"Jaune, let me introduce a fellow sword enthusiast. Meet Adam. Adam Taurus."
The name lingered for a moment.
The young man beside. Grise offered a polite nod. His movements 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 meet 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 meet 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."
"Same thing," Grise said, waving him off. "Anyway, we both met when we joined this local tournament years ago. I was, what, twelve? Adam was thirteen at the time."
"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 me for the first three minutes."
"That's because puberty hadn't touched me yet," Grise barked. "You had reach on me. 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 memory—the kind of bond forged through repetition, bruises, and countless rematches.
"But," Grise continued, straightening proudly, "times 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 some our most of our recent spars ended in draws."
"Not what I remember."
"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 assignments. So whenever he passes through, we meet 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 time was indeed special." Grise jabbed a thumb at him. "And need I remind you that you were the one who tripped me?"
"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 someone 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 symmetry in the way the two men 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 something 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 me, I know," Jaune said, smiling faintly. "But there's something about it that just… fits with me, you know?"
Adam seemed 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 Menagerie, 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 something 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 moment, as if weighing something behind those calm eyes, before he nodded slightly. "Keep at it, Jaune. Discipline's what separates a swordsman from someone who simply wields a blade."
"Couldn't agree more."
Grise returned a moment later, arms full of snacks. "Alright, gentlemen, 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 assignment 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 shame," Jaune said. "Would've been nice to spar with you sometime."
Adam gave that same 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 came 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 come 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 seemed to waver slightly—as if something in the air was off. Like a presence that didn't belong. When Jaune glanced back, both men were simply chatting near the meat 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 home-cooked meal 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 something 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 some inner mechanism. 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 home 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 mechanism 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 gleamed with restrained menace.
The blade seemed 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 shimmered 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 same balance point as your other blade. I was able to keep the same core metal too. I just adjusted the edge harmonics. Should cut through the same things that Lux Aeterna does—assuming you don't slam it against extreme reinforced alloy like last time."
"That was one time," Jaune said defensively, giving the blade a slow experimental 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 Frame-modules behind you? You so much as nick a frame, and I'll have you down here polishing weapons for a month!"
Jaune grimaced sheepishly and lowered the blade immediately. "Right. Sorry. Just—wanted to feel the balance."
"Balance will feel the same outside," Florick said dryly, stepping over to close the case. "You're lucky I like you, kid."
Jaune chuckled. "You say that every time."
"I mean it less every time," 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 means 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 movements. 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 time in a while, something felt complete.
.
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AN: Advanced chapters are available on patreon