The wind in Kazakhstan wasn't just cold — it bit. A constant growl, as if the endless white plain were alive and hungry. The truck got stuck in a dead spot near an old abandoned structure — once a Soviet watchtower, now devoured by rust. Ghost killed the engine, the rumble drowned in a silence that seemed to swallow even the sound of thought.
Martin adjusted his beanie, staring at the gray sky. — "This is… emptier than I thought. There's nothing here."
Ghost crushed the cigarette underfoot, stepping on the hard snow. — "Exactly. Nothing to see, nothing to hear… except the thing that sleeps down there." He nodded towards the flat horizon, where a sequence of stones embedded in the ice looked like a path to nowhere.
Daytona opened the door; the wind stole the warmth from her face in an instant. She zipped her coat over the black cloak. Saravia, right behind, adjusted the anchor on her back, like a medieval sword. — "So… this is where the book is, huh?" She laughed, but the sound was swallowed by the wind. — "Charming place."
Ghost replied without looking at her. — "The book and the Guardian. If this bunker was just old concrete, it wouldn't have survived the war." He pointed to Martin and Daytona. — "Nobody makes too much noise. If that thing senses it, it'll come out early."
They started walking. The metal of their boots clanged on the cold snow — a repetitive sound mingling with the whistle of the wind slicing across the plain. The clouds moved heavily, hiding the sun. It was daytime but felt like dawn.
After twenty minutes of walking, Daytona crouched by a crooked sign half-buried in snow: faded red letters in Russian. She brushed her glove over the rust: "Объект 07 — Запретная зона." Ghost leaned in, translating. — "Object 07. Restricted Zone."
Martin whistled softly, trying to break the tension. — "Sounds like a nightmare."
Daytona raised her face. The wind made her cloak flap at her knees. — "It is."
Further ahead, they skirted chunks of barbed wire embedded in the ice. Old, torn tents fluttered like ghosts caught to the ground. Saravia kicked a fallen post; the wood crumbled. — "Looks like the wind swallows everything here. Nothing lasts."
Ghost laughed without humor. — "Except what lives down there."
They walked single file through a shallow ravine where the snow was thicker. The wind faded there — replaced by a damp silence. The air felt heavy, almost electric. Daytona felt the weight of Belzebub in her mind, silent but awake. A shiver crawled up her spine. He was watching with her. Sniffing with her.
Saravia, who'd been swinging the anchor on her shoulder, stopped suddenly. — "Shh!" She pointed. About two hundred meters away, something stood out — a cracked concrete ramp sinking into the ground, nearly swallowed by ice and dead brush.
Ghost murmured, — "We've arrived."
They moved forward cautiously. The concrete was cracked like dry skin. Daytona ran her hand over it — feeling a strange warmth, moisture that shouldn't be there. The structure breathed. Martin swallowed hard, staring at the dark gap that looked like a cave entrance.
— "Are you sure… this is a good idea?" he whispered.
Saravia poked his arm, smirking without humor. — "After seeing a girl throw living flesh from her own arm… you're scared of an iron door?"
Ghost rolled his eyes, crouched by a partially buried metal hatch. He tried to force it open — no luck. Daytona crouched too, smelling wet rust. Belzebub whispered like a warm breeze: "Behind this hatch, flesh and steel breathe together. Open it wrong, and it will know."
Saravia, beside him, watched. — "Leave it to me." She closed her eyes for a moment, touched the anchor to the ground. A translucent circle of water spun at the hatch's base. A low creak echoed — like a valve sighing open. The hatch vibrated, the snow shifted — it was telekinesis. Daytona watched: Saravia's hands trembled, her eyes glazed as if Leviathan was peeking out from within.
A snap. The hatch opened — not fully, but enough to reveal a concrete ramp plunging into damp darkness.
Martin held the flashlight, trying to push back the gloom with a yellow beam. — "Smells like… mold?" He pinched his nose.
Ghost stared at Daytona. — "Down there. The main chamber. The Guardian will sense it. He doesn't always sleep." He gave a half smile. — "Good luck."
Daytona shook her head, looked into the dark hole. The wind inside wasn't cold — it was warm, humid, almost the breath of something asleep. Belzebub was silent, as if holding his breath.
They moved away from the entrance. Martin cast one last glance at the sky — clouds piled up in leaden towers. Saravia breathed deep; the warm vapor of her mouth mixed with the steamy breath rising from the crack.
And there, on the edge of the metallic mouth of the bunker, the group planted their boots, swallowed their courage… knowing that one step beyond, there was no return.
The air inside the bunker was so cold that Daytona's breath mingled with the hot steam escaping from broken pipes. Each step made the corroded metal creak under her boots. Behind her, the door closed with a muffled sound — locking everything behind, including Martin, Ghost, and Saravia.
They'd stayed upstairs, near emergency hatches, guarding against reinforcements or containment systems. Ghost, distant, watched the exit. But down here — in this chamber — Daytona was alone. Though not empty. Belzebub stirred — a hoarse whisper in her mind.
Belzebub (in her mind): The room smells of rotten flesh and burnt iron. Recognize the scent? It's the future humanity chose to play God with.
Daytona didn't answer. Her red eyes adjusted to the partial darkness, focusing on the center of the chamber. There, a reinforced glass cylinder pulsed with an intermittent crimson light. Inside, a shapeless mass of flesh, metal tubes, fake bones, and blades replacing finger joints.
Belzebub: ABYSS-7. A container. A weapon without will, programmed to kill anything threatening the knowledge kept here.
A chill ran up her spine. She stepped forward, ignoring the low sirens still echoing through the corridors. To the right, she saw the pedestal — a steel stand where rested the Book of Paradise. Thick paper, dark cover, an angelic symbol embossed in low relief. This was it. The reason she'd crossed half the world.
She reached out, stretching her hand. The glass behind her opened with a wet snap.
The sound made Daytona whirl — the cocoon split like living flesh. The being rose, dripping black fluids. Two legs, four arms, its head an elongated skull with metal plates and red eyes like burning coals. When it opened its mouth, the sound was a corrupted recording, attempting to mimic a human command.
Daytona took a deep breath. Her forearm pulsed. Muscles twisted. Bones cracked like splitting wood.
Daytona (low): Let's see who swallows whom, you damn recycled scrap.
She clenched her fists — claws of flesh formed. Black veins crept up her neck. A slight smile appeared on her lips, even as the monster crawled out of the cocoon.
In an instant, ABYSS-7 charged. Metal feet smashed the concrete floor. Daytona dodged sideways — the monster's left arm tore through the air, embedding in the wall, but the impact made the structure tremble.
Daytona spun behind, claws slashing support tubes of ABYSS-7. The sound it emitted was almost a mechanical scream. But the tubes rebuilt themselves — serpentine cables coiling and welding like tendons.
Belzebub laughed in her mind.
Belzebub: It's not living flesh — it's flesh that obeys. Don't fight like a human, Daytona. Don't strike. Devour.
She twisted her torso, dodging another blow. A mechanical arm passed inches from her face — sparks flying through her hair. Daytona sank her claws into the monster's chest. Tore cables, ripped pieces, but they writhed and glued back again.
ABYSS-7: A-DAP-TI-VE… COM-BAT…
Daytona felt the floor shake as it shoved her against a pillar. The concrete cracked. The impact almost made her laugh in pure rage. She gripped the monster's neck, forced a kick to its torso — pushing the metallic mass away.
She slid on the floor, heavy breathing, eyes wide, a streak of blood running from the corner of her mouth. Spat on the ground.
Daytona: Is that all? You just imitate?
She charged. A punch — ABYSS-7's arm broke. But instantly, a blade of bone and metal sprouted in its place. The monster spun, slashing her shoulder. Blood sprayed. But the cut closed — regeneration sang beneath the skin.
Daytona stepped back, circled the room. A broken pipe hissed steam — she grinned. Grabbed the tube, ripped the piping. Scalding vapor filled the room, obscuring the monster's vision.
Belzebub: Good, girl. It doesn't see like you do. It senses heat. So burn it.
Daytona jumped — grabbed ABYSS-7's shoulder, sunk claws into the base of its neck. The monster tried to grab her, but she slid, spun, sunk her teeth — yes, bit the metal joint, ripping wires like flesh. The taste was iron-like, electric. Daytona spat out burning shards; her eyes shone like headlights.
Daytona (low): You're no demon, ABYSS. Just a joke made of iron.
The monster roared — a distorted recording, human words mixed with growls. It opened its chest — inside, a red core pulsed, shielded by reinforced bones. Daytona stared. It was its heart-source.
Belzebub: Kill it from the inside out.
ABYSS-7 grabbed her, slammed Daytona against the steel wall. The impact made a crater. Daytona laughed, coughing blood. She stood up, staggering — eyes blazing, pupils dilated like a starving beast.
She ran again. Dodged a blow. Climbed its arm, scaled its back, sunk her hand into the chest, tearing armor like wet paper.
Daytona (shouting): BRING IT DOWN!
ABYSS-7 spun, trying to shake her off — but Daytona held firm. Blood dripped, mixing with the monster's black fluid. She raised her fist — and punched through the plates. Gripped the core. Squeezed.
Belzebub: Now, devour.
With one last effort, Daytona ripped the core from ABYSS-7's chest. The creature's body convulsed, trembled, arms flailing — but then froze, exhaling a sound like twisted iron sighing. The core's heat flooded Daytona's hand, pulsing like a stolen heart.
She stepped back — breathing heavily, covered in blood, steam, and metal shards. Dropped the core to the floor. Stepped on it. It exploded. Silence.
On the pedestal, the Book of Paradise awaited. Daytona glanced back, feeling Belzebub purr inside her mind — like a wolf watching its pup devour its first prey.
She walked, still trembling, hands dripping. When she grasped the book, she felt the old leather beneath her fingers. The weight wasn't just physical — it was the burden of what comes next.
Daytona smiled, almost childlike.
Daytona (low): So this is where I open Heaven's gates…
She took a deep breath. Clenched her fist. Turned toward the exit — ready to call Martin, Ghost, Saravia.
And in the corridor, the echo of silence was broken only by the sound of her boots stepping on shards of flesh and steel.