In days of old, when darkness reigned supreme,
And Grimm did prowl, in every mortal's dream,
There rose a hero, Julius Arc by name,
Whose deeds would bring him everlasting fame.
Jaune Arc's heart raced as he reached beneath his bed, pulling out a plastic bag filled with books. His hands wrapped around the hard leather covers as he knelt on the carpet of his childhood bedroom, blue eyes scanning the titles: "History of Remnant: Volume 1," "A Hunter's Guide to Vale," and "Swordsmanship for Dummies." A wry smile tugged at his lips as he placed them onto his blue bedsheets.
Flipping open "History of Remnant," his gaze fell upon a yellow envelope sealed with a red wax stamp. The stamp bore the letter 'S' surrounded by roses – unmistakably the symbol of Signal Academy. Jaune's fingers trembled slightly as he carefully tucked the envelope back into his duffel bag, burying it beneath a messy pile of clothes.
As he packed, Jaune's attention was drawn to a long cloth he'd discovered in an old chest under the stairs. The deep purple fabric felt light and satisfying in his hands, adorned with the twin golden arcs of his family crest. Above the arcs sat a star, its upper triangle filled with the same brilliant gold while the rest remained black.
"Did someone forget to finish this?" Jaune mused, examining the cloth. "Maybe it's supposed to be a scarf?" He carefully folded it and placed it atop his other belongings.
With one last glance at his packed bag, Jaune stepped into the hallway. The soft glow from a room down the corridor made him wince, and a quick check of his Scroll confirmed the late hour. He silently cursed, hearing a door open.
"Jaune?" A young woman with short blonde hair and piercing blue eyes emerged, immediately locking onto him.
"Shh!" Jaune raised a finger to his lips, desperately trying to quiet his younger sister.
Claret raised an eyebrow, striding over to her brother. Despite her smaller frame, she managed to look intimidating as she placed her hands on her hips. "What are you doing up so late? And why are you dressed like that?"
Jaune fumbled for an excuse. "I, uh... I was just going for a walk."
"A walk?" Claret's cheeks puffed in frustration. "What if you run into Grimm out there?"
"The town watch is still out," Jaune countered, rubbing the back of his head nervously. "And Dad checked the perimeter traps earlier. It's safe, I promise."
Claret jabbed a finger against his chest. "You better not get eaten, or I'm telling Mom!"
Jaune raised his hands defensively. "I won't! I'm just... you know, burning the midnight oil. Like Dad always says!"
His sister sighed, rubbing her temples in a manner reminiscent of their older sister, Saphron. "Fine. But if you're not back by morning, I'm telling Dad."
"Deal," Jaune agreed quickly.
As Claret retreated to her room, Jaune tiptoed down the stairs, wincing at every creak of the old wood. His eyes darted nervously around the living room until they fell upon the ancient weapon displayed prominently on the mantle.
Crocea Mors – a white steel longsword, beautiful in its simplicity, lay atop a heater shield bearing the Arc family crest. The moonlight streaming through the windows seemed to make the blade glow.
Jaune approached the weapon with reverence, his hand hovering just above its hilt. The blade seemed to glower at him threateningly, as if imbued with the legacy of countless Huntsmen and Huntresses who had wielded it before. In that moment, the enormity of what he was about to do crashed over him.
With trembling fingers, Jaune gently lifted Crocea Mors from its place of honor. The familiar weight of the sword in his hand sent a thrill through him – a mix of excitement and unworthiness. His eyes traced the length of the blade, marveling at how the pale light danced along its edge.
Turning his attention to the heater shield, Jaune ran his hand along its smooth surface. His fingers probed carefully until they found what they were searching for – a small pressure plate, nearly invisible to the untrained eye. With a soft tap, the crisp sound of shifting metal filled the air. Jaune watched in awe as the massive shield transformed, collapsing in on itself to form a perfect scabbard for the sword.
"The Yellow Death," Jaune whispered, his voice filled with wonder. For a fleeting moment, he half-expected the ancient weapon to respond, to somehow acknowledge that it had chosen him as its wielder. The silence that followed was both a relief and a disappointment.
Raising the blade, Jaune caught his reflection in its polished surface. His own blue eyes stared back at him, and he was struck by the change he saw there. The uncertainty and fear were still present, but there was something else too – a hardness, a determination that he'd never seen in himself before. The eyes held a deep, longing look, as if they could see past his reflection to the future that awaited him.
"I'm going to make it. I know it," Jaune whispered to the eyes, his voice barely audible but filled with resolve. It was a promise – to himself, to his family, and to the legacy of Julius.
With a smooth motion, he slid the sword into its scabbard, the soft click as it locked into place sounding like the final piece of a puzzle falling into position. This was it. There was no turning back now.
Jaune turned towards the door, his movements deliberate and quiet. Each step felt heavy with the weight of his decision, yet somehow liberating. As he reached for the doorknob, he paused, allowing himself one last look at the home he was leaving behind. The familiar scents, the family photos on the walls, the worn furniture that held so many memories – would he ever see this place again? And if he did, would he be worthy of returning?
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Jaune opened the door and slipped outside. The cool night air hit him immediately, carrying with it the scent of pine and wilderness. The backyard stretched out before him, a sea of shadows and moonlight. The pine trees that had been a constant backdrop to his childhood now seemed to bristle in the wind, their branches reaching out like gnarled fingers.
For a moment, fear threatened to overwhelm him. The shadows seemed to dance at the edge of his vision, and every rustle of leaves sounded like a potential threat. Jaune's hand instinctively tightened on Crocea Mors' hilt, drawing comfort from its solid presence.
"I can do this," he murmured to himself, forcing his feet to move forward. Each step took him further from the safety of his home and closer to the uncertain future that awaited him. The shattered moon hung low on the horizon, lighting his path as he made his way through the forest.
As Jaune pushed deeper, the familiar silhouette of his family's campsite emerged from the shadows. A small clearing nestled near a vast crystal lake, its surface shimmering like liquid silver under the fractured moon. The sight stirred a whirlpool of memories – summer adventures, family gatherings, nights spent gazing at the stars. But Jaune knew he couldn't linger. This wasn't a camping trip; it was the first step on his journey to become a Huntsman.
Pulling his bag closer, feeling the weight of camping equipment and books shift inside, Jaune turned his attention to the tranquil lake. The serene scene contrasted sharply with the turmoil in his heart. In a sudden burst of emotion – fear, excitement, determination all rolled into one – Jaune pulled Crocea Mors from its scabbard.
The ancestral blade gleamed in the moonlight as Jaune raised it, his inexperienced hands trembling slightly. With a deep breath, he swung the sword at a nearby tree. The sharp edge bit into the trunk, carving a two-inch gash into the bark. The vibration of impact shot up Jaune's arm, rattling his bones and sending a jolt through his entire body.
Gasping, Jaune pulled back, his hands stinging from the unexpected recoil. He examined his palms, wincing at the red, rash-like scratches that had already formed. "So much for natural talent," he muttered, reaching into his pocket for the pair of fingerless gloves he'd packed as an afterthought. As he slipped them on, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of doubt. Was he really cut out for this?
Pushing the thought aside, Jaune gripped Crocea Mors' hilt once more. It took several attempts, each accompanied by grunts of exertion, before he managed to wrench the blade free from the tree trunk. The sudden release sent him tumbling backward, landing unceremoniously on the forest floor.
For a moment, Jaune simply lay there, staring up at the night sky. The vast expanse above him was a tapestry of stars, each one glimmering like a lit lantern. It was a view he'd seen countless times before, but tonight, it felt different. Tonight, it felt like the universe itself was watching, waiting to see what Jaune Arc would make of himself.
As his eyes scanned the heavens, a faint, dull yellow star caught his attention. It seemed to move, growing fainter and more distant with each passing second. Jaune's eyes widened in realization. "A shooting star," he whispered, sitting up on his elbows.
The childlike wonder of the moment transported him back to simpler times. He could almost hear his sister Claret's excited voice: "Make a wish, Jaune!" How many wishes had he made on falling stars over the years? How many of them had been about becoming a hero, just like the ones in the stories?
This time felt different. This wasn't a child's fleeting wish; it was a young man's solemn vow. Jaune's hand found Crocea Mors' hilt once more, gripping it with newfound resolve. He raised the blade, pointing its edge towards the fading star.
"I wish..." he began, then shook his head. No, this wasn't just a wish. "I swear," he corrected himself, his voice growing stronger. "Star or not, I can be a hero. Just like him. I'll fight. I'll do whatever it takes. This I swear on my word."
The words hung in the air, seeming to echo in the stillness of the forest. Jaune felt the beating of his own heart grow louder, each pulse causing warmth to pool in his center. Lowering the blade, he brought it across his chest in the knightly salute he'd read about in old stories. It felt right, as if Crocea Mors itself was acknowledging his promise.
Lifting his head, Jaune looked back to where he'd last seen the star, but the night sky had returned to its familiar, static beauty. "Where'd it go?" he wondered aloud, scanning the heavens.
As he lowered his gaze, something caught his eye. A golden sheen seemed to ripple over his skin, coiling around his body like a protective coat. Jaune stared in disbelief, watching as the glow pulsed once, twice, and then vanished with a blink.
"Aura?" he breathed, his eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and confusion. He'd read about Aura, of course – the manifestation of one's soul, the power that protected Huntsmen and Huntresses in battle. But he'd never expected to see it, to feel it, like this.
Eager to test this newfound power, Jaune brought his fist down hard on his thigh, fully expecting the golden shield to spring to life and protect him. Instead, his knuckles met flesh and muscle with a dull thud. The air rushed from his lungs in a pained wheeze as he doubled over, clutching his leg.
"Okay," he gasped between breaths, "Note to self: Aura doesn't work like that. Or maybe I just imagined it?" The doubt crept back in, but Jaune pushed it aside. He'd seen something, felt something. Whether it was Aura or just a trick of the light, it didn't matter. He'd made his vow, and he intended to keep it.
Slowly, Jaune pushed himself to his feet, wincing slightly at the throbbing in his leg. He cast one last look at the campsite, at the lake that had been a constant backdrop to so many cherished memories. Then, with Crocea Mors in hand and determination in his heart, he turned and began to construct his tent.
Jaune felt warm, impossibly warm. It was as if he were wrapped in a puffy cloud, soft and comforting. But something wasn't right. An acrid smell tickled his nostrils, jarring him from his peaceful slumber. He rolled onto his side, hoping to escape the scent, but it only grew stronger.
Sniffing the air, Jaune's eyes snapped open as the unmistakable odor of burning paper filled his senses. Panic surged through him as he looked around, finding himself trapped in a burning tent. Flames licked at the edges of his sleeping bag, threatening to engulf him.
"No, no, no!" Jaune gasped, his arms flailing against the confines of the sleeping bag. With a burst of desperate strength, he finally managed to wrench the zipper open, tumbling out onto the scorched ground. His hand instinctively grabbed for his bag, wincing as the heat seared his palm. But he couldn't leave it behind – not with all his supplies, not with Crocea Mors.
Rolling out through a breach in the tent, Jaune found himself face-down in the dirt. His beloved Pumpkin Pete hoodie was instantly coated in a layer of grime, but that was the least of his worries. As he lifted his head, spitting out soil, his eyes focused on something that made his blood run cold: a massive, clawed footprint mere inches from his face.
A huffing breath, hot and fetid, washed over him. Jaune's gaze traveled upward, taking in the sight of midnight-black fur and ivory claws that looked sharp enough to slice through steel.
"Crap!" The word escaped him in a panicked squeak as he scrambled backwards. Just in time – a massive paw slammed into the ground where he'd been lying, leaving a crater in the earth.
Clutching Crocea Mors to his chest like a lifeline, Jaune's fingers fumbled for the hilt. With a grunt of effort, he managed to free the blade from its scabbard. As it came loose, he could have sworn he heard a whisper, a sound of approval from the ancient weapon.
Jaune pointed the sword towards the Beowolf's chest, trying to steady his trembling arms. He raised the blade to an angle, mimicking a stance he'd seen in his training books. "Posta Breve," he muttered, the Italian term feeling strange on his tongue. "Short guard."
The Beowolf charged, its massive form a blur of darkness and killing intent. Jaune steeled himself, but his inexperience showed. The Grimm's paw batted Crocea Mors aside as if it were a toy, sending the sword spinning through the air to embed itself in the dirt several feet away.
Unarmed and face-to-face with a creature of nightmare, Jaune's bravado crumbled. "Uh... I give?" he offered weakly, his voice cracking.
The Beowolf's response was another charge, its powerful limbs propelling it forward. The impact sent Jaune flying, his body skidding across the campsite until he came to rest beside Crocea Mors. As he looked up at the blade, he could have sworn he saw a pair of eyes reflected in its polished surface – not his own, but eyes filled with a hardened determination that seemed to say, "Get up. Fight."
The Beowolf was upon him again, leaping through the air with claws extended. Time seemed to slow. Jaune inhaled sharply, throwing his arm up in a futile attempt to protect himself. In that moment, something inside him ignited.
A great warmth flooded his body, culminating in his outstretched arm. With a roar that surprised even himself, a massive gout of flame erupted from Jaune's forearm. The fire formed a blazing arc, slamming into the Beowolf mid-leap and sending it careening into the nearby lake.
Jaune stared at his arm in disbelief, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He expected to see his beloved hoodie in tatters, but it was untouched, as if the fire had simply passed through it. "Was that... me?" he whispered, flexing his fingers.
The moment of wonder was short-lived. The Beowolf emerged from the lake, its fur smoking despite being drenched. Its red eyes burned with murderous intent, fixed squarely on Jaune.
"Maybe it's my Semblance?" Jaune muttered, a grin spreading across his face despite the danger. "So it was Aura after all!" He pumped his fist in celebration, only to yelp in surprise as a fireball shot from his hand, sailing harmlessly into the sky.
Emboldened by this newfound power, Jaune turned to face the Grimm. "Alright, you overgrown furball," he taunted, "let's see how you like this!" He punched the air, expecting another burst of flame. Instead, only a few pitiful sparks emerged from his knuckles.
"Come on, come on!" Jaune pleaded, throwing more punches as the Beowolf advanced. Each strike produced nothing more than brief flashes, hardly enough to light a candle, let alone fend off a monster.
As the Grimm closed in, Jaune's cockiness evaporated. He dove for Crocea Mors, wrapping his fingers around the hilt and wrenching it from the ground. The blade seemed to sing as he raised it, catching the sunlight in a way that nearly blinded him.
The Beowolf charged once more. This time, Jaune was ready. He swung Crocea Mors in a wide arc, the edge biting into the monster's chest. A trail of ash marked the wound, but the Grimm barely slowed. It roared in pain and fury, bearing down on Jaune with renewed vigor.
Instinct took over. Jaune thrust the sword forward like a spear, driving it into the Beowolf's chest. As the blade sank in, he felt a surge of power in his gut, a wellspring of energy begging to be released.
The Beowolf roared in his face, spittle and hot breath washing over him. Something primal awoke in Jaune, and he roared back. As he exhaled, a torrent of flame burst from his mouth, engulfing the Grimm's head and pouring into the sword wound.
Jaune leapt back, Crocea Mors held high in a guard position. He watched, panting, as the flames did their work. The Beowolf's eyes, once burning like rubies, faded to a dull, lifeless black. Acrid smoke poured from its jaws instead of a final roar. Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, it toppled over and began to dissipate into shadowy motes.
His legs giving out, Jaune collapsed to his knees. Each breath he took resulted in small puffs of flame escaping his lips, like a dragon after its first battle. He stared at Crocea Mors, still clutched tightly in his trembling hand. As he lifted the blade, he once again saw a reflection that wasn't quite his own – those determined blue eyes, now filled with a look of satisfaction, before fading back to his familiar, shocked expression.
Slowly, the sounds of the forest began to return. Birdsong filled the air, a stark contrast to the chaos of moments before. Behind him, the last support of his ruined tent gave way with a soft thud.
Jaune Arc, aspiring Huntsman, sat amidst the wreckage of his campsite, covered in dirt and soot, his clothes singed and torn. Yet as he looked at Crocea Mors, as he felt the lingering warmth of his newly awakened power, a smile began to spread across his face.
"Well," he said to no one in particular, a small flame dancing on his breath, "I guess I really am cut out for this after all."
Jaune Arc, grandson of Julius Arc - a man whose greatness had been all but forgotten by time - stood hunched over the railing of the airship bound for Beacon Academy. The irony wasn't lost on him: the heir to a legacy that once ruled all of Remnant was now unceremoniously hurling his lunch into the clouds below.
As another wave of nausea hit him, Jaune couldn't help but reflect on the bizarre twist of fate that had led him here. His grandfather, Julius Arc, had once been the sole ruler of Remnant, a man of such tremendous power and wisdom that he had united the fractured world under a single banner. And yet, in an act that still baffled historians, Julius had willingly relinquished his power, choosing instead to return to a quiet life away from the spotlight.
Now, generations later, here was Jaune - technically the inheritor of all Remnant - reduced to a queasy mess by simple motion sickness.
The acrid, acidic smell of his own vomit made him gag, triggering another bout of retching as the ship hit a pocket of turbulence. Jaune clutched the guardrail tighter, his knuckles turning white with the effort. He pressed down harder, desperate for any kind of stability in the lurching aircraft.
A groaning sound caught his attention, and Jaune looked down in horror to see the metal beneath his hands warping and scorching. "Crap, crap, crap!" he yelped, releasing his grip and frantically waving his hands over the steaming metal. "Cool down, cool down!" he pleaded in a harsh whisper, hoping against hope that no one had noticed.
"Hey, Vomit Boy."
Jaune whipped around at the sound of the voice, his heart sinking. So much for going unnoticed. A young woman stood before him, her lilac eyes fixed on him with a mix of amusement and mild disgust. Her long mane of golden hair seemed to have a life of its own, flowing in the wind like a river of sunshine.
"You got me in the crossfire there," she said, her tone somewhere between a taunt and a complaint.
Jaune gulped, trying to ignore the continued churning of his stomach. He silently prayed that he wouldn't suddenly burst into flames like he had with the Beowolf. That would be just perfect - first Vomit Boy, then Human Torch. "Sorry, I just-" he began, only to be cut off by another wave of nausea. He turned back to the railing, emptying what little remained in his stomach.
"Ew," the girl commented, though there was a hint of sympathy in her voice.
"I have motion sickness," Jaune groaned, releasing his death grip on the now-cooled but visibly warped handrails.
The blonde's eyes widened as she noticed the damage. "Whoa. You must be pretty strong. You broke those bars like they were nothing."
Jaune felt his face heat up, and he rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. "Oh, uh, it's my Semblance. I... think." The uncertainty in his voice was palpable. He still wasn't sure what to make of his newfound abilities.
The girl's expression softened into a smile. "I'm Yang," she said, sticking out her hand.
Jaune reached out to shake it, but another bout of turbulence sent him spinning back to the railing, hands clamped onto the metal as he heaved once more. Yang quickly retracted her hand, taking a step back.
"Well, it was, uh, good meeting you," she said, her tone a mix of amusement and pity. "I think I'm going to go back inside."
Jaune managed to give her a thumbs up without turning around. "Yeah- yeah, that's cool. Nice to meet you too," he strained, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.
As the door closed behind Yang, Jaune let out a frustrated groan. "Good going, you meet a hot girl, and what do you do? You throw up. Really doing Grandpa proud, aren't you?" He shook his head, disgusted with himself.
His hand found its way to the hilt of Crocea Mors, seeking comfort in the familiar weight of the ancestral weapon. To his surprise, the sword seemed to quiver slightly in its sheath. Jaune blinked, wondering if he had imagined it. "Must be the wind," he muttered, though a part of him wasn't so sure.
As the airship continued its journey towards Beacon, Jaune couldn't help but wonder what his grandfather would think of him now. Would the great Julius Arc be disappointed in his awkward, motion-sick descendant? Or would he see the potential that Jaune himself struggled to believe in?
The young Arc sighed, turning his gaze to the horizon where Beacon Academy awaited. Whatever legacy his grandfather had left behind, whatever power now stirred within him, Jaune knew one thing for certain: his journey was only just beginning. And if he had any say in the matter, it would involve a lot less vomiting from here on out.