Chapter 63: In the Depths of Darkness
Translated by Addis of Exiled Rebels Scanlations
Editor: PlumSauce
The Association headquarters had received the incident report, and the local Hunter Society, the Rangers, and the exorcists registered with religious orders had all gotten word as well.
In the office meeting room, dozens of exorcists and hunters from various places had gathered. There weren’t enough chairs, and many had to stand.
Lucian had come too. When he presented the surveillance data, he used reenactment magic instead of recorded footage, ensuring that not a single detail was lost.
When they saw Coraci’s soul fall out of sync with his body, people whispered among themselves. But when the alert came, indicating the presence of characteristics belonging to an Umbral, the room went silent. No one could quite believe it was real.
They pored over every case Coraci had handled, contacted everyone who had interacted with him, and questioned John in detail. The black light Liz had seen became one of their key points of reference.
The Association sent people to speak at length with Russell in the Bunker prison, as he had once borrowed Coraci’s soul for spellcasting. They also went back to search the old Atwood manor, looking for traces of suspicious magical residue.
Now, the Association’s West Bay City office meeting room was covered wall-to-wall with records and documents from every era. In order to convey their meaning accurately, spellcasters often peppered their sentences with words from arcane language, Old Celtic, Latin, or rare words with no precise translation. The unfamiliar sounds gave one the strange feeling that a long-sealed door was creaking open once more.
Devils had neither slipped in from another realm nor been transformed from the dead — they had always been part of this world. Compared to “dark creatures,” they were more akin to ordinary life, which was why they were called Umbrals. The average person mistook them for beings from the “Hell” of religious legend and thus called them devils.
Devils had been extinct for a very long time. In the Dark Ages, they had hidden among humans. Compared to the demons who occasionally came from the Abyss to indulge themselves, devils were rarer — but the tragedies they caused were far greater. They allied with no one, sought no profit, and desired things no other species could understand — or wanted to.
As the witch hunts of history progressed, the devils eventually disappeared. This era carried a deeper meaning for true spellcasters. In their chronicles, the war was called the “Double Hunt”: ordinary citizens, driven by ignorance and fear, reported enchantresses; the Church endlessly tried the innocent; meanwhile, true hunters and spellcasters fought a more grueling battle — evading persecution while tracking down the real devils.
By the end of the Double Hunt, not only human spellcasters and hunters, but also bloodkin, werewolves, various undead, demons living in the human world, and hidden supernatural eldritch creatures — almost every species — had joined forces to wipe out the devils.
Some exorcist families had erased that history to protect their reputations. However, records still remained in the archives of the Association and the Hunter Society.
It had been an extraordinary sight: hunters and bloodkin fighting side by side; wizards charging into grand cathedrals to kill devils disguised as clergy, sacrificing themselves in the process; elf-blood warriors so sensitive to the devils’ breath that the war nearly drove them to extinction; exorcists tending the wounds of demons, while demons shielded the humans chanting spells.
To this day, humans and demons sometimes could drink together, bloodkin and hunters could work as partners without raising eyebrows, and even shapeshifters could become exorcists. In the end, no trace of a devil could be found in the world.
“It’s been almost a week,” John said. He hadn’t left the Association’s offices once in that time. “How long do you plan to keep him locked up?”
For the entire week, Coraci had been confined to the isolation room. Occasionally, exorcists or researchers went in to ask questions, run tests, or deliver necessary items he was allowed to have.
The Association had reset the door permissions so that control was held by different individuals — John could no longer open it alone.
“Hard to say. His condition isn’t stable,” replied an elderly exorcist from the Association’s headquarters. “I believe Deville Coraci is a good kid. The question is… is the one in there still Coraci? From what’s happened before, the changes in him are irreversible — and they’re still developing.”
“Still developing… and then what?” John asked.
“The devil’s instinct to kill will surface.” The old exorcist kept his head down, scribbling something on paper, surrounded by stacks of ancient books. “Either there’s something implanted in him by a devil, or his soul has been tainted by one. In short, he’s transformed.” He looked up over the rim of his spectacles at John. “You’re bloodkin, aren’t you? Think of it like… when a human is first embraced by bloodkin, still clinging to their humanity and refusing to feed — fighting it every moment, but always on the edge of giving in. It’s just an example — I’m not insulting your kind.”
John didn’t mind the comparison. What mattered was Coraci. “He’s claustrophobic. Treating him like this…it’s inhumane.”
“Locking up someone without claustrophobia would be just as inhumane,” the old exorcist said with a shrug. “But he might not be human. Don’t look at me like that — it’s a fact, not an insult. He’s like a ticking time bomb. If we don’t keep him in isolation, he could change in ways no one can predict. That wouldn’t be humane for anyone.”
The meeting room had become a temporary shared office for the group. Instructor Jere beckoned John over.
“The isolation room isn’t cramped. We had always considered the possibility of holding larger creatures,” Instructor Jere said. “Coraci once interrogated a vaporized entity in there all by himself. He’s not as fragile as you think.”
John leaned on the table in dejection. “Yeah, I know he’s not going to suffocate. But he’ll still be miserable.”
“Of course. And we’re sorry for that.” Instructor Jere knew John would never agree with their approach and had stopped trying to convince him.
While John flipped through some files, he asked hesitantly, “If you can’t let Coraci out…could you at least lock me in there with him?”
Instructor Jere looked up from his papers. “I know you trust him, but this isn’t some spy game. Don’t be childish. Here — take a look at this analysis report.” He handed John a stack of documents.
“To be honest, I can’t understand some of it.” John frowned. The pages might as well have been an alien’s math exam.
“Then have Coraci explain it to you.” Instructor Jere stood, clapping John on the shoulder. “He has the right to know too. And right now, everyone with door clearance is here.”
“Thanks,” John said gratefully, following him.
Instructor Jere knocked on the isolation room door a few times before unlocking it. Coraci had just gotten out of bed. Instructor Jere pulled out a phone and tossed it to him.
“Charged it up for you.”
Paper and pen could be used for spellcasting, but phones and the internet could not. Coraci was allowed to use his phone and computer in the isolation room, but since there was no outlet inside, he couldn’t charge them himself.
He hadn’t expected John to come in. John often tried to talk to him — through the door or over the phone — but for safety reasons, the Association rarely allowed someone without clearance to enter.
“John needs your help explaining a few things,” Instructor Jere said. “We’ll be right outside. The isolation room can’t stay open for long.” He gave a little wave, then shut the door again, leaving John inside.
Coraci stood and reached out a hand to pat John’s shoulder. John was much quicker — he pulled Coraci into a hug. Previously, Smith had repeatedly suggested this kind of comforting; an embrace could give someone a sense of safety.
“Whoa! Wait!” Coraci exclaimed. “Don’t press on my back!”
John let go immediately, looking at him in confusion. Coraci gave a wry smile. “Ever had an injection? Back when you were still human?”
“No…”
“You were really healthy,” Coraci said, sitting back down. “Here’s the thing — my back and arms have a few… Let’s call them ‘medical procedure leftovers.’ Don’t touch me there right now. The bruises haven’t faded yet.”
“It wasn’t about health — we were just too poor to afford a doctor back then… Wait. Are you saying you’re injured?” John sat beside him.
“Uh…some tests leave marks. The exorcists aren’t as skilled as hospital nurses. Drawing blood means getting poked three or four times, and that’s the part I hate most. The Association should hire a couple of real nurses.”
“And your back?”
“Similar to something you’ve seen before — runes for monitoring and detection.”
“Let me see?”
“No.” Coraci pressed a hand to his forehead. He smiled, but the blue-tinged shadows under his eyes betrayed his exhaustion. “I’m locked in a little room, and they occasionally let you in. The first thing you do is try to take my clothes off? Sounds like something from a late night pay-per-view show.”
John shook his head. “Come on. You’re deliberately saying something suggestive to dodge the question because you know I’ll get embarrassed. Then you’ve successfully changed the subject.”
“Fair enough — you’re starting to really get me.”
“So…”
“Still no. There’s nothing to see anyway.” Coraci’s smile faded. “I’m alive, unharmed, and not crippled. You can’t smell any exposed blood from me, right? That means I’m fine, doesn’t it? As for the runes — you wouldn’t understand them. You wouldn’t understand, so you’d panic. You’d panic, so you’d ask me. Then I’d have to explain, which means reliving the whole process… And honestly, it wasn’t pleasant. I don’t want to talk about it.”
John didn’t push further. His voice trembled slightly. “How do they even have the right to do this to you? You’re human — you’re not some dangerous thing—”
“They’re right,” Coraci said. “I am dangerous. I want to find out what’s happening to me more than anyone, and I’m willing to cooperate.”
“You’ve never done anything evil.”
“But I’m always a risk.”
“The Earth’s always at risk of getting hit by an asteroid!”
“And that’s why people keep watch for asteroids,” Coraci said lightly, as if they really were just chatting about space debris. “If one’s a threat, it either gets pushed into deep space or destroyed.”
He lowered his head and took the printouts from John’s hands. He didn’t want to meet John’s gaze.
The worry in John’s eyes was obvious. Being looked at like that made Coraci uneasy — afraid his own composure would crack.
“This is my recent analysis report?” He tried to keep his voice steady. “It’s all technical jargon. No wonder you couldn’t understand. They should release a condensed layman’s version. Here, let me take a look.”
A few minutes later, he was still staring at the report. “Well… I’m shocked.”
“About what?” John asked.
“Remember when you were buried in the basement of the old Atwood house? I passed out, and when I woke up, the basement was a wreck.”
“I remember…”
Coraci pointed to a section of text. “Those slash marks might have been my doing. This part’s in plain language — you can read it yourself. ‘Upon inquiry and verification, the massive black evil spirit was not killed by any hunter, nor was it seen by anyone. A few days ago, Association personnel returned to the old house and detected traces of an Umbral’s movements in the basement.’ At the time of the incident, I lost consciousness. When I woke, I remembered nothing of what happened in between. Recent analysis shows it wasn’t unconsciousness at all — it was a memory gap. I had another memory gap on Jibi Island. Liz and several human spellcasters on site saw some unidentified substance emerge from me.”
John opened his mouth but had no idea what to say.
To break the awkward silence, Coraci mocked himself. “Aren’t I impressive? Funny, I never noticed before. Maybe my soul’s been so heavily consumed it’s developed some kind of self-defense instinct… That’s even what the report suggests. If I could’ve done this as a kid, I’d probably have grown up in the Bunker prison, and Volvo might’ve given me a tooth necklace engraved with TRPG terminology.”
“Are you joking?” John frowned at him.
“Sort of. I know it’s not very funny—”
“It’s definitely not. You’re a horror novelist by trade. You’re not built for humor.”
“…That’s actually the funniest thing you’ve said today.”
Coraci actually laughed — not the stiff, forced smile he wore to feign calm, but a real one.
John made him afraid — afraid of the unknown within himself — but John also had a way of making him feel at ease. Right now was the most relaxed he’d been in days.
All week, he had often kept his eyes closed. The windowless room pressed heavily on his chest. He tried to relax, wishing he could sleep twenty-some hours a day like a cat.
In the haze between waking and sleep, he often imagined himself staring into a pitch-black surface of water, the ripples trembling more and more violently, something monstrous beneath beginning to stir.
Russell had once said Coraci’s soul was too powerful — a fact that had proven itself in every encounter with evil spirits. The more erosion and impact a soul endured, the more unstable it became, like a sickness slowly spreading from within.
Coraci had made many guesses about himself, but he had never once considered traits of an Umbral.
If those “Umbral traits” were real, then he was what people called a devil. Being a devil was a kind of fundamental nature — not just a race or identity. In all of history, no devil had ever truly become an ordinary human, no matter how perfectly they had blended into society.
What was worse, devils weren’t born from any kind of parent. They could take on human form or possess a physical body, but they were never born as humans or as any kind of animal. That kind of fundamental nature didn’t require “reproduction” at all.
Coraci had thought it through carefully. Since early childhood, his memories were mostly continuous; apart from normal forgetfulness, he had never experienced abrupt amnesia. His physical measurements matched human norms, and he had grown at a normal rate.
He had never changed identities or memories. If his soul truly was that of a devil, the only explanation was that it had been there when this body was still an infant — or even a fetus. So where was the “human” who was supposed to be born? Who was the real Deville Coraci? He couldn’t stop this type of speculation. Sometimes it made him so sick he wanted to throw up.
As a spellcaster, Coraci knew exactly how to deal with Umbrals — no compromise, no trial, and no trust in anything they said or did. The best course of action was to kill them outright, no matter how kind or innocent they appeared.
If this had been a few centuries ago, he wouldn’t have lived to see this moment.
Now, the Association people treated the matter with extreme caution. They were afraid something had gone wrong somewhere — afraid of finding genuine traces of a devil, and equally afraid of a false alarm.
Coraci could see how tense they all were, like the old saying: hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.
For a week, he had greeted every exorcist and ancient-magic researcher who entered the isolation room with perfect courtesy, cooperating fully with every examination, calmly discussing their questions.
When he was alone, though, he wanted to scream from fear.
He remembered what Russell had told him: Please stay vigilant — you might drag yourself and everyone around you into hell.
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