With every interaction with Grievous, Grievous erased people's memories of him so that no one could reach him in any situation.
This was a calculated move, a safeguard that ensured his presence remained a phantom, untouchable and untraceable.
So when Kaede found herself laying in the forest, disoriented and broken, she had no idea why she was there.
Around her, the devastation was scattered like a cruel painting of a primordial era. Trees lay uprooted, their trunks splintered and twisted. The earth was scorched, dirt and ash mingling in the air. Her clothes hung in tatters, shredded by sharp edges or perhaps the clash itself. Her skin bore jagged cuts and bruises, marks of a battle she somehow could not recall.
Yet, Kaede's mind was a fog. The usual clarity that came with pain was absent, replaced by a dull ache and confusion. She blinked against the sunlight filtering through the broken canopy. The forest was silent, save for the distant rustle of leaves. No sound of footsteps, no voices calling out.
Grievous did not care. Not for her, not for the ruin left behind. His mind was already elsewhere, consumed by the child and the secret he carried.
To him, Kaede was merely a pawn, expendable and forgettable. Her suffering was nothing compared to the stakes at hand.
'I really hit the jackpot this time,' Grievous thought, a rare flicker of satisfaction flashing through his usually cold mind. He felt the intense aura pressing against his shoulder, a presence potent and unfamiliar. It was a sensation that sent a ripple of excitement through his veins.
After several minutes, Grievous appeared in his room, a stark chamber bathed in muted sunlight. The walls were lined with shelves of ancient books, their spines cracked and worn. On a sturdy wooden table sat a chessboard, pieces carved from dark obsidian and pale ivory.
Grievous placed the child gently on a highbacked chair. The boy looked small, fragile even, but there was an undeniable strength in his stillness.
Grievous began to remove his armor, the weight of it falling away with a soft thud. Finally, he lifted off his mask, revealing a face chiseled and eyes that burned with determination.
With a sharp snap of his fingers, a mental command rippled through the palace. Every servant, every guard, every attendant was ordered to treat this child as they did Edmund. The command was absolute, binding all to obedience without question.
Then Grievous quietly summoned the butler. The man appeared promptly, his expression unreadable but loyal.
"Wake up," Grievous said gently.
The child stirred, eyes fluttering open. According to the implanted memories, he already knew the butler. There was a faint glimmer of recognition in his gaze, a spark that reassured Grievous.
Grievous handed the child over without a word. As soon as the butler left the room, Grievous spoke softly, "What powers lay beyond..."
The butler washed the child with careful hands, bathing away the grime and blood. Then he dressed him in clothing that had belonged to Edmund, clean, fitting the boy's small frame. The transformation was subtle, but in it lay hope.
Grievous approached the boy again, the quiet library study room enveloping them in shadows and silence. He sat across from him, the chessboard between them.
"Your name is Faera," Grievous said clearly, "and you are my adopted son."
Faera nodded quietly, eyes wide but steady. He did not speak. His mind was still absorbing the flood of memories, adjusting to the new reality woven into his thoughts. He was understanding things, slowly piecing together who he was meant to be.
Grievous watched him closely, noting every subtle expression. There was a resilience beneath the boy's calm, a strength that promised much.
Then Grievous sent Faera to a room of his own. The boy rose, steady despite the weight of confusion, and left without hesitation.
Grievous returned to his room and sat quietly in his chair. In front of him, on the chess table, stood a new knight piece. It was carved in Faera's likeness, delicate yet fierce.
He stared intently at the number inscribed above the piece. His bloodied eyes sparkled with a fierce light. The number was 14659.
It was more than ten times that of a normal person.
He already knew the number from looking above the child's head, but seeing it etched into the knight piece gave him a strange rush of power. It was tangible, almost electric.
'He's almost twice as lucky as Edmund, hell,' Grievous thought, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He placed his hand on his hair and ruffled it a little, excitement bubbling beneath his stoic exterior.
He had never imagined finding his next powerful piece so easily. It felt as if fate itself had dealt him a hand.
Yet, Grievous was certain that his own luck had played a role. Though unseen, it was a force he had come to trust. It was already high, and it had brought this child to him.
He leaned back in his chair, the shadows of the room deepening around him. The game was far from over.
According to memories, that boy had been in the forest since his birth. There was no recollection of life before the thick canopy of ancient trees or before the wild animals had taken him in.
His earliest memories were raw and wild sunlight filtering through leaves, the rustle of leaves underfoot, the scent of damp earth mixing with the musk of beasts. He did not remember a cradle or a mother's lullaby. Instead, he remembered the hunger in the eyes of wolves, the watchful gaze of owls in the night, and the protection granted by creatures who should have been his predators.
Raised by animals, he had become something of a legend whispered among the few who dared venture near the forest's edge.
Grievous knew that the boy's survival was no mere accident. It was owed entirely to his frighteningly powerful luck.
Without that uncanny ability, the boy would have long since become prey, torn apart by ravenous beasts. The boy's luck defied reason, bending the chaotic forces of chance to shield him from harm. Whenever danger loomed, a subtle shift in fate twisted events, steering claws away or softening blows that should have been fatal. It was a power that made awe and unease in equal measure.
Yet Grievous's admiration was shadowed by concern. He was worried deeply, worried that the boy's luck might surpass his own. If this were true, the scales of chance would tip irrevocably in the boy's favor, threatening Grievous's very existence.
He had spent some time honing his own probability manipulation, weaving strands of fortune like a master craftsman. To be outmatched in this invisible battlefield would be catastrophic.
The thought gnawed at him relentlessly. 'Could this child truly be more fortunate than I am?' he wondered, his mind racing through possibilities.
But after meticulous analysis, Grievous found this fear unlikely. Faera's luck was already impressively high. Yet it had not shielded him from Grievous's discovery.
That fact alone suggested Grievous's own luck was equal or even superior. It was a subtle dance of probabilities, a balance of unseen forces that neither could easily break. This realization did not ease his mind entirely but gave him a measure of cautious confidence.
Then, Grievous quietly recalled Faera's features. Each detail etched itself vividly in his memory. The boy's black hair, customary in the Kingdom, flowed long and untamed. It had not been cut in the ten years he had spent in the forest, cascading in wild waves that caught the light in strange ways. His nose was sharp and thin, a delicate contrast to the rugged wilderness that was his home. His face held the refined angles of a diamond, chiseled and striking. His skin was the warm hue of ripe wheat, kissed by the sun yet untouched by civilization's hand. And his eyes, O those eyes, were red like fresh blood, vivid and unsettling.
All these were unmistakable hallmarks of the Hyde family.
The revelation unsettled Grievous. He did not doubt the parentage of the boy's body but began to question the ties of blood that bound him to the Hyde lineage. He pondered the relationship to the brother and uncle who remained in the city, figures shrouded in their own secrets.
Quietly, Grievous extended his mental hand, reaching out to sift through the brother's memories. He searched for any hint, any whisper of intimacy, any seed that might explain the boy's existence.
There was nothing.
No trace of union with another, no memory of impregnating anyone. His heart, if he still had one to speak of, felt a stir of confusion. Then, with great effort, Grievous stretched his mental grasp further, pushing into the uncle's memories. He played gently in the dark recesses of that mind, poking and prodding like a thief in a shadowed room.
What he found was definitive.
It was indeed the uncle.
The truth struck Grievous with unexpected force.
But the most astonishing revelation was the identity of the boy's mother.
She was familiar.
Hell, she was Edmund's mother!
The weight of that knowledge settled over him like a thick fog. Edmund's mother. The implications twisted through Grievous's mind like a serpent. His lips curled into a wide smile, sharp and knowing. He scratched his chin thoughtfully, the gesture slow and deliberate.
"It seems that I have to change the memories of Faera and Edmund a little and make them brothers from childhood."
With a simple, almost casual movement of his hand, Grievous altered the strands of memory, weaving a new truth into their pasts. Brothers, bound not just by blood but by shared history, history now rewritten with his touch.
He sat back, calm and composed, his gaze drifting to the three pieces on his side of the board.
"Swords of Rahul," he said, the words low and charged with meaning. His eyes burned with heat, fierce and unyielding.
That group was the main threat to Grievous's existence at that moment. No matter what happened to him personally, his mind remained tethered to the danger they posed.
The legends carried terrifying abilities, powers that had shaped the tides of recent history. Below the sixth level, they were among the strongest, their strength a constant shadow over Grievous.
He felt the familiar pulse of tension, the anticipation of conflict simmering just beneath the surface.
The forest boy, the hidden bloodlines, the shifting memories, all pieces in a larger game that only Grievous could see.
He smiled again, quietly confident.