SSS-Rank Corporate Predator System

The prep room felt like the inside of a drum.

The silence was a low, humming thing, full of the echoes of Clara's confession.

A secret clan.

A community of system scientists living off the grid.

Miles just stared at her, his brain trying to file this new, world-shattering piece of information into a folder that didn't exist.

"So, let me get this straight," he thought, his internal monologue running at a million miles an hour.

"Not only is she smarter than me, braver than me, and significantly better at social interaction..."

"...she's also a secret agent from a hidden ninja village of super-geniuses."

"Great."

"No pressure."

Leo, who had been standing there with his jaw somewhere near the floor, finally rebooted.

"A clan?" he said, his voice a squeak of pure, unadulterated nerd joy.

"Like, a real-life, honest-to-goodness ninja clan?"

"Do you guys have cool hideouts? Secret handshakes? Is there a volcano involved? Please tell me there's a volcano."

Clara gave him a small, tired smile.

"It's not as cool as it sounds, Leo," she said softly.

Before Leo could ask if they at least had cool hats, the large screen on the wall flickered to life, announcing their next match.

Team Revenant versus The Phantoms.

The arena was a sprawling, multi-level urban cityscape at twilight, all narrow alleys, shadowy rooftops, and the faint, distant sound of traffic.

"Oh, lovely," Miles grumbled, looking at the simulated city.

"An urban warfare simulation."

"My favorite."

"It's just like my daily commute, but with more people actively trying to kill me."

Their opponents materialized across the rooftop from them.

There were three of them, all dressed in sleek, dark gray combat gear.

Two of them were unremarkable, just competent-looking fighters holding standard-issue energy batons.

But the one in the center… that one was different.

They were wearing a simple, featureless white mask that covered their entire face.

It was smooth, blank, and utterly unnerving.

The buzzer sounded, a harsh, echoing cry that signaled the start of the match.

The two unmasked fighters charged, their movements fluid and synchronized.

But the masked one didn't move.

They just stood there, their head tilted slightly, watching Miles.

"Okay, so this is already weird," Leo said, pulling out one of his many gadgets.

"The creepy, silent type in the mask."

"Classic."

"Ten bucks says he's got a tragic backstory and a thing for opera music."

Clara didn't say a word.

She and Leo engaged the two charging fighters, their movements a practiced, efficient dance.

It was clear they were just trying to keep them busy.

The real fight was between Miles and the masked figure.

Miles felt a familiar, cold focus settle over him.

He took a step forward.

The Masked Fighter took a step forward.

"Alright, Mr. Mysterious," Miles thought, a grim smile on his face. "Let's dance."

He blurred forward, using [Phantom Drift] to close the distance in an instant.

He threw a punch, a standard [Pulse Break] aimed at the fighter's chest.

The Masked Fighter didn't dodge.

They didn't block.

They did something… impossible.

They swayed, their body moving with a strange, liquid grace, letting the kinetic force of the pulse flow around them.

It was like trying to punch water.

Miles's fist met nothing but empty air, his own momentum throwing him slightly off balance.

He stared, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.

The system in his head was just as baffled.

[ANALYSIS: OPPONENT'S MOVEMENT DOES NOT COMPUTE.]

[PROBABILITY OF SUCCESSFUL EVASION: 0.01%.]

[CONCLUSION: I THINK MY CALCULATOR IS BROKEN.]

"You and me both, buddy," Miles muttered under his breath.

The Masked Fighter moved, their attacks as strange and unpredictable as their defense.

They didn't use brute force.

They used small, precise strikes aimed at his joints, his balance points.

It wasn't a fight.

It was a dissection.

Every time Miles used an [Echo Step], the fighter was already there, waiting for him.

Every time he tried to create distance, the fighter flowed after him, a relentless, silent shadow.

He was being played with.

Humiliated.

This wasn't an opponent.

This was a teacher, and he was the student who hadn't done his homework.

While Miles was busy getting his ego handed to him, his clone was high in the real world, a silent gargoyle perched in the steel rafters of the Cross Corp Arena.

It had been watching the flow of the tournament, its mission a quiet, constant stream of reconnaissance.

It had noticed something strange.

The teams that were eliminated, the ones who were supposed to be sent to the medical bay and then home, weren't leaving.

It watched as the last members of The Wrecking Crew, the thugs they had beaten in the first round, were escorted by two grim-faced Cross Corp guards.

They weren't heading for the main exit.

They were heading down a sterile, white service corridor, towards a heavy, reinforced door marked with a small, almost invisible biohazard symbol.

The clone followed, a ghost in the high-tech shadows.

It found a ventilation shaft, its metal grate a minor inconvenience.

It slipped inside, crawling through the darkness until it was directly over the corridor.

It peered through the grate.

It saw the guards lead the defeated team through the door and into an elevator.

The clone focused its enhanced hearing.

"...sure you got all of them?" one guard's voice drifted up.

"Yeah," the other replied. "That's the last of the Tier-2 fodder."

"Vance is waiting for them in Sub-Level 3."

"He's eager to start the 'processing'."

The clone's shared mind, and Miles's, went cold.

Processing.

This wasn't a tournament.

It was a harvest.

Silas Cross was collecting system users like lab rats.

Back in the simulated city, Miles was on the defensive, his frustration mounting.

He was tired of this game.

He summoned the [Phantom Edge], the blade of pure, shimmering darkness forming in his hand.

"Okay, playtime's over," he growled.

He lunged, the soul-blade cutting a silent, deadly arc through the air.

The Masked Fighter didn't try to block it.

They didn't try to dodge it.

They met it.

They raised their own hand, and a blade of pure, brilliant, white light materialized in their grip, meeting his dark blade with a soft, melodious chime.

Light against dark.

Echo against echo.

Miles stared, his mind completely blown.

This person… they had a system just like his.

The two blades locked, a perfect, impossible stalemate.

The Masked Fighter leaned in close, their blank, white mask just inches from his face.

And then, they spoke.

Their voice was a low, distorted whisper, filtered through their mask, but the words were clear.

And they shattered his world.

"The Vanes' legacy," the masked figure whispered, "is more than just a weapon."

Then, they did the unthinkable.

They disengaged, their blade of light dissolving into nothing.

They took a single step backward, deliberately moving outside the designated combat area.

A loud, jarring buzzer sounded.

The match was over.

The Phantoms had forfeited.

The Masked Fighter just stood there for a moment, their unreadable mask fixed on him.

Then, they turned and walked away, disappearing into the digital twilight, leaving Miles standing alone in the center of the rooftop, his mind a screaming vortex of a single, impossible question.

Who are you?