SSS-Rank Skill Copy: I Can Steal Every Class

Chapter 104: The Smuggler’s Toll

The backlash hit him three blocks away from the burning laboratory.

Glen stumbled into a narrow, trash-strewn alleyway, his shoulder slamming hard against the corrugated steel wall of a noodle stand. He dropped to his knees, the Abyssal blade clattering onto the wet pavement.

He couldn’t breathe. It felt as though someone had wrapped a chain of barbed wire around his lungs and pulled it tight.

Corrupted Synthesis was a B-Rank skill, stolen from a creature that had two cores to manage the conflicting energies. Glen only had one. Forcing the explosive kinetic energy of Lightning Movement to merge with the necrotic, entropic decay of Void Touch had created a devastating attack, but the internal toll was catastrophic.

His right arm, the one he had used to hurl the black lightning, was completely numb. The skin from his wrist to his elbow was charred black, the flesh cracked and weeping a thin, dark fluid. The mana channels in his forearm had ruptured under the sheer density of the synthesized attack.

He coughed, a violent, hacking spasm that brought up a mouthful of black blood.

The void fragment in his chest pulsed, a frantic, erratic rhythm. It was trying to heal him, pushing its dark energy into the ruptured channels, but the damage was too severe for a quick fix. His Enhanced Regeneration was fighting a losing battle against the residual anti-mana he had forced through his own system.

Glen leaned his head back against the cold steel wall, closing his eyes as the rain washed the blood from his chin.

He had the Purification Core. It was resting safely in the canvas bag slung across his chest, right next to the Abyssal Prism. He had the cure for his mother.

But having it and delivering it were two entirely different problems.

He was in the Outer Rings of Neo-Kyoto, thousands of miles away from the subterranean ruins of Sector Nine. He couldn’t just walk into an Association transit hub and buy a ticket to Johannesburg. He was an unregistered Independent carrying a stolen, priceless corporate artifact, and he had just blown up a multi-billion-credit Astra Guild black-site. By dawn, every enforcer, bounty hunter, and corporate assassin in the Eastern Spire would be looking for the boy with the black sword.

He needed a smuggler. He needed someone who operated outside the Guild’s network, someone who could move high-value cargo across international borders without asking questions.

Glen forced his eyes open. He reached into his jacket with his good left hand and pulled out the stolen Astra datapad.

The screen was cracked from the fight with the Chimera, but it still functioned. He bypassed the corporate manifest and opened the encrypted directory he had downloaded from the lab’s servers. He wasn’t looking for the synthesis blueprints this time. He was looking for the lab’s logistical records.

Astra didn’t build black-sites in the Outer Rings just for the cheap real estate. They built them here because it was easier to acquire "test subjects" without the Association noticing. And to move those subjects, they needed off-the-books transport.

Glen’s eyes scanned the glowing green text, ignoring the pain radiating up his arm.

He found it. A recurring payment ledger to an independent transport syndicate operating out of the flooded docks in Sector 77. The syndicate was listed under a single, ominous moniker: The Ferryman.

Glen memorized the coordinates and shoved the datapad back into his jacket.

He grabbed the hilt of the Abyssal blade with his left hand, using it as a crutch to push himself up from the pavement. His legs felt like lead, and his vision swam with dark spots, but he forced himself to stand.

He couldn’t stop. Not now. His mother was dying, and Caleb was trapped in the dark.

Glen pulled his hood up against the rain, hiding his face, and limped out of the alleyway, heading deeper into the neon-lit labyrinth of the slums.

Sector 77 was a graveyard of rusted cargo ships and decaying industrial cranes. The docks had been abandoned by the Guilds decades ago when the sea levels rose, flooding the lower levels with toxic, iridescent water. Now, it was a haven for the worst kind of scum the Eastern Spire had to offer.

Glen walked along the rotting wooden pier, his boots splashing through puddles of chemical runoff.

He had wrapped his ruined right arm tightly in a strip of torn canvas, hiding the charred flesh from prying eyes. He kept his head down, his Predator Domain pulled in tight to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. He didn’t want a fight. He just wanted a ride.

He found the coordinates listed in the datapad. It was a massive, rusted trawler moored at the end of the pier. The ship looked like it hadn’t moved in years, its hull covered in thick layers of barnacles and glowing green moss. But the engines were humming with a low, powerful vibration, and the deck was lined with heavy, automated turret emplacements.

Two massive men stood at the bottom of the gangplank. They weren’t wearing corporate armor. They wore heavy, reinforced leather coats and carried crude, oversized slug-throwers. They looked like bouncers for a slaughterhouse.

Glen approached them.

"Dock’s closed, kid," the larger of the two men grunted, stepping forward to block the gangplank. He looked down at Glen’s battered clothes and the canvas bag slung across his chest. "Unless you’re lost, I suggest you turn around before you lose that bag."

"I’m looking for the Ferryman," Glen said, his voice a dry rasp.

The two men exchanged a look. The larger man chuckled, a sound like grinding gravel. "The Ferryman doesn’t take walk-ins, rat. You need a referral, and you need a lot of credits. You don’t look like you have either."

"I have a referral from the Astra R&D division in Sector 4-B," Glen said, his dark eyes locking onto the man’s face. "Or at least, what’s left of it."

The man’s smile vanished. He gripped his slug-thrower tighter. "What did you say?"

"I said I need to move a package," Glen repeated, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm register. "And I don’t have time to argue with the hired help. Get out of my way, or I’ll cut you in half."

The man sneered, raising the heavy weapon. "You’ve got a lot of nerve for a half-dead—"

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Glen didn’t use a skill. He just moved. He stepped inside the man’s guard, grabbed the barrel of the slug-thrower with his left hand, and shoved it upward just as the man pulled the trigger. The deafening roar of the gunshot echoed across the docks, the heavy slug tearing a hole through the rusted crane above them.

Before the man could recover, Glen drove the pommel of the Abyssal blade directly into his throat. The man collapsed, gagging and clutching his crushed windpipe.

The second guard raised his weapon, but Glen was already there. He swept the heavy black sword in a tight, horizontal arc, the flat of the blade slamming into the side of the man’s head with bone-jarring force. The guard hit the wooden pier and didn’t move.

Glen stepped over the groaning men and walked up the gangplank.

The deck of the trawler was a maze of stacked shipping containers and heavy chains. Glen navigated through the narrow pathways, his senses on high alert. He could feel several mana signatures on the ship, but they were scattered, unorganized.

He reached the heavy steel door leading to the ship’s bridge. He didn’t bother knocking. He kicked the door open and stepped inside.

The bridge was a chaotic mess of glowing monitors, empty liquor bottles, and tangled wiring. Sitting in the captain’s chair, his boots resting casually on the navigation console, was a man who looked entirely out of place on a rusted smuggler’s ship.

He was young, maybe in his late twenties, wearing a pristine, tailored white suit that practically glowed in the dim light of the bridge. His hair was slicked back, and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of sleek, mirrored cybernetic shades.

He didn’t look surprised to see Glen. He didn’t even reach for a weapon. He just took a slow sip from a crystal glass of amber liquid.

"You know," the man said, his voice smooth and cultured, "good help is incredibly hard to find these days. I pay those idiots a premium to keep the riffraff off my ship, and you dismantle them in five seconds flat."

"Are you the Ferryman?" Glen asked, the Abyssal blade resting casually against his leg.

"I am," the man smiled, revealing perfectly white teeth. "And you must be the lunatic who just blew up Astra’s multi-billion-credit black-site. The corporate chatter on the encrypted channels is absolutely frantic. They’re calling you a terrorist. A monster. A ’Wraith’."

"I need to move a package," Glen said, ignoring the commentary. "To Johannesburg. Sector Nine."

The Ferryman laughed, a genuine, delighted sound. He swung his legs off the console and stood up, smoothing the wrinkles from his suit.

"Johannesburg?" he repeated, shaking his head. "Kid, Johannesburg doesn’t exist anymore. The Wanderer turned it into a parking lot of black glass. There are no transit hubs, no safe landing zones, and the airspace is heavily restricted by the Association’s quarantine protocols. You’re asking me to fly into a graveyard."

"I know what it is," Glen said, his voice hardening. "Can you do it or not?"

The Ferryman walked over to a small, elegant wooden cabinet and poured himself another drink. "I can move anything, anywhere, for the right price. But a hot drop into a quarantined, S-Rank disaster zone? That’s going to cost you more than just credits, Wraith. That’s going to cost you a favor."

"I don’t do favors," Glen said.

"Everyone does favors," the Ferryman countered, turning to face him. The mirrored shades reflected Glen’s battered, blood-soaked reflection. "You’re holding something Astra wants very badly. I don’t know what it is, and frankly, I don’t care. But if I help you move it, I become an accessory to corporate terrorism. I need collateral."

"What kind of collateral?" Glen asked, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword.

"There’s a vault," the Ferryman said, taking a sip of his drink. "Deep in the lower levels of the Celestial Tower. It belongs to Empress Ryun’s personal guard. Inside that vault is a pre-Awakening artifact that I have been trying to acquire for a very long time. My usual contractors are too terrified of the Empress to even attempt it."

"You want me to rob the SSS-Rank Champion of the Eastern Spire," Glen stated flatly.

"I want you to rob her guards," the Ferryman corrected with a smile. "You’ve already proven you can handle Astra’s elites. You get me the artifact, and I will personally fly your package to the ruins of Johannesburg and drop it right on the doorstep of Sector Nine."

Glen stared at the man in the white suit. It was a suicide mission. Breaking into a black-site in the Outer Rings was one thing; infiltrating the Celestial Tower was entirely different. It was the heart of the Mega-Sanctuary, guarded by the strongest Hunters in Asia.

But he didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t fly a ship himself, and he couldn’t risk the Purification Core being intercepted by the Association.

"Fine," Glen said. "I’ll get your artifact. But I need to send a message first. An encrypted burst transmission to Sector Nine."

The Ferryman raised an eyebrow. "A transmission? Kid, if I open a comms channel to a quarantined zone, the Celestial Tower’s interference grid will trace the signal back to this ship in less than three minutes. Astra will have a strike team here before you can even say hello."

"I don’t need three minutes," Glen said. "I just need ten seconds."

The Ferryman studied him for a long moment, weighing the risk against the potential reward of the artifact. Finally, he sighed and set his glass down on the console.

"Ten seconds," the Ferryman agreed, walking over to the communications array. "You better talk fast, Wraith."

He typed a rapid sequence of commands into the terminal. The screens flickered, displaying a complex web of routing protocols and encryption keys.

"I’m bouncing the signal through three different proxy servers in the slums," the Ferryman explained, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "It’ll mask our location, but only briefly. The moment the connection is established, the clock starts."

He hit a final key, and a harsh, static-filled hiss filled the bridge.

"Channel open," the Ferryman said, stepping back. "Talk."

Glen stepped up to the console. He stared at the blinking green light of the microphone, his heart hammering against his ribs. He hadn’t spoken to Isla since he left her crying in the ashes. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to apologize for abandoning her.

But he didn’t have time for apologies.

"Isla," Glen said, his voice rough and urgent. "It’s Glen. I’m in Neo-Kyoto."

The static hissed for a agonizing second, and then, a voice broke through the interference. It was distorted, barely audible over the crackle of the encrypted channel, but it was her.

"Glen? Glen, is that you? Oh my god, you’re alive..."

"Listen to me," Glen interrupted, his eyes fixed on the countdown timer on the screen. Eight seconds. "I found it. Astra was building a cure for the rot. A Purification Core. I have it, Isla. I have the cure for my mother."

"You... you found it?" Isla’s voice cracked with disbelief and sudden, overwhelming hope. "Glen, how did you—"

"I’m sending it to you," Glen said, his voice hardening with absolute resolve. "I found a smuggler. He’s going to drop it in Sector Nine. You have to be ready for it. You have to save her."

"Glen, wait!" Isla yelled over the static, the panic returning to her voice. "What about you? Are you coming back? You can’t stay there, the Guilds will kill you!"

Four seconds.

"I can’t come back," Glen whispered, the cold emptiness settling over him once again. "Not yet. I still have to find Caleb. And I have to pay a toll."

"Glen, please—"

"Tell my mother I’m sorry," Glen said.

Two seconds.

"And tell her I’ll see her when I reach S-Rank."

The Ferryman slammed his hand down on the console, severing the connection. The bridge plunged back into silence, save for the hum of the engines.

"Signal terminated," the Ferryman said, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. "And not a second too soon. The Tower’s grid was already locking onto the second proxy."

Glen stood staring at the dead microphone for a long time. He had done it. He had secured the cure, and he had told Isla it was coming. His mother was going to live.

But the cost was steep. He was trapped in the Eastern Spire, indebted to a smuggler, and about to declare war on the Empress of Neo-Kyoto.

He turned away from the console, his dark eyes locking onto the Ferryman.

"Where is the vault?" Glen asked.

The Ferryman smiled, picking up his glass of amber liquid. "Level 40 of the Celestial Tower. Welcome to the big leagues, Wraith."