I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling as thoughts of weapons circled through my mind. In my previous lives—or fragments of them that I could remember—a knife had always felt natural. Simple. Direct. An extension of my will.
But this world was different. Remnant had Grimm that could overwhelm you with numbers, that could strike from distances a simple blade couldn't reach. I'd seen it during those nights protecting Tukson—there were moments when being close to a Grimm was the last place you wanted to be.
"Hunters use Dust," I murmured to myself, thinking of the colorful crystalline substance I'd seen in shop windows throughout Vale. Energy given physical form. Not unlike the determination that had carried me through death after death, or the aura now humming beneath my skin.
I sat up, reaching for the small notebook Mrs. Xiong had given me weeks ago for writing down bakery recipes. Instead, I flipped to a blank page and began sketching.
A knife, yes. But one that could adapt. Transform.
My hand moved across the paper almost of its own accord, muscle memory from lives I couldn't fully recall guiding the pencil. The blade took shape—a combat knife with a reverse grip option, the kind that felt right in my hands. But the handle... I drew it wider, hollowed. A chamber for Dust cartridges.
The blade itself could fold, segments separating and extending on a razor-wire thread. A whip-blade? No, something more controlled. Each segment could be ejected, propelled by Dust charges, turning the knife into a ranged weapon before retracting back into its compact form.
I paused, studying my sketch. It looked... aggressive. Dangerous. The kind of weapon that was meant for precision killing, not the heroic combat I'd seen in videos of Huntsmen.
But wasn't that what I was? Something sharp and dangerous, trying to fit into a world of heroes?
A soft knock on my door interrupted my thoughts.
"Chara?" Tukson's voice came through, uncertain. "Are you... I mean, I know I'm supposed to be sleeping, but I can't really... after the aura thing, I'm kind of wired, and—can I come in?"
I glanced at the notebook, then at the door. Privacy, I'd said I valued. But hadn't we just agreed to actually talk to each other?
"Yes," I called out.
The door opened slowly, and Tukson slipped inside, closing it behind her. She looked around my sparse room—just a bed, a small desk, a wardrobe with the few clothes I owned. Her eyes landed on the notebook in my hands.
"What are you working on?" She moved closer, her bat ears perked forward with curiosity.
I hesitated for only a moment before turning the notebook so she could see. "Weapon designs. For Signal Academy. We'll need them."
Tukson's eyes widened as she studied the sketch. "That's... actually really cool. And kind of scary." She sat on the edge of my bed without asking, leaning in to get a better look. "Is that Dust-powered? The segments shoot out?"
"That's the idea. Close range and mid-range capability. The wire could also be used for mobility—wrapping around objects, changing direction mid-combat."
"Like a grappling hook," she said, then her expression shifted to something more thoughtful. "You've really thought about this. But..." she glanced at me, "this is designed to kill, isn't it? Not just fight."
The observation was sharper than I expected. I set the notebook down between us.
"Old habits," I said quietly. "Where I come from—or where I remember coming from—fights weren't about winning tournaments or protecting people at a distance. They were about survival. About ending threats before they ended you."
Tukson was quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing the air above the sketch without touching the paper. "Mom says Huntsmen are supposed to protect people. That it's not about killing, it's about standing between the innocent and the Grimm."
"And what do you think?" I asked.
She bit her lip, her bat ears flattening slightly. "I think... I think sometimes protecting people means killing the thing that's trying to hurt them. The Grimm don't negotiate. They don't stop." Her voice dropped. "Dad died protecting people, and I bet he killed a lot of Grimm doing it. That doesn't make him less of a hero."
"No," I agreed. "It doesn't."
We sat in companionable silence for a moment, both of us staring at the weapon design that represented something more than just metal and Dust.
"I haven't designed mine yet," Tukson admitted. "I've been using a branch, but that's obviously not going to work at Signal. I just... I don't know what fits me."
"What feels natural when you fight?" I asked.
She thought about it, her hands moving unconsciously as she spoke. "I like being fast. Using my momentum. The bat wings—" she gestured to her back, where I knew small, vestigial wings existed beneath her shirt, not large enough for true flight but perhaps enough for gliding, "—they're not big enough to fly, but sometimes when I jump, I can catch air for a second. It feels... right. Like I'm supposed to be moving three-dimensionally, not just running on the ground."
I picked up my pencil again, flipping to a new page. "Show me how you hold that branch when you fight."
Tukson blinked in surprise but stood up, falling into a combat stance. Her hands were positioned as if gripping a staff, but her grip was loose, ready to shift and adjust. She moved through a quick sequence—a thrust, a sweep, a spinning strike that used her whole body's rotation.
"You fight like a dancer," I observed, sketching quickly. "Or like you're fighting in three dimensions even when you're on the ground. You need something that won't slow you down. Something that can be used as a propulsion system."
"Propulsion?" She stopped mid-movement, watching me draw.
"Dual weapons," I said, the design taking shape. "Tonfa-style, maybe, or something similar. But the back end houses Dust chambers—fire or wind for bursts of speed, ice for quick direction changes or creating platforms. You could use the recoil to enhance your movements, make yourself even faster."
I added more details. "They could also extend into short staves for reach, or collapse completely for easier carrying. And if your semblance manifests as something mobility-related, the weapon would complement it."
Tukson leaned over my shoulder, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her recently awakened aura. "That's... actually perfect. How did you—?" She paused. "Eight months of watching me train."
"You have very distinctive movement patterns," I said simply.
She was quiet for a long moment, and I could feel her gaze on the side of my face rather than on the sketch. Finally, she spoke, her voice softer than before.
"You really were protecting me, weren't you? Not because you thought I was weak, but because you... actually paid attention. To how I move. To what I'm good at."
I set the pencil down, turning to meet her amber eyes. "You're not weak, Tukson. You're reckless and undertrained, but you're not weak. You have good instincts. You just needed refinement."
A flush colored her cheeks, and her bat ears twitched rapidly—that tell again. "Well... thank you. For the design. And for—" she gestured vaguely, "—everything else. The watching over me thing. Even if it was incredibly creepy when you phrase it like 'eight months of watching.'"
I felt the corner of my mouth quirk up. "I could have phrased it better."
"You really could have." But she was smiling now, genuine and warm. She glanced at the window, noting the afternoon sun. "I should probably actually try to sleep. Mom will be upset if I mess up my sleep schedule even more before Signal starts."
She stood, moving toward the door, but paused with her hand on the handle. "Hey, Chara? Tomorrow night—if I go out to train, will you come with me? Like, actually with me, not just following in the shadows?"
I contemplate for a moment before speaking. "You should listen to your mom and not sneak out, we can go train near the edge of the forests but that's it, any further would mean fighting Grimm."
Tukson's expression shifted through several emotions—disappointment, then consideration, then a grudging acceptance. "I... okay. That's fair. Mom did say we should do things properly now." She fidgeted with the door handle. "But you'll actually train with me? Not just watch?"
"I'll train with you," I confirmed. "We'll both need to be ready for Signal. And—" I hesitated, then added, "—it would be good to have someone to spar against who knows my patterns too."
Her face brightened considerably. "You mean I get to actually hit you back for all those times you were judging my stance?"
"If you can land a hit," I said, keeping my tone neutral.
Her eyes flashed with competitive fire. "Oh, you're on. Tomorrow night, edge of the forest. I'm going to make you regret saying that." She pointed at me with exaggerated determination before slipping out the door, closing it softly behind her.
I listened to her footsteps retreat down the hall, then return a moment later. The door cracked open just slightly.
"Also, your weapon design is really cool. Good night, Chara."
The door closed again before I could respond.
I sat there for a moment, staring at the two weapon designs in my notebook. One built for lethal precision, honed by seven lifetimes of violence I couldn't fully remember. The other built for someone else—designed to help them soar, to enhance their natural grace and speed.
Maybe that was what this life could be. Not just about my own survival, my own strength, but about helping others find theirs.
I picked up the pencil again and began refining my knife design. The segments, the Dust chambers, the retractable wire—it was all still there. But I added something new: a secondary configuration. The blade segments could lock together to form a longer, more defensive weapon. A short sword, perhaps, or a reinforced gauntlet blade.
Okay, maybe the gauntlet was too much but a shorts word doesn't sound bad.
I lay back down on my bed, studying the revised sketch. The knife-to-shortsword transformation felt more balanced—still maintaining the lethal precision I was instinctively drawn to, but with versatility. Something that could protect as well as strike.
The segmented blade design would allow it to collapse into a compact knife form for close quarters, extend into a shortsword for standard combat, or separate entirely for the ranged wire-blade configuration. Each segment would house a small Dust charge for propulsion when ejected, and the whole thing would be powered by a more substantial Dust core in the handle.
I labeled the design in my notebook: "Variable Configuration Blade - Codename pending."
Names were important in this world, I'd learned.
Huntsmen weapons often had dramatic titles—Crescent Rose, Ember Celica, Gambol Shroud. Something about the naming convention here made weapons feel less like tools and more like... extensions of their wielders' souls.
What would mine be called?
A knife that could become a sword. Segments that separated and rejoined. Something about duality, perhaps. Light and shadow. The crimson and darkness of my aura.
My mind drifted back to those fragments of memory—dust settling in a golden corridor, the weight of choices, the taste of chocolate and butterscotch pie. Someone's voice calling me "my child" with such warmth it hurt to remember.
"Severed Ties?" I murmured to myself, then immediately shook my head. Too bitter. Too focused on what was broken.
"Rejoined... something." Better, but incomplete.
I set the notebook aside with a quiet sigh. The name would come eventually. Right now, I had three months before Signal Academy started. Three months to master my newly awakened aura, to build this weapon, to train properly with Tukson instead of just shadowing her.
Three months to figure out how to be a person instead of just a ghost haunting the edges of someone else's life.
A yawn surprised me—apparently awakening one's aura was more exhausting than I'd anticipated. My eyes grew heavy as I stared at the ceiling, the crimson-and-shadow aura flickering faintly around my hands before settling back beneath my skin.
Tomorrow night, I'd train with Tukson. Really train with her, not just observe. The thought was both appealing and terrifying in ways I couldn't quite articulate.
When was the last time I'd actually let someone see me fight? Actually engaged with someone as an equal rather than a threat to be eliminated or a person to be protected from a distance?.