The agony was unlike anything he had ever endured. It clawed at his very essence, as if his body was being dismantled and remade from scratch. Every fiber, every cell, felt as though it was tearing apart only to be woven back stronger, purer. The pain was relentless, like a tempest raging inside him, refusing to relent.
He clenched his fists, the nails digging deep into his palms, trying to anchor himself amid the storm. Screaming was an option, but he resisted. He had learned that surrendering to the noise only weakened the spirit.
Instead, he bit down hard, muffling his cries into groans that slipped through clenched teeth. Warm tears mingled with sweat, tracing silent rivers down his face, burning yet cleansing.
Time lost meaning. Minutes stretched into hours. He had no sense of how long he had been trapped in this crucible. The world outside seemed distant, irrelevant.
His entire being was focused on enduring, on becoming something new.
After what seemed like an eternity, the torment finally faded. It was as if the storm inside him had calmed, leaving behind a profound stillness.
Grievous opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the brightness of his renewed senses. It was over. He had been reborn.
His body felt different, stronger, more vital.
A surge of power rippled through his veins, awakening dormant muscles and nerves. His senses sharpened, every sound clearer, every scent richer, every breath deeper. Spiritual energy, once a faint ember, now blazed like a roaring flame inside him, multiplying beyond anything he had ever imagined.
A wide smile spread across his face. It was not just relief but triumph. Something new stirred within him, a hidden power, potent and mysterious.
It was beyond simple belief, something stronger, more profound than the power he had first wielded. He had seized the reins of the force he had been waiting for, the power that would change everything.
Quietly, he slipped away from the chamber where he had endured his ordeal.
The door closed softly behind him, sealing away the pain and struggle.
He returned to his room, the familiar surroundings welcoming him back like a long-lost friend. He placed a hand on his face, stifling the laughter that bubbled up from deep inside, slipping through his lips in soft waves.
"No gain without risk," he whispered, closing his hand into a fist.
Grievous knew this truth well. Power never came without a price. He understood the delicate balance between when to advance and when to retreat.
No matter how long he had hesitated, the final outcome would remain the same.
What drove him was not just survival but a pure, burning desire for power and life itself. Without that instinct, that primal hunger, he would never have survived the disintegration of existence.
At that moment, Grievous did not fully grasp the extent of what he had done or what had happened to him.
The transformation was profound, but its implications were still a mystery. Anyone else attempting what he had done, without the ability to manipulate probabilities, would have been erased from existence entirely.
But Grievous, in an unconscious, instinctive way, had twisted the odds in his favor. He manipulated the probabilities of his survival and return to life with a subtlety born of desperation and instinct.
Where the chance of survival had been infinitesimal—something like 0.0000000000000000000001%—he had pushed it until it became absolute. One hundred percent. Of course, this was instinctive.
At the time, with conscious intent, the maximum he could have reached was a mere 0.0000000000008 percent.
Simply put, this ability was the ultimate plot armour. It was a gift from existence itself, only triggered in instinctive situations, and its effect on probabilities was limited to the realm of the Cosmic Towers.
It was not even a concept but a supreme law woven into the fabric of existence there.
His ability was so complex that if he ever learned to control it fully, it would not matter what entity he faced inside the Cosmic Towers.
Their rank, power, or status would be irrelevant. Among those who did not wield a supreme law, no being would stand against him.
This power could be likened to a bulldozer, sweeping away everything in its path without hesitation or pause. It was raw, unstoppable, and terrifying.
Grievous closed his eyes briefly, connecting to the gut feeling inside him.
The energy hummed beneath his skin, a quiet pulse of certainty and strength. He focused his mind and, with barely a whisper of effort, a chessboard materialized on the table in front of him.
It looked like an ordinary chessboard but without any of the usual pieces. The wood gleamed under the dim light, the squares perfectly aligned, yet it held an aura of mystery, as if waiting for something beyond a simple game.
He stared at the board, feeling the weight of countless possibilities. Each square was a battlefield, each move a decision with rippling consequences. The absence of pieces was a blank canvas, inviting him to shape his destiny.
His fingers hovered over the board, hesitant yet eager. The silence around him was thick, broken only by the faint crackle of spiritual energy coursing through the room.
He wondered, 'What moves will I make next? Which pieces will I summon from the shadows of my mind?'
Grievous smiled again, the thrill of potential coursing through him.
He thought then two pieces stood on the board, casting a bright blue glow. One shaped like Edmund, the other like Old Kaede.
Above each piece hovered a number. Edmund's was 6564, a towering figure. Kaede's was far smaller, only 342.
Grievous studied the difference. The numbers must represent luck or the direction of a person's odds. The higher the number, the more fate leaned in their favor.
He shifted his weight and moved toward the mirror. His reflection stared back, but then his eyes caught something strange.
At the crown of his head was a symbol unlike anything he had seen before. A distorted emblem—a red circle with nine long edges curling outward. Black shadows edged the symbol, swirling like smoke around the fiery core.
Grievous swallowed hard, surprise tightening his chest. He had expected to see his own luck number. Instead, this alien sigil stared back at him, mocking his confusion.
'What is this? What does it mean?' he wondered, tracing the shape in his mind.
His curiosity won over caution. He slipped silently into the shadows and glided toward his brother's room. The door was slightly ajar, the dim light from the hallway spilling inside.
There, above his brother's head, glowed the number 736. A modest figure, but still a number, at least a clear reflection of his brother's standing in the web of fate.
Grievous retreated to his chamber, the door clicking softly shut behind him. He sank into his chair, the air heavy with questions.
"So, what's the problem?" he whispered, voice barely audible.
His mind raced, turning over every possibility. The symbol was too complex to be random. It must have meaning. Something tied to his essence, his history.
After an hour of silent contemplation, a theory emerged. There must be limits to this ability to read fortunes. For those limits, something else appeared, an ancient emblem, perhaps tied to identity rather than luck.
He recalled the nine edges on the symbol and the old nickname whispered in the darker corners of his past: The Nine-Headed Demon.
'Could this be my true mark?' he thought.
Grievous exhaled slowly, finding a fragile calm. His fingers hovered over Kaede's piece on the board. He pressed down gently, willing to test his power.
The number flickered, then crept upward: 352, 412, 475, finally settling at 521.
Suddenly, his body betrayed him. He collapsed back into his chair, breath ragged and chest burning. Exhaustion washed over him like a tidal wave.
He had never felt so drained. It was as if he had run a marathon without moving a muscle. Sweat dripped down his forehead, mingling with the pounding rhythm in his ears.
This power exacted a heavy toll. Manipulating odds was no simple trick. At his current rank, it demanded everything he had.
A small smile curled on Grievous's lips despite the fatigue. Victory tasted sweet, even if fleeting.
He had unlocked a terrifying ability. One that would tip the scales in his favor in countless battles to come.
"My days will never be boring," he said quietly as the chessboard dissolved before his eyes.
The room returned to its usual dimness, but his mind remained sharp and alert.
He turned his attention back to the information Kaede had gathered, specifically, the secrets surrounding Rahul's Swords.
Kaede had risked much to acquire those details. She had journeyed to the capital, infiltrated the organization's heart, and extracted every scrap of knowledge she could find.
Grievous cupped his chin, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders.
'If these swords hold the key to future battles, I must understand them fully,' he thought.
The glow from the vanished board left a faint trace in the room.
He reached for the scrolls and documents Kaede had left behind, running his fingers over the delicate parchment.
Every line, every symbol, was a puzzle piece. The more he studied, the more the picture began to form, a story of power, betrayal, and hidden legacies.
Outside, the wind whispered through the open cracks in the wooden frame, carrying with it the scent of rain and distant thunder.
Grievous felt the storm brewing, both in the sky and within his soul.
He closed his eyes briefly, letting the silence wrap around him like a cloak.
'The Nine-Headed Demon,' he repeated in his mind. 'Maybe this name is more than a curse. Maybe it is my destiny.'
The room felt smaller now, charged with unseen energy.
He stood and stretched, muscles stiff but spirit renewed.