A Journey Unwanted-Chapter 419 - 408: A message in a dream

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The scent of oil and machinery assaulted his potent sense of smell the moment he stepped into the vast chamber. It was thick and metallic, laced with chemicals. Most might have gagged at the strength of it. Some likely had, quietly, before discipline forced their composure back into place.

He ignored it. If he was to be a soldier, a level of discipline was to be expected. If he could not withstand a smell, how was he expected to withstand blood?

They were all gathered in a vast open space. The floor beneath their boots was black and smooth, polished to the point that the overhead lights reflected across it. Structures rose all around them, whirling with machinery—mechanical sounds vibrating constantly through the air. Most of the structures were smooth and black in color, red lines outlining their edges and seams. They came in different shapes and sizes. Long and rectangular blocks. Flat and wide installations. Towering narrow columns.

Barracks, canteens, medic bays, and armories.

Infrastructure constructed to support bodies that would eventually be spent.

They stood out in the open space—perhaps fifty or more—arranged in disciplined rows. Even spacing, equal distance, and straight backs. They were all outfitted in the same uniform: sleek black officer’s garb adorned with red accents, high boots polished to a perfect shine and pristine white gloves. Their hands were neatly clasped behind their backs, fingers interlocked.

They were men and women, their ages varied, and so did their expressions.

Some stood rigid with something that almost resembled pride. Others were tense in a way that betrayed inexperience. Some agitated. Some angry. Some scared, though trying very hard not to look it.

These were different kinds of individuals who bore the same colors.

Yet this one, in particular, stood out.

A youth.

Smaller and slighter than the rest. Almost delicate in stature compared to those flanking them. They bore the same uniform as the others—tailored and immaculate. Yet their appearance made them stand apart regardless.

Long, vibrant red hair fell down their back, untied, falling in disorder. Their bangs covered their eyes entirely, obscuring their gaze from the world. The only visible features were a pale, delicate chin, a small button nose, and slightly rosy lips set in indifference.

They seemed to be the youngest there.

More than a few stares drifted toward them; however, curiosity could not linger long.

A voice drew in all attention.

"Cadets..." The word was not shouted, nor was it barked. Yet it immediately snapped every head forward. The man stood upon a sleek black alloy podium that elevated him only slightly, but enough to establish authority. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His uniform mirrored theirs but was accented with gold insignia that marked him as something beyond them. His black hair was slicked back, touched with gray. Emerald eyes, sharp and assessing, moved across the formation. "You have all gathered here today," he began slowly, "because you made a choice. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise. You chose to stand beneath the banner of the Vel’ryr Empire."

He let the words settle.

"To serve and defend it. To preserve it."

His hands were clasped behind his back.

"And it was a wise choice," the man continued, his voice steady and carrying easily through the vast chamber without strain. "In this war of ours, men and women alike are expected to give their lives for our empire," he declared. "Expected," he repeated. There was no tremor or hesitation in his words. "You here attest to that," he went on, "and make our grand empire proud."

A few cadets straightened further at that. Spines tightening and chins lifting.

"You standing here means you are prepared to offer everything required of you. Your time, your strength, and your loyalty. And if necessary—your life."

Some pride settled visibly into the ranks.

"You will not fight for glory. You will not fight for recognition. You will fight because the empire must endure." His voice lowered slightly. "You stand here today to fight. To become sharper than the enemies that surround us. You will become tools refined by battle."

The red-haired youth did not comprehend.

They could feel the shift in the air around them—others responding to the speech as if it had ignited something. Pride, purpose, or validation.

Why?

Was it because they all wanted to serve the Vel’ryr empire?

To fight in this war?

To prove their worth?

All of that sounded... uninteresting.

The youth had no interest in being of service to the empire. There was nothing inherently fascinating about war. Conflict was as repetitive as it was predictable. Merely an inefficient practice with no benefit.

Or so they thought.

("What was the reason for the war again?") Their head tilted slightly, just a fraction, red strands shifting over concealed eyes. The man in front was still speaking. But the youth had already lost interest. ("Something with some spawn, I think. Galadriel’s spawn. Expansion. Territorial imbalance.") The memory felt unimportant. ("What a bother.") Their lips parted in the faintest exhale. ("Descendants like me are practically forced to enlist.")

There was no bitterness in the thought.

Just annoyance.

("I’d rather conduct my experiments than be here.")

Experiments made sense; they had variables and data. Observable cause and effect. War was just uninteresting chaos. They tuned out again, half-listening as the speech continued to echo through the chamber.

"Our empire is vast," he declared. "Our advancements surpass those of any nation on this planet. Our machines are superior, and our strategy calculated. More than that, our resolve is unmatched." That part, at least, was true. "Yet even we find ourselves outnumbered against Galadriel." A faint tightening in his jaw. "Their forces multiply and their spawn are relentless. Quantity, at times, challenges even quality." He paced a single step across the podium. "That is why you are here. You are not simply bodies to fill ranks. You are investments. Each of you will be sharpened into something capable of shifting imbalance."

He scanned them carefully.

"You will be conditioned beyond comfort. Educated beyond tradition and pushed beyond hesitation."

His voice grew firmer.

"And in doing so, you will become the reason Vel’ryr does not fall."

A stir of pride again, the red-haired youth’s thoughts drifted further inward.

("Investment.") An interesting word. ("Merely tools to be refined for war.") He had said that as well. ("If we are tools, then purpose is assigned, not chosen.") Their fingers twitched subtly behind their back. ("If purpose is assigned, then identity becomes secondary.")

The speech continued.

"We do not wage this war lightly," the man said. "We wage it because survival demands it."

Survival.

("Every war claims survival as justification.") Their breathing slowed. ("If both sides claim survival, then one side must be lying.")

Or perhaps—

("Perhaps survival is merely the disguise one wears when they seeks expansion.")

The chamber suddenly felt too clear, the hum of machinery sharpened unnaturally, and the reflection on the black floor crystallized in impossible detail.

The man’s lips were mid-syllable.

"—That is why yo—"

Silence.

("Wait.") The thought came without warning, the youth’s breathing stilled. ("Why is this dream so vivid? This is my past.") Every detail aligned perfectly. Too perfectly. ("Dreams are not this precise.")

The man’s mouth was mid-motion, the cadets’ postures frozen in varying degrees of attention.

Sound faltered and then stopped. Everything around him seemed to freeze as if halted by an invisible force.

The red-haired youth did not move at first.

They simply stood there, hands still neatly clasped behind their back.

("Ah.") Understanding settled calmly. ("An outside influence, then?") 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

That was interesting.

The red-haired youth—

No.

I am Grimm.

He no longer occupied the smaller, restrained frame of a cadet. He stood as he was now—taller, broader, and draped in perfectly designed armor of dark and red, the metal immaculate and heavy across his shoulders.

His long, wild red hair fell down his back in untamed strands, unmoving in the suspended air.

The world around him was still frozen. The cadets stood locked in their stiff posture. The alloy podium gleamed ahead, and the aged commander’s mouth remained half-formed around an unfinished word.

Yet the perpetrator was not in sight.

Grimm turned his helmet slightly, no sound accompanied the movement.

Only silence.

("Hm.") His thoughts were calm. ("Did they induce a memory and bring it to the forefront of my mind?") He examined the chamber. The smell of oil remained. The sound of machinery did not. ("The reconstruction is precise. Too precise for a mere illusion.") His gauntleted fingers curled slightly. ("For what purpose?")

He did not have to wait long.

"You ’woke up’ much sooner than what I was expecting."

The voice came from his right, a casual one.

Grimm’s armored head tilted toward it slowly.

A cadet stood there, a woman in her mid-twenties with blonde hair tied neatly back and gray eyes that were bright and steady. She wore the same sleek black officer’s uniform adorned in red, white gloves, and polished boots.

She was the only other moving presence in the entire frozen chamber.

Grimm turned fully to face her, sabatons scraping against the floor.

"You are responsible, I assume?" he asked. His tone was not accusatory or surprised.

The woman smiled.

"That I am," she replied, her voice warm in a curated way. "And before you decide to be offended, I do apologize." She clasped her hands lightly in front of her now, posture relaxed compared to the frozen cadets. "I had to make your consciousness more vulnerable," she continued, tilting her head slightly. "It is far easier to speak with someone when their guard is lowered. Dragging your conscious mind into my realm required a certain... softness." Her smile deepened faintly. "And nostalgia is remarkably effective."

Grimm listened without interrupting.

"I see," he said after a brief pause. "My mind was lax due to the familiarity of the scene, disguised as a dream." His voice carried no clear emotion. "You used memory as an entry point." He stepped once toward her. "Efficient." There was no praise in it. Only the acknowledgment of an effective strategy. "But," he added, helmet angling slightly downward toward her, "who would you be?"

The woman’s smile shifted.

"It is only natural that you are curious," she said smoothly. "After all, one such as I does not summon someone like you without reason." She took a slow step around him, examining the ornate plating, the red accents, and the sight of his helm. "For one such as I have called for you... Untainted."

The title lingered as she stopped in front of him again and gestured lightly to herself.

"I am Goddess Iofiel."