With ten players remaining, Reever knew there was no room for mistakes. Every move mattered. The survivors were no longer rookies. They were experienced enough to spot danger, clever enough to set traps, and fast enough to punish hesitation. At the same time, he felt a surge of excitement. It had been a while since he had opponents who could actually provide a challenge. Real, dangerous players. The kind that made every decision count.
The map seemed to shrink with time, forcing encounters. Seconds barely passed before Reever found his first real opponent.
A lone player stood ahead, his posture casual but alert, his eyes narrowing as they fell on the insignia of Reever's armor.
"A bot survived till now. Ain't you something special," the player said, a sneer in his tone.
Reever studied him silently. The other player had the stance of someone confident in their abilities, not careless. But his focus immediately faltered when he realized he was staring down an aim bot. Reever's reputation preceded him. Even in this chaotic battlefield, the mere presence of his insignia caused a twinge of unease.
"An aim bot. What a surprise," the player muttered, speaking to himself more than to Reever. "I am also proficient in sniping, so let me taste your skills. What am I even saying. Bots are dumbs; they can't hear me." He laughed softly, summoning his weapon with a flourish. A golden sniper rifle materialized in his hands, its body adorned with skulls that seemed to grow outward, each one gleaming ominously in the fading sunlight.
Reever's instincts kicked in immediately. The weapon wasn't ordinary. It radiated power, the kind that only rare, high-tier equipment could give. Either this player had spent heavily on resources, or he had earned it through skill.
Reever glanced at his own weapon, Specter Edge. Nothing extravagant, nothing flashy apart from the soft bluish glow it emanated. But power wasn't always in appearances. Specter Edge had abilities that allowed precision beyond what ordinary players could comprehend. He activated his Target skill, locking onto the opponent. Every shot would be flawless, every movement calculated. The enemy didn't notice anything suspicious. Low-rank player instincts rarely caught these subtleties.
A brief silence fell between them. Gunfire echoed in the distance, reminders of chaos elsewhere, but here, tension reigned. Neither moved for a few seconds, each testing the other. Then Reever struck.
Like a shadow, he advanced silently, closing the distance with impossible speed. He appeared behind the enemy in an instant, firing a single shot.
The opponent barely survived the first hit, flipping backward instinctively. A bullet tore into his thigh, leaving him bleeding and off-balance.
"What the…" he cursed, clutching his leg. "I'm sure he missed. Has he fired twice or… what?"
He couldn't comprehend what just happened. Pain and confusion clouded his mind. In a panic, he fired five consecutive bullets toward Reever. Each struck his armor, bouncing harmlessly off. Sparks scattered across the ground with each impact. Reever remained perfectly still, letting the attacks waste themselves.
The player's eyes widened in disbelief.
"F**k. This bot is cheating," he cursed, panic replacing his arrogance. He turned to run, desperate to put as much distance as possible between himself and Reever. But running was a mistake he would pay for.
Reever's eyes marked his head instantly. A single shot, precise and final, struck true. The aftermath was gruesome—a burst that reduced the player to a bloody mess, a horrifying display of efficiency.
"That was easy," Reever sighed, wiping Specter Edge clean with a cloth before moving forward. He approached the fallen opponent to claim the loot.
"And here I was expecting a challenge," he muttered, letting his eyes scan the area.
Then he felt something brush against the back of his head.
"Drop your loots and I might let you live," a hoarse voice whispered behind him.
Reever laughed softly, continuing to gather the opponent's gear without looking back. The audacity of some players never ceased to amaze him.
The one aiming at him seemed shocked by his composure. He shook his head and fired a shot, expecting the body in front of him to drop instantly. He was not prepared for Reever to ignore it entirely, continuing to collect the loot as if nothing had happened.
"What the…" the shooter muttered under his breath. He tried to back away, only to find his foot firmly gripped by a strong hand.
Reever pulled him down effortlessly, mirroring the earlier words almost exactly.
"Drop your loot, and I might let you live," he said, then realized the player couldn't hear him. His next shot ensured compliance. Loot taken, threat neutralized.
"What a good way of earning loot," Reever muttered, adjusting his piggy bag. "These opponents are far too easy."
The battlefield clock reminded him of the time. Three minutes remained until the next missile drop. He made his move toward the nearest anti-missile container, careful, deliberate. Every step calculated. Every risk weighed.
The thrill of the hunt coursed through him. The remaining players were skilled, or at least cautious, but he thrived in this environment. The chaos was manageable. Every mistake they made was an opportunity. Every panic-stricken decision, a reward waiting to be claimed.
As he approached the container, Reever's mind raced with possibilities. He could defend, ambush, or strike quickly and vanish. The next few minutes would be crucial.
He adjusted the weight of his bag. Loot slowed you down, but it also represented advantage. He was carrying more than anyone else likely dared. And with ten players left, the field was narrowing fast. Every move now would decide not just survival, but dominance.