Had my first PM asking why I haven't been updating due to the site's new "opt-in" for email alerts rule. It really doesn't affect me much since my works are always on the same days so people know when it might be missing, can check, then see it. But I really do feel this is going to suck for new writers. Back when I started, I never knew when I'd update a chapter. It sometimes took me a month to write one chapter (absolutely shocking idea now, lol). I relied on alerts reminding people of my works, as a lot of new writers do.

Feels like a bad idea, this opt-in thing.

Cover Art: GWBrex

Chapter 42

The battle was more of a mess than he expected it to be. He'd imagined in his head more order and more structure to a clash between two forces, and maybe there was that outside on the plans where two armies could line up and prepare. There was none of that here. Inside the city walls, attacking from the harbour, it was a mad rush of bodies enclosed in narrow streets and shadowed by tall buildings, cutting each other down with reckless abandon.

The Corps had the equipment, the stronger fighters and the reckless disdain for their own lives. The rebels had versatility. They had archers, spearmen and people dressed in linen and padded cloth stabbing with farm implements. Against all odds, that was somewhat effective against the Corps, who didn't wear armour over their chests, and who were mostly limited to wielding two weapons at once. The Schnee had wanted full-on aggression, and that was what they got, but the Corps were meant to terrify and cut down farmers. As a fighting force against other people armed with weapons, makeshift or not, they were lacking.

Jaune saw it as desperate people huddled together and poked spears, sharpened stakes and farming forks out, and as the Corps struggled to approach for the wall of bristling points. Their charges stalled, their men hesitated, and that gave the rebels the confidence they needed to start thrusting. The spear, or any tool resembling it, was a favourite among villagers for a reason. Jaune and his family had been taught to use it as well. Good for keeping wild animals like boar and wolves at distance, and pretty much the only real weapon a normal person could use against the Grimm as well. All you needed to do was stab. The rebels here could manage that, and with enough spear tips coming in at once, it was inevitable some Corps would be unable to back up. They fell.

That wasn't to say it was all easy. Where the Corps closed into tight melee, they were whirlwinds of destruction. Mad berserkers who slashed and hacked with little skill and less regard for their own lives. Or maybe they understood that their only hope for survival was to win quickly and overwhelmingly. They had no other choice but to cut down their attackers.

It was those fights that Jaune pushed himself into. His sword moved with what he hoped was grace, but he struggled in one on one fighting. He tried to mimic what Ozma pulled off in the tournament, but just knowing the moves didn't mean being able to use them. In the end, the best method was to stab and cut when backs were turned. Dishonourable, cowardly, but undeniably effective. If his foe turned to face him, he would back off and draw them out so that someone else could attack their flanks while they were distracted.

And, of course, magic.

Jaune flung it out with his left hand whenever he could – nothing pretty, nothing specific. He wasn't so much casting spells as tossing out aura and letting it do its work. Wind blasted men off their feet, ice crept over their bodies, and when an arrow whistled by his left ear he turned and flung his hand at the walls, sending a gout of flame splashing against the brick and the few archers upon it scrambling for safety.

He felt powerful. Alive. He'd never thought himself one to get lost in the thrill of combat, but it didn't feel like combat when he was using magic. Not fair combat, anyway. The same gnawing fear he felt when engaging a Corps one-on-one was absent, because no huntresses came to challenge him. He had full control over the battlefield, absolute power, and it made him nigh untouchable. Power crackled at his fingertips, and he unleashed it in a cone of crackling lightning that burnt flesh and sent eight men slamming to the ground in agony, their bodies twitching as their muscles seized up.

"Be cautious," said Ozma. "Better, stronger men than you have died to a knife in the back. No one is truly invincible. No one is untouchable."

He knew the voice in his head was right. This wasn't like him, and he was becoming overconfident. Jaune nodded and reined it in as best he could. Not fully. It was hard not to feel so alive. It was hard not to revel in it. The best he could manage was to grit his teeth and fight the urge to step ahead of everyone else. He took a step back instead, falling in line with the others holding the harbour. He let the those knocked down by his magic be and rushed to help Sun with two huge men pressuring him. No magic this time, not with their backs to him.

Jaune swung his weapon up and down, cutting through the left shoulder of one and down the middle of his back. Blood sprayed back over his chest and the man toppled into the water. He wished he could say he felt sickened and awful, but it would have been a lie. A bold lie. The man fighting Sun was dealt with soon after, the ex-pirate and current smuggler cracking his staff between the man's legs, then whipping it across the side of his temple to send him spinning to the stone floor. He didn't get up.

"Where are our reinforcements?" shouted Jaune. The din of combat made speech impossible to hear otherwise. He'd expected them to strike the Corps from behind by now and end the fight. The battle had been raging for almost ten minutes. A short time, in the grand scheme of things, but enough to have his muscles aching in the no-holds-barred pace of life and death struggle.

"These things take time," yelled Sun. "They might be held up."

"Or they might be getting slaughtered by a huntress."

"You're a fucking bundle of cheer today," griped the faunus, resting on his staff. "You're welcome to go and look if you want. I can't spare any of ours to help you, though."

Even suggesting he go alone was akin to letting him die, but Jaune figured Sun meant letting Ozma take control. The Dark Lord wouldn't be in nearly as much danger with his millennia of expertise. It was temping. Jaune hated how tempting it was. Step back, surrender control, and let someone else deal with the fight, and the consequences. He couldn't hold himself responsible for anyone Ozma killed, even though it'd be his fault unleashing the man on the town.

"The choice is yours. I will not interfere."

Jaune grimaced. He hated that more than he would have Ozma begging for control.

"If it helps you any, you can go alone and grant me control only if you run into trouble. My survival is dependent on yours, Jaune. I would not let you be harmed to prove a point or steal control. I see now that working with you is preferable to working against you. The difference in what we've achieved here versus in Vale is proof of that."

It sure was. Ozma had taken control and nearly gotten them killed in Vale, but they were making progress here, as much as Jaune hated it. This rebellion aided Ozma's goals too, so he didn't doubt the man would keep him alive.

"Fine." It was said to Ozma and Sun both. "I'll go ahead and check things out. You stay safe."

"You too, man. Good luck."

/-/

He could have gone in any direction and gotten thoroughly lost in the decently sized town, and yet that really wasn't much of a risk. It was the work of but a moment to run ahead and glance left and right, see the left path was clear and the right had bodies slumped about, and head that way. Everyone who didn't want to get involved in the fighting had by now find somewhere to hide, and windows were shuttered and slammed shut even as he ran down the street. Even strangers would let someone begging for help into their home in a situation like this, so he wasn't surprised when the only people in the streets were rebels and Deterrence Corps.

It wasn't hard to find the rest of the fighting because the noise travelled. Before long, he found what must have been the town's barracks. It was a stone building built perfectly square with heavy wooden doors and narrow arrow-slit windows. There was a battle taking place outside it, and it looked to be going the way of the Deterrence Corps because they had pushed all the way out the doors so they could bring their numbers to the fight. Either way, it was a good thing he'd shown up when he did. Skidding to a stop, he flung his left hand forward and felt the heat wash over him, and the air roar, as a huge streak of orange fire struck the centre of the barracks and splashed against the stone. It wasn't enough to destroy anything, but the ricochet caused hot sparks to rain down over the melee and burn those it touched. It also did a good job of announcing his presence.

"Stand down! Stand down or be-"

An axe came whistling toward his head. Jaune stepped aside, but also flicked his sword up to deflect it. He wasn't confident enough to risk standing still and trying that. The burly man who had thrown it snarled and pushed a rebel aside, then ran his way with a scream of, "Monster!"

So much for the easy approach. Not a one of the Deterrence Corps had stopped fighting.

He raised his sword at the oncoming enemy, then thought better of it and hit him with a blast of wind instead, hurling him off his feet and back into the melee. Someone stabbed down and ended him before Jaune could do anything. The rebels weren't taking prisoners any more than the Corps were, and the dead bodies of people on both sides littered the street. He wasn't sure that even if the Corps surrendered that they would be taken alive or allowed to remain alive long; the same went for the rebels, who would be branded traitors and heathens. It was a fight to the death for both sides.

There was no helping it. Jaune began to gather fire in his hands, this time hotter, this time for longer, intending to use it to shatter the barracks wall in one go and bring the rubble down on the Corps' heads. It would be a mass killing. It was ridiculous that he even considered it. A part of him wondered if Ozma's mind wasn't mixing with his, because he was sure he'd have never considered this before, nor known exactly how to gather as much fire as he did.

"To your right!" warned Ozma.

He'd felt it. Jaune flung the fire right instead of at the building, tearing up a huge arch of flames that came from the floor to his hand, and sending it billowing out to meet the shards of solid ice. The fire didn't just melt them, but evaporate the water, leaving behind only steam and the flicking flames burning at the edges of the street. Down the centre of it strode a woman with white hair not dissimilar to the girl Ozma had fought, but she was taller, slimmer – and recognisable. It was the woman who tested Ruby back in Vale, and the one she'd stolen the horse from.

"Schnee!" screamed a rebel. He made to rush her, only for Winter to flick her hand without even looking. Three shards of ice pierced out, one taking the man in the eye, another the throat and the third piercing his shoulder. He fell with a gurgle.

On her next step, she summoned more, this time causing the ice to fan over her head as eight knives which then shot out and into the melee. Most hit the rebels – most, but not all. It was almost inevitable that some punched into the chests of Deterrence Corps. The Chosen didn't care. Her eyes remained on Jaune as she strode forward with a sabre held in her right hand.

"Ozma," whispered Jaune. "It's your turn."

"A single foe, Jaune. Perhaps you should see this as a chance to test yourself."

"Now? Seriously?"

"As I said, I can step in if you are in danger. You're not in danger yet."

He clearly was, but he understood what Ozma meant. Practice. It felt sick to say that with people dying all around them, but he'd never have a chance to test how far he'd come against a capable foe if not now. This would be his first real battle with a huntress and, from what he remembered, she was a Huntress Superior. He didn't know if that made her stronger or if she wasn't just a higher rank, but it definitely meant she was a fully qualified huntress and not an initiate.

"Jaune Arc," spoke the woman. "By the order of the Goddess Salem, and by the Church of Salem, you have been declared guilty of heresy and treason. Your life is forfeit. Yield now, and I will grant you a quick death."

He had to snort. He wasn't sure what he'd expected but she certainly wasn't wasting any time. Jaune brought more fire into his left hand and brought his sword up in his right. "I think I'll fight if those are the only options."

Winter Schnee scoffed. "Your choice is immaterial. The Goddess decides who lives and dies."

The Huntress blitzed forward and was past his sword before he could react. His eyes widened and he clumsily tried to parry only to hiss as her blade scraped across his shoulder with a shower of sparks. His aura came up instinctively to block. Carrying forward, she batted his sword aside with her free hand, stepped through and swung her sabre at the back of his leg, aiming to cut through his ligaments. Again, his aura flared, but the pain was still shone through. He twisted and lashed out with his sword, but she was already stepping away and it sailed harmlessly through the air. Was she using magic to make herself faster? That was insane.

"No magic," said Ozma. "Only training. Aura protects and heals, which lets you push your body harder. This is the result of years of training. The Schnee always were quick on their feet."

He'd known them before-? There was no time to ask as Winter came back in, swinging high. He raised his sword to block, only for her to feint and cut low so quickly that he realised it had been her plan all along. Her sabre raked over his ribs like a club, blunted by aura, but still bouncing off every rib like someone was using them as a xylophone. This time, he was prepared for her to try and sweep by again, and he stepped to the right and rammed his shoulder into her. His goal was to knock her off-balance so he could hit through with his sword, but Winter only slammed one foot back to steady herself, ducked and drove her elbow up and into his chin.

Pain exploded across his face, then again as she took advantage of the moment to drive her sabre into his neck. The breath was forced out his lungs, and he found it harder to breathe. She was trying to crush his windpipe, he realised. She'd realised that cutting through his aura wasn't effective, and she'd seen a chance to try and make him suffocate to death. Even as he realised it, she cut him again across his thigh and then slammed her own body into his, hitting with far greater force and sending him stumbling away.

Faster than him, stronger than him, more skilled than him. Jaune clenched his teeth and kept backing away, even if he knew there would be no escape. He tried to remember how Ozma beat the three huntresses before, but just knowing the steps he took didn't mean Jaune understood them. It was like watching his mother cook a meal once and expecting to master it. What was becoming increasingly clear was that he wasn't going to win against her in a battle of swordplay or strength.

He hurled an explosive blast of wind at her instead. To his surprise, Winter skidded back a step before she was able to steady herself against it. She responded with a fan of ice knives that he had to duck under, then a pillar of ice that struck from the ground and almost smashed into his face. Jaune shattered that with more wind and sent her stumbling two steps back.

"Weiss was right," said the woman, more to herself than to him. "His control of magic is growing at an alarming rate…"

Was it-? Jaune hadn't thought himself that competent, and he'd fully expected a Huntress Superior to outclass him in that regard. Hadn't she been using aura since she was a child? He hurled another, stronger blast of air at her feet, and was rewarded by seeing her be whipped away and down the street. Though she somersaulted and landed well, skidding on one knee, he was still shocked it had worked.

"Magic and aura are tied as one," explained Ozma, "but it is far easier to use aura. Both are the soul of every living being but using the soul outside your body is much harder than within. You have seen Salem with your own eyes. You have seen her apathy. Does it truly surprise you that she leaves the training of her Chosen to others? You are being taught personally by me – a practitioner of magic with thousands of years of experience. Her Chosen are taught by the elders of the church, who though skilled, are only able to pass on what they, themselves, learned in their lifetime."

The other huntress, though, the younger one, had used much more magic.

"Some specialise in combat, some in magic. The problem is accessibility to teachers. Salem may have thousands of huntresses at her command, but that means their instructors are stretched thin. They cannot teach everything to everyone. Their educations are standardised – specialised one way or the other, based on what they show promise in. Unlike with you, who I am incentivised to teach everything and anything I can. You are my only student. You have my undivided attention. And I, despite what you may believe, am just as strong as Salem. This Chosen use but a fraction of their true potential. They are able to access but a semblance of aura's true power." He chuckled. "And that is a word I have not seen used for a long, long time."

Winter Schnee had righted herself and was racing back in – and little wonder. She'd realised just as he that she had the advantage in melee. It ought to have come as no surprise to her, then, when Jaune flung himself back and sent a fireball first, then a gust of wind to propel it even faster. The huntress leapt and burst through it with her aura shining on her skin, landed and summoned three more ice knives. Each was pierced through by bolts of light shot from his fingers.

He'd thought himself amateur at best when it came to magic, and maybe he was. Maybe he was compared to someone like Ozma, who felt so insurmountable and incredible when he had control of their body. But Ozma was just that; he was the exception; he was the Dark Lord. Comparing himself against that was pointless, and he realised it now as he threw his hand up and summoned down a bolt of lightning. It struck his raised hand and sent arcs of light crackling from him to the floor. Winter swore, skidded and threw herself back, but it was too late for that. He thrust his hand forward and watched the light streak to her sword. She screamed, let go of it, and the metal pinged away loudly, spinning tip over hilt to lodge in the second floor of a nearby building.

Things might be different if Salem took a direct hand in teaching her Chosen, but she didn't. Couldn't, really. Salem had an empire to control, four different countries, and thousands of huntresses. Ozma only had him. And Ren now, but only him before. No wonder their training was more thorough.

"What now?" asked Jaune, unable to stop himself mocking the huntress before him. It was cruel, he supposed, but no crueller than what she'd have done to him. "I thought the Goddess decided the outcome of this fight. It looks to me like she's decided you'll lose."

The woman stood and drew a small knife. "If that is what She decides, that is what I shall accept."

He scowled. His insult had fallen flat. "You're insane. Salem doesn't determine everything."

"The Goddess knows all and sees all. I will not accept your blasphemy in stating otherwise."

Winter brought the pommel of the knife against the palm of her left hand and rushed forward. It was reckless and stupid at this point. Jaune gripped his fist tight and pumped aura into it, squeezing the power of his soul until it was red hot, and then until flames leaked between his fingers and hurled it at her feet. The blast sent her flying back into the wall of a building.

"Give it up," said Jaune. "It's over." He looked to the barracks in time to see the reinforcements from the harbour arriving. Sun must have gotten impatient and pushed into the city. Good on him. "This battle is over," he told Winter. "The town is mi- ours." He had to correct himself, and he wasn't sure why he'd even said the first thing. "It belongs to the people of Mistral."

"The people of Mistral," spat Winter, pushing herself to her feet. "Belong to the Goddess. They live, breathe, and die at her wish. We are all servants of her will. Even you."

"You're beaten. Surrender."

He wasn't sure why he offered. Not only was he fully convinced she not give up, but he knew for a fact she wouldn't survive the experience anyway. These people despised the Schnee. Winter couldn't hand herself into the rebellion because they'd make a show of her execution. They might even torture her. In a sense, his offer was cruel. Mocking. He didn't mean it that way. It was just that, now it felt like he was in control, he didn't want to kill her. The Corps had been killed in a life-or-death melee when his adrenaline was running high and when they could have just as easily killed him. That wasn't the case here. Winter was at his mercy, and he wasn't sure he was able to give her any.

In a way, it was a relief when she snarled and gripped her knife tight, summoned a rain of ice shards and lunged for him. It took away his agency – prevented him having to figure out a way to keep her alive when all these people wanted her dead. He considered knocking her back with more wind but realised that would be cruel. He'd be toying with her.

"Sometimes, death is the only way," said Ozma. "And it is a mercy."

"Can you do it?" Jaune asked him. "Not to escape it, not to pretend it isn't me killing her, but to make it quick. Painless."

Ozma understood. His voice was gentle. "Of course."

He took control like water flowing into his mind, and he cupped jaune's hand against his chest. His own control of magic was still amateur compared to Ozma, even if he now knew that meant he was immensely powerful. The best he could do was hit Winter with fire or lightning or ice and brutally murder her like that. It would do the job, but it would be immense agony for Winter. He assumed Ozma knew an easier, kinder way, and he was right. The feeling that spread in his hand was alien to him. It felt like aura, like magic, but more condensed and sharper, purer too. No elemental touch like Jaune was normally taught, but raw and undiluted aura that shone, of all colours, a bright green.

When Winter closed with them, Ozma ducked under her knife – matching the woman's speed. He slapped her thrusting hand away with Jaune's left hand, then touched his right to Winter's chest, over her heart. The magic pierced into her. One quick, sudden flick of emerald light and then nothing – like a needle pushed through a piece of cloth.

Winter gasped, trembled, and then collapsed over them. Dead.

"I do not hate them," said Ozma, in Jaune's voice. He held Winter's limp body, and gently lowered her to the floor. "Such absolute faith is forced upon them from birth. They are indoctrinated. In another world, another time, she might have been a great woman." He ran his fingers over her eyes to close them. "The worst part is that this likely is Salem's plan. Winter was not wrong there. Her Goddess wishes this to happen because it will make the coming days interesting." He stood, leaving Winter laid on the cobbled streets. "Such a waste."

Strange words for a Dark Lord, but Jaune could sense the honesty in them. He felt control return to him just as the fighting stopped. The last of the Corps had been defeated, put to the sword, and Winter must have been the reason their reinforcements within the city hadn't supported them as quickly as planned. Most were likely dead because of her.

"Is that-?" asked Sun, as he walked up with wide eyes. "Is that a Schnee!?"

"Yes." Jaune sheathed his sword. "I hope An Ren has started her rebellion in earnest." He turned to Sun. "Because we just declared war."

Next Chapter: 4th December

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