[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: ???]

It was a vast, open expanse—so wide it felt almost empty. Plains stretched outward in every direction, the grass a dull and exhausted green, as though its color had long ago been leeched away by time. The land did not feel dead, exactly, but it seemed to have had endured too much.

Here and there, patches of trees stood scattered without pattern or care, as if they had simply given up on standing together.

Against that emptiness, a single figure moved.

A long, faded brown cloak was drawn tightly around their form, its edges tugged at by the cold wind. The garment obscured everything beneath it. It was difficult to tell whether the one walking was man or woman, young or old. Only their movement betrayed them.

They did not hesitate.

The wind cut sharply across the plain, cold enough to gnaw at exposed skin, yet the cloaked figure did not slow or even pause, they did not so much as acknowledge it. To an untrained eye, it might have seemed like aimless wandering—a lone traveler drifting through a forgotten place. But there was a steadiness to their stride.

They were going somewhere.

The figure entered one of the scattered groves, where dead trees loomed. Their branches clawed at the sky, stripped bare, their bark split and greyed with age. The air felt heavier and the silence much thicker. Dead grass crunched beneath the traveler's boots as they passed between the trunks, sound carrying too far.

They did not walk long.

Something lay ahead.

A body.

The cloaked figure slowed, then stopped.

Collapsed upon the earth was a man clad in armor so pristine it felt out of place in this lifeless stretch of land. Black alloy, polished and opulent, catching even what little light there was. The helmet fully enclosed his face, offering no hint of expression—only their silence. But what drew the eye most was his hair.

It was long, wild and brilliantly red. It spilled across the dull grass, it almost seemed like a wound in the landscape, it was vivid even in the gloom. There was no mistaking it.

He was unconscious.

The cloaked figure approached without urgency, as though this moment had been expected for some time. They knelt beside him, the cloak shifting just enough to reveal an unnaturally pale hand as they brushed away strands of grass near his armor, studying him with care rather than any concern.

"As they foretold," the figure murmured softly. Their voice was feminine and mature, though neither cold nor warm. "Another Untainted, come to Álfheimr."

Her gaze lingered on the armor, on his chest, on the small suggestion of breath beneath the armor.

"The Executioner," she continued quietly, as though reciting names etched into memory. "The Blood Starved Knight…" A pause followed. "…and now the Defier."

She straightened slightly and extended her hand toward him. Her fingers hovered just above the surface of his armor, not quite making contact. The air around her hand seemed tense, as though something was waiting to see whether she would touch him.

"I wonder," she said thoughtfully, voice lowering, "whether you might yet serve a purpose beyond survival, Defier." Her eyes traced his form. "My path was chosen long ago. Set in motion before I ever understood its cost."

Her hand trembled—just barely.

"The road ahead is… unkind."

Suddenly, her head snapped upward.

The silence seemed to shift.

"Hm," she murmured, displeasure threading through her tone. "Interlopers…" She glanced back down at the unconscious form, her expression hidden beneath the hood. "I do not yet know if you can aid me," she said almost regretfully. "Nor whether you would even choose to."

Her hand withdrew.

"But I shall be watching you, Defier."

She rose to her feet in one smooth motion, the cloak settling around her once more. Without another glance, she turned and walked away, her form gradually swallowed by the dull haze of the plains, until at last she vanished entirely—leaving only silence behind.

--------------------

[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: ???]

"Bloody hell, look at the armor on this one!"

The voice was crude and much too close.

"He's gotta be one of those Heart Kingdom soldiers. Has to be."

Another laugh followed—sharp and greedy.

"We scored it big, boys!"

The sounds reached him before awareness did, as though they had to push through layers of fog and a dull ache before they could mean anything. Grimm's consciousness stirred reluctantly, dragged upward by irritation more than alarm. The first thing he registered was the ground—how uncomfortably close it was. Dull grass brushed against the front of his helmet, flattened beneath his weight.

He was face-down.

That realization annoyed him immediately.

Far more than the voices.

The irritation sharpened when something tugged at his helmet—fingers, clumsy and impatient, scraping uselessly against alloy clearly never meant to be pried loose. Whoever it was put far too much faith in leverage and far too little in survival instinct.

Grimm moved.

His hand shot out in an instance, catching a wrist mid-pull. His grip tightened before the man could even react.

CRACK.

The sound was loud and ugly.

"GAAAAAAH—!"

The scream tore through the open air, deep and panicked. The arm folded at an angle arms were never meant to bend, and the man collapsed with it, clutching the ruined limb as if holding it together might somehow undo what had just happened.

"H-holy horseshit—!" another voice cursed, scrambling backward. Footsteps shuffled, frantically.

Grimm pushed himself upright, rising slowly—there was no haste or rage, he merely rose with patience. Someone like him had never needed to rush. He stood to his full height and looked down at them.

Calling the three men ragged would have been generous.

One stood off to the side—bald and gaunt, with skin stretched tight over bone. His eyes were wide and darting, the kind of fear that came from realizing too late that curiosity had crossed into consequence. His loose, threadbare clothing did little to hide the way his chest heaved with erratic breath.

The second—the one screaming moments ago—was on his knees now, tears streaking through the dirt on his face. A shaggy beard framed a mouth clenched tight against pain as he cradled his broken arm, his worn tunic stained and fraying.

The third was already retreating with slow and cautious steps, long thin black hair hanging loose around his face. His clothes were just as shabby, his hands raised halfway as if unsure whether to flee or beg.

Grimm lifted a hand to the back of his neck and rolled it once, a crack answering the motion. He regarded them in silence.

"Y-you bastard!" the bald one finally shouted, desperation forcing bravado to the surface. He fumbled at his side and produced a knife, it was rusted and nicked, barely sharp enough to cut bread. His grip on it was clumsy.

Grimm didn't react to the weapon.

Instead, he spoke evenly.

"Where is this?"

The question cut through the panic, unexpected enough to stall them. Two of the men blinked, confusion overtaking fear. The third only groaned, too busy trying not to pass out.

"Answer," Grimm continued calmly, his tone almost bored. "And I won't kill you. That's a fair deal. Pretty good, actually."

"You damn Heart Kingdom soldiers are all the same!" the long-haired man snapped, even as his feet carried him another step backward.

"I don't know what that is," Grimm replied, waving the comment aside as if it weren't worth correcting. "Where's the Vel'ryr Empire?"

Silence for but a moment.

"W-what?" the bald man barked. "There ain't no Vel'ryr Empire!"

Grimm tilted his head slightly, one gauntleted hand rising to his chin as if in thought. "I see." He lowered his hand again. "Then what's the closest city?" he asked. "Answer properly, or I'll beat you."

There was no edge to the threat. No raised voice or even anger.

That made it worse.

The long-haired man swallowed. "W-we're… we're way out on the outskirts. Middle of nowhere." He hesitated, then forced the words out. "Closest place is the Emerald City. But—it's far. Real far. Takes at least three weeks on horseback. And… you can't just walk in there."

Grimm nodded once. "And you three?"

"O-our town's south of here," the bald man said quickly, the knife lowering as fear won out. "We was just… scavenging. Thought you were dead."

"That explains a lot," Grimm replied. He gestured vaguely with one hand. "That's all. Scram. You're stinking up the space."

They didn't argue, nor did they hesitate.

The two able-bodied men hauled their injured companion up between them and fled, half-running, half-dragging, glancing back only once before disappearing into the plains.

Grimm exhaled slowly.

"This is just excellent," he muttered, lifting his gaze to the dull, overcast sky above. The clouds hung heavy and lifeless, offering no answers. ("They didn't know the Vel'ryr Empire. Didn't know me. I'd like to say they're just ignorant—but after what I just went through…") He sighed beneath the helmet. ("Something tells me it's not that simple.")

It never was.

He started walking.

Trees passed him by—sparse, lifeless things—before the land opened up again. In the distance, he could still make out the three figures fleeing south.

"Hm," Grimm hummed quietly. He folded his arms as he walked. "If my situation really is worse than it looks, then this is going to be a headache." He paused briefly, then continued. "I'll check their town next. Aside from finding that idiot Mallory…" His thoughts drifted, unease settling in. "…what else?"

Instincts prickled.

"That Alice brat mentioned another self that might help," he muttered. "So did that white-haired, girly-looking guy." A short pause. "Something to keep in mind."

With that, Grimm pressed forward, the annoyance of unanswered questions settling in alongside him as the plains stretched on ahead.

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