Alois strikes first, blade in hand, lunging forward with frantic, emotion-fueled swings. His swordplay is wild, chaotic—not the technique of a trained fencer, but the reckless flailing of a boy consumed by rage and grief. He fights not just to hurt Ciel, but to bleed out his pain.

Ciel, though less emotional, is no less determined. He parries, dodges, and gradually gains the upper hand. He is more calculating, more precise. There’s no passion in his blows, only cold purpose.

They clash, metal ringing against swords, but the battle isn’t just physical. Every strike is laced with accusation, every glance filled with trauma. Alois screams, insults him, blames him, projects onto Ciel all the agony he’s endured: the death of his brother Luka, the betrayal of Claude, the endless emptiness left behind.

But then… Ciel strikes. A direct thrust. A clean hit. Alois collapses, crimson spilling beneath him, staining the luxurious floor. He’s mortally wounded. But even now, with life draining from his body, he speaks.

As Ciel approaches, sword in hand, ready to finish him off, Alois raises a trembling, bloodied hand and screams.

“Wait no listen to me ! You don’t understand ! You’re being tricked by a demon… I’m telling you believe me !”

His voice is weak, ragged, but the weight of his words cuts deeper than any blade. He’s speaking of Sebastian—not with jealousy, but with bitter truth. In Alois’s eyes, there’s no malice now. No schemes. Just raw, aching despair.