Ok since all this plot discussion has got my engines revving I am going to continue this.
SLICE. SLICE. SLICE.
Ok so take this as a bonus snippet of a future that is yet to come, And coincidentally quite similar to what we were discussing currently
Adam Taurus.
The name of the
worm he couldn't quite bring himself to crush—no matter how easy it would've been with the spectral arms of his construct. He didn't
want to think about what it looked like. Didn't
care.
Right now, it took every cell in his body to not clench his hands into a fist.
So he focused instead.
Flexion of the fingers.
Flexion of the thumb.
Opposition of the thumb.
Adduction of the fingers.
Isometric contraction.
He could name each movement. Could list the muscles used.
Flexor digitorum superficialis.
Flexor digitorum profundus.
Flexor pollicis longus.
Palmaris longus.
It kept his thoughts in check. Gave him structure. Clinical distance.
He could
build the muscles into the construct if he wanted. Could render each tendon and sheath with fractal clarity. But he wasn't thinking about aesthetics or function. He was keeping himself from snapping the bastard in half.
Because if he crushed Adam now—if he let himself become an executioner—the message wouldn't be justice. It would be war.
"White Fang martyr brutally slain by Huntsman."
That would be the headline.
They wouldn't report how Ren was barely alive. How Nora had to be held back. How Adam had nearly taken everything from them.
No. They'd see Jaune Arc, the blond swordsman from Vale, using mystical powers to rip a Faunus apart.
And
that was all it would take.
One corpse. One wrong image. One slanted newsfeed.
And suddenly hundreds—thousands—of Faunus kids would be watching it on cracked screens, huddled in shelters, hearing whispers that this was what humanity really wanted. That
they were right to fight. That Adam's fury was
justified.
He'd seen enough history on Earth to know the playbook. Take one wrong, amplify it, and fuel an army.
Even now—ha—he hated himself for hesitating. For this weakness. For not just ending the threat when he had the chance. But that's what made him a Huntsman.
Ren had nearly been cleaved in half. Nora was half a second away from becoming the Grimm in this story. Pyrrha was trying to hold the team together.
And Jaune?
Jaune was on the ground, kneeling, focused. His construct was working like a 3D printer of biology, weaving Aura-threaded scaffolds for Ren's shattered ribs, severed vessels, torn abdominal wall.
Aura Amp fed life into every stitch of light. Micro-healing, but
fast—surgical regeneration without a scalpel.
Hold steady. Heal first. Rage later.
Then—
"
Cough—cough. Nora? Jaune?" came Ren's voice, hoarse but alive.
Nora bolted toward him, tears already falling. She tried to throw her arms around him.
Jaune reacted instantly—fine strands of aura intercepting her. Gentle. Firm.
The healing wasn't done.
He let out a breath.
Then he made the call.
He turned toward Adam—beaten, barely conscious—and with a flick of his arm, threw him aside. Not with cruelty. Just enough to rattle his ribs and send a message.
You lost.
Jaune didn't even watch him land.
Adam would survive. Faunus resilience would make sure of that. Maybe he'd crawl off and stew. Maybe he'd spin it into a victory.
But this time? He wouldn't get a body to raise like a flag.
Ren was more important than the delusions of a broken man.
And Jaune Arc wasn't going to feed a war with another corpse.
