The drone hovered high above the training hall, moving in wide circular paths as it scanned every corner of the battlefield. Streams of data poured onto the player's screen, lines of information updating in real time as the machine worked through its task. Heat signatures, movement patterns, residual energy traces. Everything was analyzed carefully.
After a while, the player frowned.
The drone had failed to detect his prey.
Instead of irritation, a slow smile crept onto his face. This was unexpected, and because it was unexpected, it made things far more interesting. Most bots were simple. Predictable. Easy to track. This one, however, was proving to be different, and difference always caught his attention.
He raised a hand and summoned a flat, disk like object. Rotators lined its edges, humming softly as it floated in the air. With a casual flick of his wrist, he deployed it.
"Lets see where you will hide with my thermal sensors," he scoffed, confidence clear in his voice.
The disk began rotating, sending invisible waves across the entire training hall. It swept over broken bot bodies, scattered weapons, and pools of oil that reflected the dull lights overhead. The scan continued for several seconds, then longer. When nothing appeared on his screen, his expression darkened slightly.
Still nothing.
For a moment, he considered pushing harder with the same method, but then he shook his head. Repeating the same move against an opponent like this felt boring. Instead, he decided to change the rules of the hunt.
The player summoned several black spherical objects, each one floating quietly at his side. He smirked as he looked at them, clearly pleased.
"With this," he muttered, "the game goes to the next level."
The spheres drifted away from him, spreading out as if guided by an invisible hand. They moved smoothly and deliberately, taking different paths through the training room until they reached carefully spaced positions. Once there, they remained suspended in the air, silent and waiting.
One of the greatest advantages of weapons and gadgets that ranked from uncommon and above was their safety for the owner. No matter how violent the effect, the user was never harmed by their own tools. Even if a bomb detonated directly beside them, the damage would simply phase through their body and strike the intended targets instead. That was precisely why gadgets were treasured even more than weapons. They offered power without risk.
The spheres activated almost at the same time.
Green gas poured out from each one in thick, heavy streams. It was not smoke in the usual sense. It was denser, heavier, and far more aggressive as it spread. The gas rolled across the floor, climbed up broken walls, and swallowed the remains of fallen bots. Within moments, the training hall was flooded with green, drowning out the white smoke that still lingered from Reever's earlier bombs. The white smoke did not stand a chance. It was pushed aside and consumed completely.
The entire room turned green.
Even from his hidden position, Reever could tell that this gadget was of a much higher class than anything he had used so far.
He watched quietly, his mind racing.
This player was not someone to be taken lightly. As an Elite ranked player, he knew the system well, and he knew bots even better. The gas itself did not harm Reever in the slightest. Smoke, poison, choking agents. None of that mattered to him. His body did not breathe. His systems did not panic.
But that did not mean he felt safe.
The player summoned a small detonator into his hand and began fidgeting with it, pressing buttons and rolling it between his fingers. He walked slowly through the hall, his steps unhurried, mentally noting the position of every gadget he had deployed. His posture was relaxed, as if he were taking a stroll rather than hunting a target.
For a brief moment, silence took over the battlefield.
Then the player pressed the detonator.
BOOM.
The explosion itself was small, almost underwhelming. There was no fire, no violent shockwave. Instead, something far worse happened. The green gas reacted instantly, becoming thick and tangible, as if it had gained weight. Like iron drawn to a magnet, the gas began pulling itself toward a single point in the room.
Reever's position.
"Damn it," Reever cursed under his breath as he watched the smoke shift direction. "The smoke is coming close to me. The moment it catches my suit, it will be hard for me to camouflage again before my armor cleans itself."
The gas ignored everything else around it. It flowed past broken weapons, passed over fallen bots, and slipped through obstacles as if they were not even there. It moved with clear intent.
"I cannot even pretend that I am dead," Reever thought anxiously as the gas crept closer. "Can this smoke see me?"
The question answered itself almost immediately.
The gas did not stick to anything else. Not walls. Not debris. Not the countless bot remains scattered across the floor. It went straight for him, clinging tightly to his armor as soon as it reached him. Within seconds, his entire suit was coated in glowing green.
Camouflage or not, he was exposed.
"That is where you are, you little rat," the player said with a grin as the green outline of a hidden figure became visible in the distance.
He did not hesitate.
The player corked his weapon and fired.
The shot was not meant to kill. It was precise, deliberate, and cruel in its restraint. The bullet tore through the air and struck Reever's right leg joint, destroying it completely. Reever crashed to the ground, his mobility gone in an instant.
"Now you are mine, little bot," the man said as he walked closer, his steps calm and assured.
Reever struggled to move, his systems responding slowly and unevenly. His body did not feel pain, but the frustration was overwhelming. Being unable to move, unable to fight back properly, made him feel no different from the worthless bots that had already been slaughtered.
"I cannot move," Reever gasped internally as he tried to rise. "My leg joint is shot."
He lay there helpless, exposed, and powerless.
"Is this the end," he wondered, despair settling deep into his core.
The player stopped smiling.
Without any theatrics, he placed the muzzle of his weapon against Reever's head and pulled the trigger.
[ You have died.
29 lives remaining. ]