Chapter Twenty-One:


    “Hot Drop”


    Mike Harper’s eyes snapped open to a sky full of fire.


    The wind ripped past him, deafening and relentless, as farmland stretched out below like a quilt of green and brown. Silos and barns dotted the horizon, but there was no time to admire the view. Players were falling all around him—some flailing, some eerily still.


    “Alright, Mike,” he muttered, his voice lost in the roar of the descent. “You’ve got this. Just like the movies. John Wick, Chapter… what? Twelve by now? Thirteen? At this rate, Keanu’s probably still at it. ‘As long as the fans want more,’ right? Thanks, Keanu. Real inspiring.”


    A scream cut through the air as a player plummeted past him, their parachute unopened. Mike turned his head just in time to see them hit the ground, their body folding like a broken mannequin.


    “Oh, God,” he whispered, his stomach lurching.


    Another figure smashed through the roof of a barn, wood splintering on impact. A few more followed, their chutes tangled or failing to deploy. The ground below was quickly becoming a graveyard.


    Mike gritted his teeth and yanked his chute. The sudden jolt nearly yanked his arms out of their sockets, but he slowed just enough to control his descent. He aimed for an open field near a cluster of buildings, his heart hammering in his chest.


    He hit the ground hard, rolling to absorb the impact. Dirt and grass smeared across his face, but he was alive. He crouched low, his hands instinctively reaching for the hatchets strapped to his thighs.


    The chaos was immediate.


    Two groups of NPCs were already locked in a firefight near a crumbling farmhouse, their shouts and gunfire echoing across the fields. Between them, players scrambled for cover, fourteen in total, their movements frantic and disorganized.


    Mike’s HUD flickered to life, displaying a basic map and his health bar. No shields. No armor. Just his hatchets, a basic 9mm pistol, and his wits.


    “Alright,” he muttered, gripping the hatchets. “Time to channel your inner Wick.”


    He moved quickly, his body low to the ground as he closed the distance to the nearest group. The first NPC never saw him coming. Mike’s right arm whipped forward, the hatchet spinning end over end before burying itself in the man’s chest. The NPC staggered, his weapon dropping as he collapsed. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    Mike didn’t stop.


    His left hand sent the second hatchet flying in the opposite direction, the blade sinking into the neck of another NPC. Blood sprayed as the man fell, his scream cut short.


    A burst of gunfire forced Mike to dive behind a rusted tractor. He spotted a 9mm pistol lying on the ground nearby, likely dropped by one of the fallen. He lunged for it, his fingers curling around the grip just as a bullet ricocheted off the metal beside his head.


    “Jesus!” he hissed, ducking lower.


    Peeking out from cover, he saw the two NPC groups tearing into each other with reckless abandon. Players were caught in the crossfire, some already dead, their bodies sprawled in the dirt. Mike’s grip on the pistol tightened.


    “They’re not real,” he told himself, his voice shaking. “The NPCs, at least. They’re just… code. Pixels. Like enemies in a game.”


    But the players? That was different. They were real people. People with lives, families, dreams. And he was about to kill them.


    His stomach churned, but there was no time to think. A player vaulted over a nearby fence, their shotgun aimed directly at him. Mike reacted on instinct, his arm snapping up.


    The pistol barked three times, the bullets slamming into the player’s chest. They staggered back, grunting in pain, but didn’t go down. Mike fired again, forcing himself to aim. Another shot hit their shoulder, then one in the leg. The player finally fell, their shotgun clattering to the ground.


    Mike stared at them, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face.


    “Oh, God,” he whispered, his hands trembling.


    The world around him blurred into chaos. He moved on autopilot, his body a machine of precision and violence. He retrieved his hatchets, using them to cut down anyone who got too close. The pistol in his hand barked again and again, each shot deliberate, each kill harder than the last.


    At some point, he found a second 9mm, the dual weapons feeling oddly natural in his hands. He fired in tandem, the recoil barely registering as he tore through the remaining players and NPCs. The field was a symphony of carnage—gunfire, screams, and the wet sound of blades meeting flesh.


    Then, silence.


    Mike stood in the middle of the battlefield, his chest heaving. Bodies littered the ground around him—players and NPCs alike. Blood soaked the dirt, the air heavy with the metallic tang of violence.


    He leaned against a crate for support, his mind racing. He had killed them all. Every last one.


    “What the hell am I doing?” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “I’m a grill cook. I flip burgers. I’m not… I’m not this.”


    A sudden burst of pain in his abdomen snapped him out of his thoughts. He looked down to see blood seeping through his shirt, a bullet wound just above his hip.


    “Shit,” he hissed, fumbling for the adrenal shot he had scavenged earlier. He jammed it into his leg, the needle piercing through his jeans.


    The effect was immediate.


    A surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins, the pain fading as his body began to heal. He watched in morbid fascination as the bullet pushed itself out of the wound, the flesh knitting back together with an almost supernatural speed.


    “Well, that’s… something,” he muttered, pulling himself upright.


    The crate he had been leaning on was partially blown open, revealing a body vest inside. He pulled it out and strapped it on, the added protection a small comfort.


    “Hey!”


    The voice made him spin, his pistols raised. A young man stood at the edge of the battlefield, his hands raised in surrender. He was dressed in makeshift armor, a rifle slung over his shoulder.


    “Easy,” the man said. “I’m not here to fight.”


    Mike lowered his weapons, his eyes narrowing. “Who are you?”


    “Kenny,” the man replied, stepping closer. “I’m with the Resistance. We’re trying to keep some kind of order in all this… madness.” He gestured to the carnage around them. “You, uh… you just dropped out of the sky. Where the hell did you come from?”


    Mike hesitated, his mind racing. “It’s… complicated.”


    Kenny nodded, his expression curious but cautious. “Well, complicated or not, you’re one hell of a fighter.”


    Mike didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His mind was still stuck on the bodies around him—the lives he had taken.


    “Let’s get moving,” Kenny said. “There’s a safe house not far from here. You can explain everything there.”


    Mike nodded slowly, his grip tightening on his pistols. He didn’t know what the hell was happening, but he knew one thing for sure.


    He wasn’t flipping burgers anymore.