Kamcy
I slipped my head just enough to the side.
The punch cut past my cheek, close enough that I felt the air move.
Specialized Unit 01 overcommitted.
That was all I needed.
I planted my feet, twisted my hips, and drove an uppercut straight into its jaw. The impact rang through my arm and snapped the unit's head back unnaturally. For a fraction of a second, it stayed upright—then its knees buckled and it crashed to the floor like a dropped mannequin.
Silence followed.
I stood there, chest heaving, sweat running down my temples. My knuckles throbbed, but the pain was distant—muted beneath the dull roar still echoing in my skull from the last mission failure.
"…Well," I muttered, rolling my shoulders, "that should do it."
The rage hadn't vanished. It was still there, coiled tight. But now it wasn't clawing at my thoughts. Sparring had given it a direction. A release.
I walked over to the bench along the wall and sat down heavily, elbows resting on my knees. I stared at the floor for a long moment, letting my breathing steady.
Think.
Not react.
Think.
"Pen. Paper," I said.
The unit, which was already by my side, responded immediately. A clipboard and pen shimmered into existence in front of me.
I started writing.
The compound sits on a hill.
They have elevation and a defensive advantage.
Left wing: external guards present. Maintenance tunnel nearby.
Predictable weak point, but monitored.
Right wing: no standing guards. Only wall patrols.
False weakness.
Another thing I had taken note of—and the only reason the mission was possible at all—was that the mission timer only starts after first engagement with an enemy combatant.
Thus, preparation time was unlimited.
Next were radios and cameras.
The enemy troops had communication and surveillance everywhere; that was another massive advantage on their part.
Finally, their numbers.
Too many to brute-force, at least in a one-on-one.
I paused, tapping the pen against the board.
My last run replayed in my head. The chaos. The traps. The near-success.
I had almost won, my annoying target dying aside
Almost—but that also meant the plan could still work. I just needed a new application for it. After all, they hadn't beaten me through sheer strength—rather, they'd beaten me through adaptation. They'd noticed the pattern. Realized I was pulling them away from the compound before slipping inside.
It was likely why the guard dogs and guards were at the exit. A countermeasure they must have sprung at the last minute.
Anyone competent would've figured it out eventually.
It was their home turf, after all.
Their ground.
My pen stopped mid-sentence.
Another thought surfaced—the new application method for my previous plan to work, the way to tweak it.
I leaned back slowly and exhaled through my nose.
"…My last plan was good enough," I murmured.
I stood up.
"But this should end it."
The specialized unit trailed behind me as I approached the armory.
"Four large bags," I said.
They appeared beside me with a low hum.
I moved them aside and focused on the real task.
The facility didn't necessarily give raw materials—but it gave modules. Pre-engineered components designed for high-risk environments were available here; basically, anything considered a weapon was made available. That alone told me something.
This mission wasn't just meant to test our combat skills alone, but our adaptability and the skills we had learned so far. It was meant to test problem-solvers who could think past the obvious.
I moved through the armory as I selected a compact power core—dense, shielded, and heavy in the hands. I anchored it into a reinforced housing, locking it down until the casing sealed with a dull click.
Next came the capacitors. Thick, industrial-grade units designed to store and release massive energy spikes in a single discharge. They slotted into the housing like ribs around a spine.
Then the emitters.
Ringed around the core, each one calibrated to flood an area with violent interference rather than focused output. This wasn't a weapon meant to punch—it was meant to silence.
The control module came last.
A sealed receiver, keyed to a single-use remote. No timer. No repeat activation.
One pulse.
I stepped back and wiped my hands on my pants.
The device was, to put it kindly, ugly-looking—but I'd give myself props. This was my first time designing something like this, and I was sure it would work one hundred percent, after a little analysis and test-running, of course.
The device stood waist-high. Wide. Heavy enough that lifting it made my arms tense. Thick cabling wrapped around the casing, reinforced plating bolted into place.
It was not elegant by any measure, but I was sure it would serve its intended purpose after calibration.
When I was done with it, I packed it into one of the duffels and moved on.
The others were filled quickly.
Guns. Explosives. Trip wires. Small axes. Mines—same as last time.
Then I geared up.
Combat fatigues.
Ballistic vest snug against my chest.
Arm and knee guards locked in place.
Two combat knives on my left hip.
Flash grenades on my right.
A small axe and machete strapped horizontally at my lower back with easy reach.
Bolt magazines distributed across my vest.
A katana secured across my spine. Instead of a gun, I went with an EK Archery Vlad crossbow, with a smaller crossbow resting against my shoulder and reload magazines clipped along the stock.
Night-vision goggles flipped up on my forehead.
Grenades banded across my torso.
Throwing knives fitted into my vest and thigh.
Finally, I grabbed a shovel.
I nodded once to myself.
Then I shoved the bags through the black door, and once again I was ready for my final run. I wasn't losing this time. Looking around, I had no time to waste as the forest closed around me.
I worked.
Not just fast, but deliberately, and like my last run I started with pits first.
Deep enough that escape wasn't an option.
Stakes sharpened and driven down until they stood waiting beneath thin layers of soil and leaves.
Trip wires came next. Some low. Some chest-high. Some attached to nothing at all, serving as false threats meant to slow movement and breed hesitation when the time came.
Deadfalls were positioned along narrow paths, trees partially cut and balanced under tension.
Mines went in last.
I memorized every step. Every safe route. I walked the paths until my feet moved without thought, every location ingrained and mapped out in my mind.
By the time the sun dipped low, I was done setting up my forest of doom. My hands were raw and my muscles ached.
The forest was no longer what it was when I stepped into it a few hours back. It belonged to me.
Having completed this part of the mission, I set out for the next phase. I dragged the final bag toward the right-wing fence.
I pulled out my device. Up close, it looked worse than I remembered—thick casing, heavy emitters, cables reinforced like arteries. Still, it brought a smile to my face as I couldn't wait for the chaos it'd raise soon.
I looked at the wall and spotted two patrol guards overhead, so I waited.
The patrol guards finally passed.
Then I moved.
The distance between the end of the forest and the wall was about fifty meters, and dragging it that far felt like hauling a body uphill. I had no experience doing that—though maybe dragging my target last run counted—but that had been downhill, and I doubted it did.
Reaching the wall, I anchored it, aligned the emitters toward the compound, and stabilized the housing.
Then I vanished back into the trees, found a spot that was a little comfortable, and waited until darkness came. Real darkness—nine p.m. dark.
Resting against the tree branch, the remote detonator warm in my palm, I wore a devious smile that would probably scare me if I had a mirror.
"Well," I whispered, "let's get this show on the road."
I pressed the switch.
The night jerked.
A silent pulse tore outward.
Lights died.
Radios screamed once—then fell silent.
Cameras went dark.
The compound plunged into confusion.
Then the secondary charge I'd set into the device detonated.
Fire bloomed beyond the wall, smoke clawing into the sky.
I nodded, jumped down, grabbed the missile launcher I'd set against it, aimed at the main gate, and fired. The missile soared through the air and made impact in a deafening boom, briefly lighting the night before the main gate collapsed instantly.
Breaking into a sprint, I went for the second launcher—I'd placed it about ten meters toward the right-wing wall. I took aim once more and fired. Stone exploded outward.
Then I did the same with the third—aimed at the left wing. I did this to create the illusion that they were being attacked by a group. I wasn't sure it would work, but with the blackout and no means of communication, I hoped it would.
After all, their main advantage over me was coordination and rapid reorganization after an attack.
I took that away.
Looking at the effects of my final attack, I saw more fire. More shouting.
A flash caught my peripheral vision, and I turned to see where it came from.
Binoculars—from a small section of the wall that hadn't collapsed yet.
They'd seen me.
Smiling, I raised my hand and flipped them off.
Then I ran.
Night vision slid into place.
The forest exploded behind me with activity. Men hollered as they chased on foot, all vehicles probably dead from the EMP attack earlier.
I reached a prepared position and hid, grass covering me, a combat knife in hand.
I waited.
Soon I spotted my first victims in the darkness. They had no vision aid except the moon, which provided little light, but I didn't attack. It wasn't time yet.
The first squad—ten men.
They moved cautiously, likely because they had no light source and didn't know what they were walking into. But their caution was for nothing.
One of them finally made a mistake.
He stepped on a trip wire.
The mounted gun attached to it activated.
The mechanism worked perfectly—counterweights pulled the weapon side to side as it fired continuously, sweeping the clearing.
They never stood a chance. Bodies dropped, blood spilling everywhere.
Turning my head, I spotted another squad of six, looking around in fear as they heard the gunshots nearby, trailing their weapons and watching each other's backs.
It was useless.
Deadfall.
Three reacted in time.
Three didn't.
Spiked mesh crushed them flat, leaving them bleeding out slowly in the grass as chaos reigned.
Mines.
Pits.
The forest killed for me.
Soon a group of five wandered near my hiding place, prancing around in fear. When they got too close, I stepped in.
I threw a flash grenade.
They screamed and fired blindly, killing two of their own.
Knife in hand, I grabbed one man's gun, pushed it aside, and plunged my blade into his throat. In one motion, I ripped it free and tossed it through another man's eye socket, dropping him immediately.
The last one, terrified, fired blindly.
I ducked out of instinct—then realized he was facing the wrong direction, literally shooting into nothing as he shouted.
I grabbed a handgun from his fallen comrade, walked up to him, and shot him in the head at close range.
Turning around, I ran to my next checkpoint, avoiding my traps. When I reached my position, I spotted six men through my night goggles.
I ducked behind a tree and grabbed my axe, then two grenades—one flash, one explosive.
Pins out.
I tossed them and ducked back behind the tree.
They tried to run, but it was too late.
The explosion and shrapnel killed three instantly.
Before the rest could recover, I rushed them, catching one mid-rise and slamming the axe into his forehead.
I pulled it free, ducked low to avoid a gun barrel aimed at my head, hooked the axe around his leg, yanked him down, and dropped the blade onto him, splitting his collarbone.
The last man was blind, unarmed, and pleading.
I retrieved a throwing knife from my vest and sent it straight through his throat.
I wasn't someone comfortable with gore. Movies were one thing—real blood was another. Seeing someone in pain made me uncomfortable. The simulation had dulled that reaction somewhat, but it wasn't something I wanted to get used to.
Simulation or not.
I moved to a tree and pulled back some grass where I'd hidden my reloadable crossbow.
With it in hand, I checked the timer.
Eight and a half minutes left.
Forty enemies killed.
Nodding, I broke into a slow jog, then a full sprint toward the main gate, clearing the fifty meters in no time.
Time for a flawless mission clear.