In various legends across the entire continent, Rahul's Swords were mentioned in one way or another. Their names echoed through time like distant thunder, leaving ripples in the collective memory of countless generations.
When the legends were collected and placed in chronological order, a story of myth and history emerged, revealing a tale as ancient as the blood-stained soil beneath their feet.
In ancient times, when the sky was still red and the sun was hidden, there was a kingdom. It was called the Kingdom of Maguliara. It was the greatest kingdom in that period, with a vast land area stretching beyond the horizon.
Its power was terrifying, a shadow that cast fear over the entire continent. The very earth seemed to tremble beneath its might, and its banners flew high in every corner of the known world.
At the head of that kingdom was King Rahul, a ruler whose name was whispered with reverence and dread. He was betrayed and killed later, his death marking the beginning of the kingdom's collapse.
It was said that on the night of his fall, the sky rained meteors like fiery tears, as if the heavens themselves mourned or cursed the land. Civil war swallowed the once-united realm whole, tearing noble families apart in bitter conflict.
The noble families were fighting among themselves, blinded by greed and ambition. Yet, they forgot the existence of the king's strongest guards, who had mysteriously disappeared before his death.
These were Rahul's Swords, warriors forged in loyalty and shadow, their names etched into legends. They vanished as silently as the wind, their fate entwined with the secrets of the kingdom's demise.
On the night of the fall, as meteors rained destruction, the entire kingdom crumbled. A land that once extended over ten million square kilometers was crushed overnight, reduced to smoldering ruins and shattered dreams. The ground bore scars deeper than any sword could carve, and the cries of the fallen echoed in the howling wind.
Here, many accounts diverge. Some say that the Swords of Rahul sacrificed the entire kingdom to gain immortality, a dark pact sealed in blood and fire.
Others believe the calamity was a divine punishment from the Lord of the Syracian Church, a celestial retribution for sins too grave to name. The Church once held the highest authority in the world, its power so absolute that kings were but servants to its will.
Yet, with a wave of cultural revival, the Church's grip weakened until it was crushed beneath the tides of change. All that remained were legends whispered by old storytellers beside fading hearths.
Regarding the immortality of the Swords, no legend could confirm its source or basis. Yet, in most stories, they were depicted as immortals who could not die, no matter the means or the odds.
Their strength varied across tales; some legends spoke of Swords as mighty as the top of the fifth rank, others as low as the bottom. Several even told of fourth rank geniuses who surpassed them, striking down the invincible warriors.
Their intrinsic strength was not what truly terrified people. It was their ability to return to life, time and again, that cast a shadow of dread over all who faced them.
After killing a Sword, enemies might grow weary, cutting them apart and casting their remains to beasts or desolate places. Yet, the Swords would rise again, relentless and unyielding. This endless cycle bred a weariness, a hopelessness in those who fought them.
One legend, whispered in hushed tones and hidden from the public eye, told of the Swords hunting a mysterious people called the Sons of Heaven. It was said the Swords pursued them to revive their dead king, to bring Rahul back from the abyss of death itself. This secret was veiled in darkness, known only to a few who dared to remember.
As Grievous read this, a cold shiver ran down his spine. He realized without a doubt that the Son of Heaven mentioned was Edmund, the figure whose presence loomed like a storm on his path. Perhaps Edmund was destined to bring ruin upon his head. The warning from the entity in his dream had been addressed to him with caution, a cryptic message that unsettled him deeply.
He wondered, 'Could I myself be a Son of Heaven?'
The thought gnawed at him relentlessly.
Outside the night wind whispered secrets through the gnarled branches of ancient trees. Grievous closed the dusty tome, its weight heavier now with meaning. The fire flickered, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts on the walls. His mind raced, filling with images of burning skies and falling stars, of warriors who could not die and kings who betrayed their own.
Grievous stood and stretched, the muscles in his back aching from hours hunched over the fragile pages. He looked out over the estate, its lights twinkling like distant stars.
The thought filled him with unease and determination.
He would need to uncover the truth behind Rahul's Swords. To understand their immortality, their curse, and the role Edmund played in the coming storm.
Only then could he hope to survive the darkness gathering on the horizon.
The legends spoke of a time when the sky was red and the sun hidden. Perhaps that time was coming again.
If it truly was like this, then appearing before the public would be an act of reckless danger.
The world was unforgiving, especially for those who did not know where their enemies lurked. The Swords may still be alive, roaming the earth in search of a way to resurrect their king.
Grievous rubbed his temple with slow, deliberate pressure, trying to ease the mounting ache. "How much loyalty does it take for someone to do all that to bring someone back from the dead?" he murmured, voice low and weighted with disbelief.
In his mind, the Swords must have been forced into this unnatural existence. Perhaps that was the secret to their immortality—the chains of duty and obligation binding them beyond death.
For Grievous, the concept of absolute loyalty was foreign. He never believed in it. In his eyes, it was like handing over one's own neck to another, trusting blindly, only to be betrayed by the blade. The idea itself was an anomaly, a dangerous fantasy.
He had read about loyalty in books and seen it glorified in movies. Yet those were mere tales, romanticized illusions that bore no resemblance to the cold, dark reality he knew.
Despite his age, Grievous remained intellectually stubborn. He held his views like armor, refusing to bend for philosophies that clashed with his experience.
What he deemed inappropriate was simply so, and he struggled to grasp the idea that mentalities could differ so widely. His years in the political arena had hardened him. There, self-interest was the currency everyone traded in.
Politics was a cesspool of ambition and selfishness. The society of politicians was a cruel breed, one where personal gain was king and anything that served it was justified.
Of course, Grievous spoke from a perspective shared by many, perhaps most, of those who had tasted the bitter world of power.
Most people did not realize that other philosophies and moralities existed outside their bubble. The political world crushed anyone who dared deviate from its harsh rules. Those who refused to play by its games were erased without mercy.
His youth had been forged in the fires of a poor, violent neighborhood. Survival meant constantly watching your back, fighting for scraps in a world that resembled a jungle more than a city.
Theft, murder, and abuse were daily horrors. The strong prevailed, and the weak were devoured.
That was the ancient law of the wild, and it had shaped him.
Yet Grievous escaped. He abandoned everything and fled to the city's heart, where opportunity awaited those who dared to seize it. There, his extraordinary intellect blossomed, marking him as different.
People sensed something strange about him. He never sought companionship or approval. Solitude was his comfort, and his worldview was alien to those raised in the city's peaceful lights.
He took every chance to strengthen himself intellectually. His studies spanned economics, accounting, politics, history, logic, sociology, psychology, and philosophy.
Grievous was obsessed with understanding life's true workings, especially human nature and society. He left behind the complex sciences that offered no practical path to power or progress.
Some might call that selfishness.
But Grievous did not see it that way. For him, it was a calculated strategy, a way to climb the social ladder and gain the influence he craved.
When he finally reached the pinnacle he had dreamed of, he realized those dreams were hollow. They were nothing but fragile illusions, disconnected from the gritty reality that shaped every moment.
At first, he had wanted to improve his old neighborhood, to lift it from the mire. But power changed his perspective. The authority in his hands served him more than any noble cause.
He exhaled deeply, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him.
"I must increase my strength," he said quietly.
The words echoed in the dimly lit room, a promise to himself more than a declaration to others.
He looked out the window, where the estay sprawled beneath the night sky. Lights flickered like distant stars, but the darkness between them was vast and unyielding.
Grievous understood that to survive, he needed more than intellect or influence. He needed power that could not be taken away, a strength that would shield him from betrayal and death.
He recalled the stories of the Swords once more, their undying devotion to a cause that transcended life itself.
Could such loyalty exist without chains?
He doubted it.
For him, loyalty was always a transaction, a fragile agreement balanced on the edge of self-interest.
He had seen too many betrayals, too many comrades fall to treachery and ambition.