827The makeshift camp on the outskirts of Mistral smelled of smoke, oil, sweat, and fear. Tents made of salvaged cloth and metal sheets lined the broken streets. Children huddled close to their parents, and exhausted men and women stared hollow-eyed at cooking fires that barely stayed lit. Supplies were thin. Water was rationed.
Ochre sat on a crate near the command post, his battered coat stained with blood and dirt. His right sleeve was torn, ending at the shoulder, the arm long gone — bitten off by a Grimm two days before Argus finally fell. He could still feel phantom pain in the missing limb. His whole body ached, bruises turning purple beneath old wounds, but he kept going.
Horace Calloway sat beside him on another crate, chain-smoking, looking just as broken.
Ochre finally broke the silence. His voice was hoarse, rough like sandpaper.
"How many did we lose?"
Horace exhaled a long plume of smoke before answering.
"A lot."
He didn't sugarcoat it. There was no point.
Ochre grunted. The pain in his missing arm flared. He winced but didn't show weakness. Not here.
Horace shook his head, staring out at the sea of tents and fires.
"You know what's ironic?" he muttered.
Ochre turned to look at him.
Horace gave a tired, humorless laugh.
"It wasn't the Atlesians or the huntsmen from the high towers who saved the last retreat. It was the Spiders."
Ochre blinked slowly.
Those underworld bastards. Thieves. Cutthroats. Smugglers.
Yet…
He gave a bitter smirk.
"Even in shit times like these..."
He spat on the ground.
"Even those people have a fucking heart."
The silence stretched between them.
Two weeks since Argus fell.
Two weeks since the city crumbled beneath the Leviathan's breath and the sea of Grimm swept over its walls.
Most of the survivors were here now, packed tight into Mistral's southern districts, desperately clinging to whatever hope was left. Supplies were scarce. The Grimm tide, now fully drawn toward Atlas, had left Mistral in relative peace — for now. But starvation, panic, and exhaustion were taking their place.
"Not enough food," Horace muttered, echoing Ochre's thoughts.
Ochre ran his good hand across his face, wiping away grime and sweat.
"I know," he rasped.
He glanced toward the makeshift medical tent. Inside, his people, the few Outers left, tended to the wounded.
Without Jaune amping them up, their aura reserves were running dangerously low fighting Grimm that comes their way.
Every skirmish had to be calculated. Every hunt, every patrol cautious.
"I need to keep handling people," Ochre said, trying to stand.
Horace grabbed his shoulder.
"You need to rest, Ochre."
Ochre shook his head.
"Can't."
He winced as the phantom pain shot up his missing arm again.
"People look to us now. They need something steady to hold onto. We're all that's left."
Horace looked at him for a long moment, then nodded.
"And your family?"
His voice softened.
Ochre swallowed.
"They're safe. Devastated… but safe. Got them on the first convoy out."
His voice cracked, just for a moment.
"They didn't want to leave, but I made them. Best decision I've ever made."
Horace leaned back, staring up at the smoky night sky.
"The council accepted Menagerie's offer."
Ochre blinked, surprised.
"Really?"
Horace nodded.
"We're going to start relocating people. Menagerie's offered sanctuary."
Ochre let out a long, shaky breath.
"That's good."
But he shook his head after a moment.
"There are thousands of us here, Horace. Thousands. Getting them to Menagerie will take ships. Guards. Supplies we don't have."
Horace ground out his cigarette beneath his boot.
"I don't know how we're going to do it."
Ochre leaned forward, resting his good arm on his knee, staring at the dirt.
"We'll make do."
It was a hollow promise. But it was all they had.
The camp was quiet for a moment.
The distant sound of coughing children, the crackling of firewood, and the occasional crack of gunfire far in the city as patrols hunted straggler Grimm.
Ochre rubbed at his face again, his shoulders sagging.
"These… feel like the end times."
Horace didn't answer right away.
Finally, he nodded slowly.
"It really does."
They sat there in silence. Two broken men, in a world that felt like it was ending.
But they both knew... they couldn't stop.
The people still needed them.
Jaune's breath rasped shallowly in the dust-choked air. Every inhale tasted of grit and copper, his cracked lips sticking together. His left arm trembled, still braced against the jagged slab of concrete pressing down from above. His right hand was pinned beneath twisted rebar, fingers numb.
He stopped trying to move hours ago.
Maybe days.
He didn't know anymore.
The weight never lessened. His aura flickered like a candle in a blizzard, sputtering against the strain. His legs had long gone cold beneath the rubble, sensation fading into painful pins and needles, then silence.
But he kept telling himself.
Be brave.
He repeated it in his head like a mantra.
Be brave. Be brave. Be brave.
He clung to it like a lifeline, the only shield left between his mind and the panic scratching at the edges.
There wasn't much air left. He could feel the dampness against his cheek where condensation from fractured pipes dripped slowly down, pooling beneath the dust. He rationed those droplets like precious jewels, licking them from cracked stone.
His aura sustained him. Kept his heart steady. Slowed the failing processes of his body. But it could not lift stone.
All he could do was endure.
He didn't know what day it was.
He didn't know who was left alive.
Argus could have fallen days ago.
There was no sound.
No battle.
No shouting.
No footsteps.
Just silence.
And the crushing weight.
Jaune exhaled slowly, shaking. He clenched his teeth as his aura flickered again, spasming. The strain of holding the slab off his chest felt endless. His arm was one trembling pillar against collapse, muscles locked, refusing to surrender.
His thoughts drifted.
He thought of Saphron's smile.
Adrian's laughter.
Terra's warm cooking in that cozy kitchen.
He thought of Mistral.
Of the old men at the guildhouse grumbling over harvest yields.
Of fresh soybeans, of misty dawns, of the weight of earth between his fingers.
He thought of his mother.
Her voice singing softly as she brushed his hair back when he was a boy.
The sound of the old family hearth crackling.
The feel of her calloused hands holding his small ones.
Be brave.
But the silence… It was unbearable.
His aura sputtered out for a moment, a cold snap in his chest. His arm buckled.
Just for a heartbeat.
The rubble shifted, pressing down harder.
Jaune gasped, panic tearing through his throat in a ragged cry.
He tried to catch himself. He forced his aura to flare, but it was like trying to light wet tinder. His breath quickened. His chest heaved.
"No… no… no, no, no…"
The words escaped between clenched teeth.
His vision blurred with tears.
"Please," he rasped.
He called out softly at first, then louder.
"Someone... please. I'm here. I'm here."
His voice echoed against rock and steel.
He sobbed.
His breath hitched painfully.
"M-Mom... please."
There was only the oppressive silence in return.
"Master... Master, I'm sorry. I'm not strong enough."
His arm trembled.
He cried openly now, tears streaming down into the grit pressed against his cheek.
"I tried... I tried so hard."
He thought of his sisters. Their teasing laughter, their warm hugs. The way they'd ruffle his hair and scold him for being too serious.
"I'm sorry..."
His breath shuddered.
"I wanted to help... I wanted to fight."
His aura sparked again, just enough to stop the ceiling from crushing him flat. But it wasn't enough. He was running out.
He whimpered softly.
"I'm scared..."
The silence was deafening.
He sobbed into the darkness, his voice raw.
"Help me..."
Nothing answered.
Only the sound of rubble shifting with each shallow breath.
He cried until there were no tears left.
He begged until his voice was hoarse and broken.
He called for his mother, his sisters, his master.
No one came.
Time passed, slow and cruel.
Jaune's breath slowed. His aura dimmed. His strength waned.
And in that stillness, he slowly accepted it.
He would die here.
Alone.
Buried beneath the city he tried to protect.
He pressed his forehead into the dust and whispered, brokenly.
"I'm sorry."
His aura was little more than flickering static across his skin, ebbing and sputtering like a dying fire. It was spent, overdrawn, pushed beyond the limits of sanity — but still, he tried.
Help me...
His lips cracked as he mouthed the words silently. His throat was too raw to speak them out loud anymore.
The weight pressed harder. A shifting groan in the rubble sent waves of terror through him. Like someone was walking on top of him. His arm buckled a fraction of an inch. He screamed or tried to, but it came out as a broken rasp.
A crack in the ceiling shifted. Dust and debris fell onto his face, filling his mouth and nose. He coughed weakly, choking, but couldn't even turn his head.
Tears streamed down his face again.
"Please," he whispered hoarsely, so soft even he could barely hear it. "I tried. I tried so hard…"
The silence pressed in tighter than the rubble.
His mind drifted in and out.
Another tremor. The ceiling shifted again.
He bit down on his lip until it bled, forcing his arm to lock back into place.
The pain was agony. His muscles screamed.
He couldn't keep doing this.
His vision blurred and swam.
His breath hitched.
Maybe I won't wake up.
Maybe it's okay.
But no.
He couldn't stop.
He couldn't surrender.
Because what if —
What if someone was still fighting?
But gods…
He was so tired.
A slow, bone-deep exhaustion seeped into him. His thoughts drifted. He imagined warm sunlight again. Fields of wheat stretching out beyond the horizon. He was there. Barefoot. The earth beneath his toes. The sky so blue it almost hurt to look at. Saphron was calling him for supper. His father's arm around his shoulder. His mother smiling softly. His sisters laughing.
But the weight dragged him back to reality.
Back to pain.
Back to suffocating darkness.
He sobbed again.
"Help me… someone… please…"
But there was nothing.
The silence was absolute.
The despair settled in like a weight heavier than the rubble.
They forgot me.
That thought cut deeper than anything else.
They thought he was dead.
They weren't coming.
He was going to die here.
Buried and forgotten.
Alone.
He screamed. A raw, hoarse sound that shredded his throat.
The rubble shifted again.
He fought it
He locked his arm straight, tears and snot streaming down his face.
His heart pounded in his ears.
Please… just a little longer…
But there was no more strength left.
His aura flickered out.
The weight pressed down, inch by inch.
His arm collapsed.
The rubble crashed down onto his chest.
Jaune gasped, a strangled, broken sound, as the breath was forced from his lungs.
He couldn't breathe.
The weight crushed him.
Black spots filled his vision.
He coughed blood, tasting iron.
This is it.
The darkness closed in around the edges of his vision.
And then —
Claws tore at the rubble, scraping and rending stone and steel aside until its slavering maw appeared. Red eyes gleamed with hunger, and the stench of rot and hatred washed over him.
Jaune's heart skipped... for a moment, pure terror gripped him.
This is what came for me.
Not rescue.
Not his friends.
Not help.
A Grimm.
It came because he had broken. Because he had given in.
The Beowolf lunged, jaws wide, saliva thick and reeking.
Jaune laughed.
It wasn't a sane sound. It cracked and tore from his throat, half-sob, half-mad giggle. His aura sputtered alive, flaring up with one final burst of desperate energy. He didn't know how. He didn't care.
The Beowolf's jaws descended.
Jaune's fist met its snout, aura-reinforced knuckles shattering bone. He heard its skull crack, felt the shock up his arm, and then , with a twisting wrench of his entire body, he drove his hand upward, through the base of its throat, crushing cartilage and bone, tearing its head clean off.
The Beowolf's body spasmed once, then fell limp.
Jaune collapsed forward onto all fours, coughing, choking, gasping.
He looked up.
Light broke through the rubble now.
But no voices called for him.
No hands reached down.
Only red eyes.
Jaune then heard the bellowing cry of the massive Grimm — a twisted Leviathan's spawn, its massive maw wide, serrated teeth glistening. His aura was nearly gone, his body failing, his breaths shallow. He raised Crocea Mors one last time, defiant despite everything.
But this time, the Grimm didn't claw at him.
It lunged.
The world became black as its gaping jaws closed around him.
For a moment, there was no pain. Only suffocation. Heat. Darkness.
He fell, tumbling down its gullet, the pressure crushing, the air thick with rot and bile.
Jaune's aura flared instinctively — a flicker, barely a sputter. He felt it snap tight around him like a second skin, protecting him from being torn apart by the beast's throat muscles, acid, and crushing weight.
Still, he felt every crushing contraction of the Grimm's throat around him, squeezing him deeper and deeper into its abyss.
He didn't know if he was screaming or laughing anymore.
His aura screamed against the pressure, against the acid trying to eat through his armor and skin. The scent of death was everywhere — rotten flesh and sulfuric decay.
He tumbled, spat out into a hollow space inside the creature.
Jaune hit wet, pulsing ground — flesh, muscle, slick with thick black fluid that stung even through aura.
He gagged.
His aura crackled around him, trying to push back the acid. It barely held.
Alive.
Inside a Grimm.
He could feel its pulse around him. The massive Grimm's stomach was a cavern of horror. Armor pieces, broken weapons, dissolving bones floated in the acidic fluid. The walls pulsated, groaning like thunder, muscles contracting around him.
Was this really a Grimm?
He was alive.
But not for long.
Jaune forced himself upright, slipping in the slick black pool. His body was burning, every breath a struggle.
His aura sputtered again, nearly fading. He focused — willed it to hold.
He tried to move forward but stumbled into a heap of half-digested remains.
He gritted his teeth.
Crocea Mors was still in his hand.
He lit the blade with what little aura he could muster. The sword's edge flared for a moment, hissing as bile splashed against it.
He slammed it into the pulsing wall of the Grimm's gut.
The creature roared.
The entire stomach convulsed.
He nearly lost his footing but drove the blade in deeper.
A surge of bile and black fluid crashed over him. His aura flickered dangerously low.
The Grimm twisted. He felt it move, rolling in agony from his strikes.
Jaune ripped Crocea Mors free, stabbing it again, this time angling upward, carving through muscle and membrane.
The flesh tried to knit shut, regenerative tendrils pulling back together.
He cut them again.
The stomach walls convulsed violently. He was thrown to the side, slamming into the wet, fleshy wall.
He coughed blood, bile, and saliva.
He forced himself back up.
"Come on… open up…"
He stabbed again, and again, carving a ragged line, slicing through flesh and cartilage.
Light — faint — seeped through the wound.
He dug his fingers into the wound and pulled.
The flesh resisted, fighting to close.
Jaune screamed, every muscle burning as he pulled the wound open.
The Leviathan howled, its roar shaking the world around him.
With a final desperate lunge, Jaune forced himself through the wound.
He burst out, coated in black ichor, tumbling down the beast's massive flank.
He hit the ground hard, rolling across broken rock and bone.
His aura sputtered — holding.
Above him, the young Leviathan writhed in agony, flailing its massive body in the sea.
Jaune lay there for a moment, heaving, trembling.
Alive.
Coated in filth, broken and bruised, but alive.
He forced himself to his knees.
The Grimm roared one last time.
Then, collapsing from its own pain and damage, it sank into the ocean, leaving only churning black water in its wake.
Jaune stared at the waves, chest heaving, his body trembling.
His eyes rolled.
His body drifting away on the seas of Solitas.