Sunshine Chapter 45: Like Water, a rwby fanfic

Chapter 45: Like Water

"The ideal is unnatural naturalness or natural unnaturalness. I mean it is a combination of both. I mean here is natural instinct and here is control. You are to combine the two in harmony. Not if you have one to the extreme, you'll be very unscientific. If you have another to the extreme, you become, all of a sudden, a mechanical man, no longer a human being. It is a successful combination of both. That way it is a process of continuing growth. Be water, my friend." - Bruce Lee

Reviews:

Yr: Jaune will eventually learn how to adapt to different fighting styles when we get to the 2nd part of the story, and I do plan on Jaune eventually learning how to disarm/fight with his hands because he's supposed to be like a little like Guts, and Guts can throw hands despite it being rare, and Guts also knows how to throw a few daggers, so Jaune having a few more skills is something I plan on having for him.

Delta7344: Nah, after this chapter, we've got 4 chapters left before we hit Part 2 of the story as it's Chapter 50 that Jaune returns to Beacon and the 2nd year begins, but trust me, I've got one more little surprise for you and the other readers~!

blaiseingfire: Yes! Mama Vernal for the win! And also, no, nothing is gonna happen... not yet~!

Idea 2lon: Jaune would be a real monster if he was trained earlier especially if he possessed his original semblance, and having him fight some Grimm attacking his town would give him experience, which is really nice and a great Idea. But I don't think the way you want him to grow is honestly the best, Jaune is smart, strong, and a fast learner, but he's no genius or a prodigy like Pyrrha or Ruby. What makes Jaune a good character is that he's worked hard to get where he is, and while he can have connections to Ozpin and Qrow in certain stories, I don't think Jaune would have that much of an impact on their characters unless he truly spent a lot of time with them. There's nothing wrong with making a Jaune OP story, you can write what you want and hey, I even enjoy a few JauneXHarem stories here and there. But Jaune's always a character that is needed to struggle and work hard to get where and what he wants.

XXX

Jaune and Sun stood in the open courtyard behind the dojo, the warm Vacuo sun casting long shadows across the sand-covered ground. They had come here to train, to push each other further, but before they could begin, Jaune needed answers. There was something that had been nagging at him ever since he arrived—something that only Sun could explain.

Jaune took a breath and crossed his arms. "Dew told me that you've been telling everyone at Shade that I could be your equal, ever since then, I've been getting challenged left and right, like they all want to test if I really measure up to you," He narrowed his eyes. "So… why? Why tell people that? What made you think I was someone who could stand on your level?"

Sun met his gaze, his signature smirk curling his lips, but there was something deeper in his expression—a quiet understanding. "I don't know everything you've been through, Jaune," he admitted, his voice calm. "But I see something in you, you've found some kind of peace, but it's a fragile one, isn't it? Beneath that calm, there's a beast—rage, hatred, pain, all tangled together, threatening to take over,"

Jaune tensed slightly at Sun's words, but the Faunus wasn't done.

"And yet, you keep it in check, when you fight, you don't move as someone lost in anger, you're not a rabid animal lashing out blindly, no, you're something else," Sun told him. "You move with the flow, almost like water—formless, adaptable, but… You're still holding back, you're missing something,"

Jaune frowned. "Missing what?"

Sun's grin widened as he casually set his staff down against the dojo wall. He glanced around, searching for something, before finally picking up a small but sturdy stick from the ground. It wasn't much thicker than a few pencils stacked together, but it was firm, and strong.

Jaune watched with curiosity as Sun snapped off the tiny branches, making the stick smooth and straight. Then, without a word, he walked over to a burlap sack filled with sand, hoisted it up, and tied it securely to a low-hanging branch.

Jaune raised a brow. "Uh… what exactly are you doing?"

Sun didn't answer. Instead, he took a few steps back, gripped the stick lightly between his fingers, and with a quick, fluid motion, swung it through the air.

Thwack.

To Jaune's astonishment, the stick cut halfway into the burlap sack, splitting it open just enough for grains of sand to trickle out. His eyes widened. That wasn't just a simple swing—it was precision, speed, and control all working together in perfect harmony.

Sun turned back to him, twirling the stick in his fingers. "This," he said, holding up the simple piece of wood, "Is freedom,"

Jaune's breath hitched as he stared at the burlap sack, the neatly sliced gash leaking a steady stream of sand onto the ground. His mind struggled to process what he had just witnessed. A simple wooden stick, something that shouldn't have had the strength to cut, had just cleaved through the dense sack like a blade through soft flesh.

Yet, despite the impressive display, Sun didn't look pleased with himself. In fact, he let out a small sigh and shook his head. "Still not quite there," he murmured to himself, rubbing the back of his neck as if he had failed some invisible standard.

Jaune stepped forward, unable to contain his curiosity. "How… How did you do that?" he asked, his voice laced with disbelief. "Did you use Aura?"

Sun let out a chuckle, shaking his head. "Nope," he said simply. "No Aura, just this little stick and the right movement,"

Jaune's brows knitted together. "That doesn't make any sense," he muttered.

His mind raced through everything he knew about combat. Even with a weapon, even with years of training, cutting through something like that required force, sharpness, or some kind of enhancement. But Sun had done it without any of those things.

Before Jaune could ask more questions, Sun casually flipped the stick in his grip and held it out toward him.

Jaune blinked at the offering. "Wait… you want me to try?"

Sun simply smirked, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement.

Realizing that was exactly what Sun wanted, Jaune nodded and took the stick. It felt absurdly light in his hand—almost fragile, like a twig that could snap with too much pressure. His grip tightened slightly as he rolled it between his fingers, testing its weight.

Meanwhile, Sun moved toward another sack of sand, grabbing it effortlessly before tying it up to the same branch as before. Once it was secured, he stepped back and gestured toward it. "Alright, your turn," he said, crossing his arms.

Jaune exhaled sharply and focused on the target. His thoughts ran wild. 'Despite how light this little thing is, Sun used it to cut through that bag like it was a knife through butter,' Jaune told himself. 'How the hell did he do it?'

He adjusted his stance, lifting the stick, trying to mimic what he had seen Sun do just moments ago.

But as he prepared to swing, doubt crept in. 'Was it speed? Angle? Power?' Jaune asked himself

Jaune didn't know, but he was about to find out.

Jaune swung the stick with all the force he could muster, aiming to replicate what Sun had done. But instead of slicing into the bag, all he accomplished was a dull thwack—the sound of wood smacking against coarse burlap. The sack barely moved from the impact, its shape undisturbed, as if mocking his effort.

Jaune blinked, perplexed. He had put as much strength as he could into that strike, so why didn't it cut? He glanced at Sun, half-expecting an explanation, but Sun only gave him an amused look before effortlessly plucking the stick from Jaune's hands.

Without a word, Sun positioned himself again, holding the stick in a loose but controlled grip. This time, instead of slashing, he pulled it back and thrust forward in a clean, precise motion.

Jaune's eyes widened as the stick pierced the sack—completely. The somewhat sharpened end emerged from the other side as grains of sand trickled from the wound. It was as if Sun had used an actual spear rather than a flimsy branch.

Jaune inhaled sharply. He had just felt how light that stick was. It shouldn't have been able to stab through the dense sack like that. And yet, Sun had done it with ease.

Again.

Jaune's grip tightened at his sides as he stared, determined to understand. His mind replayed what he had seen, dissecting every movement Sun had made. 'It wasn't just about power... He wasn't brute-forcing it,'

As Jaune watched, something shifted in his perspective. For a fleeting moment, the stick in Sun's hands blurred, its shape stretching, morphing—until he wasn't holding a simple branch anymore.

He was wielding his staff.

Jaune's breath hitched.

'That's it!'

Sun wasn't treating the stick like a random tool—he was wielding it with the same confidence, the same understanding, as his own weapon. He wasn't forcing the strike; he was listening to it, moving in tune with it. Sun didn't impose his will on the weapon, he let it speak.

Jaune exhaled slowly, his thoughts racing. He had spent years wielding Crocea Mors, cutting through Grimm, clashing against Huntsmen and criminals alike. But had he ever truly listened to his sword? Had he ever let it guide him, the way Sun let his staff guide him or even something as small as the stick he held now?

Could he do it? Could he hold something as simple as a stick and wield it with the same respect as a blade?

His eyes darted to the ground. Nearby, another branch lay among the dust and sand. It was roughly the same size as the one Sun had used. Jaune knelt and picked it up, rolling it between his fingers, and feeling its weight. It was nothing like Crocea Mors—too light, too unrefined.

But then, for some reason, a memory surfaced.

Ruby.

He recalled a time when he had asked her for advice on maintaining Crocea Mors. She had smiled, twirling Crescent Rose with ease, before saying something that had stuck with him:

"You can't just swing a sword, Jaune, despite what Yang might say, our weapons aren't just hunks of metal—weapons are an extension of ourselves," Ruby had told him, her voice firm yet kind. "They're a part of us, we keep them clean like we keep our own bodies clean, we take care of them like we take care of ourselves, if we treat them like a part of us, then they become a part of us,"

Her words had made sense back then. He had nodded along, even agreed. But had he truly understood?

Jaune closed his eyes, letting the memory fade. A deep, slow breath filled his lungs as his thoughts wandered back.

'When did I stop listening to my sword?' Jaune asked himself.

He had wielded Crocea Mors for years now. He had fought with it, bled with it, depended on it. But at some point, he had started treating it as nothing more than a tool—a means to an end.

Jaune sighed, 'When did I start thinking of it as just a piece of sharpened metal?' he continued to ask himself.

His grip on the stick tightened slightly. His mind searched for an answer, and the first face that came to him was hers.

Raven.

The woman who had torn through him like he was nothing. The one who had humiliated him, carved into his soul as easily as she had cut into his flesh.

Jaune gritted his teeth and shook his head. 'No... It wasn't because of her, as much as I might want to blame her, I know it wasn't her,'

His thoughts shifted, bringing up the ghosts of two more figures. Shay & Ms. Malachite.

Two people who had each, in their own way, forced him into fights that had cost him a piece of his soul.

Yet, just like before, he dismissed them. 'It wasn't them either,' He told himself.

Then, another image surfaced—one that sent an unsettling chill down his spine.

Himself.

Jaune saw himself standing in the aftermath of battle, his armor slick with blood, his hands clenched around his sword, his knuckles white with rage. His own reflection glared back at him, eyes burning with fury, with pain, with something darker.

And in that moment, he knew.

His eyes slowly opened as realization struck him like a hammer.

'It was me…' Jaune clenched his jaw, the realization settling deep in his chest. 'I'm the reason I forgot the voice of Crocea Mors, I was the one who started treating my sword like it was nothing more than a tool to kill with… when that's not why I picked it up in the first place,'

He had chosen this path not to become a killer, not to carve a trail of blood and vengeance. He had picked up his sword to protect.

And somewhere along the way, he had lost sight of that.

Jaune exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing. His grip on the stick shifted, steady but light, no longer forcing it to bend to his will. He raised it once more, his fingers adjusting naturally around its surface. This time, he didn't overthink it. He didn't try to make the strike happen.

Instead, he listened.

For the first time in a long time, Jaune felt the weight in his hands—not as a burden, not as a weapon, but as something more.

And in a fleeting moment of clarity, everything around him faded away. The air was still, the world distant.

Then, before he even realized it, his body moved on its own.

A clean arc.

The stick sliced through the air, meeting the sandbag with precision. A soft rip filled the air, and when Jaune blinked back into focus, he saw it—his strike had cut halfway through the bag, just like Sun's. He stared at the mark he had left, his breath hitching.

He had done it.

Sun's grin was bright with satisfaction. "There you go," he said, clearly proud.

Jaune, still stunned, let out a small chuckle. "That swing… it felt different," His fingers flexed around the stick, the sensation still lingering.

THWACK.

Something smacked Jaune across the face, and he stumbled back, blinking in shock.

Sun stood there, stick in hand, grinning like an idiot.

Jaune scowled, rubbing his cheek. "Really?"

Sun burst into laughter, twirling the stick between his fingers. "C'mon, you looked so serious! Had to snap you out of it,"

Jaune narrowed his eyes. "Oh yeah?"

Before Sun could react, Jaune struck back, poking Sun hard in the chest with his own stick.

Sun let out a surprised grunt, rubbing the spot Jaune had hit. He blinked, as if surprised Jaune actually retaliated.

Jaune let out a laugh, unable to contain the joy bubbling up inside him. It had been a while since he felt this kind of lighthearted energy in a fight. However, his amusement was cut short when he had to duck beneath a swift swing from Sun's stick, the air whistling past his head.

Sun grinned. "Almost got you!"

Jaune smirked. "Almost doesn't count!"

Without missing a beat, he retaliated, aiming a strike at Sun's ribs. The Monkey Faunus twisted his body, narrowly dodging before swinging back with a fluid counter.

Their playful spar quickly escalated into something more intense, their movements growing sharper, more precise. But as they continued, something strange began to happen.

For a fleeting moment, Jaune no longer saw a simple wooden stick in his hand. Instead, he saw the familiar gleam of Crocea Mors, his trusted sword.

And when he looked at Sun—he didn't see a stick in his hands either. No, in his mind, Sun was wielding his staff, Ruyi Bang and Jingu Bang, with the same effortless grace he always had.

His muscles tensed as Sun's imagined staff came down toward his forearm—Jaune felt the phantom pain of his bones snapping under the impact. He winced but pressed on, countering with a sharp thrust.

Sun's eyes widened. In his own mind, that wasn't a wooden stick coming at him—it was Jaune's sword, piercing straight into his stomach. He instinctively staggered back, a hand hovering over where the imaginary wound would be.

Jaune barely had time to react before Sun's next strike came at his throat.

He saw the staff. He felt it slam against his neck. He almost swore he couldn't breathe for a second.

But his body moved on instinct.

With a quick step forward, Jaune jabbed his stick into Sun's gut, and in Sun's mind, it wasn't just a poke—it was a lethal stab, the cold steel of Crocea Mors driving into his abdomen.

The two danced between strikes and counters, neither fully aware of how deep into the illusion they had fallen. Every cut, every block, every impact felt real.

They weren't just sparring anymore.

They were fighting.

And then—

"You boys having fun?"

The voice snapped them both out of it like a bucket of cold water to the face. Jaune and Sun froze, their sticks hovering mid-air as they turned toward the porch, there stood Starr, arms crossed, watching them with an amused grin.

"It's getting late, you boys have been out here for a while," Starr remarked, her arms still crossed as she leaned against the porch railing.

Jaune and Sun both looked up, snapping out of their thoughts. The sky had shifted from the golden hues of dusk to the deep purples and blues of early night, the first stars twinkling above them. They exchanged glances, equally confused.

"Wait, how long have we been at this?" Sun asked, rubbing his arm where Jaune had jabbed him earlier.

Jaune shook his head, chuckling. "No idea, felt like minutes, but..." He trailed off, looking at the sandbags they had torn up and the worn-down sticks in their hands. It had been hours.

Starr raised an eyebrow. "Will Jaune be staying for dinner?"

Jaune smirked, shrugging. "Guess I will,"

Sun grinned. "Good call, dude, you do not wanna miss Starr's cooking!"

"Alright then," Starr said with a nod, pushing off the railing. "C'mon in, I made curry tonight,"

Sun's eyes widened with excitement. "Curry!" he cried out, practically vibrating with joy before dashing into the dojo like a kid on his birthday.

Starr and Jaune both chuckled at his reaction. Starr followed at a more casual pace, while Jaune lingered for a second longer outside, looking down at the stick still clutched in his hand.

Even though their little duel had ended, Jaune could still feel the weight of it in his bones. He had felt something in that fight—something real, something raw.

And a part of him wanted to keep going.

He hadn't just been swinging a stick, and Sun hadn't just been playing around. For a brief moment, they had both stepped into something deeper, something more dangerous. If that fight had gone further... if they had been using real weapons instead of sticks...

Jaune exhaled, tightening his grip for a moment before finally letting the stick fall from his hand. He turned and followed Starr inside, but the thought still lingered in the back of his mind.

Who would have truly won? Or worse...

Who would have truly killed who?

XXX

The next day arrived, bright and warm, with a light breeze rustling the leaves outside the Flower-Fruit Dojo. As Jaune stepped through the entrance, the familiar scent of fresh wood and incense filled his senses. Starr was already inside, sweeping the floor and setting up for the younger kids who would arrive later for their lessons.

Jaune gave her a small nod in greeting. "Morning, Starr,"

"Morning, Jaune," she replied without missing a beat, glancing up from her work. "Sun's in the back, setting up for your next training session,"

"Thanks," Jaune said, adjusting the strap of Crocea Mors on his back as he walked past her, curiosity already stirring in his mind.

As he stepped outside into the backyard training grounds, he spotted Sun a few feet away, carefully arranging several bamboo poles in the ground. The poles were tall and spaced evenly apart, standing firm like silent sentinels waiting for some unseen challenge. Jaune tilted his head, a bit puzzled by the setup.

"What are you doing?" Jaune asked, stopping a few feet away.

Hearing his voice, Sun turned around, flashing his usual easygoing smile. "You'll see in just a second," he said, stepping back to admire his work. He then gestured towards the poles. "I set these up for you to cut,"

Jaune raised an eyebrow. "Sounds easy enough,"

Sun smirked, shaking his head. "Sure, but there's a catch," He folded his arms, eyes gleaming with something more than just amusement. "I don't want you to cut them just for the sake of cutting, I want you to do it only when you feel like you did last night,"

Jaune blinked. "Last night?"

Sun nodded. "Yeah. You told me that when you swung the stick, it felt different, right? That moment when everything just... clicked," He took a step closer, voice lowering slightly. "I want you to find that feeling again, that sense of flow, of freedom, only then—only then—do you cut them down,"

Jaune turned back to the poles, his grip tightening slightly. He remembered that feeling—the brief moment where everything else had faded away, where his movements had felt effortless, natural.

It had come without thinking. Without forcing it.

And now Sun wanted him to find that feeling almost on command. Jaune exhaled slowly, stepping up to the first bamboo pole. This was going to be harder than he thought.

Jaune took a slow, deliberate step forward, positioning himself in front of the first bamboo pole. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt of Crocea Mors, feeling the familiar weight of the blade in his grasp. The metal was cool against his palm, steady and firm—a reminder of the countless times he'd drawn it in battle.

He exhaled through his nose, trying to recall the sensation from the night before. That moment where everything else had faded away, where he had felt weightless yet connected to everything. The wind brushing against his skin. The distant chatter of people moving through the town. The rhythmic chirping of birds perched on the rooftops. The solid earth beneath his feet, grounding him.

But no matter how hard he tried to force himself into that state again, something felt off. His grip felt unnatural, his stance too rigid, his mind too cluttered. The more he reached for the feeling, the further away it seemed to drift.

Doubt crept in.

What if last night was just a fluke?

The thought unsettled him. If he couldn't tap into that state again, then maybe he really was missing something fundamental—something that Sun had seen in him but he himself had failed to grasp. And if that were true, would he ever find the "freedom" Sun spoke of? Or was he just grasping at an illusion?

"Clear your mind, Jaune,"

Sun's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts like a gust of wind, steady yet firm. Jaune turned his head slightly, catching the other blonde watching him intently from a short distance away, arms crossed.

"You're trying too hard," Sun continued. "Loosen your muscles, forget your doubts, your worries—hell, even your emotions, just listen to everything around you, Listen to your blade, don't force it, don't move it… let it move you,"

Jaune swallowed and turned his attention back to the pole, taking in Sun's words.

Loosen your muscles.

He released the tension in his shoulders. Let the stiffness in his stance melt away.

Forget all emotions.

The worry, the doubt, the frustration—he let them go, allowing his mind to empty itself.

Listen.

Jaune took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

The world around him became more pronounced. The chatter of pedestrians in the distance. The occasional honk of a car passing by. The rustling leaves swaying with the breeze. The subtle creak of bamboo shifting in place.

And beneath it all, the steady, unshaken beat of his own heart.

He allowed the sounds to wash over him, filling his mind, yet not distracting him. They simply were.

And in that moment, as his heartbeat fell in rhythm with the world around him, something changed.

His grip on Crocea Mors felt different—not just a weapon in his hands, but an extension of himself. He didn't feel the weight of the blade anymore, nor did he feel the need to strike with force.

Instead, he felt something else—movement, like a current waiting to be carried.

He didn't think.

He simply moved.

Cut.

That was all he had to do.

Jaune wasn't thinking about force, or technique, or the weight of the blade. He wasn't thinking at all. He just needed to cut—to let his sword guide him, to let it speak to him.

And then, it happened again.

That strange, indescribable sensation.

He felt everything around him yet, at the same time, nothing at all. The wind whispering through the leaves. The distant hum of voices beyond the dojo. The rhythmic thudding of his own heartbeat. It all blended together into a seamless current, and he let himself drift into it.

His body moved on its own. His fingers curled slightly around the hilt of Crocea Mors, but he didn't draw it. He stepped forward, his breath steady, his mind empty. He was there—completely in the moment, yet also detached from it, as if he existed in a space beyond thought and action.

Then, something stopped him.

His hand bumped into something solid.

The sensation jarred him out of his trance. His eyes snapped open, blinking as he processed what had just happened.

The bamboo pole stood there, untouched. His sword remained in its sheath.

And yet—he had moved. His body had acted as if it had swung, as if Crocea Mors had already cut through the pole. But instead, he had simply touched it.

A line of drool trailed down his chin. He wiped it off absentmindedly, his mind racing to understand what had just happened.

"Awesome, dude! You did it!"

Jaune turned sharply toward Sun, his face a mask of confusion.

"What?" he asked, completely baffled. "But… I didn't cut it, I spaced out and just bumped into the pole,"

Sun shook his head with a knowing grin. "No, you did cut it, Jaune, you cut it without cutting."

Jaune furrowed his brow. "That… doesn't make any sense,"

Sun chuckled, clearly enjoying the confusion written all over Jaune's face. He tapped his temple and then gestured to the world around them. "A long time ago, my teacher told me something, he said that the greatest thing a fighter can achieve in their pursuit of strength is to move without moving, to cut without cutting, to shoot without shooting, and for art to become artless,"

Jaune blinked. "And that's supposed to mean something?"

Sun smirked. "It means that when control and instinct are in perfect harmony—when your mind and body work together without forcing it—you reach a state where effort becomes effortless, a state where you don't try to cut… you just do," He spun his staff lazily in his hand, the motion fluid, effortless. "My teacher called it the ultimate and supreme miracle, when thinking and doing become the same thing, not one dominating the other, but both existing as one,"

Jaune was silent for a moment, letting Sun's words sink in. But the more he thought about them, the less he seemed to understand. "Move without moving, cut without cutting, shoot but not shoot, art becomes artless…" He muttered to himself, rolling the phrases over in his mind. 'What does that even mean?'

It all sounded like some vague philosophical nonsense to him.

And yet…

He had felt it.

For that brief, fleeting moment, he had moved without thinking, acted without hesitation. He had existed in a state of pure being. And somehow, in that moment, Sun insisted that he had cut without actually swinging his blade.

Jaune clenched his fist. If that was true—if he had really achieved something like that—then he needed to understand it. He needed to grasp what Sun was talking about.

Before he could voice his thoughts, Sun suddenly shifted his nunchucks, snapping them together to form his staff in one smooth motion. He planted the weapon against his shoulder and grinned.

"Alright, enough thinking for now," His tail flicked behind him, golden eyes glinting with excitement. "Draw your sword, Jaune,"

Jaune hesitated, watching Sun's stance. "Why?"

Sun smirked. "Because I wanna see something," He spun his staff once and pointed it at Jaune. "I wanna see if you've finally become water,"

Jaune did as Sun instructed, drawing Crocea Mors and activating his shield. He settled into a defensive stance, feet planted, body poised, every muscle tensed in anticipation. Across from him, Sun did the same, gripping his staff with an easy confidence, his tail flicking behind him like a metronome.

For a brief moment, neither of them moved. Both blondes simply stared at one another, waiting, watching, ready to strike the instant an opening revealed itself.

And then—Sun moved.

Without a word, without warning, the Monkey Faunus exploded forward, a golden blur of speed and momentum. He pulled his staff back, making it look like he was about to deliver a powerful overhead strike. Instinctively, Jaune raised his shield, bracing for impact—

—only for Sun's staff feint to turn into a sudden open palm strike.

Jaune's eyes widened in surprise.

Before he could react, Sun's palm slammed into his chest, hitting him with such force that the air was ripped from his lungs. The sheer impact sent Jaune flying backward, his grip on Crocea Mors and his shield failing as both weapons fell from his grasp.

His back hit the ground hard, dust kicking up around him as he skidded to a painful stop.

Jaune coughed, gasping as he sat up, utterly baffled by what had just happened. His mind reeled. He hadn't even considered that Sun would abandon his weapon mid-attack—hadn't even thought of the possibility. And yet, here he was, on the ground, completely unarmed, while Sun stood above him, barely even winded.

Sun smirked, tapping his staff against his shoulder as he looked down at Jaune. "Almost there," he said, his tone amused but not mocking. "But man, not quite yet,"

Jaune frowned, still catching his breath. "What the hell was that?"

Sun chuckled, offering a hand. "That?" He helped Jaune to his feet. "That was me proving a point,"

Jaune dusted himself off, still confused. "Which is?"

"You're still thinking too much, you got a taste of freedom last night and just minutes ago, you felt it, but freedom isn't just some one-time thing, Jaune, you have to find it, keep it, hold onto it," Sun's golden eyes gleamed with something almost like excitement. "And once you do that… once you stop trying to control it and just be—that's when you'll finally become water,"

Jaune was silent.

Sun gave him one last smirk before turning away, casually swinging his staff as he walked toward the dojo. "That's enough for today," he called over his shoulder. "Think on it, we'll go again tomorrow,"

Jaune stood there, watching as Sun disappeared into the building, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He clenched his fists.

Sun was right.

Jaune had felt it twice now. That weightless, formless, limitless feeling. It had been so fleeting, so brief—but it had been real. It had happened.

And now, he had to find it again.

He took a slow breath, eyes lifting toward the evening sky.

Could he do it? Could he become like water? Be as formless, as flowing, as free as Sun wanted him to be?

Jaune didn't know, but he hoped so.

Because for the first time in a long while, he felt so damn close to the strength he had been searching for.

XXX

The blistering sun hung high over the endless dunes, casting waves of heat across the sands. Miles away from the City of Vacuo, deep in the desert where only the desperate and the dangerous dared to tread, sat an encampment of makeshift tents, weathered tarps, and rusted-out vehicles repurposed as fortifications.

Here, among outlaws and rogue Huntsmen, sat Dallion Shrike, leader of The Shrikes—a tribe of over a hundred mercenaries and bandits who had long since abandoned the oaths of Huntsmen for a life of lawlessness.

Dallion lounged atop a wooden crate, his arms lazily resting on his knees as he eyed the two women seated across from him. Gillian and Carmine, their gazes sharp and unwavering.

Dallion was a man in his late forties, dressed in a mix of casual clothing and leather armor fashioned from reptilian hides. His short, graying hair was tied back in a small ponytail, and a rough stubble shadowed his jawline. His amber eyes, weathered with age and experience, flickered with amusement as he leaned back slightly, resting a hand on the hilt of the curved blade at his hip.

"So let me get this straight…" Dallion drawled, a slow grin creeping across his face. "You want me and my tribe to help you kill one man? A single young Huntsman-in-training? You realize how ridiculous that sounds, right?" He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

Gillian, unfazed, met his gaze with cold determination. "Yes, I do," she admitted. "And I'm willing to pay you a large sum of money to do it,"

Dallion quirked a brow. "And why do you even want this kid dead so badly?" His smirk lingered, but there was an edge to his voice now. "Why not kill him yourself?"

At that, Gillian's expression darkened. A cold fire burned in her eyes. "Because he killed my brother," she said, voice laced with venom. "He ruined our plans. And I can't let someone like him live after all he's done."

Carmine smirked. "I'm here because this man—Jaune Arc—is just like Sun Wukong,"

Silence fell over the campfire for a brief moment.

Dallion's eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of the infamous Faunus warrior, the man many hailed as "Invincible Under the Sun". His amusement faded, replaced by something far more serious.

"He's as strong as Sun Wukong?" Dallion repeated, his voice losing its previous mirth. His fingers idly tapped against his knee. "You better have a damn good reason for saying that, girl, how do you know?"

Carmine leaned forward slightly, her red eyes gleaming under the firelight. "Because I've been inside Shade Academy, I've seen what he's capable of,"

Dallion watched her, silent.

"He's been challenged over and over again—by students, by Huntsmen, even by criminals—and not once has he been beaten," Carmine continued. "And if that wasn't enough? Sun Wukong himself said that this guy could be his equal,"

That got Dallion's full attention. He leaned forward, his interest now fully piqued. "Sun himself said that?"

Carmine nodded. "Yeah, and if Sun Wukong sees him as a potential equal… that means Jaune Arc isn't just some kid," She folded her arms. "He's a threat, and if you let him keep growing, one day, he might just become someone who hunts guys like you for sport,"

Dallion exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his blade. Then, after a long pause, his grin returned—wider this time, but sharper. "Well now," he muttered. "Isn't that interesting?"

Gillian leaned forward slightly, her eyes sharp with determination as she laid out her plan to Dallion. "With your help, we plan to challenge Jaune Arc openly and formally, under the guise of settling a personal dispute," she explained.

Dallion smirked, rubbing his stubbled chin in amusement. "So you want to use Vacuo's Formal Combat Law to your advantage, huh? Smart thinking," He let out a low chuckle. "If you go that route, no one else can interfere—just us and him, a proper duel, but what if this Jaune kid refuses to accept?"

Gillian didn't hesitate with her response. "Then we'll be waiting outside the city walls," she said flatly. "And if Jaune Arc won't agree to a duel, then we'll make sure every village outside and around the city burns, that includes whatever farms and supply lines the city relies on,"

Dallion's grin widened slightly as he considered the implications. He had to admit, the plan was solid. If they fought Jaune within the bounds of the law, the Huntsmen couldn't intervene. But even if things didn't go as planned, they still held a dangerous trump card—the threat of violence against the outlying settlements.

Vacuo was tough, but it wasn't invincible. A large-scale conflict near the city walls would only invite the attention of the Grimm. And if the military or Huntsmen tried to shut them down, they'd be wasting valuable time and resources—time that could mean the difference between survival and disaster for the city.

Dallion found himself liking the idea more and more. And the promise of facing off against a fighter who might just rival Sun Wukong? That was a challenge he couldn't ignore.

His smirk widened into a full grin as he met Gillian's gaze. "Alright, you've got yourself a deal," He pointed a finger at her. "We'll back you up, but when this is over, we want five hundred thousand lien and your word that you'll leave a few of the villages untouched, some of them provide us with supplies—repairs for our vehicles, upkeep on our weapons. I'm not about to burn my own resources for this,"

"Fair enough," Gillian replied with a nod. "That works for me,"

Dallion clapped his hands together. "Then it's settled, we'll get everything in place," He said. "You just make sure this Jaune Arc shows up to die,"

Carmine remained quiet, watching the exchange with an amused smile. Gillian also smirked, feeling happy that everthing she was planning was coming together. Things were set in motion now, and if all went according to plan… Jaune Arc wouldn't be leaving Vacuo alive.

Unbeknownst to the three figures deep in conversation, a lone watcher observed from afar. Atop a towering sand dune, a solitary figure sat astride a jackalope steed, his tattered cloak billowing slightly in the warm desert breeze. The setting sun cast long shadows over the dunes, making the knight's rusted armor glint faintly in the fading light.

The Rusted Knight remained still, his piercing gaze locked onto the gathering below. He had seen enough. The threads of fate were beginning to weave into something far more intricate, far more dangerous. He could not yet see the full picture, but the weight of inevitability pressed against him.

His hand brushed gently against the reins of his steed, Juniper, the loyal beast shifting slightly beneath him as if sensing his thoughts. Slowly, he turned his head toward the distant city of Vacuo, where another crucial piece of this tangled puzzle lay waiting.

"I pray you are prepared for what is to come… Jaune Arc," the knight murmured, his voice carrying the weight of something ancient, something beyond mere human understanding. There was no emotion in his tone, only certainty—a quiet acknowledgment of the storm brewing on the horizon.

With that, he nudged Juniper forward. The jackalope took a slow step, then another, descending the great dune with practiced ease. In moments, the knight and his steed vanished into the vast, endless desert, swallowed by the golden sands and the approaching twilight.

XXX

Oh yeah, I bet some of you forgot about Gillian and Carmine, huh? Well, not anymore!

It looks like Jaune and his friends won't be getting much rest and relaxation after all. A new threat is making its way to Vacuo, and things are about to take a dangerous turn. Will Jaune accept Gillian's challenge? Or will he end up facing an entire bandit tribe with skilled fighters at their disposal?

We'll find out in the next chapter, but I'll warn you now—this isn't going to end well. Someone important to the group will die.

But who? Well, where's the fun in me spoiling that? Instead, I want to hear your predictions! Who do you think won't make it out alive? Drop your guesses in the reviews!