Chapter 4: The Butler and the Stage

Stepping inside the mansion, the floors were polished to mirror sheen. Walls layered in silk and silence. Staff were lined up and bowed as they passed—eyes lowered, movements rehearsed and silent.

Their bows were robotically precise, their polite indifference more chilling than any monster’s sneer. They acted with an unfeeling efficiency that made them seem less like servants and more like agents of a silent, sophisticated system.

At the top of the grand staircase, waiting in flawless, unmoving judgment, stood Sebastian.

Immaculate. Unphased. His uniform looked tailored by a demon with a degree in etiquette. His gaze swept across the party—observing the damp, metallic scent of dried blood and the sour smell of stale katsudon and shame clinging to the Saint’s Gown—and settled on Kyle with surgical disdain.

Then he bowed.

Low.

Flawless.

And somehow, utterly contemptuous.

“Welcome back, my lady,” he said to Minami, his voice like chilled steel. “The vehicular unit will be disposed of. It is now contaminated.”

His eyes flicked sharply to Kyle's boots and the smudges on the mirror-sheen floor, making the statement personal.

Then, he addressed Kyle directly:

“I am Sebastian. I will see to your needs, facilitate your existence, and ensure your compliance with the Kurogane standard. I will serve you—so long as you remain.”

The words were spoken with chilled, formal precision, clinging to Kyle like a new, invisible collar. Not a welcome. A warning.

He shifted slightly in place, the polished floor beneath him too smooth, too reflective.

Sebastian pivoted to the twitching figure of Renji/Luna with the precision of a man preparing for a diplomatic duel.

“I have been informed about your particular… situation,” he said, voice smooth as lacquer. “We are honored to host royalty in our humble abode.”

Luna, who had been internally shrieking since the precinct, found something familiar: ritual. She seized control, her pride flaring like a torch in fog. She straightened their shared body and dipped into a curtsy so graceful it made the hallway feel like a ballroom.

“Please,” she said, voice with displaced dignity. “I am nothing more than an exiled princess with no opportunity to return home.”

Sebastian bowed in return—flawless, formal, and faintly theatrical. With a flick of his wrist, a servant stepped forward, presenting a porcelain teacup and a pristine linen napkin on a silver tray.

“For the fair Princess Luna,” Sebastian intoned, “a restorative infusion of rare jasmine, sourced from a private estate in Kyoto. I trust the gentleman currently occupying her vessel will refrain from any uncivilized consumption rituals.”

Renji’s eyes lit up. “Amazing old man, I was getting thirsty!”

He grabbed the teacup and slurped the entire expensive liquid down in one loud, defiant, gurgling gulp. Luna’s mental shriek of pure indignation was so intense the body spasmed violently. Sebastian held a moment of deliberate, prolonged stillness, allowing the gurgling echo and the resulting large, dark stain on the Saint's Gown to hang in the air before he finally marked the event with a single, glacial closure of his lowered eyelids.

With all of the key players assembled, Minami clapped—once.

Sharp. Deliberate.

The sound echoed like a cue in an empty theater.

Her smile was too wide. Too bright.

“Excellent! The curtain rises on our new life. Sebastian, please show our cast members to their designated sets.”

The party followed, not because they trusted her—but because they knew they had nowhere else to go.

Sebastian led them down the corridor, his polished shoes clicking like cues on a stage. The mansion unfolded around them like a set piece: curated, controlled, and quietly suffocating.

“Is… is this a castle?” Kokoro clutched Kotaro’s arm, her voice small and uncertain.

Minami laughed—a sound too bright for the dim hallway, like stage lights flickering on.

“A castle? Oh heavens, no! This is the family’s dog house. Recently reconverted, of course. Don’t worry—the hounds are currently enjoying the Swiss Alps.”

Kokoro didn't respond. Her eyes darted nervously, scanning for chains or a kennel door, taking Minami's dark metaphor with literal, childlike fear. She just held tighter to Kotaro.

They passed the Great Hall, which housed no banners of war—only rotating abstract sculptures that looked like frozen, suppressed screams. The Drawing Room was roped off, not for security, but to protect a $300,000 antique rug from the psychological grime of their messy lives.

Minami gestured airily toward a cavernous kitchen where ten chefs moved in silent synchronicity.

“Feel free to request any dish, any time.”

Sebastian turned down a shadowed hallway. As they continued, the air grew cooler, heavier.

The scent of sweet incense faded, replaced by something metallic and damp. He stopped before a heavy iron door—pitted, rusted, secured with a padlock that looked older than the building.

Just as he reached for the handle, a low, guttural sound drifted from behind it. A groaning, rhythmic resonance that vibrated instinctively in Kyle's chest—like something immensely heavy remembering how to breathe. The sound was ancient. Familiar. Wrong.

Kyle's heart pounded. His heroic instincts flared. He stepped forward, clearing his throat.Kyle's heart pounded. His heroic instincts flared. He stepped forward, clearing his throat.

“Thank you for showing us around, but I’m starting to feel exhausted. Can we see our rooms now?”

Minami placed a hand on her cheek.

Her smile froze and became visibly brittle for a fraction of a second.

“Oh, Kyle,” she said, her voice delivering the sweetness with a slight, forced rise in pitch. “How thoughtless of me! Of course. You must be so tired after slaying the Demon Lord and the ordeal of local law enforcement.”

Sebastian bowed, pivoted, and led them away from the iron door.

Behind them, the groan continued—soft, relentless, a secret they were meant to ignore.

***

The first room was a minimalist dojo—walls of cedar, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a perfectly raked zen garden.

No weapons. No clutter. No chaos.

Just silence.

Sebastian was the first to speak.

“Under the specifications that my lady had instructed, we have arranged the essential accommodations for each of our guest’s particular needs.”

Masayuki stepped inside without hesitation. The scent of cedar was a clean, sharp scent that seemed to burn away the chemical odors and lingering smoke of the world outside. The polished wood floor felt firm and naturally grounding under his bare feet, a visceral contrast to the unforgiving streets.

He knelt in the center, his breath slow, deliberate.

He was using meditation not to find peace—but to rebuild the internal world the external one had shattered.

If I cannot move the world, he thought, I will move myself.

Kokoro tilted her head. “Do you think he likes it?”

Kotaro shrugged. “It’s quiet. He can hear his own thoughts. That’s probably enough.”

Masayuki bowed twice to the room, then twice to the host.

Sebastian offered a tiny, almost imperceptible nod—a professional acknowledgment that this "client" was compliant and easily managed.

Masayuki closed the door behind him.

His geta clicked once against the threshold—then a brief, profound silence settled, a shared breath of relief for the whole party.

Sebastian turned, unperturbed, his voice flat and neutral.

“Shall we proceed? The next room we have is for ascetic recovery.”

Two doors down, Sebastian paused. His hand hovered over the handle, as if bracing for impact. Then, with a practiced flourish, he opened the next room.

Everyone froze.

The space was a shrine to distraction. Aggressively colored LED strips pulsed across the walls, casting cheap, conflicting color over anime posters and plush figures. A throne-shaped gaming chair sat in the center, flanked by a minibar labeled Mood Stabilizers and a stack of manga taller than Masayuki.

The sound of a muffled, upbeat anime theme song leaked into the hallway.

Renji stepped inside slowly, eyes wide.

“Anime heaven!”

He screamed with glee as he shed the Saint’s Gown like dead skin and dove onto the gaming chair in nothing but their undergarments. Kyle and the rest could only look on stupefied as he flipped through an entire manga volume with manic glee.

“I knew I was the main protagonist!” He was regressing into the softest version of himself, choosing oblivion over confrontation. “Where have you been all my life?”

“You absolute gremlin! How dare you discard the Saint’s Gown like that!” Luna shrieked inside his mind.

Then the massage function began taking in effect.

“This is a chamber of sin… but why does this chair feel so heavenly!” Luna moaned in bliss, her resistance instantly defeated by technology.

Sebastian cleared his throat, subtly and violently twitching a muscle near his left eye—a momentary failure of his facade.

“We hope the Princess and gentleman finds the accommodations… tolerable.” His voice was iced over, formal, and utterly detached.

Renji gave a thumbs-up while Luna moaned in bliss.

Minami beamed. “Isn’t it delightful? A perfect fusion of identity and indulgence. The room adapts to their emotional state. It’s therapeutic.”

Kyle lingered in the hallway, watching the door hiss shut behind them. The muffled, chaotic sound of Renji and Luna arguing over minibar territory echoed faintly—a tempting lure of distraction.

Kyle took a deep, intentional breath—a deliberate act of self-control.

He didn’t laugh.

He just kept walking, confirming he viewed the distraction as a form of surrender he was not yet ready to accept.