Setealem had a smell. It wasn't the rotting stench Daytona had expected, nor sulfur or decay. The Ring of Gluttony exhaled an aroma of sweet spices mixed with boiling fat, roasted meat, and herbs. As soon as they crossed the spiral portal from the Ring of Envy, the heat intensified—but it wasn't unbearable. It was comforting, like the steam that rises from a busy kitchen.
Daytona was the first to set foot on the soil of the new ring. It was more colorful. Dense cities stretched as far as the eye could see, piled like labyrinthine markets. Tables filled the streets. Stalls sold exotic foods. Music played from old radios hanging from crooked posts. And sinners and demons… laughing. Talking.
"Is this… Setealem?" Martin muttered, bewildered.
Saravia glanced around, her face showing unease. "It feels… more alive than we imagined."
Ghost removed his sunglasses for a moment. His eyes, though still holding secrets, were slightly relaxed. "The Ring of Gluttony has always been the most… sociable. The demons here feed on experiences, on flavors. Violence, sin, crime—those things aren't a priority here."
Daytona clenched her fists. The atmosphere was almost pleasant, and that only made her more suspicious. That's when she heard:
"Feel it? Our home. Our nest. Every corner holds a fragment of me… and of you."
It was Belzebub, in her mind. His voice felt more comforting here, almost paternal. Daytona didn't respond at once. She kept observing.
Demon children (or something like it) ran between tables, chewing on skewers of pink-gray meat. A vendor offered bread stuffed with what looked like melted cheese and fried tentacles.
"Think that's… edible?" Martin asked, pointing.
"Only one way to find out," Daytona replied, already approaching a stall.
The demon behind the counter was round, with many arms and a sincere smile. He wore a stained apron, and his chef's hat floated a few inches above his head.
"First time around here, fresh meat?" he said cheerfully.
"Yeah," Daytona answered, serious.
"Then you get a 'Cow Slap' on the house!" he said, handing them four portions of caramelized meat over claw-shaped bones.
Martin bit first. Then Saravia. Their silence spoke louder than any praise. Daytona hesitated, then tried it.
And for the first time since they had arrived in Setealem… she smiled.
"Not as bad as I imagined."
"Told you. You're part of this now. Gluttony isn't just eating until you burst. It's allowing yourself. Feeling. Living something with intensity. Just like you live battles… blood… the desire to survive."
Belzebub's voice vibrated inside her, as if every bite deepened their bond.
"This place… is far too wrong to feel this right," Ghost said with a wary look. "But if the demon of Gluttony is Belzebub… then it makes sense he'd make it all so… palatable."
"Maybe it's a trap," Saravia muttered. "But what here isn't?"
Daytona leaned against a low wall, staring at the artificial lights, the streets with glowing posters, the crooked buildings, and the people—or what was left of them—savoring ordinary moments.
Belzebub spoke again.
"When we leave this place, I want you to remember how you felt in this moment. The whole world awaits your destruction… but here, for a moment, you were just you. Nothing more."
Daytona lowered her head, a faint warmth on her cheeks.
"Thanks," she murmured, almost inaudible.
"Did you say something?" Martin asked.
"Nothing. Let's go. We need to find the stairway to the next Ring."
The path there was long. Too many people. Too many overly friendly demons. One of them handed Daytona a pamphlet written in a tongue she only understood when Belzebub "translated" it mentally: it was a food map of the Ring of Gluttony.
The streets pulsed with grotesque jazz, floating dishes, and even gastronomic cults where demons worshiped organs cooked in giant cauldrons.
Finally, after crossing a bridge made of petrified tongues, they found a small tower at the end of an alley lit by red lights. Inside the tower was a spiral staircase made of stacked plates, melted spoons, and fragments of bones.
"Is this where we go up?" Saravia asked.
"No. Down," Ghost said, pointing into the void below.
It was a dark pit with a faint yellow glow at the bottom. The Ring of Wrath awaited.
Daytona took a deep breath. She could still taste the caramelized meat in her mouth. She could still hear laughter. But the sense of lightness was fading with every second.
She knew what came next. And so did Belzebub.
"Prepare yourself, child. The feast is over. Now it's time to tear throats."
She smiled back, and for the first time, replied with pleasure:
"Finally."
The sound of their own footsteps seemed louder than usual in that place. As soon as they descended the spiral staircase from the Ring of Gluttony, Daytona and the others felt an abrupt shift—almost like a psychological blow. The new environment was nothing like the previous ones.
The walls were made of matte black stone, yet intensely solid, cut with sharp angles that reflected faint white lights hanging from nothing, as if orbiting the void. There was no sky—just a ceiling too high to be seen—and the floor was smooth, almost like scorched marble, cracked in places but still unbroken.
"This is… the Ring of Wrath?" Martin asked, his gaze hesitant as he looked around.
Saravia nodded slowly, her eyes sweeping over the buildings nearby—tall, straight structures, all in shades of gray and black, with opaque windows. Ahead lay a kind of square, with a sunken clock frozen in stone. Around it, demons and sinners wandered aimlessly or spoke to themselves.
The first thing Daytona noticed was the emotional climate of the place.
It was like walking through a minefield of emotions. Any misplaced word, any glance misread could spark a conflict. But no one wanted that. The creatures of the Ring of Wrath had learned—or been forced to learn—that silence was safer.
No music, no screams, no smiles. Only footsteps. Only the occasional grind of clenched teeth.
"They don't shout… but they all seem about to explode," Daytona thought.
"That's the point."
Belzebub's voice seeped into her mind like a thick whisper. "True Wrath isn't always loud. Sometimes it rots in silence."
Daytona stopped a moment, watching a sinner seated on a stone bench, trembling. He muttered to himself, as if holding something back.
"And everyone here has something stuck inside. Something they never managed to say, to do, to resolve."
"Maybe… that's what destroys us from within," Daytona murmured aloud. Ghost glanced at her but said nothing.
The group walked through narrow streets and dark alleys, noting how everything was minimalistic and functional. No façades were beautiful. No art on the walls. No ads, no shops. It was as if existence itself had been stripped away in favor of emotional containment.
Ghost pointed to a distant tower.
"The Mansion of Paimon should be that way. Let's move. Don't get involved with anyone. Here, the wrong conversation can become a mortal challenge."
Martin swallowed hard.
"I'm starting to miss Gluttony. At least there people smiled…"
Saravia kept her head down. Since they'd entered this ring, she had barely spoken. But her hand touched her shoulder as if constantly in contact with Leviathan—or perhaps with her own thoughts.
"Something's wrong here…"
Leviathan's voice echoed in her mind. "This place should burn, but it froze. Don't rush forward. Listen to what isn't said."
Saravia frowned. Heat pressed at the back of her neck. It was like being watched constantly, but there were no eyes—only the oppressive tension of the environment.
They walked for nearly an hour. No direct confrontations. Only people bumping into them, then quickly pulling away. The demons of Wrath looked less monstrous outwardly, but their eyes seethed with unbearable energy.
Some had completely blank expressions, as if they had lost every trace of empathy. Others laughed alone, dry and sharp, like a solitary escape.
At one point, Daytona stopped in front of a three-meter-tall demon in a leather trench coat. He carried a massive machete strapped to his back and stared directly at her.
"You gonna keep staring, or are you done judging me?" he spat—not with real anger, but with venom.
She kept her calm.
"I only saw your eyes. They look like mine."
He blinked slowly and turned away.
Ghost smirked, discreet.
"You're learning."
The mist that lingered in parts of the path was light, but it carried a metallic scent, like rust. There were no animals. No birds. And the few demons with more beastly appearances were locked in cages—by their own hands.
Saravia stepped aside to observe one of those beings: a creature covered in dark fur, green eyes, giant fangs, broken horns. It murmured to itself.
"She's speaking… someone's name," Saravia said.
Martin drew closer.
"Whose name?"
She closed her eyes, listening.
"Her son. She killed her own son."
Martin recoiled instantly, swallowing hard.
"Sh*t…"
At last, after endless labyrinthine streets, they reached a wide road—for the first time since entering Wrath. A long avenue, lined with tall white lamps, with no buildings around.
At the end, a colossal mansion.
Black, but edged with silver details that reflected the light like thorns. The gate was woven of bones, and at its center was a golden mask. It smiled—a smile more threatening than kind.
Daytona froze, a shiver running down her spine.
"Paimon."
"The King of Disgrace. One of the most intelligent. One of the most dangerous."
"One of the most… talkative."
Belzebub's voice sounded more alert than ever. Almost reverent.
"Be careful, child. Even a demon can desire the end of a pact."
Ghost stepped forward, staring at the mansion's façade for a few moments.
"From here on, every word spoken may cost something. Be ready."
Daytona inhaled deeply, her gaze fixed on the mask staring back from the gate.
Saravia was tense. Martin, visibly unsettled. But they all knew there was no turning back. The Essence they sought could not be taken by force.
The gate creaked, slowly opening.
The sound echoed through the entire ring, like a silent warning.