Sunshine Chapter 46: The Call for Blood, a rwby fanfic

Chapter 46: The Call for Blood

Reviews:

noahcook420: You could be right

Delta7344: It's almost time for part 2 of the story! Let's go!

InfamouslyHandsome: To answer the first part of your question, Sun is strong, just as strong as Qrow in a way, and is stronger than Pyrrha. Jaune is, at this moment, also stronger than Pyrrha but still not on the level of Sun. Why do I say both Jaune and Sun are stronger than Pyrrha? Well, the answer is already there in the previous chapter but I'll also explain why in part 2. Trust me though, you'll see how Sun compares when we get to the part of the story that deals with the Vytal Tournament.

NinjaFang1331: You could be right

Guest: I was actually inspired by the Manga "Vagabond", specifically the scene where Musashi and Kojiro are fighting with sticks and trying to cut a snowman in half with said sticks. A lot, if not pretty much all of this Act was inspired by Vagabond.

EmperorSnorlax: Glad you liked it, and like the review above, it was heavily inspired and taken from "Vagabond" Which had a similar scene. It was a really good scene that I just had to add it into this.

Guest #2: I don't force deaths, most of the deaths in this story were planned out ahead both to progress the story and the characters, I don't try to force or rush anything because if I do, I feel like it wouldn't do the story justice.

Some asshole 4145: Firstly, I love the name. Secondly, binge to your heart's content!

blaiseingfire: Sun and Jaune are pretty much the "Musashi & Kojiro" of the story. SWEAR TO GOD ALL YOU WANT! HE AIN'T GONNA HELP YOU! I WILL CONTINUE TO TOY WITH YOUR EMOTIONS LIKE GEGE AKUTAMI!

RedTheVariant: You better be excited because trust me, things are about to get crazy!

A/N:

Ok, so I may have misspoken, because I made a mistake as I mixed up this chapter and the next Chapter (Chapter 47) because no one important to the group dies in this chapter but does die in the next one!

So yeah, my bad, I fucked up.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter and are eager and prepared for the next one!

XXX

Jaune, Vernal, Oscar, and Deery were escorted through the halls of Shade Academy by Rumpole, the mood tense as the group approached Headmaster Theodore's office. When the door opened, they found Theodore standing beside Maria Calavera, both of them wearing grim expressions.

Theodore turned as they entered, greeting them with a calm but strained smile—one that barely veiled the gravity beneath it. "Ah, good, you're all here," he said, his voice steady but lacking its usual warmth.

Jaune stepped forward, eyeing the Headmaster with suspicion. "What's going on, Theodore? Why call all of us in like this?"

Before Theodore could respond, Rumpole stepped forward, his tone sharp and to the point. "What this is about, Mr. Arc, is the threat currently camped just outside the city walls, and make no mistake—it's a threat aimed directly at you,"

Jaune's brow furrowed. "What kind of threat?"

Theodore exhaled slowly, folding his hands behind his back as he addressed the room. "Right now, over fifty rogue Huntsmen have gathered beyond Vacuo's borders, they're being led by Gillian Asturias, the twin sister of Jax Asturias—the man you killed on the train not too long ago, they've come for vengeance, and Gillian is invoking one of Vacuo's oldest laws: the right to settle grievances through formal, single combat,"

Everyone in the room fell silent, the weight of the revelation hitting like a stone.

Vernal's expression turned cold and defiant. "So what are we standing around for?" she snapped, stepping forward. "Let's go down there, settle this so-called 'dispute,' and send these bastards packing,"

"We can't," Rumpole said firmly, her voice carrying a stern finality that silenced the room. "They've invoked the right of single combat—specifically naming Jaune Arc as the one they wish to face, according to Vacuo's combat laws, that means only Jaune can answer the challenge,"

"What!?" Deery exclaimed, her voice rising with disbelief.

Oscar clenched his fists and took a step forward. "No way, there has to be something we can do! We can't just sit back and let him face this alone!"

Theodore shook his head slowly, his expression troubled. "Believe me, I wish there was another way, but Vacuo's traditions are not so easily dismissed, Gillian Asturias has called for trial by combat—an old and rarely used law, but still legally binding. She claims this is to avenge her brother's death, if Jaune accepts and wins, he's considered innocent under Vacuo law, but if he loses... then he's deemed guilty of murder,"

"Murder?!" Vernal snapped, fury burning in her voice. "Are you serious right now? They were the ones who ambushed us! They tried to kidnap Whitley, for Dust's sake! And now they want to twist the narrative and make him the criminal?!"

Theodore's eyes narrowed slightly, but his tone remained calm. "It's an ancient law, one that's been manipulated countless times throughout Vacuo's history, unfortunately, it's still valid, and that means we are legally prohibited from interfering in any duel carried out under its terms,"

"I don't care how old the law is!" Vernal hissed. "It's complete bullshit!"

"I agree," Theodore said. "But as of this moment, there's nothing I can do to prevent it without risking diplomatic instability,"

Jaune had remained quiet through the exchange, his jaw set, eyes hard with thought. Finally, he spoke, his voice steady but laced with concern. "What happens if I don't accept the challenge?"

Rumpole looked at him, her stern demeanor cracking slightly to reveal the deep worry beneath. "They've made their terms clear... If you refuse the duel, they'll begin attacking the outer villages, they plan to burn every settlement that contributes to Vacuo's supply chains—farms, workshops, anything of value, they'll punish the innocent to force your hand,"

Jaune closed his eyes, drawing in a slow, heavy breath as the weight of the decision pressed down on him. "So... if I don't accept," he said quietly, "People are going to die, a lot of them... right?"

Theodore gave a solemn nod. Rumpole mirrored it, her expression grim. No words were needed—they all knew the truth of it.

Vernal turned toward him sharply, her eyes already flaring with defiance and fear. "No," she said flatly, her tone like a wall slamming down. "Absolutely not,"

Jaune opened his eyes and looked at her, his gaze soft, almost pleading. "Vernal—"

"No!" she snapped, cutting him off before he could finish. Her voice cracked with emotion, louder than she'd intended. "You are not going out there just to die, Jaune! You are not fighting all of those bastards on your own and getting yourself killed!"

He met her eyes, and for a moment there was a flicker of frustration behind his calm. "If I don't," he said, his voice low but firm, "Innocent people will pay for it, farmers, families... kids, I can't let that happen just because I'm scared,"

Vernal's hands balled into fists at her sides, her whole body trembling with restrained fury. "Damn it, Jaune," she hissed. "Don't do this. Please. I'm begging you... don't go back to that place again..."

Her voice softened as she spoke, and Jaune could hear the emotion buried beneath it. Not just anger—but pain. Fear. Grief. He saw it in her eyes too, the flicker of a memory neither of them liked to revisit. The version of himself he had been before Patch... the version he hated. The one who fought like a weapon, who didn't care what happened to himself so long as he won. He understood why she was afraid.

And part of him was afraid too.

He had tasted peace again. Laughed. Trained with friends. Grown. But this? This was something different. This was war in disguise, wearing the face of tradition.

He had no choice—at least, that's what it felt like. If he turned his back on this, if he refused to fight, then every scream, every ruined village, every innocent life lost to fire and blade... that blood would stain his hands. It wouldn't matter that he never struck a blow. He would carry it all, because he could have stopped it and chose not to.

That was something Jaune couldn't live with.

His jaw clenched slightly, and his voice came out low, steady, but carrying the weight of resolve. "Can I see them?"

Theodore studied him for a moment. The boy standing before him was no longer the unsure, stumbling student he once knew. There was steel in his eyes now, tempered by loss and shaped by experience. Still, what lay ahead would be a trial unlike any other.

The Headmaster gave a slow nod. "Yes," he said, his voice heavy with the burden of allowing this. "But only from a distance for now, I'll arrange for you to observe them without being seen, I want you to understand what you're up against,"

Jaune nodded in return. He didn't need to speak further. He already knew what was coming. He just needed to see it—to face it with his own eyes.

The group departed Shade Academy in silence, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on. Theodore himself drove the vehicle, a sleek but dust-worn Vacuan transport, its engine humming steadily as it cut through the dry desert winds. No one spoke during the short ride—it was as if the weight of the moment had gripped everyone's throats shut.

Once they reached the outer wall, guards were already waiting. With a quick nod from Theodore, they were led up the stairwell to the very top. From there, the full scope of the threat became impossible to ignore.

Beyond the great stone barricade, sprawled across the sands like a festering wound, was a makeshift encampment. Dozens of tents in varying shapes and colors dotted the landscape, surrounding extinguished fire pits and the occasional transport rig that gleamed beneath the Vacuan sun. The camp looked like it had been assembled in a hurry, but there was an unmistakable order to the chaos—like a den of wolves waiting for the first sign of weakness.

Jaune's eyes swept across the camp, taking in every detail—the positions of the tents, the number of armed figures milling about, the weapons gleaming in the sunlight. And then he saw her.

Two women emerged from the camp's edge and approached the base of the wall. The one in front strode with unmistakable confidence. Her jet-black hair was styled into sharp hoops that framed her face, and she wore a pristine white dress that contrasted starkly with the dust-choked world around her. A longbow was slung across her back, a quiver of arrows at her hip—each one tipped with sleek, cruel metal. Her eyes locked onto Jaune's the moment she looked up.

Even without an introduction, he knew who she was. Gillian Asturias.

"ARC!" she shouted, her voice sharp and scornful as it echoed against the wall. "Come down here and face me! Or are you content to hide behind stone like a coward!?"

Jaune's face remained still, unreadable. His jaw tightened, his shoulders stiffened—but he gave no response.

Then, without a word, he stepped forward.

"Jaune?" Oscar said, noticing the movement. "What are you—"

Before anyone could stop him, Jaune leapt.

"JAUNE!" Vernal screamed, lunging for him, but her fingers only brushed the edge of his coat before he dropped over the side.

Theodore surged forward. "Is he mad!? Is he going to fight them now!?"

Everyone rushed to the edge of the wall to peer down—and what they saw wasn't a clash, but a confrontation frozen in anticipation.

Jaune landed on both feet with practiced ease, his cape fluttering slightly behind him as he straightened. The wind kicked up dust around his boots as he began walking toward Gillian. He didn't draw his sword. He didn't raise his voice. He simply walked.

Gillian's brow furrowed, taken aback by his calm approach. She narrowed her eyes and motioned for her second to hang back. Her own hand hovered near her weapon, her aura flickering faintly around her as she prepared to drain his the moment he made a move.

But Jaune kept walking. Calm. Controlled. Eyes never leaving hers.

The entire camp seemed to hold its breath. A moment suspended in time—one step away from becoming a battle or something far more dangerous:

A negotiation. Or a declaration.

When they were only a few steps apart, the desert wind stirring dust between them, Jaune came to a halt. The gap was narrow now—close enough for words to travel without shouting, close enough for hostility to snap into violence if either one made a sudden move. Jaune kept his hands open and at his sides, his expression calm, though his eyes held a deep weariness.

"Are you Gillian Asturias?" he asked, his voice steady but low, just enough to carry to her ears.

The woman straightened her spine, her chin lifting ever so slightly with pride. "I am," she answered without hesitation. "Are you here to accept our trial by combat?"

Jaune shook his head once. "Not yet,"

That response earned a narrowing of her eyes. "So you're backing down then?" she asked, a note of disdain curling at the edge of her voice.

"No, you'll get your fight if that's what you truly want," He paused, taking a slow breath. "I'm just here to ask you something first,"

Gillian tilted her head slightly, brow furrowing as suspicion seeped into her expression. "What could you possibly want to ask me?"

Jaune looked her in the eye, and though his voice didn't tremble, there was a kind of quiet vulnerability beneath his words. "Can you forgive me?"

The silence that followed was immediate and jarring. Even the wind seemed to pause.

Carmine, standing a few paces behind Gillian, blinked and looked toward her in disbelief.

Gillian's lips parted slightly, confusion flashing across her face. "You want me to forgive you?" she asked, almost as if she hadn't heard him right.

Jaune nodded slowly. "Yes,"

The confusion twisted into rage in an instant. "Forgiveness?" she snapped, her voice rising with a wave of emotion. "You killed my brother! You're standing here asking for forgiveness after you slaughtered my blood!? After you derailed everything we worked for!?"

Jaune didn't flinch. "I didn't come here to erase what I've done, or pretend I was right. I came to look you in the eye and say it—I'm sorry."

Gillian's hands clenched at her sides, her aura beginning to flicker like a fire catching breath. Her teeth gritted behind tightened lips as fury wrestled with grief. Carmine stepped forward slightly, unsure of what would come next.

But Jaune stood firm, unmoving. Not reaching for a weapon. Not posturing. Just waiting.

And in that moment, despite the fire burning behind her eyes, Gillian found herself unsure how to respond—not because she forgave him, but because he'd asked. Because the boy she'd expected to see—a bloodthirsty killer or a trembling coward—was instead someone who carried guilt on his shoulders like a scar.

She wasn't ready to let it go.

But he had asked. And that alone unsettled her more than any drawn blade.

"He came after us, Gillian, your brother—Jax—he attacked us first, he was going to kidnap Whitley Schnee, he wasn't some innocent man caught in the crossfire... but I'm not going to pretend I'm innocent either," He held her gaze, steady and unblinking. "I'm not a good person, not really, but I'm trying to be better, trying not to be the kind of man I used to be,"

His words weighed heavy, like a confession laid bare before a judge.

"And that's why I'm giving you a choice," Jaune continued. "A choice you need to think long and hard about. Not tomorrow. Not when the dust's already kicked up. Right now. In this moment."

Gillian scoffed, her lip curling as she spat, "Oh yeah? And what brilliant choice are you offering me, murderer?"

Jaune inhaled through his nose, calming the rising emotion in his chest before letting the words come. "You can walk away from this. You can let go of your anger, your hate—your need for revenge, you can choose to forgive me, I'm not asking you to forget, or to pretend this doesn't hurt, I'm asking you to let it go before more people die because of it, before you lose yourself the way I almost did," He took a slow step forward, not threatening, but resolute. "Or... if you look at me and all you see is the man who took your brother from you—if the only thing you want in this world right now is my death—then say it... Say it here and now, and I swear to you, come tomorrow, I'll meet you on that battlefield,"

Silence stretched between them again, the tension thick like the heat in the air. Jaune's words didn't waver. He was offering her an exit—one that could spare lives and bloodshed. But he wasn't begging. He would fight if that was what she truly wanted.

The choice, for the first time, was entirely in her hands.

Unfortunately, Gillian made the choice that Jaune had feared... the choice that anyone burning with grief, anger, and vengeance might make in her place.

"I'm going to kill you," she said coldly, her voice trembling with fury. "I don't care what it costs me, I'll take every consequence, every punishment,aAnd when it's done—when your blood soaks the sand—I'll mount your head on a pike and plant it right here in front of Vacuo's gates for the world to see... That's the justice my brother deserves,"

Her words didn't hit Jaune with the force of anger or fear—they struck like a weight of inevitability. He didn't flinch. He didn't argue. Instead, his expression softened into a mixture of sorrow and quiet regret, his gaze briefly falling to the sand beneath their feet as if searching for another path that didn't exist.

"I see," Jaune murmured, turning his back on her. He began walking, slowly and silently, toward the towering walls of Vacuo once more, each step heavy with what tomorrow would bring. "Then I'll see tomorrow,"

There was no victory in his voice. No bravado. Just the calm, tired resignation of a man who knew this was the only road left.

Gillian watched him go, her fists clenched, her breath ragged. She didn't reply. Didn't call after him. She simply turned away and walked back toward her camp, her heart as heavy as the silence that followed her. Around her, the bandits began to stir—preparing, sharpening, tightening armor straps. Tomorrow, there would be blood. And no one, not even Gillian herself, could say whose it would be.

As soon as Jaune stepped back through the gates of Vacuo, he was met with a blur of movement and a sting that shot through his cheek. Vernal's hand had struck him hard, the sound of the slap echoing through the air like a crack of thunder. Her chest heaved, her face a mixture of confusion, fury, and barely restrained desperation.

"What the hell were you thinking!?" she shouted, her voice sharp and shaking. Her fists trembled at her sides, and her eyes shimmered—not just with rage, but with fear.

Jaune staggered slightly from the blow but didn't retaliate. He met her gaze with a quiet, wounded expression. "Vernal—"

"No! Shut up! Just... shut up!" she snapped, her voice breaking. "What the hell was that back there? You just jumped over the damn wall like it was nothing! What if they had attacked you? What if you didn't make it back? What were you trying to do, Jaune?! What were you trying to prove!?"

"I needed to talk to her," Jaune said softly.

Vernal's face twisted into disbelief. "Talk to her!? About what!? What the hell could you possibly say to someone who wants you dead!?"

"I wanted to try to stop this," Jaune said, his voice low but firm. "To stop it before it turns into a massacre, I thought if there was even a chance to reach her—to make her see reason—I had to try,"

"Why!?" Vernal barked, stepping closer, her hands clenched. "Why are you always doing this!? Why are you always throwing yourself into danger for people who don't give a damn about you?!"

Jaune didn't answer at first. His shoulders stiffened, and his gaze dropped to the ground.

"Answer me, damn it!" Vernal screamed. "Why, Jaune?! Why!?"

"Because I don't want to kill her!" Jaune suddenly shouted back, his voice cracking under the weight of emotion. "I don't want to kill her, Vernal! I don't want to fight her! I don't want to be part of this cycle anymore! I'm tired of being part of this cycle of killing..."

The pain in his voice was raw, heavy, and undeniable.

Silence followed. Vernal stared at him, her breath hitching, her anger slowly giving way to something deeper—something far more painful. She reached out slowly but stopped herself, her fingers curling in midair. There were no easy answers between them. No perfect words that could undo what had already begun.

And yet, even in that silence, it was clear—they both understood each other, even if the world around them refused to.

"I... I'm tired, Vernal," Jaune said quietly, his voice frayed at the edges, the words heavy with exhaustion deeper than fatigue—exhaustion of the soul.

Vernal looked up at him, her expression softening as her anger gave way to empathy. "I know, Jaune... I know," she whispered. "That's why I'm going with you tomorrow,"

Jaune's eyes widened, and he shook his head with immediate urgency. "No, absolutely not," he said, firmer this time. "If someone dies tomorrow, it's either them... or me, I'm not letting anyone else—especially you—get caught in this! You've already been through enough,"

Vernal's jaw clenched as she stared at him, her gaze burning with a mixture of fury and grief. "It's the same for me, you idiot," she snapped, her voice cracking. "I don't want to lose you! I don't want to watch you walk off to your death like it's some noble sacrifice you have to make!"

She surged forward and threw her arms around him, gripping him tightly like she was afraid he might vanish if she let go.

Jaune stiffened at the sudden contact, his breath catching in his throat. But then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around her, returning the embrace. He held her close, grounding himself in her warmth, in the way her heart pounded against his chest. And then... he heard it.

She was crying.

The sound of Vernal's quiet sobs pierced through him like a blade sharper than any sword. He tightened his hold on her, as if he could protect her just by how tightly he clung.

And as he stood there, arms wrapped around the one person who saw him for who he was and still chose to stay, a creeping fear began to gnaw at his insides. What if this was the last time he saw her? The last time he felt her arms around him, heard her voice, saw her eyes? What if tomorrow was the end—not just for him, but for everything he was trying to build?

He didn't want to die.

He didn't want this moment to be the last.

So, in that moment, Jaune Arc did something he hadn't done in a very long time.

"Vernal," Jaune said gently, his voice barely above a breath as he rested his chin lightly against her shoulder. "I'm not going to die tomorrow... I promise,"

Vernal clung to him tighter, as if her grip alone could anchor him to the world. Her face was still buried against his chest, her breathing shaky, but she found the strength to speak through the lump in her throat. "Swear it," she whispered. "Swear on your name, Jaune, on everything you are that you'll come back to me, please..."

Jaune closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of her words settle in his chest like a sacred burden. He could hear the rawness in her voice—like if he said nothing, she'd shatter. He knew she needed more than a simple promise. She needed something ironclad. Something sacred.

So, he pulled back just enough to meet her tear-streaked face, gently cradling her cheek in his hand. His thumb brushed away one of the tears as he whispered with as much conviction as he could muster:

"Arc's word... I swear, I won't die tomorrow, I will come back to you, Vernal,"

For a moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was the soft wind sweeping through the streets of Vacuo, carrying with it the stillness of a looming storm. Vernal stared into his eyes, searching for doubt, for fear—but all she found was the familiar fire that had once made her believe Jaune Arc could stand against the world and still come out alive.

"Then you better keep that word," she whispered, voice cracking. "Because if you break it, I'll march into the afterlife just to drag you back, got it?"

Jaune gave her a faint, tired smile—the kind that barely masked the storm inside—and he nodded. "Wouldn't expect anything less," he said.

While Jaune and Vernal shared their quiet, desperate moment within the safety of Vacuo's walls, a much colder scene unfolded just beyond them, under the pale light of the desert moon.

On the other side of the city wall, deep within the makeshift camp of the rogues, Carmine stood beside Gillian, arms folded as she watched her leader move with a strange, unnerving calm. Gillian was crouched near a small crate, sorting through the contents of a worn leather satchel. Her fingers moved carefully, deliberately, until they paused over a specific item—a single arrow. She pulled it free and studied it with a focused intensity that made Carmine frown.

"What are you doing, Queenie?" Carmine finally asked, her voice low but curious, laced with unease.

Gillian didn't respond immediately. She held the arrow up, letting its polished shaft and steel tip glint beneath the sunlight. Then, slowly, she stood and presented it to Carmine like it was a sacred artifact.

"This," Gillian said, her voice steady and cold, "Is the arrow I'm going to use to kill Jaune Arc,"

Carmine raised an eyebrow, her mouth twitching into a half-smirk. "Bit dramatic, isn't it? You planning to put his name on it too?"

But Gillian ignored the sarcasm. Instead, she turned her attention back to the satchel and resumed digging through it until she pulled free a long, thick vial filled with a dark, glimmering blue liquid. She held it up in front of her, her expression unreadable at first—until a slow, grim smile stretched across her lips. It was the kind of smile that didn't bring comfort. It brought chills.

"This, is venom, extracted from an Arioch snake, nasty little bastard—deadliest non-Grimm creature in all of Vacuo, one bite's enough to kill a man slowly over the course of a day or two, but this?" She held up the vial. "This is enough to kill them in hours, there's no anti-venom, no cure, so even if the arrow doesn't kill Jaune Arc… The poison will finish the job," she said.

Gillian then dipped the arrow's tip into the venom.

Carmine's smirk faded, replaced by something more serious. "You really don't plan on letting him walk out of this, do you?"

Gillian capped the vial and tucked it back into the satchel before turning her gaze toward the towering wall in the distance—toward the city that had taken her brother and now protected the man responsible.

"No," she said, her voice hollow but laced with conviction. "Even if he kills me… even if he kills every last one of us… I'll make sure he dies too, he won't leave this desert alive,"

She looked down at the arrow once more, her grip tightening as though it were the only thing holding her broken heart together.

"He took my brother from me," Gillian said softly, "And I'll kill him—even if it costs me my life, even if it costs me everything..."

Carmine stood in silence, the weight of Gillian's grief settling over them like a heavy blanket. She didn't argue. She didn't protest. She just looked toward the wall as well, and in the distance, somewhere beyond it, the very man they were preparing to destroy embraced someone he loved—possibly for the last time.

XXX

Morning had arrived in Vacuo, but the sun had yet to fully breach the horizon. Its first light crept quietly over the tops of distant sand dunes, casting a hazy orange hue across the sleeping city and the wind-stirred dust. The shadows of Shade Academy stretched long across the courtyard, still heavy with the silence of the early hour.

Inside one of the dormitories, Vernal, Oscar, and Deery remained fast asleep, their breathing slow and steady. The room was dim, bathed in the faint glow of the rising dawn. Jaune stood at the edge of his bed, already dressed for what awaited him. Crocea Mors hung at his hip, polished and ready. He wore a brown long-sleeve shirt beneath his armor—an extra layer more for comfort than protection. His familiar Pumpkin Pete hoodie, tattered and faded from years of wear, rested folded neatly on the nightstand beside Vernal.

He got up and walked toward the door before he stood silently, staring at the door, one hand hovering over the handle. Before he opened it, Jaune turned his head one last time to look at the people who had come to mean the world to him—his family, whether blood-bound or not. Vernal lay curled beneath a blanket, her hand resting where his had been just moments before. Oscar's expression twitched in his sleep, caught in a dream, while Deery slept like a stone, unmoving and peaceful.

With a quiet breath, Jaune turned back, opened the door slowly, and slipped into the hallway. He closed it behind him with barely a click. The corridor was still, empty, and echoing. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, casting his face in shadow, and began walking through the quiet halls of Shade Academy, each step feeling heavier than the last.

By the time he reached the front gates and stepped into the cold morning air, the sun had started to peek higher, just enough to bathe the outer wall in light.

As he walked toward the gates, something caught his attention—vans, a whole line of them, rumbling down the roads toward the outer wall. Emblazoned on the sides were logos: Vale News Network, Vacuo Television Center, Atlas Broadcasting Station, even a sleek transport marked with the call letters of a Mistral news affiliate. Reporters, cameramen, drones. All heading toward the same destination.

Toward the battlefield.

Jaune grimaced slightly.

Of course, this wasn't just a fight anymore. It was a spectacle.

A show for the kingdoms.

A blood-soaked headline waiting to happen.

He shook his head and kept walking.

His mind began to focus, clearing itself of everything that wasn't essential. He replayed what Robyn Hill had once told him about fighting outnumbered—keep moving, don't get surrounded, use the battlefield to control the pace. Keep pressure off his flanks. Don't try to overpower every opponent—outthink them. Outlast them.

He also reminded himself to watch his Aura. If it dropped too low, he'd need to push it back up using every trick he'd learned from Oscar, from Pyrrha, from himself.

A small, ironic smirk tugged at his lips as he walked.

Fifty rogue Huntsmen and Huntresses, all trained, all out for blood—and he was supposed to fight them alone. It sounded ridiculous. Like something out of a children's fairy tale. A foolish knight standing against impossible odds.

"I shouldn't think about it as one versus fifty," Jaune told himself, his boots crunching softly against the stone steps leading to the top of the wall. "I should think of it as one-on-one… just fifty rounds,"

He repeated the thought in his mind like a mantra, steadying his nerves as he ascended.

By the time he reached the top, the wind greeted him with a cold whip of desert air, carrying the scent of dust and tension. He stepped forward, resting his hands on the stone edge as his eyes scanned the landscape below.

The rogue camp lay sprawled out like a scar on the earth, a battlefield waiting to be stained. Rows of tents, scattered dead fires, the glint of blades and armor beneath early-morning haze. Figures moved like shadows among the canvas peaks, some sharpening weapons, others laughing like this was just another job.

This wasn't a gang of thugs. These weren't White Fang grunts. These were trained Huntsmen and Huntresses—mercenaries, deserters, killers. Many of them had seen more battles than he had. Some were faster, some stronger, some with more dangerous Semblances.

This wasn't going to be a fair fight.

Jaune closed his eyes, pulling in a slow, deep breath. He held it for a long moment, letting it fill him, settle in his chest. Then, with a heavy exhale, he let it go, along with the fear gnawing at his edges.

When he opened his eyes again, he didn't look down at the enemy camp—he turned and looked back at the city.

Vacuo shimmered in the amber twilight of morning, caught in that quiet, magical moment before the sun truly rose. The buildings glowed softly under the painted sky. It looked… peaceful. Like it was holding its breath.

And then, in the stillness, a voice echoed in his memory—calm, confident, gruff but gentle.

"Smile more,"

Tai's voice. Clear as day.

Jaune felt something loosen in his chest. His shoulders relaxed. His heartbeat steadied.

A small, genuine smile touched his lips.

And then… something strange happened.

He blinked—once, twice—before his eyes widened slightly.

Before him, just past the wall's edge, in the soft light of dawn, manifesting before his very eyes was everyone he had met on his journey, both dead and alive.

Pyrrha. Ren. Nora. Ruby. Weiss. Yang. Blake. Goodwitch. Ozpin. Cardin. Velvet. Raven. Vernal. Shay. Melissa. Oscar. Maria. Little Miss Malachite. Perry. Robyn. Fiona. May. Joanna. Deery. Winter. Ciel. Penny. Ironwood. Ilia. Banesaw. Tai. Qrow. Jax. Bertilak. Whitley. Sun. Malard. Theodore. Rumpole. Dew. Starr.

So many names. So many faces.

Some of them had only been in his life for a moment. Others had walked beside him for what felt like a lifetime. Friends, mentors, enemies, rivals… people he had loved, people he had lost.

Yet no matter how fleeting their presence, they had all mattered. Each of them had left their mark on him—shaping the boy he was into the man he had become.

"Am I going to die here today?" Jaune asked them—those memories, those phantoms, those echoes of people who had defined his journey.

None of them answered. Not with words.

Instead, they all took a single step forward.

It was a strange sensation—like the weight of a thousand hands pressed against him, and yet, it felt like only one. Gentle. Steady. Unyielding.

And then they pushed.

Jaune felt his heels leave the edge of the wall, and he fell backward.

Time seemed to fracture.

The sky tilted above him, endless and pale, the golden hue of morning spilling across the dunes. The world moved like molasses, stretching every second into an eternity as he plummeted in slow motion. His cloak billowed around him like wings that had forgotten how to fly.

And in that long, slow fall, his mind drifted—spiraling outward like ripples in still water.

'What's Ruby doing right now? What about Pyrra, Ren, and Nora? Are they okay? What are Mom and Dad doing? How's Tai? Is Saphron okay? Is Terra back from work yet? How's Adrien?' Jaune asked himself.

Back in Patch, far from the shifting sands of Vacuo, Ruby sat on a couch with a blanket pulled to her chest, surrounded by the familiar warmth of home. Yang was beside her, watching the TV without saying a word. Ren and Nora sat on the floor, leaning against each other, silent.

In the Arc family home, Jaune's mother sat at the kitchen table, clasping a mug she hadn't sipped from in ten minutes, her eyes fixed on the television. His father stood behind her, arms crossed, tense and wordless. One of Jaune's younger sisters peeked from the hallway, clutching a pillow.

Saphron sat curled up on her own couch, Adrien asleep in her lap, soft breathing rising and falling against her chest. The volume on the TV was low, but her eyes never left the screen. She held her son just a little tighter.

As Jaune continued to fall through the slow, honey-thick moment between stillness and battle, his mind drifted again—this time to the people he'd left behind in that dorm room.

'I wonder what the others are dreaming about,' he thought, the corners of his mouth curling into a faint, melancholic smile. 'Are they dreaming of home? Of peace? Are they happy, just for a moment?'

He didn't know. He couldn't know. But there was one thing he felt in his bones—he was there, in every one of their dreams. Maybe as a protector. Maybe a friend. Maybe just a blurry shape on the edge of sleep.

But he was there.

They carried him like he carried them.

And then, a thought surfaced—one that had been hiding beneath the noise, the guilt, the duty. A question he had asked once before… but never really answered.

'Who was it that set me on this path?' he asked himself. 'The person who exposed my fake transcripts? Ozpin? The gods? Or… was it me?'

The last question rang louder than the others. And as soon as it echoed in his mind, he felt the answer resonate deep in his soul.

He let out a breathless chuckle. It was tired, bitter, but somehow peaceful.

"That last question was stupid," Jaune muttered under his breath with a quiet, ironic smile. "It was me, it was always me,"

Jaune thought back to the moment he entered his attic and saw the sword of his family and took it into his hands.

'The moment I picked up Crocea Mors, the moment I decided to leave home, the moment I stepped onto that airship and walked into Beacon, that was the moment I carved this path for myself,' Jaune thought to himself. 'And if this is where it leads—if this is how it ends—then so be it...'

His smile faltered, just a little.

But then—something shifted.

A weight behind him.

Jaune's eyes drifted downward.

There, below him—hands.

Pale, broken, calloused fingers reached upward, rising from the black void beneath his fall. They weren't the hands of the people he loved.

They were the hands of the ones he had killed. One by one, they emerged, silent and accusing, grabbing at his ankles, wrists, cloak—pulling, clutching, dragging.

He felt the weight of each one. He tried not to look at their faces.

He turned his head away, back toward the sky—and then he saw it. Standing atop the very air that surrounded him—standing on his chest as if gravity didn't apply—was the Beowulf.

Jaune, however, didn't flinch.

Instead, he offered the specter of the Beowulf a soft, almost mournful smile. There was no fear in his expression—only a quiet understanding.

"Hello again, old friend," Jaune said gently, his voice barely a whisper in the stillness of his fall.

The Beowulf didn't reply.

It simply stared at him, unmoving… until its form began to blur and shimmer. Like mist caught in sunlight, it faded into the wind, leaving Jaune alone once more—with only the pull of gravity and the beating of his heart to accompany him.

Time resumed.

The wind screamed past his ears. The ground surged closer. Jaune twisted his body in mid-air, bracing himself.

With a heavy thud, he landed in a crouch at the base of the wall, his legs absorbing the impact. Dust and sand kicked up around him in a small cloud, but he didn't waste a second. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

He ran.

Cloak billowing behind him, Crocea Mors in hand, Jaune sprinted toward the enemy encampment—toward the small makeshift village nestled just outside the walls of Vacuo. The sky above was still painted in hues of pre-dawn blue and orange, and the camp was only just beginning to stir.

He moved like a shadow between the tents, his steps light, silent, purposeful. From within the fabric shelters, sleepy groans and half-formed yawns drifted into the open air. A few figures were stepping out into the early light, rubbing their eyes, unaware of the ghost moving among them.

But Jaune wasn't here for them.

His eyes scanned the chaos, his gaze cold and focused—searching.

And then, there she was.

Gillian.

Emerging from her tent, already dressed for battle, her expression was unreadable—serious, alert, but not yet alarmed. She hadn't noticed him.

Not yet.

Jaune's grip tightened on Crocea Mors. With a deep breath, he poured his Aura into the blade, overcharging it—forcing raw energy through the steel, enough to bypass a freshly woken opponent's defenses.

He moved like lightning.

One second, Gillian was stepping out into the center of the camp. The next—Jaune was in front of her. Before she could blink, before she could shout, before her Aura could even flare in defense... He struck.

The blade tore across her chest in a single, clean slash. The force of the blow knocked her back, blood blooming through her clothes as she stumbled, coughing and gasping. The attack had cut deep—deeper than she expected. She hadn't even seen it coming.

Jaune's eyes locked with Gillian's, cobalt clashing with violet, and she stared at him in raw hatred. And Jaune? His face held no anger.

No triumph. Only resolve. Resolve to end this as quickly as he could.

Gillian collapsed to the ground with a thud, her blood staining the sand beneath her in a deep, dark smear. Jaune didn't even allow himself to linger on her lifeless body. His gaze shot upward, locking onto the figure that had emerged from the shadows—the one who had been watching, waiting.

It was Carmine.

Her eyes widened in horror as she took in the brutal scene. She stared at the body of her fallen friend, a look of disbelief flashing across her face, but it quickly twisted into something far darker. Her lips parted to speak, but before a word could escape, Jaune acted without hesitation.

His sword flashed like a streak of lightning in the early morning light, the glint of Crocea Mors reflecting in the tense air. The blade swept across Carmine's throat, cutting through flesh with a sickening sound. Blood sprayed from the wound, splattering across Jaune's face, his clothes, and the ground beneath them.

Carmine's hands shot up to her throat, her fingers desperately trying to hold the blood in, but it was too late. Her eyes rolled back, and with a final, choked gasp, she fell to her knees. The world around her seemed to slow, the air thickening with the weight of her impending death.

And then, she toppled forward, her body hitting the sand with a heavy, lifeless thud.

The camp, once filled with the sounds of the early morning, fell into a stunned silence. For a moment, no one moved, no one spoke. The air felt thick, charged with the violence that had just erupted.

Jaune stood there, the weight of his actions settling over him, but there was no time for remorse. Not yet.

His eyes scanned the encampment, looking at the remaining rogues—those who had been too slow to act, too stunned by the sudden bloodshed. He could feel their eyes on him, their disbelief, their fear. The sight of the two fallen women, Gillian and Carmine, their blood pooling on the sand, was enough to shock even the most hardened fighters.

Jaune raised his sword high, the bloodied blade catching the first light of dawn, casting a red glow over his face and the battlefield.

"AS PROMISED," his voice rang out, clear and unshaken, his anger and determination cutting through the silence like a blade. "I, JAUNE ARC, AM HERE!"

He let the words hang in the air, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. The ground beneath him felt solid, unyielding. He had crossed the line, and now there was no turning back.

"GILLIAN IS DEAD! I'VE WON! SURRENDER OR DIE HERE!"

The rogue camp was in chaos now, but Jaune's declaration seemed to have no effect on Dallion and the rest of the Shrikes. They stood unfazed, their glares as cold and unwavering as steel. Their weapons were drawn, glinting in the light, and some of them even activated their mecha-shift forms, transforming their weapons into monstrous shapes designed for brutal combat.

Jaune's eyes narrowed, his glare sharpening. He could feel the weight of his own heartbeat in his chest. His grip on Crocea Mors tightened, knuckles white, as the adrenaline surged through him. Without taking his eyes off the Shrikes, he activated his shield, the shimmering aura pulsing around him as it materialized into a radiant, solid barrier.

It was clear.

This wasn't over.

The real fight was only just beginning.

As Jaune braced himself for the inevitable clash, something strange caught the corner of his eye—a figure watching from a distant dune. The silhouette was indistinct, blending into the shifting sands, but there was no mistaking the presence.

The Rusted Knight.

He sat motionless atop Juniper, as though an ancient statue brought to life by the bloodshed that had unfolded below. But what Jaune didn't see, what none of the combatants could see, was the other presence—something subtle, ethereal. A soft glow, like a fading memory, stood beside the Rusted Knight. It was a young spirit, glowing with a pale blue hue, watching the scene unfold with an expression that was nothing short of sorrowful.

The spirit's face was a mixture of sadness and disappointment, as though it had seen too much of this before. It wasn't just watching the battle—it was mourning it. The figure's gaze flickered to Jaune, then to the fallen bodies of Gillian and Carmine, and for a brief moment, its features seemed to almost… understand.

As Jaune prepared for what was to come, the spirit remained there, silent, distant—but perhaps, somehow, connected to the chaos that was unfolding.

And then, the battle began...

XXX

Hey guys, here are some fun tidbits about this chapter!

1. The whole fight is inspired by both the 100-man fight from Berserk and the battle between Miyamoto Musashi and the Yoshioka Clan from Vagabond.

2. The Arioch snake is named after Arioch, a fallen angel known as the demon of vengeance.

3. Jaune taking down Gillian and Carmine is kind of inspired by a scene from the animated doc Musashi: The Dream of the Last Samurai, where Musashi kills Genjiro Yoshioka.

Hope you all enjoyed the chapter! I know I'm excited for what comes next—you'll finally see all of Jaune's training pay off as he hits a whole new level. Plus, we'll be saying goodbye to a character the group holds close...

Also, we're only three chapters away from the end of Part 1! Can you believe it!?

I'm thinking of doing something fun for the end of Part 1, like maybe commissioning a new cover or some art to show what the group will look like in Part 2.

If you guys know any good artists, hit me up! Thanks for reading, and I'll catch you all in the next chapter!