By midmorning, the canyon had turned into a furnace. The red cliffs shimmered like molten glass, and every echo of their boots came back doubled. Metatron's visor scanned ahead, mapping the path to Rusted Pass, but the ping from the south hadn't faded—it was growing stronger.
> [Tracker Signal: 190m → 160m → 140m]
He slowed his pace. "Still behind us," he muttered.
Cyberius tilted his hat up. "Then we stop pretending we don't notice."
They slipped into a narrow cut between rocks, the air heavy with dust and silence. Metatron crouched near a boulder, calibrating Daylight. The twin barrels hummed faintly, gathering heat. Cyberius spun one revolver, grinning. "Feels like old times. You flank or bait?"
"I shoot," Metatron said.
A faint shimmer rippled above the ridge. Then—movement. A figure in matte armor appeared, half-cloaked, visor dim. The emblem on his shoulder glowed faintly: Hunter Division – Iron Veil.
"Professional," Cyberius whispered. "Someone paid for this."
The tracker moved fast, sliding down the slope with his rifle already aimed. Metatron reacted first, firing a burst that forced him behind cover. The canyon rang with echoes and dust explosions.
> [Skill: Reactive Focus Lv. 3 Activated]
Cyberius sprinted left, his shots bouncing off cliff edges, one grazing the tracker's leg. The man dropped a smoke grenade, vanishing into gray haze.
Metatron's visor auto-switched. Heat signature locked. He raised Daylight and fired twice—two sharp bursts. The first shot clipped the tracker's shoulder; the second shattered his rifle's scope.
Cyberius closed in, revolvers flashing. "End of the road, bounty boy!"
But the tracker wasn't finished. He drew a blade charged with digital light and slashed, sparks flying. Metatron caught the reflection, pivoted, and fired a final round straight through the man's gauntlet. The blade shattered into fragments, fading like broken code.
The tracker fell to one knee, breathing hard. He looked up, voice distorted through his mask. "You're both on a list. Rusted Pass won't be your salvation—it's your grave."
Before either could answer, the man pressed a button on his wrist. His form dissolved into static—disconnected.
Cyberius lowered his guns. "Great. A ghost with Wi-Fi."
Metatron stared at the fading data trail on his visor. "No. A warning."
The canyon wind howled again, carrying grit and faint whispers of code. Far ahead, the Rusted Pass shimmered under the blazing sun—waiting.