The village stood in ruin, the aftermath of a Grimm attack leaving its people wounded and weary. Broken homes lined the narrow dirt paths, smoke still rising from charred rooftops. Blood stained the earth, and the air was thick with the scent of sweat, dust, and despair.
Yet, despite their suffering, the villagers had survived.
They had fought with everything they had from pitchforks, old rifles, even bare hands, driving back the Grimm at great cost. That was life here in Vacuo. Some lay bandaged and broken, others sat in stunned silence, wondering how long it would be before another attack came.
Then, through the ashen wind, he arrived.
A low rumble of hooves, slow and steady, echoing against the ruins.
The people turned, eyes widening as a figure emerged from the dunes.
A knight, clad in sandy steel, his armor dusted but unyielding. A cloak of red billowed behind him, worn from the sands yet regal all the same. His helmet, though sanded, the aura around him glowed golden, as if he carried the light of a thousand dawns.
And beneath him was a jackalope, massive and golden-furred, its antlers gleaming like polished ivory. It moved with silent grace, each step stirring whispers among the villagers.
The Rusted Knight had come. They had heard the rumors lately.
Some gasped, stepping back, gripping their wounds as if unsure if what they saw was real.
Others dared not believe, staring at him with suspicion, murmuring old fairy tales about the knight who only appeared in times of great need.
But then a child broke from the crowd.
Brave and unafraid.
Tears stained his dirt-covered face, his tiny frame trembling as he stumbled forward. Sniffling, his voice weak but urgent, he called out.
"Sir Knight! Please—please help!"
The Rusted Knight, silent atop his steed, tilted his head.
Then, with slow precision, he dismounted.
The moment his boots touched the ground, the people tensed, but there was no menace in his movements.
He kneeled before the child, his towering form lowering itself with a grace unexpected of a warrior.
His voice, muffled through his helmet, was gentle.
"What is wrong, little one?"
The child sniffled, rubbing his eyes, before pointing toward a shattered hut near the village center.
"My dad… he's hurt real bad."
The knight's posture shifted, something in his presence softening.
"Take me to him."
The villagers watched in stunned silence as the Rusted Knight followed the child, his jackalope trailing behind like a silent sentinel.
As they approached the wounded man, the knight saw the extent of the damage—a man lay pale and trembling, his abdomen soaked in blood, his breath ragged and shallow. The wound was festering, on the verge of claiming his life.
The child clutched his father's limp hand, his eyes brimming with silent desperation.
The Rusted Knight knelt beside him, removing one of his gauntlets.
A warm, golden light flickered at his fingertips.
The villagers held their breath.
He placed his palm over the wound, his aura weaving through the injured man's body, his energy mending flesh, sealing torn veins, pulling him back from the brink of death.
The man gasped sharply, his fingers twitching.
The child let out a shaky cry of relief, clutching his father's arm.
The villagers watched in awe as the Rusted Knight pulled away, his task complete.
"He will recover," the knight said simply, before rising.
Then another voice, weak but desperate.
"Sir Knight… please… help my wife."
The Rusted Knight turned.
An elderly man, his face lined with age, stood on shaking legs, his eyes pleading.
The knight nodded once and walked toward him.
Then—another.
And another.
More voices called out, each filled with hope, pain, and desperation.
The Rusted Knight said nothing.
He simply moved.
One by one, he healed them.
He worked without rest, without complaint, his golden aura weaving through the broken bodies of the wounded, pulling them from death's grasp.
When the wounded were saved, he moved to those who could not fight, helping rebuild the village, lifting beams of wood, setting bricks into place, securing roofs torn apart by battle.
He did not ask for praise.
He did not ask for payment.
He labored in silence, a knight with no kingdom, a warrior with no court, a guardian who asked for nothing in return.
And when his task was done when the village stood whole again, when the wounded could rise once more, when the people dared to hope.
The Rusted Knight turned toward the horizon.
The villagers, seeing him prepare to leave, scrambled forward.
"Wait! Please! Stay!"
"We need you, Sir Knight!"
"Tell us your name!"
The Rusted Knight simply shook his head.
Then he raised a single, gloved finger to his helmet, pressing it where his lips would be.
A silent command for secrecy.
A knight who did not seek recognition.
A legend who did not need a name.
The golden jackalope stepped forward, and with practiced ease, the knight mounted his steed.
A warm breeze swept through the village, carrying with it a swirl of multi-colored leaves, wrapping around the knight and his steed like a phantom's embrace.
And just like that—
He was gone.
The fire crackled softly, its golden glow flickering across the sand, casting long shadows in the quiet, endless night. The desert stretched in all directions, its dunes shifting under the faint whisper of the wind. Above, the sky was an ocean of stars, untouched and eternal, watching over the world with their silent, indifferent gaze.
Jaune removed his helmet, setting it down beside him. The weight of it had long since become second nature, yet in moments like these, he could still feel the burden it carried. The scars of battles fought, the weight of expectations he asked for.
It had his been role for a while.
With a tired sigh, he leaned back against Juniper, his faithful companion, the golden jackalope sitting beside him in comfortable silence. She had long since grown used to his midnight musings, his whispers to the fire, when the rest of the world had long since gone to sleep.
He stared into the flames, watching them dance and flicker, lost in thought.
Then, after a long pause, he finally spoke.
"Even after all these years… Remnant is still a sad place."
His voice was quiet, not meant for anyone but himself and the stars.
"I've traveled far. I've seen the villages thrive, seen places rebuild. I've seen the strong protect the weak, seen warriors rise in defiance against the darkness. But no matter how much time passes, there is always suffering. There is always war. There is always loss. Inside and outside of the kingdoms... nothing changes."
He exhaled slowly, running a gloved hand through his golden hair, now dusted with silver from time and toil.
"When I was younger, I thought I could change the world. I thought that if I trained hard enough, fought hard enough, if I was just strong enough, I could… make a difference. Stop the fighting. Stop the death. Protect the people who couldn't protect themselves."
He let out a small, hollow chuckle, shaking his head.
"But Remnant doesn't work like that, does it?"
The fire popped, sending sparks into the night.
"No matter how many Grimm we slay, more take their place. No matter how many battles we win, another fight begins. No matter how much we fight, there is always someone suffering, always someone afraid. It never ends. It never stops."
His blue eyes, once filled with youthful optimism, now only carried understanding.
"And yet… they keep fighting. These people..."
He tilted his head back, staring up at the vast, endless sky.
"The people of Remnant… they never stop fighting. How beautiful is that, Juniper?"
There was something like awe in his voice, something soft, something achingly human.
"I've seen villages burned to the ground, only for the survivors to rise from the ashes and rebuild. I've seen children who've lost everything still find the strength to smile. I've seen warriors stand against impossible odds, knowing they would die, but choosing to fight anyway."
He ran a hand over his face, the rough texture of his beard scratching against his palm.
"And I think… I understand now."
Juniper's ears flicked as she listened, her golden eyes reflecting the firelight.
"I understand why she wants to fix them. The Grimm, I mean."
His fingers tightened against his knee.
"Salem… no. Not Salem anymore. The Godmother."
The distinction mattered.
Salem was a monster, a tyrant, a curse upon this world.
But the Godmother was something else.
Something… sad.
"She's lived longer than any of us. She's seen the same things as we have. The wars, the death, the endless cycle of violence. But unlike me, she's seen it for millennia and was given a chance to begin anew."
Jaune's gaze softened, filled with something close to pity.
"She must be so tired. And yet she carries it still"
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of sand and firewood, the world around them silent and listening.
"The Grimm were created as punishment. A curse upon Remnant, meant to ensure it never found peace. But the people still found ways to survive, to fight back. To live."
He took a deep breath, shaking his head.
"The Grimm don't belong in this world anymore."
For centuries, they had been monsters, nothing more than creatures of destruction. But what if… what if that could change?
"The Godmother wants to give them souls. She wants to turn them into something else. Something more. And for the first time in my life, I don't think she's wrong."
His lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers tapping against his knee.
"If they had souls… would they still want to destroy? Would they still hunger for death? Or would they become like us? Struggling, broken, but… still fighting to live?"
He let the thought linger, the crackling of the fire the only response.
Juniper shifted beside him, lowering her head onto her paws, her golden fur shimmering softly in the firelight.
Jaune smiled faintly, running a gentle hand down her back.
"You're the only one who listens to me ramble, huh?"
The jackalope let out a soft, contented chuff, nudging his arm in response.
Jaune chuckled, shaking his head.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the weight of the world settle on his shoulders, the familiar weight he had carried for so long.
Then, quietly, he whispered, "Even if we win this war… even if the Grimm are changed, if Remnant finally has a chance at peace… what happens next?"
Because war was not the only enemy.
People fought for power. For land. For ideals.
If the Grimm disappeared, would that stop them from fighting each other?
He had his doubts.
But still, "I want to believe in them."
He opened his eyes, gazing into the flames once more.
"I want to believe that one day, Remnant won't need warriors like me anymore."
That one day, there wouldn't be a need for a Rusted Knight to wander, saving lives only to disappear before dawn.
That one day, he could finally rest.
Finally, go home.
But that day was not today.
The fire flickered, the night stretching endlessly before him.
Jaune reached for his helmet, his fingers brushing against the cold steel before lifting it back onto his head.
The Rusted Knight rose, dusting off his armor.
Juniper lifted her head, big ears perking up.
Jaune placed a hand on her side, giving her a small nod.
"Come on, girl. We have work to do. Let's find that place and then moved to Mistral."
The golden jackalope stood, stretching before lowering herself, allowing him to mount.
The fire crackled one last time, before being snuffed out by the wind.
As dawn began to rise over the desert, the Rusted Knight rode on.