The dust at Hellspire did not settle; it hung in the air like a funeral shroud, thick and suffocating. From the gray haze, a nightmare emerged: the Corrupted Eradicator Mark II.
It was a decrepit, horrific reflection of its former glory. Thick purple veins pulsed like living wires across its rusted chassis, throbbing with the heartbeat of the Void. Its left arm had mutated into a sickening amalgamate—a mass of distorted flesh and jagged steel studded with teeth-like spikes that had long ago consumed the original claw. The machine's helmet was a shattered ruin, its lower half torn away to reveal a raw, red, fleshy face beneath the metal. It was a terrifying echo of the old Recharged Fury, a man-made god turned into a monster.
Upon its right shoulder, the mutation was most violent. A final rocket pod was fused directly into the joint, its lid torn back to expose black warheads with glowing orange tips. Beneath the launcher, the gray hull had morphed into a cluster of tri-barreled machine guns that began to spin with a hungry, metallic whine. Its left hand gripped a handle fused to a massive grenade launcher, the hexagonal drum glowing with a hollow, polygonal energy that defied the laws of nature.
The Eradicator Mark III and the Corrupted Mark II stood paralyzed for a single heartbeat—two generations of war staring into the abyss of one another. Then, as if sharing a single soul of rage, they let out a synchronized, earth-shaking roar and charged.
The Mark III lunged for the Corrupted's back, seeking a weak point in the rusted armor. But the Corrupted Mark II slammed its foot into the earth. With a glitching, demonic roar, it triggered a pulse that warped the very fabric of reality, summoning a circle of spectral clones—hollow, flickering echoes of its past self.
The Mark III did not hesitate. It unleashed its shoulder-mounted guns, spraying a curtain of lead that shredded the ghosts into digital dust. The Corrupted Mark II countered instantly, its tri-barreled guns spinning into a blur and saturating the battlefield with a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree storm of black bullets.
A massive boom erupted between them, the force of the impact shaking the foundation of the world. The Mark III's internal systems flared as it adapted to the shockwave, using the sheer momentum to rocket forward. It closed the distance, claws ready to tear into the Corrupted's flesh-metal hide—but the elder machine was faster.
The mutated hand shot out, catching the Mark III by the throat with a grip of iron and vine. The Corrupted leaned in, its shattered helmet inches from the Mark III's sensors, and unleashed a roar of pure, concentrated sonic energy. The force of the scream was a physical weight, sending the multi-ton Mark III flying backward through the air like a child's toy.
The Mark III skids across the scorched earth, its metal claws gouging deep trenches as it fought to halt its momentum. Slowly, it righted itself. Its mechanical jaw ground together as it grit its teeth, processors redlining and overheating with a fury that no program could contain.