The moment my foot hit the ground, the world shifted.
It wasn't just the jungle spinning—it was my balance, my blood, my bones all realigning like tectonic plates forced back into place. Every skill I'd ever copied or absorbed screamed back to life. Half a dozen jobs humming through my nerves like they were always there, just waiting.
The scout saw it. He didn't need a skill to recognize the change.
His stance faltered. His weight adjusted automatically, like his instincts were whispering run.
I didn't give him the chance.
My fist came forward—not sloppy, not wild, but clean. A jab. Straight to the chest. It didn't need to break bones. It only needed to connect. Muscle Optimization. Jab. Reflex Calibration. All of them worked in combination as he reeled back like he'd just been hit by a truck wrapped in human skin.
He stumbled, boots sliding through mud and brush, tried to raise a weapon—sidearm halfway drawn.
Observation.
I saw the twitch in his hand before he made it.
