Dream Cleaver

I don’t Own RWBY and Bloodborne. This story is inspired from “Jaune never-ending nightmare” by herjoh

“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.”—

H.P. Lovecraft

Ch-01 (You Smell Like Home)

Darkness. Thick, heavy, eternal. A flicker. A light bloomed in the abyss, like a distant candle fighting to survive against the void. Jaune Arc’s eyes fluttered open — an 8-year-old boy gasping for air like a drowning child breaching the surface. The air reeked of disinfectant and old blood. He lay on a worn cot in a dimly lit hospital room. Shadows clung to the corners like cobwebs — unmoving, but watching. The ceiling above was stained and cracked, as though the world had tried to bleed through and failed. In the corner sat a man — old and hunched, garbed in long coats soaked dark with crimson. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face, and his spectacles gleamed like twin silver moons. “Ahhh… you’ve made it,” the man rasped, his voice gravelly and ancient, layered with strange knowing. Jaune tried to speak, but his mouth was parched. His throat burned like he’d swallowed fire. His limbs refused to move. “Welcome to the dream. The place between places,” the man said. “Now, don’t you worry, young hunter. You’ll soon be cured of the beastly scourge. Just a simple transfusion…” The word transfusion echoed in Jaune’s ears like a death sentence. “Fear the old blood,” the man whispered, smiling. He reached out with gloved hands. Jaune’s eyes widened as he saw the needle — long, cruel, archaic. The moment it pierced his skin, everything changed. His veins ignited, molten iron coursing through him. The room dissolved into fire and fog. The floor trembled. The ceiling twisted and laughed. Screams echoed through the walls. Then came the sound of something crawling. Jaune couldn’t move. He could only watch. This is a dream, he told himself. This is a dream, Jaune. Just a dream. He remembered it clearly — falling asleep in his bed at home, wrapped in his blanket, his momma's kiss on his forehead still warm. Tomorrow was supposed to be his birthday the day he’d finally turn nine. His dad had promised: once he was nine, his training would begin. But now… Now the nightmare had started first. Jaune awoke with a start. He sat up, chest heaving, cold sweat clinging to his skin. The cot beneath him creaked as he moved. The room was silent now — no sign of the man in the crimson-stained coat. Only the soft hum of a broken lamp in the corner, flickering weakly like a dying star. The shadows had grown deeper. Hungrier. His legs trembled as he slid off the cot. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet. He moved toward the only door, wood old and cracked, the handle rusted black. His tiny fingers curled around it, hesitant. Then he opened it. Beyond lay a hallway swallowed by darkness, lit only by moonlight filtering through broken windows. Dust drifted in the air like ash. Then…A sound. Wet. Heavy. Breathing. At the far end of the corridor, something moved. Lumbering. Stalking. It stepped into the light. The creature was twice the size of a man, hunched and twisted. Its fur was thick and matted, clinging to muscle and bone like decay to a corpse. Its back was arched, bones jutting through the skin like jagged spears. Clawed hands scraped the walls, trailing blood from old wounds or fresher kills. Its face was a grotesque mockery of a wolf — snout torn in places, one eye clouded and blind, the other glowing red like burning coal. Its mouth opened. Rows of yellowed teeth gleamed. It drooled thick strings of saliva onto the wooden floor. Jaune froze. His small body refused to move, paralyzed by terror. Then the beast snarled — deep and guttural. It charged. Jaune screamed. He turned to run, but he was too slow. Too small. The creature was upon him in a heartbeat. A massive claw slammed him into the wall with bone-shattering force. He felt something inside him snap. Blood gushed from his mouth. “Momma—!” The second blow crushed his ribs. His tiny frame crumpled like paper. The beast tore into him — biting, ripping, slashing. His screams turned to gargles. Then silence. Blood painted the walls. Pieces of him were dragged down the hall. The creature feasted with brutal abandon, tearing the child apart as if joying in the helplessness. And in that final moment, as the darkness took him again, Jaune’s mind slipped back to his birthday cake. To candles he would never blow out. To the sword he’d never hold. To the promise he’d never see kept. Then — Darkness. Again. But it came quicker this time. No drifting. No floating. Just sudden being. Jaune gasped — breath ripped into his lungs like he'd been drowned and yanked back to life. He sat up. The cot beneath him creaked just as before. The air still stank of disinfectant and dried blood. The shadows still pressed against the corners like silent spectators. But his body… It was whole again. No wounds. No blood. No pain. His hands trembled as he brought them up to his face. His chest rose and fell, rapid, panicked. He looked to the door. Still closed. Still waiting. Still there. He swallowed hard. It felt like broken glass going down. “I died,” he whispered, voice cracked and hoarse. “It killed me.” His mind rebelled at the thought — torn limbs, crushed ribs, the gaping maw of the beast — and yet here he was. Awake. Alive. Somehow. But the fear didn’t leave. It only deepened. With shaking legs, Jaune slid off the cot once more. He knew what waited beyond that door. The hallway. The windows. The thing. But he also knew this wasn’t a dream anymore — or if it was, it wasn’t one he could wake up from. Still, he walked. Each step toward the door was a battle. His fingers hovered over the handle. Sweat clung to his brow. He opened it again. The same hallway stretched before him — moonlight slicing through the air, shadows thick like tar. But this time, it was silent. No breathing.No claws. No beast. Not yet. But it would come. He knew it would. His heart pounded against his ribs like a caged bird. He stepped into the hallway, bare feet cold on the wooden floor, and moved slowly, afraid to breathe too loud. And somewhere in the distance, a snarl echoed — deeper than before. Like the dream had remembered him. Jaune didn’t wait. The moment he heard that low, growling snarl behind him, he ran. His small feet pounded against the old wooden floor, the sound echoing like war drums down the endless corridor. He didn’t dare look back. The beast was close — claws scraping, heavy breath hot on his neck. Then — sharp pain. A searing agony ripped through his back as massive claws slashed across his shoulder blades. He screamed — a raw, high-pitched cry — but he didn’t stop. Warm blood soaked his shirt and dripped down his spine. His legs trembled, threatening to buckle, but terror gave him strength. He burst through a door at the hall’s end, stumbling into the cold night air. Outside. The garden was dead and twisted — trees like skeletal hands reaching skyward. The building behind him loomed like a tombstone, silent and watchful. Just ahead stood a lamp — tall and erect, its pale flame flickering like a beacon in the dark. Around its base crouched small skeletons, their empty eye sockets tilted upward in eerie reverence. The beast’s roar exploded behind him. Without thinking, Jaune lunged toward the lamp, thrusting out his trembling hand. The instant his fingers brushed the cold metal; light swallowed the world. The beast’s roar cut off mid-chase. The garden, the blood, the pain — all vanished. He felt himself unravelling, stretched across space and thought, pulled apart like strands of mist and memory. Then — stillness. When Jaune opened his eyes, he found himself standing in a new place. A realm bathed in soft moonlight and drifting ash. A pale sky hung low; stars close enough to touch. The ground beneath was stone and soil, dotted with wilted flowers. On a hill nearby, a mansion glowed with warm, inviting light. His back no longer ached. His torn shirt was whole again. His breathing was calm. It was peaceful. Safe. But the nightmare was far from over. Jaune took a hesitant step forward, his eyes wide, trying to take in this strange new place. The mansion’s warm glow promised safety, but something inside him trembled—he wasn’t sure if it was hope or fear. As he walked slowly toward the building, a soft, mechanical clicking echoed behind him. He spun around. There, standing in the shadows, was a small figure—delicate and still. The Doll. She's an adult, with porcelain skin pale as moonlight, and large, glassy eyes that shimmered with a faint blue glow. Her silver hair framed a face frozen in a gentle, unreadable smile. She wore an old-fashioned dress, embroidered with faded roses, and her hands hung motionless by her sides. Jaune’s heart hammered in his chest, part of him wanting to run, but his legs refused. The Doll tilted her head slightly, as if studying him. “Welcome, Hunter,” her voice was soft, almost a whisper, metallic but kind. “You’ve come far.” Jaune swallowed hard. “Where am I? What is this place?” “The Hunter’s Dream,” she said, stepping forward, her movements smooth and deliberate. “A refuge. A place between worlds. Here, you can rest… and prepare.” He glanced down at his hands, still trembling from the chase, the pain, the blood. “But… the beast… it killed me.” The Doll’s eyes seemed to flicker with sorrow. “Death in your world means little here. You have been granted a second chance. But your fight is not over, young hunter. The nightmare follows you still.” Jaune swallowed, the weight of her words settling heavy in his chest. “Will I see it again?” he asked quietly. “Perhaps,” the Doll said, her smile never wavering. “But here, you can learn. You can grow. And when you are ready… you will face the darkness once more.” Jaune nodded slowly, the fear mixing with a strange new feeling — a fragile hope. The Doll reached out a hand, delicate and cold. “Come. There is much you must understand.” The Doll’s pale hand extended toward him, slender fingers beckoning with quiet grace. Jaune hesitated only a moment before stepping forward, drawn by something in her calm presence. She turned smoothly, gliding across the soft, uneven ground toward the mansion. The moonlight seemed to follow her every step, casting long, dancing shadows behind. Jaune followed, his footsteps lighter now, less burdened by fear. The mansion’s wooden door creaked open before they reached it, as if inviting them inside. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old books and wax—ancient and comforting. The Doll moved silently through the hall, leading Jaune toward a vast room filled with shelves. Tomes and relics rested on every surface, glowing faintly under the soft light of hanging lanterns. “This is the Hunter’s Dream,” the Doll said softly. “A place where hunters rest, learn, and prepare for the trials ahead.” Jaune’s eyes scanned the room, wide with wonder and exhaustion. “Why me?” he whispered. “Why was I brought here?” The Doll paused, turning to face him. Her glowing eyes locked onto his. “Because you carry the blood of the hunter within you,” she said. “You have been chosen. The nightmare that hunts you is ancient and cruel, but with knowledge and strength, you can fight back.” Jaune swallowed, a mix of hope and dread swirling inside him. The Doll reached out and gently touched his shoulder. “You will not be alone.” Jaune climbed the stairs slowly, each step creaking beneath his weight. The higher he went, the heavier the air became — dense with silence and old magic, but the moment he placed his foot on the last step— Rattle. Four bony figures burst from the shadows with an unholy screech, clawing their way up from cracks in the stone. Their twisted, skeletal forms were hunched and twitching, eye sockets empty, jaws hanging open in silent moans. Jaune gasped and stumbled back.“WHOA!” He threw his arms up to shield himself, heart hammering in his chest, every instinct screaming run. But… the skeletons didn’t move. They remained still, kneeling, holding up glowing white energy in their bony hands like some kind of offering. The orbs shimmered with a soft, otherworldly light, pulsing in rhythm with something ancient and deep. “Worry not, little hunter,” came the Doll’s gentle voice from behind, calm like a lullaby in a graveyard. “They will not harm you. They are harmless.” She stepped beside him, unbothered by the ghastly figures. Her expression serene, watching him with warm, glassy eyes. “Go on,” she said, nodding slightly. Jaune hesitated — then, with a breathless swallow, stepped forward. As his hand reached toward the glowing orb in the first skeleton’s hand — click — a sudden flash burst in front of his vision. A screen appeared in the air before him, floating and translucent like smoke caught in moonlight. On it, large letters shimmered and pulsed:

Choose Weapon (Right Hand)

Below, three haunting silhouettes appeared:

Saw Cleaver – Brutal. Crude. Effective.

Threaded Cane – Elegant. Sharp. Trickery in form.

Hunter Axe – Heavy. Wide arcs. Control the crowd.

Jaune blinked, wide-eyed, overwhelmed. “I get to… choose?” he asked. The Doll nodded. “Each path has its own truth. Choose the one that calls to you.” The skeletons remained frozen, presenting the glowing choices, their silence deeper than death. Jaune bit his lip. This wasn’t a dream anymore — not entirely. This was real. Jaune stared at the floating screen, eyes bouncing between the weapon options. The Threaded Cane looked elegant, and the Hunter Axe intimidating—but something about the Saw Cleaver drew him in. Its silhouette was jagged and violent, a weapon not made to impress, but to end things. He reached out. The moment his fingers touched the glowing orb held by the first skeleton, the light surged up his arm like lightning. The screen dissolved with a whisper, and a sudden weight dropped into his hand. CLANK. Jaune staggered slightly as the Saw Cleaver materialized, real and solid, its weight rough and cold. He looked down at it — a crude thing, like a giant, rusted folding knife. The blade was serrated, stained with dark patches like dried blood that had never been cleaned off. A hidden latch let it snap open into a longer, cleaver-like form with a screech of metal. Jaune flinched at the sound, but couldn’t stop staring. It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t noble. But somehow… it felt right. He gripped it tighter. The handle was rough, designed to be wielded by calloused hands and unshaken resolve. The Doll stood beside him, watching quietly. “A fine choice,” she murmured. “That cleaver has spilled much blood. And now, it will serve you.” Jaune swallowed. “It feels… heavy.” “Good,” she replied. “A hunter’s burden should feel heavy.” The skeletons slowly melted back into the floor, their task complete. Jaune looked down at the weapon again, his reflection warped in the rusted steel. This… was real now. And he had a weapon. A chance. The Doll gestured gently to the other side of the room, where three more skeletons rose from the ground — slower this time, as though stirred from deeper slumber. Each one held a new glowing orb, smaller but just as vivid, and the same ghostly screen shimmered into existence above them:

Choose Firearm (Left Hand)

Three icons flickered before Jaune:

Hunter Pistol – Fast. Precise. For interrupting.

Hunter Blunderbuss – Wide spread. Slower. For crowd control.

Flame Sprayer – Continuous burn. Short range. Consumes quicksilver bullets rapidly.

Jaune bit his lip, staring at them. He stepped forward. Something about the Hunter Pistol called to him — not the loudest, not the flashiest, but clean. Sharp. Reliable. He reached for it. The moment his fingers brushed the orb, the choice was sealed. The light raced into his left hand, solidifying into cold metal with a sudden jolt. Click. The Hunter Pistol was sleek — old but well-crafted. A design meant for one purpose: to interrupt, to stagger, to kill. He held it awkwardly at first. It was heavier than it looked, with a chamber loaded by thin, silver bullets he instinctively recognized as quicksilver. They shimmered unnaturally, humming faintly in the barrel. “You have chosen wisely,” the Doll said, her voice as steady as ever. “The pistol is swift, meant not for slaying—but for timing. In the hands of one who learns when to strike, it is a blade in itself.” Jaune nodded slowly, gripping the cleaver in one hand and the pistol in the other. For the first time, he felt like a hunter. Not just a frightened child. The Doll bowed her head. “Now you are armed. The hunt may begin.” But Jaune’s heart pounded faster. Because somewhere, beyond this dream, the wolf-beast still waited. And this time… he wouldn’t be running. Jaune stood in the pale mist of the Hunter’s Dream, the Saw Cleaver in his right hand, the Hunter Pistol firm in his left. The Doll stood silently beside him, her presence as calm and unwavering as the moon hanging overhead. Behind them, the small lantern flickered with ghostly light — the same kind he had touched before, in that nightmarish clinic. The Doll gestured toward it.“Whenever you are ready, little hunter… the dream will return you.” Jaune looked at the lamp. His heart beat in his throat. He remembered the beast’s breath on his neck, the tearing pain in his back, the way the world had gone cold as blood soaked into the wooden floor. He wasn’t ready. But he didn’t have a choice. He stepped forward, raising a shaking hand. As his fingers brushed the lamp again, a jolt of warmth surged through him — and the dream peeled away like fog in sunlight. The world twisted. He woke on the same cot — the same cracked ceiling, the same stench of blood and antiseptic clawing at his nose. But now… something was different. The Saw Cleaver hung heavy in his grip. The pistol rested at his side. His back still ached from where the beast had clawed him before, but his wounds were closed, faint pink lines on fresh skin. He stood slowly. The air was thick with silence. This time, he didn’t hesitate. He walked to the door. Beyond it, the hallway was still soaked in shadow. Old lanterns lined the walls but gave no light. He gritted his teeth and moved forward, each step more sure than the last. Then — from the far end of the hallway — came the scrape of claws on wood. The beast emerged again. It was larger than he remembered. Mangy fur matted with blood, yellow eyes burning with hunger. Its jaw hung open, revealing rows of broken teeth and flesh caught between them. It roared, low and guttural The beast lunged. Jaune screamed. He didn’t dodge—he couldn’t. His body froze with terror, and instinct took over. He wildly swung the Saw Cleaver, the rusty blade shrieking as it scraped off the creature’s thick hide. It barely flinched. The wolf's massive paw came down like a sledgehammer—WHAM!—sending Jaune crashing into the wall. His ribs screamed. His pistol flew from his grip, skittering across the floor. “G-Ghh—!” The beast howled and charged again. Jaune crawled, dragging himself across the blood-stained floor, fingers scrabbling for his gun. The moment he felt cold metal, he rolled onto his back just as the beast pounced. BANG! The shot hit its snout. Smoke exploded in his face. The beast recoiled, staggered—but not down. Jaune scrambled to his feet, limping, gasping. The cleaver shook in his hand, too heavy, too unwieldy. He tried to remember what the Doll had said. “Timing... timing...” The beast lunged again—this time, he reacted. BANG! He shot at its chest mid-leap—and the beast stopped midair. It shuddered. Staggered. Eyes wide. Jaune didn’t think. He screamed and slashed wildly, swinging the cleaver with both hands in a clumsy overhead arc. CRUNCH. The blade buried deep in the beast’s shoulder. A gout of black blood splashed across his face, burning hot and metallic. The creature shrieked in agony. Then it lashed out. One claw tore across Jaune’s chest, knocking him backward again. He slammed into a bench, ribs jolting. His whole body trembled. The beast was bleeding now. Limping. Enraged. So was Jaune. He could barely breathe. His arm hung limp. His cleaver dragged the floor. His eyes brimmed with terrified tears. But he stood. The beast charged for the final time— —and Jaune, heart pounding, roared back. He pulled the cleaver open to full length with a clack and swung upward with everything he had— SLASH. The blade tore through the wolf’s jaw, up through its skull. It collapsed mid-run, its momentum carrying it into a wall with a wet, thunderous crunch. Silence. For a moment, Jaune just stood there—panting, shaking, eyes wide. His legs gave out beneath him. He dropped to his knees beside the twitching corpse. His first kill. His first night. His first step into a world that would never let go of him. Jaune knelt beside the beast's corpse, his hands still trembling. The monstrous body was already beginning to dissolve — steam rising, flesh flaking away like ash on the wind. Then he saw it. A faint glow, hovering above the remains. A pulsing light orb, gentle and slow, like a firefly in a jar. Cautiously, Jaune reached out. The moment his fingers brushed it— DING! A cold shimmer of energy pulsed through the air. Suddenly, a black screen snapped open before his eyes — flat, clean, and glowing with blue-white glyphs and letters. His heart nearly stopped.

INVENTORY ACQUIRED

Blood Vial x1

✦ A medicinal vial containing refined hunter's blood.

✦ Restores partial vitality when used. ✦ Cannot be used at full health. ✦ “The blood of hunters is a weapon and a crutch. Use it well, or be consumed by it.” Below that:

Tap to EquipHold to Use Back

Jaune blinked. “Wh-What… is this?” The screen responded instantly, shifting as if hearing him.

System Online. Welcome, Hunter.

He stumbled back onto his feet, the cleaver dragging behind him, staring at the message hovering in the air. The text faded away slowly, but the faint [Inventory] symbol still hovered in the corner of his vision, barely noticeable. “I… I have a system?” Another prompt flickered momentarily at the bottom of the screen:

No Skills Detected

[Beginner Hunter] (Origin- Cruel Fate)– Weapon Familiarity: 0%

– Firearm Use: 1%

– Dodge Reflex: 4%

– Survival Instinct: High

Skill Unlocks Available: 0Next Skill Unlock at 10% Proficiency (Cleaver or Firearm)

His breath hitched. It was like a game… but this was real. Too real. He looked down at the blood vial now resting gently in the crook of his palm. Cool to the touch. Slightly pulsing. “…So I can heal.” The system made a quiet ding of affirmation.

Blood Vial: Equipped

He looked back at the dark hallway, the scent of ash and blood heavy in the air. This wasn’t a dream. It was something far worse — and far bigger. Jaune stood alone in the darkened hallway, the flickering remnants of torchlight dancing along cracked stone walls. Behind him, the beast’s corpse had all but vanished, leaving only a pool of black sludge—and the soft, fading glow of the system interface. His chest still ached. His limbs trembled. But something inside had changed. He had survived. And more than that… he had fought back. He looked down at the cleaver in his hand—still stained with gore—and the faint [Blood Vial: Equipped] icon in the corner of his vision. “I… I can do this,” he whispered. “I have to.” He took one cautious step forward, then another. The hallway stretched out ahead, narrow and suffocating. Every corner felt like it watched him. Every creak of floorboard made his heart lurch. But he didn’t stop. As he turned a corner, he found a staircase leading down. Wooden, splintered, and soaked with time. He hesitated—then descended. The deeper he went, the colder it became. The air grew damp, the smell of mold and rot mingling with old smoke. There were signs of struggle everywhere—broken furniture, slashed walls, dried blood trails. Then he heard it. A soft sound—weeping. He froze. Somewhere beyond a doorway ahead, someone—or something—was crying. A child? A woman? It was hard to tell. The sound echoed too strangely. Jaune approached the door, cleaver raised. The system offered no advice this time. No prompt. No warning. Just that steady heartbeat sound in his ears. He slowly pushed the door open— And stepped into a room of flickering lanterns and broken pews. It looked like a chapel, or what was left of one. At the center knelt a figure, cloaked in black, her back to him. The sobbing stopped the moment he entered. Silence. Then— “Another lamb enters the slaughter…” the voice rasped, low and bitter. The figure began to rise. Jaune stepped back, the cleaver rising instinctively. A new pop-up appeared in front of him, glowing crimson:

[Hostile Encounter Detected]

Name: UnknownType: Deranged Worshipper

Threat Level: Moderate Suggested Action: Evade or Engage Jaune’s breath hitched as the Deranged Worshipper turned slowly, face hidden beneath a cracked porcelain mask smeared with blood. She didn’t speak again—just lunged. “AH—!” He barely blocked the swing of her rusted dagger, the impact numbing his arms. He swung his cleaver wide — too wide — and it scraped across the wooden floor. She slashed again. And again. He screamed as the blade grazed his side, pain blooming like fire under his ribs. Instinct took over. He twisted, drove the cleaver forward. Crunch. The mask cracked. She let out a sigh — not of pain, but relief — and slumped. Jaune stood over her, panting. The system popped up:

✔ Enemy Defeated

+2% Cleaver Proficiency+1 Blood Echo

“W-Why… why did she smile…?” Jaune whimpered, stumbling back. “She… wanted to die?” There was no answer. He pressed forward. The rooms blurred into one another — endless decayed halls and crooked stairways. More of them came. A man in rags, whispering to himself in circles, lunged when Jaune passed too close. “The moon whispers. The worms see! They—THEY SCRATCH THROUGH MY SKULL!” Slash. Gurgle. Collapse. Another was on his knees, eyes glazed and jaw slack, muttering prayers to gods Jaune didn’t understand. “Please… the pain… make it stop… hunter… please…” Jaune shook. “I-I don’t wanna hurt you…” But the man screamed and leapt at him with bare hands twisted like claws. Jaune cried out and swung in fear. Blood sprayed across his face. The man fell still. Jaune dropped to his knees, hands shaking. “I-I didn’t… I didn’t wanna…!” The next one was just a girl. Younger than Jaune. Her eyes gone completely white, mouth full of blood. She giggled. “You smell like home…” She charged. Jaune screamed, parried wildly, tears running down his face. He hit her. Again. Again. The laughter didn’t stop until her skull cracked open and silence returned. He stood over her, covered in blood, sobbing. “Why… why is this happening…?”

✔ Multiple Hostiles Defeated

+9% Proficiency Reached

Skill Unlocked: Hunter’s Instinct (Lv. 1)– Slight time slow during dodge at low health

“A frightened child learns quickly. Or dies.” Jaune didn’t care. He just dropped his cleaver, fell to his knees, and wept. Jaune sat alone in the blood-soaked chapel, the cleaver loose in his grip, his tiny body trembling with every breath. His face was streaked with tears, sweat, and the dark stains of things he'd rather forget. His shoulders shook as he tried — and failed — to steady himself. He looked at his hands. Small. Red. Trembling. “I… I didn’t wanna hurt them…” he whispered. “They… they weren’t monsters… not really…” His voice cracked. His knees curled up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, as if that would make him small enough to disappear. “Why is this happening to me…?” The silence pressed in from all sides. Heavy. Cruel. Then— Soft footsteps. Grass where there should be stone. He blinked. The light around him shifted — not cold and grey, but faintly golden. The choking smell of rot was replaced with faint lavender. He looked up. The Doll stood nearby, hands folded gently at her waist, eyes full of unspoken sorrow. “I-I didn’t mean to… I just… I didn’t…” Jaune tried to speak, but the words broke into sobs. The Doll knelt beside him. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Instead, she reached out — pale, porcelain-like hands — and slowly wrapped them around his trembling form, drawing him close. He clutched her dress like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely. “I want to go home,” he choked out. “I want my mom… I want my bed… I wanna wake up…” The Doll stroked his hair gently. “You are brave, little hunter. Braver than many grown warriors. But your heart… is still young.” “I’m not a hunter,” he whispered. “I’m just a kid…” “And yet… you endured.” The garden began to fade. The world flickered. The Doll’s voice echoed, softer now. “Rest now, Jaune Arc. This dream will wait.”

FLASH

He gasped. Sat upright in bed, covered in sweat. His sheets tangled around his legs. His blanket on the floor. The moonlight leaked in through the window. For a long moment, he just sat there. Breathing. His bedroom. His posters. His wooden toy sword in the corner. The scent of home. The faint echo of footsteps outside his room — and then, the gentle creak of the door. His mother peeked in, her hair messy with sleep. “Sweetie? Are you okay?” He couldn’t speak. She stepped in, knelt beside the bed, and saw the look on his face. Without a word, she hugged him. He clung to her like he’d never let go. “I had a bad dream,” he whispered. “It’s over now,” she said softly, kissing his hair. “You’re safe.” But as she held him, Jaune’s eyes drifted past her— To the small, crescent-shaped scar now on his palm. Faint. Barely there. But real. Morning sunlight spilled across the hardwood floors of the Arc household, draping everything it touched in warm gold. The living room glowed with the kind of cheer only a birthday morning could bring. Streamers hung from the ceiling fan — haphazardly twisted by tiny hands. Paper swords and capes were scribbled in crayon and taped proudly to the walls, next to bold block letters that read “SUPER JAUNE!” The smell of vanilla frosting and warm cake filled the air. A homemade banner drooped slightly over the fireplace, its letters just a little uneven: HAPPY 9th BIRTHDAY, JAUNE! His little sisters wore glittery paper hats and matching grins. His dad fumbled with the camera. His mom lit the last of the candles. Jaune sat at the center of it all, wearing a bright blue crown made of construction paper. Yet… his eyes weren’t on the cake. They were fixed on her. Across the room, just beyond the edge of sunlight, stood the girl from his dreams. Small. Barefoot. Wearing a torn, soot-stained dress. Her skin looked like moonlight filtered through fog, and her arms clutched a ragged stuffed rabbit to her chest. One glassy eye dangled from the rabbit’s stitched face. She didn't belong here. Jaune’s breath caught in his throat. The joyful chorus of his sisters’ voices faded into a dull, underwater hum. “Happy birthday to you…” The walls seemed to shift. The color bled from the room, as if his vision couldn’t hold the warmth anymore. His pulse thudded in his ears, louder, sharper, until it swallowed the melody. The girl’s eyes met his. Hollow. Searching. Familiar. “…J-Jaune?” came a soft voice from nearby — his sister Brie, tugging gently on his sleeve. “You, okay?” He didn’t answer. The girl took a step forward. The world seemed to hush in response. No one noticed her. Not the laughter, not the singing, not even the camera flash. Just him.

“You smell like home,” she whispered.

His stomach twisted. He knew that voice — not just from the dream, but somewhere deeper. Some place before memory. Before words.

“I remember you…” she murmured, her lips curling into a soft, trembling smile. “Kind Little Hunter.”

His hand moved without thinking. He didn’t know when he’d reached for it — the kitchen counter wasn’t far — but when he looked down, his fingers were wrapped around a knife. A long one. Not the usual butter knives they let him use. And in his eyes — not a knife. A cleaver. Slick with something not frosting. The dream. He was back inside the dream.

“Please…” she said, taking another step forward, voice cracking. “Just make it stop…”

Jaune’s mind screamed — This isn’t real, this isn’t real! — but his body had already moved. He swung. THWACK. Something popped. A burst of sound. A rush of frosting and air and— Screams. Real ones. The sound tore through the silence like glass shattering. The paper crown fell from his head as he stumbled back. The cake was on the floor, ruined. The balloon — bright yellow, smiley-faced — was split open, fluttering uselessly. A ribbon flew into the air like a severed streamer. His little sister Azure was sobbing, clinging to their mother’s leg. His mom had her arms around Brie, shielding her, eyes wide with horror. “Jaune!” his father barked, standing from the couch, voice like thunder. “What in the hell are you doing!?” Jaune looked around in a daze, heart pounding. “I—I didn’t mean to—” he gasped, the knife clattering from his hand, bouncing on the wood. He searched the room again. The girl was gone. Not even footprints. Not a sound. Only paper decorations. A fallen cake. Fear. His sisters stared at him as if he’d turned into something else — not their brother, not the birthday boy. Something wrong. Something broken. His mom’s hands trembled over her mouth. “I didn’t—she was there—I saw—” Jaune stammered, stepping back, breath shallow and sharp. “She was right there. She needed help. I just…” No one answered. His sisters clung to each other. So Jaune ran. He fled down the hallway, past the smiling drawings of “Super Jaune,” past the framed pictures of better birthdays, better days. He slammed his bedroom door shut and collapsed behind it, gasping, trembling. The silence pressed in like a second skin. He buried his face into his arms and sobbed, the image of the girl burned into his mind. Her pale face. Her torn dress. Her rabbit.

“You smell like home,” she had said.

sobbing, the cleaver still in his mind, her voice echoing:

“You smell like home.”

And deep down, Jaune knew something: He hadn’t left the dream. The dream had followed him home.

***

Midnight. The house had fallen into uneasy silence. The candles were long extinguished, and the leftover cake sat untouched on the counter, the frosting slowly melting. The only light came from a small lamp in the kitchen, casting long shadows across the walls. Jaune’s parents sat at the table. His mother, Isabelle, clutched a cup of cold tea she hadn’t touched. Her hands trembled slightly, eyes red and raw from silent crying. She stared at the floor, thoughts spinning like a storm. Across from her, Nicholas Arc — Jaune’s father — sat stiffly, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He hadn’t raised his voice once during the incident. Not when Jaune screamed. Not when the knife nearly struck his sister. Not when his son ran. But now, in the silence, his tone was sharp and ice-cold. “This proves it,” Nicholas said flatly. “He’s not ready.” Isabelle’s head snapped up, disbelief in her eyes. “He’s eight, Nicholas. He just turned nine today. What happened—what he saw—he’s terrified. And you’re using it to judge him?” “I trained at his age,” Nicholas shot back. “I was holding a real sword before I could write my own name. I didn’t snap at shadows and hallucinate monsters at my own birthday party.” Isabelle’s voice cracked, trembling with anger and sorrow. “You didn’t go through whatever that was. We don’t know what happened to him! He was fine yesterday! He was laughing with his sisters, and now he looks like he’s been to hell and back!” Nicholas leaned back in his chair, jaw tight. “He picked up a knife, Isabelle. At a party. Surrounded by his siblings.” “He thought he saw something! He was hallucinating! Don’t you see? He’s traumatized! That’s not weakness — it’s a child crying out for help!” “No,” Nicholas said coldly. “It’s proof that he doesn’t have the spine for it. Whatever that boy dreamed — whatever fantasy he got lost in — it nearly got someone hurt. Huntsman don’t get to freeze. They don’t get to cry.” Isabelle stood up sharply, tears in her eyes. “He’s your son, Nicholas. Not a soldier. He’s a little boy who trusted you to protect him — and you’re too busy testing if he’s ‘worthy’ to even ask if he’s okay.” “He wants to be a huntsman,” Nicholas said, standing too, voice firm and unforgiving. “Then he better learn what comes with it. If a nightmare like this breaks him, he won’t survive the real world.” Isabelle turned away, gripping the edge of the counter as her shoulders shook. Nicholas didn’t move. He just stared at the dark hallway that led to Jaune’s room, his face unreadable. A long silence hung between them, filled only by the distant hum of the night. “He needs time,” Isabelle finally whispered. “He’s already out of it,” Nicholas muttered, more to himself than to her. The clock ticked toward 1:00 AM

At 1:01 AM Midnight.

The house creaked softly with age, every tick of the clock echoing louder in the stillness. Jaune lay curled in bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. His heart was too heavy, and his mind was too loud. That girl’s voice still echoed in his head — “You smell like home” — followed by the sickening squelch of metal through flesh, and her broken little gasp. He couldn't stop shaking. His mouth was dry. Maybe some water would help. Slowly, Jaune slipped out from under his blanket. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet. He crept quietly down the hallway, careful not to wake his sisters. A soft glow spilled from the kitchen — light and voices. He stopped. His parents were talking. He stayed in the hallway, hiding just beyond the corner — listening. “This proves it,” came his father’s voice, low and sharp. “He’s not ready.” Jaune froze, his small fingers gripping the wall. “He’s nine, Nicholas!” his mother said, her voice tight with emotion. “He’s a child! Today was supposed to be special. You promised him—” “I nullify that promise,” Nicholas interrupted, tone like ice. “I won’t train a liability.” Jaune’s breath caught. “He needs help, Nicholas. He’s been through something we don’t understand. And you—” “If a dream is all it takes to shatter him, then maybe it’s better we never trained him at all.” A pause. Then his father said it — the words that cut deeper than steel: “Honestly... I would’ve been better off not having a child than one this weak.” Something broke. Jaune didn’t gasp. He didn’t cry. He just stood there in the dark, the hallway spinning. His throat clenched. His chest ached. That warmth he always felt around his parents — the belief that they'd keep him safe — was gone, burned away by the cold fire of those words. He turned. The water didn’t matter anymore. Jaune quietly walked back to his room, each step heavier than the last. He climbed into bed and buried himself under the covers, curling tight as his silent tears soaked into the pillow. He didn’t want to dream again.He didn’t want to see monsters. He didn’t want to hear her voice. He just wanted to be enough. A long, stunned silence hung in the air like a storm cloud. And then Isabel's voice — quiet, trembling at first — broke the stillness. “What… did you just say?” Nicholas didn’t respond immediately. He sat in the dim kitchen, arms crossed, the flickering candlelight from Jaune’s untouched birthday cake casting warped shadows on his face. Isabel stepped forward, her voice rising like thunder gathering. “Say it again, Nicholas. I dare you.” Still, Nicholas didn’t flinch. “You heard me.” That was the final spark. The slap was instant — not hard, but loud, sharp, and trembling with fury. Her hand lingered in the air afterward, palm shaking, eyes wide with disbelief and heartbreak. “How dare you call our son weak?” she snapped, voice cracking with emotion. “How dare you say you wish he didn’t exist!” Nicholas turned to face her fully now, jaw tight. “You saw what he did today. He lashed out. He hallucinated and attacked someone in our home. That wasn’t a child playing hero that was a boy on the edge of a breakdown.” “Because he’s traumatized, Nicholas!” Isabel fired back, tears now brimming in her eyes. “Because he’s scared! Because something horrible happened in his mind and he doesn’t know how to process it — and instead of holding him, you call him a mistake?!” Nicholas stood up from the chair slowly, towering but silent. “Do you have any idea what those words would do to him if he heard them?” she demanded. “Do you even care?” He looked away. That was her answer. Isabel's voice dropped, quieter now — not because her anger had faded, but because heartbreak had taken its place. “I loved you, Nicholas. I believed in you. I thought you were a strong man. But tonight? You proved you’re nothing like the Huntsman you pretend to be.” She turned her back to him, clutching her arms as her shoulders trembled. “The boy I held in my arms the day he was born is worth more than every sword you’ve ever swung.” Nicholas said nothing. Isabel walked out of the kitchen.

Jaune’s Bedroom

The hallway was silent as Jaune shuffled back to his room. He had heard everything. His father’s voice echoed in his mind like poison in the air: “I would be better off not having a child than a weak one like him.” Jaune set the glass down on his nightstand with shaking fingers and crawled into bed. He curled up, pulling the blanket over himself like a shield. But it couldn’t stop the ache. Not the one in his chest. Not the one from seeing that girl again. The little girl with wide, broken eyes. “You smell like home,” she had said, before he struck her down. Tears welled in his eyes again, but he blinked them away. He squeezed his eyes shut. And just like that — the world turned sideways.

***

The Hunter's Dream

A soft wind brushed against his face. Cool, earthy. Distant chimes rang through the air. Jaune opened his eyes to the familiar misty grayness of the Hunter's Dream — the crooked, comforting silhouette of the workshop nestled amongst tombstones and flowers. He was here again. His breath hitched. His chest already tight. And then — he saw her. Standing near the tombstones, framed by the pale moonlight. The Doll. She turned the moment he stepped into the field. Her porcelain face softened, blue eyes glowing like moonlit lakes. “Welcome back, little hunter,” she whispered gently. Jaune couldn’t speak. The words, the pain — it all jammed in his throat. His lip trembled. Then he ran. Ran straight to her, across the stone path and flowers, tears falling before he even reached her. She knelt down just in time as he stumbled into her, burying his face into her lap. His small arms wrapped around her as his body began to shake violently, sobs tearing from his throat. “I… I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he cried, voice muffled in her dress. “She was just a little girl… She said I smelled like home… I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t want to—!” The Doll stroked his hair with a soft, rhythmic touch, like a lullaby made of fingertips. “You were frightened. Lost in a dream not of your choosing,” she whispered, voice like silk and ash. Jaune shook his head. “I heard my dad say… he said he… he doesn’t want me…” He choked on the words as another wave of sobs overtook him. The Doll’s hand paused for a moment on his head, her voice gaining just a hint of something deeper — sorrow, or anger held in grace. “Words spoken in fear and pride are not truths, little one,” she said softly. “They are wounds that do not belong to you.” Jaune clutched her tighter. “You are not weak for feeling. You are not broken for crying.” For a while, there was only silence — broken only by the sound of a child crying into the lap of something not entirely human, but more comforting than anyone he'd ever known. Moonlight poured gently over the two of them, illuminating the pain, the grief, and the fragile beginning of healing. This dream is made of echoes, grief, and ash… but even in such a place, healing can bloom. Not all nightmares are meant to harm, little hunter. Some… are meant to hold us, until we can stand again

***

To be continue For THE HUNT.