SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery-Chapter 187: The Broken Stage

It didn’t make sense.

Standing before the crumbled remains of what was once the Ministry’s eastern headquarters, I felt an itch beneath my ribs that wasn’t just from the stitching. No one in power let a building like that fall without a press release. And the silence? That was too loud. Too deliberate.

My thoughts spun in half a dozen directions at once, each one scraping against the back of my skull like claws.

I could call Camille.

She had reach, fashion-world clout, and she was a media darling. But it was best that I don’t ask for her help. The rumor was still floating around that she’d helped members of the Masked Syndicate. They weren’t wrong. Though ever since the interview, she had less heat on her back, especially with how trending Darius’ affair was, but even a whisper of association could bring her crashing down.

No. Couldn’t risk dragging her into this.

Besides, I had other tools.

"Split up," I told the others. "I’ll draw attention. You three blend in, gather anything you can. Word of mouth, rumors, whatever. Meet back at the old tram station in two hours."

Anthony didn’t like it. Elliot really didn’t like it. And Anika? She just nodded, quietly tugging her blindfold a little tighter as she held on to Elliot’s hand.

I slipped away before any of them could argue.

—

I ducked down a side alley and pulled out my phone. Not the official one. The cracked burner with the scuffed case and spiderwebbed screen that still ran basic social media services.

I opened the app.

Go Live.

The red dot blinked.

And then I was there—streaming, uploading, broadcasting directly into the feed of thousands who followed Mr. Jester, the irreverent, sharp-tongued, uncomfortably honest journalist persona I’d carved out of sweat and spite.

The chat box lit up like a festival. I didn’t need to read it. I could feel the eyes already. People were watching.

"Mr. Jester, coming to you live from the bones of bureaucracy," I murmured, my voice smooth, steady, and sharp as shattered glass. The ruined Ministry loomed like a corpse behind me. "No official statements. No warnings. Just one of the most secure buildings in the eastern territories reduced to gravel." I tilted my head, the grin never wavering. "And not a single soul seems eager to explain why."

I turned the camera around slowly, panning over the rubble.

"Now, I know what you’re thinking—Jester, what’s the big deal? Governments fall all the time. And sure. But here’s the thing: governments announce when they fall. They host conferences. They spin stories. They do damage control. This? This is damage with no control. Which means someone lost grip of something fast."

I pulled up the digital notepad app, fingers moving at near superhuman speed thanks to Rapid Note-Taking (Lv. 5). Quotes. Timelines. Observations. All marked and logged in real-time.

I shifted, angling my shoulder just out of view. The last thing I needed was someone clocking the half-healed gashes.

Conflict Zone Reporting (Lv. 5) flickered into gear, pushing my awareness into overdrive. Every sound became sharper. The construction team ahead wasn’t just cleaning up. They were clearing specific sections first, like someone gave orders on what to erase. I was hearing murmurs about a fire department showing up earlier.

"Reports from...three hours ago mention a minor fire," I said into the feed, walking slowly around the fence perimeter. "But you don’t level a Ministry building for a kitchen fire. And if you do? You tell people why."

A drone zipped overhead. One of the state media types.

I lifted a hand in mock greeting, then muttered just loud enough for the stream, "Hey, boys. You might want to point those lenses somewhere useful."

The stream spiked—thousands watching now. Hashtags pinged into trending categories. My face flickered across discussion boards, tagged in speculative posts:

"Why is Mr. Jester at the Ministry ruins?"

"Is there an Event Quest going on?"

"Where’s the official government response?"

I kept walking.

"Now," I continued, "here’s where it gets fun. You’ll notice—" I pointed, camera following "—that there are no guards. No lockdowns. Just a half-assed crew doing post-demolition cleanup. Which begs the question..."

I turned the camera back to myself.

"Where the hell is the Ministry now?"

Investigative Instinct (Lv. 4) whispered like wind over broken glass.

Patterns.

I scanned the workers again—movements, routines, what they touched.

And there.

One of them wasn’t working in rhythm.

He crouched near the far edge of the rubble, where the beams still jutted like broken bones. I zoomed in slightly. He was older, probably in his fifties, dressed like the others, dust-stained and gray. But when he reached into a collapsed slab, he didn’t pull out debris. He pulled out a small black object—could’ve been a USB, could’ve been something more analog—and slipped it into his pocket.

Then, without pause, he picked up a nearby crowbar and started hammering apart a concrete beam.

I narrowed my eyes, about to say something—when suddenly my phone buzzed.

Ping. Ping. Ping. ƒrēenovelkiss.com

Then a stream of rapid texts began flooding the screen.

[Camille]: REYNARD WHAT THE HELL YOU’RE BLEEDING IN 4K

[Sienna]: YOUR SHOULDER. YOU NEED TO STOP. RIGHT NOW.

[Alexis]: You are the dumbest genius I have ever met. That arm is NOT OK.

[Sienna]: Did you even disinfect? Those are STITCHES. LIVE. Are you INSANE?

[Camille]: Tell me where you are. NOW. I swear if you bleed out on camera I will kill you myself.

The screen flooded. They were watching the live.

I blinked, caught between a laugh and a groan. "Well, so much for flying under the radar." I muttered, mic still live.

More notifications piled in.

[Alexis]: If you don’t sit down in the next 30 seconds I’m flying there myself.

[Camille]: How is the coat so badly damaged?? WHAT FIGHTS DID YOU INTO—

I started typing a response—

And stopped.

Because across the rubble, the same worker looked around once, slipped his hand into his coat, and adjusted something with too much care.

A wire?

A mic?

A concealed transmitter?

Then he picked up a sledgehammer and kept going, blending into the demolition like nothing had happened.

I lowered the phone slowly, stream still running.

My eyes locked on him.

And I knew.

He wasn’t a worker.

He was here to erase something.

And whatever it was—he just pocketed the only piece left.

I exhaled once.

"Sorry girls," I said under my breath.

"Looks like this show’s got an encore."

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