SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery-Chapter 350: The Choice I Made

I sat in my office for what felt like hours after our conversation, my head pressed against the cool surface of my desk. The room was sparse with only a desk, a chair, a single bookshelf with maybe a dozen volumes, and a window that looked out over the city lights. I’d never bothered to decorate it properly. What was the point when every day brought new crises that demanded my attention elsewhere?

Sienna’s words echoed in my mind like a broken record. Is this all worth it? The question felt heavier now, sitting alone in the quiet darkness. Away from the others, away from their expectant faces and unwavering loyalty, I could finally confront the doubt that had been growing in my chest like a tumor.

What did I really want?

The answer should have been simple. I was fighting against rank injustice, against a system that condemned people to lives of poverty and limitation based on arbitrary classifications assigned at birth. I was trying to create a world where someone like me wouldn’t be dismissed as worthless because of an F-Rank job.

But was that really what I wanted? Or was I just telling myself that to justify the path of destruction I’d carved through the world?

I thought about the assassination attempt earlier. The way the bullet had shattered the window, the way they persisted despite missing. The way the girls looked at me afterward. Not with accusation, but with concern. With love.

And I was going to get them all killed.

The thought hit me like a physical blow. I lifted my head from the desk, staring at the empty office walls. When had this become about me becoming World President? When had a personal quest for ultimate power transformed into a situation where I was fighting injustice?

I knew the answer, even if I didn’t want to admit it. It was all when I got involved with the government.

I was hiding from them, but that night when Anthony told me that half the world’s government was on my side was the day everything changed.

I didn’t even want to think about it anymore. I simply put my head on my desk and rested my eyes.

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The months leading up to my eighteenth birthday were a slow descent into horror that I was too young to fully understand.

My mother had always been tired after work, that was normal for someone in her position. She was a low-ranking hairstylist who worked long hours for modest pay, and the salon owners squeezed every ounce of productivity from their employees. But sometime around my seventeenth birthday, the exhaustion became something different. Something deeper.

She started falling asleep at the dinner table. Not dozing off—actually falling asleep mid-sentence, her fork still in her hand. She’d wake up confused, apologizing, insisting she was fine even as dark circles deepened under her eyes.

"Just been busy at work, sweetheart," she’d say whenever I expressed concern. "Mrs. Davidson has us working double shifts to cover for the girls who quit. It’ll calm down soon."

But it never did. If anything, it got worse.

I watched her grow thinner week by week, her clothes hanging looser on her frame. She’d prepare meals for me but barely touch her own food, claiming she wasn’t hungry or had eaten at work. The lies were obvious, but what could I do? I couldn’t work, couldn’t contribute, couldn’t even buy groceries without her money. Not until the System gave me a job at least.

The worst part was watching her try to hide it from me. She’d put on makeup to cover the pallor in her cheeks, force herself to smile when she thought I was looking, pretend that everything was normal even as she swayed on her feet from exhaustion.

"Just a few more months until your Job Assignment," she’d whisper to herself when she thought I couldn’t hear. "Then things will get easier."

Three days before my eighteenth birthday, she came home from work and immediately collapsed onto the couch without even taking off her shoes. I found her there an hour later, still in her salon uniform, unconscious and barely breathing.

"Mom?" I shook her gently. "Mom, wake up."

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy. "Reynard? What time is it?"

"It’s eight PM. You’ve been asleep for an hour."

She tried to sit up, failed, and settled back against the cushions with a sound that was half-sigh, half-sob. "I’m sorry, baby. I just need a minute to rest."

That was the last real conversation we had.

The next two days blurred together. She left for work early and came home late, moving through the house like a ghost. I barely saw her except in passing. She was like a shadow in the hallway, the sound of her bedroom door closing, the smell of salon chemicals that seemed to cling to everything she touched.

On my eighteenth birthday, she was already gone when I woke up. No "happy birthday," no breakfast together, just a note on the kitchen table: "Working late tonight. There’s money in the jar for dinner. Love you."

I spent the day alone, waiting for the Job Assignment notification that would determine the rest of my life. When it finally came at exactly noon, I was sitting in our empty living room, listening to the sound of neighbors celebrating their own children’s assignments through thin walls.

The system interface glowed softly in front of me, displaying the results with clinical precision.

Unskilled Laborer (F-Rank)

I stared at the words for a long moment, feeling something inside my chest deflate. I wasn’t shocked nor had I expected this. After all, I knew that with the exception of my dad, who left us, no one was over C-Rank when it came to their job.

But it’s fine, at least now I could work. At least now I could help.

I was still staring at the notification when the doorbell rang. 8:47 PM—Mom should have been home hours ago.

Two people stood on our doorstep. Government agents, judging by their identical black suits and the way they carried themselves. The woman was tall and thin with graying hair pulled back severely. The man was shorter, stockier, with the kind of neutral expression that came from delivering bad news professionally.

"Reynard Vale?" the woman asked.

Something cold settled in my stomach. "Yes."

"I’m Agent Mace, this is Agent Taylor. We’re from the Department of Labor Relations."

"What’s this about?"

Agent Taylor stepped forward slightly. "It’s regarding your mother, Maria Vale. I’m afraid she collapsed at work this afternoon. She was rushed to the hospital, but despite medical intervention, she passed away at 6:23 PM. The cause of death was cardiac arrest brought on by severe exhaustion and malnutrition."

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I jerked back to the present, my hands shaking as I lifted my head from the desk. The office felt smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in around me. My mother had died because the system decided she wasn’t valuable enough to deserve better. She’d worked every day of her adult life, never complained, never stopped believing that things would improve, and the world had literally worked her to death.

That’s when my feelings about the System started. Not with noble ideals about justice or equality. It had started with rage. Pure, simple rage at a system that had killed the only person who’d ever believed in me.

Everything else—the Masked Syndicate, the government position, fighting the World President—it had all grown either directly or indirectly from that seed of fury. I’d told myself it was about helping people, about fixing the broken system, but the truth was uglier than that.

I wanted power because I’d been powerless when it mattered most.

And now I was dragging four incredible women into the same kind of danger that had taken my mother. Different circumstances, same result—people I cared about paying the price for a system that didn’t value their lives.

Sienna was right to question whether this was worth it. The answer was obvious: it wasn’t. Nothing justified putting them through what they’d already endured, let alone what was coming next.

I should walk out there right now and tell them we were done. Pack up, disappear, find some quiet corner of the world where we could build simple, peaceful lives. Let someone else fix the world’s problems.

But even as I thought it, I knew I wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out a coin—an old quarter my mother had given me years ago, back when I was a child afraid of making decisions. "When you can’t choose," she’d said, "sometimes you have to let fate decide for you."

I held the coin up to the light, feeling its familiar weight in my palm. This was ridiculous. Making life-altering decisions based on a coin flip was exactly the kind of impulsive behavior that had gotten us into this mess in the first place.

But I couldn’t think of a better way to cut through the paralysis of doubt and guilt that was eating me alive.

Heads, I continue down this path. Accept the risks, the consequences, the probability that everyone I care about will end up dead because of my choices.

Tails, I give up. Walk away from the World President campaign, abandon the fight against rank injustice, and try to build something smaller and safer with the people who’d already sacrificed too much for my ambitions.

I flipped the coin into the air.

Time seemed to freeze as it spun, catching the light from my desk lamp. And in that moment of suspension, watching the quarter tumble through space, I realized something that should have been obvious from the beginning.

I already knew what I wanted to do.

The revelation hit me with startling clarity. Regardless of what the coin decided, regardless of logic or safety or the rational arguments Sienna had made, I was going to continue. Not because it was the right thing to do, not because I had some noble calling to save the world, but because I couldn’t stop. The rage that had driven me this far hadn’t diminished; if anything, it had grown stronger, fed by every new injustice, every reminder of how the system crushed people like my mother.

I was going to keep fighting because the alternative of accepting defeat and letting the status quo continue felt like betraying her memory all over again.

The coin was still spinning when I stood up and walked toward the door. I didn’t need to see how it landed. I’d already made my choice the moment I’d decided to flip it in the first place.

I found them in the living room, still sitting on the couch where I’d left them. They looked up as I entered, their faces showing a mixture of hope and apprehension. Sienna’s eyes were red from crying, but her expression was alert, ready for whatever I was about to say.

"I’m continuing," I said simply. "The campaign, the goals, all of it. I understand the risks, and I understand what I’m asking of you. But I can’t stop."

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken implications. I could see each of them processing what this meant, calculating the costs and consequences in their own way.

"If any of you want to leave," I continued, "if you want to walk away from this and build safer lives somewhere else, I’ll understand completely. I’ll make sure you have resources, protection, whatever you need to start over."

None of them moved. They didn’t even say anything.

"But if you stay," I said, my voice growing stronger, "I need you to understand that things are going to get worse before they get better. The assassination attempt today won’t be the last one. There will be more attempts on my life, more attempts on your lives. People we care about might die. Some of us might die."

I looked at each of them in turn—Camille with her unwavering loyalty, Alexis with her analytical mind already running through contingencies, Evelyn hidden behind her blindfold but listening intently, and Sienna with her brutal honesty and protective instincts.

"I can’t promise you that this will work out," I said. "I can’t promise you that we’ll succeed, or that the world will be better when we’re done, or that any of us will survive to see the results. All I can promise is that I’m going to keep fighting, with or without help, until either I win or I’m dead."

The words hung in the air like a challenge and a confession rolled into one.

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Reynard’s office sat quiet, untouched. Papers remained scattered across the desk, frozen mid-thought, while the faint hum of the overhead lights buzzed without audience.

On the desk that he contemplated for so long laid a quarter that had stopped spinning, its last motion long since spent.

Tails.