The Most Satisfied Reincarnate

In the depths of a dimly lit alleyway, Grimm, Krox, and Brock silently observed as Desmond made his way into the Guild, his figure blending into the shadows.

"Shall we follow him inside?" Krox inquired eagerly, his desire to inflict harm upon Desmond evident in his voice. He turned to Grimm, who wore a self-satisfied smile upon his face.

"No," Grimm responded, causing a surge of anger to course through Krox. However, before Krox could act on his frustration, Grimm continued with an air of confidence, "I will handle this. The Guild is still under my control, despite the presence of that decrepit old monster."

Krox reluctantly managed to calm himself, placing his trust in Grimm's capabilities. He understood that his own organization couldn't freely operate within the city, but Grimm, as a Candidate Grandmaster and a trusted confidant of the king, possessed the means to maneuver discreetly.

"Fine, but how did that kid manage to penetrate your spell dimension? Not every Master Wizard can or would bother learning such complex spells," Krox inquired, his curiosity piqued.

Grimm let out a contemptuous snort. "I was simply careless." He disliked being reminded of his past failures, his arrogance rivaling that of his son's, but he had gained better control over it.

"Heh, you haven't changed a bit, still as arrogant as ever," Krox remarked, reflecting on their initial encounter. "Brock, assume a form that allows you to blend in and tail that kid once he departs from the Guild."

"Yes, boss," Brock acknowledged, transforming into a canine shape and making his way towards the Guild's main entrance.

"As always, you have a valuable underling, although it's a pity you often end up disposing of them," Grimm mocked, his tone laced with derision.

"Perhaps you should consider acquiring a useful hound yourself," Krox retorted with a smirk before vanishing into the shadows. "Until next time, when your son arrives in my city," he called out mockingly before fading into obscurity.

"Bast..." Grimm seethed, his fury mounting as he turned his gaze towards the fading silhouette of Krox, swallowed by the engulfing darkness. He clenched his fists, casting an incantation that unleashed a spell upon the nearby building.

crash

The formidable force of Grimm's spell tore through the structure, creating a gaping hole that pierced into the building's living room. Fortunately, it was the dead of night, sparing any unsuspecting residents from harm. However, the homeowner awoke to the sight of their ravaged living space, now exposed to the bustling main road, bewilderment etching across their face.

In the early morning, a sliver of sunlight crept through the half-closed curtains, gently teasing Desmond's eyes awake. As he blinked away the remnants of sleep, he shielded his face from the intrusive rays, his hand temporarily becoming a makeshift shield before he slowly lowered it, squinting to adjust to the brightness of the room.

With a groan escaping his lips, Desmond struggled to sit up, feeling a web of pain reverberating through every fiber of his being. His body, now wrapped in bandages resembling a mummy's shroud, protested with each movement. Gingerly, he attempted to reach for his face, only to be met with a disconcerting absence of sensation in his right hand.

Confusion and alarm gripped him. His gaze fell upon the bandaged stump that marked the place where his right hand should have been. Blood stains marred the sterile white, and a surge of panic coursed through him.

"What the fuck! Did someone steal my hand?!" His mind raced, desperately attempting to recall the events of the previous night, but a sharp ache pierced through his temples, causing him to reflexively cradle his throbbing head in his left hand.

"Fuck!" In a fit of frustration, Desmond lashed out, his hand connecting with the wooden wall beside him. The impact caused a slight crack, but it also reopened the wounds on his hand, coaxing a fresh stream of crimson.

"Ouch, ouch, ouch!" He winced, his anger momentarily eclipsed by the pulsating pain that served as a harsh reminder of his impulsive power surge.

As if on cue, the heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing a young woman with glasses and long, black hair tied back in a neat ponytail. She entered the room, carrying a water container wrapped in a soft cloth, her presence both surprising and perplexing to Desmond.

He couldn't recall ever employing a model-like servant, yet her unceremonious entrance and lack of deference ignited a fiery anger within him.

"Who gave you permission to enter my room?!" Desmond's voice boomed, his frustration palpable.

The woman, taken aback by the sudden outburst, initially had the intention of inquiring about Desmond's well-being. However, his irate tone extinguished any empathy she might have had. Her eyes flashed with defiance, and her lips curled into a retort.

"Who do you think you are?! This is my room!" Her words dripped with defiance as she forcefully slammed the door shut, leaving Desmond seething with a mixture of disbelief and indignation.

Fuming, Desmond couldn't fathom a lowly servant displaying such insolence towards him. "Since when did a servant dare to act in such a manner with me?" he seethed, his voice echoing through the room. He longed to give a retort, to put her in her place, but the door stood resolute, closing off any avenue for a verbal retort.

His attention then shifted to the empty space where his cherished wardrobe had always stood. Confusion etched itself onto his face, creasing his brow. "Huh? Did that insolent servant also dare to move my wardrobe?!" His mind whirled with questions, seeking answers amidst the chaos that surrounded him.

Struggling to rise from the floor, Desmond's weakened attempt ended in a clumsy fall, sending the water container crashing down with him, its contents spilling over his already battered form. A mixture of frustration and self-pity erupted from his lips. "Fuck, the world seems to hold an inexplicable grudge against me! First, my mind betrays me and gravitates towards a dangerous enemy.

Then, I expect my body to succumb to agony, rendering me immobile, but somehow my ego chooses to put on a grand performance!" His exclamation filled the room, a poignant reflection of his inner turmoil.

"Servant! Servant!" Desmond's voice reverberated through the empty space, but no one came to his aid. The walls seemed to mock his distress, amplifying his feelings of helplessness. Emotions surged within him, threatening to consume him whole. However, a distant commotion downstairs reached his ears, temporarily redirecting his attention.

"Eh, has someone arrived? Why is there such a frenzy within my own abode today?" His brow furrowed, memories of Grimm and Krox's unsettling smiles flashed before his mind's eye, fueling a tinge of unease within him.

"But it's too soon for them to track me down," he mused, uncertainty etched across his face. With all his might, Desmond attempted to reach for his face, only to discover the absence of the cloth that had previously concealed his features.

"Shit!" Panic set in as his gaze darted around the unfamiliar surroundings, slowly realizing that this was not his room, not his sanctuary.

"Hold on... hold on... hold on. If my memory serves me right, after the attack yesterday, I fled to this place and alerted the guards, and..." Desmond's mind struggled to piece together the fragmented recollections, his head swimming with dizziness as the haze of lost blood tainted his memories. However, amidst the confusion, there was one undeniable truth that surfaced.

"Am I in the GUILD?!" The revelation struck him like a bolt of lightning, his already pale complexion growing even paler with a mix of embarrassment and realization. He cringed at the memory of his brash behavior, aware that he had unwittingly caused offense. Determined to rectify the situation and avoid further misunderstanding, Desmond strained to recall the events of the previous day.

In his fragile state, he remembered stumbling into the establishment, leaving behind a trail of crimson in his wake. The agony coursing through his body became unbearable, and just before succumbing to darkness, a woman's touch grazed his cheek, her soothing presence offering a modicum of solace.

That was the last coherent image etched in his mind—fleeting glimpses of a blurry figure with ethereal wings. In his delirium, she appeared as an angel, a beacon of hope in the midst of his shattered reality.