Inside the command tent, the holographic map of Sector 2 was bleeding toxic green.
The corruption wasn't just spreading geographically; it was actively rewriting the military's neural-mesh network.
General Vance watched the telemetry data of the Nullifier squad devolve into absolute chaos.
Unit 07 had fired on Unit 04. Unit 09 was stuck in a localized motor-loop, repeatedly stepping into a brick wall. The flawless, coordinated diamond formation had collapsed into a blind, fratricidal firing squad.
"Signal integrity dropping..." the communications officer reported, his voice shaking. "Override protocols... pending... Sir, they are stuck in command loops. They are shooting each other."
Marcus Silver stood frozen, his arrogant worldview crumbling as he watched the pinnacle of human augmentation destroy itself without the enemy even drawing a blade.
"They're gone," Marcus whispered, his face pale. "Pull them out. Abort the mission."
General Vance didn't flinch. His scarred face was carved from granite.
"You don't pull out of a containment breach," Vance said coldly, his deep voice slicing through the panic in the tent. "You sever the infected limb."
Vance reached forward and typed a twelve-digit alphanumeric code directly into the command console.
[AUTHORIZATION ACCEPTED: WARLORD VANCE.]
[INITIATING DIRECTIVE: QUARANTINE.]
"Sir?" the communications officer looked up, his eyes wide. "That will—"
"Do it," Vance commanded.
...
In the dense, toxic fog of Sector 2.
The boy stood perfectly still, watching the nine faceless Nullifiers tear themselves apart. The [Null Weaver] floated above them like a glitching, multi-jointed spider, its [Path Corruption] effortlessly unmaking their synchronized logic.
Unit 07 raised his pulse-rifle, his corrupted internal map locking onto the heat signature of Unit 04's damaged leg.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
But the shot never fired.
BZZZZT.
A harsh, deafening electronic screech erupted from inside the helmets of every single Nullifier.
It wasn't a warning alarm. It was an override command blasted directly from the command tent, bypassing their corrupted neural-maps entirely.
The boy frowned, stepping back.
Unit 07 froze.
For the first time since he had stepped into the Dead Zone... his movements stopped completely. The rigid, mechanical twitching of his corrupted programming ceased.
A terrifying, absolute stillness took over his body.
He wasn't glitched. He wasn't broken. He was waiting.
Then—a heavy, metallic click echoed from the back of his neck.
[Override engaged.]
BOOM!
Unit 07 didn't just explode. The compressed mana-battery inside his exosuit intentionally detonated inward, instantly vaporizing his brainstem and upper torso.
A split second later...
BOOM!
Unit 09, the soldier stuck in the stepping loop, detonated perfectly.
The boy threw himself to the wet asphalt as a chain reaction of localized, violent explosions tore through the alleyway.
General Vance hadn't tried to save them. He hadn't tried to fix the corruption.
He had simply blown the heads off the infected units before the virus could spread back to the main military network.
The smoke cleared.
Five Nullifiers were dead, their bodies reduced to smoking, headless heaps of scorched armor.
But four remained.
They hadn't detonated. They hadn't been fully corrupted by the Weaver's 2% micro-deviation yet.
The Override Directive hadn't just purged the infected; it had completely severed the remaining four from the external military network. They were now operating purely on internal, closed-loop combat logic. No map. No comms. Just absolute, unyielding aggression.
The Null Weaver shifted in the air above them, its faceless carapace twitching.
It attempted to re-apply the [Path Corruption].
It failed.
The Weaver paused... not in confusion, but in cold, glitching recognition.
The pattern hadn't been resisted. It hadn't been blocked.
It had been removed.
The remaining four Nullifiers didn't mourn the five who had just blown their own heads off.
They immediately snapped their rifles up, their internal targeting systems locking onto the highest threat priority.
Not the boy.
The floating anomaly.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
A concentrated, perfectly synchronized volley of white-phosphorus rounds tore through the sky.
The Null Weaver didn't retreat in panic. It didn't shriek in fear.
It fragmented.
Splitting its form into multiple, distorted angles, aggressively reducing its physical mass to mitigate the damage distribution. Adapting.
But the sheer volume of holy fire overwhelmed its localized spatial flux. The rounds didn't hit it cleanly, but the splash damage clipped its elongated, shadowy limbs, violently burning away the dark-purple void-matter.
The Weaver emitted a harsh sound of tearing metal and quickly phased upward, retreating higher into the toxic fog to avoid total destruction.
High above, in the control room of the Core Tower.
Arthur watched the red warning flash across his vision.
[Warning: Null Weaver sustained 30% structural damage. Target hostiles have severed network connection. Path Corruption effectiveness reduced to 0%.]
Arthur didn't frown. He didn't smash his fist against the console.
He leaned forward, his pitch-black eyes gleaming with a terrifying, profound respect for the man commanding the army outside his Domain.
"So..." Arthur whispered, a slow, cold smile spreading across his face. "You can quarantine the infection."
General Vance had sacrificed half his squad without a second thought just to contain the virus. He had adapted in real-time.
"You are a monster, General," Arthur murmured quietly into the dead air.
A pause.
"So am I."
...
Miles away, in the command tent.
The chaotic static on the monitors finally cleared.
Five signals were permanently flatlined. Four remained, burning a steady, disconnected red.
"Signal restored locally," the communications officer reported, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Remaining units: operational. Independent combat logic engaged."
General Vance stared at the map. He didn't mourn the five lost elites.
But for a fraction of a second... his scarred fingers tightened into a fist.
He had made a choice. The cost was human, even if the soldiers were not.
Then, he let his hand relax.
"Continue."
...
Down in the streets, the boy realized the situation had drastically changed.
The tactical advantage of the virus was gone. The four remaining Nullifiers were no longer shooting each other.
They were looking at him.
And they were angry. Or at least, their combat algorithms were prioritizing him for immediate termination.
"Target acquired," the four faceless machines droned in terrifying unison.
The boy gripped his void-laced dagger. His ribs throbbed, and his lungs burned.
The Nullifier missing his left leg—the one who had shot his own teammate moments ago—didn't try to stand.
His neural-map was severed, but his combat directive remained absolute.
He dragged his heavy, bleeding, sparking torso across the wet asphalt using only his arms. He didn't groan. He didn't hesitate. He simply crawled forward, raising his pulse-rifle with one hand, aiming directly at the boy's chest.
It was a horrific, unnatural display of pure, unadulterated willpower programmed into flesh.
The boy didn't run.
He couldn't.
He watched the legless machine crawl toward him, a gun raised, completely ignoring its own death.
They don't stop, the boy realized, the dark fire in his purple eyes flaring. Even when they're dying... they don't stop.
A twisted, euphoric smile broke across his bloody face.
"...Good."
He stepped into the line of fire, lowering his stance. The void-mana inside his heart roared.
He wasn't stepping forward to survive.
He wasn't stepping forward to win.
He was stepping forward to endure.
"Let's find out," the boy whispered, blood dripping from his chin as the four remaining executioners opened fire.
"How much I can take."