Hey guys been a while since ive updated this as you guys can guess this story is being rewritten based on the original concept but with more of an artsy supernatural surreal feel. it will still have comedy and romance but of course that's going to take a bit of a back seat until the introductions and the cosmology gets off the ground
You might have realized that this chapter is written differently and that's mainly due to me trying to standardize my writing process and actually have a plan in mine when i start and end a story. so I'm going to try for now on to publish at least 1 chapter across this and Semblances and Spacenoids every week or every other week with one week being S.S and the other being this.
you all probably have noticed but reading this and reading S.S that I've gotten a few people to edit and beta read my work to keep to the separate styles with both of the stories being something of an experiment as the two are going to be very different genre wise and story wise. so i guess wish me luck and leave a review at the bottom if you think this writing style is either too heavy and needs some adjustment or if you all like it.
Thank you for reading!
The dust coating Jaune's throat scraped like shards of glass with each labored breath. The emerald forests surrounded him, stray golden rays piercing the verdant canopy, transforming the woodland floor into a half lit liminal space between reality and a dream. Despite the ethereal light, darkness seemed to gather at the edges of his perception, his own weight and shadow growing more oppressive with each faltering step.
His left arm hung useless, a broken appendage that had betrayed him moments after impact. A jagged bone protruded from torn flesh. Twenty minutes had passed since sensation had abandoned the limb, leaving only a phantom memory of crushing pain. The sickening snap of his body against the tree trunk resonated in his mind.
With closed eyes he remembered the landing strategy, Jaune reached out with his functioning hand, knuckles blanching as he grasped a thick branch. His entire weight strained against the wood, muscle and will momentarily defying his broken body. The branch shattered almost immediately, another brutal reminder that his father was right.
Blood traced his path, droplets spreading into crimson puddles that stained the forest floor. Behind him, something prowled—a Grimm, he suspected, stalking with predatory patience. He had become prey, transformed from a would-be hero into something as vulnerable as a newborn deer.
"A deer wouldn't go rushing into certain death," his father's voice echoed..
His fingers brushed Crocea Mors' azure hilt, the ancient blade a connection to generations of his family. The weapon felt alien in his grip, weighted not just by steel but by the legacy of hunters who came before him. Pulling the sword free sent a shrill ring through the air—a final, defiant call that seemed to challenge the encroaching darkness.
"Any man who dreams of death isn't a man to be respected," Jaune muttered, his father's wisdom a lifeline. "It's easier to die for your dream. It's harder to get up every day and fight for it."
The blade felt awkward in his unaccustomed grip, his injured arm hanging like deadweight.
Scarlet eyes materialized through the darkness, cutting through the forest's eternal green canopy. Obsidian fur bristled like wind-agitated leaves, revealing the predatory silhouette of a beowulf. Jaune Arc stood resolute, the last vestiges of cowardice seeping from his body and pooling with his blood on the forest floor.
He raised Crocea Mors—the blade of his family's legacy—its silver surface catching fragments of ethereal light. The sword point trembled slightly but remained aimed at the approaching monster. Thin lips curled back, revealing ivory teeth and steam-laden breath that spoke of primal hunger.
In that moment, Jaune confronted a thought. Would he become another forgotten story—a brave son or a foolish child who challenged fate and lost? The weight of generations pressed against him, more substantial than the sword in his failing grip.
A fleeting reflection caught his eye—a dark-hooded figure with glowing silver eyes hidden beneath the forest's shadowy embrace. "Ruby?" he called, voice cracking with desperate hope. But the vision dissolved as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the advancing beowulf.
The creature charged, a wild unrelenting fury. Jaune pivoted, his wounded body screaming in protest. Crocea Mors sliced through the beowulf's torso, carving a devastating canyon across its ribs. The monster howled, a sound of pain that echoed through the uncaring forest.
Talons ripped into Jaune's shoulder, his broken arm offering no resistance. Teeth sank into his calf, denim providing no more protection than tissue paper. Yet Jaune fought—each strike becoming more desperate, more visceral. Armor fell away, leather straps surrendering to bestial claws, muscles beneath yielding to raw violence.
Blood filled his mouth, Centuries of heroic blood pumped from his heart, feeding the uncaring soil beneath him. In a final, devastating moment, Jaune drove Crocea Mors down the beowulf's throat, forcing the creature to release its grip.
The grimm collapsed, not bleeding but dissolving into vile ash—exactly as the stories his mother had told promised. Jaune looked down, registering the absence of his left hand, and fell against the creature's cooling body.
As life slowly dissipated from his body, merging with the forest's breath and the grimm's ash, Jaune Arc became little more than a final breath—carried onward and being lost in the soft wind.
Smooth jazz meandered through the diner, weaving between conversations like a thread. The coin-fed jukebox's aged speakers crackled, switching the song even as Jaune's ears unexpectedly popped.
"You need to pay the lady, kid," a voice echoed in Jaune's mind.
He blinked, panic rising as his cold hands gripped a chilled crystal milkshake glass. His recently stumped left wrist throbbed as he flexed icy fingers, pain radiating through a limb that should not exist.
"She doesn't have all day, kiddo," the voice persisted.
Jaune's eyes shot to the pink-uniformed waitress, her outstretched hand demanding payment. His hand dove into his pocket, retrieving two golden coins. The Arc family crest gleamed on their surface, his own face pressed into the metal like a half-remembered reflection.
His fingertips traced the coins' ridged edges before placing them in the waitress's hand. She hummed, silver eyes glinting with a familiarity that tugged at the edges of Jaune's fractured memory. Before he could fully register her features, she turned away.
"I-I didn't order this," Jaune stammered, disorientation clouding his perception.
The tightly packed diner felt simultaneously strange and achingly familiar.
"The disorientation is normal," the mysterious voice advised. "Try to take a sip of the milkshake. Drinking something familiar helps with the fog."
Jaune looked up, finding a brown-haired man seated across from him. Dark five o'clock shadow shadowed his face, an onyx suit contrasting against the dark red leather booth. A cigarette hung from his lips as he struggled to light a stubborn lighter.
"Who—who are you? Where am I?" Jaune asked.
The man ignored him, continuing to strike the lighter. Jaune pointed to the "No Smoking" sign hanging on the wall. Sighing, the man tucked the cigarette back into his suit jacket.
"You're dead," he stated with clinical detachment.
Jaune didn't recognize the smooth accent, but something in the man's deep baritone made his head swim with an odd sense of calm. "What?" he exclaimed, loud enough to draw potential attention.
The other diners remained wrapped in their own conversations, oblivious.
The man in black regarded Jaune with a sympathy that felt both ancient and immediate. "It's difficult to accept," he said, "but if you'd like to test it, go right ahead."
The man in black revealed a silver watch, its face catching a light. His eyes tracked something beyond the watch—a movement that drew Jaune's gaze toward the diner's entrance.
"This is where your father always came to deliver bad news," the man explained, his voice a low, resonant undertone. He pushed aside a half-eaten plate of eggs, the gesture weighted with unspoken emotion. "Grandfather's death. Grandmother's passing. Even your childhood dog Goldy when you were twelve. Seems he's maintained the family tradition."
The diner's doors swung open. A young girl with short golden hair entered, her steps light and unaware. Behind her, a tall, burly man with a greying beard—wheat-colored hair tied back—followed with familiar, measured steps.
"Claret!" Jaune lurched forward, instinct driving him to embrace his younger sister.
But his arms passed through her body like mist, sending a cascading wave of goosebumps across his skin. She continued walking, completely unperturbed, and settled onto a barstool.
The man in black sighed, his gaze returning to the watch. He looked down at the checker-tiled floor, which seemed to ripple and distort at the edges of perception. With a subtle furrow of his brow, he forced the warping black and white pattern to stabilize.
Jaune turned, desperate to make contact with his father. He reached out, hands extended to grip the man's shoulders. Instead, his fingers dissolved through solid flesh, meeting no resistance.
Jaune's breath shook, each inhale a ragged testament to his mounting panic. His stomach threatened to betray him, and tears shimmered like diamonds in his eyes. The man in black snapped his fingers—reality itself seemed to ripple, the floor behind Jaune snapping back like malleable rubber.
He collapsed onto the floor beside their booth, a broken marionette whose strings had been cut.
"Come talk with me," the man spoke with casual detachment.
Jaune dragged himself into the chair, chest heaving. The milkshake before him performed an impossible dance—vanishing and reappearing, pristine and unmelted. A glowing red cherry perched atop perfect whipped cream, a surreal sight.
"Sugar should calm your nerves," the man advised.
Jaune drew on the straw. Vanilla exploded across his tongue, tension dissolving from his shoulders like morning mist. When he looked up, the diner's window revealed an endless void of white light—infinite and absolute.
"So I'm dead," Jaune stated.
The man in black nodded.
Another snap of fingers, and the window transformed. The forest floor materialized—Jaune's broken body spread-eagled in a crimson pool, cold dead eyes staring back with accusatory stillness.
"You survived halfway into initiation," the man observed. "More than most can claim. You even killed a grimm. You must be proud."
Jaune's knuckles whitened, fists clenching with impotent rage. "Proud? I'm dead! What was the point of any of this? I didn't prove I belonged. I died to the first grimm I encountered!"
The man leaned forward, allowing Jaune's pain to unfurl like a wounded flag. Jaune's hands slammed against the table, silverware launching into the air. The utensils hung suspended—defying gravity.
"You had no training. No aura. No firearm," the man said. "What did you expect? You died chasing your dream."
Tears pooled. "I wasn't supposed to die here. I wasn't ready!"
His gaze drifted to his father and sister—perpetual, unreachable.
The man in black steepled his fingers, a gesture both clinical and compassionate. "You speak of death like it's an ending. It's merely a threshold—a doorway. What lies beyond depends on what you carry with you."
He sipped Jaune's milkshake, an absurd gesture.
Jaune slouched, hands covering his face. "Why does it feel so... empty? This isn't how it was supposed to happen. I wanted to be a hero. I thought heroes always found a way."
The man's response came quietly, weighted with ancient wisdom. "Life is fragile. You assumed it owed you time, but time's a liar. Now you stand at the edge, asking the wrong question."
"Then what's the right question?"
A pause—.
"What will you do with a second chance?"
Jaune straightened, his gaze locked on the man before him. "A second chance? You can't be serious. I wanted to be a hero, but I failed. Heroes always find a way—and I couldn't."
The man in black leaned forward, his voice a blade of philosophical precision. "Heroes don't find a way; they forge one. The difference lies in believing in the path you carve—or letting someone else determine it for you."
Jaune's teeth ground together, frustration etching lines of desperation across his face. "I didn't even get a chance! I wasn't strong enough, fast enough... good enough. What's the point of sending me back if I'll just fail again?"
A casual shrug—almost contemptuous in its dismissal. "Failure is the mold in which strength is cast. You're clinging to an illusion. Control, destiny, purpose— They're just words we use to soothe ourselves. If I send you back, it won't be because you deserve it. It'll be because I need you."
His eyes narrowed, suspicion crystallizing. "Need me? For what?"
The man chuckled, a sound that danced between amusement and something darker. "To prove what you're capable of—when nothing else binds you but the deal we make here."
Jaune hesitated. The chance to return pulled at him like a gravitational force, drawing his gaze to his sister sitting at the diner counter—forever out of reach, yet tantalizingly close.
"What kind of deal?"
The man finished the milkshake, a gesture both casual and ceremonial. He gestured toward the diner's door.
"You walk out with a second chance. Life. Strength. An opportunity to prove yourself worthy of the heroic title you've desperately sought." A pause, weighted with unspoken implications. "In return... well, I'll call on you when the time is right."
"And if I refuse?"
Soft words, sharp as a razor's edge. "Then you stay here. Forever. The void will consume what remains of you, and the world will move on without a whisper of your existence."
The final challenge hung in the air—a knife's edge of possibility.
"This... this isn't fair. It's not supposed to be like this."
"Fairness is a story we tell ourselves to sleep at night," the man continued. "You wanted to be a hero. Here's your chance. The question is—are you willing to pay the price?"
Jaune shifted, glancing between his father and his younger sister. The man in black extended his hand across the table, his posture unnervingly still despite leaning forward on his elbows.
"I'll do it," Jaune said, his voice a whisper. He clasped the man's hand.
The moment their palms met, Jaune's left arm erupted in flame. A rose-like pattern—intricate and alive—burned through his clothing. Thorned vines crawled up his shoulder, writhing with an almost sentient purpose. Just before reaching his chest, the vines coiled tightly, compressing into a dense, pulsing sphere that seemed to breathe with its own dark energy.
The vines sank beneath his skin.
Jaune watched, transfixed, as his shirt disintegrated, revealing a perfect circle hollow in his upper chest, just beneath his collarbone. The wound looked deliberate, a window into something beyond flesh.
"See you on the other side, kiddo," the man in black murmured. He extracted a thick wad of bills from his suit jacket, dropping them casually on the table.
Jaune rose from the booth. The supernatural flora vanished as quickly as they'd appeared. He rushed toward Claret, who turned to face him.
"Clare!"
His cry dissolved into a cascade of burning embers as he collapsed, spreading across the floor like a dying constellation.
Jaune fell through reality—not merely falling, but traversing dimensions. Thousands of feet per second seemed to compress and stretch around him, time becoming fluid, malleable. Massive bridges of golden light sprawled in an impossible geometric landscape, glowing currents flowing through them like cosmic wires of pure energy.
The golden paths wove a complex web beneath him, each strand pulsing with an otherworldly luminescence. As he passed through the final golden thread, a massive gleaming silver blade materialized in the dark abyss—suspended, eternal. A pair of blue eyes, mirror-bright and burning with an inner fire, locked onto him. Eyes so similar to his own, yet fundamentally different.
"Crocea Mors?"
The fire washed over him, and Jaune shut his eyes against its intensity.
Abruptly, he felt the violent impact—his back striking something that shattered like glass. Falling further, he realized he had collided with a massive mirror, fracturing its perfect silvery surface. The scent of incense—sharp, ritualistic—filled his lungs as darkness gathered overhead like a gathering storm.
A marble white version of himself materialized. Blood-colored irises burned within an alabaster face, watching with predatory intensity. Its smile stretched impossibly wide—more an imitation of intent than an expression of emotion. It clutched Jaune like a fragile artifact, holding him suspended in its translucent hands.
The seal on Jaune's arm erupted in searing pain.
He was dropped—cast aside like a discarded experiment.
The white apparition remained, unmoving. Not vanishing, not retreating—simply watching. It raised one hand in an almost playful wave, a gesture that felt more like a promise than a farewell.
Dark mirrors materialized around him, Thousands of windows, each pressed with faces—heads molding the glass like soft clay, their features fluid and desperate. The mirrors moved with a strange, organic sentience.
"Jaune."
The voice was sweet, almost maternal—an antithesis to the nightmarish landscape.
Jaune raised his hands defensively as spectral arms shot from the mirrors, reaching for him. But they were anticipatory, alive—withdrawing just before contact, teasing the boundary between touch and intention.
"Jaune."
Blue eyes shot open—a primal, startled response. The Emerald forest's light cascaded through tree branches, filtering soft green and golden hues across Jaune's vision. He lay on his back, disoriented, the world slowly resolving into focus.
Silver orbs hovered above him, attached to a face of ethereal beauty. A woman with pale skin and an enigmatic smile looked down, her touch gentle as she brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. The soft, thin black material beneath his head whispered against his skull, threatening to pull him back into unconsciousness.
"Jaune." The voice was familiar—the same sweet melody that had echoed through the impossible abyss..
"Easy there, hero," she murmured, her tone both protective and amused. "You're back now. You're safe."
"R-Ruby?" Jaune's voice cracked, as if speaking were a forgotten skill.
"Not exactly," she responded, a subtle challenge in her words.
Her hands withdrew, and she leaned back, watching him with an intensity that suggested she knew far more than she was revealing. Jaune shifted, rising to a sitting position. Panic bloomed across his features—a raw, visceral thing. His eyes darted around the emerald forest like a cornered animal, searching for something just beyond his view.
"Didn't think you'd be the type to nap in a lady's lap, but here we are." A warm laugh escaped her lips, incongruously light against the charged atmosphere.
Jaune paused, turning back to her. His hands—now covered in fine black gloves—drew his attention. He pulled them off, revealing nearly translucent rose tattoos that wound around his wrists like living nature.
His clothing had transformed. A dark, high-collared jacket with white accents covered a black t-shirt, secured by a gold-buckled belt. Dark pants terminated in sturdy boots—an outfit that felt both familiar and utterly foreign.
"What am I wearing?" The question escaped before he could stop himself.
"The boss said you needed new clothes," she explained, glancing at her own sleeve—a bright red material that seemed to shimmer with an almost translucent quality. "Apparently, you tore up the old ones."
Jaune crawled backward, a defensive motion. "Wait! You know about me?"
"Yeah," she responded matter-of-factly. "I mean, I was there in the diner."
."This outfit isn't my usual digs, but I make it work." Summer's fingers traced the black fingerless gloves, a hint of irony in her voice. "I think you last saw me in a pink waitress uniform? It's fuzzy down there."
"What?"
She assessed their surroundings with practiced calm. "I can explain everything now, or we can wait until we find actual civilization. This place still has a ton of Grimm."
Summer extended her hand. "I'm Summer. Nice to meet you, Jaune."
Jaune's eyes widened. "You know my name?"
Summer chuckled, a sound both warm and enigmatic. "I better. We're going to be partners from now on."
Jaune took her hand shakily, his grip tentative. "Partners. Wait, like on a Huntsman team?"
"Yup," Summer smiled, "I was a hell of a Huntress in my time."
"Your time?"
She raised her hand, the light revealing its near-translucent quality. Jaune's breath caught.
"You're—you're a ghost," he said, his voice a mixture of disbelief and wonder.
Summer was unmistakably older—more refined than the girls at his old school, radiating a mature beauty that seemed to transcend physical boundaries. "I am," she confirmed. "And I was offered a second chance. But again, I'll explai—"
Suddenly, a pressure erupted to their right. Summer's head snapped toward the deep woods, her silver eyes momentarily flickering with an inner light.
"What—what is that?" Jaune asked.
Summer stepped forward. A deafening roar—more terrifying than any Grimm—tore through the forest. Another wave of oppressive energy crashed against Jaune, forcing him to one knee.
"It's an Essentia beast," Summer explained, her gaze fixed on the treeline, seemingly unaffected by the overwhelming pressure.
"We—we need to get out of here," Jaune stammered.
As he tried to turn away, a golden chain shot from Summer's arm, wrapping around him with supernatural precision. "We need to go face it," she declared, pulling him closer. Her dark red hair swayed in the wind, a breathtaking sight despite the building tension.
Her next words hung in the air, laden with desperation:
"Please. It's my Ruby."