The final month of training was different.
Nicholas Arc stopped pulling his punches.
"You've got four weeks until Beacon," his father said on the first morning of month six. "Four weeks to prove you're ready. Starting today, I stop treating you like a student."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I fight you like you're a real threat. No more holding back. No more teaching moments in the middle of combat. You either survive or you don't."
Jaune tightened his grip on Crocea Mors. "Understood."
"Good. Because if you can't handle me, you won't handle Beacon's initiation. And you definitely won't handle real Grimm."
They'd been at it for five months now. Jaune had gone from pathetic to competent to genuinely dangerous. His aura control was at seventy-eight percent efficiency. His sword work was clean and instinctive. His body had been rebuilt from the ground up into something that could actually survive combat.
But his father was a retired huntsman with thirty years of experience.
The fight lasted twelve minutes before Nicholas disarmed him.
"Better," his father said, not even breathing hard while Jaune gasped for air. "Five months ago that would've been twelve seconds. But still not good enough. Again."
They went again. And again. And again.
By the end of the day, Jaune had lasted a maximum of fifteen minutes before his father found an opening and exploited it ruthlessly.
"You're predictable," Nicholas said as they walked back to the house. "Your forms are good, your technique is solid, but you default to the same patterns under pressure. Real enemies will notice that and kill you for it."
"How do I fix it?"
"By fighting people who aren't me. Different styles, different approaches." His father paused. "I've called in some favors. Starting tomorrow, you'll be sparring with other people."
"Who?"
"Friends of mine. Retired huntsmen and huntresses. Each one has a different specialty. You'll fight them all, learn their patterns, adapt to their styles."
Jaune's body already hurt just thinking about it. "How many?"
"Seven. One per day for the next week. Then we'll cycle through them again if there's time."
Seven different experienced fighters in seven days. This was going to be hell.
But it was also exactly what he needed.
The first fighter arrived the next morning. Marcus, a massive man with a warhammer that looked like it could crack the earth.
"Kid," Marcus said with a grin. "Heard you've improved. Let's see if that's true."
They fought in the training yard. Marcus's style was overwhelming force and relentless pressure. Every swing of that warhammer forced Jaune to dodge or block with perfect timing, because his aura couldn't fully absorb the impact.
Jaune lasted eight minutes before Marcus's hammer caught him in the ribs and sent him flying.
"Not bad!" Marcus called out. "You've got speed and decent instincts. But you're afraid of getting hit. Hesitation will kill you."
They went three more rounds. By the end, Jaune was learning to trust his aura, to take glancing blows in exchange for better positioning. It wasn't comfortable, but it worked.
Day two brought Celeste, the dual-wielding speed fighter who moved like water and struck like lightning. Fighting her was like fighting a storm. Jaune couldn't predict where the next attack would come from, couldn't establish any rhythm.
She destroyed him in four minutes.
"You're too reactive," Celeste said, helping him up. "You wait for the attack and then respond. Against someone faster than you, that's suicide. You need to dictate the pace."
Easy to say. Much harder to do.
They trained for hours, and slowly Jaune started to understand. Fighting wasn't just about reacting to threats. It was about controlling space, forcing opponents into disadvantageous positions, making them react to him instead of the other way around.
By day three, when he faced Reinhardt, a defensive specialist with a tower shield and short sword, Jaune was starting to see combat differently. It wasn't just individual techniques. It was reading the opponent, understanding their style, exploiting their habits.
Reinhardt taught him patience. How to probe defenses, how to fake openings, how to punish overcommitment.
Day four through seven brought more lessons. An archer who forced him to fight at range. A dust caster who made him defend against elemental attacks. A grappler who negated his sword work entirely. And finally, his own father again, incorporating everything he'd learned.
By the end of the week, Jaune was fighting his father on relatively even ground. He still lost more often than not, but the gap had closed considerably.
"Good," Nicholas said after their final spar of the week. "You're adapting. Learning. That's the difference between a student and a huntsman. Students memorize techniques. Huntsmen adapt to survive."
They were sitting on the porch, both exhausted, watching the sun set over Ansel.
"Three weeks until Beacon," his father continued. "You ready?"
"I don't know," Jaune admitted. "I'm stronger than I was. But is it enough?"
"Enough for what? To survive initiation? Probably. To be the best student there? No. But you don't need to be the best. You just need to be competent enough to not die while you keep learning."
That was... actually reassuring in a weird way.
"The real question," Nicholas said, "is are you ready for whatever comes after?"
Jaune looked at his father. There was something in his tone, a question beneath the question.
"What do you mean?"
"You've changed, son. Not just physically. Something happened to you six months ago. Something that made you desperate enough to forge transcripts and driven enough to survive my training." His father met his eyes. "I don't know what it is. But I know you're preparing for something bigger than Beacon."
Jaune's throat tightened. His father was too perceptive.
"I can't explain it," he said finally.
"I know. And I'm not asking you to." Nicholas stood up. "But whatever it is, whatever you're facing, remember this. You're not alone. You've got family. You've got training. And you've got the strength to face it. Trust in that."
After his father went inside, Jaune sat alone on the porch and pulled up the system.
[Time until First Quest: 20 days, 7 hours]
Twenty days. Less than three weeks until he'd be thrown into another dimension with one day's notice.
"System, am I ready?"
[Current Analysis: User combat capability is approximately mid-tier combat school graduate level. Aura control is above average. Physical conditioning is exceptional. Strategic thinking is developing appropriately.]
[Assessment: User has 91% probability of surviving tutorial quest.]
Ninety-one percent. Better than the eighty-seven percent from three months ago, but still not guaranteed.
"What's the nine percent?"
[Unpredictable variables. Friendly fire. Environmental hazards. Mission complications. Enemy capabilities exceeding projections. User error under stress.]
So basically, anything could go wrong and kill him despite his preparation.
"Comforting."
[Comfort is not the objective. Survival is the objective.]
"Yeah, I got that."
[Recommendation: Final three weeks should focus on mental preparation and scenario planning. Physical capability is near optimal for current level.]
Jaune closed the screen and looked out at the darkening sky. Somewhere up there, beyond the broken moon, were other worlds. Other dimensions.
And in twenty days, he'd be in one of them.
The next two weeks passed in a blur of training and preparation. His father rotated through the guest fighters again, each session pushing Jaune harder. His sisters watched his progress with pride and worry. His mother made sure he ate enough to sustain the constant physical demands.
By week three of the final month, Jaune was consistently lasting twenty minutes against his father in full combat. Not winning, but surviving, which was the goal.
On day one hundred and seventy, one week before his first quest, the system finally gave him a heads up.
[Notice: Quest details will be revealed in 7 days. Prepare mentally.]
One week until he'd know what he was facing. One week to process the information and commit to the path.
Jaune threw himself into training with renewed intensity. Every spar, every drill, every meditation session was preparation for something he couldn't even picture yet.
His father noticed the increased focus but didn't comment. Just pushed him harder, matching his intensity.
"Whatever you're preparing for," Nicholas said during their final full contact spar before the quest, "I hope it's worth this."
They were both bleeding from shallow cuts, auras flickering from exhaustion. Jaune had lasted twenty-eight minutes before his father finally disarmed him.
"It is," Jaune said simply.
"Then make sure you survive it. Your mother would kill me if I let you get yourself killed after all this training."
Jaune laughed despite the exhaustion. "I'll do my best."
"Your best is pretty damn good now." His father clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm proud of you, son. Whatever happens at Beacon, remember that."
That night, sitting in his room with his bags half-packed for Beacon, Jaune checked his final stats.
[Training Complete: 6 Month Regimen]
[Combat Proficiency: Mid Tier Graduate]
[Aura Control: 81% efficiency]
[Physical Conditioning: 267% of baseline human]
[Skills Acquired: Pain Tolerance (Moderate), Combat Adaptation (Minor), Tactical Analysis (Basic), Weapon Mastery (Sword - Competent)]
[Time until First Quest: 6 days, 14 hours]
[Time until Beacon: 20 days]
Six months ago he'd been a transmigrator with knowledge and desperation. Now he was a fighter with skills and determination.
It would have to be enough.
Because in six days, he'd find out what he'd be facing. And in three weeks, he'd be at Beacon.
One step at a time. Survive the quest. Make it to Beacon. Then everything else.
Simple. Straightforward. Absolutely terrifying.
But he'd made it this far. He could make it further.
He had to.