“Hey, old man,” I mumble, trying to act with familiarity, “are we sure everything we need will be there? We won’t get another shot.”

“Still nervous, huh? Can’t say I blame ya, but you did the math. Even if they managed to open that lot, where would they take it? No one wants that kind of heat.”

And just like that, I’m still in the dark about what we’re sticking our necks out for.

A quick glance on the files suggested the Schnee family had initially put three vaults on the market, each of them holding either personal artifacts or some one-of-a-kind wonder forged by their progress-and-military division.

But only after the contents of one of them briefly leaked did the Malachite family get interested, even taking out a loan from some underground financier to secure the bidding.

Apparently, whoever I replaced caught a glimpse of the items too and sought out these “helpful” gentlemen to liberate them, promising to take only what he needed before disappearing, leaving the rest to them. What’s more bizarre is how they don’t seem fazed by my attitude—or my appearance. My reflection in the car window shows the same face I had before reincarnating, which suggests they conveniently “forgot” what the old me looked like. Useful, sure, but troubling too. Who am I supposed to be? Is there a family out there looking for me—for him?

Would I even care if they were? Probably not. But it’d be wise to avoid any unwanted reunions.

“We move in five. Put this on.” The rough voice snaps me back to reality, and a strange mask is shoved into my hands.

I turn it over, suddenly interested. “A Grimm mask?”

“Everyone’s on edge about those damned creatures roaming wild these days. We’re not sticking around long enough for anyone to get suspicious, but a little insurance never hurts.”

A smirk tugs at my lips. “Better safe than sorry, huh?”

❖

The Malachite manor looms in the distance, both beautiful and unnerving. From what I remember, their family has clung to relevance since Vale’s early days, their power rising and waning through backdoor deals and an impressive criminal portfolio imported directly from Mistral. Despite the layers of dirt on their reputation, the mansion stands unscathed—pristine, even. I’d expected an estate with this kind of history to look as battered as its occupants’ lives, but the place is a fortress.

We approach quietly, slipping to the basement’s outdoor entrance, where one of the gorillas’ forces open the rusted lock. The door creaks, and we move in, one by one. The interior yawns open, shadows dancing over the cold, humid stone walls of the underground. Most of the family’s security detail is notably absent; it seems the Malachites are all attending some grand celebration in the city, commemorating the anniversary of Vale’s founding as one of the families involved on the great war, even if just as weapon dealers. It’s almost ironic how they didn’t even consider the idea of being robbed themselves. It made sense, the shipment had arrived barely three hours ago, with only a few dozen people in the entire continent knowing of its existence, and yet here we are.

My steps echo in the dim light as we navigate the labyrinthine hallways back to the surface. The two gangsters lead the way, the taller one holding up a flashlight, which is killed the moment we catch the faintest sight of movement. I fall in line behind them, adjusting my own mask, feeling its rough edges pressing into my skin. The sensation brings a strange thrill, this is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

It doesn’t take long for us to encounter our first guard.

Most of the staff here have been with the Malachites for over a decade; in all that time, no one has dared break into their household. Who would? Robbing them is like stealing from both nobles and criminals—you’d have the entire city on your back for life. Overconfident and underprepared, the guard stands there until one of my partners drops a well-aimed club to his head, then falls asleep. Better to knock them out than leave bodies, I suppose.

We repeat that process a couple more times. Then, With the base floor clear, we approach the grand, twin staircases leading to the upper level. In theory, our objective lies within minutes: there’s only one place a prized lockbox would be kept—the head of the family’s study. The door to it is ornate, almost fragile in its elegance. Ignoring the lock, one of my companions tears the handle straight off. The door creaks open—and suddenly, a gunshot rings out.

“Intruder detected—identify yourself.”

The taller man collapses, blood pooling around him. I dive to the side as a rusting automaton aims its rifle and fires again into the corridor, its joints creaking with every heavy step. We scatter like rats, instincts kicking in.

A discarded Atlesian Knight.

So that’s the kind of stuff Jacques Schnee’s been putting on the market…

As the Knight steps over our fallen partner, it fires a third time, barely missing my shoulder as I throw myself into a random room. The second I think I’m safe, a pair of shocked green eyes meet mine, sharp and hostile.

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Looks like not all the Malachites are fans of fancy social events.

Melanie Malachite—the “Little Spider”—pirouettes through the air, delivering a vicious kick that pierces through my aura, sending me stumbling back into the hallway. If she’d had her weapons, that blow might’ve severed my arm. Grunting from the impact, I barely regain my footing before she’s on me again. I manage a hard kick to her stomach just as the Knight’s fourth shot nearly takes off her head.

“What the hell?!” she screams, her bravado fading into panic.

I guess Mommy and Daddy didn’t tell their precious girls about the homicidal tin can.

“Move, bitch, move!” I shout, jumping over the railing to the ground floor below.

“Agh! You filthy—”

The Knight keeps firing, rounds tearing through the air as we scramble to get clear. I plan to circle back and flank it, maybe try for a disarm, but Melanie’s faster than me, determined not to let me roam her house freely. She lunges again, and this time, I grab her leg mid-kick, slamming her into the wall with a surge of strength I didn’t knew I had.

An unlocked aura really does make all the difference.

With that in mind, I launch myself through the nearest window. Glass shatters around me as I dive, hitting the ground outside in a shower of jagged shards. A startled security guard shouts from the far end of the garden, but I ignore him, already making my way back towards the building. I can feel my body’s newfound strength, and I want to push it further. I sprint at the wall, coiling my muscles—and leap. One second later, I’m flying through the air, crashing back through the second-floor window in another mess of broken glass.

But I’m not alone.

A second knight, rusted and even more battered than the first, stands menacingly before me, having just exited the studio. Both automatons fix their eyes on me, gears creaking as they move. The new arrival sheds a few metal shards, discarding some of its armor as it takes off into a violent sprint. Unlike its rifle-wielding counterpart, this one comes straight at me with twin, jagged blades protruding from each wrist, glinting dangerously in the dim light.

Of course they’d have one of each!

The blades slash through the air, forcing me to duck and weave in a tight dance to avoid a gruesome death. I make sure to maneuver the bladed robot between me and the shooter, knowing I can’t handle both at once. Fortunately, the automatons seem as oblivious to each other as they are to me. The rifleman takes a shot anyway, the shell blasting straight into the back of his ally’s skull. The hit rattles the bladed knight, but it doesn’t fall. I don’t waste the opportunity. Gathering all my strength, I drive myself against it, shoving the metal giant over the rail. It crashes to the base floor with a heavy, dented clang. That should buy me a few seconds.

Another shot whizzes past my head, snapping me back to the fight. I duck, a sudden clarity seizing me—the intense, electric awareness that fills my body, sharpens my senses. I can feel every shift in the air, every muscle twitch in my limbs, as raw power courses through me like fire.

Aura: [-50% ]

With half my magical energy spent, I know I need to finish this fast. I jump forward, narrowly dodging two more shots. Each miss carves into the walls behind me, filling the air with clouds of dust and splintered wood. Closing the distance, I channel the remaining energy into my fist, willing my aura to explode outward. My strike is more than a punch; it’s a force, raw energy that collides with the Knight’s head before my knuckles even make contact, ripping the metal skull clean off and sending it clattering down the hall.

Aura: [-30% ]

Worth as fuck.

The hallway falls silent, save for my own ragged breathing. With the path now clear, I take a deep breath, straightening, and move towards the studio where my prize awaits. Just as I’m about to enter, a scream echoes below. My head snaps back. The automaton I threw over the rail has cornered Melanie Malachite. Her naked feet pummel uselessly against its metal shell, each impact doing little more than echo hollowly through the halls. Panic flashes in her green eyes as the machine advances, relentless and unfeeling.

I hesitate, a single second stretching wide.

[Additional Objective] Save the spider.

That's all the convincing I need.

Drawing from the last reserves of my aura, I launch myself down like a missile, slamming my foot into the automaton and knocking one of its arms clean off. Melanie reacts immediately, sweeping her leg to take out its balance. The machine spins into the air, and I follow through, driving a knee straight into what’s left of its head, crushing it like paper.

As the fight ends, we both step back, breathing heavily, studying each other in the dim light. Melanie is clutching her side, a fresh cut bleeding through her fingers. It’s shallow, but I can tell by the way she winces that it stings like hell.

“And now what?” she growls through clenched teeth. “Am I supposed to thank you or something?”

I grin. “Better get that wound cleaned up—those trashcans were full of rust.”

Knowing she is in no shape fight, I turn, finally making my way toward my prize. The small lockbox sits just ahead, perched on an ornate desk inside the studio. I can almost taste victory. Time’s running out, but I can still make it. I step into the room, fingers itching to grab it—

The telltale click of a gun cocking freezes me mid-step.

“Daaaaamn, boyo,” a familiar, mocking voice whistles from the corner. “Ya really pulled a fast one on us. Here I was, thinkin’ you were just some pipsqueak!”

I glance sideways. The man with the mustache stands there, pistol aimed steady. “Any chance we both make it out of here rich and alive?”

His answer is a gunshot. Pain detonates in my side, stealing my breath and sending me to my knees. My aura cushions the impact, but only barely, and then it breaks.

HP: [-80% ]

I choke on a laugh, realizing that my second chance at life might be over as quickly as it began.

“Bad choices, boyo.”

He presses the hot barrel against the back of my head. I close my eyes, taking one last deep breath, letting the taste of freedom linger—until I hear a sudden, strangled grunt. My would-be executioner collapses to the floor.

In the doorway stands Melanie, now fully geared up, her blade-edged heel dripping with blood she flicks away without a second thought. For a moment, I just stare, hand inching toward the gun hidden at my back. I grip it, letting her see it is there.

“Are we even now?” I ask, my tone light, hoping to defuse the situation.

She huffs, lifting her chin defiantly. “Guess Mother will be pleased I took down two intruders tonight.” She flashes a crooked, dangerous smile. “Let’s see how long it takes her to find you.”

With that, she turns and saunters back to her room, as if this were nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

Now that’s my kind of girl.

Ignoring the throbbing pain, I grab the lockbox and start for the exit. With my aura drained, my escape becomes the most ridiculous part of the night. I fumble my way out, carefully aiming for the bushes below, half-limping, half-rolling to avoid snapping a leg on the way down. But finally, I make it, disappearing into the shadows of the darkened streets, the small metal box clutched tight against my ribs.

Victory tastes a little like blood, but I’ll take it.

❖

Back "home," it takes me a while to crack the lock. My fingers tremble under the weight of exhaustion, adrenaline lingering in my pulse. Finally, though, the latch gives way, and I’m holding my prize.

Inside, there are only two items. The first catches my eye instantly: an eight-shot handgun forged from silver and pale-blue metal, heavy and strikingly beautiful—a weapon designed to make an impact. The second item is one of this world's digital scrolls, a device that functions like a magical phone. As the screen flickers on, a document pops up, and I skim it, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing.

It’s... a letter from Professor Ozpin. An invitation to Beacon Academy, signed by the headmaster himself.

The pieces click, and realization floods over me.

“There’s no way Jaune would’ve fought his way into Beacon like this… So, I’m guessing things are a little tougher in this universe, huh?”

Grinning, I savor the moment as I sign my name at the letter's end, grounding myself to this reality.

Vesper Bolt.