The chaos was just too much in the field.
The first few seconds were nothing any human wanted to experience. The countdown had barely ended when gunfire exploded from every direction. Bullets tore through the air without aim or purpose, driven more by panic than skill. Everyone had been placed close together at the center, and instead of spreading out or taking cover, most players reacted on instinct.
Shoot first. Think later.
Even Reever, a seasoned pro player, felt several bullets scrape across his suit as he moved. Sparks flew where metal met reinforced armor. None of it caused real damage. His suit was a rare ranked one, far above what most players could afford or unlock. Still, the sheer volume of fire made even him tense.
This was what happened when beginners were thrown into a large scale match.
"As expected of newbies," Reever thought as he weaved between shattered concrete and twisted metal. "No order. No awareness. They do not even try to take cover. All they care about is killing someone instead of securing loot or finding anti missile containers."
His eyes were already scanning the terrain. He ignored the gunfire behind him and focused on shapes, angles, and familiar patterns in the ruins.
Loot boxes.
They were never difficult to find, at least not for someone who knew what to look for. Most of them were not hidden behind puzzles or traps. Some sat in plain sight, exposed and ignored. Others were tucked into corners that people passed by without a second glance.
A loot box was nothing special to look at. Just a brown wooden box with an X mark carved into the top. That was all. Without proper research, most players would not even recognize it as valuable. To them, it looked like decoration.
To Reever, it was potential.
He was moving toward one such box when a loud voice rang out behind him.
"A bot. This is a free kill."
Reever felt a sharp spike of irritation.
"Aah shit," he muttered while changing direction. "I forgot that I am viewed as a bot in the outside world."
The insignia on his armor marked him as one. In this game, bots were not respected. They were mocked, hunted, and often used as moving targets for practice. Most players believed bots dropped decent loot and posed little threat. After all, even from what Reever learnt, bots were handled well by the system.
That belief made them reckless.
Reever sprinted through the ruins, deliberately letting his presence be known. He could hear footsteps multiplying behind him. Excited voices followed, mixed with careless laughter and greedy comments.
Bots were considered weak. Easy kills. Something you chased without thinking.
It was not fear that made Reever run. It was patience.
He wanted them to gather.
With more players chasing him, the chances increased that some would be carrying loot in their storage bags. If he handled this correctly, he could profit without exposing his true ability too early.
He glanced back briefly.
Ten players had turned into fifteen.
"Damn," he thought. "Do they really want to kill me this badly. Are bots known for dropping high loot or something."
He slowed down slightly, enough to keep them interested but not close enough to surround him. His hand tightened around his weapon.
"I can take care of all of them," he said under his breath. "But not now."
He stopped suddenly and turned.
The fifteen pursuers were spread out, messy and uncoordinated. Perfect.
"Die," Reever shouted as he fired.
The system would not transmit his voice to them, but shouting helped release the irritation building in his chest. Fifteen bullets left his gun in quick succession. Each shot was controlled, precise.
He aimed low.
Every bullet struck legs, knees, or the ground just close enough to do damage without killing. Blood splashed. Players cried out in pain and surprise.
"It's an aim bot," one of them shouted as he collapsed, clutching his bleeding leg.
The damage was enough. Panic replaced greed. The group scattered, dragging injured teammates away while others limped behind.
Within seconds, the pursuit ended.
Silence did not return to the battlefield, but the pressure around Reever eased. He exhaled slowly and moved away, resuming his search for loot boxes as if nothing had happened.
He checked the timer.
Seven minutes remained until the first missile drop.
Reever slowed his pace once the footsteps behind him completely faded. Gunfire still echoed across the map, distant and uneven. He ducked behind a broken concrete slab and crouched low.
His sensors activated, sweeping the area.
Seven minutes.
That was all he had before the first wave of missiles. In matches like this, the first drop was always the most chaotic. Players panicked. Containers were still plenty, but most people failed to think ahead. They chased kills instead of securing safe positions.
That mistake alone would remove a large number of players from the match.
Reever peeked out from cover and spotted his first loot box nearby. It sat half buried beside a collapsed wall, plain and unimpressive.
Exactly the kind rookies ignored.
He approached calmly, opened it, and transferred the contents into his piggy bag. The moment he lifted it onto his shoulder, he felt the weight.
Loot always slowed you down.
Another system rule meant to prevent endless running and force engagement.
"Good," he muttered. "That means I cannot just sprint forever."
He scanned again.
Two more boxes were visible nearby.
As he moved, gunfire suddenly cracked past his left side. Bullets struck the ground close enough to throw dust into his face.
"So much for subtlety."
Three players stepped out from behind a ruined structure. Their movements were stiff and uncertain. One hesitated, clearly unsure whether to attack or retreat.
Rookies.
Reever raised his gun and fired twice, not at them, but at the ground near their feet. The sharp impacts made them flinch.
They retreated instantly.
"I am not worth it," Reever said quietly as he turned away.
He collected the second loot box, then the third. His bag grew heavier with each addition. The extra weight forced him to adjust his balance and movement. He welcomed it. Comfort bred mistakes.
Six minutes.
An explosion echoed somewhere far away. Someone had already died. Probably several.
Reever did not look back.
He spotted an anti missile container ahead. A thick metal capsule embedded into the ground, just large enough for one person. It remained untouched.
"Good location," he thought. "Near loot zones, but not obvious."
He memorized its position and moved on. Using it now would be pointless. Containers were safety tools, not hiding spots. Taking one too early limited options later.
Five minutes.
The battlefield began to change. The initial chaos broke apart into smaller fights. Screams became less frequent. Gunfire sounded more controlled.
Players were learning, slowly and painfully.
Reever stayed on the edges, circling engagement zones. When he spotted distracted players looting, he fired warning shots. Most fled immediately, abandoning boxes to escape.
He took what they left behind.
"Fear works better than bullets," he thought.
His piggy bag was filling nicely. Enough to place him comfortably high on the rankings if he survived.
Four minutes.
A missile warning flashed briefly across his vision. Not the drop yet. Just a reminder.
Urgency spread across the map. Some players rushed containers. Others gambled and continued looting.
Reever moved toward the container he had memorized earlier, then stopped. Someone else was approaching it from the opposite side.
A young player.
Nervous stance. Weapon shaking.
They locked eyes.
For a moment, neither moved.
The rookie panicked and fired.
Reever sidestepped and shot once near the player's foot.
The message was clear.
The rookie ran.
Reever entered the container and waited.
Three minutes.
The sky darkened slightly. Not dramatic, but enough for experienced players to notice.
Two minutes.
Gunfire clustered around remaining containers as desperation took over.
One minute.
Reever stayed still, calm and ready.
The first missile drop was coming.