He needed to say something. Anything. The silence stretched between them like a physical thing, growing more awkward with each passing second.
"I..." His voice came out as a croak, rough and weak. He cleared his throat, tried again. "I'm fine. Just... needed a moment."
Smooth. Real smooth. He sounded like he'd been gargling gravel.
Ciel's expression didn't change, but something flickered in those crimson eyes. Amusement? Concern? It was gone too quickly to identify.
"Young master, you are clearly not fine." Her tone was gentle but firm, the kind of voice one might use with a stubborn child. "You've been unconscious for three days. Your fever only broke this morning. The physician explicitly stated that you were to remain in bed for at least another week."
Three days. He'd been out for three days since... since whatever had brought him here had happened.
Asher tried to shift himself into a more dignified position, to at least look like he had some semblance of control over the situation. His arms trembled with the effort, and the room tilted dangerously to the left.
Then Ciel was there.
She moved so fast he barely registered it, one moment standing a respectful distance away, the next pressed close beside him, her hands catching his shoulders and steadying him with surprising strength. The movement was fluid, precise, without any wasted motion. Like water flowing downhill.
'That's not normal. That's definitely not normal.'
Her touch sent a shock through him, but not the kind he'd expected. Her hands were cold. Not cool, not room temperature, but genuinely cold, as though she'd been holding them in ice water. Through the thin fabric of his nightshirt, he could feel that chill seeping into his skin.
And there was something else. A scent, faint but distinct, that wafted up as she leaned close to adjust his position against the pillows. Winter roses, delicate and sweet, mixed with something sharper, more metallic. Like copper. Like blood.
"Easy, young master," she murmured, her face now just inches from his own. This close, he could see that her skin wasn't just pale—it was almost translucent, with faint blue veins visible beneath the surface at her temples. "You'll injure yourself."
He should thank her. Should say something gracious and appropriate. But his mind was racing, fragments of memories from Asher's life mixing with his own observations, creating a picture that didn't quite make sense.
'The system. The analysis function.'
The thought surfaced unbidden, and almost instinctively, he focused his attention on Ciel, willing the system to activate.
'Analyze her.'
The system interface, which had been hovering quietly at the edge of his vision, suddenly flickered. Text began to scroll across it, but unlike before, it wasn't smooth and steady. Instead, it stuttered, glitched, as though struggling with something.
[ANALYZING TARGET...]
[WARNING: TARGET POSSESSES MULTIPLE INTERFERENCE FACTORS]
[ANALYSIS MAY BE INCOMPLETE]
The words pulsed, and then new information began to appear, line by line, each one sending his heart rate climbing higher.
[NAME: CIEL ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓]
[AGE: ??? (PHYSICAL APPEARANCE: 19-20)]
[RACE: HUMAN (SUSPECTED BLOODLINE CORRUPTION)]
[LEVEL: ???]
[POTENTIAL RANK: SSS]
[CURRENT STATUS: CRITICALLY COMPROMISED]
His breath caught in his throat.
[DETECTED AFFLICTIONS:]
[MANA HEART CORRUPTION - STAGE 3]
[OUROBOROS SEAL (ACTIVE) - ENERGY SUPPRESSION: 87%]
[LIFE FORCE DEGRADATION - ONGOING]
[▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓]
[WARNING: SUBJECT LIFE EXPECTANCY WITHOUT INTERVENTION - LESS THAN 2 YEARS]
[NOTE: SUBJECT IS AWARE OF CONDITION AND HAS ACCEPTED FATE]
The last line hit him like a physical blow. She knew. She knew she was dying, had known for who knew how long, and she'd simply... accepted it.
"Young master?"
Ciel's voice snapped him back to reality. She was looking at him with that same neutral expression, but there was a question in her eyes now. Had she noticed something? Could she tell he was looking at her differently?
He realized he'd been staring, his eyes wide and locked on her face. Worse, his hands had somehow ended up gripping her forearms, holding onto her with what little strength he possessed.
"I... sorry." He released her quickly, heat flooding his cheeks. "I'm still... disoriented."
She studied him for a moment longer, then smoothly withdrew, putting a professional distance between them once more. But he could have sworn he saw her right hand drift toward her chest for just a moment, fingers pressing against the fabric of her dress before falling away.
A wince. So brief he might have imagined it.
'She's in pain. She's dying and in pain, and she's standing here taking care of me like nothing's wrong.'
The thought stirred something in his chest. Not just the clinical assessment he'd been making about potential recruits for his faction, but something more visceral. More human.
"Let me fetch you some water, young master." Ciel moved toward the small table near the window where a pitcher sat. Her movements were still graceful, still efficient, but now that he was looking for it, he could see the tiny imperfections. The way she favored her left side slightly. The careful, controlled breathing, as though each breath had to be measured and deliberate.
She poured water into a crystal glass with steady hands, then returned to his bedside, offering it to him.
He took it, their fingers brushing in the exchange. Still so cold.
"Ciel," he said, the name feeling strange on his tongue. The original Asher had rarely addressed her directly, too lost in his own misery to pay much attention to the people around him. "How long have you been with House Caerstelle?"
She tilted her head slightly, a small gesture that somehow conveyed both acknowledgment and mild surprise at the question.
"Three years, young master. I was assigned as your personal attendant shortly after your condition worsened and you required more... dedicated care."
Three years. Three years of serving a boy who barely spoke to her, who was too wrapped up in his own failing body to notice the person keeping him alive.
"And before that?" He took a sip of water, more to give himself something to do with his hands than out of actual thirst. "Where did you come from?"
A longer pause this time. Her red eyes seemed to darken, though perhaps it was just a trick of the light.
"I was hired through standard channels, young master. The head butler reviewed my qualifications and found them satisfactory."
It was a non-answer, delivered with perfect politeness. A wall going up between them.
"That's not what I asked."
The words came out sharper than he'd intended, and he saw her shoulders tense slightly. But he pressed on, because something was telling him this mattered. That if he wanted to build anything in this world, if he wanted to survive, he needed to understand the people around him. Especially this woman who, according to the system, was dying just as surely as he had been.
"I asked where you came from. Who you were before you became a maid."
Silence filled the room, thick and heavy. Ciel's expression remained neutral, but her eyes... there was something in her eyes now. Something old and hurt and carefully locked away.
"My past is not relevant to my duties, young master."
"Maybe not. But I'd still like to know."
"Why?"
The single word was soft, but there was an edge to it. A challenge. And underneath that, something else. Confusion? Suspicion?
He didn't have a good answer. Or rather, he had too many answers and none of them were ones he could say out loud. Because I need powerful allies and the system says you have SSS-rank potential. Because we're both dying and misery loves company. Because something about you makes me think there's more to this world than I can see, and I need to understand it.
Instead, he said, "Because I'm tired of being surrounded by strangers. Because I almost died—might still die, for all I know—and I realized I don't actually know anything about the people in my own household."
It wasn't a lie, not exactly. Just not the complete truth.
Ciel regarded him for a long moment, those crimson eyes searching his face as though trying to read something written there in invisible ink.
"You are... different, young master. Changed, somehow."
His heart stuttered. Could she tell? Did she somehow know that he wasn't really Asher Caerstelle, that he was someone else wearing the boy's body like an ill-fitting coat?
"Dying does that to a person," he said, keeping his voice light despite the hammering of his pulse. "Gives you perspective."
"Perhaps." She didn't sound entirely convinced. "But I wonder if it's more than that."
Before he could formulate a response, she continued, her tone shifting back to that professional neutrality. "The physician will visit tomorrow morning to check on your recovery. Until then, you should rest. Build your strength."
She moved toward the wardrobe, pulling out fresh linens. "Your nightclothes are damp with sweat. Let me help you change, and then you should try to sleep."
The thought of being changed like a child sent a spike of embarrassment through him, but one look at his trembling hands told him he didn't have much choice. He could barely hold a glass of water, let alone undress himself.
"Fine," he muttered, setting the glass aside.
Ciel approached with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times before. She helped him sit forward, then began working the buttons of his nightshirt with quick, practiced fingers.
He tried to focus on anything but the situation. The pattern of the wallpaper. The grain of the wood floor. The way the afternoon light painted golden rectangles across the ceiling.
Anything but the fact that a beautiful woman was currently undressing him while he sat there weak as a kitten.
She pulled the damp fabric away from his shoulders, and he caught sight of himself in the mirror across the room. Pale skin stretched over visible ribs. Arms like twigs. The body of someone who'd been sick for far too long.
'This is what I have to work with. This broken, dying shell.'
But then Ciel reached for the fresh shirt, and her sleeve rode up just slightly, revealing her wrist.
He saw it for only a moment, but it burned itself into his memory with perfect clarity.
A mark. Black as ink, raised slightly from the skin. It formed the shape of a serpent eating its own tail, the ancient symbol known as an ouroboros. And it was glowing, just faintly, with a sickly purple light that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
Their eyes met.
For a frozen instant, neither of them moved. Ciel's expression flickered through several emotions in rapid succession—surprise, fear, something that might have been resignation—before settling back into careful neutrality.
She yanked her sleeve down with a sharp motion, covering the mark.
"Young master," she said quietly, and there was a warning in her voice now. "Some things are better left unobserved."
But he'd already seen it. Already connected it to the system's analysis, to the words that had been partially redacted, to the life expectancy of less than two years.
"That mark," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've seen that symbol before. In... in memories."
It was a lie. He hadn't seen it in Asher's memories at all. But he needed to know more, needed to understand what he was dealing with.
Ciel went very still. Her hand gripped the fresh shirt so tightly that her knuckles turned white—whiter than they already were.
"You are mistaken, young master."
"Am I?"
Another long silence. He could practically see the calculations happening behind her eyes, weighing options, assessing risks.
Finally, she moved, sliding the fresh nightshirt over his head with mechanical efficiency. Her touch was no longer gentle, but nor was it rough. Just... distant. As though she were handling an object rather than a person.
"You should rest now," she said, her voice flat. "I will return with your evening meal in two hours."
She turned toward the door, and he felt the moment slipping away. Whatever small crack had appeared in her armor was closing, and if he let her leave now, it might never open again.
"Ciel, wait."
She paused, her hand on the ornate door handle, but she didn't turn around.
"What if I told you I wanted to help you?" The words tumbled out before he could fully think them through. "That I need to help you?"
He saw her shoulders tense, saw her head tilt slightly as though she were listening for something.
"Help me with what, young master?" Her voice was carefully controlled, but there was something underneath it. A tremor, so faint he almost missed it.
"That mark. Your... condition. Whatever it is that's killing you."
The words hung in the air like a blade. Too late to take them back now.
Slowly, so slowly, Ciel turned to face him. And for the first time since she'd entered the room, her mask completely shattered.
Her red eyes were wide, pupils dilated with shock. Her lips parted slightly, as though she wanted to speak but couldn't find the words. Her hand remained frozen on the door handle, white-knuckled and trembling.
"How..." she breathed. "How could you possibly..."
Then the shock gave way to something else. Suspicion, sharp and cutting.
"Who are you?" She took a step toward him, and there was something predatory in the movement now. "Young master Asher never noticed anything. He barely acknowledged my existence beyond what I could do for him. So who are you, and what do you want?"
He forced himself to meet her gaze, to not flinch away from the intensity burning in those crimson depths.
"I'm still Asher Caerstelle. But you're right, I've changed. Maybe dying and coming back does more than just give perspective. Maybe it lets you see things you couldn't before."
"That's not an answer."
"No," he admitted. "But it's the only one I can give right now."
They stared at each other, and he could see her warring with herself. The professional mask wanted to slide back into place, to smooth over this moment and pretend it had never happened. But something else—hope? desperation?—kept it from fully forming.
"Why would you want to help me?" Her voice was barely a whisper now. "You can barely help yourself, young master. You can barely stand without assistance."
"Maybe that's exactly why." He leaned forward slightly, ignoring the protest from his weak muscles. "We're both dying, aren't we? Both broken in our own ways. Maybe... maybe that means we understand each other better than anyone else could."
Ciel's expression shifted, something raw and vulnerable breaking through. "You don't understand anything."
"Then help me understand. Come back tonight, after everyone's asleep. We can talk. Really talk, without the walls and the pretense."
"That would be highly inappropriate, young master."
"So is slowly dying while pretending everything's fine."
The words were harsh, but they hit their mark. He saw her flinch, saw her hand drift to her chest again, fingers pressing over her heart.
Over her corrupted mana heart, he realized. That's where the pain was centered.
"Please, Ciel." He put as much sincerity into his voice as he could manage. "I know you have no reason to trust me. The old Asher never gave you any reason to. But I'm asking you to take a chance. What do you have to lose?"
"My position. My safety. What little life I have left."
"And if I could offer you more life? More than two years?"
Her eyes widened again, and this time there was no mistaking the emotion. Fear. Pure, undiluted fear.
"How do you know that?" Her voice was sharp, cutting. "Who told you? Was it Father Gregor? Did the Ouroboros—"
She cut herself off abruptly, her hand flying to her mouth as though she could physically stuff the words back in.
But it was too late. She'd confirmed it. The Ouroboros Cult. The same name that had appeared in the system's analysis, connected to the seal that was suppressing her power.
The silence that followed was deafening. Ciel looked like she might bolt, every muscle in her body tensed for flight. But she didn't move, frozen in place by shock and fear and perhaps a desperate, dangerous sliver of hope.
"No one told me," Asher said quietly. "I just... knew. The same way I know that mark on your wrist is a seal. The same way I know your mana heart is corrupted. The same way I know you've already decided you're going to die, so why bother hoping for anything else?"
Tears. Actual tears were forming in the corners of her eyes, though she blinked furiously to hold them back. Her whole body was shaking now, the careful control she'd maintained shattering like glass.
"You can't help me," she whispered. "No one can. The seal is too strong, and the corruption has spread too far. The best physicians in the empire looked at me and said there was nothing to be done. So why would you—a boy who can't even stand on his own—be any different?"
"Because I'm desperate too." The admission came easier than he'd expected. "Because I need allies, and you need hope, and maybe together we can find something neither of us could find alone."
It was manipulation, he knew. Playing on her fear and pain to recruit her to his cause. But it was also truth. He did need allies, powerful ones, and she fit that bill perfectly. And if he could actually help her, actually save her from whatever the Ouroboros Cult had done to her, then maybe that made the manipulation slightly less monstrous.
Ciel stood there, trembling, tears now flowing freely down her pale cheeks. She looked smaller somehow, as though the weight of her secrets had been the only thing holding her upright.
"I don't..." she started, then stopped. "I can't..."
"Tonight," Asher said firmly. "After everyone's asleep. Just come talk to me. No commitments, no promises. Just... talk. If you decide it's pointless, you can walk away and we'll never speak of this again."
He could see the war happening behind her eyes. Duty versus hope. Self-preservation versus the desperate, hungry part of her that wanted to believe someone might actually care whether she lived or died.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she gave the smallest of nods. Barely perceptible, but there.
"Midnight," she whispered. "After the household has retired. But if this is some kind of trick, young master, if you're working with them—"
"I'm not. I swear it."
She held his gaze for a moment longer, searching for any hint of deception. Then she turned and fled, the door closing behind her with a soft click that sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.
Asher slumped back against the pillows, his heart racing and his body trembling from more than just weakness. He'd done it. He'd made contact, established a connection. The first step toward building his shadow faction, toward becoming something more than a dying background character.
But as the adrenaline faded and exhaustion washed over him, he couldn't help but notice the hollow feeling in his chest. The way her tears had looked against her pale skin. The desperate hope in her voice when she'd asked how he could know about her condition.
'She's not just a tool,' he thought, staring up at the ornate ceiling. 'She's a person. A dying person who's probably been alone with her pain for three years, serving a master who never even noticed she existed.'
The system interface flickered back into view, still displaying her partial information.
[SUBJECT LIFE EXPECTANCY WITHOUT INTERVENTION - LESS THAN 2 YEARS]
[NOTE: SUBJECT IS AWARE OF CONDITION AND HAS ACCEPTED FATE]
"Alright," he whispered to the empty room. "First step: save my maid. Second step: save myself. Third step: change this world."
He looked down at his trembling hands, at the thin arms that could barely support his own weight.
"No pressure."
The afternoon light was fading, painting the room in shades of amber and gold. In a few hours, night would fall. And at midnight, Ciel would return.
And then, for better or worse, his new life would truly begin.
He closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling at him despite the racing of his thoughts. Before sleep could claim him completely, one more thought surfaced, clear and determined.
'I'll save her. Whatever it takes, however long it takes. I'll break that seal, heal that corruption, and prove that hope isn't as pointless as she thinks it is.'
It was an impossible promise, made by someone who could barely sit up without help.
But somehow, impossibly, he meant every word of it.