Jaune had been given time off — a rare opportunity to rest, reflect, and maybe recover. But Jaune wasn't the type to sit still, especially not now. He made his way to an Atlas military gym, a sprawling facility filled with training equipment, sparring rings, and every tool a soldier or Huntsman could need to hone their skills. The moment he stepped in, the familiar scent of sweat and leather hit him, grounding him in a place that had always felt like home—whether it was in Vacuo's heat, the frozen halls of Atlas, or even back at Beacon during those brief, uncertain days.

He slipped off his jacket and hung it on the wall, revealing his athletic gear underneath. His gloves went on next, tightening them as he mentally prepared himself for the workout ahead. His gaze fell on the sandbag in the corner of the room, suspended from a thick metal chain. It was already worn, covered in faint marks from the countless hits it had taken before. Jaune intended to add his own.

He moved toward the bag, loosening up his shoulders as he approached. The bag was a representation of the enemy — solid, unyielding, always pushing back. He began with a few jabs, light but focused, testing the weight of the bag and the resistance it offered. It swayed gently at first, but Jaune didn't care to warm up. Not today.

With a clenched fist and a steady breath, Jaune unleashed a flurry of blows, each punch driving into the sandbag with purpose. His knuckles thudded against the heavy canvas reverberating through his arms. Every hit was calculated, aimed at violating the sandbag and push his limits. His body remembered the movements, the strikes drilled into his muscle memory through years of training. But this wasn't enough.

Between strikes, his mind wandered. He couldn't help but wonder what Vacuo would have been like had he been this strong back then. Would he have been able to save more lives? Would he have been able to keep his comrades— his brothers and sisters in arms from dying? Would Brown, Rumple, and Humpty still be here if he had this kind of power, this kind of control?

He grunted as his fist slammed into the bag again, the force of the blow knocking it back on its chain. Sweat beaded on his brow, but he ignored it. He was stronger now, faster, more precise, but there was still a nagging voice in the back of his mind—it wasn't enough then.

Jaune shifted his focus, moving on to defensive techniques. He started working through different stances Brown and Humpty taught him, moving in and out of them as he visualized an opponent in front of him. He practiced negating attacks — blocks, parries, the subtle art of baiting an enemy into a false opening before striking back. Every motion was deliberate, each block a piece of his defensive strategy. His feet shifted with precision, and his hands moved in quick bursts to block imaginary strikes.

His body moved instinctively, but his mind was elsewhere. He imagined his time in Vacuo, the heat of battle, the chaos of it all. If he had this power back then, would things have gone differently? Could he have baited the Grimm into more manageable fights? Could he have turned the tide of battle? He shook his head, trying to dismiss those thoughts. It was a dangerous line of thinking, but it was always there, gnawing at him.

With a low exhale, Jaune began working on his footwork, courtesy of Rumple's teachings, shifting in and out of range with a rhythm that came naturally. He stepped forward, feinting left, then pivoted to the right, imagining an enemy lunging at him from the front. His boots scuffed against the floor as he danced around the sandbag, his movements smooth, deliberate, and relentless. Lateral movement, pivots, stance-shifting — it all blended into a symphony of combat efficiency just as Sarge taught him.

As he moved, he thought about how many times he had been forced into the defensive, not just physically, but mentally as well. How many times he'd had to adjust, adapt, and survive. In Vacuo, they didn't teach you to fight pretty; they taught you to fight smart, to move when it counted and stand your ground when there was no other choice.

Sweat rolled down his temples, dripping onto the floor as he continued his relentless training. His breath was steady, controlled, but the intensity of his movements never wavered. He stepped back, then slipped under an imagined strike, using his head movement to stay fluid, elusive. He worked through the rhythms, slipping outside and inside, ducking under punches and moving with a finesse that was as much about control as it was about instinct.

Each movement brought with it a flash of memory — dodging Grimm, avoiding the deadly swipes of Beowolves, the lunging jaws of a Creep. He'd been too slow before, too stiff, too afraid to move without being inside a Paladin. Now, he let his body flow with the fight, anticipating where the attack would come from next, and responding accordingly. That mission in the dust mine really had somewhat lessened his aversion of fighting Grimm without being inside a Paladin... not that he'd prefer it.

He rolled his shoulder to loosen up the tension and worked on slipping inside an imagined opponent's guard. He could feel his muscles straining, but he pushed through it. The sweat on his brow blurred his vision slightly, but he blinked it away. There was a fire in his gut that wouldn't let him stop. Not yet.

He didn't just train to fight anymore, he trained to survive. Jaune's mind kept flashing back to the battles that haunted him, the ones he couldn't forget, the people he couldn't save. But every punch, every dodge, every pivot — it was all part of him now. Each moment spent training was another step toward ensuring he'd never lose anyone like that again.

Finally, after what felt like hours of relentless training, Jaune stopped. He stood in front of the sandbag, breathing heavily, his fists clenched at his sides. His muscles ached, but it was a satisfying ache, the kind that told him he had pushed himself to the limit. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his breath coming in slow, deep inhales as he calmed his racing heart.

Jaune stepped back from the sandbag and walked over to the nearby bench, grabbing his water bottle and taking a long drink. He sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as he let his mind wander once again. The thoughts were quieter now, less intrusive, but still there.

Vacuo had hardened him, shaped him into the soldier he was today. But no amount of training, no matter how hard he pushed himself, would change what happened. He couldn't go back and rewrite those moments, no matter how much he wanted to. The past was set in stone, but the future — his future was still unwritten.

And that was what drove him.

He didn't train just to get stronger or faster. He trained because every punch, every block, every slip, and every step was a way to prepare for whatever came next. Jaune trained because he had to be better. Because if he wasn't, then what was the point of surviving all that he had endured?

He was lacking in close-quarters. But it didn't need to be that way. Not that he'd try to be like the others who'd enjoy fighting up-close.

With a sigh, Jaune stood up from the bench, his muscles protesting as he stretched out his arms. He grabbed his towel and wiped down his face, feeling the familiar exhaustion settling in, but it wasn't a bad feeling. He felt alive, in control, and ready for whatever came next.

As Jaune finished up, he couldn't help but glance at the sandbag once more. It still hung there, swaying slightly from the force of his last punch, as if it was mocking him. But he didn't care. He had done his work, and the next time he came back, he would be even stronger.

The sound of the gym door opening caught his attention, and Jaune turned to see a few soldiers entering the room, ready for their own training session. He gave them a nod as he grabbed his jacket and headed toward the exit. He could feel the weight of his own thoughts lifting, even if just for a moment.

As he stepped out into the cold Atlas air, Jaune took a deep breath, feeling the chill bite at his skin. His breath formed clouds in the air, and for a moment, he let himself feel the quiet.

Eventually, Jaune sat on a weathered wooden bench outside a small café in Mantle, holding a sandwich in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. The air was cold, the kind of bitter chill that crawled under your clothes and settled into your bones, but he hardly noticed it. Atlas' imposing towers loomed overhead, and the city buzzed with its usual life, albeit quieter now with the palpable tension in the air. He bit into his sandwich — a simple ham and cheese chewing slowly as he watched people pass by, most of them bundled up in heavy coats and scarves.

The conversations around him were more interesting than the sandwich.

"Man, I still can't believe it. You really think someone can control the Grimm?" a young man in a worn jacket asked his companion, a middle-aged woman with graying hair. They stood not too far from Jaune, talking loudly as they waited for their own meals from a nearby food stall.

"That's what they're saying," the woman replied, her voice low, like she was sharing a secret. "The military's saying it, and General Ironwood himself said something about it in that speech."

The man snorted. "Yeah, well, Ironwood says a lot of things these days."

Jaune took another bite of his sandwich, eyes narrowing slightly as he listened to their conversation. It wasn't the first time he'd overheard someone doubting Ironwood. Ever since the General's speech about this Salem and her control over the Grimm, the city had been buzzing with speculation, confusion, and no small amount of fear. Mantle had always been a place of unrest, a stark contrast to the towering city of Atlas above, but now it seemed like the tension had reached a boiling point.

"Still," the woman continued, her brow furrowed. "I've seen the reports, the footage. Something's out there, something big. And the Grimm… well, they're getting more organized. That's not normal right?."

"Yeah, but control them?" the young man shook his head, his expression skeptical. "Grimm, don't take orders from anyone. They're monsters, not soldiers."

Jaune took a sip of his water, feeling the cold liquid slide down his throat. He'd been hearing this kind of thing more and more lately—people questioning whether Salem was real, whether the threat Ironwood spoke of was as dire as he made it sound. It made him wonder how much longer the General could keep the people of Mantle on his side. They were already dealing with the fallout of the embargo, the economic strain, and now they were being asked to believe in something as terrifying as a woman who could control the very creatures that had plagued their world for as long as anyone could remember.

A group of teenagers passed by, laughing and joking, their voices carrying over the din of the street. One of them, a girl with short-cropped black hair, caught Jaune's attention as she turned to her friend and said, "My dad says Ironwood's just trying to scare us into doing what he wants. You know, like, keeping the whole military thing going, so he stays in power."

Her friend, a boy with a backpack slung over one shoulder, nodded vigorously. "Yeah, I heard that too. My uncle said the same thing. He thinks Ironwood's losing it, like all this talk about Grimm and Salem is just a way to keep control over Atlas and Mantle."

Jaune frowned, setting his sandwich down on the bench beside him. The idea that people were spreading conspiracy theories about Ironwood wasn't surprising, but it still made him uneasy. He had heard the truth firsthand — and what this Salem was capable of. A herd of Grimm, without thought, could overwhelm a base full of trained soldiers and just the thought of those monsters acting in a coordinated matter was horrifying.. But trying to convince an entire city of that? It wasn't going to be easy.

Across the street, an older man in a thick coat was talking to a couple of factory workers who looked like they had just gotten off their shift. The man's voice carried over the street, and Jaune could hear the frustration in his tone.

"I don't care what Ironwood says," the man was saying, "this whole thing stinks. The embargo, the lockdowns, the military everywhere — it's like we're living under martial law. And now they're saying there's some woman who controls the Grimm? What's next, huh? Dragons in the sky?"

"But there was that dragon in Vale."

"Who fucking knows anymore?"

The factory workers exchanged uneasy glances but didn't respond further. One of them just shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was heading.

Jaune sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He understood where the man was coming from, at least on some level. Mantle had always felt like the underdog, the city that got left behind while Atlas thrived. Now, with everything Ironwood was doing to prepare for the coming war, the people down here were feeling even more isolated, even more forgotten.

But the thing was, Ironwood wasn't wrong. Jaune had seen the proof, had fought the Grimm that had grown more aggressive, more strategic. He knew that the threat Salem posed was real, and it was only a matter of time before the full weight of that threat came crashing down on them all.

He picked up his sandwich again, though his appetite had waned. As he chewed, he overheard a different conversation, this time from a group of construction workers sitting at a nearby table. One of them, a burly man with a graying beard, was speaking in a hushed tone, though his deep voice still carried.

"You know, I've been hearing some things," the man said, leaning forward. "Some people are saying that Ironwood's got a secret weapon, something big that'll turn the tide against the Grimm."

"Like what?" one of his companions asked, clearly skeptical.

"I don't know," the man replied, shrugging. "But there's rumors. Something about a new kind of tech, or maybe even something… I don't know, magical? They say it's why he's so confident, why he's not backing down, even with all this pressure."

Jaune's brow furrowed. He hadn't heard anything about a "secret weapon," but the idea didn't seem too far-fetched. Atlas was known for its cutting-edge technology, and if anyone had the resources to come up with something that could give them an edge against the Grimm, it was Ironwood. Still, the thought of relying on some mysterious new technology didn't exactly fill him with confidence. He'd seen enough battles to know that there was no such thing as a guaranteed victory. And not that he heard of anything… then again… there was Nikos's power. Although he wasn't knowledgeable about Aura, he knew that it's rare to have two Semblances… but they seem to imply that it can be stolen or passed down.

The conversations continued to swirl around him, each one adding to the growing sense of uncertainty that hung over Mantle like a thick fog. Some people believed in Ironwood's vision, in his determination to protect the Kingdom of Atlas and its people. Others, however, were less convinced, seeing his actions as the desperate moves of a man who was losing control.

Jaune finished his sandwich and wiped his hands on a napkin, leaning back on the bench as he watched the people of Mantle go about their lives. He wondered how many of them would be ready when the time came—when Salem's forces finally arrived, and the reality of the situation hit home.

A woman passing by with her child caught his eye, and he couldn't help but think about how unprepared most of these people were. They had no idea what was coming, no idea how bad things could get. And yet, here they were, debating whether or not the Grimm were really under someone's control, whether or not Ironwood was telling the truth.

Jaune stood up, tossing his napkin into a nearby trash can. As much as he wished things were different, he knew that he couldn't change the minds of everyone in Mantle. As he walked away from the café, the voices of the people of Mantle still echoed in his mind. There was so much doubt, so much fear, and Jaune couldn't help but wonder if they would be able to stand together when it mattered most.

As Jaune made his way through a crowded square, he noticed a gathering up ahead — larger than the usual groups of civilians milling about Mantle. A makeshift stage had been set up, and people were gathered around it, listening intently to someone speaking at the front. Curiosity piqued, Jaune edged closer, moving through the crowd until he had a better view of the speaker.

It was Robyn Hill.

She stood at the center of the platform, her voice carrying over the noise of the street. She was everything Jaune had heard about: charismatic, confident, with a way of speaking that drew people in. Robyn Hill, running for the election, had become something of a symbol in Mantle. To many, she represented hope — hope for the people left behind by Atlas, for those who felt abandoned by the military presence that had come to dominate their city. To others, like Jaune, she was becoming a dangerous force of division.

Jaune crossed his arms as he listened.

"Look around you!" Robyn called out to the crowd, her voice filled with righteous anger. "Look at what Atlas has done to Mantle! The embargo, the military occupation, the walls that keep us trapped in our own homes while Atlas watches from above in their ivory towers! They say they're here to protect us, but what do they protect? Their own interests, their own wealth, their own power. They don't care about the people of Mantle!"

The crowd murmured in agreement, and Jaune felt a surge of frustration building inside him. Yes, Mantle had its problems — he could see that as clearly as anyone but the way Robyn was twisting things, making it sound like every soldier, every person in uniform, was a tool of oppression... It didn't sit right with him.

Jaune's hand tightened into a fist at his side as Robyn continued.

"Ironwood wants us to believe there's some great evil out there, that we need to rally behind him and his army to fight off this supposed threat. But what has he really done for us? All I see are soldiers in the streets, machines patrolling our neighborhoods, and walls going up around us! Is this the kind of protection we asked for?"

The crowd cheered, and Jaune felt a spark of anger flare inside him. His brothers and sisters in the military, the people who had fought and bled beside him, weren't oppressors. They weren't some faceless, heartless force sent to control anyone. They were soldiers — just like him trying to do their jobs, trying to protect people from a threat that was all too real. For fuck's sake, their family is in Atlas!

Jaune bit his tongue, forcing himself to stay calm as Robyn went on.

"The truth is, Mantle doesn't need Atlas to protect us. We can protect ourselves. We can stand together as a community, and we can fight for what's right without Ironwood's army breathing down our necks!"

There was another round of applause, and Jaune's pulse quickened. He understood the skepticism. He even understood the frustration. But the way she was framing the military — as some kind of fascist force, as if they were the enemy was infuriating. Did she really believe that every soldier in Atlas was a mindless tool of oppression? Did she not see the sacrifices they made, the lives they risked every day? Jaune could tell she's a huntress, so this son of a bitch should understand what Grimm feeds on.

Jaune exhaled sharply, his mind racing as he struggled to keep his temper in check. He didn't want to make a scene, didn't want to draw attention to himself, but every word Robyn spoke was like a slap in the face.

She doesn't know what it's like, Jaune thought bitterly. She hasn't seen what I've seen.

Robyn was still speaking, her voice carrying with conviction. "And what about the Grimm? They keep telling us there's some force out there controlling them, some great enemy we need to unite against. But where's the proof? Where's the evidence? All I see is the same Grimm we've always faced, and all I hear are excuses for why Ironwood is tightening his grip on Mantle."

The crowd rumbled in agreement, and Jaune felt his blood boiling. Grimm that had grown more organized, more strategic. He knew what Salem was capable of, and he knew that this wasn't just some political game. The threat was real, and dismissing it like this — dismissing everything Ironwood was trying to do to protect them was reckless.

Jaune clenched his jaw, biting back the urge to shout something, to call her out of her ignorance. But he knew it wouldn't do any good. People here wanted to believe Robyn. They wanted to believe that the military was the problem because it was easier to blame the people in uniform than to face the terrifying truth of what was really coming. You can't reason with monsters.

As Robyn continued to speak, Jaune's mind drifted to his own experience. He thought about his time in Vacuo, about the soldiers he had fought alongside, about the friends he had lost. He thought about Ironwood's speech, about the way the General had stood before them, telling them to trust in Atlas, to trust in the military's ability to protect them from the darkness that was coming.

He thought about the people in the crowd — people who had no idea what they were up against, people who were so caught up in their anger at Atlas that they couldn't see the bigger picture.

Robyn was right about one thing: things were bad in Mantle. The embargo had hurt people, the military presence was heavy, and the walls were intimidating despite these motherfuckers asking to repair them a few days ago. He hated it. Blaming every soldier, every person in uniform, for those problems was short-sighted.

"We don't need their protection," Robyn declared, her voice rising as she reached the climax of her speech. "We don't need their soldiers patrolling our streets! We can stand together, we can fight for our own freedom!"

Jaune had heard enough. This bitch was the kind that would say Atlas isn't the kingdom, but its people. As if people would be happy finding their homes gone and being displaced a good thing.

He turned away from the crowd, pushing through the mass of people as he made his way back toward the street. His anger simmered beneath the surface, but he kept his expression neutral, his steps measured. He knew better than to lose his temper in a public space, especially in a place as volatile as Mantle.

As he walked away from the rally, his mind churned with frustration. He understood that people were scared, that they were angry, but turning that anger against the very people who were trying to protect them? That wasn't the answer.

Ironwood was doing what needed to be done, and the soldiers in Atlas—his brothers and sisters in arms were following orders, doing their duty to keep the Kingdom safe. To hear Robyn Hill paint them as some kind of villainous force, as if they were the problem, made Jaune's blood boil.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He had learned long ago to keep his emotions in check, to focus on the mission, on the bigger picture. Getting angry wouldn't solve anything. But still… it didn't stop him from feeling the sting of Robyn's words.

Jaune stopped at a nearby intersection, leaning against a lamppost as he watched the city of Mantle moving around him. The streets were busy, filled with people going about their daily lives, most of them unaware of the danger that was lurking just beyond the horizon. They didn't know about this Salem, about the Grimm that Ruby and others told him was growing more organized, more dangerous. They didn't know about the real threat that General Ironwood was preparing to face.

But Jaune knew.

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking another deep breath as he steadied himself. Jaune couldn't let Robyn's words get to him. He had a job to do, and he would do it, no matter how many people questioned the military, no matter how many people doubted the truth.

The fight was coming, and whether the people of Mantle believed it or not, Jaune would be ready for it.

As he straightened up and began walking again, he made a mental note to himself: never vote for Robyn Hill.

She might have a lot of supporters in Mantle as some hometown hero, but to Jaune, she was just another obstacle standing in the way of the real battle that was coming.

And when that battle came, Jaune knew where his loyalty lay.