A Journey Unwanted-Chapter 405 - 395: The General Hunts IX

[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: The Great Forest]

Grimm stared at the devastation he had wrought.

There was no pride or regret in his posture. Not even the faint satisfaction of a job done cleanly.

The ice structures he had summoned were still embedded into the ground. They rose at uneven angles, their surfaces scattered in shards. Frost crawled along the crater edges where the earth had buckled, and toppled trees lay half-buried beneath debris, their brittle limbs snapped and splayed.

And beneath the pillars were the Deseruit Beasts.

Flattened or split. Pressed into the mud so thoroughly that some of them barely looked like bodies anymore—just dark smears, tufts of fur, cracked plates of bone, and half-severed limbs sticking out from under the ice at wrong angles. A paw here. A jaw there. A tail still twitching in the last stubborn refusal to die.

Grimm’s sword hung in his hand, angled downward, the edge wet with blood.

He hadn’t gotten all of them.

But it was never his intention.

A soft voice drifted from behind him—almost amused, as though she were commenting on something lighter than a massacre.

"Here I thought you didn’t like being flashy."

Grimm tilted his head slightly to look.

Puck had reappeared in the same way she did before: in a blink. One instant she wasn’t there—then the next she hovered beside him as if she’d been present the entire time. No flutter of wings, no sound and no ripple in the air. Just Puck. Small, armored, pink-eyed, and entirely too comfortable in a place that now smelled like blood.

She floated idly beside him, her gaze sweeping over the icy carnage. The cold didn’t seem to bother her at all. If anything, she looked mildly impressed.

Grimm’s voice came muffled through the helmet, sounding dry.

"I don’t waste time on things that bore me." He shifted the blade in his hand, the movement consisting of a small roll of the wrist. "If something is tedious, I end it quickly. That’s not ’flashy.’ That is merely efficient."

Puck’s mouth curled into a grin. "Knew you’d say that." She leaned slightly closer, wagging a small armored finger in his direction like she was scolding a child. "You know you’re getting kinda predictable with these responses."

Grimm’s head angled to the slightest degree.

"My apologies for not entertaining you with my words." The sarcasm was so flat and perfectly delivered, that it almost sounded sincere—until you remembered who was speaking. "I’ll be sure to rehearse a more amusing script next time I’m forced to speak."

Puck blinked, then huffed a laugh through her nose.

"And now you’re being sarcastic," Puck noted immediately, eyes narrowing like she’d caught him doing something rare and exciting. "That’s progress. I didn’t know you were capable of it."

Grimm didn’t even turn fully toward her.

"You’re quite the idiot, huh?" he deduced, as if he’d arrived at a simple conclusion. "It’s impressive, actually. You say things with such confidence."

Puck froze mid-hover.

Her eyes widened, and for a split second she looked genuinely offended.

"Wha—where’d that come from!?" she demanded, pointing at herself like she couldn’t believe she was the target. "I didn’t even say anything that bad!"

Grimm lifted his sword slightly, not threateningly—just idly, as if the conversation mattered more than the blood on the blade.

"I’d recall saying," Grimm replied, "I’d treat you like I did my lieutenant. You seemed eager for that arrangement. I’m simply honoring it."

Puck’s expression shifted instantly. The outrage deflated into resignation.

"Ah." She sighed lightly, rubbing the back of her head with an armored hand. "I’m guessing that was mainly a bad thing, wasn’t it?"

Grimm didn’t deny it.

"It would depend on who you ask," he stated. "Some would call it discipline. Others would call it cruelty. Personally, I call it mutual honesty."

Puck narrowed her eyes at him, hovering closer, her curiosity overriding her annoyance the way it always did.

"How does your lieutenant usually put up with it?" Puck questioned, a tad exasperated but—as ever—more curious than offended. "Because if you talk to her the way you talk to me, I’m amazed she hasn’t thrown you off a cliff or poisoned your food."

Grimm’s answer came without hesitation.

"That fool gets by," Grimm answered, "by being an idiot." He paused, then added with a faint edge of something that almost resembled fondness: "And I imagine she’s finding herself in all kinds of idiotic situations by now. She has a talent for it. Like it’s a calling."

Puck paused.

It wasn’t the insult. It was the tone.

Because for the first time since she’d met him, Grimm’s voice shifted. Just slightly. There was something almost like amusement in it. Puck tilted her head, studying him harder now, as if she were trying to see through the helmet.

"But aren’t you worried she’s in danger?" she asked. "I mean... being like you—related to dragons—isn’t exactly the safest thing in the world. People don’t just forget what Ddraig did. That name still makes most afraid." She looked up at him. "He caused no shortage of chaos after all."

Grimm waved the concern away as if it were smoke.

"She shall be fine," Grimm said. "She’s not my lieutenant for no reason after all." He paused—then, with a blunt tone that made his arrogance sound less like boasting and more like fact, he added: "Her skill nearly matches mine," he continued. "And I do not hand that title to someone incompetent. Of course, I am stronger—naturally. But she is not weak."

Puck stared at him.

"Really?" she questioned, drifting closer despite herself. Her Phase Shift might have put her half-out of the world moments ago, but she had still perceived what occurred in the third dimension. She had watched him carve through Deseruit Beasts like a man cutting wheat.

And the part that stuck with her wasn’t even the violence.

It was the swiftness.

His blade didn’t thrash or struggle. Not once.

She gathered that he would not even need as much strength to so cleanly cleave through his enemies.

Puck’s gaze turned to the sword again, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"Then again," she said slowly, "you did say you were in your military. But is that the only reason you’re so skilled?" Her voice sharpened with curiosity. "Because that didn’t look like standard training. That looked like you’ve lived with a sword longer than you’ve lived without one."

Grimm’s answer came almost immediately.

"No," he said. "I had a teacher."

Puck’s ears perked.

"Oh?" she prompted.

Grimm’s voice remained even, but there was a shift in tone, like he was pulling the memory from somewhere he didn’t often visit.

"For Descendants like me," he explained, "primary training consisted of enhancing our Draconic Resonance." He held the sword a little closer, and his gaze shifted momentarily to the blade. "Of course," he continued, "I was interested in the blade."

Puck hummed in understanding, the sound thoughtful.

"I get that," she said. "If I had an interesting sword I’d wanna train too." Her eyes turned to her own sheathed blade, and her shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "I only have this though." She lifted her armored arms behind her small head, floating with ease even in the icy air. Then her pink eyes narrowed slightly as she looked back at Grimm’s gray blade. "I forgot to ask," she said, tone light but genuinely curious. "Does it have a name?"

Grimm tilted his head.

"Why would it have a name?" he questioned, as though she’d asked if his gauntlet had a favorite color. "It’s a weapon. Not a pet."

Puck tilted her own head right back, matching him.

"Why not?" Puck tilted her own head, unapologetic. "If you’re going to carry it everywhere and trust it with your life, it feels weird not to give it a name. Like you’re pretending it doesn’t matter."

Grimm’s response was blunt, and so Grimm it almost made Puck want to laugh again.

"It’s a tool," he said. "It’s called a sword. That is enough."

Puck frowned deeply, her expression turning into a look of pure disbelief.

"There’s no way you’re that boring," the fairy sighed. "I refuse to believe you’re actually this lifeless. It has to be an act."

"I see no reason to name a blad—" Grimm began.

Then stopped mid-sentence.

The pause was sudden enough that even Puck blinked.

Grimm lifted his gauntleted hand to the chin of his helmet, cupping it in thought. The gesture was slow and oddly normal.

"...I see," he said quietly, as if he’d just connected something. "I was once told... to be effective with weapons one needed to view it as an extension of oneself." Puck’s expression softened. She leaned in slightly, careful not to break the moment.

"Did your teacher tell you that?" she questioned.

Grimm nodded once.

"Though it’s hogwash," Grimm decided quickly, as if he hated that the thought had made him pause at all. "No doubt. Romantic nonsense. People trying to make steel feel more important than it is."

Puck gave him a long, dry stare.

"You’re unbelievable," she muttered. Then she shrugged, her tone gentler than before. "I wouldn’t know if it matters," she admitted. "But it couldn’t hurt. And giving it a name makes it more interesting." She pointed at the sword with a small, insistent flick of her finger. "Which, by the way, seems to be the only thing you care enough about that you actually talk about."

Grimm was silent for a moment.

Then, with that same blunt tone he answered:

"I suppose I shall give it thought."

Puck’s mouth opened as if to respond—maybe to celebrate the small victory, maybe to tease him for being dragged into normal behavior—

But Grimm’s posture changed. His head turned toward the distant cliff.

Of course his vision was sharp enough that he could make out a large form in the distance, even through the dead trees and drifting ice. Something large and patient that hadn’t thrown itself into the slaughter.

Something that had waited.

Grimm’s sword lowered slightly, his voice flattening.

"It seems," he stated, "the lord is going to grace us with its presence."