A Journey Unwanted-Chapter 429 - 418: Talk of ideals

[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Quadling Country]

"So we’ve been walking for quite a while now," Puck said lightly, her voice carrying forward over the crunch of Grimm’s sabatons against the rocky ground. "Are we going to increase the pace as you implied earlier, or are we committing to this slow, contemplative march all the way across Quadling territory?"

Grimm did not immediately answer. He continued forward over the rocky terrain, his stride still steady.

"I believe I made it clear," he replied evenly after a moment, glancing in her direction, "that if the next object of interest proved lacking, I would adjust our speed accordingly. That condition has not yet been met. " A small pause. "Your impatience simply reinforces that you are, in essence, still a child."

Puck’s eyes narrowed at once. "I am hundreds of years old," she shot back. "If anyone here fits the description of a child, it’s the one poking at a powerful witch out of curiosity."

"Age," Grimm said calmly, "does not guarantee maturity. I have encountered elderly men who behaved no differently than spoiled brats denied a trivial indulgence."

"Well, then they clearly lacked the nature of a dignified lady," Puck retorted, lifting her chin. "Unlike me."

"Dignified?" Grimm echoed. "What comforting illusions do you tell yourself in moments of silence?"

"Hmph!" Puck folded her arms sharply. "That was entirely uncalled for. Didn’t that revered teacher of yours instruct you on how to treat ladies with respect?"

Grimm’s pace did not falter.

"She did say," he began, tone neutral, "that one should view all individuals as equals in battle. That to underestimate someone due to age, gender, or appearance invites defeat." He spoke as though reciting a line long memorized.

"That’s not quite the same as basic courtesy," Puck tilted her head slightly. "And it’s strange. It doesn’t seem like you apply that philosophy consistently." Her gaze turned back toward the Cowardly Lion still trailing behind them. "You’re remarkably relaxed around him. You don’t treat him as an equal threat."

"Would you take a gnat seriously merely because it displayed hostility?" Grimm asked.

"Well... no," Puck admitted, then frowned slightly. "But if your teacher’s words meant enough for you to remember them so clearly, shouldn’t they mean enough for you to live by them? Or do you only keep the parts that benefit you?"

"You are not wrong to think that way," Grimm replied. "However, she herself was guided more by ideals than pragmatism." His voice shifted ever so slightly. "She taught me how to survive, how to wield a blade, and how to control power. Every skill I possess traces back to her instruction." He paused briefly. "Yet she also indulged in romantic notions, convictions of honor, and the intrinsic value of certain lives. Interesting to examine, however inefficient in practice."

"So when it comes to practical combat training, you follow her teachings," Puck summarized slowly. "But when it comes to her beliefs you discard them."

"Correct," Grimm said without hesitation. "The realm I inhabited was complex and unforgiving. Idealism did not correlate with longevity."

Puck watched him closely, frustration evident across her expression. She could never read his face beneath that helmet. His tone rarely betrayed emotion. He spoke of life and death with the same tone he used for mundane topics.

"Then what happened to her?" Puck asked after a moment. "Your teacher."

"She died," Grimm replied. "As idealists often do. The world is not gentle with those who expect it to be." The words were delivered plainly, with no embellishment.

Puck frowned.

He sounded too detached, yet he remembered her teachings clearly and referenced her words, implying at least some kind of impact.

"You don’t sound like you care," Puck said quietly.

"Caring about what has already concluded," Grimm replied, "alters nothing. It provides no advantage and it does not restore the dead."

"That’s a very old way of thinking," Puck said. "You’re not some ancient relic, you know. You’re young." She drifted slightly ahead of him, turning so she could face him while moving backward. "Surely you think about it."

"What concern is that of yours?" Grimm asked, though there was no bite to it—only inquiry.

"Don’t pretend you don’t understand," Puck said. "You’re curious about everything, and so am I. When something puzzles me, I ask. When something leaves an impression, I examine it. That’s not so different from you." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Though I suppose our curiosities aren’t identical."

"So you claim," Grimm replied. He was silent for a few steps before speaking again. "My teacher is not someone I will forget," he admitted. "Her death is equally unforgettable. These events are etched too deeply for that."

Puck leaned closer, listening.

"However," he continued, "I cannot claim I care in the way you imply. She chose her path knowingly. The outcome was consistent with her convictions."

"When she followed those ’foolish ideals’ of hers?" Puck pressed.

"Indeed," Grimm nodded. "Ideals fascinate me. Individuals anchor their lives to them. They suffer for them. They die for them." His tone remained analytical. "They attribute strength to something intangible. It is curious."

"Ideals aren’t imaginary," Puck said quietly as she looked down at the ground beneath her. "I knew a human once," she continued after a moment. "He was reckless, loud, and surrounded himself with people constantly. I used to annoy him just to see how far I could push him." Her lips curved up at the memory. "He talked endlessly about protecting innocents, helping the poor, and standing up for those who couldn’t defend themselves. I didn’t understand it. Most humans I’d seen were self-serving or predictable."

She glanced upward.

"But he was different."

Grimm’s helmet turned slightly toward her.

"Even before the Ddraig threw everything into chaos, this world wasn’t exactly gentle," Puck went on. "I was confined to Elfame for most of it, but humans passed through the Great Forest often enough." Her voice grew more reflective. "Some were adventurers wanting stories to boast about. Some were scholars who treated us like specimens. Some were just cruel."

She paused.

"They all became dull quickly."

"I assume this particular human did not," Grimm observed.

"No," Puck said softly. "He was... free. Reckless, yes. But genuinely free." She folded her hands loosely in front of her. "People followed him naturally. Even when his choices were dangerous. Even when logic should tell them to retreat. Some fairies who normally despised humans softened around him."

"And he attributed this to his ideals?" Grimm asked.

"He said the freedom came from living by them," Puck replied. "That if you knew what you stood for, fear didn’t control you the same way."

"People often rationalize their impulses with pleasant language," Grimm said.

"Maybe," Puck allowed. "But ideals are real, even if they don’t guarantee survival." She looked up at the sky, where faint gray clouds drifted. "I’d like some," she admitted quietly. "Ideals of my own."

There was no mockery in her tone now.

"Something to stand on."

Grimm gave a low, noncommittal hum.

He did not agree.

But he did not dismiss her outright either.

("But that isn’t true freedom, is it?")

The thought surfaced in Grimm’s mind as he kept walking, his sabatons steady against the rough stone, his red hair shifting with each step. Outwardly, nothing about him changed. Inwardly, however, the question lingered.

He remembered Iofiel’s voice and what she had said: all beings are bound by fate.

That had been her assertion. Not as speculation or philosophy, but as fact. Threads made long before birth. Paths narrowing long before choice was ever perceived. According to her, only a rare few stood outside that design.

He had been told he was among those exceptions.

And yet even then, she had implied he was not truly free.

Grimm’s thoughts shifted to the human Puck had just now described. Reckless and idealistic. Certain that living by his convictions granted him freedom.

What would that man say if confronted with Iofiel’s claim?

If someone stood before him and stated plainly:

"Your ideals were always destined to fail.

Your rebellion was accounted for.

Your path was decided before you ever believed you chose it."

Would that kind of truth shatter him?

Would it hollow him out from the inside?

Grimm’s gaze remained forward, but his mind turned elsewhere.

("Upon confrontation, she did not break.") His teacher had faced her end without abandoning what she believed, even when circumstances made it painfully clear that her ideals would cost her everything. She did not renounce them, she did not curse them, and she did not beg for survival at their expense. ("Foolish. If she had chosen loyalty to the empire over her convictions—if she had prioritized pragmatism over some principle—she might have lived.")

She had the skill, the intellect, and the strength. All she needed to do was let go of those ideals she clung to so fiercely. But she did not, and that refusal had killed her. Grimm did not feel anger at the memory. Nor grief.

That was the unpredictable element of people—their attachment to intangible things. Ideals, convictions, or beliefs. Concepts with no measurable weight, yet capable of steering actions more strongly than survival instinct.

Humans—and others—wove those abstractions into their identities.

They did not merely hold ideals.

They became them.

("Would life be less dull if I possessed something like that?") The question came uninvited. He had always moved according to interest. Curiosity with observation and experimentation. When something ceased to stimulate him, he left it behind.

There was efficiency in that.

But also repetition.

What if he had something beyond interest? Something that did not fade once understood?

A principle to uphold, a cause to pursue, or maybe even a goal that was not merely convenient direction. Would that alter the texture of existence? Would it make battle feel different? Would it make victory mean more than confirmation of superiority? Would loss cut deeper?

He considered it briefly.

If he had an ideal, perhaps it would be something he fought for rather than something he dissected. Something he believed in rather than something he evaluated. But belief required acceptance without full comprehension.

And that had never suited him.

("It doesn’t matter.") The thought settled firmly, closing the door he had momentarily opened. His way of living was functional. ("My way of living is sufficient as it stands.")

Interest was enough.

Curiosity was enough.

He did not need ideals to justify actions, and he did not need conviction to validate it.

Ahead of him, the path continued south.

Behind him, the lion walked with uncertainty, beside him, Puck drifted in contemplation of ideals she did not yet possess. And Grimm walked on, those questions buried beneath the helmet that concealed his face.