The only sound was the faint crackle of the lamp's flame. Phantomhive Manor stood upon the gentle hills of Surrey. In its second-floor blue study, Ciel Phantomhive sat alone at his desk. His deep, blue-tinged black hair was neatly groomed, and his body, clad in a black frock coat, looked even smaller within the large leather chair. In the corners of the room were only stacks of books and thick curtains covering the windows. The world outside had sunk completely into darkness. "[sigh] Haaah..." The thirteen-year-old earl tossed the confidential documents in his hand onto the desk. The Queen's Watchdog—a cleaner of the underworld, secretly appointed by the Queen of England. Unlike official public offices, this work was not recorded in Parliament. It was dirty work, handling only cases that could not be spoken of. This role had been inherited by the Phantomhive family for generations. The clock's hands ticked onward. It was already past two in the morning. With the purple contract seal on his left eye still hidden beneath his eyepatch, Ciel pressed his fingers to his temple. His right eye was a deep sapphire blue, and though tired, its light remained cold and sharp. (*No one would ever imagine a child handling documents like these.*) He rolled his shoulders. His back remained perfectly straight. The dignity of a nobleman was something he would not let crumble, even when alone. That was this boy's way of life. "[sarcastic] Even so, there have been far too many murder cases this month. What on earth is happening to public order in London?" Muttering this, Ciel twisted his mouth slightly. Making sarcastic remarks in an empty room was one of this boy's few respites. It was then. Without even a knock, the study's heavy door opened soundlessly. "[gentle] Young master. A cup before you retire for the night." A tall, slender shadow entered. Jet-black hair was slicked back perfectly, not a single strand out of place. Height, 186 centimeters. Clad in a well-tailored black tailcoat, his lean figure carried a silver tray with a cup of black tea, and the butler smiled elegantly. His crimson eyes reflected the lamplight, gleaming faintly. The butler of the Phantomhive household, Sebastian Michaelis. However, his true nature was not human. He was a demon who had formed a contract with Ciel's soul as the price. In this world, demons truly existed. However, ordinary people almost never learned of their existence. Demon worship was the domain of limited secret societies and deranged fanatics, something unrelated to the common person. A contract with a demon cost one's soul, and once formed, the demon would serve its master until their wish was fulfilled. And that price would always, without fail, be collected. "[surprised] At least knock, Sebastian." Ciel raised his head and spoke in a sharp voice. "[serious] My apologies. You appeared so terribly fatigued, young master, I thought it best to enter quietly so as not to startle you." Though his mouth offered an apology, Sebastian's face showed not the slightest hint of guilt. If anything, he seemed almost amused. This was the usual distance between the two of them. The tray was gently placed on the edge of the desk. From the white porcelain cup rose the rich aroma of Darjeeling. Ciel took the cup and let out a small sigh of relief. "[sigh] ...You're as perfect as ever." "[laughing] Thank you very much. I have merely done what is expected of a butler." Sebastian bowed reverently, then walked over to the window. Outside lay the rural landscape of Surrey, faintly illuminated by moonlight. This place was about four hours southwest of central London by carriage. It was a quiet land, surrounded by gentle hills and ancient forests. Ciel took a sip of the black tea. The hot liquid passed down his throat, easing his tension just a little. "[sarcastic] So, Sebastian. May I ask you something?" "[gentle] What might that be?" "[sarcastic] In the end, what do you find so enjoyable about playing butler? It's just boring time spent waiting until you can devour my soul, isn't it?" Sebastian, who had been looking out the window, slowly turned back. His face still wore its usual smile. But it felt just slightly different than usual—or so Ciel thought. "[cold] Boring? No. Being able to witness the ripening of your soul up close, young master, is the finest entertainment." At those words, something pricked sharply inside Ciel. Disgust. "[angry] ...Don't use such creepy phrasing. I will fulfill my revenge exactly as the contract states. That alone makes my soul yours. That should be enough." The moment he declared this, the atmosphere changed. The room's temperature seemed to drop several degrees in an instant. Sebastian silently stood before Ciel, narrowing his crimson eyes. The lamplight cast deep shadows across his face. "[whispers] Is that truly so?" "What?" "[whispers] Did you truly swear revenge on that day, young master? Or was it—that you ran away?" The cup slipped from his fingers. It hit the floor with a hard sound, shattering. Black tea spread a dark stain across the carpet. But to Ciel's ears, even that sound seemed distant. His heart pounded violently, and his mind went completely blank. That day. Three years ago—December 1886. The ten-year-old Ciel had his manor burned, his parents killed, and was abducted by a secret society. For about a month, he was imprisoned and subjected to horrific treatment, and finally, he was made a sacrificial offering in a demon-summoning ritual. At that underground altar. But what had happened there? The memory of roughly one hour, the moments just before and after Sebastian was summoned, was completely missing. What had he wished for at that time? What had he said? How had he formed the contract? (*I should have sworn revenge.*) But was that really true? Wasn't that just a lie he had been telling himself? The sense of guilt he had kept locked deep within his heart began to rear its head, writhing. Ciel couldn't say anything in return. His throat was completely dry, and his lips trembled slightly. Sebastian looked down coldly at his young master. His usual elegant mask had slipped just a fraction. What peered out from beneath it was not kindness. It was a deep, dark curiosity. "[cold] Then, let us go and confirm the truth. To that day, to that place. Are you prepared?" It was not a suggestion. It was a decision. The demon had unilaterally decided it. Ciel clenched his hands tightly. His fingertips had gone cold. Beneath his white glove, the blue gemstone ring on his right ring finger squeezed tightly against his finger. "...Yeah." It was a small voice. But that was all. He didn't remember how he got into bed after that. Ciel couldn't sleep a wink. The moonlight streaming through the window cast silver patterns on the ceiling. When he closed his eyes, the nightmare from three years ago flickered back to life behind his eyelids. (*I won't run. I mustn't run.*) He repeated this over and over in his head. —Morning. When Ciel, with faint dark circles under his eyes, descended to the entrance hall, Sebastian was already waiting, fully prepared for travel. In one hand, a leather trunk. In the other, Ciel's black cloak was draped over his arm. "[gentle] Good morning, young master. The carriage to London is ready." That cold atmosphere from last night was already gone. On his face was the usual elegant smile. His tailcoat was without a single wrinkle, his hair perfectly slicked back. As if that conversation had never happened. Ciel felt a flash of irritation. But he immediately snorted, "Hmph." "[sarcastic] ...You're as consistent as ever. You certainly have the nerve to offer a morning greeting so shamelessly." "[laughing] A butler maintains his composure at all times and in all situations." His hands, clad in white gloves, reverently presented the cloak. Ciel snatched it from him and threw it over his shoulders. The heavy entrance door opened. Though it was already bright outside, the air was cold and damp. English autumn was always like this. Fog hung thick, blurring the outlines of distant hills and forests into hazy white. In front of the manor, a black, two-horse carriage waited. In the driver's seat sat the usual taciturn old man. Sebastian opened the carriage door and escorted Ciel. Just before stepping up, Ciel stopped his feet completely. "[serious] Sebastian. I won't run. I will properly confirm what my past self from three years ago was like." He did not turn around. Sebastian's voice reached his back. "[cold] Is that so? I look forward to it." A chill ran down the back of his neck. But Ciel said nothing and slipped his body inside the carriage. The door closed. The driver's whip cracked. The carriage began to move slowly. Outside the window, the spires and Gothic roofs of Phantomhive Manor receded further and further behind. Soon, they passed through the gates of the vast estate and out onto the country road. Ciel leaned back deeply in his seat, looking out the window. The road to London was filled with a fog that seemed to thicken the further they advanced. The fields, the groves, the distant villages—everything vanished into white. As if the world itself was slowly disappearing. (*The truth of that day, huh?*) His own face reflected in the window glass. The blue-tinged black hair. The eyepatch over his left eye. The deep blue of his right eye. Those eyes trembled, just a little. But he had already decided. This time, he would not run. Even if an even deeper darkness awaited him ahead. The carriage pushed through the curtain of fog, heading toward London. In the distance, a crow cawed once. This was the beginning of the seven days between the demon and the boy. The sound of the beginning was terribly quiet, and cold.