Chapter 7: Steel and Thunder
Four years, 363 days until Aloy's Proving POV: Rion
We were following the edge of a collapsed river overpass when the trees gave way to something that shouldn't exist. Steel rails. Polished. Intact. Gleaming in the sun like they'd been laid yesterday. No rust. No vines. No decay. The rest of the world was being devoured by time—but the track stood untouched.
The Focus tried to scan them. Blank.
Sula stopped beside me, and the second she saw the rails, her expression changed. Her body went rigid, her hand drifting to the axe on her back. Like she was staring at something she'd seen in a nightmare.
Then the ground began to hum. Heavy. Rhythmic. Too structured to be natural. The rails started to shake.
Sula's eyes widened. "Down," she hissed—and tackled me hard into the dirt.
We hit the ground just as a shadow swallowed the treeless corridor ahead—a wide, permanent gash through the forest, where nothing grew and nothing dared cross. The rail path was clear, cut clean through the land like a scar the world had stopped trying to heal.
And the machine came through.
It wasn't a train. It was a centipede. A living juggernaut built from armored segments and unrelenting force. Dozens of clawed legs hammered into the rails with machine precision. Its head was a fusion of locomotive and predator—steel jaws, mandibles clacking, crimson optics flaring like the eyes of a hunting god. Behind it trailed cargo pods—massive, sealed containers lashed to its segmented spine, each one humming with internal power.
The ground trembled. Wind dragged behind it like a collapsing lung.
The Focus tried to scan—no result—until Sula whispered, low and shaken: "Track Rider."
Ping. SCAN COMPLETE Designation: Track Rider Machine Type: Autonomous Freight Hauler Body Plan: Centipede Primary Function: Long-Distance Cargo Transport Behavior: Will not stop. Will not avoid. Impact is lethal. Threat Rating: Severe Origin: GAIA-Class Fabrication Pattern
My eyes narrowed. "That's GAIA-built," I muttered. "But why would she make something like that?"
Sula didn't answer. She just kept watching it vanish into the distance, her expression unreadable.
"I saw what it did," she said at last. "Two winters ago. I was on a hunt near the western flats. Heard thunder. The sky was clear."
She took a breath. "There was a Deathclaw. Dead. Lying across the tracks. Split open. Bones shattered. Its claws were dug in like it tried to fight."
I stared at her. "It killed a Deathclaw?"
She nodded. "Didn't even slow down."
That wasn't just impressive. That was terrifying.
Deathclaws couldn't be tamed. Could barely be killed. Tribes only brought them down in coordinated hunting parties with traps and ambushes—and even then, losses were expected.
But this thing had crushed one. And kept going.
"I've never feared machines," Sula said. "But that? That thing scares me. Whatever it's doing, it's not for us."
I sat up slowly, brushing dirt from my arms. The track was still vibrating faintly, the echo of steel legs marching into the horizon.
"Have you ever seen smaller machines move toward one of those old ruins?" I asked. "Like they know the Rider's coming?"
Sula nodded. "Yes. Shell-Walkers. Grazers. Sometimes Scroungers. They start heading west a few days before it appears—toward the metal ruins with deep pits and broken arms that still move. They wait there. Then the Rider comes. They load it. It leaves."
"How often does it show up?" I asked.
"Once a week," she replied. "Always on the same day. Like clockwork."
I frowned. "Then it's probably not the same one every time. If it's making runs across the continent—east to west, or even north to south—there's no way a single machine could cover that much ground and return weekly. There must be hundreds of them. Thousands even. Running all over North and South America like metal arteries."
It's a logistics system. Still running. Still working.
Probably built in the early years—before GAIA had enough resources to construct underground transit tunnels. Back when she had to rely on existing infrastructure. Rail lines. Repurposed hubs.
This wasn't a weapon. It was a supply train. A continent-spanning hauler meant to support terraforming operations—now turned lethal simply because the rest of the world had fallen behind.
"Where's the nearest station?" I asked.
"Why?" Sula asked cautiously.
"Because I want to stay very far away from it until I'm strong enough to survive even looking at it wrong." I paused. "That place? That's a story-mode event. And I'm still on the tutorial island."
She frowned. "I don't understand what—"
"Never mind, where is it?" Damn slip in gamer talk again.
She hesitated. "Past the ironwood grove. Northwest. You'll know it when you're close. The air changes. The animals leave. It's quiet in a way that's wrong."
"Perfect," I muttered. "I'll make a note to run screaming the other way."
That made Sula chuckle.
Still… I couldn't help think. If I— when Aloy—could get an override one day... If we could access the Rider's systems, even partially...
This thing wouldn't just be a monster. It'd be fast travel. Real fast travel. A roaming vault train loaded with resources. A mobile base. The ultimate shortcut across a brutal world.
But that was a dream for later.
Sula glanced at me sideways, her expression shifting. "How do you know that there's more than one and all the things you know?" she asked quietly.
I didn't answer right away. Just looked out over the tracks, watching the last trace of dust fade into the horizon.
"The Decanus wasn't wrong," I said finally. "When he called me a remnant."
She turned, eyebrows tightening.
"Back during the time of the Old Ones," I continued, "they had something called cryo pods. Machines that could put someone to sleep for a long, long, long time—without aging."
Sula said nothing, but her stare deepened.
"That's why I know what I know," I added. "Because I was there. Before it all ended." Technically true as the Faro plague took place during a time I would have been an old man.
Her lips parted slightly, breath catching.
"So that's how you know of the Fir—of Sekibayashi Jun," she murmured. "You lived during the same time he did."
The words hung in the air, and her expression shifted again—this time, not with suspicion, but something closer to reverence. Her jaw slackened, her eyes wide not just in surprise, but in awe. Like a question she'd never dared voice had suddenly been answered.
She took a step back, her breath shaky.
"You saw him, didn't you?" she whispered. "You knew the man who became our god."
Her hands lowered from her weapon, clenched slightly at her sides like she didn't know what to do with them.
"The shamans speak his name in fragments, in chants and visions. But you... you had his name before I ever said it. You knew his stance, his fight. You carry his memory."
Her voice trembled.
"You're not just a remnant, Rion. Elder Heka named you with proper thought, "You're a witness."
I didn't know what to say. I wasn't expecting worship. But I saw it in her eyes—not worship of me, but of the link. Of the legacy.
I shook my head slowly. "I didn't know him personally," I said. "But I knew of him. Everyone did."
He wasn't real in my world—just a character in a manga. But the way he was treated in that series? He was on the level of John Cena or The Rock. I won't tell Sula that. It would do a disservice to the man—as he was real in this world. And that matters more.
"He was a name that meant something, even if you weren't a fan. He fought like a god, and people remembered him like one."
Sula blinked, her breath catching again. Part of her had felt foolish worshipping the First Kansani—but knowing that some Old Ones had the same thoughts made her feel better. Like her people weren't just clinging to myth. They were remembering something the world itself had once honored.
"Sekibayashi Jun was a celebrity," I continued. "A global icon. His name, his face, his fights—they were everywhere. People watched him for the spectacle, for the strength. For the defiance.
"I remember the first time I saw him (he recalled the anime)—this massive man with a grin, tanking hits that should've dropped anyone else. He made showmanship feel sacred. He turned pro wrestling into a real martial art. He took something theatrical... and made it deadly. It wasn't just flash. It was heart. And it made him the kind of man you couldn't help but respect."
Sula was still staring—not at Rion, but at the ground beneath his feet. As if trying to reconcile what she'd just heard with everything she thought she knew.
Then, slowly, she sank to one knee.
Not in submission. Not in worship. But in reverence.
She reached down, pressed two fingers to the rail—then smeared them across her own war paint, dragging a fresh mark across her brow.
"I thought the stories were echoes," she said softly. "Dreams told by firelight to make warriors feel brave."
Her voice broke, just for a second.
"But you've seen the flame they were born from. You stood in the world where he lived. Breathed the same air. Walked the same roads."
She looked up at him then—face unreadable, eyes storm-wracked.
"That makes you more than a fighter, Rion. You're a living omen."
He shifted uneasily. "I'm just someone who remembers."
She shook her head.
"No," she said. "You're someone who reminded us. That the War God wasn't a myth. That he walked. That he fought. That he roared."
She stood, jaw clenched, breath steadying.
"When we return," she said, "the shamans will mark this day. They'll add your words to the chants. Maybe even your name."
Rion raised an eyebrow. "Not sure I want to be in a hymn."
She smirked faintly. "Doesn't matter what you want. You already are."
"You know Jun would hate being treated as a god." Rion said
Sula's eyes softened.
"That... actually fits," she said. "With what the first of the Kansani believed."
She crouched, dragging her fingers across the dirt beside the track, smearing a line that mirrored the war paint on her cheek.
"They didn't worship him. Not the man. Not his name. They worshipped what he stood for. His spirit. His defiance. The way he kept getting up."
She looked up at Rion, voice steady now, like she was reciting something older than memory.
"They say the First Ancestor saw him painted in white, standing in a ruin surrounded by enemies. Didn't raise a hand. Just stood tall and laughed. And our ancestor? He laughed too. And said, 'That's how I want to die.'"
A quiet breath passed between them.
"They didn't light fires in his name, couldn't. They lit fires to remind themselves not to break. Not to bend. That's what our tribe was built on. His fighting spirit."
She stood, brushing her hands off, her gaze sharp.
"So what if he wouldn't want to be called a god?" Her voice hardened. "Then we fight harder. We make sure that thing out there doesn't turn him into a joke."
Rion nodded once. No hesitation.
"Then we burn the lie," he said. "And carry the truth."
But as the words settled into silence, something deeper stirred beneath them. What was the truth?
What became of Sekibayashi Jun?
Rion had given the Kansani his name. His image. His legend. But not his ending.
The mural, the myth, the laughter carved into stone—it all spoke of beginnings. But why was it made in the middle of the United States? Was it a tribute or a memorial?
Jun had lived. That much was certain. But where had he died? And why here?
He was Japanese—born half a world away. So what brought him to the American heartland in the last days of the Old World?
What purpose?
Was it the war?
Did he flee here to escape the Faro Plague?
Or—given his connections to both the business world and the underworld—was he part of something deeper? Something hidden in the shadows of collapse?
And then another thought struck Rion—one that didn't sit easily.
What if it wasn't just coincidence or desperation that brought Jun here?
What if Zero Dawn was involved?
The program had recruited engineers, scientists, soldiers… but maybe, just maybe, someone like Jun had been brought into the fold for a different reason. Not as a technician.
But as a fighter.
A living wall. A symbol to steady the chaos. A man who didn't run.
And if that were true—if Project Zero Dawn had placed him here, in this place—
Then someone had wanted the War God to fall where the world could remember it.
Updated Quest: Fate of the Deva
Type: Legacy Discovery | Kansani Blood-Oath
Sacred Purpose:
Discover the fate of Sekibayashi Jun—the First Kansani, the War God of the Painted Path. Trace his journey from the lands of the rising sun to the battle that marked his end. His mural survives in the American heartland—but his death remains undocumented, his final purpose unresolved.
Jun was a giant of Japan's fighting stage, known in both corporate and criminal circuits… so why did he die here? Project Zero Dawn itself may have played a role. If Jun was deployed intentionally, he may have been more than a fighter—he may have been a weapon wielded during the final, frantic days before silence.
Sub-Objectives:
– Locate the original mural site
– Investigate records of martial tournaments, combat syndicates, or elite bodyguard contracts
– Identify references to "The Deva," "The Painted Titan," or "White-Faced Berserker" in Zero Dawn–era bunkers
– Seek out any Project Zero Dawn rosters or blackout subfiles that may have listed him as a "civil morale asset" or defense trainer
– Discover if he died in service, sacrifice—or silence
Projected Rewards:
Artifact Weapon or Armor | Echo Technique | Cultural Unification Event | Optional Path to War God's Ghost Legacy Perk