The cold in Kazakhstan was cruel, but it wasn't worse than the stale air of the bunker. The wind sliced Daytona's skin as she climbed back to the surface, her footsteps echoing through the empty tunnels behind her. The book pressed under her arm was warmer than it should have been — as if it were pulsing.
At the top, the hatch groaned. Ghost pulled her up — the old man, his face pale in the moonlight, saying nothing. Beside him, Martin clutched the supply pack, eyes widening when he saw Daytona covered in blood and black oil.
— You okay? — Martin asked, his voice hesitant.
Daytona tossed the cracked ABYSS-7 core at their feet. The object shattered into hollow pieces, its energy gone.
— Now I am — she said, wiping her face on her torn sleeve. — Got what I came for.
Saravia appeared just behind Martin, wrapped in her black, tattered coat. Her curious gaze moved from the book to Daytona's body.
— Was it hard? — she asked, her tone almost cheerful.
— Fun, at the very least, — Daytona replied, taking a deep breath. — Let's get out before they send another one.
Ghost gave a slight nod and motioned for them to follow — and so they descended the rocky slope, leaving behind the metal base that now looked like a concrete corpse under the full moon.
Hours later, far from the bunker, they found shelter in a clearing shielded by pine trees. There, in the shadows, they built a makeshift camp: a tarp strung between two trees, a small fire crackling low, hidden with stones to avoid drawing attention.
Martin, kneeling, heated water in a dented canteen. Ghost, seated on a log, silently sharpened a short knife — more from habit than need. Saravia, leaning against a tree, cleaned the anchor-blade with a rag, humming a childhood song to herself.
Daytona sat near the fire, the book closed in her lap. Her red eyes reflected the embers.
Belzebub, quiet, purred in her mind — a deep rumble vibrating like a satisfied beast.
Belzebub (low): You've devoured iron, devoured dead flesh. Now you will devour truths. Are you ready for that?
She ignored him. Her gaze shifted to Saravia, who was now watching her with curiosity.
— You gonna open it? — Saravia asked, dropping the anchor heavily to the ground.
Daytona ran her fingers along the book's spine. The leather felt alive — breathing, pulsing in time with the firelight.
— Tomorrow, — she said firmly, leaving no room for debate. — Tonight, I just want everything to stay quiet.
Martin chuckled awkwardly, breaking the tension.
— Quiet? With you? — he teased. — You're never quiet.
Daytona gave a tired smile. The fire popped, tossing sparks into the cold air.
Ghost lifted his eyes to the moon, as if sensing something distant.
— Rest well, — he said without looking at them. — Tomorrow, when that book opens, nothing will be the same.
A heavy silence fell over the group. Only the wind whispered, carrying the scent of burning pine. Daytona rested her chin on her knees, eyes locked on the embers, feeling Belzebub stir inside her — restless, but proud.
Beneath the frozen Kazakhstan sky, four figures stood guard over a secret that, by dawn, could open the gates to Paradise — or to the deepest abyss they had ever dared to cross.
The fire still fought against the cold Kazakhstan breeze when Daytona awoke. The book lay beside her, motionless, yet pulsing beneath the tarp like a buried heart. Martin mumbled in his sleep, curled near the ashes. Ghost sat upright, seemingly dozing — but his eyes flicked open at the sound of every breaking twig. Saravia, on watch, spun the anchor between her fingers, tapping it against a stone.
Daytona sat up, brushing hair from her forehead. The feel of that living leather still sent a shiver through her each time her fingers brushed the spine. And as if sensing it, Belzebub's voice curled into her mind — low, patient, almost like a bored growl.
Belzebub (whispering): Are you ready? There's no turning back after this, Daytona.
She ignored the warning. With a tilt of her head, she called Saravia over, then nudged Martin's boot. Ghost was already alert before anyone spoke.
— Time to open it, — Daytona said flatly.
Martin sat up, rubbing his face groggily. Saravia settled on the other side of the fire, her eyes glittering with curiosity.
Daytona placed the book in the center of the stretched tarp. The embers cast shifting shadows over the carved letters on the cover — symbols that seemed to move if you stared too long.
She drew a deep breath, placing both hands on it. The leather twitched — like living skin reacting to touch. The clasp groaned, snapping open, and the air seemed to grow heavier. Ghost folded his arms, watching closely.
The yellowed pages turned on their own, flipping in a silent wind until stopping at one that burned from within — Latin inscriptions, scribbled holy symbols tangled with profane runes.
Daytona frowned, reading aloud slowly, as if chewing each syllable.
— "To enter the Celestial Dwelling, the one who bears the Sin must tear open the belly of Setealem. A hidden portal — in southern Chile, mortal realm — where the King of Gluttony shall open the way to the Essence. The Guardian Ars Goetia, forged from Chaos, will hold the fragment needed. Then return to the Gate to ascend."
Saravia smirked, leaning back on her anchor.
— So… Chile. A portal only your tenant can open, Daytona. — She jerked her chin toward Daytona's head. — And a Goetia to play with.
Martin swallowed hard, staring at the fire.
— And after…? We go back to Chile?
Ghost answered before Daytona.
— This isn't a sightseeing trip, kid. If the book's right, after ripping that Essence out of a Goetia, you have to return to the same point to open the way. Double the risk — hell to get there, hell to get out.
Belzebub chuckled in Daytona's mind, the sound rolling like a muffled thunder.
Belzebub (smiling in her head): The Essence… a worthy bite. You'll enjoy the taste, girl. But be warned — it's not just any flesh. Even I respect it.
Daytona took a slow breath, absorbing every detail. She flipped through more pages — grotesque demon sketches, invocation circle diagrams, angelic seals scribbled over crude maps. The portal's location: a point at the southern tip, near the Chilean Andes. The path: a tear between the physical world and Setealem — one Belzebub, as King of Gluttony, could force open.
Saravia reached out, running her fingers over the jagged lines of the map.
— This'll be fun, — she said with a sly smile. — Finally a reason to use Leviathan for something interesting.
Daytona snapped the book shut with a sharp clap. The fire cracked in response.
— So that's it, — she said, looking at Ghost, Martin, and Saravia in turn. — We're going to rip a hole in hell, hunt down a monster humans made, steal its Essence, and then use it to climb to Paradise.
Ghost sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, a tired smile tugging at his lips.
— When you say it like that, it almost sounds easy.
Martin laughed nervously.
— You're insane.
Daytona looked up at the starry sky, the embers reflecting in her red eyes.
— I'm hungry.
And in her mind, Belzebub laughed — the sound like the announcement of a hunger greater than the world itself.
Beneath the cold stars of Kazakhstan, the spark of the next step burned bright. The hunt for a passage to Paradise had begun.