SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery
Chapter 230: Back Online

Chapter 230: Back Online

The moment my foot hit the ground, the world shifted.

It wasn’t just the jungle spinning—it was my balance, my blood, my bones all realigning like tectonic plates forced back into place. Every skill I’d ever copied or absorbed screamed back to life. Half a dozen jobs humming through my nerves like they were always there, just waiting.

The scout saw it. He didn’t need a skill to recognize the change.

His stance faltered. His weight adjusted automatically, like his instincts were whispering run.

I didn’t give him the chance.

My fist came forward—not sloppy, not wild, but clean. A jab. Straight to the chest. It didn’t need to break bones. It only needed to connect. Muscle Optimization. Jab. Reflex Calibration. All of them worked in combination as he reeled back like he’d just been hit by a truck wrapped in human skin.

He stumbled, boots sliding through mud and brush, tried to raise a weapon—sidearm halfway drawn.

Observation.

I saw the twitch in his hand before he made it.

Deduction.

He thought I’d back off after the first strike, that I’d try to dodge.

Wrong.

I stepped forward, ducked under his next swing, and buried my shoulder into his ribs. Not clean. But reinforced.

Muscle Reinforcement. Endurance Boost. Hand-to-Hand Combat.

He gasped, caught completely off-guard by the density of the hit. His body folded over mine as I lifted him a full foot off the ground and dumped him flat on his back.

He rolled fast. Professional reflexes.

But not faster than mine.

Instinct.

He feinted right. My foot already cut left.

I caught his collar and drove my knee toward his chest. He blocked it—barely. The force sent him skidding.

"You’re not using your weapon. Getting a bit overconfident?" He hissed.

"Don’t need it."

I spat blood. My lip had split somewhere in the scuffle, but I didn’t care.

"The simple truth is," I said, voice low, steady. "In a hand-to-hand situation. There’s no one left on Earth who can beat me. Especially not in a one on one."

He lunged again, this time with more desperation. A blade flicked into his hand—compact, tactical.

He slashed low, aiming for tendons. He was precise. Controlled.

Unfortunately for him, I was faster.

I leaned out of reach and pivoted into a tight hook that caught him along the jaw. His mask cracked further, one strap tearing free.

Another hook—this one under the ribs.

He bent in pain, wheezing.

I didn’t stop. My jobs wouldn’t let me.

Firefighter Endurance. Boxer Recovery Efficiency. Construction Worker Strength.

I became motion. Not elegant. Not even violent.

Just unstoppable.

He pulled back, tried to create space, but I matched him step for step. My footwork wasn’t trained—it was wired. Boots striking ground with the rhythm of someone who had balanced beams over skyscrapers and run laps in zero gravity.

He feigned again, darted toward the side, trying to get behind me.

But I felt it before he moved.

Instinct pinged. Observation confirmed. Deduction locked in.

He was trying to activate something—his own ace in the hole.

"Strategic Retreat," I said aloud, not to mock, but to warn. "I know the signs. Tight shoulder tilt. Left heel weight-forward. You’re calculating escape vectors. You should give up though since I’m not letting it happen."

His eyes widened.

That hesitation cost him.

I closed the gap and struck with my elbow—high, downward, straight to the collarbone. He crumpled under the impact, barely managing to twist away.

He flung a flash pellet—blinding light burst through the trees.

Thermal Perception.

I didn’t need eyes. I felt his heat signature shift, pivot. He went low—his boots skimming across the leaves.

I spun around, heel catching him across the face.

He collapsed again, rolled, and came up gasping.

"Who the hell even are you?" he coughed.

I didn’t answer. I sprinted.

Not toward him—around him.

Every angle. Every tree. Every line of sight. I mapped them as I ran.

He tried to reposition, but I cut him off.

A fast pivot. A jab to the throat—pulled at the last second. I didn’t want to kill him. Not yet.

He staggered backward, crashed into a hanging root, fell hard.

"Stop," he growled, trying to rise again. His shoulder was dislocated, his leg trembling.

"You were right," I said, kneeling beside him. "I’m someone who isn’t really worth the value, because the truth is that in the end...a single bullet is all it would take to put me down."

"Alright...I was wrong I get it...we can simply ignore everything that has happened here and I can tell my boss that you were never here."

I looked down at my hands. At the grime, the cuts, the blood.

"You can’t expect me to believe that? I mean you were fully willing to kill both me, Camille and Alexis and I doubt your squad members are any different. Not to mention that I gain nothing by letting you go instead of just knocking you out."

He reached for a last resort—small pistol, concealed near his boot.

Psychological Insight activated.

I didn’t stop him.

I crushed the gun under my foot before he could aim.

His fingers trembled.

I knelt again, this time looking him dead in the eyes.

"You should’ve run."

And then I hit him. One clean strike to the side of the jaw.

He went limp.

I stood there, chest heaving. Hands bleeding. The jungle humming around me like it had been watching the whole time.

I turned toward the clearing.

Camille was on her side, breathing shallowly, her arm twisted but intact. Alexis was sitting up, holding her ribs and staring at me like she wasn’t sure if I was still the same man.

I walked to them slowly, each step deliberate.

"Is he down?" Alexis asked.

I nodded. "Trust me. He won’t be getting back up."

Camille grunted, "Good. I was about to get up and slap him myself."

I exhaled as I chuckled. Finally, I got my System back online and finally...

The fight was over.