"Horror stories." A shadowy voice echoed through a dark alley. Decaying stone houses exposed splintered wood, and rats squirmed beneath the splinters amidst footsteps and a murky atmosphere. In that scene, there were two figures, one tall and one small.

Althur turned, finding the little boy trying not to step on a swarm of mice. He walked slowly, explaining in a low voice.

"Most of these stories have some basis in reality. As you know, folk tales and legends of ghosts and demons are very common. You have read them, haven't you?"

The boy nodded, "Is that common?"

"In this place, yes. In fact, many people have suffered and died in this world, leaving behind ghosts and curses. The Sanctums have had to deal with that. This is why they have become so powerful at influencing society. Also O.S.P.I.S."

"Ghosts, demons, and evil things are complex when we dig into the details. You know that, right?" He looked at the boy, who nodded eagerly.

"I wanna know more about them." The boy's voice was firm and determined. He had a thirst for knowledge that Althur admired.

"You will, in time."

"I remember in James' room having three books on exorcism and demons. I wonder how Winston handled them. If not, we can borrow them." He added.

"Hmm, talk about a vengeful wraith. Like that woman. She's dead. From what I've seen, her body seems to have been cremated." Althur paused for a moment as he spoke. He did not mention how the woman had been cremated.

"How was the process?" The boy asked.

"There are two, one rooted in strong emotions, the other from the influence of the beyond, which produce irregularities."

"Her resentment hasn't dissipated. We can see that. The blacksmith overlooked a proper burial ceremony. This town is covered in mist. There are many unusual and easily resonant things to create something like this."

"Then there is still only one source."

"Yes, you got it."

"Is that why the church and the temple are so important?" Brahms asked.

"Indee." He easily agreed.

"Birth, its purpose and meaning, death, and the afterlife. These are the concerns of the living. There are different approaches, but explanations must satisfy believers. That is why people could believe in a church or cult." Althur provided some details.

The boy nodded. He was interested in many things. Althur can teach him many things, but he wants to be more useful. The first step was to study hard.

"That man will die." Brahms hesitated.

"Everybody will."

The two traveled along a narrow, empty path covered with black stains of charcoal and paint. Althur, an experienced traveler, avoided dead ends and took various turns.

This dark valley was littered with trash and excrement blended into monstrous shapes, filling the valley with a nauseating stench of putrefaction. If someone died here, they wouldn't care.

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...

Althur and Brahms walked through a deserted alley, surrounded by silent gazes. Brahms, used to such stares, scanned them discreetly. Althur's elegant bearing remained unaffected by the misery, while Brahms grimaced.

The beggars at the windows watched them with envy, and the thieves tried to pick their pockets, only to find nothing, not even a handkerchief.

The two stopped at a shabby tavern, not compared to the nearby hovels, but by their standards. The windows were dirty and cracked, and the door squeaked. Inside, there was a dim light and a stale smell of smoke and alcohol.

"What are we doing here?"

"Looking for some information," Althur replied.

"Here?"

"Just follow me."

They entered the tavern, which was littered with all kinds of junk that had been thrown away like garbage.

"What a mess!" Brahms thought.

Only a few patrons were in the place. The rest were gambling with their lives in the underworld.

"They're digging us into hell, they are. They've stripped the hill bare; now they want us to dig deeper." The man spat.

"Aye, I wonder what they'll find down there. I've heard tales from the East where they've made machines to replace horses that can haul loads of ore up the slopes like nothing... and carry them around the curves, easier than trains, as if they were iron steeds."

"Blimey, what kind of devilry is that? Why don't they use iron for these tunnels?"

"They don't care. They don't give a damn about us. Have you seen the supervisor's face when someone asks them to replace these timber sets with iron?"

"Like he's eating beans without a blessing."

"That damn parrot. I bet he'd gobble them up if they were gold."

"If the goddesses don't need the money," said the stranger, "they do."

Everything seemed to stand still as the two entered the pub. Though he was no longer dressed in his formal suit and much of his face was hidden behind a cheap straw hat, the difference between them was obvious. Gradually, everyone ignored this strange occurrence, and the atmosphere returned to normal.

Althur and Brahms sat quietly at the bar. The bartender approached and looked at Brahms appraisingly before looking back at Althur. He was a lean and lanky fellow, wearing a faded and stained apron and a pair of sturdy boots that clanked every time he went to look for something under the counter.

"An Old Potter and a Ginger Beer." The young man spoke as he placed a silver coin on the table.

The man said nothing but quickly poured some liquid beer from somewhere into cheap wooden cups.

"What can I do for you?" The bartender asked as he poured two mugs of ale for the customers.

"We're looking for some information." The young man said it casually.

"That'll cost you."

"We can pay." He slid a silver coin across the counter.

"What kind of information?" The bartender asked, curious about the strangers' identities and motives.

"Wait, let me guess first."

"Be my guest." The young man took a sip of his ale and handed the other mug to his companion, a boy who looked barely old enough to drink.

He savored the drink, listening to the bartender's guesses, which were more talkative than his appearance suggested. The beer was bitter, as the name implied, but he liked it.

"You're not from the king's gentlemen. I can tell." The bartender concluded.

"How so?"

"Why use money instead of power? They'll threaten and warn if they want something."

"That's true."

"You're not journalists either."

"You seem too at ease in these places. Young, too."

"Maybe it's because this place is not the capital." The young man said it nonchalantly. He didn't really have a permanent job.

"They are cautious and reserved with many things. But at least here, they'll be careful with everyone. Because they are not afraid of being targeted as lunatics".

"You know a lot. But what are these lunatic people doing here?"

"To see how stupid our government is." His voice was small.

"For the last time, you're an inquisitive and stupid idiot who knows nothing about the world."

"It doesn't seem to be related to previous conclusions." His voice remained flat, seemingly ignoring the insult.

"Just kidding." The man laughed and said, "Who am I to guess?"

"But you're not a government inspector, are you?" The man leaned over and asked quietly.

"No. But you're wrong. I'm a journalist."

"And what kind of journalist are you?" The man observed a young man wearing a straw hat, a stranger bringing a child who sipped ginger beer like it was his first time, and was uncertain about the situation, except for the South bums and child traffickers.

"I am a journalist who investigates and reports on phenomena that defy normal explanations."

The young man's voice resounded, but instead of being an echo in this room, it seemed to pierce the man's senses. He felt uneasy as he eyed the two people in front of him.