"That sounds like an interesting story," Grievous said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes, sharp yet distant, lingered on Edmund with a rare softness. "When you finish it, tell me what happened, will you?"
Edmund nodded quietly, his gaze flickering downward. "Mmm," he murmured, caught between hesitation and a reluctant promise.
Grievous reached out, his hand moving gently to Edmund's head. His fingers ruffled the younger man's hair with a tenderness that surprised even himself. "Then continue your story," he said as he rose from the seat, his voice low and deliberate. "I will not bother you."
Before Edmund could respond, Grievous turned and left the room, his footsteps muffled on the wooden floor. The quiet click of the door closing behind him echoed like a soft punctuation.
He made his way back to his quarters without haste, the corridor was dim, lit only by the flickering torches mounted along the stone walls. Shadows danced as he passed, their movements mirroring his own restless thoughts.
Inside his room, Grievous stood before a full-length mirror, the cold glass reflecting a figure both familiar and strange.
Naked, he traced the contours of his body with slow, deliberate touches. "It's been over a hundred years since I had this amount of muscle," he whispered, almost in disbelief.
His hands moved over sinewy arms, the ridges of his chest, and the firm planes of his abdomen. He flexed his muscles, watching them contract and ripple beneath his skin.
The sensation was intoxicating, strength coursing through every fiber, a rush of vitality that made his heart pound with renewed purpose.
He lifted his arms, stretching them wide as if to embrace the invisible force that filled him. It was a feeling of complete ecstasy, a momentary victory against the relentless march of time.
Grievous' mind wandered, drifting toward the fragile nature of existence. His thoughts mirrored those of any mortal soul who has ever grappled with the desire to cling to life.
Who does not want to live and remain strong forever until the flame of life disappears from the universe and it folds in on itself?
The reflection stared back at him, unyielding and resolute.
He sat down heavily on a worn chair, the wood creaking under his weight. His fingers curled into a fist, resting against his sharp chin. A soft hum escaped his lips, a melody without words but heavy with meaning.
His mind was a battlefield of concerns and calculations.
The old fox knew that everything had to end on his terms, or at least in a way that served his own interests. Otherwise, the end would come swiftly, close and unwelcome.
His first priority was clear. He needed to increase his personal strength, to prepare for the inevitable confrontation with Rahul's Swords. Each passing day brought that moment nearer, and weakness was a risk he could not afford.
His next concern was the pieces on his board. Kaede, a mere Pawn, and Edmund, a Knight, were not enough. Grievous craved more powerful allies, stronger pieces that could shift the balance in his favor.
He recalled the medicinal bath he had taken not long ago. The rare herbs and ancient concoctions had granted him enough momentum to reach the middle second rank or even brush against the late second level. Yet, the chasm between major levels was vast and treacherous.
Out of every hundred who attempted the leap between major levels without a protector or guide, only twenty-seven succeeded. This grim statistic applied only to the first three major levels. Beyond them, the difficulty and danger multiplied exponentially.
Many who tried to ascend beyond the late third rank stalled in fear, unwilling to risk their lives. The process required assembling the Shen Basin, a delicate reservoir of spiritual energy. Failure meant death, a shattering of the body and soul.
Those who dared to push into the fourth rank or higher either had the backing of someone stronger or were desperate souls nearing the end of their natural lifespan. For them, gambling with death was preferable to succumbing to the slow decay of old age.
Grievous understood this intimately. The creatures' desire for life was a fascinating thing to witness. Their resistance to hardship, their fierce clinging to existence even when the odds were stacked against them, it was indeed a testament to the primal will that defined sentient beings.
It was one of the most basic desires, the yearning to live, to endure, to defy the darkness that awaited all.
Fear of the unknown, of death itself, was a shadow cast across civilizations since time immemorial. It shaped cultures, religions, and even the art of war. Even in the most modern realms, the specter of mortality remained a constant companion.
Grievous himself was not immune to this fear. His motivations were rooted deeply in the inextinguishable desire to live, to never die. Immortality, or at least an extended existence, was a pursuit that drove him beyond the limits of ordinary men.
'Will I ever find peace in this endless struggle?' he thought, eyes narrowing at his reflection.
The room was silent save for the distant crackle of flames from the hearth. Grievous rose, the muscles in his legs taut with renewed determination.
He moved to the window and looked out over the darkened estate. The night was calm, but beneath the surface, currents of power and danger swirled.
"I will not falter," he vowed softly. "Not now. Not ever."
His fingers curled into a fist once more, knuckles whitening with resolve. The path ahead was treacherous, but he was ready to face it.
A faint smile touched his lips again, this time tinged with both defiance and hope.
I think I got bogged down in my discussion of these poor creatures and strayed from my main task of telling Grievous' story. I apologize for that, dear readers.
But perhaps, in understanding the weight of time and the hunger for life, one could glimpse the true heart of Grievous.
---
Grievous said in a low voice as he placed his hand on the table and closed his eyes, "Edmund has already reached an excellent level in terms of language, and his lessons with Miss McCarthy have ended. I think it is time to begin geography and history lessons, and maybe some etiquette."
He opened his eyes slowly, the weight of years evident in their depth. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the room. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and polished wood.
Grievous gave a small laugh as he said the last word. He laughed as he remembered the first time he saw Edmund eating food, as he looked like a monkey who had not eaten for months on end. The butler had taught him some table manners, but Edmund did not learn etiquette, which for someone from a noble family was undoubtedly important, even if they were servants.
He shook his head gently at the memory. Edmund's clumsy movements, the way sauce would drip from his chin, and how he would grab bread with both hands.
Especially when Grievous thought about his plan to make Edmund his face in ordinary matters, those of the nobles, and the like. The old fox was tired of the acting and mutual flattery he had practiced in his previous life.
He just wanted to live freely in this new world and he did not want any of the burdens that he had carried in his previous life, which consumed a large part of his life, especially the period of middle age and old age.
The flicker of the flame seemed to dance in time with his thoughts. He imagined Edmund stepping into grand halls, speaking confidently about the histories of kingdoms and ruling houses, blending seamlessly into the world of high society as if he had always belonged there.
Grievous entered the political arena when he was a young man, at the age of 28, and began to slowly rise until he reached the top of his party at the age of 46, became head of state at the age of 62, and until his rule ended in betrayal at the age of 98.
Each milestone came back to him like chapters of a dusty book, worn yet filled with stories of ambition and sacrifice. He remembered the youthful fire that burned within him, the hunger to change the course of his country, to shape its destiny with his own hands.
The old man was regretting that he wasted his time on all that nonsense, and in the end it was all the influence of the great power that was in his hand and the ecstasy that it gave him.
He realized the matter too late, years after his fall, but he understood that his thirst for power was the reason for his downfall and thought at the time, 'Maybe I should have lived my life without drowning in the ecstasy of power?'
The words echoed again in his mind, a bitter refrain that haunted the quiet nights.
He wondered how different things might have been if he had chosen a simpler path, one without the endless games of influence and betrayal.
He felt that he wasted the golden years of his life in some existential absurdity, but he realized it too late. He had actually become a completely different person from who he was.
He had become what many considered an accursed devil, the absolute villain of the entire country. At the time of his change, he himself did not realize that he had changed, but when he realized his change, he had already completely changed.
Grievous's gaze drifted toward the window, where the moon hung low in the night sky. The silver light spilled over the garden, casting everything in a ghostly glow.
He thought of the faces of those he had once called allies, now turned enemies, and the countless decisions that had led him here.
Yet, beneath the regret and reflection, a faint spark of hope flickered. This new life, this second chance, was a clean slate, an opportunity to rewrite the story without the shackles of his past.
'If only I had known then,' Grievous thought, 'that freedom does not come from political power, but from the quiet moments where one can simply be.'
He smiled softly, a rare expression for a man so burdened by history.
"Geography will teach him the lay of the land," he murmured. "History will ground him in the past, so he knows the present. And etiquette… well, that is the key to surviving among the nobles."
He chuckled quietly again, imagining Edmund navigating the intricate dance of courtly manners.
Grievous leaned back in his chair, the chair creaking softly beneath him. His fingers traced the grain of the table, grounding himself in the moment.
'Perhaps this time,' he thought, 'I will live differently. I will not be weak!. Only power of one's own is of importance.'
Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the promise of dawn.