The Most Satisfied Reincarnate

Inside Desmond's house, Grimm's suspicions grew as he turned around to find only Annie trailing behind him. His eyes narrowed, casting a scrutinizing gaze upon her.

"Where are my subordinates?" Grimm questioned, his voice laced with an air of authority. The continuous glimmer in his eyes fixed on the door behind Annie.

Annie feigned a shy demeanor, averting her gaze from Grimm's piercing stare. "Um... I apologize, Master, but it seems your servants are quite exhausted from... well, engaging in certain activities with me," she responded, her cheeks flushing as she tugged at her disheveled clothing.

"Is that so?" Grimm advanced towards her, a hint of a menacing grip forming in his hand, but Desmond swiftly intervened.

"Master Grimm, what are you doing? Let's play!" Desmond's cheerful and childlike demeanor caught Grimm off guard. Had it not been for Leona's position as the witch master, Grimm might have entertained the notion of confining Desmond.

"Ah... my apologies, young one. Let us proceed," Grimm conceded, shaking Desmond's hand, their interaction more reminiscent of a grandfather enjoying playful moments with his grandson rather than that of a master and servant.

As they made their way through the house, Grimm observed the behavior of the servants, noting their utmost respect and reluctance to offend their master. Unaware of the underlying truths, he found no reason to suspect anything amiss, as the servants in his own household displayed a similar demeanor.

Desmond forced a laugh, "Hehehe," though the strain was evident, causing the servants to stifle their laughter. Suppressing their mirth, they pressed their hands against their chests, some even wincing slightly in pain. It was a rare sight to witness their young master in such a whimsical state.

...

Upon arriving at the dining room, Grimm's expectations were far from met. The room appeared no different from an ordinary dining area. Perhaps his standards had become exceedingly high, having grown accustomed to the opulent grandeur of a king's banqueting hall.

A servant stepped forward, gesturing for Grimm to take a seat opposite Desmond. "Please, Master," the servant offered, presenting him with a menu.

Despite finding it peculiar that a prestigious household would employ a menu, as if they offered no other dishes, Grimm shook his head, assuming it to be a peculiar custom of theirs. After all, even Grimm himself, with his eerie and foreboding mansion, had peculiarities despite his reputation for radiating kindness and being bathed in golden light.

To Grimm's astonishment, the only item on the menu was ice cream. He glanced at the servants and then at Desmond, who appeared unperturbed by the limited selection. The attending servant noticed Grimm's perplexity and offered an apology.

"Apologies, Master, but this is the only menu we have while the young lady is away," the servant explained politely, wincing discreetly as she pinched her thigh under the table.

"Ah... you mean Master Witch Leona's eldest child? If I recall correctly, her name..." Grimm's words trailed off.

Suddenly, Desmond, who had been engrossed in choosing his food, burst out with excitement, fixing a sharp gaze on Grimm. "Alice!" He patted his chest triumphantly, raising his head with a sense of pride. "You know Alice? My big sister is truly renowned."

"Ah... indeed, Alice, Alice, Alice," Grimm nodded, striving to please Desmond by repeating the name. "Have you chosen the finest Alice ice cream?" Desmond asked eagerly, pointing to a specific name on the menu.

"Oh, I most certainly have," Grimm replied with a smile.

"Excellent. While we wait, why don't you regale me with your story, Uncle?" Desmond's eyes glittered with anticipation. "I've heard you've fought against the merciless beast race."

Grimm let out a sigh. "Very well, I shall tell you my tale... It all began when..."

...

As Grimm recounted his story, Desmond couldn't help but sneak glances at his servants, who maintained a composed demeanor. Meanwhile, Grimm seemed to relish the opportunity to share his experiences. Thirty minutes had elapsed, and the ice cream they had ordered began to melt, forming rivulets down the sides of the bowls.

"Uncle, your story is simply captivating," Desmond interjected, interrupting Grimm. "I'm truly impressed. I never imagined you could endure such trials. But now, my hunger is getting the better of me. Shall we continue the story later?"

Grimm was taken aback by Desmond's pitiful expression. He had begun to derive joy from recounting his adventures. It was true — sharing his experiences with others brought him delight. In that moment, his suspicions about Desmond faded into the background. He embraced the boy, gently stroking his hair. "Well done, my boy.

Let us satisfy our hunger now. Afterward, I shall regale you with the harrowing tale of how I vanquished the Flying Lizard, a creature of formidable fright."

"Okay, Uncle," Desmond replied, a radiant smile adorning his face.

Grimm finally laid eyes on the "ice cream" Desmond had been referring to, and to his pleasant surprise, it appeared quite enticing. "Perhaps this isn't so bad after all," he mused, scooping up a spoonful and relishing its taste. "Delightful," he exclaimed, his countenance illuminated by a broad smile.

As Desmond devoured the ice cream, leaving traces of it on his clothes, the table, and even the floor, he felt a sense of accomplishment. "I must remain cautious from now on," he reminded himself.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Desmond's servants silently celebrated their successful endeavor. "I hope this will help the young master," one of them whispered.

"But if the young master continues like this, I could die happy," another chimed in, followed by a chuckle.

"Hahaha, indeed. This is the first time I've witnessed this side of the young master's character. Since I started working here, he's always been so serious and mature," another servant added.

The servants shared a collective giggle as they observed Desmond from a distance. However, they were careful not to prolong their amusement, aware of the possibility of Grimm noticing their behavior.

Grimm, although his suspicions had diminished, still felt a lingering sense of unease. "Is everything truly as it seems?" he wondered to himself.

His mind was consumed by the task of uncovering the spies, leading him to view everyone with suspicion. He attempted to focus his attention on observing Desmond, but after a few seconds, he discerned nothing out of the ordinary.

"Boy, how did you acquire that wound?" Grimm inquired, hoping to gauge Desmond's reaction.

Grimm's pupils contracted, his gaze narrowing as it bore into Desmond. The amiable demeanor from moments ago vanished, replaced by an intense gaze resembling that of someone interrogating a criminal.

Moreover, Grimm found it difficult to believe that a child like Desmond could endure a wound that would leave even a seasoned soldier screaming in agony and disoriented at the mere mention of it. Yet, to his astonishment, Desmond's reaction slightly deviated from his expectations.

Desmond shrugged, exposing the injury on his right hand. "This? Uncle, can you heal it?" he asked, considering it was Grimm who had inflicted the injury in the first place.

As Desmond looked at him with innocent and hopeful eyes, Grimm's face displayed doubt.

Grimm hesitated, "Why don't you ask your mother?"

Desmond adopted a sorrowful expression. "Mother? My parents rarely come home. It's been a year now," he explained.

The nearby maids, overhearing the conversation and sensing Desmond's longing for his absent parents, felt a deep sadness welling up within them. They understood the gravity of the situation and sympathized with Desmond's yearning. While both Grimm and Annie were their masters, witnessing the child's longing for his parents evoked a pain akin to having their skin slowly peeled away.

Perhaps due to their motherly instincts or out of genuine affection for their kind-hearted master, some of the elder servants and those who were already advanced in age regarded Desmond as their own child.

For Grimm, the injury itself held no significance; his sole objective was to ascertain whether Desmond was the spy he was searching for. However, Desmond's behavior appeared to align with that of a typical child his age, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"Oh, I'm sorry, boy. I'm not particularly skilled in healing," Grimm confessed, his voice tinged with sincerity.

Desmond's countenance fell, his thoughts veering towards frustration. "Oh, I understand..." he pondered. How could you, who caused this injury to my hand, not possess the ability to heal it? Nevertheless, this does alleviate my suspicions.

Rising from his seat abruptly, Grimm apologized, "I apologize, boy, but something urgent has arisen."

Desmond's expression turned crestfallen. "It's alright, Uncle. But please promise me that you'll share your story with me again," he pleaded, his voice laced with a glimmer of hope.