SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery-Chapter 227: Fault Line

The fog thickened as it dropped down into the trees like wet wool, curling along the jungle floor and clinging to the undergrowth. Moonlight split through the canopy in fractured bands, too broken to guide, too sharp to comfort. The air was thick with damp soil and the bitter scent of twisted bark—warped deliberately by the woman crouched near the clearing’s edge.

Sienna moved like she was adjusting scaffolding, not laying a trap. Each step was deliberate. A rock tilted here. A branch pulled just enough off-center there. Her breathing stayed steady, her eyes half-lidded, calm—not from peace, but from discipline. Her body hurt from lifting so much. She just didn’t care. She had worked through worse on job sites with no food and a shattered wrist.

Pain was background noise. Irrelevant to the task.

Across the way, Evelyn stood motionless in the mist—half-shrouded in fern shadow. Her body didn’t seem braced for combat, but it didn’t need to be. She wasn’t hiding. She was waiting. Her eyes tracked every breeze shift, every insect skitter, every beat that didn’t belong. She was able to instill fear into the mapper before retreating back into the fog. She knew he would be getting more desperate to get a kill and finish someone off, hoping to regain some control.

The mapper watched from the outer ring of fog, crouched low near a log he’d already marked clean in his internal scan. His memory of terrain and instinctual overlays matched. Tilt grade, soil compaction, moisture density—none of it felt off.

But it was. He just hadn’t figured that out yet.

He advanced three steps.

Stopped.

Something felt wrong. Not on the surface—his system-enhanced instincts still told him he had the high ground tactically. But it was in the pacing. The layout.

The lack of noise.

There should’ve been more natural scatter—debris, pockets of exposed stone. Instead, the pattern was strangely regular. Artificial, in its own quiet way.

His fingers tapped twice on his belt, cycling settings. His rifle hummed—switching to burst mode. He didn’t want to make a mess. Just a correction.

Still crouched, he swept the muzzle left—then sharply right.

Sienna froze.

Only for a second.

Then she ducked behind a half-fallen tree and waited. Her heart rate barely changed. She could sense him now. Not by sight. Not even by sound. Just... the weight of presence in the air. Something pressure-thick, like humidity laced with awareness.

She knew what he was trying.

Testing field presence.

Looking for commitment before making one himself.

She reached down and shifted a small clump of leaves—exposing a net of wires buried under sticks and blackened vines. Just a glance. Just enough to see.

The trap wasn’t sprung yet.

But it was close.

Evelyn’s voice came low and quiet from the mist: "He’s scanning the edge. He wants a reaction."

Sienna didn’t answer. Just tightened the grip on her weapon.

The mapper moved again. Sharper now.

And finally, he acted.

His rifle pulsed with a faint red dot and discharged a low shot that upon impact, scorched the soil inches from Sienna’s cover. A warning shot. A push, not a kill.

She didn’t rise yet. She stepped out slow, circling wide—not toward him, but toward terrain she’d prepared earlier.

He adjusted.

Fired again.

The next shot clipped her shoulder and tore fabric, burned skin—but her posture didn’t break. She raised her makeshift weapon: a rebar hammerhead tied to salvaged wood and reinforced with scavenged bolts. It swung slow. Heavy. Impractical.

But it didn’t stop moving.

The mapper frowned behind his mask.

Another shot—left angle, tighter. It hit her arm this time.

She staggered a half-step.

Then kept going.

Not fast. Not clever.

But endless.

He expected flinches. Timidity. A break in form. But Sienna had none of those.

She didn’t fight like a soldier.

She fought like someone who couldn’t afford to stop.

He went to her flank, assuming he could catch her angle.

Then Evelyn stepped in.

One hand caught his wrist mid-raise.

She didn’t punch. Didn’t shout. She just squeezed.

His arm twisted against the socket, and his weight shifted involuntarily. The joints in his shoulder screamed.

He yanked away, managing to free himself—but not without losing ground.

Evelyn tilted her head. "You’re still trying to apply the wrong template," she said calmly. "I’m not a scout. I’m not even really a fighter."

He launched a jab at her throat.

She parried. Quick. Exact. A move that shouldn’t have come from someone her size or stance.

His experience was betraying him as he never saw someone who looked so frail have so much power.

She stepped to the side.

"You always check your left before pivoting," she said, watching him scan her again. "Even now, you’re leaning off that foot. Avoiding elevation changes. I’d say minor trauma—an old tendon issue, maybe?"

He froze. She was reading him.

Actually reading him.

The jungle tightened.

Sienna circled again, keeping her tool raised like a battering ram and repositioning chunks of brush behind her.

Evelyn spoke with quiet rhythm.

"You’re trained for pressure. But not analysis. You’re used to patterns, grids, conditionals. Not people."

He fired again.

Evelyn dodged—just enough to graze, not avoid.

"My job wasn’t earned," she said. "It was implanted. B-Rank, firefighter. Not something I wanted—but it stuck. The strength, the constitution. The government wanted something usable and durable to fight Reynard."

She stepped in and shoulder-checked him backward. He skidded, more from surprise than impact.

"And you think that makes you dangerous?" he spat.

"No," she replied. "It makes me broken. But it also means my job actually boost my physicality."

Sienna lunged in again. The mapper pivoted away, desperate now to reset.

Every time he tried to flank, they blocked.

Every shift in terrain failed to help him.

Because the terrain was theirs.

The false clearing he stepped into—where the moonlight seemed clearer—wasn’t natural. It was arranged. Subtle rises around the edge of a hollow center. A natural slope, one he had flagged earlier on his overlay as stable.

It wasn’t.

Shallow trenches ran beneath the moss, filled with water and cut at angles to funnel movement. Sienna’s work. A trap sculpted out of patience.

His boot caught.

And then Sienna moved fast.

She used her hammer like a lever, slamming it into the ground to vault herself forward. It wasn’t elegant—but the mapper didn’t expect her to cover that distance.

She landed beside him as he twisted.

He swung.

Connected.

Her ribs cracked. Audible. Her breath sucked in between clenched teeth.

But she stayed standing.

And Evelyn was already behind him.

She grabbed the back of his collar and yanked down hard.

He fell.

Right into the tension wire.

Their trap snapped shut.

Not with sound. Not with steel. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

With weight.

She brought her tool down into the back of his knee—where armor was thinnest. His leg spasmed. He screamed.

And then silence.

He writhed, trying to crawl—gun abandoned, breath ragged.

Evelyn knelt beside him. Her voice was steady.

"This is your official evaluation," she said.

Sienna raised her tool again.

The mapper looked up, chest heaving, limbs barely responding.

"No," he gasped. "I—"

The hammer fell.

Once.

And the mapper’s body hit the dirt like the jungle itself had rejected him.

It didn’t take long for Evelyn to hold up Sienna as they slowly head back towards the shelter. Satisfied with their victory.

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