A Journey Unwanted

Chapter 475 - 464: Truly interesting

[Realm of Little Alice]

Little Alice found herself somewhat unwillingly impressed by how effortlessly Grimm could provoke her when he chose to put even the slightest bit of effort behind his words. It was not loud or exaggerated—there was no obvious malice in the way he spoke—but that almost made it worse. He said things plainly, without care, and somehow that made them linger longer than they should.

She had not expected that kind of childishness from him.

From someone who carried himself the way he did—so rigid and composed—she had assumed a different sort of temperament.

Instead, he was irritatingly blunt.

Still, she refused to let herself be outdone by someone she had already categorized as a brute.

With a controlled motion, she turned on her heel—graceful, reclaiming a sense of composure through the act alone—and began to walk away from him, her pace neither rushed nor slow.

"You are very simple," she began, her voice calm. Despite the words themselves, it did not land like an insult. It sounded more like something she had concluded after a very careful observation.

Grimm’s gaze followed her movement, and as he turned, he noted something that had not been there before.

A table.

Circular, modest in size yet refined, placed near the base of the solitary tree that anchored the landscape. A fine white cloth rested over it, embroidered with golden threads. On either side of the table sat two plush armchairs—one blue, one red—both crafted with a level of care that matched the perfectly constructed table.

Alice moved toward it without hesitation and took her seat in the blue chair, settling into it with ease. Then she looked at him—an expectant glance.

Grimm approached without comment and took the seat opposite her.

"You are someone who pursues only what interests you," Little Alice continued, her tone smoothing out into an almost gentle sounding one, as if she were explaining rather than accusing. "There is a certain clarity in that way of living. It is not confusing, nor is it inherently flawed, but it is predictable." Her fingers rested lightly against the arm of her chair as she spoke. "You stand outside of fate, or at least you give the impression of someone unbound by it. But despite that freedom, the path you choose to walk is remarkably dull."

"You shouldn’t try to sound so refined," Grimm replied without missing a beat. "It’s unbecoming of a child."

She shot him a glare immediately. It lacked animosity; more than anything, it came across as almost cute, if one ignored the clear irritation behind it.

"You initially called me uninteresting," Alice continued, choosing to push past the remark even as her brows drew together slightly. "And then, not long after, you changed your mind." Her tone remained composed, though there was an edge beneath it. "Perhaps that line should have been mine from the start."

("What brought this on?") Grimm wondered idly, watching her as she spoke. For reasons not entirely clear, she seemed intent on continuing the conversation—stretching it, even. The shifts in topic came quickly, almost too quickly, as if she were deliberately avoiding any natural conclusion. ("She’s prolonging this,") he realized.

But he did not interrupt. If anything, he allowed it.

"The way I live is simple," Grimm said after a moment, offering the admission without hesitation or embellishment. "There’s nothing particularly remarkable about it. Nothing unique." His posture remained relaxed, arms resting as his helmet turned slightly toward her. "So yes, perhaps that makes me a hypocrite when I judge other things for lacking substance."

He paused briefly.

"But I don’t care," he added, plainly.

His hidden gaze settled more directly on her.

"Goals. Aspirations. Ideals," he continued, listing them without emphasis. "Those things don’t hold any real meaning to me. Not personally." His tone did not shift, but there was a clarity to it. "I only find value in them when they exist in others. Because sometimes watching people chase those things can be interesting."

Alice’s eyes narrowed slightly as she listened, her expression shifting just enough to show she was actually considering his words.

"So you live without a dream?" she asked, folding her slender arms across her chest. "Without something to strive toward, something to define your path?" Her gaze remained steady on him. "Is that even living at all, or are you simply existing, moving from one point of interest to the next without purpose?"

"I didn’t expect something so sentimental from you," Grimm replied, and while his tone remained flat, there was the faintest suggestion that he found it notable.

"What?" she shot back immediately, her eyes narrowing further. "You think that possessing immense power somehow strips me of the ability to consider things like purpose, or meaning, or direction?" Her voice carried a sharper edge. "Do you think those things become irrelevant just because one has the strength to shape reality itself?"

"It’s interesting," Grimm said instead of answering directly.

He leaned back slightly, as though the conversation had become something worth observing.

"I’ve seen plenty of people with dreams," he continued. "Grand ones. Unrealistic ones. The kind they speak about with conviction, as if saying them out loud makes them more attainable." His tone remained neutral. "I’ve never found that particularly compelling."

Alice studied him in silence for a moment.

"But I understand the point of you bringing this up was curiosity on your part," Grimm said after a brief pause, the conclusion coming easily.

"Maybe," Alice murmured, and this time there was no effort to deny it, no attempt to deflect or reframe. The word left her quietly, as if she no longer saw a reason to hide behind anything more elaborate. Her gaze drifted past him, unfocused for a moment, as if she were looking through the space rather than at it.

"I have seen many interesting things," she continued after a beat, her voice settling into a softer tone. "Ddraig. Various Gods. The creation of entire realms, and the unraveling of them as well." Her fingers shifted slightly against the armrest, the movement absent-minded. "Spectacles on a scale that most beings could not even begin to comprehend. Things that should have remained awe-inspiring."

She paused.

"But even those," she added, her tone thinning slightly, "they dull with time. Repetition takes something grand and reduces it to something expected and predictable. Eventually, even the most overwhelming displays lose their weight." Her eyes lowered just a fraction. "It grows dull."

"So you look elsewhere," Grimm said, more statement than question.

She nodded, though for a moment she said nothing, as if deciding how much she wanted to articulate.

"Humans. Demi-humans. Deseruit Beasts, whatever happens to exist at the time," Alice said at last. For a brief moment, that careful, almost refined tone slipped—just slightly—into something more juvenile in its honesty. "They’re inconsistent. They do things that don’t make sense. Things that are reckless, or pointless, or outright stupid."

Her lips pressed together slightly.

"But that’s what makes them interesting," she continued. "Because it’s all so small and contained. Their struggles, their choices, and their persistence—it all happens on a scale that should be insignificant." Her gaze sharpened again as it returned to him. "And yet, they continue. No matter how weak they are, no matter how often they fail, they continue."

Her deep blue eyes settled fully on Grimm now.

"And compared to all of that, you are still simple," she said, though the word lacked the dismissal it once carried. "Straightforward to a fault. Easy to understand, at least on the surface." Her brows drew together slightly. "But I cannot understand why I find myself invested."

She paused, her expression shifting.

"No," she corrected herself quietly, her frown deepening as one of her small hands rose to rest lightly against her chest, fingers curling slightly as if grasping at something intangible. "That would be a lie. ’Invested’ is too neat a word for it."

"Right," Grimm said, recalling a past mention. "You said the other versions of you knew me." His head tilted slightly toward her. "So you assume that’s the reason. That whatever they knew is influencing how you see me now."

Alice hesitated.

It was brief, but noticeable.

Then she nodded.

"It’s annoying," she admitted after a moment, her voice shifting in a way that felt unfamiliar for her. Her delicate fingers tensed slightly against her chest, as if the feeling itself was something she was trying—and failing—to contain. "Not understanding why I feel certain things. Not knowing why something draws my attention or why I find myself lingering on it longer than I should."

Her voice dipped lower, so low it almost felt like it might disappear if not listened to carefully.

"I am a discarded aspect," she continued, each word seeming to come out much more carefully. "A fragment of the girl known as Alice."

"The Goddess mentioned that," Grimm said. "You’re her innocence?"

"Not surprising that Fiela would say as much," Alice replied with the faintest huff, though there was no real irritation behind it. "She does have a tendency to speak more than necessary."

Grimm briefly noted the name but did not interrupt.

"But yes," Alice went on, her tone steadying slightly. "Innocence. Childishness. Youth." Her gaze drifted again, unfocused for a moment. "Those are the aspects I carry. Not just those, but they are the most prominent."

"I don’t see what’s so wrong with those things," Grimm said after a moment. "Innocence and youth. Even childishness, they’re not inherently flawed." His tone remained neutral, but there was no dismissal behind it. "But that’s not the issue, is it?"

His hidden gaze rested on her.

"It’s the gap," he continued. "The missing part. The memory."

Alice went still.

For a moment, she simply looked at him—those deep blue eyes, unnatural in their clarity, holding something in them now. Something he could not quite discern.

"Yes," she said at last. "Alice never wanted to forget what mattered most," she continued, her voice softening into something almost fragile sounding despite her effort to keep it composed. "That was the one thing she tried to preserve above all else." Her fingers tightened slightly. "But her memory began to fade. Slowly, at first. Then more noticeably."

She exhaled, the sound small.

"And when she chose to divide herself, to separate what she was into pieces that could persist," she said, her tone low, "she placed that absence somewhere. That void. The part of her that could not remember what she loved, what she cared about..."

Her hand pressed slightly more firmly against her chest.

"She put it into me."

A brief silence followed.

"I cannot remember what matters," Alice admitted, the words quiet.