After about two hours, they all stopped to rest the ground lizards that were pulling the carts and carriages. The creatures huffed softly, their reptilian tongues flicking at the night air as they settled onto the dusty path.
The servants climbed down and stretched their numb feet, rubbing the stiffness from their ankles and calves. Even the masters emerged, stepping out quietly with a measured grace, their eyes scanning the dark woods beyond the road.
No one remained inside the main carriage. The silence felt almost deadly. The world seemed to hold its breath beneath the vast canopy of stars and endless dark matter.
Grievous stood apart, his gaze lifted to the luminous moon that hung like a silver sentinel in the sky. Its pale light spilled over the land, painting shadows against the trees and illuminating the soft curve of the distant hills.
He felt an unusual calm settle deep into his bones, a rare moment of peace amid the restless turmoil that was him.
'Since this is a magical world, there is undoubtedly a chance to reach complete immortality, eternal life,' he thought, eyes narrowing slightly. 'At least, that is what the myths say. Looks like I will need to find a powerful magician… someone who can unlock the secrets of endless existence.'
He recalled the old fox's cunning, the way Hyde had schemed to capture or manipulate a master of arts. The ambition was clear: to learn every secret needed to become powerful.
Grievous knew his own family's magical arts were weaker, shadows against the brilliance of other lineages. That weakness had driven his desire, sharpened his focus.
The moonlight shimmered on his face as he allowed himself a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Slowly, he raised his hand toward the glowing orb in the sky, fingers curling as though grasping at its ethereal light. His grip tightened.
'I will become strong,' he vowed silently. 'Strong enough that death will never threaten me again.'
That ambition was vast, almost unfathomable. To conquer death itself was a quest that had claimed countless lives and shattered many dreams.
Yet Grievous understood the truth of the world: nothing worth having came easily.
If he truly sought power and immortality, he would endure hundreds, perhaps thousands, of trials.
Pain, loss, sacrifice, and nonetheless, he was prepared to face them all. The path ahead was steep and treacherous, but his heart burned with a fierce determination.
Still, a flicker of doubt crept into his thoughts. He reflected on the memories that belonged to the body he now inhabited, a body once owned by a keen reader of history. Even the mightiest magicians recorded in the annals of time had not achieved immortality. The tales were mere myths, whispers from ancient eras long gone.
But Grievous believed that the existence of a myth, no matter how distant or fragile, planted a seed of hope. If something even remotely resembling immortality existed, then it could be found again. That hope was built on the fragile foundations of those ancient stories, fragile but unyielding, indeed.
Among those legends was the tale of a mysterious group, said to have roamed the world for hundreds of thousands of years. No matter what calamities befell them, they never perished. They returned, unscathed and eternal. They were known as the Swords of Rahul.
The name echoed in Grievous's mind like a secret waiting to be unraveled. He knew that the next step was clear: to hide behind a mask of stupidity and isolation while seeking any fragment of truth about that group. The search would be dangerous, covered by deception and falsehood.
He understood all too well that nearly ninety-eight percent of what passed for history was twisted or fabricated. The owner of the body had often lamented this bitter reality: "History is written by the victors and the vested interests."
Grievous was no stranger to this truth. As a seasoned politician in his former world, he had twisted and rewritten history to serve his own ends. Sometimes to protect secrets, other times to secure power. It was a cruel but undeniable fact of existence.
The world was built on lies as much as on truths. Everyone had to face this harsh reality, or be crushed beneath it.
The moon drifted higher as the servants and masters climbed back into their carriages. The ground lizards stretched, blinked, and began to pull once again. The wheels creaked against the earth as the procession resumed its slow journey back to Lord Hyde's estate.
Grievous sat quietly, the chill of the night creeping through the carriage. His mind was alive with thoughts and possibilities. He pictured the faces of powerful magicians, imagined the labyrinthine paths he would have to navigate to find them. Each step might bring him closer to the Swords of Rahul, or plunge him deeper into death.
He thought to himself, 'This indeed is a path filled with hardships and betrayal. No more shall it happen to me!'
The thought made his jaw tighten. Loneliness was a bitter companion, but better than betrayal.
Outside, the world was silent except for the soft rustling of leaves and the steady, rhythmic footsteps of the lizards. The moon continued its slow arc, a silent witness to the thoughts made beneath its glow.
Grievous closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of his ambition settle like a mantle on his shoulders. He was no longer just a man bound by mortal fears. He was a seeker, a schemer, a man who would claw his way through history's tangled web to carve a new destiny of his own.
'Power,' he whispered to the night. 'And immortality. Both shall be mine.''
The carriage rattled on, carrying him toward the uncertain future, covered only by the cold light of the moon and the fierce fire burning within his heart.