Early morning on a rural Colorado highway, Kalen sped through the darkness on his motorcycle. Wind roared past his ears. He glanced at the dashboard — 140 kilometers per hour. His left eye — the Eye of Truth — constantly scanned the environment. Ten kilometers ahead, a checkpoint. In the fields on either side, patrol cars. Overhead, a drone circling.
He slowed down, turning the motorcycle onto a side road — a dirt track leading into the mountains. The bike jolted over the rough ground, but he didn't slow. Thornheart let him sense the "state" of surrounding plants, and he could "tell" the roadside weeds and bushes to make way for him.
He rode for about half an hour, then stopped in front of an abandoned barn. He killed the engine, pushed the bike inside, and covered it with hay. Then he pulled a satellite phone from his backpack — one that Bearded Jack had given him for emergencies. He dialed a number.
A sleepy voice answered on the other end: "…Who's this?"
"It's me. I need help," Kalen said.
Two seconds of silence, then Bearded Jack's voice sharpened, alert: "Where are you?"
"Colorado, near Pines Cemetery. The Feds found me. They're searching everywhere."
"Shit. Are you hurt?"
"No. But I need a way out of the States."
"I can get you a route. But first, you need to get to a safe house. Closest one's in Kansas, a farm. Sending you the coordinates. Someone will meet you there."
"Who?"
"An old friend. Trustworthy."
"Nobody's trustworthy," Kalen said.
"Then you're on your own, kid. Here's a lesson: trust isn't a feeling. It's a choice. You choose to trust someone, and you take the risk of being betrayed. But if you don't trust anyone, you'll always be alone."
Kalen was silent. "…Send me the coordinates."
"And one more thing. That girlfriend of yours, Cecilia — her phone might be tapped. Don't contact her."
Kalen's fingers tightened around the satellite phone, knuckles whitening. "…I know."
"Go. Be careful."
The call ended. A few seconds later, coordinates appeared on the screen. Kalen stuffed the satellite phone back into his backpack, pulled the motorcycle out of the hay, and started the engine. He looked up at the sky — the drone was still circling, but its flight path was a fixed loop; it hadn't spotted him yet. He put on his helmet, twisted the throttle, and disappeared into the night.
Late the next afternoon, after riding all day — avoiding highways, sticking to back roads — Kalen finally reached the Kansas farm safe house. His clothes were caked with dust and mud, his eyes bloodshot from hours of intense focus. The farm entrance was a dirt road flanked by golden wheat fields. The fields blazed like fire in the setting sun.
He stopped in front of the farmhouse and killed the engine. A man in his sixties stepped out. He wore overalls and a straw hat, his face etched with deep, weather‑beaten wrinkles. His eyes were pale blue, clear and sharp.
"Jack said you look like your old man. He wasn't wrong," the old man said.
"Who are you?" Kalen asked.
"Name's Harold McCarthy. Call me Harro. Used to work with your dad at DARPA. After the project got canned, I came back home and started farming. Come on in. It's not safe out here."
Kalen followed Harro into the farmhouse. It wasn't large, but it was tidy. On the living room wall hung a faded photograph — a group of young people in white lab coats standing in a laboratory, with Kalen's father Markus at the center, much younger than Kalen remembered.
"Your dad was twenty‑seven then, the youngest on the whole project. But he was the smartest. Everyone knew he'd do something earth‑shattering one day," Harro said.
"He did. He created me," Kalen said.
Harro looked at him. "You don't sound happy about it."
"I don't know how to feel. My whole life was designed by him. I thought I was making choices — walking into that desert structure, reaching for the relic — but maybe that wasn't my choice at all. Maybe it was my genes driving me. The program he wrote into my DNA."
"You think you're a robot?"
"I think I'm a… test subject."
Harro walked over to Kalen and put a hand on his shoulder. "You're not a test subject. You're his son. He modified your genes not to make a weapon, but to keep you alive."
"Alive through what?"
"The coming storm."
Harro pulled a map from a cabinet and spread it on the kitchen table. The map showed the locations of thirty‑six surface structures worldwide — not the official version, but a more precise one, annotated with each structure's interior layout and the type of relic inside.
"This is…" Kalen began.
"What your dad left behind. He knew the locations of all the structures, knew what relics were inside, knew each relic's abilities and weaknesses. He knew it all twelve years ago."
"How could he know? The structures only appeared a few months ago."
Harro gave a bitter smile. "The structures didn't 'appear.' They've always been there. Just sealed away. Your dad found the weak points in the seals twelve years ago. He calculated that the seals would break around 2014 — the year he 'died.' He encrypted all his research and stored it on that USB drive."
Kalen pulled the drive from his pocket and looked at it. "All the information is on here?"
"Yeah. Including a way to track relics. Your dad discovered that every relic emits a specific energy frequency. If you can 'tune in' to that frequency, you can locate relics anywhere in the world. That's why you always 'just happened' to find those structures in the middle of nowhere — it wasn't coincidence. Your relic was helping you tune in."
"So my relic…"
"The God‑Eater Spine was your dad's 'key.' It's the only relic that doesn't come from the ancient gods. It's man‑made. He created it from Null Element and his own DNA."
Kalen froze. "What did you say?"
"The God‑Eater Spine isn't a remnant of the ancient gods. Your dad built it. Its only function is to devour other relics. He created it so that someone — someone with his DNA — could devour all the relics and become a new god."
Kalen stepped back and leaned against the wall. His face was pale. "Every relic I've devoured… was part of Dad's plan. Every step I've taken… was designed by him."
"No. Your dad could only design the tools. He couldn't design the person using them. Which relics you choose to devour, who you choose to work with, who you protect, who you kill — those are your choices. Your dad just gave you a gun. You're the one who pulls the trigger."
Kalen closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I need to see what's on that drive."
"You'll need a computer. I don't have any connected ones here — not safe. But I've got an old laptop, not connected to the internet. It can read the drive."
Harro pulled a dust‑caked laptop from under the bed, blew off the dust, and set it on the table. Kalen plugged in the USB drive. The screen lit up. A folder appeared, containing a video file and an encrypted data file.
Kalen double‑clicked the video file. His father's face appeared on the screen — Markus Wester, younger than Kalen remembered, maybe early thirties. He wore a white lab coat, standing in a laboratory with rows of blinking instruments behind him.
"Kalen, if you're watching this, I'm already gone, and you've already gotten the God‑Eater Spine," the Markus in the video said.
Kalen's eyes reddened. But he didn't look away.
"First of all, I'm sorry. I didn't ask your permission before turning you into… this thing. I wasn't a good father. I never was. But I want you to know that I did all of this because I love you."
Markus in the video paused, as if collecting himself.
"Secondly, I need to tell you the truth. The relics inside the surface structures aren't 'treasures.' They're the corpse fragments of the ancient gods. Each relic contains a part of a god's memory and power. Whoever devours all the relics will become a new god — an empty vessel with no memories, no emotions."
Kalen's pupils contracted.
"That's why the God‑Eater Spine was made by me, not by the ancient gods. Because it's not a 'god' fragment — it's a human tool. It's supposed to let you keep your humanity after you devour all the relics. At least… I hope it does."
Markus smiled in the video — a smile with exhaustion, resignation, and a hint of tender hope.
"I don't know what kind of person you'll become. Maybe you'll use this power to save the world. Maybe you'll use it to destroy the world. Maybe you just want to live an ordinary life. Whatever you choose, I support you."
His expression turned serious. "But there's one thing you need to know. After you've devoured all the relics, you'll be the most powerful being on the planet. And everyone will want to control you, or kill you. Be careful. Especially of… the people you love."
Markus looked into the camera, as if staring directly into Kalen's eyes. "Because the people who love you know best how to hurt you."
The video ended. The screen froze on Markus's face.
Kalen sat there, motionless. Harro stood beside him, silent.
"…He was right. The people who love you know best how to hurt you," Kalen said quietly.
He unplugged the drive and tucked it into his inner pocket. Then he stood up. "I need to leave. The Feds will find this farm sooner or later."
"I've arranged a route for you. First to Mexico, then fly to Europe. In Europe, you'll find people willing to work with you," Harro said.
"Who in Europe?"
"Markus von Richter. German. He has a relic — the Eye of Truth. Not the same as yours."
"I already have the Eye of Truth."
Harro shook his head. "What you have isn't the Eye of Truth. It's the Insight Pupil — a lesser version. The real Eye of Truth is with von Richter. It can see through anything — not just energy, but thoughts, memories, future possibilities."
"…Then I definitely need to find him."
"No. You definitely need to stay away from him. That man… is too dangerous. He's not a fighter. He's a chess player. And what chess players are best at isn't winning — it's making their opponents think they can win."
Kalen looked into Harro's eyes — those pale blue, aged eyes, filled with deep concern.
"I've seen dangerous people. I can handle them."
"I hope so."