The camp rested at the edge of an open field in Paradise, where the grass shimmered as if woven from golden dust. The tall white trees surrounding it released a soft fragrance, resembling flowers never seen on Earth. Yet, even in that sublime scenery, a tension lingered in the air—one that no one could ignore. The fight between Daytona, with her mark deactivated, and Nylon had ended not long ago, but the consequences still pulsed through everyone's bodies and minds.
Daytona sat on a stone, her breathing slow and controlled. Her red eyes, still burning with the energy of the battle, gradually dimmed. Nylon, a few meters away, cleaned his golden katana with meticulous movements, expression stern. Despite the apparent calm, their auras made it clear: the battle had been real—and dangerous.
"You didn't have to hit me that hard…" Daytona murmured, breaking the silence.
Nylon lifted his gaze from the blade and replied bluntly:
"I don't hold back. Not even with allies. If you survived, it's because you earned it."
Ghost, watching with crossed arms, grumbled under his breath:
"You two nearly destroyed half the field with that training. This is Paradise, not a Roman coliseum."
Martin laughed, trying to lighten the tension:
"To me it was a Roman coliseum. Just missing the audience."
Saravia, on the other hand, remained serious. She noticed something different in Daytona—as if every battle carved more space for Belzebub inside her.
While the conversation dissolved, Raphaella stood apart. Her eyes fixed on the horizon revealed unease. She felt a presence calling her—strong and unavoidable. The voice wasn't like the other angels; it was something far above, an order impossible to refuse.
And then the calling came.
A dry thunder, without clouds, tore through the crystalline sky. The sound echoed inside Raphaella's mind, as if the very heart of creation was beating. Her body was wrapped in an intense white light, and within seconds she vanished before the others.
"What was that?" Martin shot up.
"She was summoned," Nylon explained, emotionless. "By Him."
Daytona narrowed her eyes.
"Him… who?"
Nylon didn't answer. He only lowered the katana and continued polishing the blade.
The Throne of Raydillon
Raphaella emerged inside the great celestial castle. Giant columns supported golden vaults, and the white marble floor reflected like endless mirrors. In the center stood a colossal throne made of pure light and ethereal chains. Upon it rested Raydillon, the God who ruled that domain.
His eye was more serious and blazing than usual. When his voice rose, it echoed like a storm tearing across the firmament:
"Raphaella."
She immediately knelt, head lowered.
"My Lord…"
The silence that followed was more painful than any punishment. Then Raydillon shattered it with sharp words:
"You dare help a demon grow stronger?"
"Daytona… she is not just a demon, my Lord. She is—"
"Silence."
The thunderous voice made her tremble.
"You, a cherubim, direct descendant of the eternal thunder, dare waste your grace on an impure creature. An aberration walking with Belzebub's flesh?"
Raphaella raised her face, shocked. She had never felt humiliation directly from Raydillon.
"I only… saw potential. She can fight against Hell itself."
Raydillon used an ability that locked Raphaella's body in place and unleashed a massive shockwave, filling her mouth with blood—yet she still tried to endure it.
Raydillon leaned slightly forward, and the light of his eye pierced through her like blades:
"Potential? Or illusion? You are a tool that forgot its function. A hammer that believes it can compose symphonies. Useless. What a disappointment, Cherubim of Thunder."
The word struck her like a spear. Raphaella clenched her fists, her thunder aura flickering unstably.
"I am not useless," she whispered, voice low but firm.
Raydillon lifted a brow.
"Tell that to yourself, if you believe it helps. But know this: your defiance is not strength—it is weakness."
He raised his hand, and for an instant the pressure in the room became crushing. Chains of light rose from the floor, forcing Raphaella to her knees. The thunder within her soul roared to be released, but divine authority was absolute.
"Leave my presence. And remember, Raphaella: every time you touch that creature, you dig your own downfall—just like He did…"
The light surrounding her exploded in a flash, and Raphaella was hurled back to Paradise.
The Return
She reappeared abruptly at the edge of the camp, body trembling. The others immediately turned toward her, but no one dared ask. Only Daytona noticed the flame of rage in her eyes—a trapped thunder threatening to erupt.
Ghost approached, ever pragmatic:
"You vanished… did something happen?"
Raphaella took a deep breath and replied coldly:
"Nothing that matters to you."
She walked toward a distant spot to clear her mind, reached a nearby tree, and without another word began unloading her rage through training. Each strike she threw into the air made lightning echo. With every discharge, the ground cracked, and the wind spun in spirals.
Martin, fascinated, whispered to Saravia:
"She's freaking out, right?"
Saravia, more observant, answered:
"No. She must be bleeding on the inside. She just doesn't know how to show it."
Then a strange sound cut through the moment. At the edge of the golden forest, a Corrupted crawled out. The creature, deformed and made of pulsating black flesh, looked completely out of place in such a pure setting. Maybe a remnant of some ancient war—or an intruder who managed to slip in.
Daytona stood up immediately, but Raphaella was faster. With a single snap of her fingers, she released a blue lightning bolt that pierced the creature entirely. The Corrupted screamed in a grotesque roar before turning into ash.
"A Corrupted… in Paradise?" Martin asked, lying on Saravia's lap.
"That's why Archangels exist. Nothing is random," Nylon replied calmly.
Silence settled once again.
Raphaella turned, gaze sharp and cold.
"I don't need anyone's permission to protect what I choose."
Without waiting for an answer, she walked away, disappearing among the golden trees.
The group remained silent. Daytona watched her from afar, sensing something break inside the Cherubim—perhaps a fracture that could either free her… or destroy her.
Later That Morning
The air in Paradise that morning had the softness of cotton washed in the sky. There was no hurry; everything moved at a pace that didn't need explanation. Still, the camp lived through small rituals: gathering water, fixing the Kōken's sheath, sharpening a golden blade with almost religious care. Daytona watched the river's glow, eyes half-closed, as if trying to hold a memory in the air before it slipped away.
Nylon repeated his warm-up movements, sweeping the ground with Avangard's tip to assess the terrain. Ghost adjusted the small device that converted local energy into heat, making sure it didn't smoke—even fire in Paradise followed rules. Martin, always drawn to the smaller details, tried tying improvised knots using divine fabric, practicing the clumsy elegance of someone who wanted to be useful. Saravia polished the anchor and recited, in a low voice, something that sounded like a nautical rhythm; there were things the sea within her remembered even in her gestures.
Raphaella, further away, watched the group with a look that mixed vigilance and concern. Her presence was a shadow of gentle thunder—and today that thunder was calm, as if saving tension for later.
"Let's get organized," Nylon said, breaking the silence with his usual routine. "Split up: two for fishing at the banks, two for gathering nutra roots and herbs, one on lookout. Martin, you're with me. We have strength in numbers—and in enthusiasm."
Martin jumped at the offer with a smile that looked more like a defense mechanism. Daytona offered to gather roots; Saravia agreed to hunt some animal that survived among crystal shrubs and foliage resembling frosted glass. Ghost took responsibility for monitoring the area with the bracelet; Raphaella nodded but said nothing—her attention was fixed on something no one else could see.
The group split into paths that would meet again by afternoon. Paradise, despite its perfect shape, still offered prey and plants that needed to be harvested—and hunting there held a nearly ceremonial respect, like a pact between what eats and what is eaten.
Daytona and Saravia moved in silence—not out of fear, but intent. A stealthy step on shimmering grass was already reverence. Saravia, with her experience living with Leviathan, sensed the environment like ancient sailors reading changing winds. She discreetly pointed to a cluster of shadows and, without sound, dragged the anchor just enough to create a low noise—enough to disturb a small herbivore feeding on sap.
Daytona advanced; the Kōken rested in its sheath, but her movements were precise, like touching violin strings. The animal fell before completing a step, and Saravia immobilized it with a gesture that felt more noble than cruel. The hunt wasn't spectacle; it was sustenance—a contract.
At the riverbanks, Martin and Nylon laughed childishly while competing over who collected more translucent berries. Martin, always clumsy, slipped and soaked his foot in the silver water, drawing a rare muffled laugh from Nylon. From atop a hill, Ghost warned them about slipping in a place like that; Martin responded with a playful dismissive gesture.
Meanwhile, while patrolling the perimeter, Raphaella spotted an unusual glimmer between the trees—something less vegetal and more like an eye. She approached and found a small corrupted creature, not large enough to be a threat in open battle, but dangerous enough to harm a careless camp. She smiled briefly, clenched her fist, and with a restrained snap ended the creature's life instantly and cleanly. It wasn't a show—it was cleaning.
By afternoon, the group reunited in the clearing. Nylon set up a small spit for Saravia's catch; Martin brought the roots and berries, and Ghost lit a controlled fire—not with aggressive flames, but a translucent heat that gave off scent without burning the soul. Raphaella stood, observing the preparation with a focus that bordered on the weight of a secret. Daytona sat on a smooth stone, removed her cloak, and placed the Kōken beside her; the blade rested like a domesticated animal.
"You always cook like that?" Martin asked, poking a root over the coals.
"It's different here," Ghost replied, stirring the small pot. "Fire follows the rules of this place. It's not meant to destroy."
When the food was ready, it released aromas no one could properly name: sweet, salty, earthy, and with a note resembling heated metal. They sat in a circle—an ancient order remembered: first the sharing of thought, then the hunger.
Martin couldn't hold back the curiosity that had been haunting him since the battle. Between bites, he looked at Daytona with wide eyes, still processing what he had witnessed when the Mark lit up.
"Daytona… I've always wanted to ask," he began, gathering courage only fear produces. "Why that name? Where does 'Daytona' come from?"
There was a brief silence—gentle as fruit skin. Daytona smiled slightly, a smile containing light and something warm like memory.
"My father…" she began, but stopped, because the deeper part of the story will be written by the user later. She continued with what had been planned: the origin and meaning of her name. "He was passionate about racing. There was a circuit he always admired, a place where time seemed to stretch and limits were an invitation. He always said everything there was about speed and continuing—movement without end. When I was born, he gave me that name. Daytona."
Martin repeated slowly, savoring the word as if it were a new flavor. "Daytona… but what does it mean?"
"Exactly." Daytona looked at the blade beside her, as if seeking confirmation in it. "It's infinity. For him, endless speed meant persistence: going beyond fear, beyond what people think you can do. So the meaning is 'Energetic and Infinite.'"
Nylon placed a hand on Daytona's head in a gesture almost paternal. "A name with purpose. I like that."
Daytona looked at him with a smile—but not just any smile…
Saravia smirked and added: "I think it fits. You cut like someone in a hurry and at the same time with strength that doesn't run out."
Ghost, ever practical, commented dryly: "Useful to know the etymology. In combat, a name can be a warning."
Daytona bit into a piece of root, staring at the fire. There was a comfortable silence—the kind of pause that reconciles before demanding explanation. She looked at each one in the group, their faces marked by the day and by battles that no longer surprised them.
"Any more questions?" she teased with a half-smile, inviting them to step into her memory in small steps.
Martin hesitated, then chose caution: "And… your family? They…" He stopped again, respecting the invisible boundary. Daytona simply nodded—an invitation for the story to be told when the time was right, as you said would happen later.
Raphaella hadn't spoken until then. When she did, it was brief but weighted:
"Names carry inheritances. Remember that. Not only what they mean, but what they forged in the one who carries them."
The crackle of the fire seemed to agree. Afternoon slid into a translucent night in Paradise; the stars—countless—rose like watchful eyes. Between bites and muted laughter, larger conversations were postponed to another time. There was a sense of harbor: the group knew the road ahead wouldn't be kind, but for now, there was food, company, and the name of a girl suspended between blade and memory.
When the last piece was shared, Daytona grabbed the Kōken and slid it by the handle, a gesture as natural as breathing. She looked at the group. For an instant, her eyes reflected the glow of the embers—the same energy and the same infinity.
"It's a long story…" she said softly, more to herself than to the others, staring at her fingernails.
Nylon nodded firmly. Martin yawned and wrapped himself in his shimmering blanket. Saravia closed her eyes for a moment, as if the tide inside her demanded it. Raphaella stood up, and the slight change in the glow of her eyes was barely noticeable—as if something had been touched deep within.
The fire became a candle that kept the clearing from feeling empty. The name Daytona lingered in the night like a promise: swift and infinite, simple and heavy all at once. And Paradise cradled them, granting those humans, angels, and possessed ones a calm that for now asked for no choices, only rest.