RWBY: LUCID

The hallway outside the club room echoed with the muffled rhythm of wooden swords striking against practice pads and the low murmur of focused conversation. As Jaune stepped into the wide training room designated for the Sword Arts Club, he found several students already paired up, running through basic sword drills. The clatter of wooden blades and barked corrections from peers filled the air with purpose and discipline.

Jaune exhaled softly, his mood still soured by what he'd seen in the last page of that cursed notebook. He wasn't even sure what species it was supposed to be, and frankly, he didn't want to know.

His eyes scanned the room for Grise and found him quickly. The third-year was off in one corner, leading a small group of students in a lesson on sword form transitions. Grise demonstrated a series of precise, almost dance-like steps, his wooden practice blade gliding in a seamless arc that made it all look effortless.

Jaune approached but didn't speak. He stood off to the side, hands in his pockets, quietly observing as Grise guided the students with a calm, authoritative tone. The man's movements were beautifully rhythmic. Deliberate and economical. Graceful, even. Jaune found himself studying him, not just for technique, but presence. It was a kind of grace he'd only ever seen from his dreams.

A few minutes passed. Eventually, Grise noticed him.

"Alright," he told his students. "Run those drills three more times. I'll be back in a bit."

The students nodded and turned back to their repetitions. Grise wiped his hands on a towel slung over his shoulder and walked over to Jaune, his expression softening into something halfway between amusement and concern.

"You look like someone just kicked your dog," Grise remarked, arching a brow. "Bad day?"

Jaune shook his head, a shiver running across his spine. "I really don't want to talk about it."

Grise studied him for a beat, still amused. "Fair enough."

Jaune appreciated Grise's response—acknowledgement without pressure.

"So," Grise continued, "coming to try us out again?"

"Yeah," Jaune replied. "I think I want to join. I mean, officially."

Grise's expression lifted. "Glad to hear that."

"There's just… one thing," Jaune added. "I also kind of… joined the Occult Research Society."

Grise tilted his head curiously. "Really? I didn't even know we had an occult research society. I always thought those only existed in fiction. Are the members some weird detectives that try to solve supernatural crimes and whatnot?"

Jaune scratched the back of his neck. "I... don't think so."

Grise smirked slightly, arms folding. "Well as long they don't call themselves Mystery Incorporated, all is well, I suppose. Wait... they're not a cult are they?"

"They said they weren't. But I don't know if I believe them."

Grise chuckled, shaking his head. "You've got an interesting life already, Arc. But don't worry about joining multiple clubs—Beacon doesn't limit how many a student can be part of. As long as your grades don't suffer, you can join as many as you want."

Jaune blinked in surprise. "Really? That's actually kind of amazing."

"Welcome to Beacon," Grise said, before disappearing toward a cabinet near the wall. He returned shortly with a clipboard, a pen, and a blank registration form. "Sign here. Print clearly."

Jaune took the pen and began filling it out. Name, year, and prior experience. It was all straightforward enough. After a minute, he handed it back.

Grise glanced over it and gave a satisfied nod. "Great. Do you have spare workout clothes?"

"Yeah. In my bag," Jaune said. "Didn't get to change before coming here, but I've got them."

"Go change," Grise said, nodding toward the locker rooms. "We'll run through your basics."

Minutes later, Jaune returned in a simple training shirt and Beacon-issued sweats, holding a wooden practice long-sword. Grise waited in the center of the mat, barefoot, his workout shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

They began with simple drills—standard stances, grip corrections, breathing techniques, and movement patterns. Grise took his time with Jaune, observing every misstep and offering corrections in that same calm, patient tone.

Jaune still wasn't perfect, far from it, really. But he moved smoother than he had last week. His footing was more stable and his swings were also less erratic. The awkward stiffness from his earlier attempts had given way to something more composed. He still stumbled at times, but less often.

"You've been practicing," Grise said after a few repetitions, giving him a thoughtful look.

"Yeah," Jaune said, wiping sweat from his brow. "In my backyard. And sometimes before school. I figured if I want to be good at this, I should actually, you know… try."

Grise smiled and nodded at him with a genuine expression of approval. "That's the right mindset."

He then gestured for Jaune to follow him to the center of the mat.

"Alright," Grise said. "Let's spar. Light contact only. Focus on rhythm, not power. You're not here to win, but to learn."

Jaune nodded and raised his wooden blade. The moment the spar began, he realized just how wide the gap between them was.

Grise moved like flowing water—smooth, fluid and impossible to read. Every time Jaune committed to a swing, Grise was already slipping past it, redirecting the energy and returning a gentle tap to his shoulder, side, or wrist. He didn't hit hard. He didn't need to.

Still, Jaune refused to back down. He adjusted, adapted, found moments where he could parry or push back. Occasionally, he even almost managed to land a touch.

Sweat rolled down his face as the spar continued. Grise pushed him just enough to keep him on edge, but not enough to overwhelm. There was no mocking or taunting. Just steady guidance in the shape of motion and pressure.

"Don't chase the blade," Grise advised at one point. "Chase the person behind the blade. Focus on their movements rather than their blade."

Jaune shifted his footing.

Grise nodded. "Better. Now again."

For over thirty minutes they worked—short bursts of sparring followed by critique and repetition. Jaune could feel the burn in his arms and calves, the sting of sweat dripping into his eyes, the ache in muscles that weren't used to this kind of effort. But he also felt something else.

Clarity.

The focus that cleared away the stress of classes, the awkward tension from the Occult Club and the madness of dream realm. It also helped Jaune to focus on something else, rather than weird runes and things best not mentioned on school grounds.

This? This made sense.

A blade, stance and a movement.

A purpose.

By the end of the session, Jaune was winded and soaked in sweat, but he was grinning.

Grise clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Not bad. You're improving. You've got a lot of potential. Who knows, maybe one day you could even make me go all out?"

Jaune panted, nodding with a tired smile, though there was a wiry look on his face at Grise's last statement. "Thanks. I think I really… enjoyed that."

"Good," Grise said. "That's the point. We train to sharpen ourselves. Both physically and mentally."

Jaune nodded. That rang true—far more than anything else did.

"Same time tomorrow?" Grise asked.

"Yeah," Jaune said. "I'll be here."

He gathered his things and headed for the showers, the faint soreness in his body oddly satisfying.

Jaune thought back to his swordplay, today. His progress.

The memories of the two men in the dream fighting each other danced in his head. He could almost see their attacks occurring in slow motion. Their power was... overwhelming.

Jaune wanted to feel that level of power. He craved it like an addict would to a drug.

He sighed, brushing away the thoughts. It wouldn't do him any good to fantasize. There was only one path forwards.

A step at a time.