Items like this were banned in the kingdom. If found, they would be destroyed without hesitation, labeled as evil tools corrupting the purity of the realm. But Grievous never saw it that way. To him, good and evil were nothing more than perspectives shaped by individual needs and desires.
He understood the world in terms of benefit and harm. Everything that served his purpose was good. Everything that hindered him was evil. There were no moral constraints to hold him back. No invisible chains of societal judgment or tradition.
Throughout his life, Grievous had been the direct cause of the deaths of tens of thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands. His name was whispered with fear and revulsion. Yet those who knew him on a personal level, well understood something chilling: he did not operate by human morals at all.
He had transcended the simplistic binary of right and wrong long ago. In his mind, he was his own moral compass, the balance of good and evil embodied in one being. Outwardly, he could appear civilized or even honorable. But in the ruthless arenas of politics and power, he was rightly feared and named The Nine-Headed Demon.
For Grievous, the cost of killing seven more people to regain his full strength was negligible. It was a trivial price, something he could execute with a mere flick of a finger. With his new ability, even that was unnecessary. Life and death bent easily to his will.
He took the mysterious gear with calm purpose. No urgency, no hesitation. His mind was already moving ahead, planning his next steps. Quietly, he slipped towards his father. The two moved swiftly, shadows among shadows, exiting the treasury without stirring suspicion.
Once outside, Grievous erased the memories of the guards with real efficiency. Their minds would fog over, their recollections dissolving into nothing. It was a small mercy, better they forget than remember the terror they had briefly glimpsed as their master was turned into a puppet.
Separated from his father, Grievous retreated to his room. The door closed behind him with a soft click, sealing him away from the outside world. He sat down on the edge of the bed, muscles relaxing for the first time in hours.
He closed his eyes and summoned the memory of the magical technique he had recently studied. It was complex, intricate, and unlike anything commonly known in the kingdom. But Grievous had read and understood it deeply. Now, it was time to commit it fully to memory.
The first step required communication with the soul, the core of spiritual energy known as Shen. This energy was not static, rather it flowed, pulsed, and vibrated within the vessel of the soul. The technique directed the user to guide this energy into a container, what cultivators called the Shen Basin, a translucent sphere that shimmered like glass.
Within this basin, the spiritual energy quivered, its liquid essence responding to the user's will. Then came the sudden stop, the critical moment where the energy would leak from the soul into the body. This connection was known, but the technique emphasized controlling this flow, channeling it precisely through what was called The Mind Palace.
The Mind Palace was a sacred internal space where the user could shape and build the foundation of their magical power. It appeared as a towering column, stretching upward in a longitudinal form, glowing with the colors of raw spiritual energy.
On this column, giant circular stones appeared, each representing an elemental affinity the user possessed. The size of each stone indicated the strength of that affinity. The largest stone symbolized the element with the highest connection to the user, followed by smaller stones for lesser affinities.
Grievous opened his eyes slowly, a faint hoarseness in his voice as he whispered, "So the task of the technique is simply to stabilize the Shen Basin during the magical empowerment process."
He paused, considering the implications.
"This means there are differences between techniques."
"But that does not truly matter. It will not affect me if I decide to change the technique itself. It is more of a support system for the process rather than an unchangeable rule once it has begun."
A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "So, let us begin our ascent beyond the limits of normal humans. And then… we will reclaim the leg."
The room was silent except for the steady rhythm of his breath and the faint hum of his spiritual energy awakening.
Calmly, with intense focus, Grievous began executing the technique.
The Shen Basin inside his mind began to move slowly, the energy taking liquid form, vibrating with subtle ripples. It was as if a storm raged silently within that glass sphere, chaos held in delicate balance.
He imagined the energy as a shimmering pool, its surface reflecting colors unseen by the naked eye. Indigo, emerald, and crimson swirled beneath the translucent barrier, each hue representing a different facet of his essence.
Grievous leaned back slightly, eyes still closed, feeling the currents of Shen flow through him like invisible rivers. The sensation was both calming and electrifying, a paradox of peace and power.
He thought, 'This is only the beginning. The true strength lies not in the power itself, but in mastering its flow.'
Memories flickered through his mind, faces of enemies fallen to his hands.
Yet none of it mattered now. Not the past. Not the judgments of others.
Only the future. Only the climb beyond what was humanly possible.
His thoughts drifted to the missing limb, the leg he had lost in battle. It was a reminder of his mortality, a weakness he loathed. But with this technique, with the power he was cultivating, he would reclaim it.
No longer would he be bound by flesh and bone. The leg would return, whole and stronger than before.
The room around him faded into insignificance. Time seemed to stretch and bend as he remained seated, eyes shut, fully immersed within the mental landscape of his Mind Palace.
Each breath drew deeper into the well of energy inside him. Each heartbeat echoed the pulse of the Shen Basin vibrating within.
Grievous' lips moved silently, reciting the steps of the technique as if chanting a sacred prayer. The words were old, ancient, yet they resonated with new meaning in his mouth.
Outside, the night deepened. The moon cast silver beams through the window, illuminating motes of dust that floated lazily in the still air.
But inside his mind, a tempest brewed, one that would soon unleash a force the world had bever expected.
He was not a man bound by old laws or petty morality. He was a force of nature, a storm with nine heads.