In the real world, a week had already passed as Grievous' body remained in a state of unconsciousness.
The sterile room was dimly lit, shadows dancing quietly along the walls as the servants tended to him. They fed him liquid food, pumping it directly into his throat through a thin tube, the sound of it a reminder of his fragile state at that moment.
The air was foggy with worry. His parents paced endlessly, their faces pale and drawn. Each day their hope dimmed a little more.
They whispered among themselves, eyes darting to their son's motionless form, unable to shake the gnawing fear that he might never wake. The question hung heavily between them: was he trapped in a coma?
Doctor Charles had been summoned again and urgently from Francomot's Academy of Magical Medicine.
His reputation preceded him, as he was quite known for blending arcane knowledge with medical science in ways few people could reach.
Upon examining the boy, the doctor employed a magical detection technique, his hands weaving subtle signs in the air, tracing faint, glowing runes.
"The child's consciousness is active," he said quietly, frowning. "But it operates at an abnormal speed."
He explained that Grievous' mind was racing, his thoughts moving faster than his body could respond. This, he theorized, was a defense mechanism, his consciousness working overtime to cope with a storm of pain radiating through his battered body.
The doctor prescribed potent painkillers infused with minor healing enchantments, and most importantly, for his family, patience.
Seven days later, a sudden flutter of movement stirred the stillness. Grievous' eyelids flickered open.
His gaze, not truly focused at first, sharpened as he took in his surroundings.
The room seemed muted, yet colors burst with vivid intensity, as if the world had been drained of life and then slowly painted back in.
He blinked slowly, taking in the sterile white sheets, the faint scent of herbs lingering in the air. His mind felt detached, as though watching a slow-motion film. Every sound was exaggerated, the hum of the healer's instruments, the soft rustling of fabric, the low murmur of voices beyond the door.
Through the window beside his bed, he saw the sky stretched out, a canvas of pale blue washed with streaks of pink dawn. The trees outside swayed gently, their leaves whispering secrets in the morning breeze. This simple scene struck a strange chord within him.
A wide smile curled at the corners of his lips, the expression of an old, seasoned fox who had seen too many deceptions.
"It wasn't a hallucination," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I really changed my mind."
He flexed his fingers slowly, feeling the dull ache that pulsed through his body. Then his gaze dropped to his left leg, or rather, what was left of its feeling.
"But everything has a price," he murmured. "In exchange for glimpsing my entire life, I lost control over one of my legs. I learned long ago that nothing comes free. The real question is: was it worth it?"
His eyes narrowed as they fixed on the numb leg beneath the blanket. "But it doesn't really matter. From what I saw, this is a world where magic and monsters exist. As long as I have enough money, I can find a healing mage to fix this."
He remembered the fragments of his past and the strange memories that did not belong to him but to the body he now inhabited.
According to those memories, he was the son of a simple baron, Hyde, who ruled a few scattered lands far from the capital, in a place that seemed as unremarkable as the name suggested.
How ironic, he thought with a bitter edge. The name Grievous. It sounded like a curse.
Just as if everything had been prepared for him. His transition to this world was no accident. There had to be a reason for bringing him here, to this modest place.
'Maybe this place is a crucible,' he pondered silently. 'Or perhaps I am merely a pawn, sent here for someone's amusement. To watch me stumble, struggle, and fall. I don't know.'
He lifted his head, eyes clearing as determination settled like steel in his chest.
Slowly, he extended his left hand forward, the fingers trembling slightly. At their tips, a faint glow shimmered, a subtle color that danced just beyond understanding.
Curious, he looked closer at his torso. The glow strengthened, a soft, pulsing light that seemed to breathe with him.
"It seems this is spiritual energy," he whispered, voice low and filled with a strange awe. "Or what they call Shen."
Memories flickered, snatches of knowledge about this energy, how it could be harnessed and trained. The previous owner of this body had known of it but had barely begun any cultivation. He had been weak, unprepared.
Another breath escaped him, colder this time.
"Pathetic," he muttered.
He clenched his fist, feeling the energy pulse beneath his skin. It was raw and unrefined, but it was power. Potential for what he wanted.
A flicker of a plan stirred in his mind.
He would not remain weak.
Not here.
Not ever again.
Outside the window, the world waited. A world brimming with magic, monsters, and mysteries to unravel.
And Grievous was awake, exactly in this world.