A Journey Unwanted-Chapter 416 - 405: Duller than before

[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Munchkin Country]

The yellow brick road was an easy enough path to follow. It didn’t twist, vanish, or collapse beneath their feet. It didn’t demand a toll, there were no springing traps, and it did not even force them to wade through mud or scale cliffs. The bricks were set neatly, unnaturally neat—each one the same size, the same shape, and the same shade of yellow, like the world had decided to be merciful for once.

There were hardly any obstacles in the way, which made the journey extremely easy. So easy it almost felt suspicious. It merely felt like a lull.

But an easy journey also meant quite a boring one. It meant no sudden interruptions, no threats to combat, no surprises to ease the boredom, no sharp turns that demanded attention, no reason to speak or to even react. Just a long stretch of road that asked for nothing and gave nothing back.

Puck sighed as she drifted upside down, her gaze locked forward, locked onto that city of emerald that seemed so far away. Even from here, it gleamed, a distant city of sharp towers and glassy walls. Even now, the distance did not seem to shrink. If anything, it felt like the city was mocking them—close enough to see, far enough to be out of reach.

Honestly, it seemed as though they had made no progress despite their time on the brick road. The bricks passed beneath Grimm’s sabatons in a rhythm, and still, the emerald city sat there in the same place, shining in the same dull daylight. It was like walking toward a mirage that refused to dissolve.

It was a safe journey, but the fairy could not help but wish something interesting would happen. And the worst part was that she hated herself for it. Because "interesting," for something like her, usually meant "dangerous." Her gaze drifted to the expansive plains around them, then to the Cowardly Lion still following them.

The plains were wide and open, scattered with rock formations and clusters of trees that offered no real shade. The sky above remained dull, a stretched blanket of gray. And the lion, the lion was still there, always at a distance.

No interesting sight in place, so her gaze turned back to Grimm.

For someone so desperate to seek out interesting things, he seemed content with this dull walk. That alone irritated her more than the silence. Because Grimm, of all people, was not supposed to tolerate boredom. Grimm was not supposed to accept the dull silence. Grimm was a man who longed for that which interested him, not someone content with being on a harmless road.

Yet he walked like the road was exactly where he wanted to be. The sound of his sabatons against the bricks was the only noise of note that rang out.

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

A steady sound of heavy armor moving without haste. It echoed in the emptiness.

She really didn’t understand Grimm, not even a little. Not in the way she understood most mortals. Not in the way she understood things like fear, greed or pride. Grimm was something else entirely, seemingly locked behind that helmet.

She couldn’t see his eyes, couldn’t read his mouth, couldn’t catch a twitch of irritation or a smirk of amusement. Just the helmet and a steady walk. It continued to annoy her the more she thought about it. She was finding herself growing distasteful of helmets that hid a person so thoroughly. What was even the point of wearing something so inconvenient? Especially if you were no ordinary man. It seemed silly, and the fairy found herself annoyed that this was the line of thought she chose.

"Uh," Puck finally said, her voice dry and tired, "I’m gonna go to another dimension for a while and sleep, this is boring me to tears."

She said it like a complaint. But there was a restless discomfort, like something unnerving was pressing on her skin. Grimm gave no outward reaction as the fairy’s small form merely vanished from view, disappearing in a blink of an eye.

He merely continued to move forward; he didn’t acknowledge the absence as anything worth noting. The silence continued, seeming to thicken, especially in Puck’s absence. Now the only two walking the path were the General and the Cowardly Lion.

And that fact made the lion’s heart pound harder than any threat could have. Because the lion understood danger, it understood monsters. But this was much worse because this was a monster that did not act like one.

The walk continued in silence. The lion did not know if it was glad for that or more agitated because of that. Because silence meant the General wasn’t angry. But silence also meant the General wasn’t distracted. And if Grimm decided to turn his attention fully on the lion...

The lion did not want to imagine what that would feel like.

("Berries and roses,") the lion repeated the scent he smelled from the General, it clung to its thoughts to keep itself grounded. It was odd and it was wrong. You expected such a man to smell of rust and blood, perhaps sweat and iron. A warrior’s scent, yet his was pleasant. Something almost gentle and above all else familiar.

And that was the part that irked it most. Because that familiarity meant it should possess memory. A memory that meant something had happened—something it could not recall clearly, something that made its chest tighten in panic every time it tried.

Perhaps that is why the Cowardly Lion chose to follow the man who could easily kill him, not because the lion believed Grimm would spare it. But because the lion couldn’t bear to be alone with the emptiness of the world. So it clung to that shred of familiarity. A stupid and very dangerous shred. But still a shred.

No matter how idiotic it was, the lion had nowhere to go. If it turned back, there was nothing, if it ran off the road, there was nothing, and if it stayed, there was at least something. Even if that something was death walking in armor.

Just as suddenly, Grimm stopped, he simply halted. And so did the lion, out of fear of getting too close, its paws scraped against the bricks as it stopped abruptly, muscles tensing, body crouching as if it could make itself smaller.

The General shifted on his armored heel to fully turn to the Cowardly Lion, that movement alone was enough to make the lion’s breath hitch. It flinched as if struck, shrinking further as Grimm suddenly approached with slow steps. The Cowardly Lion retreated a few steps before stopping. It tried to put distance between them, but the road felt narrower now, like it was squeezing. Like the plains on either side had become cliffs.

Its body shook in fear, a full tremor rippling through its limbs, through its shoulders and through its mane. Sharp teeth gritting in panic as it locked into place. Its jaw clenched hard enough that its gums ached, as if it could bite down on its terror and swallow it. Watching the approaching General who stopped a few paces away, tilting his head. That action was small and almost curious.

The General stared, and the lion felt it like heat. That hidden gaze burning into the lion’s mane. You’d think not seeing those eyes would make it easier to endure the gaze, but it somehow made it worse. Because eyes could be read. Eyes could show anger, eyes could show disgust, and eyes could show mercy. But the helmet showed nothing.

What was Grimm’s expression: curiosity, anger, disgust, or nothing at all? Not knowing made things much worse, the lion swallowed. Its throat felt too tight and its tongue felt dry. It wanted to speak first, to beg, to explain, to do something—anything—to stop the General from deciding.

But Grimm spoke before it could.

"Why am I familiar to you?" Grimm suddenly asked. The question was calm and simple, but somehow horrifying. Because it wasn’t a threat, perhaps an interrogation. Maybe that was worse than a blatant attempt on its life.

The lion blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden question. It had expected violence or punishment, for Grimm to accuse it of stalking, of cowardice or of being a nuisance. It had not expected him to ask something that sounded almost innocent. Yet despite not having its bearings, it was smart enough to know an answer could save it. Or doom it.

The lion’s mouth opened, then closed, its ears flattened, and its eyes darted briefly to the side, as if searching the plains for a miracle. Then it forced itself to answer.

"I-I just find your scent familiar," the Cowardly Lion choked out. The words came out rough and strained, like it was forcing them through a throat lined with something sharp. It hated how weak it sounded, hated how pathetic it was, but it couldn’t help it.

Grimm stayed silent.

And that silence was worse than any response.