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 crutch from the ground, turned it upwards, and thought, 'So the matter has already been done.'
The weight of the crutch felt different now , less a necessity. He flexed his toes, before letting the crutch 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.