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Morning couldn't have come sooner. After grabbing a quick breakfast and bidding the mayor farewell, Professor Port and I hit the road. The journey to Vale wouldn't take much longer—just a few hours to reach the outer perimeter of the city and then another hour until we got to the heart of it.

True to his word, the professor filled the time by giving me lessons, which he claimed "might or might not be on the test." The lessons were more like stories from his youth, each one weaving valuable knowledge with just the right touch of flair. Boarbatusk attack patterns? He told me a story of how he dodged a charging one by baiting it into revealing its soft underbelly, then dispatched it with a well-placed strike. Herd of Goliaths coming your way? He told of his grandfather outwitting a stampede, leading the massive Grimm to plummet off a cliff because, as Port put it, "Goliaths are terrible at turning."

It was honestly fascinating, if a bit rambling. The professor clearly had a knack for turning even the most mundane factoid into an adventure. But while the stories were entertaining, the road itself was a bit monotonous. So, I decided to practice my flying—bad idea.

First, I got a bit lost trying to find Port again after weaving through some dense foliage. Second, the sun was brutal, constantly getting in my eyes. As fun as flying was, I realized quickly that I needed sunglasses if I wanted to enjoy it more. No shining ball of gas was going to stop me from ruling the skies.

Soon enough, signs of civilization started to appear—distant hums of engines, defensive fortifications, glimpses of roads, and the unmistakable silhouette of Beacon Academy's castle-like structure perched on its hill. The sight of it filled me with a sense of excitement and dread. But more than that, I was eager to see the city itself.

Reaching the city gate, Port flashed his Hunter ID, and we were waved through without issue.

Vale was impressive, and honestly, it gave off a very European vibe—wide streets, plenty of space for walking, and a charm that hadn't been touched by the glorious suburban sprawl. Unfortunately, since we entered from the south, the first thing we passed through was the agricultural district, so I missed out on seeing Forever Fall's famous crimson trees. I'd heard they were stunning, but I'd have to wait for another day to experience them.

Once inside the city, Port and I went our separate ways. He headed straight to Beacon to prepare for tomorrow's exam, while I set off to explore the city—and more importantly, to get some shopping done. First things first, I needed a place to stay.

Finding a hotel room was surprisingly easy. Vale's service industry was robust, catering to travelers from all across the Kingdom. Within an hour, I'd secured a room at the St. Trisha Hotel. It wasn't anything fancy—honestly, it was more like a slightly rundown Holiday Inn just outside the industrial district—but it was affordable. At 100 lien per night, I couldn't really complain.

With that taken care of, my next stop was a clothing store. My mission? Aviators. Sunglasses might seem like a small detail, but after my brief flying experience, I knew I needed them if I wanted to keep enjoying my time in the sky without the sun blinding me. I found a pair that, while a bit silly-looking on me, would do the trick. I'd wear anything even clown makeup if I had to—if it meant enjoying a few more minutes of uninterrupted flying.

With my shopping done, I walked the streets of Vale, my new aviators resting on my nose, and took in the sights. The city buzzed with life, and though I was here for serious business, I couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement. Tomorrow, I'd be one step closer to Beacon Academy. But for now, I'd enjoy what time I had.

After securing my room and grabbing a pair of aviators to keep the sun at bay, I decided to indulge in the responsible thing every university student does—the joys of day drinking. I wasn't here to party, just to relax, but after all the preparation and the long journey, it felt like the perfect way to ease into things before the exams tomorrow.

After some scrolling on my personal scroll to find a decent spot, I couldn't help but notice the gigantic number of missed calls and messages from my family. 23 from Mom, 8 from Dad, 2 from Diana, and a handful from Terra, Saphron, and the rest of my sisters. I had the decency not to block any of them, just muted notifications for now. Hopefully, they'll understand when I'm enrolled at Beacon. Once I'm in, I'll be too deep to back out, and maybe that'll be the closure they need to accept my choice. For now, though, I couldn't let those constant pings distract me.

By the time I made it to a bar, it was already 6 PM. I ordered a cold mug of whatever was on tap, savoring the familiar, comforting bite of the brew as I settled down to formulate my game plan for tomorrow. I knew the written exam was coming up bright and early, and while I didn't think it would be a walk in the park, I was fairly confident I could handle it. Surviving Earth's education system had turned me into a pretty mean test-taker, and I'd devoured every bit of academic lore I could get my hands on in preparation for Beacon. I just had to trust in my own abilities.

The physical part of the exam, however, that was a different beast entirely. What did it even entail? Would I have to hunt down Grimm while a professor shadowed me? Face off against one of the teachers? Maybe it was something as simple as an obstacle course designed to push us to our limits. The uncertainty was gnawing at me.

If it came down to fighting Grimm, I'd be golden. Radiant energy from my Oath practically tore through those creatures. They didn't stand a chance, as I had learned back in the village. But if it meant going toe-to-toe with one of the teachers… well, that was a trickier situation. The knowledge from the tree had given me a basic understanding of swordsmanship, but it was more geared toward a grounded soldier's approach: shield up, feet firmly planted, and the sharp end aimed at the enemy. Huntsmen fought with a level of speed and agility I hadn't quite mastered yet, using their aura to leap, dodge, and strike with incredible speed.

But surely, they wouldn't expect us to win against a professional. If the test was about holding my own and showing potential, maybe I could pass by using my mobility. Flying around and dishing out smites from above could work. I'd just need to be extra careful not to get shot out of the air while I maneuvered. As long as I could do "well enough," I might be able to scrape by.

The real kicker, though, would be the extra credit portion of the exam. That's where I could truly shine. My abilities with my Oath gave me so much versatility: weak mental commands, smelling the Grimm from afar, healing, dispelling fear, and of course, flight. My smites had already proven themselves effective in combat, and there was even more I hadn't fully unlocked yet. As I grew more familiar with my Oath and its powers, I could become a true asset to any Huntsman team, a force multiplier.

Even if I didn't nail the physical portion of the test, I was confident that my unique skill set would set me apart from the other candidates. Dropping the hint that my semblance, "Paladin's oath," was still growing could only help my case. The potential for growth is what every academy looks for, right?

With a buzz from the alcohol relaxing me, I allowed myself to feel optimistic, the little fear in my heart was smothered by the glow of my oath, fear apparently had no place in me, a little worrying that my power was messing with my emotions a bit but the effort is appreciated.

Downing my drink, and then another I made my way to my hotel room to have a good night's sleep and prepare myself for the next day.

The early morning air in Vale was a welcome change—crisp, cool, and buzzing with the hum of city life. After spending so much time on the farm, I hadn't realized just how much I missed the sounds of civilization: tires rolling along the road, the distant chatter of passersby, and the general hum of urban activity. It felt wonderful, comforting in a way, like returning to something familiar after being away for too long. I'd grown fond of the peaceful farm life, but deep down, I knew I was a city boy, through and through—both in this life and the last.

Today's the day: the exam at Beacon Academy. It was scheduled to start in a couple of hours, with instructions advising candidates to be at the bullhead terminal an hour early. Of course, that didn't really apply to me. Why bother with a crowded terminal when I had wings and the perfect excuse to use them?

After grabbing a quick breakfast and washing it down with not one but two cans of the worst energy drink I'd ever tasted—something called "Hunter's Brew," which was like a foul mix of 5-hour Energy and that one off-putting Arizona tea flavor no one liked—I felt a jolt of energy surge through me. The taste was awful, but the kick was undeniable. Feeling jittery, I checked in with the front desk to extend my stay until initiation, then headed out into the city streets, already buzzing with anticipation.

Beacon Academy awaited, and I wasn't about to wait for a slow bullhead ride when I had the perfect alternative. I spotted the terminal, watching as bullheads took off and landed, making their way toward the majestic castle-like structure of Beacon perched on the mountain. That's where I needed to be.

With a grin, I popped on my sunglasses and unfurled my golden wings. A few onlookers gave me curious glances, but I didn't mind—I was far too excited to care. With a powerful push, I took to the skies, my wings propelling me higher as the ground below blurred. The wind whipped through my hair, and the exhilaration of flying was everything I'd hoped for. It was liberating, soaring over the trees and cliffs with the city sprawling beneath me.

As I climbed higher, Beacon Academy came into full view, its tall towers gleaming in the morning light. The topmost tower, glowing with a green light, stood as a beacon—both literally and figuratively. I set my sights on the bullhead landing bay nestled next to the castle, watching as one of the bullheads began its descent.

I matched its pace, descending just as it touched down. A few moments later, my feet landed on the ground, and I folded my wings with a deep breath of satisfaction. I had arrived.

As I landed on the Beacon landing bay, two figures caught my attention. They were clearly professors, and both eyed me curiously. The first was a middle-aged man with white hair, dressed in a sleek black and green outfit, holding a cup of coffee in his hand. He had a calm, almost tired demeanor about him, like he'd seen everything there was to see. Beside him stood a woman with short blonde hair and piercing green eyes. She was... a bit eccentric. Not only was she holding a riding crop—yes, like the kind you'd use for horseback riding—but she also wore a deep purple cape that billowed slightly in the breeze. Quite the odd fashion choice, though considering the outlandish outfits I'd already seen on Remnant, it wasn't the weirdest thing by far. At least she wasn't covered in belts like some kind of Final Fantasy reject.

Not that I had any right to judge. I was still wearing Dad's old armor—a bit on the traditional side for a Huntsman, but it fit me well enough. It might not scream "Huntsman in training," but it felt right, like carrying a part of my family with me. But compared to the Huntsmen-in-training here, I probably looked like I was from another era.

The professors seemed like they were about to say something to me, but just then, the bullhead doors opened, and the prospective students began to file out. They looked... colorful, to say the least. Each one seemed to have their own unique flair, from wild outfits that looked more appropriate for a fashion show than a battlefield to absurd weapons that defied logic. One guy even had a tuba that looked like it doubled as a mortar. Practical? Questionable. Intimidating? Absolutely.

The man in green took a step forward and addressed us all. "Good morning, students. Welcome to Beacon. I am Professor Ozpin, the Headmaster here at Beacon Academy," he said, his voice carrying a calm authority. He gestured to the woman beside him. "And this is Professor Glynda Goodwitch, assistant headmistress and your soon-to-be instructor for combat classes here at Beacon."

Professor Goodwitch gave a sharp nod, her expression unreadable.

"Before any of that, however," Ozpin continued, "you'll need to pass the entrance exam. Many of you haven't had the opportunity to study at a Huntsman Academy like Signal, nor have you apprenticed under a professional Huntsman. So, for now, you are potential—nothing more, nothing less."

With that, he led us toward a massive auditorium. It was grand in scale, with towering ceilings, wide-open spaces, and the kind of architecture that made you feel like you were walking into a medieval castle. It had a certain gravitas that made the whole experience feel even more important. As we walked through the hall, I even spotted a statue of my grandfather. Or at least, I thought it was him—he was holding Crocea Mors, our family's ancestral weapon. The sword and shield bore the Arc family crest, and I couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at seeing it.

When we reached the auditorium, rows of chairs had been prepared for us to take the written exam. I opted to sit in the back—partly to avoid drawing too much attention to myself since Crocea Mors and my Aura glowed a shiny golden light, and I didn't want to distract anyone. As I sat down, I caught the eye of a girl with a giant black bow sitting a few seats away. She gave me a nod of what I assumed was either thanks or relief. Maybe I had taken the spot she was eyeing, or maybe she was just grateful that I was sitting far enough away not to be a literal beacon of light. Either way, I settled in, trying to remain inconspicuous—well, as inconspicuous as a walking nightlight could be.

Professor Goodwitch handed out the exam papers, and once everyone had their copy, she instructed us to begin.

I flipped the paper over and scanned the first question: "Formulate a strategy on how to deal with a pack of Boarbatusks."

I couldn't help but smile. Port, you sly old man. He had basically given me the answer back on the road. A Boarbatusk's most dangerous attribute is its charge attack, so the key was to use that against them—bait them into charging and dodge at the last second to expose their soft underbellies. I quickly scribbled down my strategy, feeling confident.

At least I wasn't dumb enough to forget what a boar's "special ability" was.

The exam was surprisingly easy. Professor Port's "totally real tales" combined with my curiosity about this world and my past academic experience made most of the questions feel like softball pitches. Of course, whether the teachers would agree with my answers was another matter entirely. Glancing around, I saw my fellow applicants looking far less confident. Some were sniffling; others looked downright drained. Honestly, I could empathize. Standardized tests determining the rest of your academic future had that effect. I should know—med school had taken me more tries than I'd like to admit.

As for the upcoming physical test, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least a little nervous. Still, I wasn't drowning in anxiety, either. There was this... serene calm within me, as though my oath itself were casting Heroism on me every time my nerves started bubbling up. While I was grateful for it, I couldn't help wondering if relying on a divine buffer to keep my cool was the healthiest coping mechanism.

Time crawled by. Minutes stretched into tens, and soon enough, Professor Port entered the room with his trademark red coat, axe-blunderbuss slung over his shoulder. His jovial energy was almost palpable.

"Form a line, children! One by one, you'll follow me to our combat classroom," he bellowed, his voice booming. "There, we'll test your mettle in honorable combat. Hohoho!"

The line formed quickly, but of course, fate landed me at the back of it. Directly in front of me stood the girl with the giant black bow, her strange weapon strapped to her back. It looked like she'd stapled two machine guns onto a sword inspired by Attack on Titan. Pretty cool, even if it raised more questions than answers. Now why she added the machine guns is beyond me—gunswords are cool, but they're usually worse than just a gun or just a sword. Having Crocea Mors, I can claim that confidently. She's the best sword, after all, and those who say otherwise are wrong or paid actors.

The line moved slowly. Too slowly. I popped one of my weathered earbuds into an ear and pulled up a podcast to pass the time. Today's episode featured a gorilla Faunus pulling a Joe Rogan by interviewing Pietro Polendina about Atlas's latest technological innovations. Most of it went over my head, but the talk of cutting-edge prosthetics caught my interest. I was so engrossed that I almost missed my turn. Reluctantly, I paused the episode and stepped forward.

"Ah, young Jaune! Time for you to show your mettle, my boy!" Professor Port said with enthusiasm. He gestured for me to follow him across Beacon's sprawling campus. The academy was huge, its sheer scale overwhelming, though I assumed it would feel more manageable once we got maps. Finally, we reached the combat arena.

It was less intimidating than I expected—smaller than the auditorium, with raised bleachers for spectators. The arena itself was low to the ground, making it easy to step onto. At one end, I noticed a small room marked for student preparation. I wouldn't need it; I was already geared up.

Professor Port took his position on the opposite side, and I readied myself. Drawing Crocea Mors, I unsheathed the blade and let my aura flow into it. The sword always had a natural glow—a soft, gentle shimmer that seemed to reflect its purpose and the craftsmanship of the Fae. But as my aura coursed through it, the light intensified, quickly becoming a shining beacon in my hand, burning away the shadows with its brilliance.

My wings flared behind me, a cascade of golden light spreading over the arena. The glow would hopefully make it a bit harder for him to hit me with the bullets from his gun.

With my stance set and my body brimming with anticipation, I called out.

"Ready when you are, Professor."

"Ah, the eagerness of youth!" Port replied, his voice tinged with amusement. "But first, my boy, we must connect your scroll to Beacon's systems. While breaking bones and bruising egos might seem thrilling, we're here to measure your score! Hohoho!"

I quickly synced my scroll, my aura gauge appearing on the arena's scoreboard alongside his. A quick glance to the bleachers revealed Headmaster Ozpin and Professor Goodwitch observing us. Their positions gave them a perfect vantage point for grading.

The scoreboard began its countdown.

3... 2... 1…

No sooner had the final number disappeared than Port lunged forward with startling speed, his axe-blunderbuss raised high. His agility was staggering for a man of his size, and I barely managed to raise my shield in time. The impact was immense, the blow rippling through my arm like a shockwave. My shield held, though, thanks to the blessings of the fae—the craftsmanship felt as rigid as the mountains.

Port pulled back for another strike, and I seized the opening, pivoting on my heel to slash diagonally with Crocea Mors. He blocked deftly, the clash ringing out like a bell. Sparks flew as the radiant energy in my blade clashed with his weapon, though the old professor didn't so much as flinch.

"Good form, my boy!" he called, stepping back and switching his grip. With a flourish, he brought the blunderbuss to bear, firing a spread of glowing projectiles toward me.

I leapt into the air, my wings flaring to life as I propelled myself across the arena. His shots tore into the ground where I'd been standing moments ago, leaving small craters. Using the momentum, I swooped down and aimed a heavy overhand strike at his shoulder. He sidestepped with surprising grace, retaliating with an upward swing that caught me off guard. The edge of his axe glanced off my aura, sending me spinning midair. My aura gauge dropped slightly—down to 95%—from the glancing blow.

Righting myself, I landed with a flourish and charged forward, shield first. My wings retracted as I closed the gap, using my shield as a battering ram to force him back. He absorbed the impact with ease, countering with a sweeping strike that I ducked under. My sword flashed upward in a tight arc, catching him along the side. His aura flared as it absorbed the hit, the Golden energy in my blade ignited some small golden plumes where it hit but it was quickly smothered by the professor, and my own gauge ticked down to 90% as I infused the strike with a smite's radiant energy.

"That's the spirit, lad!" he bellowed, his excitement mounting as he pressed the attack.

The exchange became a whirlwind of blows, each strike and counter-strike faster than the last. Port's experience shone through—his movements were efficient, his strikes deliberate. I, by comparison, was relying on instinct and brute force, channeling my aura into every move to keep up.

As the fight wore on, my aura steadily drained—85%, 80%, 75%. I used another smite to break through his guard, the radiant energy forcing him back, but at the cost of dipping my gauge to 65%. Each burst of power bought me precious seconds, but the strain was beginning to show. My breath came heavier, my muscles ached, and my wings faltered.

Port, however, was relentless. He fired another volley from his blunderbuss, forcing me to take flight again. This time, I twisted midair, coming down in a spiraling slash that forced him to block with his weapon. The impact cracked the ground beneath him, and I saw his aura flicker briefly. My gauge hit 55%—another costly smite, but worth it to land a decisive blow.

"You've got heart, boy!" Port said, his grin widening. "But do you have the stamina to finish this?"

His assault intensified, his strikes coming faster and harder. Each clash sent tremors up my arm, and every dodge felt like it shaved seconds off my endurance. When I finally saw an opening, I poured every ounce of aura I could spare into one final smite.

Crocea Mors erupted with golden light as I swung, the blade carving a brilliant arc through the air. The impact sent Port skidding back, where the sword hit him golden flames started devouring his aura, seemingly using it as fuel for further damage, sadly the professor moved quickly to end the flames rampage, his aura gauge plummeting to 45%. For a moment, I thought I'd done it.

But giving the scoreboard a side eye I saw that my own aura dipped below 15%, and the exhaustion hit me like a freight train. My wings vanished, and I collapsed to one knee, using my blade as a crutch while I tried to recover my breathing.

"Magnificent!" Port declared, his voice brimming with pride. "You've pushed me farther than most here today, my boy! You've passed with flying colors! Although next time I ask you to watch out for the fire, I rather like my coat hohoho"

On the bleachers, Headmaster Ozpin offered a few polite claps, his expression composed but approving. Professor Goodwitch, on the other hand, was furiously typing on her scroll, her fingers a blur. Watching her, I couldn't help but marvel—her typing speed must have been insane. After a few moments, the two of them began descending to the arena floor. I guessed this marked the final part of the exam: categorizing my semblance for Beacon's archives and perhaps even giving me a few pointers.

My aura was running low after the fight, but I could manage some brief demonstrations if needed.

"Very good, Mr. Arc," Ozpin began as he approached. His calm, steady tone carried the faintest note of encouragement. "Quite the impressive display. Your form could use some refinement, and your understanding of huntsmen law would benefit from review, but for someone who did not attend a combat school, you performed remarkably well." He adjusted his glasses with a practiced motion, his tone as measured as always.

Professor Goodwitch cleared her throat softly, prompting him to continue.

"Ah, yes," he said, turning to her before addressing me again. "Before you leave, Mr. Arc, there are some additional details we need for Beacon's archives. While we can glean much from your family's records—and your sister's history—"

I winced at the mention of my sister. It must have been obvious, because Ozpin paused, studying my reaction.

"Ah, some family troubles, I see. Given your sister's circumstances, I can understand that." His voice softened slightly. "However, there are certain things only you can provide. Let's start with the basics: do you know your semblance, and how would you describe it?"

Professor Goodwitch's gaze fixed on me expectantly, her scroll poised and ready to record my response.

"Uh, well, sir," I began, rubbing the back of my neck. "My semblance is kind of hard to pin down. I call it 'Paladin's Oath,' but honestly, it does a lot, and I'm still figuring it out. First—and most commonly—I can generate this energy through my aura that's especially effective against the Grimm. When I infuse it into my sword, it causes any wounds I inflict to, uh, liquefy the area around them."

Ozpin raised an eyebrow in interest.

"It doesn't cost much aura, so I use it a lot in combat," I added quickly, sensing the unspoken request for a demonstration and wanting to clarify.

"But that's just the start," I continued, raising my hand to show another ability. I let my aura flow into my palm, activating Lay on Hands. A soft blue light radiated from my hand, glowing warmly. "This lets me heal minor injuries—nothing big, but I can use it in combat if I need to."

I pressed my glowing hand against my arm, channeling the energy into my muscles. The aches and bruises faded almost instantly, replaced by a soothing warmth. My aura gauge dipped slightly—2% according to the scoreboard—but the relief was worth it.

Professor Goodwitch's eyes lit up, and her typing became even more energetic. Healing semblances must not be very common among huntsmen. Ozpin, however, wasn't typing or nodding. Instead, he was staring at my glowing hand, unblinking. His intense gaze sent a shiver down my spine.

Clearing my throat, I continued. "That's just one way I use it. I can channel it differently for more power, but it burns too much aura to use regularly in a fight. Most of my other abilities are combat-focused—things like elemental effects when I strike, sharing my aura with others to enhance their weapons or boost their aura, stuff like that."

I paused dramatically, raising my arm again. "But this one's my favorite."

I reached deep into my aura, invoking my oath. With a burst of golden light, I cast Heroism. The glow radiated outward, enveloping everyone nearby in its warmth. The effect was immediate: fear was banished, and a sense of courage and calm took its place. My aura gauge took a significant hit, dropping from 13% to 8%, but the reaction made it worth it.

Professor Port erupted into laughter, his boisterous voice echoing through the arena. Professor Goodwitch paused her typing momentarily, a small, genuine smile gracing her lips. Even Ozpin, who had looked pale and strained moments ago, sighed deeply, his shoulders relaxing.

"Remarkable," Ozpin said at last, his voice tinged with melancholy. "A truly wonderful ability, Mr. Arc. It reminds me of brighter days." He paused, his gaze distant for a moment before focusing on me again. "If you need help understanding or developing your semblance, I urge you to seek guidance from your teachers—or myself. Such a gift should be honed safely."

I nodded, feeling the weight of his gaze. Having Ozpin's insight could only be beneficial. My semblance was still new to me, after all.

"If that concludes your demonstration," Ozpin said, his professional demeanor returning, "welcome to Beacon, Mr. Arc. Initiation begins in one week."

He offered me a rare, warm smile before adding, "Ah, and one more thing. Please avoid using your wings without notifying a teacher beforehand. When you flew in, our anti-air defenses had to scramble. It caused… quite a bit of disruption."

I winced. That was fair. I hadn't considered how Beacon's defenses would handle a flying huntsman who didn't exactly announce himself. I was lucky not to have been dodging missiles when I left the city.

With the formalities done, Professor Port escorted me to the waiting bullhead that would take me back to the city. Knowing my history with air travel, I quickly requested several barf bags. Port, still laughing heartily, handed me a stack. If nothing else, it seemed the day had ended on a high note for him. Joy, it's a common problem, and at least it only affects me in mechanical vehicles, it would be quite embarrassing if I started barfing every time I took flight.

The taste of vomit clung stubbornly to my throat, and the acid reflux left my stomach twisting in knots. Thankfully, the bullhead's trip to the city proper was mercifully short. Still, the ride was far from smooth for me. In a desperate bid to keep my lunch down, I used my dwindling aura reserves to cast small bursts of Lay on Hands. Each cast bought me about ten minutes of peace—just enough to stave off disaster—but my aura wasn't in the best shape after the combat test. By the final stretch of the journey, the bags I'd requested from Professor Port became a grim necessity.

The other passengers were less than sympathetic. Some shot me looks of pity, others of thinly veiled annoyance, as though I had a choice in the matter. Let them sneer. I'd like to see how well they'd hold up in combat class after taking hits from a professional huntsman. Still, irritation bubbled beneath the surface. Motion sickness was no joke, and every jostle of the bullhead made me regret my entire existence.

When I caught sight of the terminal through the window, relief surged—followed quickly by regret as my stomach lurched again. The bag in my lap saw more action, and I heard audible groans from the passengers near me. They were holding their noses and avoiding eye contact like I was some kind of airborne plague. The feeling was mutual.

The bullhead thudded against the ground, shaking slightly as it settled. With a hiss, the side doors opened, and everyone bolted out of the cabin like their lives depended on it. I couldn't blame them. The air inside was downright oppressive by now, courtesy of my less-than-graceful flying etiquette.

I stumbled out, heading straight for the nearest trash can to dispose of the bags. A few passersby gave me wary glances, but I ignored them, too busy trying to spit the lingering taste of bile out of my mouth. The day's events had left me drained, but I'd done it. I'd passed the exam, and initiation was all that remained to officially seal my place at Beacon. That was something, at least.

For now, though, I needed some much-deserved R&R. My plan to lay low and celebrate my small victory was already forming in my mind. First, I needed mouthwash to purge the lingering aftertaste. Then, maybe a stiff drink—or three. Something to remind me that not everything in life was as rough as a bullhead ride on an empty aura tank.

CP Bank: 900 cp

Perks earned this chapter : None

Milestone reached this chapter :

Pass the beacon entrance exam : 300 CP

A Jolly good fight : Give a professional Hunter a good workout: 100 cp

The old man in the lighthouse: Make an Old Man Rediscover His Hope : 500 cp

Ozpin was having a fantastic day.

The entrance exams had gone off smoothly, as they always did after years of careful practice and refinement. Every year, students arrived with a mix of glowing Huntsmen recommendations, high grades from combat schools and raw, untested potential. While many failed to meet the academy's high standards, this year's group of candidates showed extraordinary promise.

Take Blake Belladonna, for example. A young Faunus who had recently severed ties with the White Fang, she had chosen to seek a different path at Beacon. Ozpin admired the courage it must have taken to leave the organization she'd once believed in. Her scores reflected her capability: a 70% on the written exam and a solid pass in the combat trials. Still, her insistence on wearing a bow to hide her Faunus heritage puzzled him. Anyone with access to the CCTS could discover her identity; her family's influence on Menagerie was well-documented. Nevertheless, she was accepted.

Then there were Nora Valkyrie and Lie Ren, orphans from Mistral who had survived the Grimm attack on Kuroyuri. Their self-taught combat abilities stood out in their scores. Nora was a whirlwind of energy and power, excelling in combat trials with explosive strength. Ren, though quieter, demonstrated precise efficiency. Their academic results were less stellar—Ren managed a 64%, while Nora barely scraped by—but their raw talent and determination were undeniable.

Yet, the one who lingered most in Ozpin's thoughts was Jaune Arc.

Peter Port's report on the Spalden incident had been glowing, though some of the townsfolk's accounts seemed exaggerated. Tales of divine light and miraculous feats were likely the product of confusion and awe. Still, the boy's performance warranted a closer look.

His arrival at Beacon had been anything but ordinary. Descending from the sky on glowing wings, he had nearly caused a panic. Only a timely warning to Vale's air defenses had prevented him from being mistaken for a flying Grimm. A flying semblance wasn't unprecedented, but Jaune's display was unusual, to say the least.

His test scores were solid, with a 71% overall. He struggled with sections on Valean and international law, which wasn't uncommon for students without formal combat school training. However, the combat trial revealed something far more significant.

Jaune's fighting style was unconventional. His movements were grounded, focused on heavy strikes and sturdy defenses. While practical in theory, this approach was poorly suited against faster opponents or those with explosive weaponry.

It was evident his training predated his aura awakening, which explained the rigid form.

What set him apart were his abilities. Aura manipulation was one thing, but Jaune displayed skills that went beyond semblance use: healing, elemental attacks, and even emotional influence. This wasn't simply a broad semblance. It was magic, very primitive and simple magic but still magic.

True magic—the kind believed lost when the gods abandoned the world.

The moment Jaune cast a spell that bolstered courage and dispelled fear, Ozpin had felt it. The magic entered his body, confirming his suspicions.

But how could this be possible?

Modern humans, the children of dust, could not wield magic. It could only be inherited through bloodlines. Ozpin's mind raced as he retrieved an ancient genealogy book, too old to be digitized. The digital records held no answers, forcing him to delve into his time as King of Vale.

Tracing the Arc family lineage was arduous. Generation by generation, he worked backward until he found mention of Rolland Arc. Rolland, a descendant of Charles Arc and an unknown woman, was a significant figure in the family's history. However, beyond him, the records grew murky. Humanity had been teetering on the edge of extinction during that era.

One clue stood out: an old painting recovered from the ruins of the Arc estate. The restored image was available in the archives. When Ozpin opened the file, he felt his breath catch.

The Arc ancestor stood tall in resplendent armor, holding the family's ancestral blade. Beside him was a noblewoman dressed in a pink gown adorned with golden suns. Her soft features and warm smile struck a chord deep in Ozpin's memory.

It wasn't just her face that seemed familiar. The heraldry emblazoned on their shield—the twin waves forming a crescent—stirred something within him.

Ozpin searched deeper, combing through archaeological reports. Eventually, he found mention of a similar crest in an ancient castle in anima, though it bore an added diamond-like symbol. The report included a restored painting from the site.

When the image loaded, Ozpin's heart sank.

It was a depiction of himself from an early incarnation. He stood beside Salem, their family arrayed around them. His bronze skin and white hair were unmistakable, as was Salem's softer, less pale visage, probably overcorrected by the restorators. Their four daughters smiled at the painter, each one captured in vivid detail.

Comparing the images, Ozpin's chest tightened. One of his daughters bore an uncanny resemblance to the Arc matriarch. The details—the golden suns, the braided hair, cheekbone and nose, even the dress—were strikingly similar.

The scroll slipped from his trembling hands, crashing to the floor. His legs buckled, and he barely managed to catch himself against the desk. His coffee cup wasn't as lucky, shattering as it hit the ground.

Shame and guilt consumed him. One of his daughters had survived, and he hadn't found her. He hadn't even realized she was alive. Why hadn't he looked harder? How could he have failed so utterly, was she the only one or did any other survive?

A sharp knock broke through his spiraling thoughts.

"Ozpin? Is everything alright in there?" Glynda's voice carried concern, but he couldn't summon the strength to respond.

The implications of his discovery were staggering, had he overlooked something as important as his own family?

His breathing grew shallow as his vision darkened. The last thing he saw was the door bursting open and Glynda's worried face before everything faded to black.

"At least he'll be close to me," Ozpin thought as unconsciousness claimed him. "What's the worst that could happen?"

The week leading up to initiation had been wonderful. I indulged in some well-deserved R&R, though I might have burned through more money than I'd planned. Vale's nightlife did not disappoint. With its lively bars, bustling nightclubs, and a cuisine that seemed to pull flavors from all corners of Remnant, there was no shortage of entertainment. Even the downtime had its perks—I spent a rejuvenating day at a spa, a rare treat that I enjoyed way too much.

I finally managed to get my hands on some cigarettes, too. As a former medical professional, I was keenly aware of their drawbacks, but with my oath's healing properties keeping me in perfect health, I figured I might as well enjoy them. Paired with a steady stream of caffeine and occasional alcohol, it was a return to old, comforting habits.

But indulgence had its limits. Today was the day of initiation, and my nerves were starting to creep in.

I'd secured myself a spot on the airship to Beacon near a conveniently placed trash can. A little cramped, sure, but it was a safety net I couldn't ignore. With my aura reserves full, I relied on healing spells to push back the ever-looming threat of motion sickness. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it worked as a stopgap.

As I scanned the cabin, familiar faces from the entrance exams caught my eye. The Girl with black hair who sat in front of me in the entrance exams sat at the front, her bow firmly in place, likely counting down the seconds until we landed by the looks she kept sending my way. Nearby, a orange-haired girl was animatedly chattering away to a stoic Mistralian boy, who patiently checked their bags. The boy's endurance was impressive—I would have lost my mind after five minutes of her relentless energy.

A blonde girl with... well, let's just say a striking figure, stood chatting with a petite, gothic-looking teen who looked like she'd skipped her vegetables her whole life. In the far corner, a strikingly composed young woman with white hair presided over a trolley of suitcases that could fill a small apartment. Likely a nepo baby, though I didn't hold it against her. What I did pity, however, was whoever ended up sharing closet space with her.

"…A robbery was led by notorious criminal Roman Torchwick, who continues to evade authorities. If you have any information on his whereabouts, please contact the Vale Police Department. Back to you, Lisa," a holographic newscast droned from the corner of the cabin. My head spun when I glanced at it, so I resolved to simply listen.

"Thank you, Cyril. In other news, this Saturday, a Faunus civil rights protest turned dark when members of the White Fang disrupted the ceremony. The once peaceful organization has now dis—"

The broadcast cut out abruptly, replaced by a hologram of Glynda Goodwitch, who addressed us in her trademark no-nonsense tone.

"Hello, and welcome to Beacon. My name is Glynda Goodwitch," the hologram announced. A crowd of students pressed forward to watch, but I stayed back, preferring to focus on the spot on the wall that was keeping me from another nausea episode. I channeled another Lay on Hands spell to keep the sickness at bay, bracing myself for the remainder of the journey.

As Glynda continued her speech about the privilege of being selected to attend Beacon, the airship's passengers shifted to the windows. The chatter grew as they marveled at the view of Vale from above.

I risked a glance, and instantly regretted it. My stomach lurched, and I barely managed to reach the trash can in time.

"Well, I guess the view isn't for everyone," the blonde girl remarked with a smirk.

I grumbled something unintelligible in reply, my pride taking another hit.

"It was a nice moment while it lasted," the smaller girl said with a shrug. "I wonder who we're going to meet."

"Hopefully better company than Vomit Boy," she added.

I groaned internally as another wave of sickness overtook me. Vomit Boy. Great. Just the nickname I needed to make a lasting impression. If only they'd let me fly here on my own…

For now, all I could do was endure the stares and pray this wouldn't become the start of another Bullhead debacle

In the middle of my internal monologue, the void claimed me once again. This time, however, I wasn't in the clearing shadowed by the giant tree. The misty darkness still surrounded me, but in front of me, a blacksmith's forge blazed with a red, roaring glow. The rhythmic clang clang clang of hammer striking metal echoed through the dark.

Two figures worked in the forge. A stout, short man with an impossibly long beard hammered at a glowing pile of white-hot metal. Beside him, a towering woman—easily eight feet tall—loomed as they argued.

"…If you injected a little more carbon into the alloy, you'd end up with a superior metal," she said, exasperation lacing her voice.

"Stop meddling in my work, wazzock, or I'll command my descendants to put your name in the Book! So says Grungni!" the man bellowed.

Grungni? That name seems familiar, but I couldn't really pin it down.

The towering woman turned as I approached, and a wide, metal grin split her face. She was an automaton, her entire body forged from metal. Where her eyes should have been, there were darker plates of steel. Her "hair" was a collection of braided cables of various materials, giving the illusion of locks. Despite her mechanical appearance, there was a warmth to her smile.

"Welcome to my workshop, Jaune Arc. I've waited a long time for you," she said, her metallic voice soft but firm. Her smile faltered slightly. "Though, the gift I intended to give you isn't quite ready yet."

The dwarf gave her a venomous glare. "You can't rush dwarven craft, girl," he spat, his accent thick. "I'd shame my kin if I let you use your magic to copy my work. Sit tight, I'm almost done." He grabbed the glowing metal and moved it to a workbench, beginning to shape it with his hands, seemingly impervious to the heat.

"You said the same thing a month ago," the automaton teased.

Turning to me, she gestured for my attention. "While we give the noble dwarf more time to finish your gift, now is your chance to ask questions. I'll answer them as best I can."

I swallowed hard and managed to ask the one thing weighing on my mind. "W-what's happening to me? This can't be normal for Semblances, right?"

She chuckled, the sound like metal ringing against metal. "No, it isn't normal. But most people aren't 'normal,' are they? Least of all you, Jaune." She gave me a knowing look. "But to answer your question—someone made a deal with you. Or rather, a different version of you. A Jaune Arc filled with regret, an unfinished story and broken dreams."

She paused, letting the words sink in. Behind her, the Dawi shaped the metal with steady, purposeful movements, molding it like clay.

"This other you made a deal with a being beyond the void. The price? Service. He became a herald for that being, spreading its will across other worlds. In exchange, he gained the power to fix the regrets that haunted him. For him, it was a cheap price… yet also the most expensive thing he'd ever paid."

She raised her hand, and images formed in the mist.

The rusted knight I'd seen at the farm appeared.

He rushed towards four shadowy figures being guided by a weird cat, but he failed, the distance kept getting longer and longer, until three of the figures disappeared, the one that remained now had glowing eyes, it sent an evil cackle to the knight as it went through a glowing portal.

Then the mist changed.

This time, his helmet was gone, revealing golden hair tied in a ponytail and a scraggly beard on a weary face. In his hand was Crocea Mors, my sword—broken in two. The knight extended his hand to an unseen figure, and as their hands met, he began to dissolve into golden dust.

"And so," the automaton continued, "he chose you—one Jaune Arc among hundreds—to fulfill his end of the deal. He handpicked the first power to awaken within you, his own first power on his journey."

As she spoke, my Oath stirred within me, feeding me visions that weren't mine. I saw the knight, looking a bit better put together this time, abducted by squid-like beings onto a living spaceship. I felt his fear as a parasite sought to consume him. Then, the vision shifted. I saw him laughing at a party, surrounded by companions: a white-haired elf drunkenly sloshing wine while petting a dog, her eyes kept flickering to the blond once in a while, a devil locked in an arm-wrestling match with a toad-like woman, and men cheering them on, placing bets. Another flash—a mighty smite unleashed against a massive, bleeding brain. Jubilation, victory, and sadness flowed through me. The Oath calmed, settling back into its place within my soul.

"It seems the Oath is ready to drip-feed you his skills," she said. "Until the promise is fulfilled, and the debt is wiped away."

Before she could continue, the Dawi interrupted with a bellow. "Done! Come here, manling—it's time for measurements."

He manhandled me into place, measuring me with precision. Satisfied, he touched the glowing chainmail, which fused seamlessly together under his hands. He held up the finished piece: a thin, shining shirt.

"That's Gromril, boy," he said gruffly. "No finer material has ever touched Dwarven hands. This commission came straight from High King Thorgrim, for your role in reclaiming Karak Eight Peaks and helping Bugman return to his craft. Cherish it well. And if I see you again, I'll treat you to a keg of bugman's best myself."

Karak Eight peaks, I recognized that name very well, Why was my Semblance manifesting powers and people from fictional universes? That was strange, even by Remnant's standards. Then again, Semblances have always been unpredictable; one Atlasian hunter was rumored to control luck itself.

He placed the shirt on me and rested a calloused hand on my shoulder. Beside him, the automaton did the same with her metallic arm. With a nod, they pushed me—

—and I landed face-first in front of a trashcan, the acidic burn of nausea rising in my throat. Reflexively, I heaved into the trashcan, barely sparing my white armor, which now concealed the glowing chainmail beneath its plates.

I looked up. The airship had stopped. Beacon was here.

I'd survived university once before. What was one more try?

CP Bank: 700cp

Perks earned this chapter :

200cp Gromril Chain Shirt (Warhammer Fantasy: Halflings) [Benevolence]

Rare is it that the Dwarves of the Karaks will give something freely to another. Rarer still is it that they would give a gift of gromril, such a prized metal treasured and valued more closely to the dwarven heart than even their own life. And yet like one Gabbo Flugbend, halfling adventurer and hero of numerous fields of battle, you have been gifted just such a treasure: A gromril chainmail shirt. Such armor is denser and tougher than anything that could be made by human hands, durable enough to push back against enchanted greenskin- and skaven-made weaponry; And from the dwarven rune-smithing that went into crafting it, all but powerful magicks like that of a Wizard Patriarch of Altdorf will bounce against it. Wear it well, treasure it. Such a gift does not come lightly.

Free : Gift of the Gods (RWBY: Age of the Gods) [Modus]

In these Ancient times humanity used to know Magic. In the time of Team RWBY the amount of magical beings is in the single digit range but this is far different. You now too have the capacity to use magic as presented in RWBY. You can conjure magical blasts of different colors, as well as control different elements such as fire and lightning. You are also capable of other types of magic such as forcefields and augmenting weapons and telekinesis. In essence you can consider yourself the equal of a young Maiden.

Milestone reached this chapter : none