CARNIS (English Version)

The return to the road felt longer than it should've been. Ghost dropped them off in the old town where Martin and Daytona lived before all the madness began—wide streets, low buildings, old signs creaking in the wind. A place that should've been safe. But Daytona knew safety no longer existed.

Martin pulled their luggage while Daytona kept the carnivorous blade wrapped and tucked discreetly in her backpack.

In the silence of the taxi, Belzebub spoke inside her mind:

"Do you think others will stay idle? Every beat of your heart echoes across Setealem like thunder. Eyes upon eyes. Voices upon voices."

She gazed out the window at flickering street lamps. She sensed something strange—as though passersby paused to stare at her for a moment before walking on as if nothing had happened.

Martin noticed too:

— "Do you feel it? It's… weird. Like… they're all looking at us."

Daytona didn't reply.

…They returned to Daytona's childhood home, now gathering dust. Her parents were gone—an absence heavy and alive in every corner. Martin stayed downstairs cleaning sofa cushions while Daytona climbed to her old room.

She opened the wardrobe. Same clothes. But among folded shirts, something caught her eye—an old envelope without a return address. Inside, a single photo: a ruined Gothic church, its door painted with the same symbol she'd seen in the grimoire.

Belzebub whispered:

"The Fifth Sign. That place exists, Daytona. And it's not empty."

She took a deep breath.

— "Do you know where it is?"

"No. But someone does. And that someone will come to you soon."

She slid the photo into her pocket and descended the stairs.

They sat in the backyard on old lawn chairs. Martin brought out two sodas. The sky overhead was unnaturally calm—a serenity that felt wrong.

— "Do you think we'll ever have peace again?" Martin asked, sincerity in his voice.

Daytona shook her head.

— "Not a chance."

He exhaled slowly.

— "You know, I keep thinking… if you were just… normal. We'd be laughing at dumb stuff, figuring out college plans, going to some trashy cinema."

She smiled faintly.

— "And maybe I'd still punch some jerk at school."

They laughed.

Martin turned serious again:

— "That Belzebub thing… is he hearing everything now?"

— "He is."

Martin stared into nothingness.

— "Alright then: Hi, Belzebub. If you ever betray Daytona, I'll tear you from this world with my own hands."

Belzebub laughed in her mind—a laugh so strong it made Daytona smile.

Later, Daytona couldn't sleep. The photo of the church burned in her mind like a fever.

She left home in a sweatshirt, hands in pockets, wandering until she reached a back alley near a main avenue.

And there she saw.

A hooded figure—a woman with a smooth white mask. When she turned toward Daytona, the exposed skin was black, cracked like living charcoal.

The figure didn't move. Daytona took a step. The figure retreated.

Belzebub whispered:

"This isn't a common demon. It's a scout. Don't let it escape."

Daytona ran—but the figure turned, opened her mouth, and let out a shriek tearing the air like shattered glass. Daytona sprinted through a rusty gate, vaulted a wall—and kept chasing, her blood pumping.

"Control yourself, Daytona. Don't waste energy. Don't draw too much attention."

But she ignored it. Adrenaline rushed through her veins. She chased the creature into an abandoned factory.

Inside, it stank of rust and urine. She stepped softly across the concrete floor.

A sound—chains dragging. The figure emerged from the shadows, claws forming at the ends of cracked fingers.

Daytona grabbed a shard of glass from the ground to threaten it.

— "Speak, or die?"

The creature opened its mouth. Her voice female, twisted:

— "You… are the vessel. The gate. The feast."

Daytona lunged. She hit so hard the shard embedded in the wall where the figure had stood. The creature was swift. Very swift.

She grinned—and Daytona smiled too. She dropped the glass (useless) and raised her fist.

She delivered a clean punch to the side of its torso: bones shattered. The creature screamed but did not vanish—writhing on the ground, laughing as if from inside a deep well.

— "He's coming. The Tide King. The First Deluge…"

Daytona stepped forward, placed her foot on the creature's chest.

— "Who sent you?"

But its lips bubbled, black flesh dissolving into ash under a sulfurous smell—moments later, nothing but charred remains.

Daytona returned to the street. Dawn was breaking. Her chest burned—not with hunger—but rage.

Belzebub murmured:

"Now you know, Queen of Setealem… They won't stop. Nor will we."

She walked down the empty street without looking back.

Morning broke with Daytona in the kitchen, stirring a cold cup of coffee untouched. Martin lay on the couch, exhausted after half the night persuading her to rest. But she hadn't slept. The spy's sulfurous taste clung to her mind like poison stuck on her tongue.

When Martin woke, Daytona remained still.

— "Did you stay up all night?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, eyes still on her coffee. — "I saw another sign. A servant of someone hunting me."

Martin yawned, headed to the sink, turned on the faucet.

— "And the photo? The church?" He opened the envelope Daytona had left on the table. — "We should go after that soon. Maybe find answers."

She gave a tired, half-smile.

— "Want to chase a Gothic church with me now?"

Martin laughed.

— "Actually? I want to—and let's bring Huracán. He said he's still in town. He'll show up soon."

A little later, Huracán arrived looking like someone who slept in a sportscar—which was probably true. He dropped his backpack on the sofa, took the photo from Martin, frowned.

— "Is this… a cult?" he asked.

— "No." Daytona replied. — "It's worse."

The three spent the morning locked in her room researching similar symbols. Huracán scrolled through obscure deep‑web forums, Martin scrounged digital city archives, and Daytona flipped through the grimoire—still wary of it, but too curious to put it down.

It was Huracán who found something: a link to a conspiracy blog by someone photographing abandoned buildings. There it was—the same door, the same painted symbol—years ago. The caption spoke of homeless disappearances, rituals, and rumors that this was a portal to one of Setealem's "Rings."

— "It can't be this easy," Martin said. — "Someone would've destroyed it already."

Daytona stared at the screen, entranced. Belzebub whispered in her mind, almost sarcastically:

"Doors are like open wounds. Sometimes they heal. Sometimes they fester. And sometimes, Daytona, some wounds beckon monsters bigger than you."

She sighed.

— "Let's go. I want to see it up close."

They left early afternoon under a heavy sky. The location lay in the city's forgotten district—streets lined with shuttered warehouses, streetlights flickering like dying embers. When they arrived, they saw the building: windows boarded with rotted planks, fresh graffiti over faded walls. The door bearing the symbol remained—worn by rain, but vivid enough to send shivers through Daytona.

Martin kicked some cans, bristling. Huracán pulled out his phone and filmed briefly.

— "If we vanish here, at least someone will find this later," he muttered.

Daytona pressed a hand against the wood. Cold. Oddly damp. Belzebub whispered:

"You shouldn't go in yet. But you will anyway, won't you?"

She inhaled deeply.

— "I'm not going in. I'll just look." She spoke more to herself than to her friends.

Pushing the door open unleashed the smell first—mold, iron, decaying flesh. Inside, the lobby was dim, lit only by cracks in a shattered roof. On the floor: extinguished candles, animal bones scattered, layered symbols painted over each other. Daytona felt her veins pulse. Belzebub chuckled in her head—not mocking, but like a pup sensing blood for the first time.

Huracán kicked a bottle.

— "This is B‑movie horror stuff."

Martin poked him sharply.

— "Shut your mouth, idiot."

In the center, Daytona saw it: a dried trail of some substance—blood? Wax?—forming a spiral leading to a collapsed concrete staircase descending into dark, unlit depths.

She fell silent, fingers tingling. A thought whispered into her mind: Maybe this is where I find out why I carry all of this.

Belzebub broke the silence:

"Don't descend now. Observe. Save that. The world's hunger isn't greater than yours. Yet."

She turned to her friends.

— "Let's go." Her voice was firmer than she felt. — "Not now. Not yet."

Martin nodded, relieved. Huracán filmed again, making an obscene gesture at the darkness, mocking any ghost inside.

Outside, the sky loomed even darker. Rain threatened. Daytona pocketed the photo, zipped her jacket.

Martin looked at her.

— "So… what's next?"

Daytona lifted her gaze skyward, breathing deeply. Belzebub laughed, content, rooted in her mind like a beast sleeping with one eye open.

— "Now?" she said, unamused. — "We wait for the next sign."

As they walked back toward the road, the feeling was clear: the city breathed with them. And Daytona understood, for the first time, that she was more hunter than prey—even if she had to remind herself every morning.