The white marble of the Divine Castle reflected the golden light of Heaven's sky. There was no sun, yet a soft, infinite brightness seemed to wrap around everything, as if the air itself were woven from threads of gold. The columns were so tall they seemed to touch the horizon, and every detail — from the wing-shaped carvings on the gates to the immense stained glass windows depicting angelic scenes — carried a presence that was overwhelming and serene at the same time.
Daytona looked around, feeling a strange mix of peace and unease. Beside her, Nylon walked with firm steps, his Roman-like garments gleaming with a light that came not from polish, but from the divine energy radiating from him. Martin and Saravia exchanged quiet glances, while Ghost, behind them, seemed more focused on the entrances and exits than on the beauty of the place.
As they passed through the main arch, a tall man with bronze skin and neatly combed white hair appeared before them. He wore a ceremonial blue and gold uniform with a winged crown emblem on his chest.
"Welcome to the Divine Castle," he said in a polite yet authoritative tone. "My name is Trelon. I will be responsible for guiding you to the appropriate places."
Daytona raised an eyebrow.
"'Appropriate places'? Doesn't seem like we have many options here."
Trelon gave a small smile.
"We don't always have options… but we always have paths."
Without further explanation, he began walking slowly through the main hall. The sound of footsteps echoed against the marble floor, blending with distant, ethereal choirs — as if the very air were singing.
As they followed, Daytona noticed sculptures of angelic figures on either side of the corridor — but some did not bear exactly peaceful expressions. One seemed to stare directly at her, the carved eyes gleaming with a faint blue reflection.
"This castle… is it just beautiful, or is it alive too?" Daytona murmured to Nylon.
The angel replied without turning his head:
"Here, nothing is merely what it seems."
After a few minutes, the corridor opened into a circular hall, illuminated by a golden light with no visible source. In the center, upon a low throne of silver and crystal, sat a girl with shoulder-length brown hair and intense golden eyes that looked like storms. She wore a uniform that resembled a school outfit, adorned with tattoos resembling lightning, and maintained a calm posture — yet her gaze could pierce through any lie.
Trelon bowed.
"Lady Raphaella, Cherubim of Thunder, I bring visitors seeking passage to the Royal Gate."
Raphaella rose slowly, and the mere act of standing made the air in the room vibrate faintly, like the prelude to distant thunder.
She studied each of them carefully, her gaze lingering longer on Daytona.
"Humans in Heaven are not common… especially guided by a Throne like Nylon." Her voice was firm, but not hostile. "If you seek the Royal Gate, do you know what you will find beyond it?"
Daytona took a deep breath.
"My parents."
Silence hung for a few seconds. Raphaella seemed to weigh every word of the answer.
"The Royal Gate does not open for curiosity, nor for simple desire. It demands… purpose."
Martin stepped forward.
"Then consider that we have one."
Raphaella stared at him, not replying immediately. Finally, a faint smile appeared.
"Very well. Come."
She led them through a new corridor — narrower, yet far more imposing. The floor was crystal, and beneath their feet ran a liquid light that looked like a river of energy. The walls were lined with immense stained glass windows, but instead of fixed images, they displayed moving scenes — ancient battles, sacred encounters, broken covenants. Daytona found herself staring too long at one depicting a six-winged angel facing a creature that vaguely resembled… Belzebub.
"Is that history or warning?" she asked.
Raphaella replied without turning:
"Here, every story is also a warning."
Finally, they reached a colossal gate made of a material that seemed to blend solid gold with a living, breathing glow. The two doors were covered in symbols that moved like waves, and in the center was a circle that appeared to contain a piece of the night sky — stars and all.
Raphaella stopped before it and turned to the group.
"This is the Royal Gate. Beyond it… is God — Raydillon."
Daytona felt her heart race. Ghost crossed his arms. Martin looked at her as if silently asking whether she was ready. Saravia, on the other hand, watched the gate with near fascination.
Raphaella then stepped aside, allowing them to approach.
"This is where my duty ends. The rest… is up to you."
"One question… since we're humans and demons, why hasn't anyone tried to kill us? I mean, that's forbidden here, right?" Martin asked Raphaella.
— Soft laugh — "I don't do that anymore. We only eliminate those who pose a real threat to this place — and you are not on that list. Omniscience doesn't make mistakes."
The imaginary camera would freeze on the image of the group before the gate, golden light and starlit sky reflecting on their faces… before the screen faded to black.
The Royal Gate opened without sound, as if the light itself had decided to retreat. The air changed — thinner, sharper, smelling of cold stone washed by rain. Daytona felt the Kōken subtly vibrate in its sheath — not in warning, but as if straightening itself upon entering a cathedral.
Beyond stretched a vast hall — simple and unreachable at once. The floor was white quartz veined with gold that crossed like mapped constellations; from the domed ceiling hung no lamps — yet the light was perfect. At the far end, on a broad dais, stood Raydillon.
He had no head. Where a face should have been, noble shoulders rose, and above them hovered a single great vertical eye — serene, surrounded by a halo of living gold pulsing like a solar ring. From his back sprouted hundreds of wings of varying sizes, overlapping, forming a moving panel that alternately revealed and concealed what lay behind — nothing but a starry sky, as though his cloak were made of living night. He wore a flawlessly tailored white robe; beneath its lining, slow-shifting stars shimmered, reflected as if inside an astrolabe.
The eye regarded them — and blinked, once, slowly.
"Welcome," said Raydillon, his voice coming from every point in the hall, warm and clear. "Humans, a Throne, a Cherubim… and something more." The golden halo warmed as it looked upon Daytona and Saravia. "Echoes of Setealem in mortal vessels. Interesting. Step lightly; this house is yours, while you remain worthy of yourselves."
Raphaella bowed formally.
"Raydillon, I bring seekers with purpose. They request truth and passage. And… answers."
"Answers are bridges," replied the eye, good-humored. "Sometimes they lead forward; sometimes they return to the same place with a better view. Come closer."
Nylon was the first to advance. His Roman armor resonated softly against the silence. He knelt with ancient grace.
"Lord of the Halls, I present Daytona, Saravia, Martin, and Ghost. They are not children of this house, but guests of necessity. I have guided them here."
"You guided them because you saw in them that which reminds you of your own origin," Raydillon replied playfully. "Rise, Nylon. Zeal does not need knees to be true."
Nylon stood, his young face composed yet relieved.
Daytona drew a steady breath and stepped forward twice.
"I came for my parents. I need to know if they're here. And… if they're alright."
The eye rotated slightly, as if observing her through different spectrums.
"Filial love is an ancient key, Daytona. It opens doors where even faith hesitates. They are under guard — Peace and Humility, the first and second rings. Whole. Sheltered. Nothing is lacking to them."
Martin exhaled, trying to disguise the relief in his breath.
"So that's it? We… did it?"
"'Did' is always a temporary verb," said Raydillon. "What you seek today is only the surface of what truly brought you."
Saravia folded her arms, the invisible weight of Leviathan stirring in her neck.
"And what exactly brought us?"
"A hunger." The eye rested on her, without hostility. "Not every hunger is gluttony. Sometimes it's thirst for justice, for form, for closure." Raydillon shifted focus to Daytona. "Belzebub breathes within you, and still, you restrain him. There is no submission; there is partnership. Rare."
A faint smile touched Daytona's lips.
"He chose me. And I chose to follow — my own way."
The golden halo gleamed, amused.
"Excellent. The shape of a 'yes' matters as much as the 'yes' itself."
Ghost, silent until then, stepped forward just enough for the light to outline the scars on his face.
"Lord, we know what's happening below. Setealem is reshuffling its thrones. And up here… there are decisions that could spark flames down there. My question's simple: are we heading for collision or conversation?"
"Conversations are collisions with rhythm," Raydillon replied, amused. "And collisions without rhythm make bad music." He paused, the largest wing undulating like a sea. "There is no decree, Ghost. There is flow. Heaven accepts your presence. You are under my peace as long as you seek what you came for without breaking the axis of those who dwell here."
Raphaella glanced sideways at Daytona and Martin, as if checking whether someone might get carried away by the permission. Daytona nodded, composed.
"How do we find my parents?" Daytona asked quietly. "I need to see them. Even if… from afar."
"Up close, if you walk with composure," said Raydillon. "Trelon will provide a safe-conduct to the first two rings." The eye turned to Martin. "You, especially, must guard your tongue and your posture. Courtesy here is the law of gravity."
"I… can be courteous," Martin offered, looking at Ghost, who raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Most of the time."
Saravia tilted her chin, half-smiling.
"And what about me? A guest that smells of sea and serpent. Will the trumpets sound when I step in?"
"They'll sound silence," said Raydillon with round humor. "Heaven does not hate the sea; it just doesn't tolerate unnecessary waves." The eye softened. "You carry enough remorse for three wars. When remorse doesn't paralyze, it refines."
Nylon breathed as one who receives confirmation of something old.
"I thank you for your trust, my lord."
"Trust is a two-way bridge, Nylon." The golden ring glowed a little brighter. "If you brought them, it's because you know them well enough to endure their choices."
Ghost cleared his throat.
"Since we're talking about choices… the Mark of the Beast. Paimon said it only awakens here. True?"
The answer came light, yet precise:
"The Mark is less a spark and more a dawn. It ignites where truth cannot be outsourced." Raydillon focused again on Daytona. "You'll recognize it when your strength no longer depends on the enemy to exist."
Daytona frowned.
"So… fighting for something, not against someone."
"Exactly," the voice smiled. "A blade that cuts the air just to cut dulls itself. The one that opens a path sharpens both itself and the world."
Raphaella stepped forward, her eyes like a distant storm.
"While they're under this roof, I guarantee safe passage through the Rings of Peace and Humility. After that, they return here. They will be instructed on the third and fourth — Balance and Enlightenment." She looked briefly at Daytona, a kind of stern tenderness in her eyes. "Don't outrun your own step."
"I know how to walk," Daytona retorted — not rudely, but with a mix of nerve and gratitude.
Raydillon seemed amused by the exchange.
"There's music when iron and thunder converse." The eye swept around them like a lighthouse beam. "Before you go, accept three pieces of counsel:
Observe more than you speak in the lower rings. Peace and Humility dislike noisy crowds.
Do not request audiences unoffered — Heaven measures urgency differently than Setealem.
Keep your hunger: eat what is given, drink what is offered. Here, refusal may wound; demand, even more so."
Martin raised his hand, almost like a student.
"And… my shoes squeak. Is that offensive?"
"Only if you march," Raydillon replied kindly. "Walk."
Saravia tilted her head, curious.
"And if someone out there — minor angels, caretakers — disapproves of our presence?"
"They will obey the peace I declare upon you," the ring glowed briefly, warmly. "If they fail, I will remind them — gently, and with weight."
Nylon placed his hand on his chest, a sign of commitment.
"I will accompany them."
"You will guide them," corrected Raydillon, kindly. "Guiding is not pushing."
Ghost, for a moment, allowed his shoulders to relax.
"So it's official — we're accepted."
"As long as you choose to be," confirmed the eye. "Heaven doesn't imprison guests; it simply uninvites when necessary." The final word carried a playful glint that still had teeth.
Trelon appeared at the side, as if he'd been waiting.
"The safe-conduct is ready. I can lead them to the outer terraces. The passage to Peace lies through the bridge of the Inner Gardens."
Raydillon lowered his eyelid slightly — almost a nod.
"Go, then. Bring back whatever your meeting shows you — even if it's the 'nothing' that calms."
Daytona fixed her gaze on the single eye for a moment that felt larger on the inside.
"Thank you."
"Thank me by walking well," replied Raydillon, pleased. "And, Daytona… when you find what you seek, let it find you too. The Mark values reciprocity."
She nodded, without irony. Saravia adjusted the anchor on her back. Martin took a deep breath, preparing the best version of himself not to trip over invisible protocols. Ghost tucked the tablet under his coat, as if keeping a map he, for once, didn't need.
"Then, dismissed," said Raydillon — and with a snap of his fingers, they were all teleported outside.
Raphaella remained, perhaps awaiting further order.
Behind them, the Royal Gate began to close, gentle as a eyelid surrendering to sleep. Before the gap became a line, Raydillon's voice reached them one last time — light as a blessing, firm as a decree:
"Be peace where you tread. The rest will come."
And the silence of the castle received them, luminous, as they advanced toward the Inner Gardens — where the first ring began, and perhaps, the first encounter.