As soon as the timer hit zero, the gate opened.
A blinding white light poured out of it, flooding the battlefield in an instant. To normal eyes, it would have been overwhelming, enough to force a person to shield their face. But the bots did not react at all. Their optical sensors adjusted immediately, filtering the brightness until it became meaningless.
The bots moved almost at the same time.
Their bodies shifted in a synchronized manner, stiff and mechanical, like puppets pulled by the same invisible strings. One after another, their heads turned toward the gate. Their eyes changed color, dull lights turning into a sharp, violent red.
Inside their simple minds, only one word echoed.
Kill.
The moment the player stepped out of the gate, that command became absolute.
The player was not normal.
That was the first thought that crossed Reever's mind. Even before the player moved, even before he showed hostility, his presence alone demanded attention. The armor he wore was enough to make any observer pause.
Reever felt it immediately. Compared to this player, his own armor felt inferior in every possible way.
The armor was pitch black, swallowing light instead of reflecting it. Across its surface were countless tiny glowing dots, scattered like distant stars across a night sky. At the center of the chest piece was a massive core, faintly pulsing with energy.
A power core, Reever assumed. And a strong one.
His gaze lingered for a moment longer, scanning the details, letting his mind work.
"I knew it," Reever muttered internally. "The system would never give me a normal player."
His analysis continued, cold and automatic.
"If I am right, this player is already at the peak of Elite Rank V. He might even be on the verge of breaking into Rank IV."
Reever felt a strange pressure in his chest.
"And that armor… Epic at the very least. Maybe even mystique."
The player finally looked up.
His eyes swept across the field of bots, not with caution, not with interest, but with amusement. Then he smiled.
It was not a friendly smile. It was the grin of a predator staring at prey that could not fight back.
From the bots' side, there were very few that stood out.
Reever quickly checked the battlefield composition. Among the massive crowd of standard bots, there were only a handful of special units.
He was the only aim bot.
There was only one dodge bot.
There were no tank bots. No kill bots.
"The system really thinks I am weak," Reever thought bitterly. "An aim bot, treated like this."
He frowned, running through the information again just to be sure. Nothing changed.
He shook his head slowly and summoned his weapon.
During his time in this game, Reever had learned many things. One of them was the existence of players who enjoyed this kind of scenario. Players who did not just want to win, but wanted to dominate. Players who found pleasure in torturing bots simply because they could.
Bots were weak. Bots were disposable. Bots did not matter.
And Reever's bad luck had guided one of those players here.
The player raised his hand and summoned a weapon of his own.
It was a small pistol.
At first glance, it almost looked underwhelming. But the moment it fully materialized, its presence became clear. The pistol carried the same oppressive aura as the armor.
Its body was scarlet red, polished and smooth, with thin golden web like patterns etched across its surface. The design was elegant and cruel at the same time.
A faint bloody stench seemed to hang around it, imaginary yet undeniable, as if the weapon itself was warning its opponents that they were next.
The player corked the pistol.
Then he moved.
He ran straight into the swarm of bots.
Gunshots echoed across the field as he fired at anything that moved. His movements were fluid, relaxed, almost lazy, yet every shot found its mark. Bots dropped one after another, their bodies collapsing before they could even react.
The bots were not idle. They summoned their weapons and returned fire, bullets flying in every direction.
But they were dumb.
Their shots missed more often than not, scattering wildly across the battlefield. Some bullets struck the ground. Others slammed into walls. And some hit other bots.
Friendly fire erupted everywhere.
Friendly fire was one of the most dangerous forms of damage. A bot never expected an ally to shoot it, and because of that, the damage was always high. Bots fell not just to the player, but to their own kind.
A few lucky bots managed to land hits on the player.
Their bullets struck his armor.
And bounced harmlessly to the ground.
The player did not even flinch.
Luckily, the bots were not sentient. If they had been, they might have tried to escape the moment they realized how hopeless the situation was. But they did not know fear. They did not know retreat.
They only knew how to shoot.
Even when it did nothing.
"Hahahaha," the player laughed loudly as he continued his slaughter. "Keep shooting. I love it."
He stepped over fallen bodies, firing without slowing down.
"Maybe if you shoot more, I might let some of you leave."
His laughter echoed across the battlefield as bot after bot collapsed. The field slowly filled with mechanical corpses. Oil spilled across the ground, pooling beneath broken bodies. Some bots twitched weakly, trying to crawl forward, trying to reach the enemy.
Each attempt ended the same way.
A gunshot.
Silence.
"How am I supposed to eat this monster?" Reever thought.
Despair crept into him as he watched the scene unfold. No wall of bodies slowed the player down. No amount of gunfire forced him to retreat.
"Am I doomed to fall here?"
The thought weighed heavily on him.
There were over two thousand bots on the field. Normally, that number would have been reassuring. But right now, it meant nothing. Even if there were a million bots, Reever felt no comfort.
Only special bots like him had a chance of surviving against this kind of opponent. Defense bots. Kill bots. Maybe dodge bots.
And even then, victory would depend heavily on luck.
Normal bots were worthless. They had no coordination. No tactics. No teamwork.
Reever could not use them properly, even if he wanted to. If he had some kind of bot control skill, maybe he could have turned their numbers into a weapon. Bots never got tired. They could run endlessly, attacking until either they or the enemy fell.
But he did not have that skill.
Right now, the player had already taken out over five hundred bots.
And he was not slowing down.
His blood thirst was far from satisfied.
"If I move now and try to escape, he will notice," Reever thought carefully. "Bots are fearless. If I show fear, he will target me."
That thought settled his decision.
He would blend in.
"If I perish, I perish."
Reever corked his sniper rifle, steadying his aim. His movements were deliberate, calculated. He activated the tag skill the system had rewarded him with after his previous match.
The player was tagged.
The player paused for just a fraction of a second.
He sensed something.
His eyes flicked around briefly, searching for the source. Then he dismissed the feeling and continued shooting.
After all, from his point of view, all skills and talents meant nothing in the face of absolute strength.
"As expected," Reever thought. "Someone this strong would ignore it."
A small sense of opportunity sparked within him.
"I might be able to use this," he reasoned. "Hide among the bots. Take shots when I can. Survive until either the bots are gone or the time runs out."
But there was a problem.
Reever had no idea when this match would end.
The system had done what it always loved to do.
It stayed silent, and hoped that Reever would come to his senses and join the club.