A Journey Unwanted

Chapter 478 467: Agreement

[Realm of Little Alice]

She knew that what she was doing now reeked of desperation.

There was no elegance in it, no carefully maintained dignity she could hide behind. Reaching out like this, to him of all people—someone she found irritating and insufferable, someone whose presence alone had a way of unsettling her composure—it was beneath what she told herself she should be.

And yet, despite everything she told herself, despite the irritation and despite the disdain she tried to cling to, her thoughts betrayed her.

Because somewhere deeper, beneath the pride and the irritation and the constructed image of a "young lady," there was something far more honest she could not hide.

And that was why she remained where she was, hand extended and waiting.

Alice was desperate.

She could admit that now, if only to herself.

Because what was she, truly, without that missing piece?

To exist without knowing where you began, to move forward without any sense of origin, it was hollow in a way that could not be ignored. She found herself liking things—tea, pastries, certain gestures, certain words—without understanding why. She found herself disliking others with equal certainty, yet no reason to anchor that feeling.

It was instinct without context.

Emotion without memory.

Was that living?

Or was it something lesser and incomplete?

The question lingered, unanswered, gnawing at her thoughts whenever she allowed herself to dwell on it too long.

She wanted to know.

Not out of curiosity alone, but out of something that felt closer to need.

She wanted to remember.

Whatever the cost.

Because she did not want to exist like this—like a fragment that only half-understood itself, like something discarded and left to function without meaning.

She did not want to feel like a mere existence.

That was why her hand was extended across the table.

That was why she remained there, despite everything in her pride telling her to withdraw it.

Grimm watched that hand.

Small, delicate, and almost fragile in appearance. His helm revealed nothing, no indication of what passed through his thoughts as he regarded it in silence.

("For someone so powerful, her end goal is remarkably simple.")

The observation came without judgment.

He did not understand it—not fully. The desire to chase something that could not be changed, to anchor oneself to the past when it held no capacity to be altered, it was a perspective that ran counter to everything he believed.

And if he were being honest, he did not particularly care to understand it either.

That was simply not how he functioned.

Not how he saw the world.

But even so, she sat there, hand extended, asking.

Not demanding or threatening but just asking.

("Well…") Grimm mused inwardly, the thought carrying a faint trace of something almost resembling amusement. ("Far be it from me to leave some brat sulking over her own fate.")

His arm moved.

The heavy gauntlet shifted across the table, alloy brushing lightly against the surface before his hand reached hers. There was no hesitation in the final movement as his fingers closed around hers gently.

A simple acceptance.

Little Alice blinked.

For a brief moment, genuine surprise broke through her composure as her eyes lifted to him, searching his unreadable helm as though expecting something more.

"Your journey," Grimm began, his voice steady as ever, "seems sufficiently interesting to warrant my involvement." His head tilted slightly downward toward her. "So I will assist you."

"…R-right," Alice said, pulling her hand back perhaps a fraction too quickly, as though the contact had caught her off guard more than she cared to admit. She cleared her throat, straightening in her seat, trying to gather herself again and rebuild that familiar sense of dignity. "Of course, I would expect nothing less." Her tone sharpened slightly, though not entirely convincingly. "An oaf like you would naturally be drawn to something so simple."

She lifted her chin slightly, regaining that careful composure.

"Then let us be clear," she continued, more firmly now. "This is our agreement. You will help me recover what I have lost—my memories, my understanding, the 'why' that has been taken from me." Her gaze steadied on him. "And in return, I will assist you when you find yourself in need."

"I doubt I will ever require assistance from you," Grimm replied without missing a beat.

Alice bristled, her shoulders stiffened, her brows drawing together just slightly, though she held her tongue.

"As I said," he continued, unbothered by her reaction, "my interest lies in observing your journey. That is sufficient reason." His tone remained even. "However, you should temper your expectations. My presence alone may not yield the results you are hoping for."

"I disagree," Alice said, more quickly this time, her response carrying conviction. "You are significant." The word came with a slight pause, as though she were choosing it carefully. "I have no doubt that you were an important factor in the life of the whole 'Alice.'" Her gaze did not waver. "Something will surface. It has to."

"Awfully optimistic," Grimm noted.

"Hmph," she exhaled softly, lifting her chin again, that small pride returning in full. "Call it what you like. I am simply certain of my decision." Her eyes narrowed just slightly. "And you will follow through on yours. I will not have you retreating from this agreement out of something as trivial as fear."

Grimm tilted his head.

"What, exactly, would I have to fear?" he asked, the question simple, almost genuine in its bluntness.

Alice stilled.

For a moment, she said nothing.

Little Alice hesitated before speaking, her earlier composure thinning in a way that was unmistakable if one paid attention long enough.

"Fiela no doubt mentioned it," she began after a moment, her voice quieter than before, lacking that usual sharpness as though the words themselves weighed more than she would have liked to admit. Her gaze drifted—not fully meeting his but not entirely avoiding him either. "That interacting with me may bring some unwanted attention. Not the kind one brushes aside lightly or that one can simply ignore once it has settled upon you."

Grimm did not move much at that, only a slight shift of his helmet as he regarded her.

"She did," he acknowledged evenly, his tone unchanged, though his attention was clearly fixed on her now. He noticed the way she seemed pensive, more so than before, the small hesitation that did not match the girl who had been so quick to argue moments ago. "What are you worried about?" he continued, voice flat but not dismissive. "That I might reconsider and back out now that the warning has been properly delivered? That I might suddenly find the risk inconvenient?"

"As if I care if you did," Alice replied quickly, almost too quickly, the words coming out with a light huff that tried—unsuccessfully—to carry her usual pride. Her eyes turned to the side again, betraying her in that small, involuntary motion. "If you chose to walk away now, it would change nothing for me. I have existed without you before, I would continue to do so after. Do not misunderstand your importance."

She paused, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of her dress.

"These are abstract beings," she continued, more slowly now, as though choosing each word with care, "dangerous ones—not in the crude, simple way you seem to prefer measuring danger. Not something you can cut down and not something you can overpower through brute force or stubbornness." Her voice dipped lower. "Not to me, no but someone like you, someone grounded in something so tangible might find themselves unraveling simply by witnessing them. Insanity would not come as a dramatic break, it would creep in quietly, until there is nothing left of what you once were."

Grimm listened without interruption.

"Sounds interesting enough," he replied, just as flat as ever.

There was no hesitation or even the faintest hint that her warning had taken root in him.

Alice's lips parted slightly, as if she intended to argue further, to press the point—to make him understand—but the effort seemed to leave her before it fully formed. Her shoulders lowered by a fraction.

"You are insufferable," she muttered under her breath, though there was less bite to it now.

"But since you've said your piece," Grimm continued after a moment, as though the matter had already been settled in his mind, "there's little else to dwell on here. You've given your warning. I've acknowledged it. Anything beyond that would just be repetition."

He rose from his chair, the movement steady.

"I suppose so," Alice murmured, the words slipping out quieter than intended. There was something slightly hollow beneath them, something she did not bother to hide this time. Her gaze lingered on the space where he had been seated, then lifted to him again, just for a moment.

"I am not sure how this particular journey of yours shall turn out," Grimm went on, his voice carrying that same certainty that bordered on indifference, "nor do I particularly care to predict it. But I will see it through. That much is decided."

He paused briefly.

"Of that, you can be sure."

Alice clicked her tongue softly, folding her arms as she tried—once again—to rebuild that familiar front.

"It's much too late to try and sound cool," she huffed, though the remark lacked its earlier sharpness, sounding more like a reflex than genuine irritation.

"As if I'd care enough to sound cool in front of a brat," Grimm shot back without missing a beat.

"Young lady," she corrected immediately, her eyes narrowing as she looked up at him, some of that earlier fire finally returning.

Even so, it did not quite reach the same intensity as before.