"The blessed son of two worlds."
What kind of cultist nonsense was that?
I wasn't a messiah. I wasn't a chosen one. Hell, I wasn't even a particularly good human being when I was alive the first time. I died doing a backflip off a roof trying to impress a girl and my friends with a vape pen and a Slipknot shirt. Fast forward to now—I'm knee-deep in monsters, blood gods, and psychic black market rituals.
Talk about a glow-up.
Still, Kharon—ancient horror, eater of souls, master of shadows, blah blah blah—had taken a personal interest in me. And not in the "hey buddy, let's do brunch" way. No, more like "I'll hollow you out and wear your skin like a robe" kind of interest.
I was starting to get used to it.
As I walked across the cracked lot outside the old diner I'd used as a pit stop, my car gleamed under the low sun. Nissan 350Z. Midnight black. Custom-fitted for speed and trunk space—both for bodies and weapons.
I slid into the driver's seat, tossing my blood-smeared jacket onto the passenger side. The engine purred like a beast just waiting for an excuse to run. I pressed the ignition, and she roared awake.
That grin crawled across my face again.
"Let's stretch those new legs."
My newest power—Shadow Jumping. Teleportation via darkness. One kilometer radius. No cooldown, no mana cost, no nausea. Just blink, and I was somewhere else.
I focused on the tree line about fifty yards down the road.
Fwip.
One second I was in the driver's seat. The next, I was standing on top of the damn moving car, arms out like some kind of gothic superhero. Wind howled past me, tearing at my shirt.
"WHOA—holy crap!"
Fwip.
I was back in the seat, gripping the wheel just in time to swerve around a busted-out station wagon.
"Okay," I breathed. "So maybe don't teleport at 90 miles an hour. Duly noted."
Eleven Hours Later – Bobby Singer's Salvage Yard
I didn't knock.
Didn't have to.
Bobby opened the door before I could even raise my hand. He looked like he hadn't slept in two days—grizzled beard, ratty flannel, and a shotgun clutched loosely in one hand.
"You look like hell," he said flatly.
I gave him a blood-stained grin. "Love you too, Pops. Got any beer?"
He handed me one without a word. That's the Bobby Singer brand of affection—insults and alcohol.
I stepped inside and dropped onto the threadbare couch, downing half the beer before he even sat down.
"Well?" he prompted.
So I told him.
The whole thing—Hess's lab, the stitched-together freak show, the shadow creature that moved like a nightmare and hit like a freight train. The teleportation. The ritual. And, of course, the creepy whisper at the end:
"Welcome to this world, my lord."
Bobby's face got tighter with every sentence.
"Kharon's still sniffin' around, huh?" he muttered, flipping through one of his tomes. "If he's callin' you the 'son of two worlds'… then it ain't just interest. He's staking a claim."
I snorted. "He can stake all he wants. I'm not for sale."
"You don't get it," Bobby growled. "Gods like Kharon don't ask. They take."
I drained the beer and set the bottle down. "Then he's gonna learn what a pissed-off hunter with god-punching powers can do."
Bobby didn't smile. He just handed me another file. "Place in Kansas. Old lab. Belonged to Hess."
I flipped it open, eyes narrowing as I studied the photo inside—a ritual circle carved into concrete, same as the one I saw in the Omaha plant. Symbols ancient and ugly, writhing with dark intent even in black and white.
"I've seen this," I muttered.
"Thought you might."
I leaned back, head pounding. I'd been running from my past since day one—my real past, the one before I ended up here. The reincarnation. The knowledge of how this universe ticked. I kept it secret because I had to. The second people knew I didn't belong here, everything would change. I'd stop being a person and start being a puzzle everyone wanted to solve.
Or a weapon they wanted to control.
Bobby watched me closely. "There's more," he said. "I think Kharon's got a foothold in this world already. A cult. Small but quickly growing, tight-knit. Fanatics."
"Let me guess," I said, flipping through the rest of the photos. "Hess was their high priest? Because last time I check he is first disciple of Kharon."
"No doubt in my mind."
And right on cue, the unmistakable growl of a '67 Chevy Impala pulled into the yard.
Dean's voice came through the night like a cannon blast.
"Surprise, assholes!"
The door slammed open.
Dean and Sam Winchester stepped into the living room, both looking like they'd had a hell of a day—blood-spattered, sweaty, and smug.
Between them was a man in a torn lab coat, tied, gagged, and squirming like a worm on a hook.
They dropped him at my feet.
It was Dr. Hess.
Sam wiped his hands on his jeans. "We found him performing surgery on a girl. Inserting something alive into her chest."
Dean cracked his neck. "Big freakin' monster tried to eat us. We got creative."
Bobby glanced at me. "Still think this isn't divine intervention?"
"I think," I said slowly, crouching in front of Hess, "that I'm gonna get some answers."
Hess looked up at me with wild eyes—half terrified, half reverent.
"My lord," he whispered through the gag.
I froze.
Dean stiffened. "The hell did he just call you?"
"Don't worry about it," I said quickly, forcing a grin. "Just more cultist crap."
Sam didn't look convinced.
I stood and cracked my knuckles.
"All right, Doctor," I said, rolling my neck. "Let's play twenty questions. First one being: why do ancient blood gods keep giving me nicknames?"
And in the silence that followed, I swear the air itself held its breath.
This wasn't over.
It was just beginning.