Smoke and soot had darkened the ceiling. It was very humid. Creaking echoed with every step, as if separating the room inside from the blacksmiths' heavy hammering outside. The whole room was like a mini jail, worse than the holding room at the police station where they had been.

"Hello? Is anyone here?" Althur called out as he began to inspect the room. The room was dark and dismal, with almost no utensils, and the messy kitchen was covered in dust, as if it hadn't been touched in a long time.

"This is strange," he said.

"I agree," Brahms replied.

They waited, but no one answered. Althur noticed dark streaks on the floor, like traces of iron chains.

He saw iron rings bolted to the ground with heavy weights attached to them. It looked as if someone had tried to restrain a beast. He was about to climb the stairs, which were marked with scratches, when he heard a loud creaking in the thick air.

"Who are you?" A cracked female voice echoed in the attic. They looked up, echoing from the loft tucked away in the corner with a small staircase.

"Ma'am. We have permission to be here." Althur spoke calmly.

"I'm a colleague of the exorcist who visited you before. Do you remember him?" He added.

"No, no, he wouldn't let you in." She whispered, but the dark veil still obscured most of her form, with only her agonized mewing piercing the air.

"Don't be afraid, ma'am. We're here to check on you and see if you're alright. Are you alright?" Althur asked gently.

"Go away, go away before he gets angry." She pleaded.

"Please, just go away." Strange noises were heard in the attic that would frighten most people.

Brahms, who had been standing quietly and listening to the conversation, felt a pang of recognition and pain in his heart. He didn't know if he could identify with the woman, but she seemed familiar. He clutched Althur's shirt and stayed close to him.

"Ma'am, you sound fine." Althur sighed. He felt that the figure was hidden a little surprised, but not surprised. He continued to ask.

"Is there anything we can do for you?"

"We're here to help you. We're sent by Bishop Colby. You know him, right?"

There was no reply from the woman this time. Instead, they heard the clanging of iron chains, as if she were moving or struggling. The curtain moved slightly, revealing a glimpse of her silhouette.

He had expected that the bishop would not mention James' death since the devil was a taboo topic that people only resorted to when nothing else worked. Drugs and therapies were useless against demonic possession, which was hard to tell apart from madness unless supernatural signs were obvious.

Bishop Colby had talked to the woman before, while Winston had observed the blacksmith from afar. He had seen him working normally, so he assumed the woman was fine too. But fine in a different sense, because from what he could see now, the woman was far from fine.

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She was skinny, her cheeks hollow and bruised. Her black hair was tangled and dirty. She looked worse than the homeless people on the streets. She stood there, staring at the two men below. She did not move back or forward, as if every step was fraught with danger.

Althur repeated again. "Can we talk to you for a moment?"

"I suppose so. I haven't seen any other human besides my husband for a long time." She seemed calmer.

The atmosphere around them felt chilly and murky, as if they were in a graveyard at night. The moist air has vanished, leaving only a faint odor of decay and death.

"Bishop Colby told us that he came to see you before. He asked you some questions." Althur said.

"Yes, he did. But I don't remember much. My mind was not my own then. It was like something else was controlling me."

"I was walking home from the market one day when I bumped into a skull. It was lying on the ground, covered in blood. I screamed and ran away, but I felt something change inside me. Something dark and evil." Shadowy attic shape echoed, eerie sounds reverberated, like doomed souls wailing.

"Did you have any dreams after that?" Althur asked.

"Dreams? No, I don't dream anymore. My dreams are dead."

"Do you remember about the previous exorcist?"

She hissed, "He traps me in this hell. He binds me with iron chains. He tortures me and scars me with his instruments. He claims he's trying to purge me of evil. But I know he's lying. He's evil incarnate."

The woman narrated it calmly, but it seemed that what she was recounting was not a normal exorcism scene but the behavior of a typical abusive spouse.

"Exorcism. That fiend is what needs exorcism." Her voice flashed wildly.

"They swarm and shriek. They writhe and twist. Yes, twist." A sinister whisper came from the shadows.

"I saw them—two men. One brawny, one elderly. They strapped me down and erected a shrine. As I looked up, I saw one holding a book of lies." The woman swore.

"That's vile." The whispers faded.

"He should be dead, or his skull would have cracked on that bloody anvil long ago."

"Have you ever left this place?"

"He locked me in. He forged this chain ages ago. He never lets me out. He loathes me, but he fears me." Her voice sounded hollow.

"Have you gone anywhere else besides this church?"

"I don't, I don't."

"Do you ever want to harm others?"

"No, never." The voice became quieter.

Althur groaned, "Well, madam, I appreciate your cooperation. You've cleared up some mysteries for me."

"Should I alert the authorities about your captivity?"

"No use. He'll stop anyone who tries."

"Is there no way out?"

"Sorry, but we have to go now."

"It was a pleasure to meet you. You're the first human I've seen in a long time."

The two emerged from the room, leaving behind the chill that seemed to seep into their bones. The heat and humidity from outside rushed in, making them gasp for air as if they were suffocating. The door creaked softly as it closed, and then all was quiet. Althur secured the door with the iron rod he had taken off earlier, then lit a strange candle. He drew a breath and traced a mystical symbol, the same one that marked James' bedroom door. It was the sign of the greatest exorcist in the academy's history, the author of the O.S.P.I.S. bible.

The stories behind this back room were of no interest to Althur. He just wanted to get this done. He knew she had snapped and died, and that was all that mattered. Her despair, James's death, the meeting of Colby's father. He did not bother to cleanse her immediately but simply left a mark—a mark that can cleanse anything. The blacksmith was possessed by it. He can't be saved. The young man watched from a distance, feeling nothing, as if it were all too normal. Violence, torture, brutality—he had seen it all before. That was why they called it a slum.

They glanced at the smithy, where the blacksmith was still lost in the dream Brahms had woven for him. That was why Althur had asked for Brahms' power—to create a lasting illusion instead of a fleeting one. He didn't say anything. He just manipulated some elements to distract the boy feeding the furnace and make him think his work was done and he could go home.

Althur led Brahms away from the place, which seemed strangely deserted. After walking for a while, the golden-haired boy under the straw hat looked back and asked the gentleman.

"Althur, that thing wasn't human, was it?"

"No. It was a vengeful wraith."