Whitley Nicholas Schnee, the youngest child of Jacques Gélé and Willow Schnee, was far from an idiot. He liked to think of himself as smart and perceptive, a cut above the rest. At just fourteen, he had already mastered the art of refinement, excelling in his studies and meeting every expectation placed on him.
He spared no effort in making sure that he was everything an Atlassian child should be, and he believed it was clear to anyone who saw him: he was the epitome of a Schnee.
A shame that certain individuals with whom he shared blood didn't see fit to be the same as for all his father's hard work, Whitley knew that his family was nothing like what the world thought it was.
It was when he was only seven years old that it all became clear. What everyone saw as the perfect, loving Schnee family wasn't nearly as flawless behind closed and bolted doors.
To the people of the world (or rather, to Atlas, since the other kingdoms were barely more than dressed-up tribes of barbarians, and the less said about actual barbarians, the better), Willow Schnee was regarded as a woman of strength, kindness, and grace.
She was celebrated as the perfect matriarch: strong enough to be the pride of the late Nicholas Schnee, gentle enough to be the devoted wife of Jacques Schnee, and adored as the selfless mother who shunned attention only so she could focus on her children.
But to Whitley, His mother (if one could even call her that) was little more than a useless drunk, tucked away in the far wing of the mansion where she wouldn't be in anyone's way, and no one would bother her. She was just someone who couldn't handle the pressures of the life she'd been given. A life most people would've killed for.
It wasn't just Willow. His sisters weren't any better. Once upon a time, he had admired them, idolized them, even, but that was the sort of foolishness of but a young boy. Time, as always, taught the truth. And in the case of the Schnee women, it taught him that they were all the same: disappointing.
Take Winter, for instance. Everyone liked to speak of her as disciplined, dutiful, and determined. But Whitley knew better. She was a coward. She fled the moment she could, hiding behind medals and salutes, pretending the military offered something noble. She called it freedom.
Freedom. In the military.
The irony might've been amusing if it weren't so pitiful.
What freedom could there possibly be in barking out orders from men like Ironwood? What liberation was there in kneeling to a glorified tin soldier whose only real ambition was to turn Atlas into a colder and lesser version of Father's empire? If Winter truly believed that enlisting was an escape, then perhaps she was never as clever as people claimed.
It wasn't freedom. It was delusion, dressed up in uniform.
And then there was Weiss. The former heir, or rather, the ungrateful little performer who seemed to think life was a stage and she its misunderstood star. She threw fits when Father denied her, clung to childish dreams of heroism, and marched off with a sword she could barely lift, thinking the world would love her for it. That being a Huntress would make her important.
But Whitley saw it clearly.
She wasn't chasing respect. She was chasing an end—slow, romantic, and tragic. The kind sung about by people who never mattered. She didn't know it yet, but she would vanish one day. Lost, forgotten, buried under snow in some wilderness far from home.
Meanwhile, he would still be here.
Where he belonged.
He often wondered what sort of madness could convince someone that freezing in the dirt, covered in Grimm blood, was somehow preferable to standing at the top of the world.
After much thought, it hit him.
Weiss was simply an imbecile.
They all were.
None of them understood what had been handed to them—born at the summit of the world, surrounded by wealth, status, and legacy. They were given everything. And still, one by one, they threw it all away.
All except Father.
Father had never left.
No matter how packed his schedule, how heavy the burdens of the Schnee Dust Company, Father remained. He was there. He stayed.
It was Father who taught Whitley how the world worked. How to speak with precision. How to carry himself with authority. How to navigate rooms filled with men twice his age and walk away with their respect, and if not that, then with their obedience. Every lesson that mattered came from him.
Even his anger, in those sharp words, those moments of thunder over the smallest error, never once meant rejection. Not like the others. Father demanded more, yes, but he never turned his back. He never abandoned Whitley.
He was the one who remained.
The only one who mattered.
Father was the only family Whitley had.
And the only one he ever needed.
His father truly cared for him. That much had always been obvious.
Which was why, when Father barged into his study, casually praised his work ethic, and then said—
"You always had my love. From the day you were born."
—Whitley froze.
It caught him off guard. Not because it was shocking, but because it was… strange. Redundant. The words were something so obvious, so expected, that he had to pause and wonder why his father was saying this now. Why did it feel like it was supposed to be some revelation? Some profound statement?
Of course, Father loved him. Of course he did. Why say it now, and why with that tone? Was this about the argument with that drunken fool? Had something shifted inside Father's bandaged head? Was this supposed to be some kind of revelation?
I-It's not like I didn't already know that, he told himself quickly, a twitch in his throat. His chest had gone tight for some reason, and his breath came a little faster, but that was just—
Dust. Obviously.
The maids must've missed a spot.
His hand moved to adjust his collar adn blinked away the blurriness in his eyes.
He was absolutely not about to shed tears!
Unacceptable, he thought. I'll have to speak to them about it.
Taking a deep breath, Whitley straightened himself up and looked his father in the eye. "Of course, Father. I always knew that," he said, forcing a smile that, for some reason, felt easier to give than before.
His father stood there for a moment longer, staring at him, and Whitley began to wonder if his words had landed as expected. His father finally pulled his hand away from Whitley's shoulder and patted his cheek. He gave a soft chuckle. "I guess you did, huh?" He spoke with a casual tone like the conversation had been nothing more than a passing comment.
"Be that as it may," Jacques continued, coughing into his fist "I'm satisfied with your progress, Whitley. Your work ethic is exactly what this family needs. You're showing promise, and I'm glad to see you're taking things seriously. However..."
He paused for a moment, his expression softening just a fraction. "Perhaps it's time we take a step back from all this business for a moment. You've been working tirelessly, and I think it's important we spend some time together. Some father-son bonding, if you will."
Whitley was taken aback, not knowing how to respond. His father was actually willing to spend time with him. It has been quite a while.
A huge smile finally spread across Whitley's face as he stood up straighter, eager to please.
"Of course, Father! A father-son bonding time sounds excellent!" he said, his voice adopting a chipper tone, as though he were presenting an idea of his own. "Perhaps we could review some of the recent company reports, dive into the intricacies of regional trade tariffs, or even discuss the latest fiscal policy updates. You know, a little light conversation on the shifting dynamics of the global economy—"
"I was thinking something more like this," Jacques cut him off, lifting a decent-sized inflated ball of leather.
"A ball?" Whitley asked, blinking in confusion.
"Football," his father clarified with a grin that didn't quite match the sentiment of father-son bonding. He let the ball bounce once, then brought it to a stop under his polished shoe. "Proper football."
Whitley stared at the ball like it might explode. "You want to... play football?"
Whitley stared at the ball in his father's hands, unsure of what to make of it. "You want to... play foot ball?"
"Don't overthink it, Whitley. It's simple. It'll be good for you." His smile held an odd, mischievous edge, one that suggested he was probably far more excited than Whitley had anticipated.
Ah, well. He was still spending time with his father, and that alone made it worth it. It would've been foolish to waste the chance. There was clearly a lesson buried in all of this.
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Hours later, as Whitley dragged himself back to his bed, exhausted and bruised, the reality of the situation hit him like a ton of bricks. His father's head injury, whatever had happened to him when he visited that drunk, was perhaps a bit more serious than he'd anticipated.
A half day wasted playing this 'football' game his father had proven to be surprisingly passionate about.
A half day was spent chasing after a ball of leather that crashed into every vase and exotic porcelain piece in sight, trying to put it into a 'goal' that was nothing more than both of their shoes on opposite ends of the hallway.
The physical exertion had been more than Whitley had bargained for. He had moved more in the last few hours than he had in his entire life. He was left sweating and puffing, his muscles aching in places they'd never been used before. From afternoon to evening, he'd played a game he didn't understand, doing his best to keep up, all the while trying to maintain his composure as the servants looked and pointed at them like a circus attraction.
His cheeks heated at the memory.
And then, after the most embarrassing defeat of 38-5, his father had finally declared the match over, grinning like a man who had just found a mine of endlessly regenerating jade Gravity dust in his backyard.
It was, by all accounts, humiliating. But then again, Whitley wasn't about to let it show. He was a Schnee.
The bath afterward had been a welcome relief, and the rare dinner occasion with his father had been lovely. Despite the bruises, the exhaustion, and the humiliation, there had been something that made it all seem worth it. His father had been far more relaxed than he had been in months, and Whitley couldn't help but notice that he seemed to genuinely enjoy the time they'd spent together.
It was a strange, frustrating afternoon, but for the first time in a long time, Whitley couldn't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this ridiculous bonding exercise wasn't such a waste after all.
He even laughed. At himself, no less, for tripping over his own feet! Whitley could still hear the sound of his father's unexpected laugh as Jacques had fallen flat on his back after trying to do a backflip of sorts, and the ball rolling harmlessly away.
It had caught Whitley off guard.
All in all, it had been a strange, frustrating afternoon, but for the first time in a long time, Whitley couldn't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this ridiculous bonding exercise wasn't such a waste after all.
In hindsight, it was to be expected. His father always had a way of turning the most unexpected affairs into something memorable and valuable. After all, his father was just the greatest man in the world who ruled over the greatest economic empire in history!
Whitley had been too quick to dismiss it. And despite his bruises, he would not be opposed to repeating it... Though, if possible...
"That's a Propah Fawking Brexit tackle, boy! None of that Tiki-Taka woke shite," his father said with a grin, showing far too much enthusiasm for someone standing over his son's downed form after he had just two-footed him.
Whitley shuddered.
No, Whitley decided, he'd rather not experience another of those.
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Jacques had dismissed the evening staff early. After the kind of day he'd had, he didn't need prying eyes, let alone whispers about his so-called "father-son football match" from those nosy enough to notice.
Playing football with Whitley felt odd but...oddly satisfying. He nodded to himself. Can't ever go wrong with footie.
Yet, the portraits along the corridor had seemed to frown down on him all the same, like he'd sullied some family dignity. He sneered back at their painted faces, meeting their silent disapproval with a sneer, and flipped them off for good measure. Sadly, that had cost him as the lttle shit used that chance to score a goal.
But that was neither here nor there.
He made his way through the Grand Garden, and he turned to the side and caught a glimpse of the ogre's abode in the distance.
Even from far away, Willow's side of the mansion was a bit too dark and silent for his liking. Icy and inhospitable as it was when he went in there this morning. Jacques's head throbbed in pain, and he felt the juvenile, but well justified, urge to grab a rock and hurl it at her window just to get a reaction before he stopped himself.
Knowing her, she'd break another bottle over his head.
He grumbled quietly to himself, then let the thought pass, drawing in a calming breath. Once his head healed, he'd definitely do it! With that comforting cope, he moved on with his strut.
The halls grew a bit dim as he moved toward the east wing, where the scent of age, dust and metal was strong. It was late, nearly midnight, if he had to guess, and the dim sconces cast just enough light to guide him.
He felt his ''Jacques senses'' tingle in annoyance the more he walked. This wing was a heavy one, full of memories that the OG Jacques typically avoided. The smell of old dust powder was faint but present, like an echo from years past.
This was Nicholas Schnee's domain.
Jacques didn't exactly know how his body's original owner had felt about the old man. Nicholas seemed to be as insufferable as he was respectable. There was something about that old geezer that even Jack's predecessor couldn't entirely hate.
The begrudging respect he'd held for the Ol' daddy-in-law was the one sentiment that was hard to erase entirely. Not that Jacques hadn't tried, of course. He'd scrubbed and polished away all the sentiment he could, but a sliver of that respect clung like grime in a forgotten corner.
That same respect, however begrudging, was probably why he'd left this wing as it was. He could have renovated it, torn down every dusty inch, and turned it into another pristine, shining display of his sterile empire. But he hadn't touched it.
This wing was a relic in itself that was left to rot in honor of an old man's memory, even if Jacques didn't feel any actual reverence.
The walls displayed rows of Nicholas's rifles and ceremonial swords, each item meticulously kept, a pristine relic of a Schnee gone by. Traces of the previous Jacques made his fingers twitch to get them appraised, sold, or tossed into storage, anything to rid the place of their looming presence, but he also balked at the idea of doing so.
"What a damn pain in the ass," Jack growled, his eyebrow twitching at the conflicting signals his body was sending him. With a harrumph, he pushed those thoughts aside.
He looked at them again, and he thought they were kind of cool, but nothing else. He could admit there was an odd sort of beauty to the craftsmanship, as antique as they were, but they were...aight.
They were decent decor, he supposed.
What he was after lay further inside, tucked at the edges of this forgotten wing, in a massive far more suited to what Jack had in mind.
It wasn't long before he stood some distance away from the inhabited part of the mansion in front of a massive two-door Gate.
The big steel doors were nothing like the rest of the mansion's frilly decor. These bad boys looked like something straight out of a factory, all solid and to-the-point.
Jack slapped his hand on the scanner, muttering a little "thank you" to whoever thought it'd be smart to keep things as simple as possible. Sure enough, the doors rumbled open, heavy and slow, like they were as old as Nicholas himself.
He stepped inside and flicked on the lights. They buzzed to life one by one, illuminating the cavernous training arena. The place was huge enough for just about anything you'd want to throw at it.
Rows of old equipment lined the walls from dust-covered training dummies, outdated models of Atlasian Knights, and all kinds of weaponry. Some of it looked like it hadn't seen the light of day in decades, just sitting there gathering different kinds of dust. But the space itself was solid, clean, and most importantly, private.
Perfecto.
It was exactly what Jack needed: No fragile vases, no silk curtains, none of the Schnee rubbish that cluttered up the rest of the mansion... Just him, the silence, and a room full of stuff to take a swing at.
Jacques's grin grew.
Rolling up his sleeves, he cracked his knuckles and set to work.
He dumped his ass on the floor and sat cross-legged at the center of the hall, eyes closed, and he focused.
He needed power. Not just wealth or metaphorical influence—he needed real, overwhelming power.
Unlocking his Aura was an absolute must, especially with whatever promise of an overpowered semblance dangling in front of him.
At first, he considered hiring a professional Huntsman to either guide him through the process or outright unlock it for him, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized how ridiculous that was.
From what he understood, having someone else unlock your Aura was like giving them a sneak peek into what Aura was. They'd push a bit of their own Aura into your body, enough to get your soul to react and remove the blocks holding back your own. Or so he figured.
Could've been wrong, though. The show never exactly explained what Aura really was, other than it being the "Manifestation of the Soul." And honestly, that was enough for him to say, "Fuck that."
No way was he letting anyone mess with his soul, not when it was still freshly bonded to this new, unfamiliar but handsome corpse. He didn't want anyone poking around, asking questions about what he was. The last thing he needed was for someone to think he was some kind of freak.
Then again, he wasn't entirely sure he wasn't one.
But more than anything, both Jacques and Jack hated the idea of relying on anyone for something so critical. Not when there wasn't a single person he trusted enough not to screw him over.
So, self-reliance it was!
Sure, getting someone else to awaken your Aura was the norm. But that didn't make it the only way. Plenty of Huntsmen had done it on their own, somehow. Apparently, with the right focus and pressure, a person could force their soul into action.
Hell, what's his face-Ram? Iran? Iren-Ren! That one awakened both his Aura andhis Semblance as a kid, with no formal training, if his already shitty memory hadn't gotten any shittier since Willow hit him.
Jacques really wasn't about to be outdone by a damn brat, of all people.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax as much as possible, and tried to feel his Soul. It wasn't hard to find. His soul wasn't like the others; it was an abnormality, sticking out like a sore thumb in this body, a glaring contradiction that he couldn't ignore.
He grasped it.
And he pulled.
It didn't want to budge.
In hindsight, Jacques should've taken the damn hint that something was wrong with his approach. This wasn't the gentle, meditative process he had imagined. But then again, he wasn't exactly the type to follow the rules.
That was his first mistake.
"Thug it out" he muttered under his breath, teeth gritted, trying again to pull at it.
That was his second mistake.
For the rest of Remnant, Aura awakening was supposed to be an exhilarating experience. Something people spoke of with a sense of reverence. They'd say it was a soothing, almost spiritual process, a soul blooming in enlightenment, guided by feelings of joy and serenity.
"To relive the moments of greatest elation, and let it guide you as you shed all that weighed you down," they'd say. The accomplished tutors in the combat schools always droned on about it, as if that was the only way.
Jacques didn't know that. Hell, he didn't even care to know it.
Because Jacques wasn't a young, eager student from some well-established academy. No, Jacques had been dead, and Jack sure as hell wasn't from this world to begin with. So, when it came time to awaken his Aura, he did the absolute opposite of what was recommended.
He wasn't trying to find his peace; he was trying to force his way through the pain like the High-Testosterone bloke he was convinced he was.
And that's when he felt it. The resistance. His soul was almost pushing back against his attempts. It was like fighting against a wall, but Jacques never liked backing down from a challenge. No, if anything, that just made him dig in deeper.
"Focus on the pain and the stress," he ordered himself. His soul wasn't giving in easily, but that only made him more determined.
He dug deep, pulling all the rage and stress he kept buried beneath the surface. The anger was there, thick and heavy, a constant companion. His bitch of mother always told him he was a raging moron. But now, it was more than just his own fury. It was the combined rage of two lifetimes. The resentment, the self-loathing, the hatred toward everything, including himself.
His heartbeat quickened. He felt the pressure building, the force of it crushing down on him. He could feel it, every fiber of his being trembling. His skin prickled, his blood ran hot, and something in his chest twisted painfully as the energy surged.
He tasted metal in his mouth.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't peaceful.
But it was working.
A shimmering thin veil of energy hovered beneath his skin, desperate to break free. He could feel it, itching to tear through, to force its way out.
Focus. Push. He gritted his teeth and yanked again.
And god, did it fcuking hurt.
His body screamed as his soul was dragged outward, unwillingly tearing through the layers of his flesh, and then, just like that, the floodgates opened.
Fate favors the lucky moron.
In a bizarre stroke of dumb luck, before he could kill himself, he unlocked something twisted, something wrong. A bastardized version of Aura, tainted by the pain he'd clung to for so long. The regret, the curses, everything that had festered inside him for two lifetimes all merged together. It wasn't just Aura, it was something else entirely.
His negative energy, all that accumulated rage, regret, and hatred, flooded into the space around him, crashing into his Aura and seeping into every inch of his flesh, slamming into the cursed boon left by his benefactor.
His cursed Aura didn't manifest. It exploded into existence.
A dark and uncontrolled energy burst from him. It wasn't the refined, gentle power of a Huntsman. No, this was raw, untamed, and violent, of a different type of hunter. It flared around him, searing the walls and crackling like a storm.
Messy. Ugly. Unpredictable.
But it was his.
The energy pulsed around him, wild and barely contained, swirling like a living thing. Jacques grinned, the pain still lingering in his chest as he breathed in the power that he'd just unlocked.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't the kind of power anyone would have advised him to awaken.
But it was real.
And now he had it.
A grin spread across his face as, in the next instant, his Semblance emerged.
Announced by the howls of two massive wolves, the First Shaman on Remnant had come to life.