The black-lacquered carriage sped through London's soot-stained streets and out into the Surrey countryside. The rhythmic clatter of wheels against cobblestones echoed steadily inside the cabin. Ciel Phantomhive gazed out the window, but his sapphire-blue right eye saw nothing. His fingers tightened unconsciously around the Scotland Yard file in his hands. [angry] "...Fools. The crucial pages have been cleanly torn out." He hurled the file roughly onto the seat. The remnants of the torn pages fluttered slightly. Across from him, Sebastian Michaelis sat with perfect posture, still as a sculpture. Not a single strand of his jet-black hair was out of place, not a single wrinkle marred his tailcoat. His crimson eyes watched Ciel with a glint of amusement. [gentle] "The answer lies at that place, young master." "Yeah... I know." Ciel spat the words out. That place. The site where everything had ended on that accursed night three years ago. The burned-out ruins of the former Phantomhive manor. Outside the window, the scenery shifted from the clamor of London to gentle hills and green pastures. The sky hung heavy with clouds, the afternoon light weak and pale. As the carriage entered a wooded lane, tree branches swayed close enough to brush the windows. Ciel clenched his fists on his lap. His fingertips were cold. A heavy, creeping weight settled in the pit of his stomach. (*This is... that road.*) Three years ago, he had fled down this very road, escaping from the raging flames. Now he was heading toward a place he had not once approached since that night. [sarcastic] "Young master. If you are feeling unwell, we can always turn back." Sebastian's voice was quiet and elegant. Yet unmistakable mockery lurked deep within his eyes. Ciel felt the blood rush hotly to his head. [cold] "That won't be necessary. I am merely going to confirm something." [laughing] "Yes, of course. The young master is merely going to confirm something." The butler agreed with a perfectly blank expression. His obedient demeanor only stoked Ciel's irritation further. A strange silence fell between them. Before long, the carriage stopped beside a familiar old oak tree. The elderly coachman opened the door without a word. [gentle] "We have arrived, young master." Ciel held his breath for a moment, then stepped down from the carriage with forceful momentum. His leather shoes pressed into the earth. The instant he raised his head, his feet turned to stone. The desolate land lay mercilessly exposed under the red light of the setting sun. Burned-out stone walls stood like tombstones, soot-blackened pillars on the verge of collapse. Weeds grew rampant, and what had once been the entrance was now a mountain of rubble. This was the manor where he had been raised. Dizziness washed over him. The edges of his vision flickered, and in the distance, his heart pounded a frantic drumbeat. His legs refused to move a single step. [whispers] "You cannot bring yourself to descend, young master?" Sebastian, now standing beside him, spoke quietly but clearly. His voice was cold as ice, piercing deep into Ciel's pride. "...I can descend just fine." Clenching his teeth, Ciel forced his feet forward. The sound of rubble crunching underfoot echoed unnervingly loud. He crossed the remnants of the collapsed entrance hall and advanced toward what had once been the great hall. That was when he noticed the strange pattern etched at his feet. A hexagram, scorched black into the charred floor. Surrounding it, traces of ancient Latin script. The remnants of a demon-summoning ritual. The place where he had been offered as a sacrifice that night. His mind went blank. At the same time, a sensation like something snapping ran through him, and his vision lurched violently. —Flames. —Someone's screams. —And a white hand, reaching out. Fragments of images surfaced and vanished in his mind. But they wouldn't connect. He couldn't remember anything. Without thinking, Ciel braced his hand against a crumbling stone wall. His fingertips trembled. His breathing grew ragged. Sebastian said nothing. He simply watched Ciel's back with cold eyes, a faint smile curling at the corner of his lips. [cold] "...Keep moving." Muttering as if to steel himself, Ciel pressed onward. Following Sebastian's silent guidance, he descended the remnants of a collapsed staircase. The remains of the basement. The stench of damp mold and something burnt assaulted his nostrils. The walls were densely carved with ancient Latin inscriptions, as if documenting the ritual that had taken place here. Ciel approached the wall and traced the parts he could somehow read. (*"The sacrifice calls of its own accord"...?*) The words Inspector Randolph had taught him last time surfaced in his mind. *"The sacrificial offering for the summoning is a pure-blooded child who has reached their thirteenth birthday."* It was no coincidence. This ritual had targeted him from the very beginning. A chill ran down his spine. [gentle] "Young master." Turning at the voice, Ciel saw Sebastian casually pluck a scrap of paper from a pile of rubble. It was scorched, its edges crumbling away. [cold] "I believe this belongs to you." Ciel took the offered paper. He could feel his own hands shaking. In a child's clumsy handwriting, it read: *'I had a scary dream again today. Papa and Mama are burning. I ran away. I was the only one who ran away. That's why I—'* The rest was burned and illegible. "...What is this?" His voice cracked. (*Did I write this? Is this... my handwriting?*) He had absolutely no memory of writing it. And yet, something screamed that these characters were undeniably his own. —*I ran away. I was the only one who ran away.* The words began to spin round and round inside his head. Like a cursed incantation, repeating, repeating. He felt the blood drain from his entire body. (*What did I run away from? From what, that night?*) From the fire that killed his parents? Or from the ritual in this basement? Or—from something else entirely? [angry] "Sebastian, when was this written?" He forced the question out. Sebastian merely deepened his cold, beautiful smile. [cold] "Who can say." Saying only that, he fixed his gaze on a single point on the wall. Following his line of sight, Ciel gasped. Among the ancient Latin inscriptions carved into the wall, there was one section where the handwriting was different. Someone had carved it in later, overwriting the original. *'When the sacrifice desires it, the door shall open.'* After the ritual in 1886, someone had returned here and carved these words. A remnant of the cult, or someone else entirely. A new clue. Yet without a single answer, the mystery only deepened. Ciel crouched down on the spot, clutching the charred diary fragment. (*"I had a scary dream," it said. This must have been written after the night of the ritual. By the me who survived.*) Why had he—who should have forged a contract for revenge—felt that he had "run away"? He wanted to ask if the rest could be read, but even before Sebastian could speak, he already knew the answer. The evening darkness began to shroud the ruins without a sound. The sky shifted from violet to deep blue, and the surrounding rubble sank into shadow. A cold wind blew in, stirring Ciel's bangs. After a long silence, Ciel stood up. His legs still trembled, but this time they moved properly. He carefully tucked the diary fragment into his pocket and raised his head. [serious] "...We're going to Whitechapel." His voice was hoarse. But there was no longer any hesitation in his sapphire-blue eye. [gentle] "As you wish, young master." Sebastian bowed respectfully. His face still wore that inscrutable smile, as always. Ciel turned back one last time to look at the scorched mark of the hexagram. (*I won't run away. This time, I will confirm everything.*) Crunching over the rubble, he left the basement behind. Outside, under the veil of night that had fallen over the sky, a single first star glittered coldly. The fragment of truth he had found in the ruins was far too small—and yet far too heavy—remaining lodged deep within the boy's heart.