—giggling, panting, wild, straddling his chest as she pumped his cock again. Sticky from her last orgasm, her fingers already pulling his head between her thighs. Her grip was greedy—fingers tangled in his hair, dragging his mouth toward her like he was the only thing that could satisfy her now. “One more,” she’d plead, already shaking. “Then I’ll make you cum so much you’ll forget how to stop.” Her cheeks flushed, drool on her lips, thighs shaking with joy. Blissful and unashamed.

His mind reeled.

They were all there.

Yang's tits crushed against his back, her lips sucking hard on his neck. Ruby’s wet pussy grinding his thigh, her mouth soft and needy against his own. Blake's tongue licked up his stomach, leaving no skin untouched by sin. Weiss knelt below, stroking his cock—her mouth parted, breath fogging the air, eyes dark with longing. Nora bouncing beside him, fingering herself furiously, giggling through orgasm after orgasm, angled so he could see it all. Pyrrha watched it all with that same look of sacred awe, her hands on his chest, her voice whispering blessings, as if this spiral of lust was what she'd always wanted to witness. Proof that he was wanted. Proof that he was worthy.

Hands. Tongues. Heat. Skin. All running together.

It was stupid. Impossible. They’d never want him like this. But by the will of the gods—he wanted them.

And they were all here—

Too much.

Too perfect.

His whole body pulled taut—back arched, abs tight, a moan crawling up his throat. He was close. So close. The kind of edge that made your heart stutter and your hands forget their rhythm. The kind that felt like surrender.

Almost. Almost there.

Then—

Snap.

Not in his body.
His head.

A crack. A flinch.

Something turned. Door creaking open.

Not pleasure—panic.

His pulse jumped in his throat. Then his ears. His chest. His spine.

Too fast.

His throat tightened. His chest locked. The air was suddenly too thick. Or too thin. His fingers slowed. Then stopped.The walls blurred at the edges of his vision. A cold sheen bloomed across his body.

He couldn’t feel them.
He couldn’t feel anything .

His eyes shuttered, hard.

Why was he shaking?

He clenched his eyes shut, tried again—but the pulse of heat was gone. All that remained was tension. Static:

You’re doing it wrong. You’re doing it wrong again. It’s not yours. It was never yours. Just lay still, it’s easier that way—

He gasped and jerked his hand back, as if his penis had burned him.

The plastic cup fell from his lap, clattering loudly against the floor.

Clutching up his knees and hunching down, he pressed his palms over his face. No images. No fantasies. Only noise. Not memory—just static. Empty. Detached.

He waited. Tried to breathe. One in. One out.

Again.

Again.

…

Again.

…

…

…

It passed. Slowly.

All that remained was silence. And shame.

He looked at the bottles. Empty.

“Shit.”

It came out small.

He hadn’t earned this. Like everything else. A fantasy borrowed from boys who never got the chance to become men.

He stood slowly. Legs shaky. Washed his hands with water that ran too hot. Dried them with paper that scraped his skin. Stared again. 

The boy in the mirror blinked now. 

He wished he hadn’t.

Getting dressed into the undersuit, Jaune pulled the handle. The door clicked open, and he stepped back into the light.

The nurse wasn’t back in the room yet. Reaching for Yang’s jacket and clutching it to his chest, he walked across the room and knocked gently on the main door.

It opened a second later.

She stepped inside, wearing a grin already loaded.

“Well?” she smirked. “Feeling relaxed ? Get your chi aligned? How many ounces of teen joy juice did we get—”

She stopped.

Jaune stood there.

Holding both bottles.

Still empty.

His face wasn’t angry. Or embarrassed. Or even apologetic.

Just... hollow. Quietly miserable in a way that made her put the jokes away.

The nurse’s sarcasm evaporated.

She set the clipboard down. “Hey.”

He didn’t answer.

She stepped forward slowly.

“You okay?”

He nodded. A bad nod. Too fast. Not convincing.

She could see it.

Her brow furrowed. “It’s not unusual, y’know. The first time… sometimes things don’t work. Nerves. Trauma. You want me to—uh—I mean, I can find something else. Different materials. Magazines. I think I’ve got some VR scans if you’re into 4D stuff, or if there’s a partner—”

He looked away.

Didn’t speak.

Just clutched the empty bottles a little tighter.

The nurse exhaled.

Long. Controlled.

Then made the call.

“All right,” she said gently. “That’s enough for today.”

He looked up. “But—Glynda—”

“Let me worry about Glynda,” the nurse said firmly. “You? You did fine. You’re my patient. That comes first.”

She reached for the bottles. “We’ll try again another day.”

Jaune let her take them.

Something in his posture eased. Barely. But it was there.

Almost offhand, and too soft to notice “We’ll do a scan while we’re at it. Protocol. Helps us keep the file clean.”The nurse offered him a small smile. “Then we can go get you lectured.”

Jaune simply nodded.

Nurse Cross peeled the cuff from Jaune’s arm and tore the vitals strip free with a neat zip.

“Baseline looks good,” she said, eyes skimming numbers only she seemed to understand. “If anything feels off later, you come straight back. Or,” her voice softened a notch, “if you just need to talk.”

Jaune nodded, mouth a little too dry for words. He slid off the bed. His undersuit whispered at the seams.

“C’mon.” Cross keyed the door and led him into the service corridor.

The hall pitched downward by a few quiet degrees, just enough to fool the knees. Fluorescents traded warmth for glare; white tile gave way to painted concrete. The air cooled, trading mint and gauze for metal and ozone. Security lenses blinked like patient eyes. Somewhere, a fan droned. With each turn, the building shed another layer of hospital and put on armor—pipes exposed, conduit stitched along the ceiling like veins. It felt like descending into a dungeon someone had scrubbed within an inch of its life.

“You’ll hear a lot of serious voices in the next room,” Cross said, walking at his speed, not hers. “They’re doing their job. Let them. You do yours: breathe, answer, tell the truth you have.” She flicked him a sidelong look. “And if the truth you have is ‘I don’t know,’ that’s still a truth.”

He swallowed and managed, “Yes, ma’am.”

They stopped at a maglocked door with a discreet camera and a reader strip. Cross tapped her badge; the lock thunked and the light went from red to green. She didn’t open it yet. Instead, she squared his shoulders with two fingers, small adjustments like a tailor. 

“You’re not the first kid to walk this hall feeling like a fraud,” she said, adjusting his shoulders with two fingers. “Several years back we had a boy with the absolute worst luck I’ve ever seen. I’m pretty sure it was his Semblance—lights shorted when he smiled, doors jammed out of spite, and the floor introduced itself to his face more than once.” A ghost of a grin. “He got accepted. He belonged. If Beacon can make room for a walking disaster, it can make room for a mystery with good manners.” 

“You’re not alone here, Mister Arc . My door’s open whether your lungs or your head are the thing acting up.”

“Thank you,” he said, because anything longer would come out wrong. With a breath, he tied Yang’s jacket around his waist, tight and snug.

Cross’s mouth tipped wryly. “Go knock ’em dead.” A beat. “Figure of speech. Please do not, in fact, knock anyone dead.”

A breath that was almost a laugh shook loose of him. “I’ll try.”

“Attaboy.” She palmed the plate. The door sighed, cooler air pooling at his ankles.

Cross gave him a last, steady nod and stepped back. Jaune crossed the threshold. The door sealed behind him with a hush.

Beacon’s observation room looked like a dentist’s office designed by a war college—white walls, a single window of one-way glass, and a table with three mismatched chairs. The harsh light of a hard-light display shone on the wall, illuminating the room.

Headmistress Goodwich stood, waiting for Jaune to sit. Moving towards the nearest seat, he sat across from the enigmatic Professor Ozpin.

Though it was odd, Jaune expected the usual “firelight” that came while looking upon the professor—whatever that was—but this time… it was absent.. Professor Ozpin was sitting, hands fidgeting around a porcelain mug of coffee that had gone cold. His cane rested against the far wall.

He’d swapped the funereal keynote voice from the auditorium for something lighter—pleasant even. “Jaune! Do you take sugar? No? Ah, very sensible at your age.” He set the mug where a suspect might set their hands.

Jaune didn’t touch it. He kept his palms flat on his knees to keep them from shaking.

“Let’s call this… housekeeping,” Ozpin said, unusually cheerful. “We’ve all had a busy day.” His smile crinkled. “For example, Headmistress Goodwitch assures me I am overdue for a proper scolding about my paperwork habits.”

Glynda’s crop touched the tabletop with a precise whap, and Ozpin jumped . “We’re past scolding,” she said, gaze level. “We’re at answers.”

A gesture, and the room’s far wall bled into a hovering pane of footage.

“Clip one,” Goodwitch said.

Launch pad. Rows of students. Jaune—no weapon—standing under all those eyes. The audio captured her voice from hours earlier: “ You will not be participating… I will personally review your application once we’re done here.”

“Late,” Goodwitch said, not looking away from him. “Unarmed. And assigned to the first wave days prior, according to our manifest.”

Ozpin made a small, sympathetic wince, like a teacher seeing a smudged quiz. “First impressions are frightfully sticky things.”

Jaune managed to restrain a sigh.

Goodwitch consulted her scroll as the clip held. “You reported bringing a personal weapon, one you went into great detail about. A precious family heirloom,” She squinted at the name. “One… Crocea Mors. So you did have a weapon? What happened to it?”

“I-I… lost it?

“You lost your precious family heirloom?” 

Before Jaune could invent an explanation, he was cut off, “No hold on. It says somewhere here…” the Headmistress found a line and read—dry as bone. “Ah yes, quote: ‘A sword and shield carrying the old family crest, passed down through a line of male warriors since before Aura was understood and used for battle. As the first guy to awaken Aura I hope to carry on the family legacy of heroes into new frontiers.’” A beat. “And I continue to quote here: ‘Swish, swish. Swish, swoosh.’”

"You simply lost that precious family heirloom?”

As he processed what was apparently his own words, Jaune could only stare at the Headmistress in mortification. Heat climbing up his neck.

“Do not even get me started on how you also ‘forgot’ to put down what seems to be your… ‘Semblance’ out completely.”

“S-s-so… um. Y-you see… I—I—”

“Clip two.”

The wall bloomed with ground-and-overhead drone footage: underbrush trembling, a gaunt Beowolf easing into frame and—tellingly— not charging. 

“Pause,” Glynda says, freezing on Jaune as a low growl rose from his chest in answer; his irises bleach to gold while his sclera darken. “Predator recognition.” Cool. Clinical. 

Ozpin tilts his head, almost delighted. “Fascinating—mutual appraisal.” 

The clip rolled; the Beowolf commits, a blur of teeth and claws that tears a tree apart as Jaune slips under it and counters with a raw, untrained body-hook.

“Pause,” Glynda said again, the image close on his forearm and ribs, where the skin drew inward instead of flaring a shield. “No barrier. His Aura sutures before it shells—seal-before-shell,” she says, tapping the air. “Not standard.” 

Ozpin, mild as tea, “But consistent with an adaptive survival bias, yes?” 

They watch Jaune slam the creature into a trunk, get raked, thrown, then stagger up; the mic catches the pop of his shoulder reseating. 

Madam Goodwitch marks it. “Orthopedic reset under Aura without external halo.” 

The footage advances to his half-second of stillness—eyes tracking sternum, stance narrowing—then the sound: a wet SHHRRK as his arm blackens and restructured, glassy plates with gold fault-lines knitting into a jagged, breathing blade. 

“First manifestation.” Voice flat, Madam Goodwitch made another observation. “Skeletal reconfiguration. It seems you’re a living weapon.” 

Ozpin’s smile lost warmth. “Let’s provisionally call it Eibon Fang —first expressions under duress are wonderfully instructive.” Taking a sip from the mug he set for Jaune, Professor Ozpin’s eyes peered over his glasses at Jaune’s face.

Missing the connotation, Jaune watched as his arm was about to rip the Beowolf.

Play: The Beowolf’s swipe shatters on the edge; Jaune drives the blade through the sternum, the tip flowers into serrated petals, gold veining pulses once, and a lateral rip opens the chest in a fan of black ichor. 

“Pause,” Glynda, eyes hard. “Note the delayed dissolution afterward—this kill doesn’t vaporize immediately.” 

The last seconds run: three finishing chops—THUD-THUD-THUD— the corpse finally slackening, Jaune’s arm-blade pulsing. 

The footage died. The wall went white again. Just a table, three chairs, and the hush of recycled air.

The Headmistress didn’t look at him right away. When she speaks, it’s precise rather than sharp. “Let’s talk about how that felt.”

Ozpin nudges his mug an inch closer, all gentle mischief. “And if anything aches that we should see to. Y’know, in case Nurse Cross missed something. Shoulders have such a dramatic way of protesting.”

Jaune sat a little straighter. “I’m fine. Mostly.”

“During the pause,” Goodwitch said, “you growled back. Why?”

He hesitated. There’s an easy answer waiting in his mouth, slick as oil. 

Adrenaline. Panic.  

It tasted wrong. “I felt… tall. Like my feet were set in the floor. It wasn’t something I was thinking about.”

“And your eyes changed.” Not an accusation. “Does that happen under stress generally, or only near Grimm?”

“I… don’t know.” He swallows. “I don’t look in mirrors during fights.”

Ozpin’s smile crinkled. “Sensible. Vanity gets you kicked by horses.” He tips his head. “When the Grimm paused, did it feel like recognition to you? Or simply an opening you capitalized on?”

“Recognition,” Jaune slowly says before he can sand it down. “Like it looked at me and decided I wasn’t… the usual.”

Flicking a note onto her scroll, Goodwitch continued. “As mentioned, no barrier flare. Your Aura closes wounds directly—repair over protection. Does it hurt?”

“No.” A beat. He adds, “I mean, it uh, it hurts w-when I get hurt. But when I h-heal, I feel heat under the skin. Pulling. Like the flesh was… tightening itself.”

“And after the shoulder reseated?” she asks. “Numbness? Tingling?”

“Pop. Then… cold. It went away.”

Ozpin leans back, pleased. “Thank you. Clarity like that helps our medics do their best work. Now…” 

Here Ozping leaned forward, the chair squeaking across the floor.

“About…” Pausing with his mouth open, Ozpin mulled something over in his head, then seemed to think better of it. His tone stays warm. “ …the blade.” He gestures lightly to Jaune’s forearm, polite as if he were asking about a sprained wrist. “Pain? Pressure? Temperature?”

“It stings,” Jaune says, surprised to hear the honesty. “Not like a cut. Like, um… needle teeth? Then it… fit. I didn’t feel like I was holding anything.” He glances down at his hand, flexes it. “It felt like it had always been there and I hadn’t noticed.”

“And we are to assume, all this, is your Semblance?” Ozpin prodded. At this, Glynda took off her glasses, looking straight at Jaune, unblinking. 

Yes.

“Yes.” Jaune repeated.

“And these transformations and alterations to the function of your Aura, is that… everything?”

Yes.

“N-no,” Jaune shook his head, “T-there’s a little more.”

“Excellent,” Ozpin says, as if he just agreed on a dessert. “Now, training placement. The way you prioritized sternum and leverage—did someone encourage you to think that way? Family, coach, a book?”

Silence. Jaune feels the slick answer circle again— family techniques, a coach, long hours alone —and feels, just beneath it, the stronger pull: the urge to be done with using the wrong words for his own life.

“I don’t know,” he says, carefully. “Sometimes it’s there, like muscle memory. Sometimes it isn’t.”

Typing, Glynda noted that too. “After the kill, did you feel a compulsion to continue? Euphoria? Fatigue?”

“None of those. Just… quiet.”

“Good.” She folds that away. “We also saw delayed dissolution. Has that occurred with other kills today?”

“I think so. In the clearing later.” Maybe a real memory. Maybe a guess. “It took a second.”

Goodwitch stood, Jaune hoped it meant the end was near. “And is there anything about that clip you haven’t said because it felt too small to matter?”

Jaune looks at the blank wall. The Beowolf’s eyes are still there in his mind—coal-red, pausing. The part of him that wanted to be clever has gone very quiet.

“It looked at me like I was wrong,” he says. “And… I felt the same about it. Just… two things that shouldn’t meet.”

Ozpin’s voice softens. “Thank you.”

Letting his shoulders drop, Jaune made the mistake of thinking it was over.

“Clip three.”

Shoulders rising, Jaune took a deep breath and turned to look at the monitor.

A still Beowolf lay on moss that refused to dissolve. Ichor didn’t smoke away—it pulled toward Jaune instead, like ink dragged uphill.

Goodwitch’s finger flicks. The frame freezes as black vapor threads into his palm and under the skin of his forearm. 

“Inverse dissolution into the subject,” she notes, level. “Not external exposure—ingress.”

Advancing the feed, the audio picks his sharp intake, then a shuddering choke; inside the skin, veins blacken and squirm, a wet crawl that fades as his body… yielded.

She doesn’t look away, eyes squinting behind her glasses. “The body isn’t rejecting foreign mass. It’s… accommodating.” His frame tenses, ribs bracing outward—then something shifts. “Again, no barrier flare. Where did it go?” 

Spotting a flash of gold and purple, Ozpin slowly leans forward with a hush, “Processing not just into flesh but into… resonance? Tell me, is it being stored in your Aura?”

Knowing what came next, Jaune shakily nods his head, eyes locked on to the screen.

Ozpin, attention never leaving the screen, calls, “Jaune?”

“Y-Yes, it goes in my Aura.”

The clip ran until Jaune dropped to his knees and retched up a hot, black slurry that hisses on the moss and evaporates like Grimm remains. “And then the overflow,” Glynda murmurs. “Expelled excess. Classic conservation… of something.” 

Glynda kills the clip and turns her cane with two fingertips. “Mr. Arc. What happens to you when you absorb Grimm? Physiologically. Cognitively.” She keeps it intake-clean.

Jaune wets his lips. “It’s my Semblance too. I think. All I do is just… stabilize damage, and—”

“You exhibited internal restructuring after ingesting the enemies of humanity” Glynda pressed evenly. “What do you feel? Hunger? Compulsion? Clarity?

Be quiet.

Jaune’s lips locked as if they were stitched together.

“Any... Negativity?” Ozpin tilts his head, his question attempting to sound like a routine concussion screen.

Be silent.

Staring down at the table, Jaune’s jaw tightens, missing Professor Ozpin’s gesture to Headmistress Goodwitch to continue.

“We lost sight of you when you entered the cave.” Her next question came in a testing tone. “Has this ingestion happened more than these instances today?”

“Yes.” He exhales. “In the cave.”

Ozpin’s voice returns to a more natural calm. “When it begins, can you stop it?”

“I… don’t know.” His hands close on his knees. “It feels like if I fight it, I’ll break.”

Glynda’s questions stay measured, but they tighten around the center. “Have you met anyone recently who might have conditioned you to expect this? Any unusual guidance, dreams, odd urges —to seek Grimm out, to change your body, to lie about basics?”

“Or anyone who helped assemble your paperwork,” Ozpin adds lightly, as if ticking a box about onboarding. “A sponsor, a coach, a… well-meaning friend?”

Jaune’s chest began to tighten. “I said it’s my Semblance.” His voice frays. “I don’t— I haven’t—I don't know.” 

“You are going to have to do better than that.”

“I-It’s true. I-I prom—”

“Mr. Arc,” Glynda snapped, patience cracking, “I am getting very tired of your ‘forgetful’ evasions. No. More. Lies. Even you must admit this is beyond odd. Now tell me the tru—”

SMACK.

“I have AMNESIA!” 

It tore out louder than he meant as his hands slapped the table. He didn’t know when he stood. The pressure loose, the words tumble out raw. 

“I don’t know why my Aura is wrong, I don’t know why I can do this— I have had a very long day of not dying, trying to be useful, and getting through Initiation without getting anyone killed and— and I just want to be a Huntsman! I just want to help!”

Silence. The room holds still as the human thing slumps back into the chair.

“My life before two days ago,” he said, voice dry as old paper. “It’s… pieces. I wake up w-with skills I don’t remember learning. I freeze at memories I don’t remember seeing. I look at these… these things, and I feel like my hands should know them, but they don’t.” 

He exhaled, beginning to ramble. “The transcripts aren’t mine. I mean they are but I don’t remember making them. I didn’t make them. But I did. I didn’t even know what they were supposed to look like. I-I know I should have gone to get medical attention instead but, I came because—” He swallowed. “Because I don't know. I just know I need to be here.”

Glynda’s jaw tightened a fraction. “Convenient.”

“It would be,” Jaune agreed, surprising himself with how steady that sounded. “Except it’s… humiliating. I didn't know I had a family crest. Or if the technique on that screen is mine or something inside me that isn’t.” His eyes flicked, just once, to the frame of black sludge evaporating off moss. “I know what that looked like. And I know it should terrify you.”

“It does,” Glynda said, and there was no point pretending otherwise.

Ozpin’s smile didn’t go anywhere, but the light in it shifted from chipper to something gentler. “Thank you,” he said, like Jaune had put a heavy box down between them without being asked.

Jaune watched as Glynda lowered her crop, apparently having aimed at him during his snap. She paced two steps behind her chair. “Amnesia. Convincing for a… boy who needs to pass an entrance panel.”

Hanging his head in defeat, Jaune let his hair hide his shimmering eyes.

“Would you be willing to transform a weapon here?”

Sharp. The taste of iron filled his mouth, the pit in his stomach reappeared, as if to suck in the walls of the world, tightening everything inward. With a quick jerk, Jaune’s face shot up in alarm. Glynda whirled to look at Ozpin, eyes wide.

Find it.

“What?” Glynda spluttered, face paling. “What?! Please tell me Oz-”

Find it. 

“Glynda!” Ozpin cut her off, a strained look in eye. Glynda clamped her mouth shut, her forehead beginning to sheen. Face paling, she turned to Jaune. 

With a shuddering breath, Ozpin gave Jaune a steady look, “Would you be willing to show your ‘Semblance’ here?”

Find it.

Unsure, eyes flicking between the both of them, Jaune tentatively asked. “Would it help if I did?”

No.

…yes

“Just to get a better understanding. The more we understand..” Ozpin took another sip from his cold coffee, his eyes flicking to an unsure Glynda. “... the less we have to be afraid of.”

Find it.

NO.

Yes.

Taking a deep breath, Jaune stood up, and went to the center of the room. There he took in both the Headmistress and the Professor. Glynda kept her crop at her side along her leg, Ozpin’s cane remained on the opposite wall, far from him. 

Find it and erase it.

Bad idea.

…please. Be quiet.

Gold encompassed blue, black in turn, encompassed white. With the enhanced vision, he didn’t miss the way Glynda slowly turned the crop in her trembling hand, the handle glimmering with sweat as her knuckles turned white. Meanwhile Ozpin remained still, watching him. The mug in his hand remained steady, the only change was the frequency of breath increasing.

Jaune felt the Fang itch to get out, drawn to whatever the pit was drawing him too. He could feel it practically salivating. Mass moved under his arms, like little beetles scrawling under his skin.

He closed his eyes.

‘What? No. Not you. Stay still. I don’t need to stab anything.’

Jaune was hoping to call upon the gauntlets or the whips. However, what could only be described as bucking, the Fang rattled his bone, throwing some kind of tantrum.

‘I…I said no. Stop.’

The Fang continued, his arm beginning to twitch. 

Sigh. ‘What does it matter anyway? Just show the sword and be done with it. It would be so easy.’

…you can do it.

Jaune felt a warmth from deep inside his chest. Gentle, like a gentle flower unfurling as it sought the sun. But steadfast, like a flag banner standing amid a tornado supercell thunderstorm. Unbowed and unbroken.

With a defeated cry, the Eibon Fang sourly retreated its mass back into his Aura.

…protect. Be a hero. What will be, will be.

‘Aegis I need you. Show them who I really am.'

With a gentle thrum, the Dark Aegis slowly came forward, threads of mass weaving one plate at a time. It wrapped around itself as it spread from his shoulder, expanding wide and downwards until it reached a little past his hand, providing a small handle. It gave a pleased warble as he grasped the handle. As if humming a tune, streaks of aureate energy flowed as it unfurled displaying its grandeur, before coming together in a resounding clang.

With a soothing buzz from the shield, Jaune opened his eyes. 

The room had changed pitch.

Glynda’s crop hovered halfway to a guard; a faint purple shimmer around the Disciplinarian, energy breathed along the leather as if the air itself were bracing. Her weight slid to the balls of her feet, heel slightly off the tile—the stance of someone who could throw a room across itself if she had to.

Ozpin didn’t move for a heartbeat. Then he set his mug down with a care that made no sound at all.

“Hold,” Glynda said. Not sharp— precise . “Do not raise it. Keep the face angled away.”

The Dark Aegis answered with a low, contented hum—plates tessellating, gold fault-lines pulsing once, then settling. 

Glynda edged a step clockwise, testing for drift. The shield didn’t follow her; it held its line on Jaune’s forearm, the weight tucked, the elbow soft—defensive, not hunting. Some tension in her shoulders eased by a degree.

“Mr. Arc,” she said, “breathe normally. Keep your grip light. If it tugs you forward, you tell me.”

“It’s… not tugging,” he said, almost laughing. “It—” The Aegis thrummed, almost pleased. “It’s safe.”

Catching a small quirk of his lip, Glynda frowned.

Ozpin set his mug down without a clink. “May I?” he asked, tone so polite it bordered on old-fashioned.

Jaune nodded.

Careful to stay inside the plane of the shield and not at the rim, Ozpin laid two fingers to the shield’s boss as if greeting a skittish animal. The Aegis sang—a soft, round note that you felt more than heard.

“Warm,” Ozpin murmured, pleased. "Glynda?”

Tiptoeing forward, she tapped the face—not hard, just enough to make contact.

Clong.

The sound was clean, tinkling through the room. The plates flexed and re-seated so quickly it looked like a blink. The gold brightened in two lazy beats, like a cat’s breath when it sleeps.

Whether it was the pit receding, or the security he felt with the Aegis in front of him, Jaune shifted his face behind his shield friend, hiding a smile after having observed the Headmistress’s analytical tactics.

Glynda’s weight stayed forward, the crop still lifted. The shimmer along its leather hinted at power held in check. “That’s enough,” she said. “Dismiss it. Slowly.”

Jaune exhaled. The plates un-wove themselves in reverse, retreating in small, obedient leaves. When it was gone, the air felt fuller, as if the room had been holding its breath with them.

Glynda waited a beat before lowering the crop. “Thank you for choosing the shield,” she said, the admission bare and honest.

“A shield.” Ozpin’s smile brightened. “And that,” he said, reclaiming his mug, “is very Beacon if I do say so myself.”

After briefly looking towards the one way glass, Ozpin tilted his head, as if listening for something. Glynda remained surprisingly passive, waiting for whatever the Professor was doing to finish. 

Then Professor Ozpin turned to Jaune, a warm smile on his face. ‘I guess that just leaves us with one final question.”

“Do you want to be here?” 

The question was as simple as a block of wood.

Yes.

Yes!

Jaune nodded. “Yes.”

“To be a Huntsman?”

“To… matter. To find out who I really am. To keep whatever is out there from hurting people.”

Glynda’s chin lowers a fraction at the nakedness of it. “Noted.” 

Ozpin lets breath back into the room. “For what it’s worth,” he says, almost cheerful, “you did protect people today. You put yourself between your partner and an Alpha Beowolf . And when a Vemora — a Vemora Headmistress — appeared in the forest, you told your peers to grab a relic and get out, rather than play hero against a legend.” He swirls the mug as if this is all pleasant housekeeping. “Practicality is undervalued in the young. So in other words, you pass.”

Glynda’s mouth thins. “Professor—”

“Glynda,” the Professor’s voice drops; the way he says her name felt like an old signal. Professor Ozpin continues in that same easy register, but the weight is different. “He has restraint enough to choose retreat. He has the spark. And humanity can use all the help it can get.”

A long beat, the Headmistress staring into the Professor’s eyes, searching for something.

Then Glynda inclines her head—acquiescence, not quite agreement. 

Ozpin’s smile resurfaces, light as a hand on a shoulder. “Splendid. Housekeeping.” He reaches over to Glynda’s scroll pressing a button, the still image of black vapor threading into a human hand vanishing. “And if fragments return—smells, a word, a room—you bring them to me Jaune, and we’ll write them down together. Now get out of here and head to the ballroom.”

“Yes, sir.”

Feeling much lighter, Jaune turns around, grabs the doorknob and freezes. 

“Is there something wrong, Jaune?”

He didn’t step through. “I—sorry. I was supposed to report something. From the cave. After I… absorbed the Death Stalker.”

Glynda’s posture refocused without moving; the crop lowered a centimeter. “Report.”

“I should’ve said it earlier,” he blurted. “Sometimes I… see things. Not mine. Like remnant echoes of what the Grimm saw. And what the people they killed felt.”

The room went very still.

“It was old,” Jaune said, voice roughening. The words came in clipped, unlovely pieces—how the memory had arrived. “Tunnels under the mountain. Rails. Broken glass. Choking, thick concrete dust like chalk. Lamps shaking on chains. People—too many for a hunt—packed shoulder to shoulder. Men trying to hold a line with pipes and kitchen knives. Huntresses coming in hard to cover them, and then—falling. Screaming. Children pressed into their mothers’ coats. The Death Stalker wasn’t alone. There were others in the dark. And… something else. A sound I know now.” For a moment, it looked like Jaune’s face aged ten years. “The Vemora. Coming. Crying. Eating. The people…”

Glynda’s fingers tightened on the crop until the leather creaked.

Jaune forced the rest out. “Some of them… are still down there. Unburied. I saw where the tunnel collapsed. They were running, and it—stopped.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how far. Just… that it happened below us. Under the mountain.”

No one spoke. Ozpin’s face didn’t change, but the hand on his mug had gone bloodless at the knuckles.

“I didn’t choose not to tell you,” Jaune added, small and earnest. “I just—forgot, and then everything—” He gestured at the dead monitor, the table, himself.

Ozpin found his voice first. Warm. Grateful. “Thank you for telling us,” he said, as if something heavy had been placed exactly where it needed to go. “And for not withholding it.”

Glynda’s mouth opened—questions already lining up—but Ozpin’s glance cut across, gentle and absolute. “We’ll take it from here.”

He tipped his head toward the door, a smile returning in its lighter shape. “Go on, Mr. Arc. You’ll be late for the welcoming ceremony.”

Relief hit like air after a held breath. “Yes, sir.” Jaune stepped into the hall. The door sighed shut behind him, Beacon’s brightness swallowing him up as he headed for the ballroom.

The backstage smelled like dusted velvet and fresh paint. Beyond the curtain, the ballroom pulsed—spotlights sweeping, chatter cresting and falling as candidates in their blacks drifted toward the stage markers.

Jaune slipped along the wall in his tight undersuit, still half-running on adrenaline from the interview. He’d barely cleared the equipment trunks when a head of red hair snapped toward his direction like a compass finding north.

Following an invisible thread, Pyrrha whirled. Relief hit her face so nakedly it made his chest ache. She closed the distance with a fighter’s control, stopping just short of throwing her arms around him. Close enough that he felt the heat of her. Her hand found his forearm instead—light, grounding. “You’re here,” she breathed, as if confirming it for the bond as much as for herself. “You’re—” She caught herself, the smallest smile breaking. “Good.”

“Fearless lea—!” Nora blurred into them and actually threw her arms around his shoulders, crushing herself to him. “—der!” She pulled back just far enough, her waist still touching his, to scan his face, his undersuit, his everything, eyes bright and wet in the way only triumphant Nora could manage. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” she said twice as if saying it made it truer, pulling him into another tight hug pressing her breasts flat against him. 

He grinned—because it helped.

Ren arrived a step behind, quiet as evening drizzle. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, composed, except for the tiny pink rising in her cheeks. “Welcome back,” she said, a shy smile flickering as her gaze dipped briefly to his chest, then to where Pyrrha’s fingers were still on his arm, before smoothing the smile away.

“Psh.” Yang’s voice rolled in, lazy and loud, from the other side of the trunk stack. She pushed off it with a hip, arms folded under a smug, weaponized grin. “Obviously he passed.” She aimed the quip at Blake and Weiss, but her eyes snagged on Jaune for half a beat too long—warm, relieved—before she slouched deeper into nonchalance. “Called it. Day one.”

Blake didn’t rise to the bait. Her gaze had already done a full, shameless sweep—broad shoulders under tight elastic, banded muscles, all present and accounted for. She let the breath she’d been holding slide out quietly. “You’re unhurt,” she said, and the calm in her voice felt like a hand to the back.

Weiss’s jaw dropped. A male had passed Initiation. He managed to pass Initiation. She snapped the expression shut so fast you could have heard the click if the ballroom hadn’t been roaring. “Well,” she managed, chin tipping up to a Schnees-only angle. “It seems you are an… exception.” A delicate sniff. “To several rules.” The corner of her mouth twitched before she flattened it. “I am… marginally pleased about that. Marginally.”

Blake facepalmed without looking at her. “Gods.”

Across all of it, a glare burned a little hole in Jaune’s peripheral vision. He turned just in time for a small, furious missile to stomp into his space.

Ruby stopped, squared up, glared again for good measure… and then started windmilling both fists into his chest.

“Hey—ow? Ruby?” The hits were more pitter-pat than punch , soft little thuds against undersuit and stubborn muscle. He looked helplessly at Yang.

Yang just shook her head, the tiniest smile at the corner of her mouth. Don’t. Let her.

Ruby screwed her eyes shut and kept going until she ran out of tiny fury and oxygen. She planted her fists on her hips, cheeks hot, and yelled up at him, voice cracking like a firework: “How can you not have a weapon?!”

The backstage noise hazed out around them. Jaune blinked. “…What?”

“A weapon!” she repeated, scandalized. “It’s like leaving the house without your best friend. Or your left arm. Or your favorite left arm. What if your best friend needed you and you weren’t there because you left them in the closet?!” She flailed, searching for physics to hold her metaphor together. “Weapons are—you can’t —you just don’t !”

Nora popped up over Ruby’s shoulder like a delighted gremlin. “He’s not weaponless,” she sing-songed.

Ruby’s head snapped to Jaune, betrayed and breathless. “You’re not?!”

Seven pairs of eyes tilted toward him. Jaune straightened a fraction, trying to ignore the part of his brain that hated being looked at. Trying to sound like someone who had a plan and not a pile of barely domesticated instincts, he said—maybe a shade too cool—

“I am the weapon.”

Silence. 

Then Ruby’s eyes went very wide and very starry. You could see the mental sparkles. “That’s…” Her voice dropped to a reverent squeak. “That’s so cooool.”

Weiss made a noise that might have been a cough and might have been a laugh she refused to allow.

Ruby scrambled for normal words and tripped over three. “I mean—not that you’re an object ! You’re a person! A super-cool person with—um—if you had time sometime maybe you could, like, show me? Just for, like, research? Not a date, unless—no! Not— I mean yes! Not yes— I mean—”

The house lights dimmed. A hush rolled through the ballroom like someone laying a blanket over the crowd. The jumbo screen bloomed to life with Beacon’s sigil as Professor Peach’s bubbly mic check popped.

Ruby froze with her hands halfway to her cape. “I—uh—we’ll talk! Later!” She stutter-stepped backward toward the stage, face radiating heat even in the dark.

Yang bumped Jaune’s shoulder with a soft knuckle on her way past. “Nice line, hotshot.”

Jaune remembered the weight around his waist and shrugged out of Yang’s jacket, folding it once before offering it back. “Hey—thanks. For earlier.”

Yang’s bravado hit a speed bump. “Yeah, well.” She took it, a little pink in the cheeks despite herself, and slipped it on like armor—rolling her shoulders until it sat just right. “Anytime.”

Ruby blinked between them, baffled. “Wait. That’s your jacket? Since when did— Yang?!”

Yang hooked a thumb toward the stage, recovering fast. “Later, Rubes.”

Pyrrha’s fingers squeezed his forearm once before she let go. “Stand with us,” she said, eyes steady, relief and pride threaded into the words.

Blake fell in step at his other side, and even Weiss—after an exasperated, little eye-roll at the lot of them—angled closer like a glacier deciding to be social.

“Candidates, attention!” Professor Peach’s voice caroled, bright as a bell. The curtain ropes creaked. Onstage, the first names lined up to meet the light.

Jaune took his place with them at the edge of the curtain, heartbeat easing into the rhythm of the crowd, and—for the first time all day—felt the floor hold.

Glynda stood in the narrow viewing room above the ballroom, one palm braced to the glass. Below, Beacon’s banners breathed in the conditioned air; a hundred conversations rolled like surf while spotlights prowled the mezzanine.

On her scroll, Nurse Cross’s prelim occupied the whole pane—tidy, relentless:

ARC, JAUNE — PRELIMINARY POST-INITIATION METRICS

Vitals: within range post-exertion.
Aura baseline: atypical repair-dominant signature; barrier expression minimal  under stress.
Orthopedics: microfractures and joint displacement self-reduced; no residual  edema.
Toxin clearance: accelerated; no Grimm particulate persistence.
Neuro: reflexes strong; no concussion markers.
Psych intake: oriented ×3; affect guarded; no acute risk flags.
Notes: medical records indicate old scarring, body inconsistent with documented history (flag for archive check).
Additional Notes: Cellular and blood examination still in progress. Urine and seminal analysis will have to wait.

Assessment: unusual but not concerning; recommend longitudinal study.

Glynda exhaled through her nose. “Not concerning. Forged documents and it’s ‘not concerning.’” she repeated, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something useful. She turned her head. “What were you thinking?”

Ozpin—hands folded around a mug that had long since gone cold—opened his mouth. “Well, I think he is a nice, young ma—”

“With respect, Professor,” Glynda said without taking her eyes off the ballroom, “I wasn’t talking to you.”

Ozpin’s reply died soundlessly. He tilted his head, listening inward. The air in the little room seemed to lean. On the credenza, his cane shivered, lifted, and flew —snapped into his palm like a homing bird.

When he straightened, his posture changed by centuries. The warmth thinned from his face; the voice that came out of him had ageless winter in it.

“Ask,” said Ozma.

Glynda faced him fully. “Why did you have him transform? In the room.”

“I wanted a closer look,” Ozma said simply.

“At his Semblance?”

“It is not a Semblance.”

Glynda’s fingers tightened on the crop. “Clarify.”

Ozma turned the cane once, a habit older than the walls around them. “We called them Semblances because they are a semblance of magic ,” he said, as if discussing an old, obvious etymology. “A soul expressing itself in a pattern—a refraction, not the source. When I touched the shield, I did not feel a soul’s imprint in the energy that knit it. No owner’s breath in the weave.” His eyes went to some private horizon. “What I felt was magic. Unmediated.”

Glynda’s breath stalled. “Then he is—”

“An agent of Salem,” Ozma finished, with a certainty that refused to tremble. “No one else from the old world living still can shape magic directly.”

A beat that hurt. “Then why,” Glynda managed, “did you accept him into Beacon? Is that not dangerous?”

“Because the boy told the truth about the Death Stalker,” Ozma said. “We lost the drones in the cave. Qrow did not. He followed them in—kept to the edges like the damned bird he is.” One corner of his mouth made a shape that wasn’t quite a smile. “Qrow saw the absorption. Sifted through the cracks of battle in the rock and found bones. The description matched what the boy reported. He is not lost, Glynda.”

Glynda blinked. “Qrow is here?”

“Watching his niece,” Ozma said mildly. “He is better at obedience when he can drink in peace.”

Glynda looked back down into the hall, as if she might spot a crow tucked into the rafters even now. “And the… vision. The dead under the mountain. Is that part of the magic?”

“No. That,” Ozma admitted, “was not in my first calculus.” He set the cane’s tip to the floor, as if pinning the moment there. “What he saw were the last hours of Mountain Glenn—civilians forced into their new metro, a collapse sealing them in with the Grimm. He read the echo straight from the monster’s memory.”

Glynda’s jaw set, then softened. She let herself mourn for exactly one breath—the city they failed, the people who never made it to the light.

“No, nothing in the old rites could account for that. And most certainly not a Grimm.”

“So he is not a Grimm–human hybrid,” she said, pulling herself back to the work, “despite the reports out of Salem’s sphere.”

“No,” Ozma said. “Whatever she made, it isn’t that.” His eyes went distant for a heartbeat, counting centuries. “I am leaving for Ever Morn. My journals, the old scriptures. I sense the names for patterns I have forgotten to fear.”

Glynda actually took a half step back. “You’re leaving me with this? What if he is a sleeper? A… bomb? Why would the Evangelist walk away when a devil’s agent is inside our walls? Why would you leave me with that —thing— !”

Bonk

Ozma rapped her smartly on the crown with the cane.

A hand flew to her hair. For a heartbeat she looked very young.

“Get a hold of yourself,” Ozma said, not unkindly—and disappointed, which was worse. “You said you witnessed their Duōkan? Meaning, you watched Pyrrha and the boy answer one another. That means he has Aura. Which means he has a soul. He is not a thing. He is a boy. While I am gone, you will be wise to remember it.”

Glynda swallowed, color rising high on her cheeks. She nodded once.

“We will not leap to conclusions. We cannot make policy from fear,” Ozma went on, gentler now. “There is always a path through the dark. I chose you because you walk it with your head and your hands steady. I have faith in you, Glynda.”

From the ballroom, the house lights tightened and a microphone cracked to life.

“Candidates, attention!” Professor Peach’s voice rang bright and theatrical. “The following students have passed Initiation and will hereby be recognized…!”

Ozma’s gaze stayed on the floor of the hall while the first names rose.

“Weiss Schnee! Blake Acquanera! Yang Xiao Long!”

“Mm,” Ozma said. “You will not be defenseless.”

“Ruby Rose!” Peach’s voice slipped into a grin as the applause swelled. “By faculty vote… team leader of Team RWBY!”

The cheer lifted the banners. Down below, a small girl with silver eyes flushed scarlet and waved too hard.

“A silver-eyed maiden,” Ozma said, the title old as bristlecone pine. “She can wield the light of the Light, and it will not abide evil, whether it be Salem, the depths of Grimm depravity, or even a Heresiarch Light forbid. ” Ozma lifelessly laughed at what he passed for a joke. “Gone He may be, but the God of Light has not left us alone. Train her. Prepare them. ”

Glynda’s lips thinned into something that might someday be a smile. “I will.”

More names thundered. Peach rolled to the last card with a flourish.

“And now—our final team!”

Ozma tapped the glass with the cane, once. “You also have a champion.”

“Pyrrha Nikos!” Peach called, and the room erupted—half the student body had seen her fight posters; the other half had heard the stories.

“Of the Megalon Enza,” Ozma added. “Trained by Mistral’s best Hunters. And she may inherit the power of Fall,” Ozma said, matter-of-fact. “If she does, and if it becomes necessary, you will be able to restrain whatever sits inside the boy.”

“Lie Ren!”

“As well as a surviving Hasumnethene. Young she may be, but their secrets surrounding Aura will aid you. To temper and soothe him should it be required. 

“Nora Valkyrie!”

“And a Huntress-in-training with the highest Aura concentration on record—joyful as a rule if a little reckless. All on his team. Glynda, you have everything you need.”

Blinking in surprise, Glynda asked, “Did you ensure they would end up together?”

Looking out, Ozma did not answer.

Glynda didn’t push; she watched the floor for the last name, the one the room had already started whispering.

“Jaune Arc!”

The ballroom howled—a rising, delighted noise, much of it from the girls. Wolf whistles, laughter, a chant that tried to find his name and failed, happily.

“Together,” Peach announced over the clamor, “they are Team PRJN—Pyrrha Ren Jaune Nora—led by Pyrrha Nikos, the Invincible Girl!”

The cheers peaked like surf breaking on rock.

Glynda kept her eyes on the boy as he lifted a hand, overwhelmed and game. “And if we are wrong?” she asked quietly.

Ozma’s older mouth shaped something that wasn’t quite a prayer. “Then I will be grateful to be wrong. ”

He released the cane. It stood upright a moment on its own, then leaned harmlessly against the credenza. The centuries receded from his posture; the winter thawed from his face.

Ozpin blinked, present again, the same mild, tired kindness back in place. “Did I miss anything?”

Glynda slid the scroll away and watched the four students below find each other by instinct. “Only your own theatrics,” she said. Then, looking down at Jaune sporting a nervous smile, softer: “And a great deal of work.”