Inside the mansion
The interior of the mansion was vast as a labyrinth, draped in dark marble, deep carpets, and twisted paintings of battles and decrepit kings. Daytona stared at the frames with a strangeness she couldn't name — as if the eyes of the ancient figures were discreetly following her. Martin walked close by, glancing over his shoulder from time to time, while Ghost, as usual, silently observed everything. Saravia seemed far too at ease for someone inside the Ring of Wrath.
"This is a true nest of restrained resentment," Ghost murmured, his eyes sweeping the halls. "And yet… it's calm. Strangely calm."
"As if everyone here learned to love in silence," Daytona replied.
"Or perhaps they just grew tired of screaming," Saravia added, pulling back a velvet curtain only to reveal another blind window.
The group continued in silence, walking through corridors filled with closed doors. There were no screams, no groans, not even the sound of wind. The air smelled of incense and old blood, as though all sinners there had burned their memories in silent rituals. At the end of a curved corridor, a massive wooden door with ancient inscriptions opened by itself, slowly, as if it had been waiting for them.
"Looks like we've found our host," Martin said.
Beyond the door lay a wide, circular chamber, illuminated by a bluish-white fire in the center. The flames rose without consuming any wood, as if fed by frozen rage. Facing the fire was a figure of unusual appearance: tall, covered in dark feathers shifting between violet and deep blue, golden eyes glowing without visible irises, and a golden crown adorned with red pearls resting upon its head. Its feet resembled the talons of a bird, yet it floated in the air, an ancient presence impossible to ignore.
"Welcome, wanderers of Setealem," it said, its voice melodic, deep, and absurdly clear. "You stand before Paimon, the King of the Word in Silence, the Goetia of Ruin."
Daytona stood firm, though she felt Belzebub restless inside her.
"This is the shrewdest of the four. Be wary of his words."
Paimon turned his head toward her, narrowing his golden eyes.
"The creature dwelling within your soul calls me shrewd. How ironic, isn't it? When he himself is the very essence of boundless hunger and manipulation."
Daytona stepped forward.
"Forgive me, your highness. My group and I seek you for an essence — the one that opens the portal to Paradise."
"Ah, yes. The essence. The gift… or the burden, depending on who receives it." Paimon tilted his head, studying the group. "But before that, allow me to see who you are. Sit, walk, touch the relics. This mansion holds memories of what you've been — and clues of what you might yet become."
Ghost hesitated a moment, then glanced at Daytona. She gave a nod, and the group dispersed through the chamber.
Martin approached a wall covered with crooked mirrors. Each reflection showed a different version of himself — older, scarred, eyes glowing red. He frowned, touching a cracked shard, then recoiled with a shiver.
Saravia rummaged through an old bookshelf. She pulled a dusty tome titled Chants of the Burning Flesh — only to find its pages blank. When she turned her head to call someone, the book filled all at once with handwritten verses — in her own handwriting.
Ghost sat in a worn chair near, yet slightly apart from the white fire, arms crossed, as though calculating the hidden meanings of this place. His gaze fell to the ground: claw marks surrounded the fire, as if many had crawled toward it and never returned.
Daytona remained near Paimon.
"You've walked every path, Daytona," the Goetia said in a softer tone. "Through flesh, blood, time, even the absence of self. But you have yet to see what I can show you."
"And what is it you want to show me?"
Paimon drew closer. His eyes hovered inches from hers, not threatening — but heavy with knowledge too ancient for words.
"You still don't understand why Belzebub chose you. Nor what was promised at your birth. But you needn't know yet. Only… when silence surrounds you, listen to what the world refuses to speak."
He extended one wing, as if plucking something from his own chest. A small sphere of golden light emerged from his feathers and floated toward Daytona. As soon as she touched it, the sphere dissolved into particles, then reassembled and vanished before her eyes.
Martin approached.
"Was that it? The essence?"
Paimon nodded.
"The Essence of the Paradise Gate. Not misfortune, nor suffering — but the awareness of what always awaits. That which gods evade, and demons ignore out of fear. You will carry it, Daytona."
Suspicious, Saravia narrowed her eyes.
"You whispered something to her. What was it?"
Paimon smiled.
"Only truths… truths that will echo when the time is right. Now go. Three more Goetias await before the end."
He drifted back into the shadows, as though the fire pulled him inward. The room dimmed slightly, as if his presence had been holding the light itself.
Daytona looked at the others, still feeling the essence burn faintly beneath her skin.
"You are closer now," Belzebub whispered in her mind. "Closer than ever."
"…Is he a parrot?" Martin muttered to Saravia.
"I think so — but more like a parrot six or seven meters tall," she replied, under her breath.
Daytona nodded silently. Not for him. Not for herself. But for the words Paimon had whispered — still echoing in her chest like a sealed prophecy.
The Training
The mansion's silence lingered, absorbing the weight of the encounter. Daytona remained still, eyes fixed where Paimon had dissolved into fire. Martin leaned against a wall, arms crossed. Ghost inspected the shelves with quiet calculation. Saravia, however, stared at Daytona — as if awaiting her reaction.
Then, with a dull crack, the fire roared back to life. Its flames stretched and curved, shaping the silhouette of Paimon once more. Less corporeal now, yet still commanding, his feathered form and owl-like eyes fixed on Daytona with an enigmatic smile.
"You are not ready for Paradise, Daytona," he said, deep-voiced but without scorn. "Nor are you, Saravia. Your hands still lack weight, your hearts still lack truth."
Daytona frowned, slightly irritated, though she remained quiet. Belzebub's voice slithered in her mind, half-amused:
"I told you. You are strong, but still a child running with blades in her hands."
"Training? Here?" Saravia asked, glancing around. "Setealem hardly looks like a place to grow stronger."
"Precisely why," Paimon replied, lifting one wing. From the fire, something solid began to emerge.
A sword. At first, seemingly ordinary — but as the flames faded, it revealed itself as a vibrant katana, its crimson blade gleaming with countless micro-reflections, like it was woven from metallic scales. The hilt was wrapped in black cloth interlaced with scarlet threads, its guard shaped like a hexagon engraved with runes.
"Kōken Akakagami," Paimon declared, holding the katana delicately in his talons, offering it to Daytona. "The Crimson Blade of Reflection. Forged at the intersection between the 2nd and 6th Rings, shaped by ancient sinners who sought both to create and destroy."
Daytona approached calmly, taking the weapon with both hands. The moment her fingers touched the hilt, a surge of heat traveled from her arm to her chest — the metal seemed alive, breathing. The sword recognized her. Belzebub whispered:
"…It's alive?"
"She is yours. And yours alone," Paimon continued. "Kōken Akakagami is more than a blade. She is a mirror of your essence. If you become a merciless killer, she will be cruel. If you seek justice, she will be righteous."
Paimon began to circle the group.
"The Akakagami has eight forms, each awakening with your mastery. They are mirrors of your intent."
He raised one wing. Flaming runes materialized around the katana.
"She will grow with you. But remember — each form has a price. Wield them wisely, or Setealem will demand more than you can imagine."
Daytona swung the blade once. It hissed through the air like a muffled scream. It was weightless, yet pulsed like a living muscle. Martin and Saravia exchanged looks of awe. Ghost only watched, as if he had seen weapons like this before.
Saravia stepped closer.
"Will you train with me?"
"Yes," Daytona answered firmly, still feeling the katana's heat. "We'll be ready."
"But first," Paimon interjected, "you must learn the Eight Forms of your new toy."
He snapped his taloned fingers. In an instant, they were transported to an open field filled with thousands of mannequins made from real bodies. It happened so quickly, they couldn't tell whether they had been teleported — or if the mansion had become this place.
"First, you'll learn the First Form of the Akakagami," Paimon said.
"The First Form is called Tail of Wrath. In this stance, you focus entirely on the movement of your blade, striking either horizontally or diagonally — but never vertically."
Daytona drew the katana, lighter than a pen. As she gripped it tighter, black-and-red flames burst along its edge.
"Now, strike as fast, as strong, as aggressive as you can. Focus only on the swing."
"Kōken Akakagami… First Element — Tail of Wrath," Daytona declared.
She swung. With explosive speed, the katana slashed diagonally, and its flames expanded a hundredfold, carving a colossal fissure across the ground and tearing apart everything nearby. Her irises glowed crimson during the strike.
"Incredible! Perfect execution, my dear," Paimon praised, like a father marveling at his child's first steps.
"That's only the first ability," Ghost interjected loudly enough for all to hear. "Impressive, yes. But against one of the Seven Archangels? It won't guarantee victory."
Saravia watched eagerly, trying — and failing — to hide her anticipation to spar with Daytona.
"The Second Form is called Vacuum Point," Paimon continued, eyeing the devastation.
"This requires speed beyond supersonic — nearly at the speed of light, though not quite. You must dash toward your enemy and strike diagonally with full force."
Another snap of his fingers, and the battlefield reset — leaving a single mannequin far in front of Daytona.
She focused.
"Kōken Akakagami, Second Element — Vacuum Point."
In an instant, Daytona blurred forward, slicing the mannequin cleanly in half. Strangely, her blade had been angled downward, yet the cut was flawless — better than Paimon expected.
Everyone stood stunned. Daytona's speed had pushed her body to its absolute limit.
"You did excellently — but six more forms remain. Let's continue," Paimon urged as Daytona panted.
He reset the field again, summoning more distant targets.
"The Third Form is called Mirrors of Ruin. You unleash three vertical strikes of black fire. Simply think of it — then release with a horizontal cut."
Daytona exhaled, raised the blade above her head, gripped with both hands, and swung horizontally. Three immense vertical slashes of black fire erupted outward, ravaging the field like the Tail of Wrath.
"The Fourth Form is called Copper and Thunder — a counterattack. It unleashes a spiral of cuts that can truly wound your opponent, depending on their strength."
Daytona mimicked the motion, managing to perform it — but fatigue overtook her before attempting the rest.
They agreed to pause.