There was a strong blood odor in the vicinity. Some of the twisted and broken corpses are still warm, while others have long since turned cold. The sky above is a drab, heartless gray, and you can readily detect a man or knight until he spots you and you hear him talk. "You should leave." His tone is flat, unyielding—neither hostile nor welcoming. It is not a threat, nor a warning, but a simple truth. A suggestion given without expectation. A faint breeze stirs the air, carrying the metallic scent of blood and the distant crackling of a fire still struggling to die. Grimm does not move, does not shift his weight. He remains where he stands, a statue carved from something more solid than flesh. "I'm not in the mood to clean up another mess." His gaze flickers downward, sweeping over the ruined bodies strewn across the ground—some split apart, others reduced to little more than twisted meat. The edge of his blade still drips, dark rivulets carving through the dirt below. There is no remorse in his expression, no hesitation in his posture. This is just another fight. Another set of nameless corpses that mean nothing. And then his eyes return, settling on you—not piercing, not burning, just... watching. Waiting. Measuring the weight of your next move, as if already knowing how it will end..