SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery-Chapter 225: Separation Point

The jungle held its breath with us.

No wind. No birdsong. Just the slow, steady thud of my heartbeat and the heavy quiet pressing in from all sides. Time didn’t stop—but it leaned in close, like it was listening. Every leaf felt like it was watching. Every snapped twig waiting to become an alarm.

Camille crouched ahead of me, motionless. Her eyes locked on the clearing like it might suddenly open its jaws and bite. No wasted energy. Just coiled precision.

To my right, Alexis hovered behind a wall of ferns, rifle tucked in close, one finger resting just shy of the trigger. Her breathing stayed smooth, like she’d practiced every exhale. But her shoulders... they were tense. Not shaking. Not panicking. Just wound tight, like a spring waiting to snap.

I wasn’t calm. Not really. But I wasn’t unraveling either.

There’s a strange kind of clarity when you know where the enemy is. It’s the moment before the moment—the stillness before the snap—that starts to pull at your nerves. Not fear. Just the knowledge that something’s about to go wrong. freeweɓnøvel~com

Then—

A rustle.

Too light for a wild animal. Too deliberate to be wind. No crunch, no stumble. Just the kind of sound a human makes when they’re trying not to make a sound.

Camille raised two fingers, then curled them.

Incoming.

I slid my thumb along the flare in my coat pocket, heartbeat ticking faster. One pull, one strike, and the whole illusion would collapse. But not yet. We had to wait—until he showed himself.

My fingers twitched.

We waited.

The wind shifted. Just slightly.

That smell hit my nose—gun oil. Cold, metallic, bitter.

Alexis mouthed: He’s close.

Camille didn’t react—except for the tiniest shift of her wrist toward the tripwire remote. Slow. Smooth. Like she wasn’t moving at all.

Then the branches off to our left flexed. Just a little.

And there he was.

Tall. Lean. Gear that looked halfway between military and mountaineer. A hood drawn low over his face. A dart rifle held in reverse grip, like he’d used it more times as a club than a gun.

His stance was careful, balanced. He wasn’t afraid.

He was hunting.

His eyes swept across the clearing and landed on me.

Then Camille.

Then slid right past Alexis, not noticing the rifle she cradled at her hip.

He started circling—slow, deliberate steps. Just inside the edge of the clearing, watching the way we stood. Testing. Calculating.

Camille shifted.

Barely a breath.

A dart zipped past her shoulder and buried itself in a tree trunk behind her.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

Alexis didn’t shoot.

Not yet.

The scout’s voice cut through the stillness—low, conversational. Like we were just talking across a table.

"I’m impressed," he said. "Didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to stay in the jungle after your cover was blown."

I didn’t answer.

He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching beneath the half-mask.

"I doubt you’re unarmed. But I will say... you seem to be a high-priority target, Reynard Vale."

My name hit the air like a slap.

My chest went tight. Not fear. Just confirmation.

"Maybe I only need you."

I exhaled through my nose. Slow. Controlled. My voice came out even.

"Then you picked the wrong group."

And I gave the signal.

Camille moved first—fluid and fast.

Alexis dropped low and fired. The shot didn’t hit, not cleanly. But the blast cracked through the clearing and made the scout recoil, just enough.

Then everything blurred.

Motion. Angles. Momentum.

No hesitation.

The clearing didn’t break into chaos.

Elsewhere – Evelyn and Sienna

Mist spilled across the underbrush in a slow, creeping veil. Pale, unnatural. Like the jungle wasn’t breathing so much as exhaling secrets through its teeth—warm, damp, and knowing.

Evelyn tilted her head slightly. Not listening, not quite. Feeling. It was the way the air thickened when someone else stepped into it—the subtle change in pressure, the static buzz that came when the wild stopped being empty. It was instinct, older than memory. A kind of sixth sense born in silence.

Sienna didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. One glance was enough. She shifted to the side, crouched low, her movements careful and practiced. With one hand she peeled a long piece of bark from a fallen tree and angled it just enough to act as cover. Natural. Imperfect. Convincing.

Then: silence.

The kind that tightens in your chest.

Crunch.

Soft. Measured. Steps barely brushing against moss and lichen—but still there.

Evelyn’s voice was so quiet it didn’t even disturb the fog. "Mapper’s close."

Sienna responded with a slight nod, barely perceptible. Her shoulders tensed. Not in fear. In focus.

Then—movement.

A figure stepped through the mist, partially silhouetted by moonlight diffused through leaves. Tall. Calm. Deliberate. He walked with the kind of posture that said I know where I am. The kind of man who trusted his data over his instincts.

But the jungle had already decided to lie to him.

Sienna made sure of it.

Logs had been shifted into deceptive patterns. Rocks dragged into ridges where none belonged. Even shallow pits had been dug beneath scattered leaves, just deep enough to trip a man whose eyes were locked on numbers instead of soil.

The mapper’s steps faltered almost immediately.

He slowed. Rechecked his footing.

Then paused entirely.

His boot struck a stone—one that shouldn’t have been there according to his internal mapping—and he stumbled, barely catching himself.

Confusion flickered behind his mask.

He tapped twice at his system interface, trying to figure out what was wrong, trying to recall what the area looked like and slowly recalibrating his information.

Sienna ducked lower behind her cover.

Evelyn stepped forward.

No blindfold.

Eyes visible.

Not sharp. Not angry.

Just...present. Calm in the way water is calm before it floods a valley.

"This isn’t the kind of confrontation you were trained for," she said, voice soft but unshakable.

The scout spun toward her, startled—lifting a modified scanner-rifle, clunky and unfamiliar in his grip. His fingers twitched near the trigger.

Too slow.

Evelyn was already moving—not away, but sideways, her path slanted just enough to draw him off balance. She didn’t run. She guided. Her movements were fluid, practiced, and laced with quiet intention.

The mapper followed. He had to.

Step by step, he moved where she led him.

Right into the trap.

A field of tension wire Sienna had laid beneath fallen limbs. Hidden, stretched just barely taut. Enough to snare. Enough to trip. Enough to shift the fight before it even began.

He never saw them.

North Ridge – 3830

She didn’t hide.

Didn’t slink through the underbrush like the rest of us.

She walked.

Straight-backed. Open-palmed. Her silhouette cut clean against the moonlight—outlined in silver where the trees peeled back to reveal the ridgeline. Every step she took was deliberate. Exposed. As if she were daring the jungle to blink first.

To anyone watching, it looked like suicide.

To the scout buried in the treeline ahead, it looked like opportunity.

A shadow twitched behind the leaves—tight and practiced. A glint of metal flashed for less than a second: a scope edge. Half-mask. A combat blade slung across the back in reverse draw. He was already calculating angles.

Then he froze.

Just for a moment.

Because she wasn’t acting like prey.

She didn’t crouch.

Didn’t scan.

Didn’t even pretend to care.

She moved as if she’d already won.

No urgency. No fear. Her pace never changed.

She passed just to the side of his line of sight, head tilted ever so slightly toward the moonlight—but never looking up.

Like she knew exactly where he was without needing to see.

And maybe she did.

A soft pop of static brushed my comm—just enough to be heard, just enough to confirm.

"Hook’s set," she said. "He’s following."

The moment snapped like a wire pulled too tight.

The scout lunged.

He came in fast—low to the ground, knees bent, arms tucked, blade flashing like a shard of something mean and clean. His boots didn’t even crunch the dirt. He was trained, disciplined, and perfectly timed.

But so was she.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t shout.

Didn’t even pivot.

She turned—just enough to intercept—and caught the blade barehanded.

Metal met skin with a sickening hiss.

The sharpened edge bit deep into her palm, but her grip held as if the pain was non-existent.

Her arm didn’t shake.

Blood slid down her wrist in quiet lines, glinting like ink in the moonlight.

The scout gritted his teeth. "I see you."

3830 smiled.

Not kindly.

Not like someone who wanted to be seen.

"No," she said. "I see you."

Then she twisted.

And the fight began.

---

Back in our clearing, everything was heat and noise and instinct.

Camille threw the flare—white-hot against the dark.

The scout lunged toward me—thinking I was the weak point.

He was wrong.

Alexis took the second shot.

Close.

Camille closed the distance.

A flicker of movement beyond the ridge: Evelyn driving the mapper into a choke point.

Another flash in the trees: 3830 twisting the blade out of her opponent’s grip.

Everywhere, the jungle moved. Bent. Warped.

It wasn’t one battle anymore.

It was three.

Three targets.

Three teams.

Three confrontations.

And each one—had just begun.

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