The drones hovered at the entrance of the underground parking structure, their sensors sweeping the surroundings one final time.
"Remain here," one of the Sentinels instructed calmly.
"This area is secure. Do not leave unless instructed."
The survivors nodded quickly.
They were shaken, exhausted, but alive—and that was enough for now.
The wounded police officer sat against a concrete pillar, his breathing uneven but stable. Blood soaked through his pant leg, dark and sticky, but the drone's scanners had already confirmed what mattered most
"Injury assessment complete," the drone said.
"No signs of infection detected."
The officer let out a shaky laugh. "Thank God…"
"Apply pressure to the wound," the drone continued.
"Use available fabric to slow bleeding. Medical assistance will be prioritized after rescue operations conclude."
A man tore part of his shirt without hesitation, kneeling beside the officer to help wrap the wound. No one complained. No one hesitated. In a situation like this, cooperation came naturally.
With their task complete, the drones lifted off.
They rose silently, engines barely audible as they exited through the narrow opening. Outside, the city was still burning, still screaming—but the parking structure remained untouched.
The zombies didn't notice.
They never would, unless the drones allowed it or the survivors do anything stupid.
Inside the shelter, the survivors slowly began to speak.
Not loudly. Not all at once.
Just enough to remind themselves they were still alive and safe.
"Those things…" one of the college students said quietly, sitting on the floor with his back against a wall. "They weren't military drones, right?"
"No," the shop owner replied after a moment. "I've never seen tech like that."
The woman holding her child tightened her grip slightly. "They saved us. That's all I care about."
The delivery rider wiped sweat from his face and let out a long breath. "I thought I was dead. I swear… I already accepted it."
No one laughed.
But a few people nodded.
The wounded officer glanced toward the entrance. "Someone's controlling them," he said. "They don't move like machines."
"Whoever it is," the first man added, "they showed up when it mattered and it saved us all. We should be thankful."
Silence settled again—not uncomfortable, but heavy.
Outside, the rescue continued.
The drones moved faster now.
They had already mapped the immediate area, predicting movement patterns, identifying clusters of survivors based on sound, heat, and motion. They didn't waste shots. They didn't linger longer than necessary.
At a collapsed apartment building, one drone fired through a second-story window, eliminating infected before they could reach a family trapped inside. The other hovered low, projecting a clear path through rubble.
"Go," the drone instructed.
They ran.
Another rescue followed near a bus terminal—three people hiding inside a restroom, barricaded with broken doors. Zombies clawed at the walls from the outside.
The drones breached from above.
Energy fire lit the hallway. Bodies dropped.
The survivors didn't wait for instructions twice.
They followed.
Some rescues were quiet.
Others were chaos.
In one alley, a man tripped while running, screaming as a zombie closed in. The drone's shot took the infected's head apart less than a meter from him. The man stared at the corpse, frozen, until the drone nudged him forward.
"Move," it said.
He moved.
With each group saved, the drones guided them back to the same underground shelter. The entrance widened slightly as debris was repositioned, allowing more people through without exposing the location.
The number grew.
Ten became twenty.
Twenty became thirty.
Above it all, Deejay remained at his window.
Time blurred.
His rifle fired again and again, controlled bursts of light cutting down infected that wandered too close to the drones' paths. His visor tracked targets automatically, adjusting his aim with subtle cues. His body moved without strain, his breathing steady.
Notifications flooded his vision.
Gold Coins stacked rapidly.
+10
+10
+10
He ignored them all.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
When he finally pulled his gaze away from the street, his muscles barely felt tired.
He brought up the quest panel.
[Beacon of Survival]
Survivors Assisted: 53 / 50
Deejay frowned.
"…System?" he asked. "Why isn't the quest finished?"
"Quest completion is manual," Aegis Prime replied.
"The host may turn in the quest at any time after meeting the objective."
"So I can keep going?"
"Correct."
"And the rewards?"
A brief pause.
"Additional survivors rescued beyond the objective will result in proportional reward expansion," the system explained.
"Scaling remains balanced to host progression."
Deejay looked back outside.
The drones were still moving.
"Then don't stop," he said. "Keep rescuing.
The operation continued.
More survivors were found hiding in storage rooms, stairwells, abandoned shops. Some were injured. Some were barely holding it together. All of them followed the drones without question.
Eventually, the city grew quieter.
Not calm—but empty.
Deejay contacted the drones again.
"Any survivors left nearby?" he asked.
"Negative," one Sentinel replied.
"No remaining signs of human life detected within operational radius."
He exhaled slowly.
"…Alright," he said. "Return."
The drones acknowledged and began heading back toward the building, their mission complete.
Deejay opened the quest panel.
Survivors Assisted: 78
That was enough.
"System," he said, "turn in the quest."
The screen shimmered.
DING!
[QUEST COMPLETED]
Quest: Beacon of Survival
Final Survivors Assisted: 78
Rewards Updated:
Gold Coins x22,000
Advanced Equipment Chest x1
System Reputation: Increased (Minor → Moderate)
Bonus Reward:
Emergency Supply Cache (Food, Medical, Water)
Deejay stared at the panel for a long moment.
Seventy-eight lives.
Saved.
The city outside was still hell.
But somewhere below, people were breathing because he acted.
He closed the panel quietly.