Carrying the memories of people. A… weird way to look at scavengers.
"Huh…" Adam glanced down at his shoes, coated in the dried ashes of a million lives. "...I've never thought of it like that."
"Right?" Grace tried to keep the conversation going, her steps still in sync with Harvey and the other veterans.
"But if you could do something else, anything at all… what would you want to be?" she asked.
Adam narrowed his eyes, genuinely considering it. Seconds passed before he finally answered, "I want to go to school."
Grace blinked, a little surprised. But she didn't gasp or react—just nodded. She thought of something else to say, another topic to shift to, but in the end, she stayed silent, focusing on scanning the crowd. Searching.
A second.
A minute.
Almost an hour.
Still, not a single glimpse of her daughter. Not a single strand of her hair.
Worry clawed at her chest, her grip weakening around the steel pipe in her hand. It started slipping from her fingers, but before it could clatter against the ground—before it could betray them with sound—Adam moved forward, gently lifting her hand and securing it back in place.
She was about to thank him when Harvey suddenly raised his fist.
All at once, the veterans froze. The other creeps, seeing the signal, followed suit, lifting their fists to relay the message. Like a chain reaction, everyone halted—one after another, caught in a silent ripple of hesitation.
Confusion spread, thick in the air.
And then—footsteps.
Marching.
Coming from the right.
Their group was positioned at the farthest edge of the Middle Lane, which meant the chances of someone from their own team approaching were slim. Too slim.
As that realization settled in, tension coiled in their limbs. Legs braced. Hands tightened around whatever weapons they carried.
Something was coming.
And it wasn't one of theirs.
This was it.
All of them had resolved to fight, but it would be foolish to think any of them were truly ready. Even the veterans swallowed hard as memories of their first kills surfaced. But there was no time for hesitation. They had to step up.
A series of quick nods passed between them. The veterans gestured for the newbies to grip their weapons properly, their hands tightening as they braced for the encounter. Eyes narrowed, straining to see through the shifting veil of smoke.
And then—shadows emerged from the haze.
Two groups faced each other. No one moved.
They stood frozen, staring into each other's faces, paralyzed by shock, fear, and the weight of the moment.
The only one to move was Adam—but not by choice. Grace stepped forward, her hand gripping his wrist, pulling him along with slow, trembling steps.
"Samantha?" she whispered.
The steel bar in her hand slipped from her fingers, clattering against the ground. The sharp sound shattered the silence, jolting everyone from their stupor.
All eyes turned to Grace, then followed her gaze.
A little girl sat on someone's shoulders.
Their gazes drifted higher…
…to the glowing Red Halo hovering above her head.
They were on the same team.
Everyone exhaled in unison, their breaths trembling as relief washed over them.
Samantha nearly collapsed, a raw, primal scream tearing from her throat—a sound so visceral it jolted those still trapped in shock. The man carrying her quickly lifted her off his shoulders and set her on the ground. The moment her feet touched the dirt, she bolted toward her mother.
Grace did the same, releasing Adam as she rushed forward. She dropped to her knees, wrapping Samantha in a fierce embrace. The two of them sobbed openly, their cries unrestrained.
The sight brought quiet smiles to the others. Some even let go of the tears they had been holding back, overwhelmed by the relief crashing over them.
The veterans in Adam's group began to relax, stepping forward to meet the other group. But the other group didn't share their ease. They moved with haste, closing the distance between them in a march.
"Where are your Heroes!?"
The man who had carried Samantha was the first to speak. His halo burned brighter than everyone else—evidence of his experience in the Game. He was a veteran, just a few stats away from becoming a Hero. And judging by the blood staining his clothes, along with those of his companions, they had already encountered enemy creeps.
Harvey studied him for a moment before offering a short, clipped account of what had happened in their Lane—their Heroes had been… useless.
"Damn it. That's bad luck." The man pinched the bridge of his nose. "We don't have time for this. We need to hide and set up an ambush. We already ran into some enemy creeps, but there weren't many of them… and we found out most of them were heading here. They're concentrating their advance on the Middle Lane."
"Shit!" Harvey gritted his teeth. "And our fucking Heroes didn't even bother setting up a strategy. Do you have yours with you?"
"No. They were the ones who sent us here," the man shook his head. "They engaged in the East Lane to stop the enemy's Heroes from reinforcing the attack. We're on our own." He exhaled sharply. "Name's Jake, by the way. We—"
"They… they're here!"
Before Jake could finish, bloodcurdling screams ripped through the air.
Everyone turned toward the noise.
Through the thinning smoke, silhouettes emerged—marching. Their sheer numbers parted the haze like a wave. And above their heads, a cold, unmistakable glow bathed them in blue light.
No question.
The enemy had arrived.
Harvey spun toward his group. "Everyone—" He started to scream an order, but then his voice paused. His eyes flicked back to the marching figures, widening—stretching so far they nearly bulged from their sockets.
But it wasn't their numbers that caught his attention. After all, there were many of them, too.
No. The thing that caught his attention made him almost choke on his own breath.
"They… have weapons? What do you mean by that?!"