During the chase, Reever had already come to a conclusion. Whatever was after him knew exactly who he was and where to find him. It wasn't guessing or searching blindly. It was hunting him with purpose. Still, the graveyard was vast—an endless sprawl of collapsed maps and twisted landscapes. Some sections repeated themselves, like corrupted copies, while others were fragments of worlds he recognized from past matches. If someone tried to explore every corner of this place, it would take years.
He moved through the broken terrain with steady steps, careful but quick. Each echo of his footfalls seemed to bounce back at him from too many directions at once. Sometimes, the air felt heavier, like something unseen was watching. And Reever trusted that feeling. After being turned into an aim bot, his instincts had sharpened to something close to a sixth sense, and they rarely failed him. The sense of being followed grew stronger with every step.
His grip on the gun tightened, but he didn't turn around. He didn't want to alert whatever was trailing him. Let it think he was unaware. Let it come closer. Then he'd strike first.
But instead, the first strike came for him.
A bullet sliced through the still air, hitting him square in the chest. The impact sent him stumbling back, though his armor absorbed the worst of it. A faint spark flickered across his chest plate, the rare-ranked plating doing its job. Had he been wearing anything else, that shot would've ended him.
Reever's eyes narrowed. Whoever—or whatever—had fired that shot wasn't just good. It was almost perfect. The kind of accuracy that only someone like him possessed.
He didn't waste time. Lifting his rifle, he fired a single round toward the direction the shot had come from. He didn't expect to hit—he just wanted to draw them out.
It worked.
From the shattered ruins ahead, seven figures emerged, moving in eerie unison. They looked like bots, but not quite. Their metal frames were torn and fused together in strange, uneven ways, as if they had been rebuilt in a rush. Pieces of different bots joined at the joints and torsos, wires exposed and twitching. Their eyes glowed dim red. Reever had seen many kinds of bots in his time, but these were different—corrupted, broken, yet still functioning.
Zombots, he thought. Zombified bots. He had seen real zombies in the game, and they did not look as to what he was seeing right now. These looked like they'd been stitched together by something desperate.
Reever didn't think they were the main threat. No, these things were just sent to clean up the scraps and trash, him.
Without hesitating, he raised his weapon and fired. His shot struck one Zombot's arm clean off, sending its rifle clattering to the ground. For a second, he expected them to panic, to glitch or stumble. Instead, the remaining six turned toward him and fired back at once, their movements smooth, coordinated. Impossible. Bots didn't work together like that unless something—or someone—was controlling them.
Bullets ripped through the air, sparks flashing as they struck his armor. The plating held, but he could feel the force of every impact through his frame. He ducked low, pulling out a flash grenade, and hurled it toward the group. The explosion of light filled the space, and the Zombots froze mid-step, their sensors overloaded.
Reever didn't waste the chance. He lined up his aim and delivered a clean headshot to each one. The echoes of his shots faded into silence as the bots collapsed, their lights dimming out one by one.
"Too easy," he muttered, brushing dust off his armor.
He turned and continued deeper into the graveyard, but he didn't make it far. A faint metallic sound made him glance back—and his stomach tightened. The Zombots were moving again. Their broken limbs twitched, their bodies jerking upright like puppets forced to dance. Their eyes glowed brighter now, burning with a reddish hue that looked almost angry.
Though bots weren't supposed to feel anything, it was clear their controller had found a way to give them a spark of rage.
This time, they came charging. Instead of snipers, they pulled out machine guns, and in an instant, the world around him erupted. Bullets tore through the air, shredding everything in their path. The sky seemed to rain metal.
Reever thought about testing his armor—just to see if it could hold—but even he wasn't that reckless. A rare moment of sense hit him, and he darted into the remains of a destroyed building. Bullets peppered the walls, sparks flying everywhere. The constant gunfire made it sound like a storm that refused to end.
He crouched low, scanning the room for cover. They were still shooting, never stopping, as if their ammo was endless. He loaded two more flash grenades, pulled the pins, and tossed them through the holes in the walls. The light burst outside, followed by the metallic cries of confusion. Good. That was his cue.
He threw a smoke bomb next, blanketing the area in a dense, gray haze. Their sensors would struggle to see through it. That evened the odds.
Switching his snipper rifle to rapid-fire mode, Reever peeked out and tagged each enemy with his targeting system. Then he started firing. The recoil kicked against his shoulder as bullets poured out like rain, cutting through the fog. The Zombots tried to retaliate, but every time one moved, Reever's aim tracked it perfectly. The sounds of impact echoed through the smoke—metal cracking, gears breaking, limbs falling apart.
When the smoke finally began to clear, the scene was a mess of shattered parts. The Zombots lay scattered across the ground, riddled with holes. Some of their pieces still twitched, their fragments crawling weakly, refusing to shut down.
Reever watched them for a moment, then gave a faint sigh. "Persistent junk," he muttered, lowering his weapon.
He summoned a small drone from his inventory. It flickered to life, scanning the area with a quiet hum. Once the drone confirmed the path ahead was clear, Reever moved on, stepping carefully over the broken pieces of his attackers. He didn't look back this time. There was no point.
Somewhere beyond the wreckage, the real enemy was still waiting—and it would send even more of its Zombots as it knew where he was headed to.