Quietly in his room, Grievous confined his soul for three days as he completely immersed himself in the spells and experimenting with them, or at least the first-rank ones.
The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the walls, dancing with each subtle movement of his hands as he traced arcane symbols in the air. His brows furrowed in concentration, lips barely moving as he whispered incantations that twisted the very fabric of magic around him.
Each spell demanded focus, patience, and a delicate balance of spiritual energy. At times, frustration gnawed at him when a simple misstep unraveled hours of effort. Yet, the thrill of mastering even a single first-rank spell kept him tethered to the task.
He thought, 'If only I could reach higher ranks faster… but every journey starts with a single step.'
The dim room smelled faintly of old parchment and burnt herbs, remnants of previous experiments. Outside, the world continued.
After three days, the spellwork had reached a tentative mastery, and Grievous felt a flicker of satisfaction. It was time for a new path.
He decided that he would go to the blacksmith in the neighbouring city to make him something very special, a transforming weapon.
Such weapons were rare, feats of both magical and mechanical artistry. The art of making those weapons was difficult and required great craftsmanship, but according to memories from the old mage, that blacksmith could make that type.
Grievous packed lightly, ensuring his gear was secure and his mask fitted snugly.
Quietly, Grievous knocked on Edmund's door. The simple child came out quietly, his small frame barely making a sound on the wooden floor. His eyes brightened when he saw his father.
Grievous said without entering the room, "I will disappear for a while, but there is no need to worry."
He paused, watching the boy's eyes flicker with unease.
"If you need anything, just ask your grandfather about it."
A slight sadness appeared in Edmund's eyes. The boy's innocence was a fragile thing, and the thought of hos father leaving him even briefly was heavy.
Grievous lowered his upper body slightly and placed his hand gently on the child's head.
"There is no need to be sad. I will be back."
Without responding, Edmund watched as Grievous disappeared into the shadows. The sadness lingered, but beneath it was a sturdy thread of trust, as he was sure that his father would undoubtedly return.
As Grievous began to travel through the shadows, the world around him blurred and twisted into streaks of darkness and light. The sensation was almost like falling and flying at once, a disorienting but exhilarating rush.
He thought, 'I think I have enough money to make a very good and powerful weapon. I only hope that he does not have a fossilized brain and that he accepts money, as I have nothing else.'
The journey between the two cities took about three hours at the speed of travelling within the shadows. During this time, Grievous cast the spell once to sustain his passage, but it absorbed about 1/80 of his spiritual energy. Compared to normal magicians, Grievous had a massive reserve of Shen, but it was average for geniuses, all of whom had either an equal or higher amount.
The other city lay quiet in the early hours of the night, the streets bathed in moonlight. The only sounds were the occasional howls of dogs and the soft murmur of voices from a few late-night wanderers.
Lanterns flickered along narrow alleys, casting pools of amber light onto cobblestones slick with dew.
Grievous came out of the shadows and scanned his surroundings carefully.
'According to the information, the blacksmith should be here.'
He moved silently through the sleeping city, his heavy boots muffled by the soft earth and scattered leaves. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of wood smoke and oil.
He soon spotted a simple blacksmith's workshop. The light of a yellow oil lamp escaped through its window, which was closed with plain curtains. The faint glow suggested the smith was still awake, perhaps working late on a project.
Grievous adjusted his armor and mask, his presence an imposing figure against the quiet backdrop. He approached the workshop with deliberate steps.
He stood in front of the door and made several firm knocks.
An angry voice barked from inside, "It's 21 o'clock, for hell's sake!"
Grievous' voice, altered by the mask, came out automatically, calm but commanding.
"Open the door, Jeremon."
There was a pause. Then the sound of heavy footsteps shuffled across the wooden floor.
Suddenly, the door swung wide open.
From behind the door, a gigantic man appeared, muscles rippling beneath his simple shirt. His thick red hair spilled wildly over his forehead, glowing like a small fire in the dim light. Strands slid down onto his flushed face, while curls of reddish hair sprouted on his arms, curling slightly at the ends.
The man's intense eyes locked onto the sudden visitor, a mixture of suspicion and surprise flashing in their depths.
"Who are you? Huh?"
Grievous met the gaze steadily.
"I am Glarogh. I come seeking a weapon only you can forge."
Jeremon felt the bloody stare burning through the mask, cold and unyielding. The distorted voice slipped through the mysterious skull's beak, breaking the silence like a chilling wind.
"Let's go in first, shall we?"
He sized up the figure before him. No hint of warmth, no flicker of emotion. Just that eerie mask, cracked and ancient, hiding whatever truth lay beneath.
'I can't see through him or through that mask,' Jeremon thought, tension knotting in his chest. 'He knows my name. Maybe he's a mysterious old magician. That mask is strange, no aura, no spiritual energy leaking from his body or the mask itself.'
It was as if this man had no spiritual existence at all, a ghost haunting the edges of reality. Jeremon swallowed his unease. 'Let's go along with him and see what he wants.'
The man's size was striking. Compared to Jeremon's towering seven-foot frame, he was a dwarf. Yet his presence felt heavy, like the weight of countless secrets pressed into that small form.
Without a word, Jeremon nodded and stepped aside. The giant man moved smoothly to let the visitor in. The faint creak of the wooden door echoed in the quiet street as the stranger slipped inside the blacksmith's shop.
The shop was simple, almost Spartan. A few swords hung on the walls, their blades catching the dull light. Shields rested against the timber beams, battered but sturdy.
Several comfortable chairs circled a plain square table in the center, worn smooth by years of use. The air smelled faintly of iron and coal smoke, a familiar scent that settled Jeremon's nerves.
The red-haired blacksmith moved silently to one of the chairs and sat down. Grievous, the masked visitor, followed without hesitation and took his seat opposite.
"I know you can make transforming weapons," Grievous said, his voice low and steady.
Jeremon's fingers twitched, recalling the rumors of his skill.
"My request is simple," Grievous continued. "I need a Cane that turns into a strong halberd."
Jeremon grunted softly, rubbing his chin. The request was unusual, but not impossible. Transforming weapons demanded rare expertise and costly materials.
After a long moment, Jeremon spoke. "You know that making weapons like this is very expensive. You have two options: bring the required resources, or pay me two million pounds in full. Either way, I guarantee a weapon of at least gold rank."
He watched Grievous carefully. The ranks were clear in his mind, as the went from Iron, Copper, Silver, Gold, Platinum, Titanium, Lizarinium, Mezaretonium, to the legendary Jingotonium.
Gold was no small thing. It marked the boundary where ordinary weapons became truly formidable.
Grievous feigned thought, then nodded. "Good enough."
Ten shiny platinum-colored coins appeared in his palm, gleaming with a faint magical glow.
"Here is a million as a deposit," Grievous said, voice steady as stone. "The other million after I receive the weapon. I think this is fair."
Jeremon's eyes flicked to the coins. Platinum was precious, rare enough to keep even a seasoned blacksmith alert.
The giant blacksmith nodded slowly. "Well, then. In a month, the weapon will be ready for delivery."
He extended his massive hand calmly. Grievous handed over the coins without hesitation.
"You know," Grievous said quietly, voice low and serious, "if you break your promise, you'll get yourself into a lot of trouble."
Jeremon smiled beneath his breath. "Of course, of course."
Jeremon was used to such threats, and neither flinched. The tension in the room was thick but manageable.
Then, as if swallowed by the shadows themselves, Grievous vanished.
Jeremon stared into the dimness where the visitor had been moments before.
'A shadow magician, huh,' he mused. 'Like a scorpion hiding in the depths of abandoned houses, waiting for prey to approach.'
There was something dangerous about this man. Something intriguing.
As Jeremon settled back into his chair, the shadows around the shop seemed to pulse with a quiet life.
Meanwhile, Grievous moved silently through the darkness, thoughts churning beneath the mask.
'Even though he is a late third rank,' Grievous reflected, 'I cannot control him.'
The difference between power and control was vast. Some spirits yielded easily. Others, like Jeremon, were wild and untamable.
'There are individual differences,' Grievous thought, the memory of Kaede flickering behind his eyes.
He would have to delve into her memories again, to find the key to bend such strength to his will.