Jamie was still surrounded, four enemies circling him like hungry wolves, each one taking turns to strike. Their movements were precise, experienced—nothing like the clumsy opponents he fought in the first game.
A katana hissed through the air, aimed straight at his heart. Jamie barely managed to block, the steel vibrating against his forearm. He tried to counter, but another enemy was already there, cutting off his offense before it could even begin.
"Who gets his skill after we kill him?" one of them asked, voice casual, as if they were already sure of victory.
They circled tighter, hawks over their prey.
"As second-in-command, I deserve his skill," the muscular bald man said, his voice calm, collected. His eyes flicked to the Commander, waiting for silent approval. He spoke less than his leader, but every word carried weight.
Another laughed, his greed dripping from his face. "Come on boy, show us your special skill already. Don't make this boring." His hand reached toward Jamie, taunting.
Jamie's heart pounded. He was completely outnumbered. They knew he wouldn't kill—that weakness gave them confidence. His only choice was to redeem a special skill.
He raised his trembling hands toward the glowing ring. If he could just—
Then—
The voice. That same mysterious voice. Whether memory or reality, it rang sharp inside his skull.
"Not now."
The words echoed.
"Not now."
Jamie froze, his chest rising and falling. He remembered—every time the voice came, something happened. Every time, it had led to victory.
"This will be one of those times," he told himself, clinging to the thought like a drowning man clings to driftwood. Relief surged through him, fragile but real.
"Let's not waste time," the bald vice-commander said, his voice steady, commanding. "We have another base to dominate."
"Wait—what?" Jamie's eyes widened.
"You're planning to be the only ones left!?" he shouted.
The squad burst into laughter, cruel and alive. Their plan was working—Alexander was right. This was a game of numbers, and they had numbers on their side.
Jamie's hope flickered. There was no way to survive this. But in the darkness, one light still burned.
"Greg…"
Greg had activated his special skill. He just had to beat the Commander. If Greg won, then everything would be alright.
He let hope swell—only for it to be punched out of him, literally. The vice-commander's fist cracked against his jaw, and Jamie dropped to the ground, spitting blood.
Warm, metallic liquid poured from his mouth. He gasped in horror at the sheer volume. His trembling hands stained red, his vision swimming, his breath ragged.
Fear swallowed him whole—yet through the haze, one thought stood tall.
Greg.
---
[3:00]
The Commander's gaze locked on Greg, sharp and calculating. He'd already deciphered Overhaul, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing.
Greg leapt, spear humming in his hand. A vicious kick followed—straight to the Commander's abs. The impact forced him back. His eyes twitched; even through his block, the pain seared.
Greg pressed the advantage—an elbow hammered into his jaw, snapping his head sideways. Blood sprayed, a fine mist in the air. Not much, but enough to prove the strikes were working.
Gasps rippled through the minions.
"He's actually beating him…" one whispered, disbelief spreading across their faces.
On the ground, Jamie's lips curved into a weak, bloody smile.
"Let's go, Greg," he thought, silently cheering. He pushed himself shakily to his feet, trying to ride that spark of hope.
The Commander wiped the blood from his lip, his jaw tight. "I was right…" he muttered.
His mind raced. "His speed hasn't changed. I'm still faster. So why do my senses feel slower?"
Greg lunged again, a right leg kick slicing through the air. The Commander dodged.
"Got you."
But Greg's other leg slammed into his chest with brutal precision, hurling him to the ground.
The spectators gasped louder. Their invincible leader—on the ground.
"Commander!" the bald man barked, genuine concern in his tone.
"Stay away!" the Commander roared, voice tight with unease. He pulled himself up, eyes blazing. "I told you—I'll deal with him myself."
He pressed his ring. The system screen shimmered.
This is my last batch of points. From that journalist.
Jamie's blood ran cold. How many people did he kill to get those points?
"You have a lot of blue points," Greg said, hiding his own fatigue. The strain of Overhaul was catching up to him.
"Yes," the Commander said casually. "I killed three for these." The system screen vanished. His smile twisted. "And I'll gladly send you to meet them."
"Like to see you try."
Their fists collided, a soldier and a martial artist, exchanging blow after blow. To untrained eyes, they moved faster than sight. To Jamie, it was chaos—blurs of fists, sparks of blood, grunts of impact.
Greg's strikes landed, but the Commander adapted—absorbing, adjusting, evolving with every exchange. Soon, he was striking cleaner, sharper. Greg's advantage was slipping.
"He adapts too quick…" Greg thought, frustration edging his focus. He tried to create space, but the Commander's boot slammed into his ribs, driving him back.
Jamie's heart sank.
The Commander smiled darkly. "I've finally figured you out." His hammer materialized, gleaming, smashing through glass as he swung it down.
"The skill increases your stats." His voice dripped with triumph. "But at a cost. You drain another stat. That's why your speed and endurance dropped."
He sneered. "I've got you figured out, haven't I?"
Greg's silence was enough. His expression—grim, tight—proved it true.
The minions grinned. Some laughed. Jamie's eyes blurred with tears.
"Stand up, Greg!" he screamed, voice cracking. "You can still fight!"
A boot crashed into his ribs.
"Shut up."
"Watch your friend die."
Greg staggered upright, spear glowing faintly in his grip. He pressed his ring.
[Skill Cooldown: 20 Minutes]
His jaw tightened. The truth hit him hard—without Overhaul, he was done. Against the Commander's raw stats, there was no chance.
He looked at Jamie, at the boy sobbing through swollen eyes. And he smiled.
"You're a good person," he said softly. A farewell.
Jamie's heart cracked. His last light was dimming.
Greg charged, spear first. One flick of the Commander's wrist swatted him aside. Another strike followed, relentless, not giving Greg air to breathe. Without Overhaul, his body couldn't keep up.
Each clash painted him redder—his own blood soaking his clothes, dripping from his lips.
Finally, a hammer strike crashed into his face, snapping his body back. The impact hurled him across the battlefield, smashing through the fence. His body lay broken, motionless, blood spreading in dark pools.
The Commander smirked. No doubt. Greg was dead.
Jamie's vision widened, hollow. His protector—gone. His last hope—crushed.
For a moment, the world seemed to stop.
He had thought Greg would survive. Thought he would win. But this world had no room for fairness. Here, evil walked free.
The minions erupted into cheers, drunk on triumph. But one truth still remained:
The base wasn't theirs yet.
One obstacle remained.
Jamie.