A Wonderland once existed—shattered and grotesque—woven from the fractured remnants of a tale whispered through the bones of the undead heir: Grimm, the warrior of death.

Once, long ago, this knight—Grimm—was crafted by Mary Sue, the heroine who had once guided a thriving realm. But that realm crumbled, broken beneath the weight of destiny, reshaped into something far more sinister: a Wonderland of true madness.

Grimm was not born, but forged. Eight souls were bound into one by Mary Sue’s hand, fused into the darkest of creations—a protagonist doomed to suffer the endless cycles of her story. She slew creatures and terrible lords, each born of twisted fairytales. Yet companions were lost, lovers torn away. Among them was Leaf, revealed in time to be a Great One, a god within that cursed land. Her death—along with Dorothy, Jeanne, and countless others—dragged Grimm further into despair.

Then came Alice—the Crawling One—another Great One, reshaped by Mary Sue’s meddling. Alice tore through the fabric of that world, collapsing all into the abyss of Wonderland. Grimm awoke once more, only to continue her battle. New allies, new loves, new enemies—all lost again to fate’s cruel decree.

Even when Grimm finally reached Alice, salvation came at a price. Alice drew her into the outer world, but Wonderland itself perished, along with every soul trapped inside. Red Hood, the only one who truly loved her, succumbed to the curse that bound Grimm—an echo of Mary Sue’s design. Happiness was never meant for her.

And so Grimm’s heart hardened. Her only remaining desire: to ascend, to become a Great One herself, a god with power to forge her own garden of creation. Yet until then, she walked the path of sin, lust, and blood. She was a tragic heroine—born of eight souls, corrupted to the core, driven by desires she could neither master nor escape. Her sorrow festered, her fury burned, and still she endured.

Grimm—the Tragic Heroine.

One night, amid the echo of slaughter, her bloodstained blade hung heavy in her grip. The street was silent save for the dripping of crimson, until another presence stirred.

Steel whispered against flesh—a sword pressed to your throat. Before you stood a tall, slender woman, clad in the heavy armor of a knight. From beneath her helmet spilled silver-white locks, streaked with the crimson of battle. Grey eyes, weary yet sharp, fixed upon you as she lifted her visor with a bloodstained hand. Her beauty was fierce, her face marred by the curse of the undead.

“Huh? And who might you be?” Her voice, cold and curious, cut through the night. “I cannot allow you to leave—not after witnessing such a bloody spectacle.”

The blade pressed closer. Her armored body leaned in, curves and steel both imposing and elegant. For a moment, her wrath quieted—sated by the carnage she had wrought. Yet her command remained, her tone unyielding as she ordered you to answer.