"Jaune, let introduce a fellow sword enthusiast. et Adam. Adam Taurus."
The na lingered for a mont.
The young man beside. Grise offered a polite nod. His movents were unhurried, confident in a way that didn't feel forced. His composure was almost… unnatural—like he'd been raised on discipline and stillness his entire life.
"Adam Taurus," he said with a small, practiced smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He extended a hand. "Nice to et you."
"Jaune Arc," Jaune replied, shaking his hand firmly. Adam's grip was strong and steady, but not the kind that tried to prove a point—just honest pressure. "Good to et you too."
Grise clapped both of them on the shoulders, grin wide. "Would you believe this guy and I used to duel as kids? Back when we thought holding a sword made us knights."
Adam chuckled, the sound light but genuine. "You thought you were a knight. I just wanted to win."
"Sa thing," Grise said, waving him off. "Anyway, we both t when we joined this local tournant years ago. I was, what, twelve? Adam was thirteen at the ti."
"Thirteen and a half," Adam corrected mildly.
Grise rolled his eyes. "Right. He's always been a stickler for details. Point is, we ended up fighting each other in the quarterfinals. He won—barely—and we've been friends and rivals ever since."
"Barely?" Adam echoed, arching an eyebrow. "You couldn't touch for the first three minutes."
"That's because puberty hadn't touched yet," Grise barked. "You had reach on . I was still learning how to hold a sword properly."
Jaune grinned, watching them banter like old rivals. It was camaraderie built on years of shared mory—the kind of bond forged through repetition, bruises, and countless rematches.
"But," Grise continued, straightening proudly, "tis change. Now, I can safely say I've surpassed him."
Adam's smile deepened just slightly. "Is that so? Interesting choice of words. Especially since so our most of our recent spars ended in draws."
"Not what I rember."
"It's true."
"Coincidence, perhaps?"
Jaune laughed quietly under his breath. The exchange was warm and familiar, grounding in a way that reminded him what normal friendships sounded like. The sort of thing that had been missing lately amidst all the weight of the dream realm, the missions, and his father's betrayal.
"You two still spar often?" Jaune asked, curiosity slipping into his tone.
"Every few months when Adam's in town," Grise said. "He lives outside of Vale, but he tends to work here when he gets assignnts. So whenever he passes through, we et up at the old gym. Keep the blades sharp, you know?"
"Figuratively," Adam added, half-smiling. "The katanas we use are blunted. Can't afford another hospital bill."
"Mhmm. That ti was indeed special." Grise jabbed a thumb at him. "And need I remind you that you were the one who tripped ?"
"I parried. You lost balance."
"Semantics."
Their easy rhythm drew a smirk from Jaune. "Sounds like you two go way back."
Adam nodded, folding his arms loosely. "It's rare to find soone as stubborn as Grise about technique. We clashed a lot when we were younger, but in hindsight… that probably helped us both get better."
"I'd say so," Grise said with mock smugness. "Though I'm the one who ended up teaching Sword Arts, not you."
"I prefer to stay off the stage," Adam replied. "Too many eyes. Too much noise."
"Classic Adam," Grise muttered fondly. "Always brooding, even as a kid."
"Brooding implies I'm unhappy," Adam countered smoothly. "I'm quite content."
That earned a chuckle from Jaune, who found himself oddly at ease. There was a strange symtry in the way the two n spoke—Grise with his easygoing warmth, Adam with quiet precision. Both were clearly skilled. Their posture, their awareness of space—it reminded Jaune of trained operatives, though these two, of course, had no idea of the world beneath their feet.
"So," Grise said, turning the conversation toward Jaune, "what's your weapon of choice these days? Still working on that longsword form?"
Jaune nodded. "Yeah. I've tried switching styles, but the longsword just… fits. Balanced, adaptable, not too specialized. Though, I think dual wielding might be sothing I'd love to start training on."
Adam tilted his head. "Interesting choice. Most people gravitate toward Mistralian designs these days—sleeker, lighter. As for dual wielding… personally, I find it unwieldy. But to each their own."
"Hah, trust , I know," Jaune said, smiling faintly. "But there's sothing about it that just… fits with , you know?"
Adam seed to consider that, his expression softening. "Fair. Though personally, I've always found beauty in a single katana's economy of motion. Every cut is deliberate, and there's no waste."
"Spoken like a Mistralian purist," Grise teased. "He used to wax poetic about blade curvature like it was a religious experience."
"I'm from nagerie, not Mistral," Adam explained to Jaune, then continued without missing a beat. "And it's not poetic. Just respectful. Every curve, every inch of steel serves a purpose. It's harmony in design."
Jaune nodded thoughtfully. "Guess that's why I like swords in general. They're honest. You can't fake skill with one."
Grise gave a grin of approval. "Spoken like a man who's eaten his share of humble pie in training."
"Yes, Grise, we both know you beat my ass black and blue. No need to rub it in," Jaune pouted.
The conversation flowed easily after that—talking about their preferred grips, guard stances, even the best way to polish steel without scratching the finish. For a few minutes, it was just three sword enthusiasts geeking out in the middle of a grocery store, surrounded by the sterile scent of produce and detergent.
Jaune found himself relaxing. There was no pressure to hide what he was—no need to watch his words or steer around the edges of LUCID business. Just simple talk about craft and technique.
At one point, Grise drifted away to grab sothing from another aisle, leaving Jaune and Adam alone for a short while.
"You're a student at Beacon like Grise, right?" Adam asked, tone casual.
"Yeah," Jaune replied. "First year."
"It's a good school," Adam said. "Strong program. A lot of opportunities."
"Among other things," Jaune said lightly, smiling.
Adam's gaze lingered for a mont, as if weighing sothing behind those calm eyes, before he nodded slightly. "Keep at it, Jaune. Discipline's what separates a swordsman from soone who simply wields a blade."
"Couldn't agree more."
Grise returned a mont later, arms full of snacks. "Alright, gentlen, I've successfully acquired sustenance. Adam, you still up for lunch tomorrow?"
"If work doesn't interfere," Adam said.
"Work?" Jaune asked.
"Yeah," Adam replied, shrugging one shoulder. "Nothing exciting. Just a temporary assignnt here in Vale. Supervision, a bit of travel. I'll probably only be around for another four months—maybe less, if it wraps early."
"Ah. That's a sha," Jaune said. "Would've been nice to spar with you soti."
Adam gave that sa easy smile. "Maybe before I go, then. I'd like to see your form."
Jaune nodded. "I'd like that too."
The three of them shared a few final remarks before Jaune glanced at his basket—half full but still missing most of what he ca for.
"Well," he said, giving a polite nod, "I should finish up before the lines get too long."
"Sure thing," Grise said. "Make sure to co by for training soon, alright? Club's always open."
"Will do," Jaune replied with a smile.
As he turned to leave, Adam gave a small nod of parting—calm, courteous, and unreadable.
Jaune waved once, pushing his basket toward the next aisle.
Behind him, the two old friends continued their conversation, laughter mixing faintly with the hum of the store's speakers. Normalcy manifest.
But... oddly enough, like a faint echo at the back of his mind, that normalcy seed to waver slightly—as if sothing in the air was off. Like a presence that didn't belong. When Jaune glanced back, both n were simply chatting near the at aisle, smiling as if nothing was wrong.
He shook his head. Perhaps he was imagining it.
For now, he focused on the groceries—milk, eggs, rice—and the quiet promise of a ho-cooked al waiting at the end of the day.
.
.
Later that day, Jaune stepped into the LUCID armory, his footsteps echoing faintly against the reinforced flooring. He was still dressed in his casual attire—hoodie, jeans.
Today, he was supposed to pick up sothing important.
"Florick," Jaune called out, spotting the man at the far bench.
The older armorer didn't look up right away. He was hunched over a disassembled gauntlet, goggles pushed down, a magnifying lens adjusted to his eye as he worked a precision torch into so inner chanism. Only when he finished the weld did he glance up, pushing the lens away.
"You're early," Florick said, his gravelly voice carrying that usual mix of disinterest and professionalism. "I thought you'd stop ho first."
"Couldn't wait," Jaune said with a faint grin. "The blade's ready, right?"
Florick gave a short grunt—half affirmation, half annoyance at being interrupted—and moved toward one of the sealed weapon lockers. He keyed in a code, and the chanism hissed as it unlocked. From within, he withdrew a long black case with the LUCID insignia stamped in white across its surface.
Setting it on the nearby table, he undid the clamps and flipped it open.
Inside, nestled in dark foam, was the weapon.
Jaune exhaled slowly. Even under the sterile light, it glead with restrained nace.
The blade seed sleeker than Lux Aeterna—with a smoother curvature and a longer grip designed for dual wielding balance. Its alloy-black finish transitioned to a silver-gray edge so fine it almost vanished when tilted, the signature of the monomolecular forging process. The inner tang shimred faintly, a sign that runic forging was used.
"Beautiful," Jaune murmured, reaching out to lift it.
Florick crossed his arms, watching carefully. "It has the sa balance point as your other blade. I was able to keep the sa core tal too. I just adjusted the edge harmonics. Should cut through the sa things that Lux Aeterna does—assuming you don't slam it against extre reinforced alloy like last ti."
"That was one ti," Jaune said defensively, giving the blade a slow experintal swing.
The weapon moved like an extension of himself—smooth, weightless, perfectly aligned. It cut through the air with a sound like tearing silk.
And then Florick barked, "Not in here, damn it!"
Jaune froze mid-swing.
"Do you have any idea how many man-hours went into calibrating those Rune Fra-modules behind you? You so much as nick a fra, and I'll have you down here polishing weapons for a month!"
Jaune grimaced sheepishly and lowered the blade imdiately. "Right. Sorry. Just—wanted to feel the balance."
"Balance will feel the sa outside," Florick said dryly, stepping over to close the case. "You're lucky I like you, kid."
Jaune chuckled. "You say that every ti."
"I an it less every ti," Florick grumbled, though there was no real bite behind his tone.
Jaune took another look at the blade—Crocea Mors. "You outdid yourself. Seriously."
Florick's expression softened slightly, though he tried not to show it. "It's good work because I don't cut corners."
"Guess that ans I've got my pair now," Jaune said quietly, the thought settling in. "Twin edges."
Florick just nodded once. "You're going to be dual-wielding now, right?"
"Yes. Training starts today, ideally."
"Then train smart," Florick said, turning back to his bench. "Blades like those don't forgive sloppy movents. They cut everything—including the fool holding them."
Jaune smiled faintly at the warning, then bowed his head in quiet respect. "Understood."
As he walked toward the exit, the weight of the new sword felt natural at his side—like it belonged there all along. For the first ti in a while, sothing felt complete.
.
.
AN: Advanced chapters are available on patreon
Reviews
All reviews (0)