SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery-Chapter 327: The Gauntlet

The wall of sound hit me like a physical force as we stepped away from the plane. What had seemed manageable from the aircraft steps became overwhelming as we moved into the crowd. The security barriers created a narrow corridor toward the waiting vehicles, but the press of bodies on either side made it feel like walking through a canyon of voices and flashing lights.

"Mr. Reynard!" A reporter thrust a microphone toward me, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Sarah Martinez, BBC News. What’s your response to President Valeska’s statement that you pose an existential threat to democratic governance?"

I paused, caught off guard. Valeska had made public statements about me? "I... I wasn’t aware of any specific statements," I said, immediately regretting the admission of ignorance.

"Mr. Reynard!" Another voice, this one with a German accent. "Klaus Weber, Deutsche Welle. Chancellor Volkov has suggested that unregulated individuals represent a form of economic terrorism. Do you agree with that assessment?"

Economic terrorism? The question seemed to come from nowhere, and I felt my mind racing to formulate a response that wouldn’t sound either defensive or aggressive. "I think that’s a significant oversimplification of—"

"Are you planning to establish a global registry for people such as yourself?" interrupted a third reporter, this one holding a tablet that was clearly recording video.

"A registry?" The question struck me as deeply troubling, but I couldn’t tell if it was a genuine policy proposal or a hypothetical. "I don’t think—"

"Mr. Reynard, Maria Santos of Folha de S.Paulo. President Santos has expressed concerns about the environmental impact of enhanced abilities. Can you comment on the carbon footprint of your recent activities?"

Carbon footprint? I stared at the reporter, genuinely confused. "I’m sorry, I don’t understand the connection—"

"What about your involvement as the Masked Syndicate?" came another voice. "Don’t certain individuals deserve compensation for the trauma your activities have caused?"

The questions were coming faster now, overlapping and building on each other in ways that made it impossible to address any single one adequately. This was like drowning in an ocean of expectations and accusations I hadn’t even known existed.

"Mr. Reynard, can you confirm rumors that you’ve been coordinating with underground resistance movements in authoritarian countries?"

"What?" I turned toward the voice, but another question immediately followed.

"Is it true that you are capable of getting multiple jobs and levelling up skills at a rapid pace?"

"Have you been in contact with any terrorist organizations?"

"What’s your position on the proposed System Accountability Act?"

I had no idea what half these questions were referring to. System Accountability Act? Underground resistance movements? I felt like I’d walked into the middle of a conversation that had been going on for months without me.

"I—" I started, then stopped. How could I answer questions about legislation I’d never heard of? How could I comment on activities I wasn’t aware of?

"Mr. Reynard," came a voice with a slight accent I couldn’t place, "can you address concerns that your global broadcast was an attempt to incite worldwide revolution?"

Revolution? The word hit me like a slap. I mean I mostly wanted the truth to be known, but how could I explain that without sounding naive?

"Are you working with any government agencies to develop more individuals who can have multiple jobs?"

"What’s your response to claims that you’ve been secretly involved with NovaCore?"

"Can you confirm that you’ve been conducting unauthorized medical experiments?"

The questions were becoming more aggressive, more accusatory. I felt the crowd pressing closer despite the security barriers, camera flashes creating a disorienting strobe effect, and voices shouting over each other in a cacophony of demands for answers I didn’t have.

"Mr. Reynard, what do you say to families who claim you’ve inspired copycat masked individuals who’ve caused civilian casualties?"

That one stopped me cold. Copycat masked individuals? I remember that my Trial as Mr. Leviathan had me answer questions like those, but I didn’t know that these individuals were continuing to appear. The thought that I might be indirectly responsible for innocent people being hurt made my stomach clench.

"I... if that’s true, then I—"

"So you admit responsibility for the casualties?"

"No, I didn’t say—"

"Are you planning to surrender to international authorities?"

"What’s your exit strategy if these talks fail?"

"Do you consider yourself above the law?"

The questions were coming too fast, too aggressively, and I could feel myself starting to shut down. This wasn’t an interview—it was an interrogation, and I was failing it badly. Every answer I gave seemed to spawn three more questions, each more loaded than the last.

"Mr. Reynard, is it true that you’ve been romantically involved with multiple individuals as part of a breeding program?"

That question made me stop walking entirely. "What did you just say?"

"Sources suggest that your living arrangements had 4 other women living with you and—"

"That’s completely—"

"Are you planning to establish a society without jobs?"

"What’s your position on rank restrictions?"

The questions were becoming surreal, touching on topics that seemed to come from some alternate reality where I was a completely different person with completely different goals. I felt trapped, surrounded by voices demanding answers to questions that seemed designed to make me look guilty regardless of how I responded.

"Mr. Reynard, can you comment on reports that you’ve been in communication with extraterrestrial entities?"

I stared at the reporter who had asked that question, wondering if I’d misheard. "Extraterrestrial entities?"

"Sources indicate that your ability to have multiple jobs comes from outside our known planet—"

"That’s absolutely ridiculous—"

"So you deny all contact with non-human intelligence?"

"I—what? Of course I—"

"Mr. Reynard, what’s your response to allegations that you’ve been conducting psychological experiments on your companions?"

The mention of the girls made something cold settle in my chest. "I would never—"

"Are they there voluntarily?"

"Of course they’re—"

"Can you prove they haven’t been coerced?"

"How can I prove a negative—"

"Mr. Reynard, step aside, please." Evelyn’s voice cut through the chaos with quiet authority. I felt her hand on my arm, guiding me away from the microphones and cameras. "Mr. Reynard has no further comments at this time."

"Ms. Evelyn, can you comment on the Cain Protocol experiments?"

"Are you here voluntarily?"

"What’s your relationship with Mr. Reynard?"

But Evelyn ignored the questions entirely, her blindfolded face turned forward as she navigated through the crowd with surprising confidence. Her grip on my arm was firm but not controlling, and I found myself following her lead gratefully.

"Thank you," I said quietly as we reached the relative safety of the waiting vehicles. "I felt like I was drowning in there."

"You were," she replied simply. "That wasn’t journalism—that was psychological warfare. They wanted to overwhelm you, make you say something you’d regret."

I slumped into the car seat, feeling emotionally drained. "Half those questions were about things I’ve never heard of. Breeding programs? Extraterrestrial contact? Where do they get these ideas?"

"Speculation becomes fact in echo chambers," Evelyn said, settling beside me. "Someone suggests a possibility, others repeat it, and eventually it becomes accepted truth even without evidence. It’s a classic information warfare technique."

Prime Minister MacLeod got into the car across from us, Anthony sliding in beside him. MacLeod was studying his phone with a thoughtful expression.

"Well," he said, looking up at me, "you certainly know how to make an entrance. My staff is telling me that footage of your arrival is already trending globally. You’re the top story on every major news network."

"Is that good or bad?" I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

"Both," MacLeod replied honestly. "Your supporters are energized. They see you as someone who’s genuine and unprepared for political games, which they find refreshing. Your opponents are pleased because they think you looked unprepared and overwhelmed, which they can use against you."

"I was unprepared and overwhelmed. I didn’t expect so many questions weird questions." I admitted.

"Which is exactly what makes you different from everyone else we’re about to meet," MacLeod said. "They’re all professionals at this kind of thing. You’re not, and that’s both a weakness and a strength."

Anthony looked up from his phone, where he’d been rapidly scrolling through something. "Boss, you need to see this. The hashtag #ReyRevealed is trending worldwide. There are already compilation videos of your responses, analysis videos, and about a thousand memes."

"Memes?" I asked weakly.

"Most of them are actually sympathetic," Anthony said, showing me his screen. "People are relating to the ’deer in headlights’ thing. There’s a whole thread of people sharing times they’ve been ambushed with questions they couldn’t answer."

I looked at the screen, seeing my own confused expression turned into various image macros with captions like "When someone asks about your five-year plan" and "When you realize you’re in over your head." Despite everything, I found myself smiling slightly.

"At least they’re not all negative," I said.

"The negative ones are more organized," Evelyn warned. "Professional disinformation campaigns are coordinated and well-funded. Authentic public reaction is chaotic but harder to sustain."

As we drove through the Swiss countryside toward the UN facility, I tried to process what had just happened. In the space of twenty minutes, I’d gone from feeling confident and prepared to feeling like I’d been fed through a meat grinder. And this was just the press—the actual world leaders would be far more sophisticated in their approach.

"Is it always like that?" I asked MacLeod.

"For most politicians? No. We have media training, prepared statements, communications teams that brief us on likely questions." He studied my face. "But you’re not most politicians. You’re something new, and that scares people. Scared people ask uncomfortable questions."

The UN facility came into view as we rounded a bend. It was a modern structure of glass and steel that seemed to blend into the mountainous landscape around it. It was smaller than I’d expected, more like a high-end conference center than the massive complex I’d imagined.

"I’ll say this for the last time, but remember," MacLeod said as we approached the main entrance, "you’re not just representing yourself in there. You’re representing everyone who believes there’s a better way to handle jobs, the system, ranks and global governance. They’re counting on you to be better than what they’ve seen before."

"No pressure," I said, echoing my earlier comment.

"Exactly the right amount of pressure," he replied with a slight smile.

Security was tight but efficient. We were processed through multiple checkpoints, our credentials verified, and our belongings screened. Anthony’s numerous pockets caused some delay, but his identification as my security consultant eventually cleared him through.

"Mr. Reynard," said a woman in a crisp suit who appeared to be some kind of protocol officer, "the other delegates are already assembled in the main conference room. If you’re ready, I can escort you there now."

I looked at my small team, Evelyn with her blindfold and briefcase, Anthony in his ridiculous Hawaiian shirt but alert and professional, MacLeod with his reassuring presence and political expertise. Whatever was about to happen, I was as ready as I could be.

"Lead the way," I said.

The corridors of the facility were eerily quiet, our footsteps echoing off polished floors. Through large windows, I could see the Swiss Alps stretching into the distance, their snow-covered peaks a stark contrast to the warm interior of the building.

"The main conference room is just ahead," the protocol officer said, gesturing toward a set of imposing double doors. "The other delegates are already seated. You’ll be entering from the main entrance, so you’ll be visible to everyone immediately."

She paused at the doors, her hand on the handle. "Are you ready, Mr. Reynard?"

I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of everything that had brought me to this moment. The confused press conference, the global attention, the expectations of millions of people who saw me as either a savior or a threat. The world leaders waiting beyond these doors, each with their own agenda, their own methods, their own reasons for being here.

"I’m ready," I said.

The protocol officer opened the doors, and I stepped into the room.

The first thing that struck me was the size—it was larger than I’d expected, with a circular table that could seat perhaps fifty people. The second thing was the lighting—bright but not harsh, designed to be comfortable for extended discussions while ensuring everyone could see everyone else clearly.

The third thing was the silence.

Every single person in the room, whether they were presidents, prime ministers, chancellors, and various other leaders, all turned to look at me as I entered. The conversations that had been taking place stopped mid-sentence, and I found myself the focus of dozens of pairs of eyes, each belonging to someone who held the power to shape the fate of nations.

For a moment that felt like an eternity, nobody moved. I stood in the doorway, acutely aware of my heartbeat, of the weight of their collective attention, of the fact that this moment would determine everything that followed.

Then, somewhere in the room, someone began to clap.

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