Echoes from the Spire: My Hunt for the Devilish Recordings

Hunt down all Devilish Recordings scattered across the Spire of the Watcher dungeon in Destiny 2, with detailed solo locations.

I still remember the first time I slipped into the shadows of Savathûn’s Throne World, the air thick with whispered lies and the sickly green glow of Hive magic. It was the year 2026, and while most Guardians were chasing the latest season’s fireworks, I had a quiet obsession: the Spire of the Watcher dungeon. Not for its bosses or its gear, but for a set of audio logs known as the Devilish Recordings – a triumph I could claim without firing a single shot in anger, if I was careful enough. The power level may have scaled, but these old recordings remain nested in the very bones of that underground facility like calcified memories in a dying cortex. I decided to walk that path again, solo, documenting every whisper for those who still listen.

After solving the first puzzle – something my hands could do from muscle memory now – a heavy gate groaned open, and I plunged downwards into the complex. The underground facility opened around me like the ribcage of some long-drowned leviathan, metal struts curving overhead and distant machinery humming like a heartbeat. I was already hunting the first recording. As soon as my boots hit the floor of that dark room, I turned right and spotted an arcade-like device squatting against the wall. That little machine, with its flickering readout, felt like a coin-operated confessional from a lost civilisation. I clambered on top of it and looked back, and there, across the void, on the top floor to my left, I could see the telltale glow of the first Devilish Recording perched on an identical terminal. The triple-jump whispered advice in my ears – a necessity for this entire trip – so I sprang across, grabbing ledges until I landed at the device. I held my breath and activated it. One down.

Progressing deeper, I eventually reached a chamber with a bridge spanning a greenish abyss like a catwalk over a corrupted digestive tract. Beneath that bridge, tucked near a locked door at the far end, the second recording waited. I remember dropping down carefully, the silence pressing in on me as I listened to the static-laden log. This place was teaching me to look where no one else wanted to look – to peel my eyes away from the obvious path and probe the neglected corners.

Then came the section I had dreaded the most, even after all these years. A vast, vertical chasm crisscrossed by seven razor-thin bridges. It looked like a shattered spiderweb, each bridge a delicate filament threatening to dump me into the void. I had stacked my armour with every Mobility mod I could scavenge, turning myself into a featherweight wraith just to survive the risky jumps. The third recording was on the third bridge, but reaching it was a labyrinth of sideways leaps. I jumped to Bridge 2, then to a platform I’d mentally labeled ‘A’, then ‘B’, then ‘C’. Titans could probably swing a sword and muscle their way directly, but as a Hunter, I opted for the safer route – an edgy protrusion marked ‘D’ on the pillar between Bridge 3 and 4. From there, I crept along a series of floors that led me to Bridge 4. Turning back toward Bridge 3, I spotted another narrow shelf and hoisted myself up to the right side of the pillar. The recording was right there, humming like a trapped soul. On the far end of that same bridge, I could even glimpse a secret chest. But the takeaway here was cruel: every time I wiped, that second recording vanished from my log, forcing me to reclaim it before the third. The Spire remembers, and it knows how to punish.

In that same chasm, before entering the upward air current that would carry me out, I found the fourth recording. Standing on the final bridge leading to the exit tunnel, I glanced left and saw an almost invisible ledge on the wall – a sliver of metal that looked more like an artist’s error than a platform. I jumped onto its edge with the same delicacy as plucking an eyelid, and there sat another arcade-shaped device. Listening to that fourth log while suspended over death felt like eavesdropping on a seance. Returning to the bridge was a sweaty affair; one careless twitch and I’d be a smear in the green fog below.

The air tunnel lifted me like a gasp, ejecting me into the quiet corridor before the first boss encounter. I stepped into a room with a banner placement circle, that reassuring little ritual spot. Instead of facing the boss, I stood in the circle and looked back. At the far end of the room, on a device to my left, the fifth recording blinked patiently. I almost laughed – so much danger behind me, and here one was just waiting in plain sight. You just had to remember to look opposite the direction the dungeon pushes you.

After solving the three puzzles in the second puzzle section – the ones with the rotating nodes that feel like defusing a bomb in a dream – I ascended into a fresh room. This time, the dungeon told me to circle around 180 degrees. I obeyed, and there, next to a massive window staring out into the throne world’s weird geology, I found the sixth and final recording. The device sat beneath that window like a jukebox at the edge of reality. I activated it, and the last whisper filled my helmet. The triumph popped silently on my HUD, a private little badge of patience.

I didn’t fight the final boss that day. I didn’t need to. The Spire of the Watcher had given me everything I’d come for – a scavenger hunt through its calcified arteries, proof that even the easiest dungeon can hide stories in its cracks. If you ever go wandering there in 2026, stack your Mobility, pack a triple jump, and remember: the arcade machines aren’t just decoration. They’re voices from a past that still knows how to whisper.