Chapter 41. Beacon Days 23


"Hah!"

"Hah!"

In the dead of night, atop a cliff with no one else around, a lone figure gave his all in the pursuit of strength.

"Hah!"

"Hah!"

In one hand, he gripped an arming sword of a simple design. In the other, he held a heater shield, gold trimmed and emblazoned with twin golden arcs. Armaments passed down from generations past, the sword and shield were a pair, meant to be used in seamless flow. It came into his hands through theft, and had been a source of shame for him on many a sleepless nights. No longer.

"Hah!"

"Hah!"

For hours the figure practiced, guided by a booklet set nearby. Absorbed as he was by the task, he forwent breaks and food. His breaths came in ragged gasps, meeting the cold winter air to form puffs obscuring his vision. Sweat poured down his brows and back, soaking into his clothes. No one would begrudge him his rest by this point, so visible his effort. Still, he continued running through the drills detailed in the manual with single-minded fervor. He cannot stop now, for this right here represented everything he had wished for. Training from his family, despite their absence. Approval for his dream. Validation that he was no failure, but a proud son of the Arcs.

Yet...why?

Why did the sword feel so wrong? Why was he moving so clumsily? Why was Jaune Arc, whose recent days had been defined by battles, failing to wield his family blade?

Trying again, Jaune performed an overhead chop, slashing down with his sword. His left hand shifted the shield to make way. A miscalculation, and its bottom tip caught on his knee. The sword struck the shield, hammering the slab of metal against his leg hard enough that he felt it in his bones. Jaune bit down his lip, stifling a scream.

Such has been his experience throughout the week, a cavalcade of mistakes. Not for the first time, he considered ending this endeavor. Once more, he doubled down.

Shaking off the pain, Jaune reset his stance, feet planted apart with one in front, one behind. His knees bent to lower his center of gravity, and he turned his body to bring up the shield and wind back the sword. A glance at the diagram drawn in the open booklet, and he was confident he had the right form. He moved the shield aside, and...

*Swish!*

"Hah!"

This time, things went much better. The sword tip stopped inches from the ground, having hit neither ground nor shield nor him. He retook the proper position, and repeated the motion.

"Hah!"

And repeated.

"Hah!"

Feeling like he'd finally gotten in the groove of it, Jaune pulled back his arm. Catching his breath, he used the chance to check his footwork. It looked alright to him. He swung the sword.

*clang*

The blade barely moved an inch before stopping in its track, stuck on something. Perplexed, Jaune turned to glance over his shoulder.

"You are overextending."

He recognized Ozpin voice at the same time that he met the man's gaze. Ozpin was holding his cane above Jaune's sword, having blocked its momentum with casual ease.

"Headmaster? What are you—?"

The man interrupted him by bringing his cane around to tap Jaune's left arm.

"Raise the shield, you are leaving yourself open to an attack." Hastily, Jaune followed his instruction. The cane disappeared from view, then poked him between his shoulder blades. "Do not lean forward so far. Back, back, back, better. The next time you swing the sword, maintain the correct posture or you are liable to fall flat on your face."

Each criticism struck a blow, cutting him down to size until he felt very small, indeed. All he could do was nod and hope the older man would spare him any more humiliation. Thankfully, Ozpin relented, stepping out of his reach to let him perform the exercise.

The blade rose up, and swung down. Jaune paused there, fully expecting Ozpin to point out another deluge of mistakes. None came, so he guessed that he did it right.

Jaune continued the drill. One slash, two, three, four—

"It is always good to see dedicated students, but we do have training rooms inside."

"They're closed at this time of night, sir." As you well know.

"Hm. So they are. For good reasons, too, as even a Huntsman needs his rest."

Jaune completed the sword's motion, then left the combat stance to stand up straight. He shrugged, and said, "I don't feel tired, Headmaster. Something about the nights just agree with me, I suppose."

"Others might call that a bad habit. Of course, as a man who also enjoys his nighttime wanderings, I do not have much room to talk. We all have our peculiarities." The corner of Ozpin's mouth twitched to show a smirk. "Still, you've been here most days of the past week. This place is one of my preferred spots, and thus I know it is not yours. And combat training, commendable as it may be, does not seem like the usual sort of activities you get up to on a typical night. What ails you, Mr. Arc?"

For a long twenty seconds he stood paralyzed, wondering if his operations been discovered. It sure sounded as if the headmaster had knowledge of it. Yet, if Ozpin did, then he doubted the man would mention it so offhandedly. At the very least, Goodwitch would have been notified to mete out discipline. The lack of such meant that he was probably safe from scrutiny, and can take the question at face value.

That was, if he wanted to engage in the topic. The assumption that something was wrong with him irked Jaune, for all that it was true. He'd thought he found his groove before Ozpin made himself known. A minute of observance, and the headmaster disavowed him of that notion. He had a long way to go before his sword and shield can be called anything but deadweight.

However, that was a Jaune problem. His to suffer, his to overcome, a weakness none need know. To present only his best side to the world, he'd master these weapons on his own.

Eventually.

Maybe.

...

That said...he expected to at most stumble for a day or two when he first started. It's been a week and counting with not a single visible gain to show. He read the manual from front to back yet the solution still eluded him. 'On his own' got him nowhere.

In that light, what was pride worth, when compared to failure? And if someone had already seen him floundering once, then what did it matter that they witnessed the sight twice?

Taking a chance, he returned the shield to its scabbard form, and sheathed the sword within it. That done, he walked over to his belongings, and picked up the book. He held it before the headmaster, and as he spoke the unseen weights on his shoulders lightened a touch.

"It's my training," he admitted, "my parents sent me a manual for the sword-and-shield style of fighting. In their letter, they said the movesets detailed here are particularly suited for Crocea Mors."

"The Yellow Death, a well-storied blade."

"You know of it?"

Ozpin nodded appreciatively. "Your great-great-grandfather used it to astonishing effects during the Great War."

"Yeah, all the stories said he was amazing with it in his hand. That my great-grandfather was, too. And my grandfather. Then my dad, before he returned it to the mantelpiece. The weapon of a hero, passed down from one generation to the next." Jaune sighed. "Thing is, it's not working right." And I'm scared of why that might be.

"How so?"

The dam broke, and all the grievances of the last week flowed out. "Oh Oum, where do I start? The grip, the balance, the weight…hell, the entire thing just seems off. If it's not hitting the wrong target, then it's flying out of my hands! Don't even get me started on the shield, it's always in the way. A-And the exercises-!"

"Performing basic drills is the key to mastery. Something that many neglect." Jaune rolled his eyes.

"It's not like that. I'm trying." The placid gaze seemed to accuse him of the opposite. "I am! But for some reason I can't get a feel for it like with my knife. I've done drills with that all summer, no problem. I went for hours at a time. But when I follow these instructions, it...I can't help but get bogged down by how it's so clunky, so slow, so boring and I don't know what's changed."

"That could be an issue with motivation. Tell me, do you truly wish to wield Crocea Mors?"

Jaune scoffed, and said, "I used to stare it all afternoon, dreaming of one day holding it in my hands. After hearing the stories, after seeing the way my dad fought, this is everything I know I want. It's been my childhood dream for years."

"Hmm. There's drive, at least. Another possibility may simply be that you are not suited for this weapon."

The words hit him harder than bullets. Of all the conclusions he expected, this was one he feared most. The thought had reared its head more than once during his training sessions. Back then, he clamped down on it with prejudice. When the likes of Ozpin said the same, however, the idea carried a weight that made it hard to ignore.

Weakly, he protested, "T-that's not it! No, it can't be the reason. This is the sword of the Arcs, who better to wield it than me?"

"I cannot guess, but if you believe the fault lies with neither motivation nor with aptitude then, perhaps, it is because you are not who you once were."

"…Huh?"

Ozpin sported a smug grin, one wholly inappropriate for the bad news he kept dropping on the young Huntsman. Jaune was starting to realize that the headmaster intended the conversation to lead here from the start. For what reason, he knew not, but the man looked...satisfied.

"Consider it this way. When you began training with your knife, how did you feel? Apprehensive? Annoyed?"

Never. He was eager. Starry-eyed, even, because finally he could embark on his journey to Beacon. Finally there were people who believed in him.

Ozpin caught how his posture straightened, and chuckled. "I suspect not. Back then, every day you must have seen how you became a bit better, a bit more the warrior you were meant to be. Breakthroughs came in leaps and bounds until, before you know it, you've achieved competency."

The grin crept onto Jaune's face before he noticed. He had felt invincible in those days. Melanie and Miltia did their best to keep his arrogance grounded, of course, but none could deny his meteoric rate of improvement.

"There is a side to that mastery you might not realize." Ozpin's tone wiped the smile off Jaune's face. Worried, he hung on to the man's words. "See if this sounds familiar: You've lived alongside your blade, its presence a constant companion. Over time, it became an extension of your body. One touch on the hilt, and you can understand the condition of the whole length by how it balanced in your hand. In battle, you find yourself able to visualize its range down to a hair's breadth, and knew exactly the amount of power that should be put behind an attack. Each strike given with your knife, was a blow made by a master. Skilled, precise, and devastating."

Jaune nodded along to each sentence, enraptured by how Ozpin could describe his experiences so correctly on all points. He spoke with such certainty, as if he had been there to witness it for himself.

"And now, you wish to start over with a blade entirely unlike your own and requiring a complete remake of your fighting style. To become what you once were, a novice. You, who are accustomed to making the correct movements, used to the speed and ease at which you battled, believed you still have the mindset of when you first picked up a weapon. Therein lay your mistake. "

Understanding began to dawn, and Jaune's jaw slackened.

"For a master to begin anew is much harder than a neophyte taking his first step. The training becomes near impossible to bear because this time you have the wherewithal to notice the mistakes in the most basic thing that you do, understand what went wrong, yet still find yourself committing them. Taking up a second weapon after the first is often a brutally demoralizing endeavor. Thus, most Huntsmen do not. The common practice is to develop one's chosen mechashift forms simultaneously from an early age, as it enables the student to meld the two in a single style. It is little wonder that this frustrates you, for you are going against the grain, Mr. Arc."

He hadn't been some prodigy. Looking back through rose-tinted glasses, his training seemed so smooth in its progress, so easy. In truth, the wakizashi came to him as naturally as Crocea Mors did, but ignorance kept him from realizing how often he messed up in those days. Of the mistakes he did discover, few aggravated him as they would now; he had believed them natural at his meager level of skill. That was not his experience for these past few days, where he obsessed over the most inconsequential of errors. Training became torture.

Considering how long it took for the twins to judge him 'Barely Passable', he had a good while to go if he wanted to achieve the same result with the sword and shield. Months remaining for a task that had crushed his spirits in one week. How eye-opening it was. How disappointing the news.

"I've wasted my time on something futile, haven't I? ...Heh. Good to know."

His gaze dropped to the book he held. He had believed it a treasure, it turned out a joke. His shoulders slumped, head hanging low.

"Now, now. I simply suggest that what once worked may no longer be effective. What you need, is a different method."

Jaune's head snapped up, eyes staring wide at the headmaster. Had not the lesson ended? Was not the point for him to cease this fruitless endeavor?

"How do you mean?" He managed to breathe out.

"Well, what say we try things my way?"

Laughter bubbled up in his chest. Hope sprang forth. Ozpin, one of the strongest Huntsman of their age, has offered him personal training. Whatever hurdle standing in his path, that... that might just do to get him over it.

"Yes! Please, I'll do anything! Oh man, I'll send you a crate full of coffee beans if you can help me." Ozpin chuckled.

"A bribe is unnecessary, Mr. Arc. Of course, I would not say no to selection of your store's premium blend." Jaune snorted in amusement, and Ozpin continued. "Let's see, now...first of all, where is your knife?"

"Oh, it's over with my stuff. I'll get it."

"No need, it is fine there. Where is your sword?"

Jaune looked at the sword clearly held in his grip, wondering if the man has gone senile. He lifted it up to eye level.

"In my hand?"

"Good! Make sure that continues to be the case. We are ready."

For what, Jaune was about to ask, but a blow to his chest silenced the question and sent him stumbling back. He almost fell, but caught his balance to glare at Ozpin who, cane twirling in his hand, showed a wide smile so unlike his usual self.

"Before we begin, are there any questions?"

Jaune opened his mouth to retort, but hesitated as the strangest sense of déjà vu hit him. This scene felt all too familiar. But why?

He looked down.

A gray rectangle bearing the crest of Beacon Academy rested below his feet.

"Uhhh…sir? What kind of training are we doing?"

"Trial by fire, Mr. Arc. My favorite."

A flick of Ozpin's wrist and, like magic, a scroll appeared in his hand. His thumb hovered above the screen. He locked gazes with Jaune, who saw within those brown eyes a giddy anticipation.

"Waitwaitwait don't do it you—*sproing!*—fuuuuuu…"

Alone on the clifftop, Ozpin happily sighed.

"Ahhh, it's been too long. I really should make these launches a weekly thing."

Quite a distance away, as if scenting a meal, the Emerald Forest awoke in a cacophony of howls.

-o-

Under a clear night sky, Jaune pinwheeled over a forest for the second time in his life. It was no less terrifying this go-round. Prior experience did somewhat help, however, because as the trees below neared, instincts took hold to engage his 4-step landing strategy.

First, he tucked his knees into his chest. Next, his arms wrapped around his legs to form a tight ball, Crocea Mors still grasped in one hand. Then, he drew up Aura. Lastly, he shut his eyes, hoping for the best.

Let me hit fewer trees this time, please!

He barely lost momentum as his body blasted through the first tree, near the top where it was slender and (relatively) soft. The next fared little better. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, he struck the middle of the third tree at about half-height. The trunk there was a solid, sturdy thing that bled off most of his speed by trading it for his pain as he smashed into, then past, the tree. The journey ended at the fourth and final tree, where he splatted against its thick trunk and stayed there. Slooowly, his body peeled off the bark to fall down the rest of the way. A crash and he was back on the ground, laid out flat in the dirt.

Owie.

Cursing Ozpin's name, Jaune dragged his sorry carcass upright and cleaned himself up as best he could. A quick brush down rendered him, not tidy, but at least hobo chic, and he turned his attention to his surroundings. He had ignored it for more important matters, but there's been quite a lot of noises going on for a while now, and it's only gotten louder as time passed.

""""AROOOOOOOOOO!""""

Oh, great, they're harmonizing. Beowolves tended to that once they've encircled their prey. Which, in this case, was probably him.

A rustle in the bushes behind him alerted Jaune to an early arrival. He whirled around, pulling the sword from the sheath as the latter shifted to its shield form, and fell into the textbook defensive stance as he came face to wide-open maw with a charging Grimm.

It was a young one, taller than him by a head at most. Analyses by past Huntsmen pegged them at that stage as: pretty weak, pretty stupid, with straightforward attacks. Too easy.

Jaune readied his sword, waiting for his opportunity. The moment the Beowolf entered his range, he swung his blade down in a devastating chop aimed at its head!

His shield caught on his knee, and failed to move out of the way in time. The sword struck the top edge, driving the shield into his leg. Jaune bit down on a scream. The Grimm bit down on the shield.

Heh, silver lining there. The shield protected him, exactly as it was designed for. After a week of frustration, one thing went right.

He had no time to celebrate, though, because the Grimm began shoving forward with its full weight. Lacking leverage, he scraped lines in the dirt with his boots as it carried him backwards. Howls coming from somewhere past him told him what awaited there.

"Not completely stupid, are you?"

But not an intellectual, either. Jaune angled his sword and drove it straight into the Beowolf's eye. It died with a whimper.

Jaune whirled around as more Grimm emerged from the underbrush into the clearing. They needed seconds to cross the distance, and he used that time to catch his breath...oh, that was a problem.

He noted how his breath came heavy and ragged. How traces of fear meandered in his head, the negativity serving as a beacon to attract the creatures. His shield arm bore a lingering ache from having to brace against the Grimm's charge, not to mention the self-inflicted attack on his leg. Aura was doing its work to heal, but that meant more resources expended on the defeat of one measly Beowolf. The encounter costed him too much effort for the end result.

He had drawn a conclusion, but the solution escaped him for the battle restarted in earnest. In eagerness, the next Beowolf outpaced its brethren to reach the Huntsman. It reared up, sharp claws raised high to slash down. The act left it wide open, and Jaune plunged his blade into the thing's chest. An easy play.

The Grimm fell over, and the sword lodged all the way through its body went along. Jaune cursed, and tried to pull the blade back. The length of the weapon made that difficult, and he could not help but compare it unfavorably with his knife. By the time he freed the sword, the rest of the pack had surrounded him now. No time to think, Jaune set about him with Crocea Mors.

A miscalculated dodge earned him a glancing blow on his side, ripping away some Aura. He ignored it in favor of chopping off the offending arm. Ducking a swipe, successfully this time, he scored a deep gash across a Grimm's belly then pivoted to continue the swing, catching one on the nose tip. With the breathing room, he stabbed another before dashing to the right. The Grimm followed. Too slow, he failed to break out of the cordon, and they reestablished their encirclement in a flash.

A shadow fell over him, covering the moonlight. Behind!

Rather than lose time turning around, he took a step back to enter its guard. His shoulders hit the oddly-textured fur of the monster just as its claws passed through where he had stood. What would have been a painful blow instead became a harmless hug.

Eat that, Nora. Think you're so awesome, riding around on a Grimm?

The Beowolf recovered quickly. Its jaw opened to munch on the human below. Jaune countered with Crocea Mors, the blade held vertical to his chest poised to drive upward. It speared the creature's face, and a shadowy mist collapsed onto Jaune. Vision obscured, he swept his sword from right to left. His blind swipe managed to hit something. In return, a strong impact sent him flying.

It was there, hanging in the air, that a thought occurred to him.

What the fuck was he doing with his shield?

He hit the ground, rolling with the momentum back upright. A stumble nearly took him off his feet again, which warned Jaune of how fast he was exhausting himself. He glared at the shield strapped to his arm. The absolutely useless piece of deadweight did not help the situation any.

It had served no purpose beyond the opening move, that itself a matter of happenstance. Since then, not a thought of it passed through his mind as he fought. In hindsight, however, he noticed how his left side was unprotected during the fight, which allowed multiple attacks to land on his person. He hadn't been able to bounce between enemies like he wanted either, the balance of his movements thrown off by the heavy shield with its awkward shape. That one simple weakness was how the Grimm could dictate the flow of battle so well, surrounding him time and again. Ozpin was right when he said learning a second weapon can be a frustrating task. What he did not mention was that it could also be dangerous.

A glance around the clearing show a good dozen Beowolves. Red eyes peeking from between the trees told of more. The howls deeper in the forest meant more trouble on the way. A simple estimate of his Aura level, how much was used as compared to the number of enemies slain, and a cold realization set in. He was losing.

A new plan formed in an instant. Now was the time to run. He can throw the shield aside, removing the extraneous weight to improve his movement. Then, he'll escape back to Beacon, rest up, rearm himself with his usual equipment, and come back tomorrow to pick it up. Perfect.

One look at the twin gold crescents gleaming on the shield's front, and he knew he could never follow that plan. He was ashamed enough for having stolen it from his family; to abandon it now, he had not the heart. Groaning, Jaune returned the shield to sheath-form, and stowed his sword. The thing was still heavy, but hopefully the change in shape can make the difference he needed to get away.

He waited for an opportune moment, keeping his head on a swivel. He received his chance when he spotted a smaller specimen among them. And beyond it, a distinct lack of red eyes amidst the foliage. There laid the weakpoint. He was off like a shot.

Predictably, it attacked as he approached, a lunge for his throat. He threw himself low to slide underneath the creature. Launching up in a sprint, he made for the clearing's edge.

Too slow, much too slow. They cut off his retreat. In anger, he struck out at one with the sheathed Crocea Mors.

A sharp *crack!* resounded throughout the clearing as the blunted edge of what was essentially a club shattered the Grimm's bonemask. Teeth flew every which way. Its snout caved under the force. And, simultaneously, a shiver traveled up Jaune's spine, ending in a burst of euphoria that faded as soon as it arrived.

Wow. That was... that was something.

Further musings on the sensation had to wait as the next Grimm in his path leapt for him.

Oh crap, oh crap, too close! What's the proper stance? The angle? The- oh, whatever, just go for it!

Two hands gripped tight on the hilt of Crocea Mors. Heels spun on the forest floor. Jaune unleashed a mighty swing.

*CRACK!*

What a deeply satisfying sound.

This was no sharp blade slipping towards an enemy's unguarded side, but a strong, crisp blow that eschewed precision for power. Sheer blunt impact to destroy such concepts as weakpoints, stances, leverage, counters, and all the other calculative aspects of battle. It should have been as alien to his way of fighting as the sword and shield. Yet, underneath, there was a familiarity to it. A connection between this instrument and his long knife. The savage promise of an all-out offensive.

That was the difference he couldn't get over in his training. Aggressiveness.

For the last week, he tried so hard to fight as his forebears did, as knights and heroes. All because of that booklet, and what it represented.

When his goal was still a nebulous thing, where he would somehow come back as the son his family wanted and somehow ask for their forgiveness, it had been easy to put out of his mind. Yet, after the day he opened his parent's gift to him for Dustmas, he could think of nothing else. He had taken it as a sign. From then on, it was not enough to just meet again. He wanted them to see him as perfect. As the Arc scion, wielder of the family blade, upholder of their ideals.

So, he followed the manual, and found that the way of Crocea Mors was...structured would be the word. A limited number of movements based around striking and resetting. This style gave the initiative to others, preferring a reactive approach. He hated it for how it forced him to wait.

A sword in one hand, a shield in the other; the booklet espoused the idea of offense and defense in balance. Jaune rankled at how it limited his repertoire. He was used to having a free hand for a variety of tricks and grapples. The teachings found in those pages strangled the concept of options, and discouraged him from taking risks. He felt like a turtle hiding behind its shell. To fight as a knight required building himself from the ground up.

But this...

*Crack! Crack! Crack!*

One, two, three, dispatched just like that. He was leaving aside Crocea Mors' intended use in lieu of getting back to the very basics. What he had was a stick, one made of a metal harder than any he had ever known. A lever, with which to move the world by the simple application of force. No second component to the weapon he had to keep track of. No special stance he needed to settle in. No distractions to bog him down. In this form, Crocea Mors' effectiveness cannot be denied. If he had to wield it, then let him start there.

A growl at his rear, and his senses blared a warning. He slid the sword along his shoulder to lay it flat across his back. A set of claws connected with the scabbard and skittered off on an angle. He spun around, swinging. Stick met jaw, wrecking the Grimm's visage.

Fragments of the manual shined through in how he fought; this sword had some advantages going for it. Crocea Mors—with sheath included—was longer and much heavier than his knife, hence slower than he liked, but capable of greater strength. The blunt instrument, solid and wide, can be utilized even in this form as a passable shield against close-range strikes. With it, he can block, deflect, and transition to an attack in one smooth maneuver. There existed defense, but flowing, and offense, overwhelming, to create a blend crude but unrivaled. He had incorporated what few principles from the booklet he could make work, and subverted the weapon to suit himself.

Jaune leaned back from a swipe at his head and brought his knee high to hit the Beowolf under the chin. The booklet all but forbade a move like that for how it broke one's solid footwork. The club bashing the Grimm's head in was his rebuttal to the 'proper' method of fighting.

And in that moment, Jaune realized his parents were correct to never teach him. What a poor excuse of an Arc he would have made. Crocea Mors was wasted on him.

He could not feel much disappointment, though. Instead, he marveled at how amazing Melanie and Miltia were, for they had been right all along.

What need did this world have of a knight? What mattered, whether his heart was shining white or stained black?

Grimm dies either way. Unrefined as it may be, this battle style worked.

In a momentary reprieve, Jaune lightly tossed the sword in the air. It spun a full revolution before the hilt fell back in his grip. He rested the blunt instrument on a shoulder and placed one foot slightly ahead of the other, leaning his body forward a touch. His other hand made a rude gesture towards the circling Grimm. A smirk spread over his face. Seemingly unguarded, and comfortable as can be, he stood ready for any battle.

The pitch of the Beowolves' growls shifted, a signal for the next wave of attacks. As one, they stilled. They tensed.

They faltered as he charged their line first. If Grimm could be confused, they were, and he cackled as he battered them down. The intention of giving up the fight has long since faded, for he can see a path to achieving victory. Breaking past the circle at last, he retreated at speed into the forest, using the trees to limit their approach as he led them on a merry chase. In the scramble, he broke sightlines, climbed trees, maneuvered Grimm to block their brethren, and struck out at them one by one. He howled in vicious triumph as each body turned to smoke, trying his best to outscare the monsters because that was how he loved to fight.

Under the light of the broken moon, Jaune Arc learned to wield Crocea Mors. Happily, gleefully, he did it his way.


Author's Notes: "This is my ancestral blade. Imma use it as a baseball bat."

And the foundation of Jaune's fighting style is complete! Knife, fists, kicks, and club. You might find it familiar.

There are currently four mini-arcs in mind for the second semester, not including the Vytal Tournament. Some mellow, some serious, we'll be seeing the first after a few episodes.