The clock in Headmaster Ozpin’s office was the loudest thing in the world. Each tick was a hammer blow against the inside of Jaune’s skull. A slow, methodical countdown to the end of his life. Or what passed for it, anyway. He stared at a single, ridiculously intricate gear turning behind the glass of the far wall, counting the teeth. Thirty-two on the big one. He’d counted them three times. It was better than looking at anyone in the room.
“The statutes are quite clear,” Glynda Goodwitch said, her voice leaving no room for argument. It was a precise instrument, honed to cut away weakness. Right now, it was carving him up piece by piece. “Article 7, Section 3, Subsection B: ‘Any candidate found to have gained admission to Beacon Academy through the submission of falsified credentials shall be subject to immediate expulsion.’ There are no exceptions.”
Jaune risked a glance at Cardin Winchester, who stood near the door with his arms crossed. The smug satisfaction rolling off him was a physical force. It was thicker than the steam from the Headmaster’s mug.
“He was a danger to his team,” Cardin said, his voice a low rumble of feigned concern. “To the whole school. He couldn’t even unlock his own Aura without help. What if he’d frozen up during the Vytal Festival? Or in a real Grimm attack?”
He wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part. He wasn’t wrong. Jaune’s hands clenched into fists, the cheap fabric of his Pumpkin Pete hoodie bunching in his palms.
“Thank you for your civic-mindedness, Mr. Winchester. You may wait outside,” Ozpin said, his tone utterly placid. He hadn’t looked away from Jaune once. His gaze wasn’t angry, or disappointed. It was… diagnostic. Like a doctor looking at a terminal case.
Cardin swaggered out, the door hissing shut behind him. The silence that fell was worse than the ticking clock.
“Mr. Arc,” Ozpin began, steepling his fingers. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Jaune’s throat was full of sand. He swallowed, and it felt like swallowing gravel. “No, sir.” What was there to say? I lied. I’m a fraud. I’m not good enough. They already knew all that. Saying it out loud wouldn’t change a thing.
“I see.” Ozpin took a sip of his drink. The gears on the wall kept turning. “Your family has a long and storied history. Warriors and heroes, all. It is a heavy legacy to bear.”
Jaune flinched. The weight of Crocea Mors, strapped to his hip, suddenly felt like an anchor dragging him to the bottom of the sea. His great-grandfather’s sword. His great-grandfather’s shield. Someone else’s story.
“Your path does not end here, Mr. Arc,” Ozpin said, his voice softening just enough to be cruel. “It simply… diverges. There are many ways to be a hero. Not all of them require a Huntsman’s license.” He leaned forward, and for a moment, the strange, old-soul weariness in his eyes was overwhelming. “Some destinies cannot be forged at Beacon.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and strange. Glynda Goodwitch shifted her weight, the subtle tap of her riding crop against her thigh the only sound for a moment. She was withholding something. A protest? A flicker of sympathy? He couldn't tell. Her face was a mask of professional duty.
Ozpin gave a slight nod. “Glynda will escort you to your dorm to collect your effects. You have one hour. Then a bullhead will return you to the Vale spaceport.”
Dismissed. It was that simple. He was a piece of trash being taken out.
Jaune couldn’t bring himself to look at them. He just nodded, turned, and walked toward the door. His legs felt like lead. He didn’t trust himself to go back to the dorm. He couldn’t face them. Pyrrha’s hopeful smile. Nora’s manic energy. Ren’s quiet acceptance. The thought of their faces turning from friendship to pity—or worse, disgust—was a physical pain. He grabbed the hilt of his sword, the worn leather a familiar, hollow comfort.
He didn't go to the dorm. He just walked. Out of the tower, across the courtyards that had felt like home just this morning. His Scroll buzzed in his pocket. A message from Pyrrha. *Jaune, where are you? Practice in an hour?* Another from Nora. A string of incomprehensible emojis. He turned the device off. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
He took the first transport he could, a public airship heading for the city center, and stood crammed between a faunus dockworker who smelled of fish and a businesswoman talking loudly into her Scroll. He stared out the window as Beacon Academy shrank, a white castle in the sky, a dream he’d woken up from.
The Vale Intercontinental Transport Hub was chaos. A sprawling, grimy testament to travel. Shouts of mechanics, the roar of dust engines, the hiss of hydraulic lifts. It smelled of ozone, grease, and cheap noodles. In the shadow of a leaking water pipe, a large puddle of grimy, rainbow-sheened water had formed. Jaune saw it and his feet stopped dead. His breath hitched. He hated still water. Hated it with a primal, nonsensical revulsion that made his skin crawl. He took a sharp, deliberate detour around the puddle, his heart thumping in his chest for a stupid, stupid reason. A Huntsman afraid of a puddle. Pathetic.
He found a secluded corner in the cargo district, an alley between two towering stacks of shipping containers, to catch his breath. To think. But there was nothing to think about. He was Jaune Arc, the failure. The liar. The boy who ran away.
He leaned his head back against the cold, corrugated metal. What now? Go home? Face his parents? His seven sisters? Explain how he’d brought shame to the Arc name?
No. He couldn’t.
He was nothing. He had nothing.
The thought was a spark in a tinderbox of misery and self-loathing. He wasn’t sad anymore. He was angry. Angry at Cardin for being a bully. Angry at Ozpin for his cryptic nonsense. But most of all, angry at himself. For being weak. For being a fraud. For this searing, boiling rage that had nowhere to go.
He clutched the hilt of Crocea Mors, his knuckles white. The anger built, a pressure behind his eyes, a fire in his chest. His Aura, the vast, uncontrolled wellspring that Pyrrha had unlocked and he barely understood, responded to the emotional torrent.
It flared.
Not a shimmer, not a shield. It erupted. A blinding supernova of raw, white energy that bleached the color from the alley. It didn't feel like his Aura. Aura was a shield. Aura was strength. This was… a rupture. The air screamed, a high-pitched whine that drilled into his ears. The smell of ozone was thick enough to taste, mingled with something else. Something sterile, like a hospital.
The metal of the container behind him didn’t feel cold anymore. It didn’t feel at all. The ground beneath his feet vanished. The roar of the spaceport, the shouts, the engines—all gone. Replaced by the piercing whine and a low, rhythmic hum.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the white light, his hand fused to his sword. This wasn't supposed to happen. Aura doesn't *do* this. It doesn't eat the world.
He felt a lurch, not of falling, but of… arrival.
The light receded. The whine faded, replaced by the hum and the quiet, distant sound of marching feet. The air was cool, filtered, and smelled of salt and rain.
He was still standing. His legs still worked. He opened his eyes.
The grimy alley was gone. The Vale sky was gone. He was in a long, white hallway, brighter than anything he had ever seen. And walking toward him, their armor as pristine as the corridor, were two men. Tall, broad-shouldered.
And they both had his face.