Chapter 47: He Who Is Unrivaled
"Life has no value!' Truly right. It has no value. If you think only of yourself, it has no value. 'Why was I born?' The reason you are here... is because someone supported your life. 'Why was I born? For what purpose?' The reason you are here... is to support lives. If you don't go against how life should be... You're already completely... Free." - Takuan, Vagabond Volume 37.
Reviews:
NinjaFang1331: Thank you!
EmperorSnorlax: Jaune will indeed find what Sun was talking about don't worry, we'll see everyone react to the battle!
blaiseingfire: Oh yes~! They'll see it, they'll all see it!
Arsenals: Here's the next chapter!
Wow: Jaune has become more of a pragmatic character. He began the journey with an optimistic view before becoming more of a dark and jaded character. He thought he was becoming more of a monster, only to realize he could still choose to be better. A slaughter is defiantly what this fight will be, and Jaune knew that he had to kill Gillian first because in his eyes, she was the leader, so yeah, she needed to go first.
hellhound37: Glad you did! Here's more!
Guest: You'll have to wait for your answer by the end of the chapter to find out who died.
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All across Remnant, every major news station had shifted their coverage to a single story—the battle unfolding at the walls of Vacuo. Jaune Arc, alone, standing against an army of rogue Huntsmen. In living rooms, cafes, bunkers, and bases, countless eyes were glued to screens, hearts pounding with every swing of his sword.
In Patch, Taiyang sat on the edge of the couch, gripping the armrest so tightly his knuckles were white. His jaw clenched, eyes never leaving the screen as he watched Jaune—wounded, exhausted, but still fighting with every ounce of strength he had left. Anxiety swelled in Tai's chest like a rising tide.
'Summer... please,' he thought silently, pleading to the woman he'd lost. 'Watch over that boy. Keep him safe... bring him home,'
Next to him, Ruby and Nora sat frozen in place, their faces pale and filled with horror. Ruby's hands were clasped tightly in front of her mouth, whispering under her breath as though her words might somehow reach him across the screen.
"Come on, Jaune... you got this! Please, please keep fighting..." Her voice trembled with fear, her silver eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
Nora couldn't speak—she could only reach for Ruby's hand and hold it tightly.
Behind the couch, Yang and Ren stood close together, arms crossed, but their tough exteriors couldn't mask the fear in their eyes. They watched as Jaune was struck, stumbling for just a moment before rising again with grit and defiance.
Ren's thoughts raced as his heart pounded. He had never been one for prayer—but now, he found himself hoping beyond hope. 'Brothers... I've never called out to you before. But if you can hear me, please—please keep him safe, keep my brother safe!'
Beside him, Yang's hand slid into his, fingers intertwining. She gave his hand a firm squeeze, silent but strong—she was right there with him.
Thousands of miles away, in the frigid heights of Atlas, Penny and Ciel watched from a quiet room, each holding their scrolls, the fight mirrored on both screens. Neither said a word. Penny's synthetic fingers trembled slightly. Ciel sat perfectly still, but her eyes didn't blink.
Even in the underground stronghold of the Happy Huntresses, Robyn, Fiona, May, and Joanna had gone silent. The usually lively room had turned into a sanctuary of hope and dread, all eyes fixed on the feed.
Fiona knelt quietly in a corner of the Huntresses' base, her hands clasped and resting against her forehead. Her lips didn't move, but in her heart, she was pleading—begging—that Jaune would make it out alive. She had seen enough loss already. She didn't want to lose him too.
Robyn stood nearby, arms crossed, a deep frown carved into her face. Her gaze never wavered from the screen, watching Jaune fight with a level of determination and skill that seemed almost inhuman. "C'mon, kid," she whispered. "You're one of us. Don't go dying on us now,"
In a darkened office lined with dust and silence, James Ironwood sat like a statue, his face lit only by the pale blue glow of the monitor in front of him. His jaw was tight, and his eyes were locked on the screen. Every movement, every clash of weapons, every drop of blood—he watched it all with the intensity of a man who couldn't afford to blink. Deep down, he feared if he looked away for even a moment, he'd miss it. He'd miss Jaune's victory—or his end.
Far to the east, in the heart of Vale, Blake and Pyrrha sat together on a rooftop terrace, a scroll propped between them, casting footage of the battle like a ghostly reflection against their faces. The footage flickered slightly in the soft evening wind.
Blake's mouth hung open as she watched, stunned. The boy who once couldn't hold a stance properly in combat class... now moved like a warrior born. She watched as Jaune ducked, countered, struck down enemy after enemy with the poise of a master.
"Is that really... Jaune?" Blake whispered to herself, disbelief in her golden eyes.
Beside her, Pyrrha's hands trembled in her lap, her eyes wide and glistening with tears. Every time Jaune got hit, her heart clenched painfully. "No... Jaune..." she breathed, her voice cracking. She brought her hands to her mouth as tears finally spilled freely down her cheeks. The fear of losing him—the fear of seeing the worst play out live before her—was unbearable.
Back in the lofty, quiet confines of Beacon's ruins, Ozpin sat alone in his old office, the lights off, a single screen illuminating the shadows around him. The battle raged in front of him, and though his face remained calm, the tension in his posture betrayed his inner turmoil.
He'd given Jaune a second chance. He'd allowed him to forge a path not written in his transcripts but in his soul. And now, watching that very soul fight for its life, Ozpin could only hope it wouldn't be extinguished before its purpose was fulfilled.
Meanwhile, deep in the shadows of Vacuo's outskirts, inside a desolate warehouse-turned-hideout, a very different group of watchers huddled around a dusty old TV broadcasting the same feed. The crackling image of Jaune fighting like a man possessed played out in front of them.
"Damn!" Mercury Black said, leaning back on a broken crate, arms crossed behind his head with a crooked smirk. "Can you believe that? I mean, I'm good—but I wouldn't throw hands with fifty pissed-off rogue Huntsmen! That's just suicide!"
He let out a low whistle as Jaune disarmed another opponent and dropped them with a brutal efficiency. His expression twisted into something between amusement and curiosity.
"He's... definitely something," Emerald breathed, her wide red eyes fixed on the flickering TV screen. There was awe in her voice—raw, genuine awe. She had seen skilled fighters before. She'd fought beside monsters, strategists, manipulators... but this? This was something else entirely. A single boy—no, a man—carving his way through fifty trained killers like it was his last will and testament etched in blood. Emerald couldn't even fully comprehend it. "How the hell is he still standing...?"
Beside her, Neo sat cross-legged on the old warehouse table, a hand resting under her chin, the other idly twirling her parasol. For once, her expression wasn't playful or mocking. It was pure astonishment.
She'd used illusions, misdirection, stealth, and speed to survive countless impossible odds. But what Jaune was doing... it wasn't trickery. It wasn't deceit. It was brute, unwavering, unrelenting force—and something deeper. Something that kept him pushing through blades, bullets, and exhaustion like a ghost that wouldn't rest. Even with her Semblance, she knew she couldn't do what he was doing.
Neo tilted her head slowly as a flicker of respect shimmered in her mismatched eyes. That boy wasn't just fighting. He was declaring war on fate itself.
In the shadows near the back of the warehouse, Roman leaned against a post with his hands in his coat pockets. He'd been quiet for the last few minutes, his usually cocky grin gone. He took a long drag of his cigar, the ember glowing faintly, and exhaled a slow, smoky breath as he watched Jaune bring down another rogue in a blur of steel and fury.
"Kid's a menace," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Cinder stood beside him, arms crossed, her amber eyes sharp and narrow as it followed Jaune's every move on the screen. Her lips were tight. It wasn't fear exactly, but there was a chill crawling up her spine—a cold, creeping awareness that the boy on screen was something different than anyone she had seen before, and he had seen Tyrian fight.
"He's dangerous," she finally said, voice low and clipped. "And getting more so with every second he stays alive,"
Roman glanced at her. "He's not just dangerous," he said, flicking the ash off his cigar. "He's a fucking monster,"
Cinder didn't respond. She didn't need to.
Because deep down, even watching from miles away, they both knew something had changed.
Jaune Arc wasn't just surviving.
He was becoming something the world wasn't ready for.
From every corner of the world—friend, foe, and those who walked the line in between—they all watched, all gripped by the same question.
Would Jaune Arc live... or would he fall?
Back on the battlefield, Jaune stood in the eye of the storm—surrounded, bloodied, but unbroken. His chest rose and fell with heavy, controlled breaths, Crocea Mors slick with blood, his shield trembling slightly in his arm from the intensity of the previous strikes.
He turned slowly, eyes flicking from one rogue to the next. Every direction held a new enemy. Dozens of them. All armed. All trained. All silent.
This wasn't like the battle in Atlas—the chaos with Spider, the skirmishes against the White Fang. That had been brutal, yes, but this... this was different. These weren't disorganized extremists or overconfident grunts. These were former Huntsmen and Huntresses, rogue warriors trained to face monsters and kill fellow fighters. This wasn't a brawl.
It was a war of wills.
And yet... no one moved.
Jaune furrowed his brow. The air was heavy, like the moment before lightning strikes. He waited for the first bullet, the first blade, the first scream of fury.
Nothing came.
Then, something changed.
His vision shifted—subtly at first. A strange haze pulsed at the edges of his sight. Jaune blinked hard, trying to clear it, but the battlefield didn't return to normal.
Instead, he noticed... outlines.
Some of the bandits shimmered faintly, their forms highlighted with bold, defined glows—like they were burning with clarity. Jaune could see the tension in their stances, the steady resolve in their eyes. These were the ones who were ready—prepared to fight and, if necessary, die.
But others... others seemed faded. Washed out. Like ghosts caught in mid-flicker. He could see through their bodies, barely opaque. And their faces—he noticed fear, doubt, uncertainty. The kind of hesitation that got people killed.
"What... is this?" he whispered aloud, his voice barely a breath. His eyes darted from one figure to the next, the realization settling in. 'I can see it... who's really willing to fight me, and who's scared to death,'
He didn't understand how or why—whether it was adrenaline, a new evolution of his Aura, or something more... spiritual. But in this moment, Jaune had clarity. A battlefield sixth sense.
And he would use it.
A guttural roar broke the silence as one of the Shrikes lunged at him—a hulking man with a rusted axe gripped high above his head, aiming to split Jaune from crown to crotch.
But Jaune was faster.
With a precision that bordered on instinct, he pivoted to the side and rammed his sword forward, Crocea Mors piercing straight into the man's gut. The impact forced the air from the bandit's lungs in a sick gasp.
Without hesitation, Jaune tore the blade free and slammed his boot into the man's chest, sending him sprawling backward into the sand, where he didn't rise again.
A sudden, panicked cry split the air behind him, and Jaune instinctively turned—just in time to catch the brutal crack of a spiked bat slamming into his face.
His Aura flared, absorbing most of the impact, but the sheer force of the blow still staggered him. He stumbled sideways, ears ringing, vision flickering for a moment. Pain surged through his skull like electricity.
Before he could fully recover, another bandit—a wiry man with a jagged spear—lunged from the shadows, driving the weapon hard into Jaune's chest. The tip striking his Aura, and knocking him off his feet.
Jaune hit the sand with a grunt, his sword slipping from his hand. He looked up through hazy eyes just in time to see another rogue step into view—lean, fast, and holding a pair of curved daggers that gleamed in the early sun.
With a savage snarl, the bandit raised both blades and brought them down in a swift, killing arc.
But Jaune rolled.
Sand kicked up around him as the twin daggers stabbed into the earth where his neck had just been. With a growl, he twisted back toward the rogue, snatching his sword up as he moved. In one brutal motion, he swung Crocea Mors with all his strength, the blade carving through the back of the bandit's neck with a wet crack.
The body slumped forward, lifeless, head rolling to the side.
No time to breathe.
Jaune rose just in time to see the spear-wielding bandit charge again, letting out a primal yell as he drove the weapon forward a second time.
This time, Jaune was ready.
He twisted his body and swatted the spear aside with his shield in a shower of sparks, then stepped in close and drove his blade upward. The tip of Crocea Mors plunged through the bandit's jaw and out the top of his skull. The man's eyes widened—then glazed over.
Jaune yanked the blade free, but even before the corpse hit the sand, a new voice cried out.
"Bastard!" one of the Shrikes shouted.
Jaune turned—and saw the glint of twin pistol barrels aimed straight at him.
Bang! Bang!
The twin gunshots struck Jaune squarely in the side, his Aura flaring bright for a moment as it absorbed the worst of the damage. He grunted but didn't fall. Instead, he dug his heels into the sand, pushing through the pain, and fixed his eyes on the gunman who had just shot him.
With a surge of adrenaline, Jaune charged.
Bullets screamed through the air, kicking up dust and dirt all around him. But he weaved through them, his instincts sharp, honed by months of training and countless battles. One shot grazed his shoulder—he didn't flinch. Another missed his thigh by inches—he didn't stop.
Then, in a blink, he was on the gunman.
Crocea Mors arced through the air with terrifying precision, and in a flash of steel, the man's hands—still clutching his pistols—were severed clean off.
The Shrike screamed in agony, blood spurting from his wrists.
Jaune silenced him with a quick, brutal slice across the throat. The scream turned into a gurgle, then nothing at all, as the shooter collapsed in the sand.
Jaune spun around, panting hard. More bandits were coming—three, maybe four—but his eyes locked onto someone behind them: a woman with a long rifle, already raising it to her shoulder.
No time to think. Only time to move.
Jaune surged forward, blades ready, toward the charging group. Just as the first bandit came within reach, he jumped—springboarding off the man's shoulder, then using another's face to push himself even higher. The bandits shouted in confusion, trying to track his sudden movement, but it was too late.
He sailed over them and landed hard behind their line, his boots skidding against the sand as he sprinted straight for the rifle-wielding woman.
"What the fuck!?" she cried, panic overtaking her as she raised her weapon and fired.
The shot rang out wide, missing Jaune by several feet.
He didn't slow.
Crocea Mors came in low, then slashed upward across her chest, carving through cloth and flesh alike. Before she could even scream, Jaune twisted his grip and swung again—this time, the blade raked across her face, splitting it from cheek to jaw in one sickening motion.
She dropped like dead weight, a heap of torn limbs and lifeless eyes.
Jaune turned back toward the bandits he had leapt over. One had just turned to face him—and Jaune was already in motion. He drove his sword into the man's side with a grunt, dragging it across with brutal force. The man cried out, dropping his weapon as he fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding side.
Another bandit came swinging with a longsword. Jaune raised his shield, caught the blow, and shoved the attacker back with his shoulder. Before the man could recover, Jaune stabbed downward, burying his blade into the rogue's thigh. The man screamed—but the scream was cut short as Jaune yanked the sword free and rammed it straight into his skull, ending him instantly.
There was no time to rest. The next opponent stepped forward—a woman wielding a pair of chained maces, spinning them in erratic, deadly arcs. She screamed as she swung them with wild abandon, metal heads crashing through the air like wrecking balls.
But Jaune didn't flinch.
He sidestepped one, ducked under the second, and stepped back with calm, fluid motion. His eyes stayed locked on her, reading every chaotic swing. Despite the raw power behind her strikes, it was clear—she lacked discipline. She was fighting on emotion, not strategy.
Jaune, by contrast, was all purpose. All precision.
Unfazed and calculating, he waited for his moment. It was coming.
While chaos raged across the battlefield, Dallion slumped motionless against a half-shattered crate, barely clinging to life. Blood oozed down his side and pooled beneath him, but it was the right side of his face that was truly horrific—flesh and skin stripped away, exposing raw, red muscle and glimpses of bone beneath. His breaths came in shallow gasps, the air rasping in and out of his lungs like a wheezing bellows.
All he could do now was watch.
His one good eye followed Jaune as the blonde cut through Shrike after Shrike, relentless and brutal, his form stained red with blood that wasn't his own. The remaining bandits—his bandits—fought desperately to hold their ground, but Dallion could already tell it was over. Jaune wasn't just surviving—he was winning.
'That lying bitch...' Dallion thought bitterly, his lips barely twitching as the thought formed. His gaze remained locked on Jaune, his expression pale and distant. 'She said he was just some Huntsman dropout... barely on par with Sun Wukong...'
He coughed, a spatter of blood staining the ground at his feet.
'He's not as strong as Wukong... He's stronger. Far stronger than that Faunus ever was...'
Then, movement caught the corner of his vision.
Slowly, he turned his head, wincing with every inch of motion. His eyes widened faintly in disbelief when he spotted her—Gillian.
The archer, bloodied and broken, was still alive.
She leaned against a crate not far from him, slumped over like a corpse—but her chest was rising. Her skin glowed faintly, like a dying ember flickering in the night. Dallion squinted, and then he saw it.
Tiny motes of aura—streams of pale light—drifting from the nearby bodies of fallen bandits and toward Gillian. They moved like wisps of smoke, drawn to her wound, subtly stitching her broken form back together.
She was healing.
She was stealing what little remained of their allies' Aura—using it to keep herself alive while everyone else fell.
The realization hit Dallion like a dagger in the gut. Rage tried to surge within him, but he didn't even have the strength to clench his fists. His body was too far gone. His vision blurred, and even his hatred felt distant now—muted, like it was happening to someone else.
If he had the energy, his expression might've twisted in fury. He might've screamed at her. But there was nothing left. Not even enough for a dying curse.
'I hate this... I hate this so much...' he thought as his breaths grew weaker, shallower. 'I don't want to die. I can't die like this. Gods... please... I'm not ready...'
But even now, the world was dimming. The noise of battle grew distant, muffled like it was underwater.
'If I'm gonna die here... then she better die too! I hope she chokes on that damn revenge of hers. If I die empty-handed... she deserves the same!'
With that final spiteful thought, Dallion's eye finally lost focus. His head leaned back against the crate, lips parting as the last breath slipped from him.
Whatever fear, fury, or desperation had remained within him died in that moment.
Gillian gritted her teeth as she dragged herself behind a crate, her breath ragged, eyes wild. Her body still throbbed from the wound across her chest, the edges of the gash faintly glowing from the stolen aura she'd siphoned. But it wasn't enough. Not yet.
Her trembling fingers scrambled along the sand and dirt, searching for anything—anything—she could use to finish the fight. Her bow lay in splinters a few feet away, the string severed when Jaune's blade had sliced through her and it in one brutal motion. The weapon she had relied on for years was now nothing more than broken wood.
"No... no, come on," she gasped, eyes darting until they landed on a crossbow lying beside a fallen ally.
With a strained grunt, she crawled over and snatched it up. Her fingers were slick with sweat and blood, but she still managed to snap the head off one of her arrows and jam the shaft into the crossbow. She began to draw back the string, muscles in her arms and shoulders tightening—
—and then white-hot pain tore through her chest like fire.
"AGH!" she gasped sharply, the weapon slipping from her grasp and clattering against the sand.
The pain was too much.
Though the aura she'd stolen had sealed some of the deeper internal damage, the surface wound was still raw—fresh—and each movement made her feel like her chest was being split open again. She clutched the injury, blood seeping between her fingers.
"No...!" she hissed through gritted teeth, her voice cracking with a mixture of fury and despair. "I-I can't die here! Not now! Not until I kill him!" Her eyes burned, not with tears, but with pure hate.
Blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth as she leaned against the crate, fighting to stay conscious, to stay focused—refusing to let death take her just yet.
Back on the battlefield, Jaune stood amidst the wreckage, his chest rising and falling like a storm-beaten bellows. All around him, bodies lay strewn across the sand, some groaning in agony, others unmoving. His armor was scuffed, slashed, and stained dark with blood—some his own, most not.
He counted the remaining enemies in a quick glance.
Sixteen. Only sixteen rogues were left standing.
And then it would be over.
He didn't know if they'd charge him all at once or try to wear him down with cautious strikes, but it didn't matter anymore. Jaune's aura flickered around him weakly—like a candle pushed to its final wick. His Semblance had been used far too many times already, and the cost was starting to show. Each breath burned, each heartbeat felt like a hammer in his ribs.
Still, he raised Crocea Mors. His arms ached, but his grip didn't falter.
'Just a little longer,' Jaune told himself, the thought clear and steady despite the chaos around him. He took a slow, controlled breath and rolled his shoulders back. 'I can do this... I have to do this,'
He wasn't just fighting to win.
He was fighting for the friends who were counting on him. For the people watching. For the ones who had died. For the ones who still lived.
And with every drop of blood left in him—
He would finish this.
Since the moment the battle began, something within Jaune had shifted.
On the surface, he looked fierce—his jaw clenched, his eyes burning, his voice sharp and commanding. To anyone watching, he probably looked like a man consumed by rage. But deep inside... he felt no such thing. Not anger. Not fear.
He felt calm.
In the middle of a whirlwind of violence—blood splattered across his face, screams echoing all around him, his muscles burning with exhaustion—Jaune felt completely at peace.
His heart beat steadily in his chest, not with panic, but rhythm. Purpose.
It reminded him of the long hours spent at the dojo with Sun, when they'd sparred until their arms were numb and their legs refused to move. It reminded him of the quiet moment when he had cut the sandbag with a stick—feeling the wind, the silence, the intention behind every movement. It had been a simple act. But now, in the heart of battle, surrounded by death and chaos, he felt it again.
That same stillness.
He moved through the battlefield like a man half-asleep, half-awake. His awareness was razor-sharp—he could see the flicker of a blade, the twitch of a muscle before a strike—but at the same time, it all felt distant. Detached.
Like he was floating just above himself, watching it all unfold. His limbs moved without thought, his sword danced through the air as if guided by something deeper than instinct. He felt both hyper-aware and completely absent.
He felt everything, and nothing.
Alive in every sense, yet also untouched by it all.
And then it hit him—like a whisper in the storm.
His eyes widened for a moment, realization washing over him with quiet finality. But instead of panic or confusion, a strange sense of peace settled into his features. His body moved, still surrounded by enemies, still drenched in blood—but his expression was soft, almost serene.
He understood now.
This was what Sun had tried to show him. This was what he had been searching for all along.
Jaune Arc stood amidst a sea of death.
The desert wind howled quietly around him, carrying the scent of blood and dust. The once golden sand was painted dark with violence—slick with crimson where bodies, broken and lifeless, now rested in twisted shapes. The battlefield was silent for a breath, broken only by the distant groans of the wounded and the scuff of boots preparing to lunge at him once more.
He was surrounded. Encircled by killers, by merciless rogues who had once been Huntsmen—trained to combat monsters, now reduced to monsters themselves. They had no hesitation in their eyes, only bloodlust and desperation. To them, he was just one more target to break, to kill.
And yet...
Jaune stood tall.
There was no fear in him now. No hesitation. His chest rose and fell with steady breath, his blood-slicked armor catching the dying light like it was part of the storm itself. Every muscle in his body ached. His aura was flickering, dangerously thin.
But in spite of it all—he smiled. Not from pride, not from victory, but from understanding.
He had found it.
Freedom.
Real, honest freedom—not from the enemy, not from death, but from the weight that had always clung to him. The doubt, the fear, the insecurity that had dogged his every step since he first picked up a sword. All of it... was gone.
In its place was stillness.
Acceptance.
Clarity.
'Sun... I've found it,' he thought, a soft, grateful smile touching his bloodstained face. 'In this moment... I am completely free,'
There was no future. No past. Just the present. Just this moment, right here—between life and death, steel and sand, purpose and chaos.
And Jaune moved.
He surged forward like a breeze turned into a blade—light on his feet, faster than thought. His sword cut through the air with grace rather than rage, an extension of will rather than fury. He didn't feel like he was forcing anything. The fight no longer controlled him—he was simply part of it, flowing through it like a leaf on a current.
With each step, he left behind the boy who once hesitated.
What remained now... was a warrior, whole and free.
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Crocea Mors stood planted in the crimson-stained sand, its once-gleaming steel dulled by blood and grit. The sword was motionless, jutting from the earth like a gravestone. Atop its pommel, a single crow perched in eerie stillness, its black eyes reflecting the battlefield's aftermath like tiny obsidian mirrors.
All across the wreckage of the shattered encampment, more crows descended, hopping between corpses with casual, morbid interest. They tore at loose flesh and pecked at exposed muscle, feasting on the remains of the fallen. A few circled lazily in the sky above, their caws echoing faintly through the wind as they searched for a place to land. The air carried a sharp mixture of blood, gunpowder, and decay.
Only a few feet away from the sword and its solemn sentinel, Jaune Arc knelt in the sand.
His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps. His body trembled, covered in blood—some of it his own, much of it not. Deep bruises had begun to bloom across his limbs like rotten flowers, and countless cuts marked his armor and skin. His aura had long since run dry. The wounds no longer closed themselves. The pain, which had been dulled by adrenaline and focus, now returned with relentless sharpness.
Still... he didn't fall.
Jaune remained upright, barely, his hands resting and limply dangling at his sides, his head lowered but not in defeat—only exhaustion. The battle was over. Not a single Shrike bandit remained standing. The once-noisy chaos had quieted into a graveyard hush. The morning had been painted with violence, hour after hour of unrelenting combat.
And now... it was done.
Jaune Arc, the boy so many had dismissed, the teen who had been cast out of Beacon for false transcripts... had emerged the sole victor in a massacre.
Surrounded by silence and the dead, he knelt not just as a survivor—but as a legend in the making.
Across Remnant, the world held its breath. Every television, scroll, and screen that had broadcast the battle now showed only the aftermath: the blood-soaked boy, the crow on his sword, and the stillness that followed one of the most brutal fights ever caught on film.
Reporters, hunters, civilians—all silent.
No one knew what to say. No one could.
Because they had just witnessed something no one expected: a lone, seventeen-year-old from Vale had just faced down fifty trained rogue Huntsmen and Huntresses... and killed them all.
And that moment—raw, brutal, unforgettable—was already being etched into history.
"Jaune!"
His name rang out, piercing through the quiet like a flare in the darkness. Slowly, Jaune's heavy-lidded eyes lifted toward the sound, his vision blurry from exhaustion and blood. And then, through the haze of red and gold sand, he saw them—blurs that sharpened with each step as they ran toward him.
Vernal. Oscar. Maria. Deery. Whitley. Sun.
His family. His found family.
They rushed across the ravaged battlefield, past the corpses and broken weapons, past the crows and ruined tents—toward the boy who had defied death and fate. The boy who had saved them, held them together, and given them hope when it had all seemed lost.
Behind them came Theodore and Rumpole, more composed but no less swift, their concern written plain on their faces.
Jaune managed a weak, worn-out smile. His arms refused to move, his body ached in places he couldn't even identify—but he was still there. Still breathing. Still Jaune Arc.
Vernal reached him first.
She didn't hesitate. She didn't slow. She dropped to her knees in front of him and pulled him into a fierce, trembling embrace, arms wrapping around his battered frame like a vice. Her breath hitched as she held him, her heart racing as if it were trying to replace his own.
As if letting go would mean losing him all over again.
Jaune chuckled softly—hoarse and pained, but real. "I-I don't think you wanna hug me right now, Vern," he rasped with a crooked grin. "I'm kinda... soaked in blood,"
"I couldn't give two shits," she shot back instantly, voice cracking as her arms tightened around him. "I... I just—thank you... For keeping your promise,"
Jaune leaned into her shoulder, his own arms finally raising just enough to hold her back. "I gave you my word, Vernal," he whispered. "And I never break my word,"
"I know," she said, voice trembling as tears slid down her cheeks. "But still... thank you, thank you so much for coming back to me,"
Before they could say more, Deery and Oscar threw themselves into the embrace too, ignoring the blood, ignoring the filth. Oscar wrapped his arms around Jaune's back, forehead resting against his shoulder. Deery squeezed him tight from the side,
"Please don't ever do something like that again!" Deery sobbed, her voice cracking as she buried her face against Jaune's bloodied shoulder. "I-I was so worried! I thought... I thought I was going to lose you!"
Her small frame trembled as tears spilled down her cheeks, streaking across Jaune's already-soaked armor. Her fists clung to the fabric of his shirt like a child terrified of letting go. Jaune wanted to comfort her, to lift a hand and ruffle her hair like he always did—but even that simple gesture was a struggle now.
"I'm sorry, Deery," he whispered, voice raspy. "I didn't mean to scare you,"
Next to her, Oscar clung to Jaune just as tightly, his head bowed to hide the tears that fell freely from his eyes. He had tried to stay composed, tried to be strong—had to be strong—but watching Jaune bleed, watching him almost fall... it had cracked something inside him.
"I..." Oscar's voice shook. "Please don't do anything like that again—n-not for a long time, Jaune, I... I don't think I can lose anyone else right now, I really don't,"
Jaune gave a weak, apologetic smile and let out a breathless, half-chuckle. "You and Deery... saying the same thing," he said softly. "Guess that means I've been a little reckless, huh? I promise. I'll try not to do anything this crazy again... for a long while." He let his head dip forward slightly.
As Jaune sat and continued to catch his breath, a familiar thwack landed lightly on the top of his head. Not hard—more of a scolding tap—but it still made him flinch with a wince. He looked up and saw Maria standing over him, leaning slightly on her cane, her one good eye narrowed with exasperation.
"You're going to be the death of me, boy," she grumbled, though her voice betrayed a mix of fondness and frustration. "Keep pulling stunts like that, and I'll keel over before whatever kills you does!"
Jaune offered her a sheepish look, trying not to laugh—it hurt too much. "R-Right... Sorry, Maria," he said through a hiss of pain.
Whitely stood just a few paces away, arms loosely folded across his chest, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed how deeply he'd been affected. His normally composed expression had softened into something vulnerable—relieved. "You had us all worried there, Jaune," Whitley said, voice calm, but the crack at the end of his words gave him away.
Jaune offered him a tired smile. "Sorry, Whit," he murmured. "Guess I've got a habit of making things too dramatic,"
Sun, crouched beside the group with an arm casually slung around his knees, let out a quiet laugh. "Dramatic? Nah, man, that was legendary! You took on fifty rogue Huntsmen and won, I knew you were going to pull through!"
Jaune raised an eyebrow at him, a playful—if utterly exhausted—grin tugging at his lips. "You knew, huh?"
Sun smirked. "Well... I hoped really hard, does that count?" he asked.
The group chuckled quietly through their tears. Even in the blood-soaked aftermath, surrounded by death and ruin, they found something real—something warm.
Behind them, Theodore and Rumpole watched in silence. Watching the young warrior surrounded by those who loved him—bloodied, broken, but unbowed. And in that moment, Theodore knew one thing:
Jaune Arc had become something else entirely.
'You've done the impossible, Mr. Arc...' Theodore thought, eyes locked on the kneeling boy soaked in blood and glory. 'You've achieved what no one else ever could... not in this lifetime... perhaps not in any!'
Around them, silence lingered like a sacred shroud. The battlefield had gone still, save for the crows feasting in the sand and the breathless awe that gripped every soul who bore witness.
'A title like Invincible Under the Sun—it doesn't even begin to define you,' Theodore mused, a surge of admiration swelling in his chest. 'You are beyond invincibility... beyond the songs they could sing of Pyrrha Nikos, beyond the shadow of Raven Branwen or the myth of Qrow, not even the fiercest legends of our age stand beside you now,'
He took a slow breath, heart pounding with something he hadn't felt in years—genuine, overwhelming awe.
'You are not merely a warrior, Mr. Arc. No... you are a force. A myth reborn. You are—'
A name formed in his mind, one so profound it sent a chill down his spine.
'Unrivaled.'
His lips curled into a proud, reverent smile.
'Yes... that's it, you are Unrivaled Throughout the Heavens! You are the man who is unrivaled in both this world and the next!' Theodore thought with awe and joy.
But just as the emotion crested, just as the warmth of victory bloomed in every chest... A sound ripped through the still air.
A savage, guttural cry. Twisted. Raw. Vengeful.
"AAAAAARRRRCCCCC!"
The shout shattered the moment like glass under a hammer.
Everyone's head snapped toward the voice.
Jaune's eyes widened in alarm, his battered body instinctively shifting into a guarded stance.
And there she was.
Gillian.
Barely standing. Blood caked her face, and her broken armor hung from her frame like it might fall apart at any second. But in her remaining strength, in the hate burning like a wildfire in her eyes—she was more dangerous than ever.
In her trembling left hand, she held a loaded crossbow, its steel tip gleaming under the scorched sun. And despite the tears, despite the weakness, there was nothing but murderous resolve on her face.
She wasn't aiming to survive. She was aiming to kill.
No warning. No final monologue.
Just pure vengeance.
She pulled the trigger.
The venom-tipped bolt soared through the air, whistling like death itself.
And Jaune—exhausted, drained, aura completely depleted—could only watch as the arrow flew straight for his heart.
Time slowed.
The world around Jaune seemed to freeze as the arrow soared through the air—its venom-laced tip glinting in the sun, a harbinger of death aimed directly at him.
Jaune's breath caught in his throat. His legs were too heavy. His aura was gone. His body wouldn't move fast enough.
'This is it...' Jaune thought.
After everything—after surviving the impossible, after saving everyone he cared about—this was how it would end? Not in a grand clash of blades, not in a final act of heroism, but struck down... defenseless... at the finish line.
But then—
A blur of motion.
"Jaune!" Vernal's voice, fierce and full of desperation.
She threw herself forward, shoving Jaune out of harm's way with every ounce of strength she had left. Her intent was clear, she would take the hit if he couldn't.
"Vernal, no—!" Jaune screamed as he fell to the side, reaching for her.
But before the arrow could strike her—another figure darted in.
Maria.
The aged huntress threw herself in front of Vernal like a shield, and the arrow embedded itself deep into her left side with a sickening thunk.
Time resumed.
"MARIA!" Deery shrieked, her voice cracking as she bolted forward in horror.
The group stared, frozen in disbelief. The woman who had taught them, protected them, scolded them, believed in them—had just taken a fatal blow meant for someone else.
Maria stumbled backward, her hand gripping the shaft of the arrow protruding from her ribs. Her face twisted in pain, her breath ragged as the venom burned beneath her skin. "Gods above," she hissed, knees buckling. "It's been... a long time since I've felt pain like that..."
Jaune scrambled to her side, catching her just before she collapsed. "Maria! Hold on, please—just hold on!"
Gillian stood across the battlefield, panting. Her eyes were wide—not with victory, but pure rage. Her final shot, her final chance... Gone.
Ruined.
Her chest rose and fell with erratic fury, eyes locked on Jaune as if she could will another arrow into existence, but then the pain hit her like a tidal wave, her knees shook and finally, her body gave out. With a strangled breath and a furious snarl, her eyes rolled back—her body collapsing to the sand like a broken doll.
Unconscious and defeated.
And all around them... silence fell again, but this silence wasn't peaceful. It was dread, because now, all that mattered was the frail, bleeding woman in Jaune's arms...
XXX
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If any of you guessed Maria, well, I guess you were right.
Why did I choose Maria? Well for a few reasons.
Maria was the oldest of the group and had been a major help and voice of reason with Jaune, Vernal, and Oscar during and after the Spider Act, she had been the caring grandma the group needed, and so, her dying leaves the group without a mature shoulder to rely on, leaving them to figure out things for themselves and giving them a chance to hopefully continue to live and grow without her guidence.
I couldn't kill off Jaune and Vernal for obvious reasons.
Oscar, Deery, and Whitely are quite literally the Isidro, Ivalera/Isma, and Serpico of the story, with their own storylines being important in the future of the story and Sun's story also isn't over as I still have plans for him in Part 2.
Maria seemed like the best choice because she has the most connection to the main three of the group.
Maria was there for Oscar when he needed it the most, she was there for Jaune when he was struggeling with who and what he had become, she was there for Vernal when Jaune had ran off, and had stuck around them to watch over them because she felt like she needed to, because she couldn't just leave them like they were.
Maria's thoughts and feelings on the group are even expressed in the beginning of Chapter 40 (her death was even hinted at as well). However, Maria's story is not finished as she still has a connection to Remnant that will be explored in part 2, and who would that be? Peitro.
Anyway, I hoped you all enjoy the chapter and are ready for what happens next, because oh boy! Do I plan on hitting you in the feels! Have the wambulance on speed dial, because it's going to be one gut-wrenching chapter, as we say goodbye to Maria Calavera.