{Chapter: 48: Whispers of the Crooked Spirit}
"No chance at all?"
James's voice carried an edge of disbelief, as if he was still holding on to a thread of hope that Ciel might change his answer. His brows furrowed, the wine glass in his hand tilting slightly as his fingers tightened around it.
Across the dimly lit lounge, Ciel stood near the window, the city lights of the Marton Capital flickering below like restless fireflies. He didn't turn around, his shoulders tense beneath his long coat.
"No," Ciel said finally, his voice calm but resolute. "There's no chance. None whatsoever."
James set his glass down with a quiet clink, his lips parting slightly in protest, but Ciel spoke again before he could interrupt.
"Listen… I'm not claiming to be the strongest man alive, but let's not kid ourselves. In any nation, I would be considered among the top-tier combatants. First-class by every metric that matters." His gaze hardened, a distant flicker of memory igniting in his eyes. "But when I faced Dex… even when he had just arrived in our world, barely acclimated, even then—his strength dwarfed mine. It wasn't a contest. It was like a mortal challenging a god."
James crossed his arms and leaned back into the leather armchair. "But you said he was recovering, right? What if he hasn't reached his peak? What if we have a window, a sliver of time, to prepare?"
Ciel turned toward him now, finally facing his companion fully. "That window has long since closed. The connection between us—whatever magical tether allowed me to sense him—it snapped shortly after our encounter. But before that severing, I could feel it. He was getting stronger. No… not stronger. He was recovering what he was. Reclaiming it. And the gap between us was widening with every breath he took."
There was a long silence, broken only by the quiet hum of the old ceiling fan spinning above them. James exhaled through his nose, then poured himself another drink.
"But we can't just sit on our hands," he muttered, more to himself than to Ciel. "Neither of us are cowards. We've been through hell together. We've outlasted curses, corrupt monarchs, and rogue beasts. We have to find a way. There's always a way."
Ciel lowered his gaze, his tone suddenly weary. "Even if there is, it won't come from us. You and I—we're muzzled dogs. The spell Dex placed on us… it's still active. We can't act against him. Not even in thought. You've felt it too, haven't you? That strange compulsion whenever you try to consider resistance. Like a chain tugging on your mind."
James flinched but didn't deny it.
"Even worse," Ciel added, "we don't even know what he wants. He barely acknowledges us. We're not allies. We're not enemies. We're pawns—tools left in the box until needed."
The bitterness in Ciel's voice hung heavy in the room.
James grimaced and reached for the bottle again but stopped halfway, shaking his head. "That's what makes it worse. That silence. That indifference. I've fought tyrants and warlords who screamed their intentions from the mountaintops. At least they made their goals clear. This… this is just waiting for the axe to fall without knowing when."
Then, as if catching himself spiraling, James straightened his posture, forced a tight smile, and pushed the mood aside. "Anyway, that's not why I called you here tonight. Something's happening in the city. Something big. And I need your help."
Ciel raised a brow, curious. "You've got the entire royal guard at your beck and call. What could possibly have you reaching out to me?"
James rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, suddenly looking ten years older. "It's the Crooked Spirit Society."
The name hit like a thunderclap. Ciel's fingers tightened around the armrest of his chair. "That cult is still breathing?"
"They never die," James replied with a hollow chuckle. "They just change faces. But this time… they're here. In the capital. And it's not a rumor."
Ciel's calm demeanor cracked ever so slightly. He put his glass down carefully and leaned forward. "How certain is the intel?"
James's face darkened. "Certain enough that I'm losing sleep. We intercepted messages—encrypted, but deciphered by our best minds. They're planning a secret ritual. Something dangerous. Something forbidden."
"What kind of ritual?" Ciel asked cautiously.
James hesitated.
"They want to summon a demon."
"PFFT!"
The sound was violent and sudden. Red wine shot from Ciel's nose and mouth in an explosive spray, splattering the polished floor and staining his tailored coat. He doubled over, coughing, sputtering, eyes watering.
James silently handed him a napkin, trying not to smirk.
"Gods above," Ciel rasped. "You can't just drop a demon summoning on a man mid-drink! Are you trying to kill me before they do?"
James shrugged. "I figured you'd want the truth without the dramatic buildup."
Still coughing, Ciel dabbed at his soaked collar, the scent of spiced wine now thick in the room. "What kind of demon are we talking about? A minor shade? A flame wraith? Or something… worse?"
James's silence was answer enough.
"Wonderful," Ciel muttered. "We already have Dex. We're so screwed."
"That's why I called you," James said. "You know how these cults work. I need you on the ground with me. We have a few potential hideouts—abandoned crypts, sewers, and an old noble estate that went up for auction last month. But we'll need to move fast. The ritual could be any day now."
Ciel stood, smoothing down his now-ruined coat with a sigh. "And here I thought I was just stopping by for a quiet drink and some mutual complaining."
James smirked. "Welcome back to the game, partner."
Ciel looked toward the window, the lights of the capital twinkling with an eerie innocence.
"If they summon a demon… we won't just lose the city. We'll lose everything."
Ciel asked with a hint of growing irritation in his voice, "If that's the case, don't you have any clues at all about where they're hiding?"
His brows furrowed as he swirled the half-drained wine in his glass. Though he appeared calm on the surface, there was a simmering edge to his tone—a reflection of the chaos he was desperately trying to keep at bay. After all, he had only just changed his identity, painstakingly crafted a new life under a different name. The last thing he needed was for that fragile new existence to come crashing down thanks to a cult's idiotic obsession with summoning literal abyssborn.
He didn't want to go into hiding again. He didn't want to become an exiled noble, a hunted heretic, or worse—collateral damage in someone else's war.
What he meant, though unspoken, was simple: the sooner they could get rid of the Crooked Spirit, the better.
James let out a deep, weary sigh and spread his hands in a show of helplessness. His fingers were stained with ink and old parchment dust, betraying the many sleepless nights spent combing over maps, city ledgers, and coded documents. "You think I don't want to? Believe me, I do. But the truth is, even the information about the Crooked Spirit Society attempting to perform a summoning ritual in the capital wasn't something I discovered on my own. That tip-off came directly from the Church."
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temple as if trying to massage the frustration out of his skull. "And if even they don't know the precise location… then you know we're dealing with something deep. I'm starting to believe that someone powerful—very powerful—is sheltering them. And not just any kind of power. I'm talking about centuries-old houses, noble families with more secrets than vaults, with hidden chambers beneath hidden cellars, and entire wings of their ancestral homes even the servants don't know about."
His gaze turned grim. "Even the royal family is finding it difficult to trace them. And you know what that means. When the crown itself starts hitting walls, you're dealing with rot that's spread from the roots all the way to the throne."
Ciel's expression darkened, and he leaned forward slightly, his voice low. "Then we don't have much time."
"Exactly," James said. "If we had months, maybe years, I'd say we go through every noble house, every shadowed alley, every noble heir with a suspiciously new taste for dark poetry and basement architecture. But we don't have that luxury. By the time we complete even one percent of that list, the ritual will be over. The demon will be here. And this entire capital? Gone. Turned into a crater or worse, a gate."
James reached into a side drawer and pulled out a parchment with a red wax seal—an official church writ.
"So… after some delicate negotiations—meaning I paid through the nose and made promises I'll probably regret—I secured the Church's cooperation. They'll help. But we need to find the target first."
Ciel frowned slightly. He had always maintained a cautious, even cynical view of the Church. He knew too much about their methods, their zealotry, their self-righteous flames that burned both the wicked and the misunderstood. But he also knew, painfully, that when it came to cults… they got results.
"The Church," Ciel muttered, swirling his wine again. "They're not exactly the easiest group to work with. But I admit… they're professionals when it comes to hunting heresy. It's practically their entire brand."
James gave a tired, sardonic smile. "Yeah. I figured… no matter how prickly they are, I'd rather deal with their sermons than a demon's claws. Even if the Church decides to overthrow the royal family one day and hang me from the palace gates, they'll probably leave my body intact—for the sake of noble decency or ceremony. But if it's a demon that wins? I'll be lucky if they find more than ash and teeth."