A Journey Unwanted-Chapter 460 - 449: Dream Again III

[Dream of the Defier]

Everything here felt the same.

It wasn’t something Grimm needed to think about. He didn’t pause to analyze it or put it into words—it was just there, familiar as always. The moment he stepped further into the cadet training facility, that same stiff atmosphere settled over him again. It always did.

He walked at an unhurried pace, hands in his pockets, red hair falling loosely over his eyes. It hid where he was looking, though in truth, there wasn’t much worth looking at. Not at this point at least. His gaze still drifted now and then, more out of habit than interest, taking in the long stretch of hallway ahead.

The walls were made of a dark alloy, polished smooth. They didn’t shine so much as absorb the light, dulling it just enough to make the space feel dim all around. Even his footsteps barely made a sound on the floor.

Sound didn’t travel here much, though that was more foolish than anything.

Overhead, narrow light panels ran in even lines along the ceiling, casting a glow. No flickering or shadows pooling in corners, no dim light for things to disappear into.

Everything was visible.

"This place is the same as always," Grimm murmured, the words passing through his lips without much thought behind them.

He kept moving.

As he passed one of the open doorways along the hall, his eyes shifted just slightly, enough to catch what was happening inside without slowing his steps.

A large room.

Dozens of cadets stood within it, all dressed in the same uniform, even from a glance, the uniformity stood out more than anything else. They stood at long tables arranged in rows, each one set up the same way.

Plasma rifles, taken apart.

Each component laid out carefully—barrels, energy cores, grips, and internal chambers—everything placed in a way that made the process clear without needing explanation.

"Assembly drills," Grimm noted quietly to himself.

Some cadets moved quickly, hands working with ease, snapping parts together without hesitation. Others weren’t as confident. They paused, checked their alignment, glanced at their neighbors or at small instruction panels before continuing.

The room wasn’t silent, soft clicks rang out as pieces locked into place. The sound of metal shifting. A few quiet voices correcting mistakes or asking brief questions.

Nothing out of place or unexpected.

Grimm watched for a second longer than he needed to.

("Right, my schedule says I’m supposed to be here this afternoon.") The thought came almost automatically as his gaze lingered for a moment. ("...though I doubt it really matters if I miss it.")

He didn’t slow down.

For most of them, this mattered. It was part of what made them effective. Knowing their weapons inside and out, being able to rely on them without hesitation.

It was necessary, important even.

But for him—

("It’s not needed.")

The thought was simple. Not even particularly prideful, just factual.

Most Vel’ryrians relied on physical enhancements, their resistance to magic, and training and equipment to close the gap between themselves and stronger forces.

Descendants didn’t.

They weren’t bound the same way, they didn’t need weapons.

("There’s nothing here I don’t already understand.")

And just like that, his attention slipped away from the room entirely.

He kept walking.

The hallway stretched on, lined with more open entrances and rooms, each dedicated to a different aspect of training. Grimm passed them one after another, his gaze briefly touching each before moving on.

To his left, a group practiced with bladed weapons. The weapons themselves were sleek, designed for efficiency instead of display. The cadets repeated the same movements again and again under the watch of an instructor who barely spoke, only stepping in when something needed correcting.

To his right, a firing range. Energy weapons discharged in intervals, controlled bursts. Targets lit up as they registered hits, then reset.

Further along, close-quarters combat. Tight spaces with strict engagements. Bodies moving in short bursts—grappling, striking, resetting, and repeating.

Grimm had done all of it before.

Enough times that it blurred together.

("None of this is particularly interesting.") He thought idly. ("I suppose it stops meaning anything once there’s no challenge left.")

That was the problem, not the effort or the structure. Just the fact that nothing here pushed him anymore. His pace didn’t change as he moved further down the hall.

("I should probably attend at least one session...") The thought lingered for a moment. ("...if only so the old man doesn’t get dragged into trouble because of me.")

Eziel came to mind. The look he usually had—tired and irritated, but still so caring anyway.

Grimm let out a small breath through his nose.

"...Yeah."

That was enough of a reason, not a strong one but enough.

He continued on, the repetition of the place settling back in around him. Room after room with the same structure and routines. It all started to blend together after a while.

("Descendants that aren’t part of the Von Auerswald line are required to serve.") He remembered it easily. ("That’s the rule.")

His gaze shifted slightly.

("And I’m the only one here.")

That part made everything feel worse. However, he did not mean that in a dramatic way. It was not something that particularly frustrated him.

("It only makes things more dull.")

There was no one to measure himself against. No one to disrupt the pattern and no one who could push things further. Everything stayed the same. That predictable pattern that felt so contained.

He turned a corner, boots barely making a sound against the floor as the hallway shifted into a heavier section of the facility. The door ahead stood out immediately—thicker and reinforced, seamless in design.

As he approached, it reacted.

A small shift, then it opened. The mechanics were smooth and silent. Grimm stepped through without breaking stride.

The space beyond was larger.

Much larger.

It opened into something closer to a lecture hall than a training room, though even that felt like an oversimplification. Rows of black desks stretched across the room in, organized lines, each one connected into long sections where cadets were already seated.

Most of them were focused.

Some leaned forward, eyes fixed on the translucent blue screens in front of them, fingers moving as they took notes. Others sat back slightly, watching without writing, but still paying attention.

The room itself was bare.

There were no decorations or unnecessary details. But at the front, a large holographic display hovered in place, casting a blue light across the space. Shapes moved across it—figures, diagrams, and creatures.

Astrothians.

Grimm’s gaze turned toward it as he stepped further inside.

("Right...") The context came back easily. ("We’re preparing to establish a presence in the North and the Astrothian population there is significant.")

So that’s what this was.

Preparation.

He moved along the side of the room, keeping his steps quiet, scanning for an open seat.

("If I can just sit down without being noticed...")

It was a simple thought, however not a realistic one, not with him.

Still, he tried.

For a few seconds, it almost worked. No one turned immediately and no one called out.

"Finally decided to join us, Grimm?"

The voice cut through the room.

Grimm stopped.

His gaze shifted toward the front.

The lecturer stood in front of the holographic screen, her posture straight. Her uniform matched the cadets’, but the gold accents set her apart immediately. Her platinum blonde hair stood out more with that, framing a beautiful and mature face. Her blue eyes were already on him, focused with no visible irritation or open disapproval.

But there was expectation.

Grimm met her gaze without speaking.

Around him, the room shifted.

Heads turned, one after another, cadets looked back at him, their attention locking in the moment his name was spoken. He didn’t need to meet their eyes to understand what was there.

He could all but feel it.

Annoyance, surprise, or dislike, some sharper than others. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t new so he didn’t react. His focus stayed on the front of the room.

On her, because she was the only one that mattered.

"I’m quite curious as to what excuse you’ve prepared this time," the lecturer said, her tone surprisingly light.

Grimm didn’t answer immediately.

For a brief moment, he simply stood where he was, at the edge of the tiered steps, his gaze lowered toward her. Around him, the room had gone still—no one outright moved, but the attention was on him.

"I overslept," Grimm said at last, blunt and without inflection.

The lie sat there, plain and unadorned.

There was no attempt to dress it up, or hesitation to suggest it might be doubted. He offered it the same way one might state the time of day—because it was convenient.

A few of the cadets nearest to him shifted at that. One let out a quiet breath through their nose, another tilted their head just enough to share a look with the person beside them. It wasn’t disbelief—more like irritation at how easily he said it.

The lecturer held his gaze for a second longer than necessary.

"That’s a new one," she replied after a beat, a small curve touching her lips, it was not quite a smile, but close enough to suggest she found something about this mildly entertaining rather than frustrating. "You do have a habit of being creative with your reasons, but I’ll admit, that one is at least refreshingly simple."

Her eyes didn’t soften, though.

"Well then," she continued, turning slightly as if to dismiss the words without actually dismissing it, "take a seat. You haven’t missed much, despite your best efforts."

Grimm gave a small nod.

No apology followed or acknowledgment beyond that.

He started down the steps unhurriedly, that was when the murmuring began.

"Seriously, he doesn’t get punished?" someone whispered from a few rows down, the voice low but filled with disbelief.

Another answered, quieter but with a sharper tone. "Why would he? Descendants always get treated differently. You know that."

A small scoff followed somewhere to Grimm’s left. "So he can just show up whenever he wants? Late with no explanation, nothing and that’s fine?"

"It’s not fine," a third voice muttered, frustration bleeding through despite the attempt to keep it contained. "It’s just how it is."

"Talk about special treatment," someone else added under their breath, the words bitter.

The comments overlapped, never rising above a low murmur, but they carried.

Grimm heard all of it.

His steps didn’t falter.

If anything, the lack of reaction was more noticeable than any response could have been. He didn’t even bother glancing toward the speakers.

But there was a thought there.

("So this again.") He had heard variations of it before—different voices with the same sentiment. It never really changed, no matter the place. ("They’re not wrong, I suppose.")

The thought came without defensiveness.

Descendants were treated differently. That was simply how things were structured. It wasn’t something he had asked for, and it wasn’t something he particularly cared to question either. It existed. That was enough.

("However, they think it matters more than it does.")

His gaze shifted slightly as he walked, not toward the voices, but ahead—toward an empty seat a few rows down.

To them, it was unfair.

To him, it was irrelevant.

Training, discipline, and punctuality—those were systems built for people who needed them. For those who had to refine themselves and sharpen their limits, pushing against something to grow.

Grimm had never really felt that constraint.

Not here in this room.

("If I followed everything exactly, nothing would change.") The thought settled easily, without arrogance or pride.

He reached the empty seat and paused briefly before lowering himself into it.

The chair adjusted slightly under his weight, the material responding to his posture as he leaned back just enough to settle in. One leg shifted forward while his hands came to rest loosely—one on the armrest, the other near his lap.

Around him, the murmuring began to fade.

Not because the sentiment had changed, but because the moment had passed. The lecturer had already resumed her place at the front, and the holographic display flickered slightly as it transitioned to the next segment.

Still, a few glances lingered.

Some quick and some not so subtle.

Annoyance, curiosity, and resentment again.

Grimm didn’t return a single one.

His gaze drifted forward again, settling somewhere near the projection rather than directly on it.

("It doesn’t matter, I suppose.")