West barreled forward, boots slamming against the grated floor with thunderous intent. Every stride was a declaration—of defiance, of raw momentum, of war reignited. Sparks flared beneath his steps. Behind him, the dim red light of the central relay tower pulsed like the heartbeat of a buried god.
The Pulse Choir responded instantly.
Units broke from formation in calculated arcs, their motions balletic yet deathly. Two advanced from the left flank—one wielding a segmented blade that crackled with unstable red static, the other projecting a rapidly shifting hex-grid shield from a forearm emitter.
West ducked under the first strike, the blade sizzling inches from his scalp. He twisted low, using the momentum to drive the pipe forward like a battering ram. The impact collided with the shield unit's chest, crumpling its core plating with a deafening screech. Sparks erupted as the machine stumbled back, digital blood dripping from its seams.
Another unit descended from above—springing from a collapsed girder. Its arms had unfolded into talon-like hooks. It came down fast, silent, lethal.
West dropped into a roll, barely avoiding the pincer strike, and came up swinging. The pipe connected with the unit's head, shattering the mask. The exposed inner lattice sparked, then collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
But pain caught up.
A whip of searing energy lashed across his left flank. HUD warnings flared across his visor:
[Lateral Burn: Level 2 - Tissue Damage]
[Adrenaline Spike Detected]
He grunted through clenched teeth. No time to assess.
Aria's voice returned, fast and clipped. "The Choir are coordinated through harmonic sub-channels. Shared rhythm loops. I'm trying to disrupt their sync. But I need ten seconds."
West nodded grimly, pipe swinging in a wide arc to hold distance. "You've got eight."
The Choir shifted again. Their movements changed—more frantic, erratic. As if aware they were under threat, the central tower's pulse doubled. Beams of red light lanced outward, illuminating glyphs on the cavern walls.
Then one leapt from the scaffolding.
Its form was heavier—shoulder-mounted plasma rivets already warming. It thrust a lance straight for West's chest.
He caught it mid-flight.
Veins strained. Muscles burned. But he didn't stop.
With a roar, he twisted, redirecting the unit's momentum into a spinning slam. It crashed into the ground, and West drove the pipe into its core. A gout of smoke burst upward as the machine screeched in static.
"Three seconds—hold!" Aria said.
All around him, the Choir was closing in. Their visors flickered. Steps tightened. One raised an arm, and a low-frequency signal began to pulse—an audio weapon meant to disorient.
Then the resonance changed.
A blast of inharmonic interference echoed through the chamber. Like an off-key note in a sacred hymn, it shattered the Choir's perfect synchronization. Units faltered mid-step. Some convulsed. Others turned in half circles, twitching.
"I got in," Aria breathed. "I've scrambled their core rhythm. They're out of sync. Hit them now, West!"
He didn't need the encouragement.
West surged forward. He became a blur of motion—pipe crashing down on joint actuators, shattering sensory plates, cleaving through command coils. The machines faltered, fell. A whirlwind of blunt force, brutal and unstoppable.
But then the air shifted.
From the far end of the chamber, a new figure emerged.
Taller than the others. Its form elegant, precise. Its armor shimmered with layered plates of obsidian black, polished like glass and etched with fractal symbols. Energy pulsed through its joints—not red, but violet.
It had eyes.
Two violet orbs, slow-blinking and conscious.
It stepped forward—no hurry, no noise.
Unlike the Choir, it didn't follow a command.
It was command.
Aria's voice faltered. "West—that unit… it's not part of the Pulse Choir. That's a Variant. Failed hybrid protocol. Supposedly dismantled during early Grid experiments. It wasn't meant to survive."
The Variant halted ten meters from West.
Its presence was undeniable. More than machine. Not quite human. Its movements held poise. Elegance. Authority.
West narrowed his stance.
The Variant tilted its head.
Then it spoke.
"You are the anomaly. I am the cure."
And it moved.
Faster than anything West had faced.
Pipe met blade.
Shockwaves cracked the floor beneath them. Sparks erupted. Force collided with precision. The Variant struck in flowing arcs—each move tailored to intercept West's instinct.
He blocked one. Dodged another.
But for the first time, he felt it—being read.
It anticipated him.
"West," Aria warned, voice rising, "it's not just adapting. It's mimicking."
West gritted his teeth.
"Then I'll give it something new to learn."
And the real fight began.