SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery

Fourteen of them. Blood-slicked and silent. I watched them gather through the jagged frame of the shattered station window, their eyes gleaming with fanaticism. I could feel it—there was no fear in them. No humanity, either.

Just programming.

They weren't alive in the way I was. They were tools. Designed, trained and optimized.

But the system had just done me a favor.

The pain dulled. My breathing calmed. Muscles realigned like they remembered what it was to win. The shard of glass in my hand was long—maybe twelve inches. Thick at the base, tapering to a clean, savage point. My fingers curled around it like it was an extension of my will.

"Alright," I said, cracking my neck, "round two."

I ran.

—

The first subject leapt down from the platform with the grace of a cat. I slid beneath their landing strike, swept behind them, and slashed at the back of their calf—clean, deep. They dropped to one knee. I kicked forward, jamming the flat of my boot into the side of their head. Out cold.

One down.

Another charged with both fists raised. That was dumb. I ducked under the swing, hooked their shirt up over their face in one motion, then pivoted and drove them backward—headfirst—into the station bench. The wooden back cracked. They slumped, unmoving.

Two.

The third and fourth came together. They seemed smarter and more coordinated.

I backed toward the ticket counter. One moved high, aiming for my face. The other swept low for my legs. It felt predictable. I jumped—not back, but forward—rolling across the low one's back and landing behind them. In the same motion, I slashed the tendon just above the knee. The glass hit bone. They collapsed, though there was no screaming.

The second hesitated just long enough.

I hurled the shard like a dagger.

It embedded in their thigh. They dropped, clutching the wound.

I retrieved it mid-sprint.

Three. Four.

My heart raced, but the system buffered the fatigue. My recovery efficiency was doing overtime now, keeping me one breath ahead of the breakdown.

I flipped the shard in my hand, gripped it backhanded.

The fifth was already waiting—arms wide, stance low. Strong one. I feinted right, darted left, then brought the shard up in a sweeping arc—not cutting, just slamming it against their temple with the flat side.

They staggered. I grabbed their lapel, yanked them forward, and headbutted them straight through the mask. Their bone cracked.

They dropped.

Five.

The next trio rushed in a pincer movement. Two flanking, one dead center.

I waited.

Just a second longer.

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Then moved.

The middle one lunged. I sidestepped, caught their momentum, and used it to spin them around—straight into the one on the left. They collided and crumpled.

I focused on the third.

A kick came at my ribs.

Too slow.

I caught the leg under my arm and twisted. Their knee buckled the wrong way. They screamed. I drove the shard into the ground near their face, daring them to move.

They didn't.

Six, seven, eight.

The others faltered. Just a second.

That was enough.

I sprinted toward the baggage area, drawing two of them away. They followed like good little puppets.

I slammed into the baggage carts, leapt, and spun mid-air—one heel catching the first square in the temple. They tumbled down the concrete steps.

The other reached for my neck—bad idea. I rammed the shard between their fingers, forcing the hand open. A quick elbow to the throat, and they folded.

Nine, ten.

Ten left unconscious or immobilized. Four left standing.

They circled me again. This time, more cautiously.

"You're learning," I murmured, cracking my knuckles.

One rushed.

I sidestepped. Simple. Clean.

Another went for a shoulder grapple—I dropped low, kicked out their ankle, then twisted the shard against their heel tendon. Clean severance.

The third grabbed my coat.

Wrong move.

I spun with the momentum, flipped them over my hip, and slammed them hard enough into the floor that their head bounced. Unconscious.

One left.

They froze. A girl—couldn't have been older than twenty. Blonde. Empty-eyed. Twitching at the fingers like she wanted to obey, but something deep inside her didn't want to die here.

I walked toward her slowly.

She moved to strike.

I didn't dodge.

Instead, I caught her wrist, twisted it behind her back, and shoved her against the steel ticket kiosk.

"Sleep," I said.

And I slammed her temple into the steel once. Twice.

She slumped.

Fourteen down.

I stood in the wreckage of the station. The floor was slick with blood and glass. The lights above flickered. I could still hear my breath, steady and unfazed.

I looked to my right.

Mark had done well. The two bodyguards lay unconscious, one with a knife sticking out of his shoulder, the other flat on his back, possibly dead. Mark stood, shirt soaked in sweat, eyes burning like he hadn't blinked since the fight started.

Connor stood between us, pale now. He was shaking.

The predator in his posture was gone and instead it was replaced by prey instincts.

Mark walked over and gripped him by the collar. I joined him.

Connor tried to talk, but I cut him off.

"Evelyn. Where is she?"

He flinched at my voice.

"I—two stops east," he said, voice stammering. "Ministry building. She should be there. I swear."

I stared at him a long moment, then nodded.

"Appreciated."

I turned and walked away.

Mark still held Connor by the collar.

He looked at me. "What do you want me to do with him?"

I didn't stop walking. "Whatever you want."

"Wait!" Connor shrieked. "You're aiming for World President, Vale! You need me! I know where everything is buried. All the protocols. All the hidden bases. I'm indispensable!"

I glanced over my shoulder.

"I don't care."

His screams followed me down the broken station hall, echoing in time with my footsteps.

"Please! Please, wait! You're making a mistake! You need me! I—!"

Mark stepped in front of him.

Something metallic glinted in his hand.

A small leather case.

He opened it.

Inside: pliers, scalpels, old-world screws, tiny syringes.

Connor's voice cracked. "No—please—please, don't—"

Mark said nothing.

He raised a hand.

And clamped it over Connor's mouth.

The screaming didn't stop.

It just became muffled.

And I kept walking.

Out into the dawn.

Toward the next stop.

Toward Evelyn.