In the tranquil stillness of the dream, Ethemon faintly heard a voice, wrapping around his ear like a silken thread: "Naughty, naughty, so very naughty, my little master."
The voice was soft and melodic, yet laced with a hint of reproach, as if it had traversed endless space and time to drift leisurely from a distant realm.
He knew that voice all too well; Sceleritas, his butler, had come for him again.
Chapter 120