The jackalope's golden antlers shimmered under the midday sun, casting long, dappled shadows across the grass-stained road. Jaune sat tall in the back, one hand resting lazily on the pommel of his blade, the other holding on to the fluffy fur.
It walked like it remembered these paths better than he ever could. Like the air itself told it where to go.
The road was quiet.
The kind of quiet that only came after a storm had passed.
It had been days since Salem's journey ended.
Not in ruin. Not in fire.
But in stillness.
In peace.
He had watched her accept the offer with grace. Jaune wondered if she accepted it out of curiosity, thinking that she might as well try.
Still.
Jaune wandered.
He wasn't sure if he was meant to return to Vacuo or something. The world hadn't ended. Not this time. And that was enough reason to breathe. To see what was left.
He passed through smaller villages first. Hamlets carved into the folds of the Mistrali foothills. Brick and wood rooftops, smoke curling from chimneys. Families planting new crops, repairing wagons, building again. He didn't stop unless he was needed.
Sometimes, there were Grimm.
Small ones now.
Beowolves. Creeps. Lesser shadows.
They were still drawn to pain. To anger. To fear.
But the tides were receding. No more coordinated surges. No more monstrous armies. Just remnants.
And Jaune was very good at clearing remnants.
Each time they came snarling from the woods or creeping from the roadside cracks, he slid off the jackalope, sword in hand, shield at the ready. His motions were practiced. Clean. Quiet. He didn't roar or pose. He simply fought.
He struck, defended, finished and then kept riding.
The villagers didn't always recognize him.
Some whispered "the knight with the golden beast."
But others called him the "The Rusted Knight." mostly.
He didn't correct them.
The countryside of Mistral stretched wide before him now. Rolling hills layered with green and gold. The distant mountains loomed tall and blue-gray, dusted in mist at their peaks. Birds wheeled overhead, and somewhere far off, the sound of river water babbled like an old friend.
Jaune exhaled, long and slow.
He had not slept much. But the air here felt cleaner. Calmer.
He wondered what Pyrrha was doing now. If she'd returned to Shade or stayed to help clear the remaining threats. He hadn't sent word yet. Not because he didn't want to. But because a part of him needed the quiet.
Needed this space.
To understand what it meant to live past an ending.
To walk not toward a final battle, but through the world that came after it.
The jackalope's hooves thudded gently against the road as they turned a bend near a wide, sparkling lake. Children played by the shore, splashing water with little sticks, pretending they were warriors fighting off invisible beasts.
Jaune watched them with a soft smile.
They didn't need to know who he was.
Not today.
He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, feeling the familiar weight of Crocea Mors pressing lightly against his back.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of pine from the higher altitudes. Mistral's great mountains waited in the distance, layered like the pages of an old map. He would go there next.
Maybe visit Shion. Visit the old timers and tell them that he had somewhat had to help the world before he could go back to his profession.
Or maybe just ride.
But Jaune had nowhere he needed to be.
And that, somehow, felt like freedom.
The wind had turned cooler now, as they kept on threading through the trees that crowned a road's edge. Pine needles rustled like old songs.
He was still far from home.
Not the battlefield. Not the war-torn city or Grimm-filled front lines.
Home.
The word echoed strangely in his head.
The farm.
The one he left behind when the world started falling apart.
He hadn't thought about it in detail until now, hadn't had the space in his head to let himself think of it. Not when the sky was splitting in half. Not when Atlas fell. Not when Pyrrha had nearly—
He inhaled, slow and steady.
Focus.
What was left?
If the Grimm hadn't razed the area, the bones of the farm would still be there. Probably wild overgrowth in the back pasture. The place would need rebuilding. The fencing too. He'd have to replace the irrigation pipe. And the barn it had already been creaking when he left.
He could picture it.
Clear in his head.
The porch with the chipped railing he kept saying he'd fix but never did. The little field he used to till by hand when his old tractor breaks down. The stone marker under a fence, near the north.
He closed his eyes for a moment. Just for a breath.
Would the barn still be standing?
Would the house feel the same?
He knew better than to expect it untouched. The world hadn't been kind to unattended places. But maybe there would be enough left to start again. He could get help from the nearby villages. Maybe see if the Farmer's Guild was back. Hire hands. Repair slowly. Plant something that was familiar to him. Something hardy.
Like beets. Or carrots. Gods, he missed carrots that weren't rehydrated vacuum-packs.
Or maybe back to trying to make soybeans work.
The Jackalope shifted beneath him, ears flicking as it adjusted its gait. Jaune gave its neck a small pat, murmuring thanks. The creature had never asked questions. Hadn't needed to.
It just followed him.
Guided him.
Protected him.
Now it was taking him not to a battlefield, but somewhere he had almost forgotten was real.
Recovery.
The idea felt abstract. Distant.
But maybe it was time.
He looked up at the clouds, watching them drift over the peaks ahead. The Mistrali mountains curved toward the sky like great resting beasts, and somewhere beyond them, across winding roads and forgotten trails was a stretch of land once tilled by his hands.
Maybe again.
Jaune shifted slightly in the back of the mount and let his hands hang loose.
He wasn't rushing anymore.
Let the journey be slow. Let the land pass beneath him one step at a time.
He had earned that much.
For weeks, Jaune stayed on the road.
No grand mission. No banner to march under. Just a sword at his back, a shield across his shoulders, and the quiet company of a jackalope, who padded beside him like a loyal, unshakable shadow.
He didn't ride as much anymore. Not every day. Sometimes he just walked, boots dusty, the armor under slowly being dulled from use. His pace was slow, patient, steady.
Along the way, he helped.
A broken cart axle outside a small village. A field riddled with old Grimm scorch marks. A family missing their son after a scouting trip? Jaune found the boy hiding in a dry well, scared and scraped up but alive.
No one recognized him right away. The Rusted Knight was a story, not a man. In his worn attire and quiet voice, Jaune didn't look like a legend. Just a Huntsman, well, a farmer pretending to be one.
He liked it that way.
At night, he listened. Sat with travelers and traders near firepits, his head low, sipping from whatever cup was passed to him. That's how he got the news.
The Grimm were declining.
Everywhere.
Not gone. Not erased. But weaker. Less organized. Their movements were erratic now, their numbers thinning. The wild ones still attacked, but the endless hordes that broke cities had stopped.
People were rebuilding.
In Vale, villagers were reforming. In Mistral, trade was slowly returning. There were whispers of a festival being planned again, something to bring hope back to the cities that had only seen fire and ash as of late.
The world wasn't healed. Not yet. But it was breathing again.
Jaune passed through a low valley one evening, arriving at a weather-worn inn tucked behind a line of trees. He let the jackalope rest in a hidden grove nearby, whispering a promise to return. He wasn't sure how locals would react to a mythical mount trotting through their front yard.
Inside, the inn was quiet. Safe. Wooden walls. Cracked beams. A fire in the hearth. Jaune sat near the back, listening.
More rebuilding. Farmers banding together to reclaim old land. Huntsmen forming protective circuits again. Even Atlas refugees finding a place among the southern villages.
Good news.
Enough to keep him moving.
So the next morning, he paid his due with a few Lien and a quick repair to a broken well pump out back. Then he stepped outside, shouldered his pack, and found the jackalope waiting where he'd left it.
He gave it a scratch between the antlers. It snorted, content.
And then they moved on.
Quietly.
Steadily.
Toward home.
The wind rolled gently through the hills, stirring the tall grass like waves on an emerald sea.
The sky was clear above the Mistrali ranges, not a cloud in sight—just clean, open air and the distant echo of birdsong.
Jaune stood at the crest of the road, staring down at the place he'd once called home.
It didn't look like much now.
The farmhouse was half-swallowed by vines and wildflowers. The old fence was mostly broken, sagging in places or missing entirely. The soybean fields, once neat rows of promise, were overtaken by weeds and thistles. The barn looked intact… mostly.
Still, it stood.
That meant something.
Jaune let out a slow breath through his nose. "Alright," he said, running a hand through his hair, "I survived all of that. Now I just have to fix this."
As if summoned by fate, a rustling echoed from the nearby treeline. His fingers moved before his thoughts did, Crocea Mors was already half drawn from its sheath.
Then he stopped.
Chuckled.
The jackalope padded calmly out of the woods, ears twitching, eyes soft with that quiet, knowing look it always wore. Jaune shook his head and sheathed the blade, smiling. "You really know how to make an entrance, huh?"
The jackalope gave a huff, unimpressed.
Jaune turned toward the porch, the steps groaning under his boots. The door creaked open with more resistance than he remembered, but the hinges held. Dust hung thick in the air inside, motes catching in the sunlight through the cracked shutters. It smelled of old wood, long nights, and a life put on pause.
He walked through the silence slowly, letting it settle over him.
The hearth still stood. The table hadn't moved. One old chair still had the same scratch on the arm.
Jaune stepped toward the mantle, running his fingers over it.
He paused. Then, with quiet ceremony, he unhooked Crocea Mors from his back and rested it against the wooden beam. His fingers lingered on the hilt. His eyes didn't.
He turned away, unlatching the side cabinet where his old travel gear used to go. With practiced care, he shrugged out of the armor, piece by piece, stacking it in a corner. The final gauntlet clanked onto the pile with a dull thud.
He rolled his shoulders.
Felt the weight shift.
He was just Jaune Arc.
Farmer.
He stepped out onto the porch again, sleeves rolled up, squinting into the afternoon sun. The fields were a mess. The barn door hung loose on its hinges. Something had torn into the root cellar. All of it would need fixing.
But it was his.
And he was still here.
"Alright," he muttered to no one but the wind, "time to do this."
Tomorrow, he'd walk the field. He'd see what survived, what needed replacing, and what crops might actually grow in this soil now. He'd check the fence, dig through the barn, and probably spend the entire day swearing at tools he forgot how to use.
But he'd figure it out.
One step at a time.