From Kazakhstan to Portugal, a road made of silences, suspicions… and omens.
⸻
The dry desert of Kazakhstan seemed to stretch farther than the world should allow. Heat shimmered like vapor over the asphalt, and the makeshift van that carried them gave off a constant groan, an old engine struggling against distance. Daytona, Saravia, Martin, and Ghost followed the R-58, cutting across the country from east to west with one goal: to reach Portugal — where, according to Ghost, the trail to Paradise would begin.
Inside the vehicle, the silence was not just fatigue. It was tension.
— "How many more days, Ghost?" Martin asked from the passenger seat.
The older man, his face hidden behind a worn scarf and dark glasses even inside the van, answered without taking his eyes off the road:
— "If we're not intercepted, twelve."
Daytona, leaning against the torn seats in the back, stared at the dirty ceiling. The fabric was ripped in several places, and she saw strange shapes in the holes of the upholstery — as if they were moving. Belzebub whispered faintly in her mind, though he had not yet taken form. He merely seemed to be watching.
Saravia broke the silence with an unexpected question:
— "Have you ever heard of Paimon?"
Ghost blinked. Daytona sat a little straighter.
— "The Goetia of Ruin," Saravia continued. "He's different from the others… He doesn't cause chaos like the rest. He observes. Waits. Plants the fall."
— "You think he'll interfere with us?" Daytona asked.
— "I think he already has. Finding Bael, Stolas, or Astaroth might not even be the problem. The problem is… they already know we're coming."
Daytona stayed quiet. Saravia's words weighed like wet sand. Paimon was known as the most manipulative of the Four of Ruin. A grand strategist who understood the value of fear, of hesitation. If he knew… then the road to Paradise could be a game within a game.
⸻
[Three Days Later – Crossing into Western Russia]
Ghost insisted they take the least monitored routes. They slept in abandoned stations, lived on canned food. The road was constant, but the landscape shifted — gray plains, then dry forests.
Daytona began to notice something different within herself. At night, while she slept, her body reshaped on its own, as if rehearsing mutations in her dreams. She woke up with red eyes, or elongated fingers, and it took several seconds to return to normal.
— "Belzebub is preparing you," Saravia said one morning as they wiped dust from the van's mirrors. "The road to Heaven will be paved with the entrails of Hell."
Daytona answered only with an empty stare.
⸻
[Night – Near Ukraine]
While they camped in a dark forest, Martin kept watch. He heard footsteps in the distance. But when he stepped out of the tent, the sound stopped.
On the nearby road, a figure slowly materialized — made of stitched flesh, with a burned seal on its forehead. Daytona emerged from the camp the moment Martin shouted.
The being moved like an unbalanced marionette. Daytona attacked without hesitation, faster than Hypersonic — her arms turning into spiked, bladed tendrils that grabbed and tore the creature apart in milliseconds. But something was wrong: the body didn't vanish like normal demons. It fell apart as if it had never been real.
Ghost examined the remains.
— "That wasn't a servant. It was an echo."
— "Of what?" Martin asked.
Ghost gave no reply. But Daytona saw. Within the flesh remains… burned blood forming a spiral symbol, inverted.
⸻
[Six Days Later – Romania]
The weather worsened. Thin rain seemed to try to wash the road away, but only deepened the discomfort. At every stop, people stared at the group for too long. As if they could smell Hell in their bones. In a small town near Brașov, they were driven out of a diner. A local priest tried to expel them, reciting Bible verses in Romanian.
Daytona stared back at him, her eyes now permanently marked with a faint scarlet glow. He recoiled, making the sign of the cross several times before fleeing.
— "We're no longer in the common world," Saravia said. "The Earth itself betrays us now."
⸻
[Ten Days on the Road – Spain]
The group reached Madrid. The city seemed to ignore the storm that followed them. There were lights, life, traffic — but also omens.
A graffiti mural made them stop: three faces painted with animal blood. One of them unmistakable: Daytona, with her unique "divine" appearance. The other two… were faces she didn't recognize. But she could feel them.
Ghost said nothing. Martin snapped a photo.
That same night, Saravia met a hooded woman in an alley. She said nothing — only handed over an envelope sealed with Leviathan's sigil, then vanished into the crowd like a shadow. Daytona saw it, but did not intervene. Perhaps the woman already knew Saravia carried Leviathan.
⸻
[Second-to-Last Stop – Entering Portugal]
The sea began to emerge on the horizon. The air grew wetter, saltier. Vegetation changed. By the time the van crossed into Portugal, it was night. They were exhausted.
Daytona slept in the backseat, her head resting against Martin's shoulder. He said nothing — just let her.
Saravia read the note from the envelope:
"On the beach where no one sings, where the wind blows from the south… take her to the center. I will lead her to the depths."
Ghost drove in silence, eyes red from insomnia.
⸻
[Deserted Beach – Setúbal, Portugal – Dawn]
The van stopped at the entrance to a hidden beach between cliffs. The sky was gray. The sea growled low, constant. Daytona stepped out without a word and walked to the shoreline. Her feet sank into the cold sand.
Saravia approached, removing the necklace she always wore — a metallic piece bearing Leviathan's sigil. She pressed the symbol between her fingers and, after a moment of concentration, threw it into the sea.
The water receded.
Daytona, Martin, and Ghost watched in silence. The ocean pulled back miles in seconds, revealing a tunnel formed by maritime sorcery that pulsed beneath the waters. Within, a massive creature stirred like a serpent in the dark.
Saravia turned:
— "It's tomorrow. Leviathan will open the way. And he… is already waiting for us in Brazil."
Daytona stared at the salty abyss before her.
For the first time in weeks, Belzebub spoke.
— "Now, child. Now begins the war of the gods."
The Portuguese sun began to set over the rocky coast of a hidden beach in the Algarve. The waves broke softly, reflecting golden and purple hues across the horizon. The group walked slowly along the cold sand, shoes in hand, the maritime breeze brushing against faces still marked by weeks of tension.
Martin stared at the sea as if searching for answers. Ghost remained silent, his eyes sharp, studying every detail of the coast — as if the land itself might hide threats even in its calmest moments. Daytona, meanwhile, was far too quiet. The memory of the battle against the Artificial Demon lingered, but now there was something greater: the promise of Paradise, and the silent fear of what she might find there.
Saravia walked a few steps ahead, her feet sinking softly into the wet sand, eyes fixed on the ocean with an ancient kind of reverence. She drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes. A wave larger than the rest rose in the distance.
— Are you certain of this? whispered a voice in her mind.
Saravia did not answer aloud. She thought clearly instead:
— It's what we must do, Leviathan.
— And what about Daytona? She's changed since Kazakhstan… Heavier. More… divided.
— She's still strong. You know that better than I do.
A complicit silence was the only reply. The tide began to recede unnaturally, exposing a strip of dark sand that seemed never to have known sunlight.
Saravia raised her hand.
— Stay together. He's coming.
Ghost stepped forward. — "He" who?
A column of water shot up from the sea like a liquid serpent, twisting until it formed a spiral before the group. The water collapsed slowly, shaping itself into the colossal figure of a creature made of sea, scales, and endless eyes — 2 kilometers long, 39 meters wide, 41 meters high.
Leviathan.
Daytona stepped forward, unafraid. Her eyes flickered briefly — not with power, but with recognition. It was different, seeing such a demon outside of battle. He was majestic. Almost… peaceful.
— "So you are Leviathan," Ghost murmured, analyzing every detail as though studying an impossible equation.
The monster did not answer in words. His presence was answer enough.
Saravia approached. — "He'll take us to Brazil. By sea, it's faster. And safer."
Martin narrowed his eyes. — "Safer than plane, train, or car? With a demon as transport? What if someone sees us?"
Saravia smiled. — "With this demon, yes. Here it's empty. No one will see us."
Leviathan bent slightly, and from the water, a platform emerged — dark, solid, gleaming like an ark.
Daytona climbed aboard first. The breeze shifted. The smell of salt grew denser, almost suffocating.
Ghost followed, then Martin, then finally Saravia. The moment they stood on the platform, Leviathan raised his head, and with one sudden, sweeping motion, the ocean opened before them as if obeying an unbreakable command.
The sea closed behind, swallowing their trail.
Hours later, drifting silently through the depths of the Atlantic, the group sat in heavy thought.
Saravia's gaze lingered on Daytona, who sat with eyes closed — and felt something strange. Sadness? Longing? Or perhaps some new bond, just beginning to take root.
— Do you feel it? Leviathan whispered in her mind.
— She carries more than she should, Saravia replied. She's drawing closer to something we don't understand.
— Or something we don't want to understand.
Saravia squinted, unsettled.
— We just need to find Paimon. After that… the rest will come.
Leviathan said nothing. The sea remained calm. But the feeling that something greater was drawing near seeped into all their hearts.
Brazil awaited. And with it, the gates between Setealem and Paradise would begin to creak open.