RWBY: LUCID

Jaune narrowed his eyes at the incoming blur of darkness.

The Beowolf leapt from the roof like a thunderbolt, trailing dust and splinters in its wake. There was no hesitation in its movement—only violence which was honed for hunting. Violence aimed at him. Jaune could see its hunger and bloodlust, slavering from its maw.

Truly a one-track type beast.

But Jaune didn't step back like he did with the others before this one. He flowed forwards and met its attack with one of his own.

Where once there had been clumsiness and friction in his movements, the grit of inexperience—now there was only a growing clarity. His limbs moved without effort, an ease of power that was almost unnatural. His breath came in measured pulses that was as steady as a war drum and the ground beneath him, though cracked and worn down, might as well have been a polished arena for murder.

If Body Level 2 had made him equivalent to a world-class athlete in all his functions, Body Level 3 made him something beyond that.

He felt it in his form—bones, tendons, nerves—working in harmony. A symphony of human potential tuned to its final note.

Only one unbidden thought came to his mind

'Peak human physicality.'

Flesh that could fight dream beasts such as these, without the need for weapons.

The creature struck, claws raking toward him with a speed that would have once overwhelmed him or forced him to block.

Now, Jaune merely stepped aside, with just a whisper of motion. The air seemingly parted around his body, adhering to his precise movements.

Another slash came, low and harrowing, but this time he met it, almost confidently with simply flesh and will. His forearm twisted, brushing the beast's limb aside with a martial move—an open-handed parry. It staggered, just half a beat, and Jaune was already repositioning—his shoes gliding over broken asphalt and his body low and balanced like a soldier that was trained for war.

He brought his fists up, chin tucked and elbows tight, reminiscent of a boxer's stance. Jaune could only rely on the weight of his body and the certainty of his strike. The Beowolf roared, rearing back and swinging wide once more. Jaune ducked beneath it, stepped inside, and flicked a jab to its ribs—not strong, but stunningly fast. He decided to test it, the attributes of his flesh.

"I don't need to run anymore." he murmured.

The beast snarled and pounced again, but Jaune was already in motion—circling, weaving and seeing everything.

The way its shoulders flexed before a lunge, the faint twist of its claws when it telegraphed a feint and even the hitch in its breath when he struck it true.

His body knew the dance and the patterns now. And this time, Jaune, was leading it.

It lunged again, all claws and fury, but he didn't flinch. His body moved before his mind even finished the thought, into a pivot then a sidestep. The creature's talons sliced through air where his ribs had been a second ago.

He was already countering.

A tight right hook to the ribs—fist clenched and his elbows tucked. Then he shot a snapping low kick to the beast's thigh, right above the knee. He felt the jolt run up his shin as muscle and bone connected, and the creature grunted, surprised by the impact.

Jaune flowed backwards, feeling lighter on his feet than before. He was breathing harder now but not raggedly. His heart beat fast, but more controlled. Powerful.

His anxiety rapidly faded away under the symphony of his movements and mostly due to the fact that he still had a way out. The exit icon in the corner of his mind seemed to glow faintly, like a lighthouse at sea. The knowledge that he could leave at any moment steadied his nerves.

This fight wasn't about survival anymore. It was a test of his capabilities. A test of what he was becoming. A test that he would pass with flying colors.

The Beowolf charged again, this time in an almost zig-zagging pattern, perhaps determined to erratically throw off his timing. Jaune however, leaned into the motion and adjusted his stance. He sidestepped one swipe, then dipped low beneath another. When the creature reared up for a two-handed slam, he surged forward—inside its range—and drove a sharp, powerful uppercut into its gut.

The impact jolted up his arm.

The creature gagged, spittle flying from its snarling jaws, and Jaune twisted on his heel, slamming his elbow into the side of its snout before retreating out of reach.

His smile was serene, despite himself. Almost as if he was strolling down a park, listening to birdsong.

For one, it was working.

His movements were actively evolving in real time, growing sharper, cleaner and faster—like a sword-edge being honed on the whetstone of battle. Every step and strike, refined his form. Not just in strength, but in precision.

His footwork gained rhythm and even his blows gained weight. His body obeyed completely. There was no resistance anymore—no lag, no hesitation between thought and action. His limbs fired like pistons, clean and fluid. He dodged without thinking. Countered without delay.

A Body stat of 3 represented the absolute peak of human physicality—not just in strength and speed, but in nearly every aspect of human capability. It even granted Jaune the pinnacle of natural combat instinct, enabling him to actively learn and adapt through battle.

The Beowolf was bleeding now. Not heavily, but Jaune spied thick rivulets of black blood dribbling from its bone white skull. Its movements were more erratic now, more desperate. Perhaps it finally understood the difference between its perceived prey and itself. But still it slavered. Still it hungered. For it knew nothing but ferocity and savage bloodlust.

Jaune cared little for its thoughts and pressed the advantage.

He feinted with a left jab, drawing its guard high—then spun into a low sweep kick, taking one of its legs out from under it. The creature buckled, and Jaune followed up with a brutal front kick to its chest, sending it crashing into a nearby wrecked car. The frame crumpled behind it, and dust billowed into the air.

Jaune didn't stop.

He dashed forward, pivoted left when the creature swiped blindly, and delivered a trio of lightning-fast punches to its ribs, followed by a knee to its jaw as it tried to rise.

The Beowolf let out a strangled howl and rolled away, dragging itself upright with one arm.

Jaune exhaled slowly.

His lungs didn't burn like they used to. His muscles might have started to ache once again, but it was a clean ache—a purposeful one. Like they were finally being used the way they were always meant to be.

He raised his fists again, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

"C'mon," he whispered. "I've still got more to give."

The Beowolf obliged. It roared and lunged—claws first.

Jaune stepped in with perfect timing, swatted one arm away with another parry, then ducked under the second. He rose into the beast's space with a shoulder check, knocking it off-balance again, and followed with a spinning backfist that slammed into its temple.

The creature reeled. More blood ran down the side of its mask.

Jaune's heart thundered. But not in fear. In exhilaration. This fight was unlike anything he had ever felt. And in the very center of it, he wasn't breaking. He was thriving.

Again, the Beowolf charged. Jaune met it, heel first—turning a sidestep into a brutal roundhouse kick that snapped its head to the side. When it staggered, he slid low again—his body gliding effortlessly like a whisper on wind—and swept its legs from beneath it.

The beast crashed to the ground.

Jaune pounced, driving his knee down onto its chest, then unloading a flurry of precise, hammering punches into its face—each strike punctuated by his own breath, sharp and focused.

The mask began to crack.

A deep fracture running from its eye socket down to the jawline.

The Beowolf screamed and thrashed, tossing Jaune off with raw desperation.

He hit the ground and rolled once, coming up in a crouch.

His knuckles ached and his arms trembled slightly. His body was now starting to feel a slight burn—but only slightly. There was still more in the tank.

He raised his fists again, blood-streaked and ready. The Beowolf rose slowly, staggering, half-blinded and heaving. One more push, Jaune could feel it. One final clash. And with a dash, Jaune breath steadied and his stance sharpened mid-movement.

He would end this.

The Beowolf lifted its claws, slow and trembling.

Jaune didn't let it finish. He drove his foot forward, slamming it squarely into the creature's chest. The impact knocked the wind out of the monster and sent it sprawling backwards. Its claws flailed as it tumbled, landing hard on its side with a pained snarl. It writhed on the ground for a second, struggling to rise—half-lifting its head, jaws snapping at air.

That was enough.

Jaune surged forward, boots pounding against the pavement. His body moved on perfected instinct now, cleaner and even more fluid than before. The world seemed to narrowed to a single target.

He leapt and his leg whipped upward, then came crashing down in a brutal arc.

A textbook perfect, Axe kick.

The heel of his boot smashed through what was left of the Beowolf's mask. A sickening crack rang out as its skull caved beneath the force. The blow drove the creature's head into the pavement. It spasmed once, then fell still.

A few seconds passed in total silence.

Then the body began to unravel—black dust lifting from its corpse like smoke, disintegrating into the stale air of the Dream. No blood, bones or flesh leftover. Just drifting ash, scattered like the remnants of a nightmare.

He could have ended the fight a lot sooner but the feeling of him exerting himself was simply heavenly. 

Jaune stood over the fading body his chest rising and falling with sharp, uneven breaths. His fists trembled at his sides and even his legs, once so fluid and powerful, now wobbled beneath him like overworked pistons.

He raised a hand, half in victory, half in disbelief.

"Yeah…" he muttered. "That's right. Stay down., you demented werewolf."

His voice cracked with fatigue. Then he dropped to his knees. His previous injuries were starting to catch up to him.

The pain started settling in slowly once again—dull and constant. His arms burned with the memory of a thousand swings and his back stung where claws had once found flesh. His lungs felt raw, each breath coming harder than the last.

He was done.

No weapon, stamina or even strength left to fight another round. If another one came, he'd be finished.

Which meant. It was now time to leave.

His tether to the waking world. The [Dream Authority exit] icon pulsed faintly in the corner of his vision, waiting like a door half-cracked open.

Without hesitation, Jaune gave the command.

Exit.

The world unraveled and the neighborhood ruins vanished. The drifting ash dissolved into empty space.

And in the next heartbeat, Jaune awoke to the distant sound of birdsong and the golden hush of morning light filtering in through his bedroom window. No alarm blared this time. No scramble to dress for class. Just the quiet hum of early day.

He stared at the ceiling and the fan that hung there, his arms limp at his sides, breath slow and steady, unbothered from the strain of the dream. His body felt a lot weaker now. Fresh and healed, but weaker. His dream self was vastly stronger.

But it didn't matter because Jaune was still alive.