"It's a perfect use of Time magic: the Rewind spell !" Grievous thought, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he sensed the Shen he had cast his spells with flow back into his Shen Basin. The familiar sensation of power returning to its source was invigorating, like a river reversing its course to refresh a drought stricken land.
Grievous did not hesitate or waver. His eyes narrowed with steely determination. He recast the spells that Maverang had canceled with swift precision, each incantation flowing seamlessly from his lips. But this time, he did not stop there. He added two more Dark Cerberus spells, the shadowy beasts materializing with a snarl as if hungry for blood.
Inside the pocket space, the atmosphere thickened with tension. Maverang stood firm, a lone figure amid dozens of shadow demons that circled him like vultures.
Each demon radiated the strength of a late second rank mage, their eyes glowing with malevolent intent. Three huge dogs with three heads each prowled nearby, their snarls echoing eerily in the confined space. The air shimmered with dark energy.
Three shadow copies of Grievous hovered in the shadows, their forms flickering like living shadows. Each clone possessed the strength of a late third rank mage, and their presence alone made the space feel suffocating. They mirrored Grievous's movements with uncanny accuracy.
In front of Maverang, a giant mouth appeared in the air, monstrous and surreal, its gaping maw pulsating as it began to absorb the ethereal Shen radiating from Maverang. The sight was grotesque yet mesmerizing, as if the very fabric of magic was being devoured by an insatiable void.
From behind, an artillery of hundreds of small shadowy heads fired relentlessly. Each head struck Maverang's body with brutal precision, the impact resonating like thunder. Shackled by giant shadow chains that wrapped around his limbs and torso, Maverang struggled to resist. Each strike absorbed a large amount of his Shen, draining his strength like a parasite feeding on a host.
Only 17% remained in his Shen Basin, the lifeblood of his magical power ebbing away quickly. His face was etched with strain and desperation as he tried to break free from the giant chains that restricted his Shen flow. His muscles tensed, veins bulging, but the chains held fast, unyielding as iron.
Suddenly, one of the shadow clones lunged forward. With a powerful, precise blow, it cut off Maverang's head. The motion was swift and merciless, executed with such efficiency it caught even Maverang by surprise.
"It caught him by surprise," Grievous said with satisfaction as he opened his eyes fully, his voice calm but edged with triumph.
"No one would think that someone would directly initiate a killer move with this level of Shen consumption," he added, his mind analyzing the battle's outcome with cold calculation.
Grievous was right. That killer move demanded an immense expenditure of Shen, a cost many could not afford. If the caster's talent was lower than a B-Rank, even with late fourth rank Shen, they would be unable to release such a devastating attack. The toll was simply overwhelming.
As mages advance in rank, the Shen cost of spells decreases, allowing for more efficient casting. A simple example was the shadow clone spell. At the third rank, it consumed 10% of the caster's Shen, a significant chunk. But at the fourth rank, the same spell required only 5%, a remarkable improvement.
Yet, despite this reduction, Grievous's killer move devoured 80% of his Shen. Such colossal consumption would cripple most skilled mages, leaving them vulnerable. But the power unleashed was devastating beyond measure.
The killing move harnessed four elements simultaneously: Shadow, Gluttony, Darkness, and Space. This combination birthed an overwhelming force, capable of annihilating a rank five mage with high combat power within seconds. The destructive potential was nothing short of apocalyptic.
This was precisely where Grievous's unique quick casting ability shined. Normally, a rank four spell required about a quarter of a second to cast. For most, this was the limit, a boundary set by the very nature of magical control.
But Grievous shattered this limit. In one single second, he could cast approximately fifteen spells, a feat unheard of among his peers. His fingers moved with blinding speed, his voice a rapid-fire incantation, and his Shen manipulated with surgical precision.
Such an ability was, in every sense, cheating in a world governed by rules and limits. It gave him a distinct advantage in battle, allowing him to overwhelm opponents before they could react.
Grievous's eyes glinted with fierce pride. He thought. 'The battlefield is my domain, and time itself bends to my will.'
---
Thus, time began to move again, steady and relentless, carrying with it the silent progression of the two children's growth. Faera, with his sharp mind and unyielding spirit, had ascended to the late second rank. Edmund, ever diligent and thoughtful, had reached the early second rank. Each step forward marked six more years slipped quietly into the past.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the cobblestone streets of the nearby city. Grievous, Faera, and Edmund walked side by side, their footsteps muted against the worn stones. The city buzzed softly around them, a gentle hum of life that was both comforting and familiar. The two young men, no longer children but still carrying traces of youthful eagerness, moved with a calm confidence as they accompanied Grievous.
Despite the years, Grievous still relied on his cane, the wooden support a constant companion. His movements were slower now, but every step was measured, purposeful. The weight of experience pressed upon him, yet his eyes held a sharpness that refused to fade. His gaze occasionally flickered toward the bustling market ahead, their usual destination.
Faera's dark hair caught the sunlight, strands framing his determined face as he glanced at Edmund. "Do you think Father will be waiting for us?" he asked quietly.
Edmund smiled faintly, his eyes softening. "He always is. No matter how much time passes."
Grievous remained silent, his thoughts drifting inward as they approached the heart of the city. The familiar scents of roasted meats, fresh bread, and spices mingled in the air, wrapping around them like an old cloak. The market was alive with voices, laughter, and the clatter of merchants arranging their wares.
They moved through the crowd with practiced ease, the two young men weaving effortlessly between vendors and buyers. Their presence drew little attention now, as they had become part of the city's rhythm. Grievous's cane tapped steadily, a quiet metronome beneath the lively backdrop.
At last, they reached their favorite restaurant, a modest but wellloved place tucked in a narrow alley. The wooden sign, faded from years of sun and rain, swung gently in the breeze. The familiar aroma of herbs and simmering sauces greeted them as they stepped inside.
The restaurant was warm and inviting, with worn wooden tables and a small fireplace that crackled softly. Faera and Edmund chose their usual seats by the window, sunlight filtering through stained glass and casting colorful patterns upon their faces. Grievous settled into a chair, his eyes scanning the room with a flicker of unease.
As the waiter brought plates of steaming pasta, Grievous's mind wandered. 'There is a strange feeling,' he thought, brow furrowing. 'I cannot place its source. It is subtle, yet persistent. Unsettling.'
He forced himself to relax, but the sensation lingered like a shadow at the edge of his vision.
Faera and Edmund ate with quiet enjoyment, the simple pleasure of good food grounding them in the moment. Their conversation was light, filled with the easy camaraderie that had grown over years of shared experience.
Grievous's eyes continued to drift around the room, catching glimpses of faces both new and familiar. Then, suddenly, his gaze locked on one in particular. A face that stirred a deep, almost forgotten memory. The face of one of Rahul's Swords!
His breath caught. The man sat alone at a corner table, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp and calculating. Grievous had seen that face countless times in his mind's eye, especially when the world grew quiet and his thoughts turned inward. It was a face that haunted his dreams and lingered in the spaces between waking moments.
The man's presence here, now, was no coincidence. Grievous felt the weight of unspoken history pressing down upon the room.
The market's cheerful noise seemed to dim, the colors around him fading as the past collided with the present.
Faera noticed the change in Grievous immediately. "Father, is something wrong?"
Grievous trembled involuntarily, a cold shiver running down his spine. The tension in the air was thick, as if the shadows themselves whispered warnings. He steadied himself, suppressing the storm of emotions within. Calmly, he sent a mental command to the two young men beside him, his voice firm yet quiet in their minds.
"We should leave here now!"