Here we are and here we go. Something-something cotton-eye Joe.

A tiny bit earlier today because bank holiday in UK.


Beta: College Fool

Cover Art: Dishwasher1910

Book 6: Chapter 12


A week or so passed and life fell into a routine. I'd wake up early and work the forge with father, not because he needed me – and in truth he often protested that this was supposed to be a holiday for me – but because it gave my mind something to do. Kept me occupied. Working.

We'd move together, in easy synchronicity, up until around the eight hour, when mom would call us for breakfast and the girls would take over my attention. From there, my day might be split up among them in numerous ways, though a constant was that they all wanted to ride Faith. Everyday if possible. I'd admit to some concern there, but naturally my onerous steed took one look at my sisters, realised they weren't me, and decided to be as gentle as a spring breeze.

Bitch.

It was a simple life either way. I didn't have to worry about the lien required to pay for the Guild's upkeep, nor the slaying of Grimm to earn it. The war was a distant thought for the people of Ansel, too. The village was within the inner region this side of the mountain range where we'd fought at Magnis. No troops from Mistral had managed to penetrate so far, making the conflict a distant, if frightening, concept.

Washing my face in the small basin, I looked at myself in the reflective surface of the mirror. It was the same face as ever that stared back, and yet with the words above my head denoting me a Blacksmith instead of a Knight, it felt like I was looking at a stranger.

How long had it been since I'd seen myself as a Blacksmith? Honestly? I'd always known I was one, but I'd spent so much time fitting in as a Knight that I never acted like it. The rare times I forged in Vale, I wore a disguise, as if I were ashamed of what I was.

Which, to be fair, I probably had been.

How strange…

To think a year or two back, I'd have felt such despair seeing those words above me. Now, I felt nothing. I'd proven beyond any doubt that I could fight on the level of a Hero, so there was no sense of weakness. I was a Blacksmith. One that could fight if needs be, but also one who could crate. In some ways, I was better off than some of my friends – who would only ever be able to fight. If being a Blacksmith didn't change what I could or couldn't do, why had I hated it so much?

For the first time, I smiled at my reflection, and was rewarded with a contented face smiling back.

Maybe it was time to stop looking at ways to pretend I was something different, and time to start thinking about how I could succeed with what I have.

"I'm a Blacksmith," I whispered. "Not a Knight. Never a Knight. I'm a Blacksmith."

It felt good to say it, to be honest with it. To be myself.

I'd almost forgotten what that was like.

The girls were waiting for me as I came back out, or half of them anyway. It was Lavender, Coral, Jade and Hazel today, and considering that the twins were carrying a saddle between them, I didn't have to guess at what they wanted. Lavender had three apples with her, which would ensure she became Faith's best friend.

"Come on then, let's get going. I'll show you how to tack a horse today."

/-/

Lavender laughed happily as Faith took her on a gentle trot around the meadow outside the walls, as flat a terrain as could be found for my sickly sister. Jade and Hazel hovered nearby, awaiting their turn. Coral stood with me, a little to the side and watching the surroundings with a practised eye.

"I suppose we don't have to worry if a Grimm does appear, do we?" Coral asked. "Our brave sir Knight will deal with it for us."

"I'm not a Knight, Coral. I know that now."

"Mother will be pleased."

I sighed. Revealing my secret to them had been no easier than I imagined, and the accusations and recriminations were there, just as they had been from the Guild. Of course, with the benefit of having been chewed out once already for thinking the wrong thing, I knew to look deeper.

My parents were angry not because he thought I'd been selfish or reckless, but out of worry. To them, it was unheard of for one of our Caste to become strong enough to face the Grimm. Oh, a travelling merchant might defend himself and there were weak Grimm, but there were no Labour Caste who went out and fought the Ancient Grimm, nor expected to win against them.

As such, their doubt was not as callous as it came across, or at least not intentionally so. They'd listened as I told them about Atlas and Mistral, groaned when I spoke of how I'd fought in the war, and commiserated with me over my problems with Blake and the inevitable conflict when the truth was revealed. As expected, mom could only bop me on the head and tell me I should have revealed the truth to my friends sooner, before someone else did.

Hindsight was hindsight, as was advice like that. Still, there was no doubting the accuracy of it. By telling my family the truth I'd suffered through pointed questions, anger born of worry and a fair few demands to know what I'd be doing now, but the anger wore thin before the hour was out. Accusations turned to questions of, "How could you be so silly?" and then to laments as mother wondered if she could have noticed sooner and helped me.

I assured her it wasn't that, of course. Before lunch hit, the whole issue was, if not forgotten, then at least put behind us.

"Honestly, I'm surprised it went as well as it did. I expected Mom and Dad to fashion some chains to tie me to the forge."

"Would they do anything against your Strength?"

"If there was enough of them…"

No wait, I shouldn't be saying that to Coral of all people.

"I think it's easier for them to accept because it's over and done with," she said. "It's not like you'll be going back to fighting against the Grimm, so there's not much point making everyone angrier by trying to tell you what you can and can't do."

"I guess…"

"And it's not as if you lied that much to us. You told us you were living in Vale and making a name for yourself. All of that was technically true. Just not how you were doing it."

It came back to the lie again, which I suppose made sense. The conversation over, Coral looked back to Faith as she slowed to a walk and stopped before Jade and Hazel, who clapped and helped Lavender down off the mare's back. Her ringlets were out of place and had the occasional leaf poking from them, but the huge smile on her face made it all worth it.

"People are watching again."

"Hm?"

Coral grinned and nodded back to the walls, where true enough, numerous heads poked over the top to watch us play outside. It wasn't the fact we were outside, because the walls were somewhere to fall back to and didn't necessarily stop people coming out to play, forage or travel around. Rather, it was Faith.

Horses weren't uncommon in Ansel, at least for those who need them – travelling merchants, farmers and the like. But those were squat and powerful horses bred for labour. Faith was a courser, a horse bred for warfare, and given that she was from the Beacon Academy for Heroes, she was of prime pedigree. And it showed. For anyone who knew horses, it definitely showed. I'd already had to fend off numerous offers for her – all of them insulting, assuming I didn't know her value and would be tricked out of her for pittance.

It wasn't just the merchants who watched us, though. There were children among the crowd, envious in their own right, and a couple of girls my age, below and above. I had a feeling my sisters would become very popular soon – or very unpopular, depending on how jealous people might be.

"I guess I'll have to see about offering rides to some other children, too. Otherwise, there'll be a revolt."

"Do so and we'll revolt," Coral warned. "Not to mention the challenge of juggling your latest paramours. How many is it now? Six, seven?"

"Five," I corrected, though not without a fair bit of embarrassment. The incident with Rebecca, the farmer's daughter, played in my mind, except the news of my return had somehow spread. As had news of my generosity in the marketplace, and my – as Sapphire put it – growth spurt.

None of those things was overly impressive from the point of view of a Hero. They flew up in levels and attended a school where everyone else did, too, but to simple folk in Ansel, my change might as well have been a metamorphosis. I'd left a gangly and uncertain youth and returned in a shape that Coral assured me was the pinnacle of manhood. Strong, mature, confident and wealthy – all without becoming arrogant or an asshole.

As she put it, I'd proven myself prime husband material, both in terms of personality, looks and my ability to provide for a family. That I also had the exotic flair of having visited the city and rubbed shoulders with various Heroes only made me more enticing.

Perhaps I should have been a little quieter in the local tavern when I'd been regaling my sisters on a – somewhat edited – story of my journey to Atlas. There was probably no one in Ansel who had been there, let alone to Vacuo and Mistral, too. I'd become a local celebrity, and I wasn't sure how to handle it. Or the attention that came with it.

"You ought to pick one before it gets any worse."

"I already have a girlfriend," I mumbled, cringing a second later. Or maybe I didn't. Old habits died hard. "I'm not looking for anything else right now," I amended, ignoring my sister's sympathetic gaze.

"Well, you can't blame them for looking. Or for fantasizing."

"Was that last bit necessary?"

"You're larger than life," she went on. "Literally. Everyone here in Ansel is so boring, and that's not necessarily a bad thing, but it makes life predictable. Then you come back brimming with energy, lien, and stories about far-flung continents and epic adventures. You even laugh and smile like those mercenaries who stop by every now and then, and you can rest assured those roguish types always take a girl to bed when they do."

I immediately shot Coral a stern look. "Not you, I hope?"

"You're my younger brother. Do remember that. I don't have to take lectures from you. The point I'm making is that you've grown beyond Ansel. Everyone else is trapped here, happy to be here – or at least resigned to it – but you're too big for the village now. People notice that, and naturally react to it. Men older than you nod their heads in respect and merchants bend over backwards to earn your favour."

"My lien, you mean."

"Same thing. As for the women? Well, they're not all going to chomp at the bit, but believe me when I say if there's any gossip in Ansel right now, it's about you."

I did believe her, embarrassingly enough. I'd noticed people looking my way, and the smiles and giggles of women three times my age. Not all had been subtle, and I'd had an old lady ask if I'd like to meet her granddaughter who – she assured me – had excellent hips.

I'd not managed an answer to that, other than a stammered excuse that my mother needed me. Judging from the twinkle in the old lady's eye, I'd not heard the last of that proposition.

"You know, I'm not all that special by Vale's standards."

"I can imagine that. I doubt those mercenaries are, either, but it's different for us. In Ansel, you're a god. Or close to one, anyway." She winked to show she was teasing a little, even if the message was still the same.

I wasn't sure what I felt about it. While it was good to see I'd come away with some physical and mental signs of my time in Beacon, my growth and maturity from the child I'd once been, the thought that I no longer fit in Ansel, that I could never again be a part of it – at least truly – was almost melancholy.

No matter how much Ansel might welcome me, I'd always stand out. I didn't belong here. I didn't fit.

It was a sobering thought.

/-/

The hammer struck down, the sound of metal ringing out. Flipping the tool over, I brought the hammer down on the other side, straightening the prongs. Over and over, until the three of them had been drawn out, elongated.

"I've got the barrel ready for the quench. Bright it-" Nicholas trailed off.

I winced. "Sorry." My hand came away, the cherry-red metal now a dark black from where I'd used Quench to skip the step, perfectly dropping the temperature.

"Always taking shortcuts. How many times have I told you that just because we can skip a step, does not mean we should?"

"I know, I know." It was an old argument. "I still say it's pointless to do things the old-fashioned way if we have Skills that let us skip it."

"Skills don't provide understanding. Nor technique. What will you do if you have a child yourself and need to teach them how to forge? Until they unlock the Skill to Quench, they'll need to do it the `old-fashioned way` as you put it." Nicholas kicked the barrel, sloshing water out the top. "You'll need to understand how that's done if you want to teach them."

He wasn't wrong, of course. From a purely convenience standpoint, Skills were useful, but there was a risk involved – that you might forget how to do things without. Dad always did like to do things traditionally. Said it made him appreciate the craft more, even if he occasionally lost something he was working on.

That loss was just a part of being a Blacksmith. If you never experienced loss, you wouldn't know how to handle it.

"Show me these Runes of yours then," Nicholas said.

"Right." The reason he wanted to see me forge – other than a little bit of nostalgia anyway. I quickly tempered the tool; something that might have appeared the head of a trident before one realised this was Ansel, and that it was a fork for a farmer. "The metal needs to be smooth first," I said, running a hand over it. The metal under my skin smoothed and stretched out. "From there, I usually etch them in with a chisel, but I did get a Skill called Engraving a little later which let me skip it."

"Engraving, huh? My Pa had that Skill."

"Really?" I almost dropped the fork in surprise. Grandfather died too early for me to remember him, and while Dad did talk of him occasionally, he never went into this kind of detail. "What Level was he?"

"Twenty-eight when he died. A fine level for a Blacksmith."

I refrained from pointing out I was Level thirty-seven now, at nineteen years old. "I didn't get Engraving until after that. Did grandfather have Runes, too?"

Nicholas shook his head. "No. No Runes. He'd have told me if he did and I've read through all the manuals he left behind. He went into detail on what Skills he did have. Stoke the Forge, Quench, Temper, Engraving, Fortify-"

"Fortify?"

"You don't have it?"

"No. Do you?"

"I picked it up while you were gone," Nicholas said. "Your old man hit Level twenty-five a month or three back. Fortify is an… enhancement, I suppose. It's used in the forging process and lets me make a tool more resilient, able to withstand more of a beating. Useful on armour, but prized in horseshoes, farm tools and anything else that's going to see a lot of use, too."

It sounded good. Something I'd have liked – especially considering Crocea Mors shattered into a thousand pieces when I stabbed her into Salem. Still, I'd not unlocked any Skill like that despite being twelve levels higher than Dad.

We really were drifting apart. I'd gone down an entirely different Path, one that didn't involve the forge, and as such, my Skills didn't seem geared towards making equipment better. Purify… It was something that had come to me while I was levelling up and being attacked by Salem. Perhaps I'd only unlocked it because I was in the process of going up levels – changing drastically – and Salem's power had interacted with mine.

Qrow's information on Paths was spotty and incomplete, likely because researching it was difficult, but how did whatever entity – maybe my own Class – determine what was considered `long enough` doing something? Technically, I'd only struggled against Salem's power for a minute or so, but I'd gone up three levels while doing so.

Three levels would normally be a big deal – and still was. It was nearly ten per cent of my accumulated life experience. Months or years for a normal person. So, had my Path, my Class, seen it as me struggling under Salem's influence for those three levels and believed it effort expended over longer? Had it granted me Purify Object because it thought I was constantly facing that demonic energy?

Or was it something to do with the amulet? There were no answers and I couldn't ask Salem the next time we met. She'd made it clear what that would entail. Either way, it was an interesting thought experiment.

If I ever see her again. I'm not a Hero anymore. Even if I go back to Beacon, I'll be working form a forge. Not fighting alongside the others…

If I worked in a forge now, if I accepted that for the rest of my life, then I might earn those same Skills. If grandfather earned Engrave at an earlier Level than I did, then certain Skills weren't Level-dependent. It would be theoretically possible for me to earn Fortify and any other pure-Blacksmith Skill I'd missed between Levels twenty-five and thirty-seven.

The question was; did I want to?

Or would I even have the chance? Dad had gone up one or two levels in two years, and that was at a much lower level where less Exp was required. Members of the Labour Caste barely ever hit the thirties, and even when they did, they were old men. Even with Ozpin's offer of working at Beacon, I might only have another few levels left in store for me. Despite being so close, I might never reach Level forty.

Honestly, it made me consider not going back. But I'd promised I would – if only to see the Guild and make amends. That didn't mean I had to accept Ozpin's offer, though. There were alternatives. Cinder's for one, but I could also go it alone. Mercenaries weren't a Class or Caste so much as a profession. I could fashion myself new arms and armour and travel the world as a hired guard. I might even be able to find a mercenary company to join. A hybrid Blacksmith fighter had to be appealing, not only because I could pull my weight, but because I could maintain and improve all their equipment.

Did the life of a mercenary appeal to me, though?

I wasn't sure…

I'd always wanted to be a Hero because was being a Hero. The stories, the tales, the promise of adventure, loot and princesses. Well, I'd had two out of three there and I wasn't sure being a mercenary would get me any closer to the others. Actually, considering Cinder, I was three for three.

Money, combat and danger weren't the things I loved about Beacon. In fact, the more time I'd spent there, the less I'd come to love the life of a Hero at all. The war tore away at its lustre, and the Greycloaks showed me not all Heroes were good. Then there was the ever-present threat of being drawn back into the Soldier Caste, the helplessness of being forced to accept the Grand Treaty, not to mention what happened to Tyrian – the possibility that one day my best might not be good enough, and that people would despise me for it. Being a Hero… it was nothing like what the stories claimed.

In the end, it was none of those things which kept me in Beacon. It had been my Guild, my friends, and the feeling that I could – and should – do something to help the people of Vale. If I had the power to help, I should. Simple as that. Not, perhaps, to Ruby's level of altruism, but something close, perhaps fostered and influenced by time spent with her.

I was so lost in thought that I didn't even realise I'd engraved a Rune of Minor Constitution into the fork's head until Dad took it from me. He hummed and inspected it, running his fingers over the strange shape.

"I can't sense anything from it. What does this one do?"

"A small boost to Constitution. Four points or so."

"Good for someone working a long day on the farm," Nicholas said, nodding. "I can definitely see the appeal. If you do decide to make your life as a Blacksmith, this is something you might want to advertise. If it can be added to existing arms and armour, you could become exceptionally wealthy."

"If I decide to be a Blacksmith…?"

Nicholas sighed. "If." He turned, put the fork down and approached me. "You know your way around a forge, son, and you do good work. The best work. Quite easily the best work of any smith in Remnant, which makes sense given your level."

"So, what's the problem?"

"Well, apart from these," he said, testing the tips of the fork. They were razor sharp. Great on a weapon, not so helpful on a farming tool. "And this," he added, running a finger over a section below the head which flanged out a little. Again, only useful in a weapon. "There's the bigger problem." Dad poked a finger into my chest. "This. Your heart isn't in it. You can go through the motions, you know the techniques, but the passion isn't there."

I shrugged, knowing there wasn't much point lying. "Is that a big deal? I can still smith. You're holding one of the strongest forks in Vale."

"And it'll sell well. Someone will treasure this until the end of their days. But can you honestly say you'd be happy doing this for the rest of your life? Making one fork, sure, but can you see yourself casting horseshoes for the next fifty years?"

The silence was telling.

"I'm not saying you can't settle down, but life is too short to be committing yourself to something you hate. Whether or not it's safe, you're my son. I want the best for you. That includes your happiness. Which, as much as your mother and I might wish it, I don't think you're going to find here in Ansel."

He was right. I loved it here, but it wasn't Ansel I loved. It was my family. I could see myself settling down for a month or two, maybe as an extended vacation, but making a life of this? Ignoring the world outside our walls to settle down with the farmer's daughter?

That would kill me.

I knew too much. My concerns were bigger. The war, the Grimm, Salem and the Greycloaks – things the average villager would never consider, let alone let bother them. I couldn't sit here working in the forge while I knew my friends were out there risking death every day.

But I couldn't go back to being a Hero, either. Neither option was possible, which meant I had to find something else. A middle-ground. Maybe Ozpin's offer would be the first step towards that. I'd have to see.

"Maybe you're right, Dad. But that's a decision to make later. I have to stay out of Vale until the Festival of Peace is finished and the war is over."

Nicholas smiled and put the fork down. "That's true. We might as well enjoy what time we have. And whatever decision you make, know that we'll be behind you all the way. Though given how much you've been spoiling them, I've a feeling your sisters might want to visit a few times."

"I'll be happy to put them up. But let's focus on-"

A loud tolling cut me off. Silenced us both. It was a low sound, a deep echo, but rung repeatedly and with increasing fervour.

"That's the town bell," Nicholas said. "This early? Grimm?"

"Here, now?" I cursed my lack of a weapon and started looking for one in Dad's forge. He caught my arm before I could start to make one.

"Calm down, son. The garrison here may be small, but they know what to do. If it's Grimm, the gates will be closed, and we'll sort this out. But I don't hear people shouting, and you know how they can be if Grimm approach…"

Now that he mentioned it, I couldn't hear the panic normally associated with a sighting. There also hadn't been enough negativity to spawn a real attack, and a couple of wandering Grimm from the nearby woods wouldn't warrant this kind of response.

"I'm going to the walls. Go tell Mom and the others to stay indoors."

Nicholas nodded. "I'll catch up with you. Go put your mind at ease."

/-/

Ansel's walls were short and thin, designed for keeping out weak Grimm but not truly tested, nor expected to stand up to anything larger. Rather than ramparts, the ground was bulked up on the inner side of them, providing a ramp up and somewhere to stand. Ansel's militia was made up of but six members of the Soldier Caste, many of them old or out of shape. It was a safe village, and thus a good place for Soldiers to retire. Despite their age, they were still strong and experienced men and women.

But six was still six, and as I mounted the walls, pushing aside someone who told me to get back for my own safety, I realised just why everyone looked so anxious. A procession approached, a black column some three wide and ten or so deep.

Not Grimm; not unless they'd taken to moving in formation since I left Beacon. And carrying flags with them.

"What's going on?" I asked the Captain of the Militia, Anders. He was a man at least sixty and five years and showing all of it. His leather armour was old and marked with the signs of conflict, and I wasn't sure how well he could grip his halberd, let alone swing it.

"No idea, laddie. Best you get off the walls. Let us handle this."

"Sir," another Solider called. "Should we close the gates!?"

"Not yet. It wouldn't make much difference and I'd rather see this handled with words first."

"It's Mistral!" the crier on the central tower cried down. "It's an army from Mistral!"

My heart froze. What? Why? The Festival of Peace would be on tomorrow and there was a ceasefire until then. They wouldn't break that, surely.

"Silence, fool!" Anders snapped. "There's a ceasefire and thirty or forty men hardly makes an army. As easily be a procession on its way to Vale, stopping for directions or supplies. You'd have us close the gates, bear arms and shatter the ceasefire ourselves?"

"N-No, sir. Sorry."

Anders' calm spread over the other soldiers, myself included, and several villagers behind, listening in. His experience helped assuage many of the doubts that had people murmuring, and I had to admit his reasoning was sound. The Mistral Soldiers might well be escorting someone important to the ceremony, and obviously in a rush because they were cutting it close.

I held onto that thought as they wheeled and approached us, horse's hooves stamping the ground flat and kicking up a cloud of dust and smoke. Their black armour and cerulean pennants became ever clearer.

"I'll meet them at the gates," Anders said. "No one else. Don't want to spook them."

"I'll come with you," I offered. "Might make them calmer if they see an NPC with you. Make it clear it's not an ambush."

Anders was reluctant to agree but couldn't fault the logic. "Alright, lad."

The tolling of the bell had ceased now, but all of Ansel was awake and hovering around, worried despite the calm leadership from Captain Anders. The force that approached was nothing compared to the one that had attacked Magnis, but for the people here, it was possibly more Mistralians than they had ever seen in their life, and the armour and weaponry must have been intimidating.

The horses began to slow as they approached, one rider at the front holding up a gauntleted hand as a signal to the others. They came to a halt some thirty metres or so from the walls. A respectable distance. On the leader's command, each and every one of them dismounted.

"Greetings," Anders called, the two of us stepping out from the gates. To talk from them would have been a grave offence, indicating that we trusted them less than they trusted us. "Welcome to Ansel, strangers. You come at an auspicious time."

"And to you, Valean," the man in the lead called. He reached up to remove his helmet and hold it under one arm. Another clear sign of peace, both that he revealed his face and kept a hand occupied. The leader strode forward with two of his men. A more intimidating retinue than just me, at least on first glance, but it wasn't like they could bring forth an NPC like me. "How close are we to the city of Vale? We come for the Festival of Peace on our God King's command."

The sighs of relief from those manning Ansel's walls were so loud I doubted even the Mistralian missed them. Spears, swords and halberds were lowered. Villagers began to peek over the walls too, now more intent on gossip and sights of the strangers than fear of any attack.

"But a day out if you ride hard. You ought to reach the city before nightfall if you leave in the next three hours." Anders gestured to the village behind him. "If you would care for rest or supplies, we can indulge you, but I hope you realise we cannot accommodate all of your men. No insult intended."

"I bear no grudge. Drunken soldiers make poor houseguests." The Mistralian's eyes drifted away from Anders and to me. They narrowed for a moment. "Do I know you, boy? Your face. It is… familiar to me."

My stomach dropped out, but I tried to remain calm. "I was at Magnis, sir."

"Ah. That might explain it. Came home after the siege, did you? Not that I can blame you. Those were dark times."

"They were," I agreed. "I'm glad Mistral and Vale put aside their differences to work together. It was an incredible sight."

"Indeed. If the offer is open, I'd like to come inside and negotiate on some food for my men."

Anders nodded and turned, "Of course, follow me."

It was so sudden that I almost missed it. As we turned, it was only the whisper of a blade being drawn that warned me. Anders heard it too and stumbled to bring his halberd up too little too late. The soldier beside the leader lunged forward with a knife, driving it up and under Ander's armpit, into soft flesh.

I was on him in a second. Unarmed but not harmless, I hammered down with both hands on the man's wrist. My Strength must have shocked him, for he grunted and dropped the dagger, allowing me to push Anders back.

"Get back to the village," I snapped. "Close the gates!"

Anders recovered and fled, one hand clutching his side. He likely expected me to do the same, but such was impossible with the soldier still in front of me. Even fully helmeted, I could tell he was hesitating because he didn't move to draw his sword.

"What are you waiting for?" the commander snapped. "Kill him and we can get this whole mess over with."

"Attack me and you break the Treaty," I warned. "Not to mention the ceasefire!"

"Both are machinations of men. Our King, our God, is not bound by the laws of mortals."

Damned Mistral fanatics. Great. "He might not think he is, but Vale would disagree."

"And come the end of tomorrow, there shall be no Vale. Only the extended Kingdom of Mistral, the people come under the reign of our glorious King."

An invasion? The King of Mistral didn't intend to go through with the Festival? Vale! Beacon! If this was but one of many groups on the attack, the city wouldn't know until it was too late, and if they were prepared to break the Grand Treaty like this, then they'd do the same on the other end, wouldn't they?

The Mistral Heroes would attack from within – killing those from Vale. Blake, Ruby and everyone else. They'd be cut down before they even realised what was happening. And no one would know about it. There would be no warning. My stomach roiled at the possibility. I grit my teeth so hard they ached.

"But the Festival-?"

"Enough. Do your duty, soldier. He is a Blacksmith, a mere NPC." The commander nodded towards me. "Kill him. We'll set the village to burn soon after. Word cannot reach the capitol city."

The armoured man before me nodded, and slowly drew his sword. "U-Understood, sir."

"Jaune!" someone from the walls yelled, possibly Dad, "Run! Get back!"

Like I could.

Like it would matter.

The Soldier lunged for me. I had a second to catch his Class – Knight, ironically the one I'd pretended to be for so long – and then he was on me. His sword cleaved down for my shoulder but missed as I stepped back. He prepared for a reverse-swing, but I stepped into it, blocking his wrist with mine and grappling with his armour. The Soldiers behind watched, content somehow to let what they saw as a desperate scuffle continue before they began the true assault. It would be over soon. I was, after all, only a Blacksmith.

Yet as the seconds ticked by and blood was not drawn, the Commander became restless. "Finish him already. Don't play around. The Treaty is already broken – two villages set ablaze. There is no point to it anymore."

"I-I'm not playing," the Knight cried, suddenly nervous. "H-Help me!"

"For the sake of our Lord, he doesn't even have a weapon!"

The Knight didn't respond. His eyes were wide through the visor of his helmet, wide and afraid. The short time they'd granted me was enough. My eyes glowed and my hands – bare, but glowing red – sunk into the man's breastplate. He struggled, no longer to bring his sword to bear, but to escape. His armour kept him locked to me, however, and as it heated up, he learned just why my Passive – Fire from the Forge – was so useful.

The Knight burned alive in his own armour. At the last, he let out a horrible, ear-piercing scream. "Aieeeeeeeeee!"

The soldiers stepped back. "W-What?" the commander hissed.

The metal around my hands, steaming and melting before me, was decent quality. Not the best, but enough. I drew on it, shaped it, extended and moulded it in my hands and with my mind. There was a shape I knew, a shape I'd forged time and time again, imprinting it into my mind. No matter how many times I'd found a new weapon or new material, I'd defaulted back to this blueprint, not because it was the best, or the easiest, but because I was used to it.

Because it was familiar. Comforting. I couldn't make it perfectly. The fabric used for the hilt and pommel weren't to be found in the man's armour and those carried a weight of their own. Instinctively, I accommodated for the difference, adding more weight to the pommel, balancing it perfectly. It was a construction wherein the blade, cross guard and pommel were from one piece of seamless metal. Not an ideal forging, but enough for its purpose.

To those watching, it must have seemed like I reached in and drew a sword from the dying Knight's armour.

Perhaps I had, but it was neither so quick nor so simple. Their shocked silence, and the willingness to let me get away with wrestling with a man far weaker than me, bought me the time to create and draw it. Burning hot but rapidly cooling, the blade hissed in the afternoon breeze, steam pouring from it. She was just as I remembered her. Just as I'd ever made her.

Crocea Mors breathed the air once more.

"It was a mistake," I said, softly, but with a voice that carried, "To believe that a Blacksmith is ever without a weapon. It was a mistake to believe that a mere NPC is no danger. It was a mistake to come here prepared for war. And it was a mistake to try and betray us. But most of all, it was a mistake to break the Grand Treaty."

Sweeping Crocea Mors down, I dispelled the last traces of heat around her, revealing a beautiful blade shimmering silver, a Rune etched into her blade. I brought the blade up, its tip aimed towards the commander's heart. Vale, Beacon, the Guild. They all had to be warned. And the only way I was going to manage that was if I cut a path through Mistral's forces to do it. So be it.

"Because it was the only thing protecting you."


Betrayal most foul – and what I'm sure many will see as a Shirou Emiya moment (inevitable given that Jaune is a Blacksmith). I will say, however, that what Jaune did was in no ways an instantaneous or convenient thing. I tried to show that it took an actual minute or two and was only possible because he hid it in struggling with the Knight.

He can't "magic up" weapons or summon spikes of steel in the middle of combat. Forging is slow. A thousand times quicker the way he does it than traditionally, but still a process that takes some concentration, material, and about a minute of uninterrupted time.

At least for now anyway.


Next Chapter: 3rd September

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