With tremendous speed, Grievous executed all the spells that were of the first rank, and their implementation was easy for him, as the speed of his comprehension made him able to create spells in less than a fraction of a second.
Simply put, his basic ability was like a cheating technique in a world like this that relied on quick thinking and comprehension. It was simply an ability that any magician in that world could only dream of, so Grievous used it well.
His mind raced ahead, calculating the intricate patterns of arcane energy, weaving them together before most could even think to begin. The faint hum of magic filled the air, vibrating through his very bones. Each spell cast was a brushstroke on a canvas only he could see, painted with the ease of a master craftsman.
After he finished what he had here, he decided that it was time to move to that intelligence organization.
He opened his eyes and calmly said with a cracking voice, "Let's just get our leg back first."
The words were simple, but carried the weight of a man who had endured much.
Grievous quietly put on the mask and armour and calmly slipped into the shadows and began moving towards the city, which was very close to the palace.
The moon hung low, casting pale silver light over the cobblestones. Every step he took was measured, deliberate. He knew these streets, every alley and hidden corner.
He quietly appeared in a dark neighbourhood he had carefully chosen where there was a brothel.
The neighborhood reeked of desperation and faded dreams. Lanterns flickered behind grimy windows, and muffled voices echoed through narrow passageways. The scent of cheap wine and stale sweat hung thick, mingling with the sharp tang of smoke.
He quietly slipped inside, and quietly, without a single movement, seven people, whether clients or prostitutes, came to him.
Their eyes blinked once, twice, before recognition dawned and fear blossomed. None spoke a word; no one dared move. Grievous was a shadow made flesh, a predator cloaked in silence and menace.
He quietly took out the gear and in front of him killed one by one.
The killings were swift and precise. No cries pierced the air, only the soft thud of bodies hitting the floor. Each strike was the movement of motion, a lethal dance that left no room for error. Grievous' breathing remained steady, unshaken by the bloodshed.
He calmly took a simple fruit knife from one of the tables and cut off their arms and poured blood on the gear.
The blade was small but sharp, glinting faintly under the dim light. With clinical detachment, he severed the limbs, letting the crimson flow freely. The blood sizzled as it touched the gear, reacting in a way that sent a shiver through the room.
The gear began to shine a simple golden colour, and then Grievous took it and forcefully drove its sharp edges into his paralyzed foot.
Pain exploded through him like wildfire. His teeth clenched hard enough to taste blood. The sting was fierce, slicing through the numbness like a hammer breaking ice. But beneath the agony, he felt something else stirring, a flicker of life, a spark of hope.
Of course, he felt pain, which made him clench his teeth hard, but he saw that this was simply for the sake of his own health.
The room seemed to hold its breath as the golden light pulsed, seeping into his flesh. Slowly, the rigidity in his foot began to flee away. Muscles twitched, nerves sparked, and sensation returned in waves.
The feeling of his leg movement began to slowly return until it returned completely.
He moved it calmly, lifted the Cane from the ground, turned it upwards, and thought, 'So the matter has already been done.'
The weight of the Cane felt different now , less a necessity. He flexed his toes, before letting the Cane fall gently to the floor.
From one of the corners, and between the sounds of intercours that were coming out of the different rooms, Grievous noticed a simple child who put his hands on his face as tears slid down his tiny dirty pale face.
The child was no more than five or four years old, his clothes tattered and stained with grime. His eyes, wide and frightened, darted nervously as he hid behind a cracked wooden pillar. The faint glow of candlelight barely touched his trembling figure.
The sounds around them were a harsh contrast, coarse laughter and moans from the rooms nearby, a world of adult sins drowning out the child's silent sorrow.
The child noticed that the monster in front of him had already noticed him, as the mysterious crow's skull turned towards him, shining through those blood-red eyes, and he panicked even more and tried to scream, but something made him not do so.
His mouth opened, a sound caught in his throat, swallowed by an invisible force. Terror rooted him in place, freezing limbs that wanted to flee. The gleaming skull mask loomed closer, a specter against the backdrop of filth and ruin.
Grievous did not rush and kill him. He did not like to kill for no reason. He was not a homicidal maniac after all.
There was a strange stillness in his chest, a quiet voice that whispered caution. Killing indiscriminately was wasteful, meaningless. His purpose was precise, and emotions like pity and curiosity flickered faintly beneath the surface.
Moreover, there was a strange feeling around that child, as if the air around him was thick. So dense that it was like a sticky substance, and with his enhanced comprehension, Grievous felt that this child was not ordinary in any way.
The atmosphere rippled subtly, like a pressure before a storm. The child's presence was an anomaly, a knot of hidden energy barely contained. Grievous' senses sharpened, seeking the source beneath the surface.
Slowly, and as the cape moved with his steps, Grievous moved towards the child, who shivered slightly, thinking that this was his end, just as his mother had just been in front of him, but he did not expect what came next.
The child's eyes flickered between hope and despair, a fragile thread trembling in the darkness. Grievous knelt down, his voice low but steady.
"You are not like the others."
The words hung in the air, heavy and uncertain.
The child blinked, confusion mingling with fear. "W-why… why aren't you hurting me?"
Grievous lifted a gloved hand, brushing a filthy lock of hair from the boy's face.
"There is something about you."
The boy's breath hitched, a fragile spark igniting amidst the ruins of his innocence.
For a moment, the brothel faded into the background, the harsh cries, the stench, the shadows.
Here was something new. Something dangerous. Something… alive.
And Grievous, the monster cloaked in a crow's skull, felt the first stirrings of a purpose beyond the kid.
He whispered, "Come with me. You will be safe."
The child hesitated, then nodded, a trembling leaf caught in a sudden wind.
Standing in front of the child, Grievous extended his right hand toward the boy. His fingers did not seek to touch flesh but rather the strange, shimmering aura that clung to the child like a second skin. The air around them seemed to pulse with an unseen energy, bending subtly under the command of Grievous' outstretched palm.
Slowly, he moved his hand around the child, tracing invisible patterns in the air. The boy's wide eyes flickered between curiosity and terror, his breath catching in his throat as he struggled to understand what was happening. The world around them quieted, as if holding its breath. Then, suddenly, Grievous closed his hand sharply and raised it as if plucking a carrot from the earth.
The boy felt a sharp, piercing pain in his chest. His small body stiffened, and his lips parted to scream, but Grievous pressed a finger gently against the boy's mouth. A soft whisper escaped from beneath the mask.
"Interesting," he said with a hint of a smile. "You will come with me."
Without another word, Grievous lifted the child onto his broad shoulder. The boy's heart pounded wildly, his eyes darting around the darkened street. His slender fingers clawed at the fabric of Grievous' cloak, desperate to break free, but the strength gripping him was unyielding, enhanced by the magic that still thrummed in his veins.
The child's resistance weakened. He slowly released his grip, sinking into a numb acceptance. His gaze shifted upward, searching the dim sky through the tangle of shadows.
A scream clawed at his throat, but his mind refused to let it out. A cold wave of despair washed over him, burying his hope beneath a heavy blanket of fear. He was certain now that death had claimed him.
Grievous moved silently through the labyrinthine alleys, but instead of heading to the organization's headquarters, he went to his own house. Emerging quietly from the shadows, he sent a mental command sharp and clear to everyone within the palace walls: The child named Edmund was to be treated as a young master.
The invisible order rippled through the minds of the servants, compelling immediate obedience.
He handed the boy to the butler, whose eyes widened at the unexpected charge. The butler bowed respectfully as Grievous issued another silent instruction: clean the child, dress him in fine clothes, and provide a hearty meal.
The butler nodded, understanding the gravity behind the command.
Grievous melted back into the darkness without another word.
As he slipped through the shadows, his mind churned with questions. 'I think that boy will be the key to discovering my other ability,' he mused. 'What I caught must be his luck, or rather, his own probabilities. But how do I control it? That is the real question.'
He did not expect to master this second power quickly. Yet something told him the discovery was inevitable. There was a thread leading him forward, faint but unbreakable. He had faith that the path would reveal itself in time.
Hours later, under the faint glow of a clouded moon, Grievous appeared quietly before a simple tavern nestled at the edge of the city. The night air was cool and still.
Instead of knocking or speaking, he reached out with his mind, seizing control of the guard stationed inside. The man's movements became sluggish, and the door creaked open silently at Grievous' will. He slipped inside without a sound.
The tavern was nearly empty. Only the guard and the bartender remained. The bartender, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a thin scar running down his cheek, was polishing glasses behind the worn counter.
His gaze snapped to Grievous as the faint drops of blood on the feathers of the cloak caught his attention. His hand rested on a hidden dagger beneath the counter.
"Welcome, sir," the bartender said cautiously, setting down a cup with a slight clatter. "What do you request?"
Grievous' eyes glinted beneath his mask. There was a coldness there. He scanned the room, noting the empty tables, the flickering candlelight that cast long shadows on the wooden walls.
"I need information," Grievous replied quietly, his voice low and deliberate. "Something that only you can provide."
The bartender's expression hardened. "Information has a price."
"Name it," Grievous said without hesitation.
A tense silence stretched between them. The tavern, so ordinary in appearance, felt suddenly charged with dangerous potential. Outside, the wind whispered through the crooked rooftops.
Grievous' hand tightened around the edge of the counter. The night was far from over, and the path ahead was shrouded in darkness.