SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery-Chapter 228: Improvised Orders

The clearing was all motion. All teeth.

Camille darted forward with fire in her eyes, a flicker of pale red still burning in the corner from the flare. The scout had just recoiled from Alexis’s shot—clean miss, but loud enough to snap tension like a wire.

And Camille moved like a wave breaking.

She didn’t hesitate. That wasn’t her style.

But neither did he.

The scout turned just in time, pivoted with dancer’s efficiency, and hooked his boot around her ankle mid-stride. The takedown was fluid—practiced—like he’d done it a hundred times on live terrain. Camille hit the ground hard, but she rolled back up just as fast, a grunt caught in her throat, hair wild in her face.

Alexis fired again.

This one grazed his shoulder. Clean. Not deep, but enough to force a recoil.

Enough for me to breathe.

Enough to think.

I didn’t have weapons. I didn’t have skills. Not right now. Not for another half hour. But I had one thing left.

Pattern.

I tracked it. Every move. Every step. The scout’s footwork was tight—he kept circling counterclockwise, likely favoring his right leg. He shot from angles, not lines. He never committed without an escape.

I licked the sweat from my upper lip and shouted, "Camille—back left! Now! Force him toward the incline!"

Camille didn’t question. She shifted—hard left, swinging a tree branch she’d grabbed like it was runway season and he’d insulted her shoes.

"Alexis—three seconds, then fire wide!"

There was a pause. He wasn’t sure she’d understood.

Then a flash.

The round cut through low scrub and exploded bark.

It didn’t hit—but it forced the scout to duck and roll.

Right where I had planned.

For a moment, it worked.

For a moment, we had him.

"You were right," Camille called out through clenched teeth, a wild grin breaking across her face like she’d just been complimented on the runway during a knife fight. "This incline’s garbage!"

Her voice came from behind a half-crumbled log I’d mentally marked as unstable terrain minutes ago. She was half-winded, bleeding at the temple, but still smiling. That was Camille—dirt in her hair, fury in her eyes, and somehow still posing like the jungle was judging her posture.

"Don’t thank me yet," I muttered, eyes locked on the scout’s silhouette as it shifted between shadows like a predator sniffing out timing. "Alexis—how’s the chamber?"

She ducked behind a mossy outcrop, crouching low, hands fumbling over the makeshift bolt and trigger. I saw her squint in the dark, tracking the line of pressure in the coil.

"One shot left," she said.

I nodded. My brain ticked.

One shot. A busted flare. Camille’s blood-smeared baton. And me—unarmed, exhausted, burning calories on panic. I didn’t have a plan. Not really. Just instincts and a sinking realization that this wasn’t going to be won clean.

So I got stupid.

"Throw your shoe," I said.

There was a beat.

Alexis blinked at me from behind her cover. "What?"

"Your shoe!" I hissed, louder now. "Just throw it!"

She didn’t argue. Didn’t even ask if I was serious.

She kicked it off mid-crouch and spun her upper body in one sharp motion, hurling the boot like a hammer throw. It wasn’t elegant—it was fast and desperate. The sole caught the moonlight as it cut through the air in a limp arc.

And it worked.

The scout flinched. Just a twitch of the head, a fractional shift in weight.

But I saw it.

Camille launched.

I swear she didn’t even think. Her body reacted the moment that opening cracked. She burst from cover like she’d been fired out of a cannon powered by stubbornness and caffeine.

Her shoulder slammed into the scout—not a clean hit, but all momentum. She bounced back like a human slingshot, but her force did the job. He staggered. Caught himself—but not before one foot slid into the leaf-covered incline I’d dragged him toward.

I wasn’t done.

"Camille—shout something French!"

"What?!"

"Anything!"

There was a short pause, a grunt, and then a screech so loud I thought the jungle might echo:

"Ton goût vestimentaire est un CRIME!"

It rang out like a war cry delivered by a fashion judge mid-execution.

The scout froze.

Genuinely confused.

I saw it in his posture—just for a moment—his arms lifted slightly, as if caught between reacting to the noise or questioning whether he’d just been insulted in the middle of a life-or-death encounter.

And that hesitation cost him.

Alexis was already moving. No more shooting. Just raw instinct now.

She held the rifle like a bat, charging in with no form, no finesse—just rage and adrenaline. She brought it up and slammed it straight into his gut.

The sound was thick and solid—meat and bone meeting hardened wood and steel.

He buckled. Grunted.

Then his elbow lashed out like a whip. It caught Alexis right in the ribs.

She cried out and crumpled sideways into the underbrush, her rifle tumbling out of reach with a soft thud.

"Damn it!" I hissed.

I didn’t think—I moved.

My hands dove into the low brush around me, yanking at vines, snapping dead branches, dragging rotting wood into loose piles. I didn’t have skills, not now, not for hours. But I could still think like someone who’d spent his life finding structure in the absurd.

If I couldn’t fight him, I’d corner him.

Crude walls. Makeshift barriers. One arm pulling roots, the other dragging debris into arcs to choke off his retreat lines. Nothing tall, nothing solid—just ugly enough to trip him up if he backpedaled or dodged wrong.

My fingers throbbed. One nail cracked on a branch and bled. I ignored it.

I wasn’t building a defense.

I was making a maze.

I glanced up.

The scout had regrouped. His eyes flicked over the terrain I’d laid out, and I saw it again—that subtle pause, that tiny shift in posture that meant he didn’t like what he saw. That meant he was recalculating.

He looked at Camille—still up, panting, bleeding from the mouth but standing.

He looked at Alexis—half on her knees, one hand clutching her ribs.

Then he looked at me.

No weapon. No stance. Just me, sweating like an idiot in the dark with a handful of broken vines and the worst plan in the hemisphere.

And for a second—just a second—it felt like we might have him.

The terrain was ours.

The timing was ours.

The momentum—

—wasn’t.

Because then the scout smiled.

And chaos stopped working.

Of course he adapted.

I saw it in the way his movements changed—not just fast, but preemptive. He started reacting before Camille even finished her swings. He was reading me. Timing my rhythm. Countering my instructions like he could hear them forming in the back of my throat.

He faked a stumble—dragged his foot through the mud just enough to look like he slipped.

Camille bit.

She dove in.

He caught her mid-lunge, pivoted cleanly, and slammed her shoulder-first into a tree trunk. I heard the impact—solid, sharp—and saw her crumple to one knee.

"Camille—!"

Alexis cried out and moved to help.

He turned, fast—grabbed her arm and twisted it back hard. Her rifle flew from her grip and disappeared into the underbrush with a metallic clatter.

I stepped forward, uselessly.

"Alexis, behind you—branch!"

Too late.

She stumbled, off-balance and dazed.

My throat was bone-dry. I couldn’t blink. Couldn’t breathe.

He looked up at me.

No helmet now. Just a half-mask dangling from one strap. Mud smeared across his cheekbone. A red welt carved across his jaw—Camille’s elbow, maybe. He was breathing hard. But not struggling.

"You had rhythm," he said.

He stepped forward. Calm. Measured.

"Until you didn’t."

—

Camille groaned from where she’d collapsed at the base of the tree. One arm hung limp. Alexis was crawling across the dirt, gasping, trying to reach for her gun. It was too far.

I bent down and grabbed the first thing I could find—a sharp stone. Not large. Not clean.

But pointed.

My palms ached as I squeezed it tight. Blood crept down my wrist before I even noticed. I didn’t care.

He walked now. Not circling. Just advancing.

"Why didn’t you run, Vale?"

I didn’t answer.

"You’ve got no backup in this island. And from what I can tell...you have no skills or jobs right now? Well isn’t that something? You’re the only one here running on nothing. I guess this is why I didn’t feel like using Strategic Retreat."

He paused, studying me.

"You’re a weak point."

My chest tightened. Each breath scraped. My legs wanted to retreat.

But I didn’t move.

I stood there. Stone in hand. A pathetic excuse for a weapon.

"I’ve seen your file," he went on. "The funny part is—they still talk about you like a problem."

His head tilted slightly.

"I don’t see it. In the end, regardless of your job or skill, a single bullet is all it takes."

I swallowed hard. My voice came out cracked, but level. "You know....You talk to much."

His smile was thin. Cold.

"Very well! Let’s have our final talk."

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