RWBY: LUCID

His eyes snapped open to the familiar light of the morning sun shining into the house. The slow-moving shadows across the chipped plaster. The neighborly scratch of the couch fabric that met his skin, as he adjusted his weight.

He was back to reality.

He exhaled and sat up slowly, rubbing his face with one hand. The creak of the springs under him followed like a delayed echo.

The dream was once again over.

There was neither a dramatic finale nor a problematic situation he faced, this time. Just a quiet grind. He had killed many Beowolves— the last one had him waiting nearly an hour for the mist to cough it out—Jaune had simply chosen to leave after that.

He'd finally reached his goal so it was fine.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling in silence, replaying the final minutes of that strange dimension.

His dream-self had grown strong. A lot, stronger than he'd anticipated.

He tried opening the system with a thought, just to be sure, only for nothing to happen. Right. That was the disappointing part.

All of it—every bit of that impossible strength—was gone.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his messy blond hair. The difference between his real body and the one in the dream was stark. In the dream, his every movement was sharp, powerful and precise. His muscles had obeyed like they were extensions of thought. In reality? He was just an average teen on a couch who'd slept too stiffly and was probably going to need a neck massage by noon.

He flexed his fingers, frowning slightly.

Nothing. No phantom strength or afterglow of strength. Just a vague memory of power that no longer lived in his limbs.

Still… he had accomplished what he set out to do. And more.

Originally, he had only aimed to reach Body stat 5 in the dream. A solid milestone. But after pushing past several more dream creatures—mostly Beowolves that spawned slower and slower with each kill—he'd managed to hit 6.

That last Beowolf had taken forever to appear. At least an hour of nothing but mist. No creatures or movements. Just the soft disconcerting quiet of that strange otherworld.

He frowned, recalling how he had walked circles around the mist pool, trying to gauge if it was drying out, or losing energy, or simply slowing down for no reason. Maybe the dimension had a kind of limit to how many monsters it could conjure at once. But he did notice that the mist had grown into a darker shade. Whatever that meant.

In any case, Jaune had decided it wasn't worth wasting more time on. Not when he could already feel the upper edge of his progress curve. The spawns were likely tied to some hidden mechanic—maybe linked to his current level or even the environment he was in.

If there was one thing the dream dimension didn't give freely, it was consistency.

Still, a Body stat of 6 in that space? It had felt incredible.

His body felt more than just simply, superhuman. He had tested it by punching through concrete with ease. He was even able to easily create makeshift handholds for himself, by spearing his hands into the walls, onto its roof. His body had also grown strong enough and enduring enough to shrug off hits that would've broken bones before. That version of Jaune would easily be able take on five Beowolves at once and walk away without a sweat. Barehanded.

If only it meant something here.

He rested his forearms on his knees, brow creased.

Why didn't it transfer?

What was the gap between the two selves?

His theory, as loose and half-baked as it was, had something to do with astral projection. Maybe it was a fragment of his soul or mind that entered the dream realm—some extension of his spirit, like lucid dreaming on steroids.

If that were true, it raised more questions than it answered. Did he even have a real body there, or was it some psychic construct? And if that dream-self grew strong—did the strength exist anywhere in the waking world? Could it be tapped into later? Transferred? Condensed somehow?

Or was he training a version of himself that would only exist while he slept?

He wasn't sure.

"Another question for the Occult Society, I guess," Jaune muttered, rubbing his temple.

He'd meant it as a half-joke, but it didn't feel like one. The more time he spent in that space, the more he began to suspect that the Occult Society—strange and disorganized as they seemed—might actually have some answers.

If anyone had theories about dreams, soul projections, or dimensions layered beneath perception, it would be them.

Still… he had to tread carefully. He had to make sure that he worded himself properly, lest the same type of person or the organization that was after Raymond came after him too. He couldn't take any chances.

Not yet, at least.

Jaune leaned back again and stared at the ceiling.

He felt like he was standing on the shoreline of something massive.

There was a sea of knowledge, power, and danger stretching in front of him, and he'd barely dipped his toes in. These dream spaces, these creatures of Grimm, the system in his mind—it was all interconnected somehow. He just didn't know how deep it went.

But progress was still progress.

Even if it didn't transfer, the knowledge did.

The experience and the instincts. The tactical understanding of fights. The way his body should move.

He could still train. Still improve, even if the numbers didn't carry over.

And eventually… maybe he'd find a way to bridge the two worlds.

To take the power from the dream and bring it into the real.

His current running theory was that ranking up might potentially improve that area... hopefully, at least.

He reached for his phone on the table and checked the time. It seemed that he had woken up quite early, today. School wouldn't start for at least another two hours. Which meant he had a lot of time. Enough time to get something done today.

Neither his sister or his dad had woken up either.

Maybe he'd go for a jog? Or some light training with his sword again. Just to see if any of that dream-muscle memory carried over. Maybe, somehow, his real body could catch up to the one he built in that reality?

.

.

The backyard was quiet in the soft morning light.

The dew hadn't fully burned off the grass yet, and the coolness of the ground crept into Jaune's shoes as he stepped into the backyard of behind the house. The wooden fence that lined the edges stood tall in the breeze, but the creaking slats that came from it sounded almost like breathing. A single crow cawed from somewhere atop a power line, then fell silent.

Jaune stood in the middle of it all, sword in hand and body still sluggish with sleep. He rolled his shoulder and took a long breath.

"Alright… let's see what's still there."

He stepped into the first form, slowly drawing the blade up to guard. His movements were cautious and more mechanical—nothing like the precise, reactive grace he had wielded in the dream. There, his body had flowed through strikes with a rhythm that bordered on art.

Here? He felt a bit like a kid holding a weapon too tightly.

The first swing fine but it still felt too wide and slightly too stiff. The follow-up strike was better, but his hips didn't rotate with the motion. His balance was off. Unfortunately, by the third form, he'd already lost the rhythm, and his stance was starting to drift.

Jaune clicked his tongue and started again from the beginning.

Again.

And again.

His arms moved, but the weight didn't distribute properly. His steps didn't sync with the flow of the forms. There were moments—brief flashes—where a position clicked well, or the motion of a swing echoed something from the dream. Like fragments of muscle memory flickering through fog.

But that was all they were. Flickers.

Apparently, dream muscle memory didn't transfer here as well as he would have liked.

In the dream, at Body Level 6, Jaune had moved like he was born to fight. His limbs had responded like instruments finely tuned to every thought. His core had known exactly when to tense, when to shift his weight, when to move from defense to offense and back again. Like a dancer who'd rehearsed the same motion ten thousand times and never missed a beat.

But now? He was back to square one.

An average teenager. Somewhat fit, maybe, but only by casual standards. Not even close to the power or precision his dream-self commanded. Even worse was the realization that he hadn't noticed it before—but now that the shift was more glaring than ever, it was impossible to ignore:

Body Level didn't just give you strength.

It gave you body talent.

The instinctive understanding of how your muscles functioned. The unconscious ability to manipulate tension, flow, motion. How far to stretch, how deep to swing, how to conserve energy without losing power. That intuitive knowing of one's physical form—it had been a gift. A multiplier of skill.

Now it was gone.

All that remained were shadows and impressions of them. The memory of what it felt like to do it right, without the physical tools to do it again. Experience without talent, and vision, without hands to use it.

A cruel, almost mocking sensation.

He exhaled hard and stepped again into the first form. His foot landed heavier than it should have. His center of gravity was too far forward. Again, again.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath.

But he didn't stop.

He kept going, the hour slipping past as he carved shapes into the air with sweat clinging to his brow and shirt. Although the forms did become slightly smoother, and the clumsy pauses between sequences grew shorter, Jaune could tell that he'd have to practice for a long time before he got anywhere with this body.

He adjusted his grip and loosened his arms. Stopped trying to force the swings and let them flow. He began listening to his breath. Started fixing his footwork. Made every mistake a lesson.

It still wasn't right. Not even close.

But by the time the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting warmer light across the dry grass, Jaune had found a decent rhythm.

He paused, lowering the blade and letting his arms rest at his sides. His shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath.

His eyes drifted to the horizon, past the fence and rustling trees.

His dream self was still better. Better in every way.

Jaune could admit that now, without flinching. Without much jealousy. That version of him—strong, fast, talented—had lived in a world where his body mattered. Where his stats defined his limits. And he had pushed them.

But Jaune didn't dislike that version of himself. He admired him. He wanted to reach that level for real.

He sighed, raising his blade one last time and stepping forward into another form.

It still wasn't perfect. But at least it was better than the one before.

And for now, that was enough.