Jaune Arc was not having a good day.

He made fourteen today, on January twenty-three. And, since it was his birthday, he thought it the best moment to ask his father the question he had asked since he could walk, again.

"Can I be a Huntsman?" He repeated now, with a sad, tired voice.

He'd gotten all the gifts. He'd smiled, and laughed, and thanked his family for existing, just like always. But when his father brought him a guitar, he accepted it, albeit quietly, and then asked the man if they could talk.

Coal Arc was a warm man, to his family at least. Broud-shouldered, standing a foot above Jaune with eyes and hair as black as his name. The man was everything Jaune ever aspired to be. So he took a quiet spot on the porch, his dad followed. And there he asked.

And he got the same story as always. A dangerous profession, which needed a lot of qualities. A long winded speech, with every single argument Jaune had heard all the times he had asked before, all coming down to a simple, unsaid thing. You're not good enough.

The party was over, his gifts littered the room, and the only thing that brought light inside was the shattered moon up above.

So he stood, and looked at the ceiling with empty eyes. What was a mountain of gifts compared to his dream? He cherished them, but he'd give them all away just for a chance.

Frustration bubbled. How did his father know he wasn't good enough, when he hadn't even been given a chance! A chance, just one...

A pit had opened in his stomach, and he couldn't feel anything but doubt about himself. He was always supported, always helped, whenever he wanted to try anything else, but why did he not receive the same warmth towards the one thing he actually wanted?

Was it a childish dream? Were they all right, when they told him he couldn't?

He scrunched his eyes, not letting tears fall.

Was he a child, throwing a tantrum? Was he not supposed to try so hard at becoming something that everyone around him didn't want him to become?

He got up from bed, stumbling as if half-drunk, and with a slow stride, he arrived at the open window, sticking his head out.

He saw the village, the town of Foxhunt. Small, on the frontier, surrounded by walls, and filled to the brim with life.

And suddenly, an epiphany struck him.

How did Foxhunt stand?

A frontier town, small, and yet it was full of cheer, of happy faces and children playing well after dark. It was quiet, but it was happy. How did it exist? Because of the huntsmen that guarded it. Because of their work, because of their drive and dedication the village stood proudly. Because they existed, Foxhunt existed.

He wanted to be one. To have so many people live, long and happy lives, his family to always stand there with gifts in hands and a proud smile on their faces. He wanted them to be happy.

Fuck it.

He turned around, and wiped his teary eyes. He walked, with steady feet and a fast stride, stopping only in front of his large mirror, next to his bed.

He looked in it, in the dim light of the moon, seeing his expression morph. His jaw set, his eyes hardened, as if forgetting the tears that still lingered on his cheeks. His whole face looked at that very moment, the very definition of determination. Rage was all that bubbled in him, aimed at himself. His father was right, he wasn't good enough. If he had been, then he wouldn't be standing here, mopping.

So in front of his reflection, he resolved to get better. He burnt the image into his head, tears and all, so he would never forget in front of anything life threw at him.

Fuck it all, he muttered, staring at his lips. He wouldn't stop. He wouldn't let a simple refusal ruin his dreams. He was going to become a huntsman, whatever it took.

That he swore.

It was six in the morning. He had went to sleep at ten in the evening. Exactly eight hours of sleep. Still, yesterday he would have balked at having to wake up at six, much less to do it out of his own will. It seemed impossible.

And yet, when Jaune rose from bed at exactly six, remembering last night in full-detail, seeing his own face burned into memory, he got up as if it was after-noon.

He got dressed, quickly at that, moving with swiftness uncharacteristic to him. Motivation, Jaune found, was exhilarating. He's also learned that motivation needed fuel. He would have never gotten up, never gotten the motivation, if the pit in his stomach hadn't opened last night. It was something that needed fuel.

And Jaune thought that he had the best fuel possible. Rage. Rage at himself, for everything he was not. And it was time to change that.

A simple shirt, with a pair of sweatpants, and some running shoes, and in under five minutes Jaune Arc got out his room and went downstairs, where he started cooking breakfast.

His kitchen was pretty large, and had a lot of everything in it. A house with ten people honestly needed it, and nobody wanted to go shopping for groceries for ten people every day, so the house was pretty much stacked.

A pair of eggs went into the pan, so did a few pieces of beef. Next, rice was starting to be cooked, along with a few other vegetables. A balanced meal was ideal from what Jaune read online on the diet of a future huntsman. You needed a lot of everything, and it should be quality stuff.

Finishing up, he washed his hands and got to eating.

"Alright...what?" A voice beyond shocked made itself clear in the room, and Jaune acknowledged it by giving a brief grunt, too focused on eating food that tasted like garbage.

Azure Arc, mother of Jaune stood in the doorframe, staring at Jaune as if he had grown another head, eyes much like her namesake peering out from a curtain of uncombed blonde hair.

"Honey...do you know what time it is?" Finshing his food, forcing himself to swallow the horrible substance, he turned his head to his mother.

"Yup." A clear, simple confirmation, as if the question shouldn't even have a purpose.

Getting up from his seat at the table, he cracked his neck, hearing it pop, before checking his scroll. Six-twenty seven, just in time. Looking back at his mother he didn't even notice the stunned expression on her face, the smile her stretched a little too wide to be normal, and the way she held the door frame as if searching for support.

"Hey mom, I know it's early and all, but can you take care of the dishes for me? I promise I'll take care of them tonight, thanks!" The avalanche of words, and the fast-paced movement of Jaune from table to doorframe was too much for poor Azure, as she cringed, her smile stretching even further as if asking 'who are you and where's my son' in a most desperate manner.

Jaune didn't notice a thing, and breezed out the door, leaving her asking questions to the air and gesturing like an infant, trying to comprehend what happened.

The Arc family was a rather famous one, or used to be back in the war, where Julius Arc ripped with his ancestral blade through thousands. The Yellow Death, that was his nickname, and also the name of the blade he used, albeit in an older, Valean dialect. Crocea Mors.

It was inspiring, just picking up the blade he could feel the way it had been swung, feel the grip of his ancestor in the deformed leather on the handle, and yet the blade lacked even a nick, or a scratch. Indestructible, it was said to be.

However, today, Jaune didn't find it in him to care. He wasn't here to let his mind wander to the legends of old, he was here to make his own.

The old training room, more a dojo really, was a large warehouse now. It used to be where Julius had trained before the war, or at least that's what his grandfather always said. The whole thing was now littered with junk, blades and armor kept in questionable storage. There were no safety precautions in the Arc family, it seemed.

Making his way to the center, where a large square of the room was uninhabited by junk, he found an upright training dummy. A metal post, to sustain it, and tough wood made up the thing, which looked like a mockery of a human. There were marks everywhere in the wood, small cuts, but nothing definite.

Picking up crocea Mors, he figured that...this was the place. Pulling out his scroll on the most recent workout he had found online, he added training on the dummy in between exercises. Now, with a complete set of things to do, Jaune did just what he promised to himself.

He started to get better.

Exhaustion set in quickly, exercise after exercise. His arms felt like noodles, his legs felt like noodles, his back ached and his shoulders burned. His lungs felt like they were on fire.

But Jaune? Jaune felt like he was on the top of the world, and when he couldn't raise his arms, all he needed was a bit of anger, a bit of a reminder of the previous night, a bit of everything he had felt.

And suddenly, he could raise his arms.

Anger...anger was rocket fuel for motivation indeed.

The cold water of the shower hit him like a brick. He never liked having cold showers, always warm ones. They were comforting, pleasant, everything he wanted. But when he felt the icy water hit his back and head, all he could think was that he could get used to this, despite the way his teeth were chattering.

It was like a wake-up call, like a fight. Like he was grooming his resolve under the chill, fighting it as he did fate.

It was refreshing. And now Jaune found he liked cold showers.

Stepping out, he dried off next to the heater, wiping himself with his towel, getting dressed again, this time in a different shirt and sweat pants, with the same running shoes.

This was only the beginning, and it was supposed to feel the hardest, to put him down in the dirt.

So why, despite the fever that crossed his whole body, did Jaune Arc smile like a madman, one would never know. Except him.

Looking into the mirror, the same stony gaze that he had last night could be found, but instead of the frown and the gritted teeth, he found a smile.

Maybe...just maybe...he was made for this.

Shaking his head, he washed his hands a second time, scrubbing at his palms which were now filled with callouses. His skin would toughen. He would make it.

It still hurt like a bitch, and he would admit to wincing and cringing while washing them, but now didn't matter. Why?

Well, he'd eaten lunch, alone, again, since most of the family had barely eaten breakfast when he had started his lunch. His dad had left for a mission, not even bothering to give him a goodbye. Jaune didn't blame him, since his mom had probably given him a rundown, and the man decided he was better off left alone for the moment.

He was fine with that.

And so, with his lunch eaten, his shower taken, and a few hours spent on his scroll, searching ways to better himself, the sun had already set. The exact hour, eight and ten minutes in the evening.

Resolve shone in the mirror, the source of it being the eyes of the man that stood in front of it.

And so he headed to the warehouse.

He landed on his bed like a soldier after a campaign, wincing even when his body felt the soft cover of the bed.

He was exhausted, everything hurt, especially his palms.

Despite that, Jaune grinned from ear to ear, like a man robbed of sanity.

He would wake up tommorow, with the same grin on his face, that he knew. Because this pain, this hell he was putting himself in only served towards one thing, the one thing he wanted more than anything.

He was getting better, and his spirit said only one thing. Pain is momentary. Victory is forever.