Night fell softly over Paradise like a cloak that did not hide, only calmed.
The golden light that had flowed through the day turned to a silvery spark on the leaves, and in the distance, the Divine Castle carved itself against the sky like a living architecture — windows breathing light, towers muffling the vastness. A low mist rose from the nearby riverbed, thin as a veil, carrying a fragrance of washed earth and something indefinable that resembled honey and rain.
When the telekinesis of the Gate set them back by the riverbank, Daytona's body trembled instinctively — the shift in places, even when controlled, was a kind of gentle abuse that demanded adaptation. Nylon landed slowly, like someone resting a spear, and looked at the silver flow of the river with reverence. Saravia adjusted the anchor strap on her back; Martin stared, wide-eyed, amazed and breathless; Ghost checked his gear as always — the repeated movement of one who maps both danger and solution. Raphaella, meanwhile, stood a step behind, silent and reserved, observing the group as if ensuring the pieces of a mechanism were still aligned.
— We'll camp here, Nylon suggested clearly. — The nearby water is safe and there's enough cover. It's not advisable to wander at night without fixed points.
Daytona looked at the river, then the sky. — All right. Just a simple camp. We need to recover. — She removed her cloak, laying it over a rock, and adjusted Kōken on her waist. The blade emitted a faint crimson glow beneath the translucent moonlight.
Martin quickly spread out blankets that seemed woven from the light of Paradise itself, while Ghost set up a small device that generated subtle warmth without smoke — a courtesy of Heaven's order. Saravia sat with her back against a thick root, breathing slowly; Nylon arranged a ring of stones for a small improvised hearth.
The conversation began light — recounting curious details of the day, comparing armor styles, laughing at Martin's small mishaps — but as the night deepened, so did their tone. Daytona spoke about the strange weight she'd felt upon entering Paradise; Ghost compared codes and protocols; Saravia mentioned the scent of the sea that never left her. Nylon listened, occasionally adding a calm, warrior's remark.
When the sky turned darker — not absolute black, but a deep blue woven with tiny lights — Raphaella sat beside Daytona without ceremony, pulling from her mantle a small bowl of translucent broth that smelled of lemon balm and something floral. She offered it to each with serene politeness. Martin took a sip and made a surprised face: the taste was at once sweet, salty, and somehow reminded him of everything he loved but couldn't name.
Raphaella watched their expressions for a moment before speaking slowly, as if her words were notes that needed to strike the right strings:
— There's more to Paradise than its obvious peace. There are layers of discipline that don't announce themselves. — She began. — The Mark of the Beast is one of those layers. But it isn't the only path of evolution that Heaven supports. There's another, subtler one — called Kamiiro.
Daytona frowned. — Kamiiro?
— Yes, Raphaella said with a tone almost maternal. — Just as the Mark of the Beast manifests when you break the pact between yourself and your power, Kamiiro is attunement. It doesn't take something from you — it realigns. It isn't taken; it's awakened.
Nylon tilted his head, curious. — In simple terms, what does it do?
Raphaella smiled like someone pulling back a curtain. — The most visible sign is the change in the color of your hair tips — like a candle changing its flame. The ends take on the color that best matches your essence at that moment. But it's not mere appearance. Kamiiro sharpens reflexes, enhances cognitive processing in battle, increases focus, shortens reaction time, and alters micro-movements that decide between hitting and missing. It's like a synapse tuned by light.
— So… like a turbo? Martin asked, eyes gleaming.
— Not a raw boost of strength, Ghost corrected, already drawing mechanical analogies. — More like refining decision-making — a weapon that thinks and cuts with you.
Saravia crossed her arms. — And why haven't I heard of this before? Seems… useful.
Raphaella set the bowl aside and looked up at the sky, as if seeking patterns among the lights. — Because Kamiiro isn't for everyone. Unlike the Mark, it doesn't require rage or a pact with an entity. It requires understanding of oneself. It's extremely rare in human blood — but not impossible.
Daytona leaned slightly forward. — Meaning… you could help us awaken it?
Raphaella studied their faces. — I can guide you. I can lead you to the threshold. But I cannot force it. Kamiiro is born from the perfect alignment between who you are and who you choose to be. It's a reflection. And when it manifests, it tends to speak — through a color, a note, an inner weather.
Nylon traced slow circles in the air with his hand. — And the color? What determines it?
— Color is a symbolic mirror, Raphaella explained patiently, like reciting ancient lore. — Blue stands for calm strategy and foresight; red for controlled impulsiveness and power of impact; green for adaptability and environmental awareness; silver for processing speed; violet for mental endurance; gold for leadership over the flow of battle. But those are not fixed labels. The tip changes when your core changes — and of course, there can be endless shades beyond these.
Instinctively, Saravia brushed a strand of her hair. — And Kamiiro — does it carry risks?
Raphaella nodded. — There's always risk in accelerating what the body tries to balance. An unstable Kamiiro may create micro-fissures in perception: you see the world with such precision you lose the whole. Or become so focused on "fighting right" that you miss simple traps. That's why it comes with time limits at first and needs rest between activations. It can expose your inner weaknesses — what you fear most becomes clearer.
Ghost frowned. — So it's a double-edged sword. Interesting that Heaven allows something like that.
— Heaven cultivates balance, Raphaella replied. — Its tools are dangerous enough to teach the wise to choose well. And when refined, Kamiiro doesn't only increase physical skill — it raises tactical intellect: you start anticipating patterns as if reading lines of code.
Daytona stayed quiet for a while, staring at her own legs as if feeling the weight of a new potential. — And how do I start? she whispered.
Raphaella closed her eyes briefly, then reopened them slowly. — Tomorrow morning, we'll go to the Garden of Reflection. It's where Heaven's light meets the world's shadow. There we'll begin the exercise of silence. Nothing heroic: sitting still, motionless, for hours. In the end, there's a test of truth — you must name, in full honesty, what you fear and what you desire. If you're truthful, a spark may appear. And color will come. Or not. That's the essence of risk — a mirror that might scream… or smile.
Martin, with a nervous grin, asked: — So… how long until I can fly?
— That's not in the manual, Raphaella replied, sipping the broth. — But I can promise this: those who try to awaken Kamiiro rarely stay surprised by battle anymore. And you, Martin, might finally stop tripping over rituals.
They laughed — but beneath it, tension hummed, like stretched strings. Daytona looked at them, thinking about what Raphaella had said about truth. She thought of her parents, of the accident scene that weighed like stone on her chest, of Belzebub's constant murmur inside her. The Mark of the Beast had always been a promise of power and loss; Kamiiro sounded like a mirror — a way to see before deciding.
— And how long do I have to decide? Daytona asked.
— As long as you wish, Raphaella said. — Heaven offers time. But pressure will always exist — forces below keep moving, and every second of stillness can mean either advantage or danger. In days, everything may change.
Nylon stood and skipped a stone across the river. It bounced three times before vanishing. — Then tomorrow morning, silence. I'll speak to the guards about safe routes. Ghost, you handle maps. Martin, survival training — nothing fancy. Saravia… stay close to Daytona during the exercise. — He looked at them, firm and practical. — I don't understand meditation, but I know how to protect those who do.
Saravia smirked. — I know how to meditate. Not like a monk, but I can stay quiet.
Ghost, fingers already fiddling with instruments, sighed. — And what if this is just a heavenly trick to tame us? he asked — half-joking, though his eyes weren't.
Raphaella placed her hand over the empty bowl, sealing it like an altar. — Not every offer is a trap. Sometimes a lesson is only that. And sometimes, it's a gate. Either way, it's worth the attempt. You joined a journey not just of blood and steps — but of choice.
The night stretched on. They spoke a little longer, sharing fragments of memory: Martin told of a summer; Ghost revealed he'd seen parts of Heaven on old maps; Nylon spoke of training fields where light itself chose warriors; Saravia recalled the sound of the sea that haunted her. Daytona stayed mostly silent, thinking of the promise she'd made to herself — to find her parents, understand Belzebub, and discover what her human side still wanted.
Later, as the soft flames faded, Raphaella rose and looked at them gently:
— Sleep. Tomorrow is a day of truth. The Garden of Reflection opens its waters only at dawn. Bring silence. Forget the blade for a while. The color you seek does not accept the clang of metal.
They settled to rest — Nylon calm, Martin cocooned in a blanket, Saravia awake a while longer, Ghost keeping watch. Daytona watched the river, its surface broken by small currents that shimmered under the moon. The tip of her hair, still normal, trembled lightly in the breeze.
Before closing her eyes, Daytona whispered to herself — not knowing whether to Belzebub, to Raphaella, or to her own reflection:
— Whatever appears… I want to see my face without fear.
The answer came soft and distant, yet not silent — a confirmation, as if Heaven itself had heard and taken note. And as the night's quiet embraced them, the riverbank kept their camp like it would keep a promise: dawn would bring decisions, colors, and perhaps the first flicker of something that would forever change how Daytona fought — and how she lived.