In the twenty years he spent alone with himself, Grievous never believed in the existence of true immortality. To him, the endless stretch of time was a barren road, not a gift. His purpose was simple: survive long enough to contemplate the fragile nature of human existence. He had wandered the corridors of his mind, dissecting the meaning of life, the essence of power, and the thirst for unending days.
'Maybe I want infinite knowledge?' Grievous thought, his mind racing through endless possibilities like sparks in the dark. 'Or perhaps infinite power? Or the infinite rule of a large area?'
He pondered these desires with a slow, simmering intensity. Immortality was not merely a wish to avoid death, it was a gateway, a threshold. But what lay beyond? What was the true purpose of eternal life if not to wield it meaningfully?
He wanted immortality, without a doubt, but what then?
The silence of his chamber pressed on him, thick and suffocating. Time itself seemed to stretch and twist around his thoughts. Suddenly, a spark ignited within his chest. A new craving, sharper and more vivid than any before.
"Yes, I want to reach him! That strange entity that transmigrated me! I want to participate in the great game of chess!" Grievous whispered, his eyes sparking with a determination he had never seen in himself before.
The phrase echoed in his mind like a clarion call. The great game of chess.
Grievous had found a goal! Not just immortality, but transcendence. He longed to become a cosmic entity, to look down trivially at the simple world, the poor planets, and the petty struggles of lesser beings. He craved to play grand games for terrifying entities that transcended the human mind.
But now he understood that it was impossible to reach that pinnacle without first securing his own indestructible foundation. Immortality was the first step. That distant goal of becoming a cosmic entity, with terrifying power that would make everyone fear him and revere him, was a flickering star on a far horizon.
He sprang up abruptly, energy crackling around him like a storm gathering. His voice rang clear and unwavering in the stillness.
"So be it!"
Grievous muttered to himself, the words sharp as steel.
"I must become stronger first. Without strength, I will easily be trampled over, and without strength, there is no freedom!"
The weight of his realization settled heavily yet invigorated him. Power was not merely a tool, it was the very essence of survival and freedom. Without power, all his hopes, dreams, and desires were nothing but fragile illusions, ideas without substance.
Was Grievous a fool not to understand the importance of power? No. He had understood it deeply from his early life. But his early understanding was of a different kind, political power, influence over men and kingdoms.
Now, it was raw, unyielding strength he sought.
As he closed his right hand into a fist, the veins on his forearm pulsed with newfound resolve. His voice was low but fierce.
"In a world where strength and abilities rule, I must become the strongest to have enough freedom to obtain what I want."
His eyes burned with a fire that refused to be quenched.
"I don't want to be a slave to any concept. I don't want to be a slave to anyone. I don't want to be a slave to my feelings! I must remain my own master and reach immortality and that rank! I must become stronger!" Grievous uttered loudly, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
Determination sharpened every muscle in his body. He refused the chains of dependency, the shackles of weakness.
He entered his Mind Palace, looking all around him, savoring the place and all it already had within.
Grievous raised his hands and once again cast the Shadow Clone spell. A perfect duplicate of him materialized in front of him, shimmering with an eerie, dark light.
He stepped forward, positioning himself in front of the clone. His fingers danced in quick, precise gestures, commanding the clone to release Shadow Arrows.
A volley of invisible arrows shot forth at an insanely high speed, slicing the air with deadly intent.
At that moment, a strange sword materialized in his hand, gleaming with an otherworldly light. The weapon was long and elegant, its blade splitting into two halves at the top.
The inner edges of these halves bore dark black fangs, jagged and menacing, in stark contrast to the shiny silver of the main blade.
Along the outer edges, the blade was razor sharp, sharper than even the finest polished obsidian.
If one stared intently at the sword, it appeared as if a monstrous mouth was grinning broadly, laughing with a sarcastic malice.
It was the third-rank spell, Zentorius Sword from the Gluttony element, a weapon as terrifying as it was beautiful.
Grievous moved the sword with fluid grace and deadly precision. As the invisible arrows hurtled toward him, they vanished the moment they neared his blade.
At the same instant, the arrows reappeared, now redirected toward the clone.
The battlefield was set, silent and electric with tension.
Grievous's mind raced with possibilities and strategies. This was more than training, it was a rehearsal for the battles to come, battles that would test not only his strength but his very soul.
The sword's fanged edges seemed to hunger for more than just flesh, they sought to consume power itself.
'This is only the beginning,' Grievous thought, eyes narrowing.
'Without strength, there is no freedom. Without freedom, there is no future. I will grasp both, no matter the cost.'
The clone moved swiftly, firing back a counterattack of shadowy arrows. The air hummed with the clash of unseen forces.
Grievous felt the familiar rush of adrenaline, the thrill of combat coursing through his veins.
Each movement, each strike.
He was no longer the man who merely sought to survive.
He was becoming something greater.
Something that could one day challenge the cosmic entities themselves.
The great game was waiting.
And Grievous intended to play it.
Grievous left the clone defenseless. As soon as the arrows hit it, several wounds appeared on the clone's form, dark cracks spreading like spiderwebs across its shimmering surface. Each puncture hissed faintly, a sound like air escaping a fragile bubble. The clone staggered but did not collapse.
After some time, Grievous began to support the clone with his Shen. A faint golden light pulsed from his palm, flowing into the wounded figure. Slowly, the wounds began to close, the cracks sealing seamlessly as if stitched by invisible threads.
The sword disappeared from Grievous's hand with a soft shimmer of smoke, leaving only the faint scent of burnt iron in the air. Simple grunts came out of his mouth as he stared intently at the clone. He thought, 'Fortunately, if the clone is hit, the caster is not affected, and with some support from the Shen, the clone's recovery is very easy.'
He shifted his gaze, the muscles in his jaw tightening. 'But there is the problem of Shen consumption.'
The shadow clone spell, he recalled, immediately drained 10 percent of the Shen energy from the caster upon casting, even at the late third rank. It did not absorb anything after that, unless it was injured or its Shen was exhausted through spellcasting.
'Simply put,' Grievous mused, 'this means its fatal weakness is the high consumption of Shen energy.'
He flexed his fingers, feeling the subtle hum of power coursing beneath his skin. 'Although this does not appear to me because my Shen is of high quality thanks to my talent, which is above average.' He smiled faintly. 'But in a real battle, the consumption will be beyond the limits.'
Grievous had all of Kaede's magical and battle experiences stored within him, memories spanning hundreds of years. It was as though he had lived those lifetimes himself, absorbing the triumphs and failures, the quiet moments and the raging battles.
Analyzing the flaws in his spells was simple with such a vast archive at his disposal.
'This problem can be solved by quickly retrieving Shen,' he thought aloud, his thoughts low and steady. 'But to do that, there are two solutions: absorbing Shen directly from magical materials, or finding a magical tool to compensate for the required speed.'
He closed his eyes and focused his thoughts. The world around him faded into a blur of colors and sensations, as if his mind were diving deep within the currents of his own power.
'My current recovery speed is two percent every ten seconds.'
He whispered the numbers to himself, turning them over like stones in his hand.
'This means that per minute I recover twelve percent.'
He opened his eyes slowly, gazing at the clone still shimmering faintly beside him.
'The consumption of the Shadow Clone spell is ten percent, and if the clone uses several spells at the second rank, I can maintain the clone for a period of time.'
The clone's form flickered slightly as it flexed its hands.
'This period will be determined according to the severity of the battle.'
Grievous paced a few steps, counting in his head.
'If the use of spells is frequent and concentrated, the Shen inside it will end in five to eight minutes.'
He paused, crunching the numbers further.
'While if the use is as much as the pressure required, it can continue for seven to twelve minutes.'
His brow furrowed. The balance was delicate, razor-thin between endurance and collapse.
'If I calculate my Shen recovery rate and take the minimum duration of the clone, I will actually recover sixty percent in five minutes.'
His fingers curled into a fist.
'And if I say that I myself was fighting with the same intensity as my clone, the remaining ninety percent will end in five to eight or seven to twelve minutes.'
He frowned. The calculations were grim but clear.
'This is without taking into account that the clone will be harmed in the attacks.'
He exhaled, eyes narrowing with determination.
'This means that in the fight from the beginning, I will have my own power and the clone's power for five to twelve minutes depending on the use.'
The silence between his thoughts hung heavily.
'After the time expires, there will be time without the presence of the clone, and perhaps the entire fight will be without the clone.'
Grievous's mind raced, weighing strategies.
'Which means that in the first part of the fight I must be intense and put pressure on the enemy until I defeat them before time runs out.'
He looked at the clone again, the phantom echo of his own strength.
'As I have the advantage in numbers and support.'
The weight of those words settled on his shoulders. Pressure, urgency, necessity.
It was true that Grievous had a good understanding of battles and magic through Kaede's memories, and that was enough to analyze the weakness of that spell. But he did not exactly have the time to decide a specific number and its consumption.
He needed to prepare a plan to use the spells in battle.
At that moment, he had more than one hundred spells of various elements that he had an affinity for, so he had a little peace of mind in using and choosing.
Especially since he had about thirty of the third rank and fifty of the second.
The process of selecting them and preparing battle plans was a really long and exhausting process.
A magician must understand the capabilities of the spells and how to combine them well against his enemies, regardless of their spells.
He imagined the battlefield in his mind, a chaotic dance of fire and ice, lightning and stone.
The enemy would not wait for him to be ready. They would strike swiftly, unpredictably.
Grievous clenched his jaw.
He could not afford hesitation.
He needed to be faster, smarter, more adaptable than any opponent.
His thoughts drifted to the magical materials he had stored in his chambers, crystals pulsing with latent energy, rare herbs that could amplify Shen recovery.
Could he create a device? A tool to accelerate his Shen restoration during battle?
The idea sparked like a flame in the dark.
If he could pull it off, the clone's endurance would multiply.
His lips twitched into a grim smile.
He pictured himself standing in the fray, the clone beside him, both of them weaving spells in perfect harmony.
An unstoppable force.
He tapped his fingers lightly on his arm.
"Yes," he murmured, "I will find a way."