SSS-Rank Skill Copy: I Can Steal Every Class

Chapter 113: The Apex Predator

The rain in the Outer Rings of Neo-Kyoto was a constant, miserable companion. It fell in thick, acidic sheets that washed the grime of the slums into the overflowing storm drains, carrying with it the stench of chemical exhaust and rotting garbage.

Glen stood on the edge of a rusted, skeletal billboard overlooking Sector 44-Junction, a major logistical artery for the Astra Guild.

He didn’t wear a hood to shield his face from the downpour. The acidic rain hissed as it hit his skin, instantly neutralized by the faint, invisible barrier of his S-Rank aura. He was perfectly still, a dark silhouette against the garish, flickering neon lights of the city below.

He had been hunting for three days since the Ferryman’s ship disappeared into the stratosphere.

He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. The Apex Sovereign class didn’t require the same biological upkeep as a standard human Hunter. The void fragment, now perfectly fused with his core, sustained him. It fed on the ambient mana of the Eastern Spire, drawing energy from the very air around him. He felt a cold, absolute clarity that bordered on the divine.

Below him, the junction was heavily fortified.

Before Glen had robbed the Celestial Tower and burned the black-site, this checkpoint had been manned by a handful of bored, low-level enforcers extorting credits from independent scavengers. Now, it looked like a military staging ground.

Massive, mobile barricades of reinforced plasteel blocked the main thoroughfare. Four heavy, bipedal combat mechs patrolled the perimeter, their rotary mana-cannons sweeping the shadows with glowing red targeting lasers. Behind the barricades, a platoon of fifty elite Astra Guild operatives stood in tight, disciplined formations. They wore the sleek, cyan-lit armor of the corporate military, armed with high-frequency mono-molecular blades and heavy pulse-rifles.

They were terrified.

Glen could feel their fear radiating upward like heat from a furnace. His S-Rank senses didn’t just perceive mana signatures anymore; they perceived the emotional resonance attached to them. He could feel the erratic, spiking heartbeats of the enforcers, the cold sweat pooling beneath their helmets, the desperate, silent prayers they muttered to the Administrators.

They were looking for the Wraith.

Glen drew the Abyssal blade. The heavy black iron didn’t just hum; it seemed to sing, a low, resonant vibration that perfectly matched the dark rhythm of his core.

He didn’t need to sneak past them. He didn’t need to find a ventilation shaft or a blind spot in their patrol routes. He wasn’t a rat scurrying through the walls of their empire anymore. He was the monster they had built their walls to keep out.

Glen stepped off the billboard.

He plummeted toward the junction, the wind roaring in his ears. He didn’t use Shadow Thread to arrest his fall. He didn’t use Lightning Movement to alter his trajectory. He simply let gravity do the work, his dark eyes locked onto the center of the Astra formation.

At fifty feet above the ground, the targeting lasers of the combat mechs snapped onto him.

"Contact!" a synthesized voice roared over the junction’s PA system. "Airborne target! Open fire!"

The rotary mana-cannons spun up with a deafening whine, unleashing a torrent of concentrated, superheated plasma into the air. The sky above the junction lit up like a second sunrise, the sheer volume of fire enough to vaporize a small building.

Glen didn’t dodge. He triggered his Predator Domain.

He didn’t just expand the aura; he condensed it, forming a localized, spherical shield of absolute entropic decay around his falling body.

The plasma bolts slammed into the invisible barrier and simply ceased to exist. The anti-mana didn’t deflect the energy; it unmade it. The superheated plasma was instantly cooled to absolute zero, shattering into harmless, microscopic flakes of black ice that drifted away in the wind.

Glen hit the ground in the exact center of the Astra formation.

The impact was catastrophic. The kinetic force of his S-Rank landing, combined with the sudden, explosive expansion of his Predator Domain, created a shockwave that tore the junction apart.

The reinforced plasteel barricades shattered like cheap glass, the heavy fragments flying outward like shrapnel. The fifty elite Astra operatives were thrown off their feet, their cyan-lit armor flickering and dying as the anti-mana suffocated their magical shielding.

The four combat mechs, weighing several tons each, were pushed backward, their hydraulic legs screeching in protest as they tried to maintain their balance against the crushing pressure of Glen’s aura.

Glen stood up slowly from the crater he had carved into the concrete.

The rain around him had stopped falling. The droplets were frozen in mid-air, suspended by the sheer density of his localized gravity and the freezing cold of the void.

"I am looking for the Regional Director," Glen said. His voice wasn’t loud, but the dual-layered, resonant echo carried effortlessly over the groans of the injured enforcers and the whining servos of the mechs. "Who wants to point the way?"

The Astra operatives scrambled backward, their discipline completely shattered. They raised their pulse-rifles, their hands shaking violently, and pulled the triggers.

Nothing happened.

The anti-mana in the air had completely neutralized the firing mechanisms. The high-tech weaponry of the Eastern Spire was useless in the presence of the Apex Sovereign.

"Kill him!" the squad commander screamed, drawing his mono-molecular katana and charging forward, driven by blind, desperate panic. "Use the blades! Cut him down!"

A dozen enforcers followed his lead, drawing their swords and rushing Glen from all sides.

Glen didn’t even raise the Abyssal blade. He looked at the charging commander, his pitch-black eyes devoid of any human empathy.

He raised his left hand and snapped his fingers.

Spatial Fold.

He didn’t teleport himself. He folded the space around the charging enforcers. The air warped violently, a sickening, geometric distortion that defied the laws of physics. The twelve men were instantly teleported fifty feet straight up into the air, their forward momentum preserved.

They materialized in the sky, screaming, and plummeted back down to the concrete.

The sickening crunch of breaking bones echoed through the junction as they hit the ground. None of them got back up.

The remaining operatives froze, staring at the broken bodies of their comrades in absolute horror. They had trained to fight monsters. They had trained to fight rogue Hunters. They had no training for a boy who could rewrite reality with a snap of his fingers.

The four combat mechs, their AI targeting systems finally recalibrating to the anti-mana interference, stepped forward. Massive, hydraulic blades deployed from their forearms, humming with raw, unrefined kinetic energy that didn’t rely on mana.

"Warning. Lethal force authorized," the mechs droned in unison.

They charged, the ground shaking beneath their massive, metallic strides.

Glen turned to face them. He gripped the hilt of the Abyssal blade with both hands. He didn’t use Corrupted Synthesis. He didn’t need to merge his skills anymore. He just channeled the raw, unadulterated power of the void fragment directly into the black iron.

The sword didn’t glow. It became a tear in the universe, a jagged line of absolute nothingness that drank the ambient light of the junction.

Glen triggered Lightning Movement, blurring forward.

He didn’t strike at the mechs’ armored plating. He didn’t aim for their optical sensors or their hydraulic joints. He simply ran straight through their formation, swinging the Abyssal blade in a single, continuous, horizontal arc.

He reappeared fifty feet behind the mechs, the blue electricity of his movement fading into the rain. He slowly sheathed the Abyssal blade, the heavy iron sliding into the canvas scabbard with a soft, metallic hiss.

For a long second, nothing happened.

Then, all four combat mechs slowly slid in half at the waist.

The top halves of the massive machines crashed to the concrete, their internal circuitry sparking and dying as the anti-mana rotted their power cores. The heavy, bipedal legs stood frozen for a moment before collapsing under their own weight.

Glen turned around.

The remaining Astra operatives dropped their weapons. They fell to their knees, pressing their foreheads against the wet concrete in a gesture of absolute, terrifying submission. They weren’t surrendering to a Hunter. They were worshipping a god of death.

Glen walked slowly through the kneeling men, his boots splashing in the puddles of rainwater and hydraulic fluid. He stopped in front of a terrified, trembling lieutenant whose armor was heavily decorated with corporate commendations.

Glen reached down, grabbed the man by the throat, and lifted him effortlessly off the ground with one hand.

"The Regional Director," Glen repeated, his dark eyes boring into the man’s soul. "Where is he?"

"Sector 12," the lieutenant gasped, clawing desperately at Glen’s iron grip. "The... the Azure Spire. Penthouse level. Please... please don’t kill me."

Glen stared at him for a long moment. He could feel the man’s heartbeat, frantic and weak, fluttering against his palm like a trapped bird. It would be so easy to crush it. It would be so easy to let the void consume him.

But Glen wasn’t a mindless beast. He was a predator with a purpose.

He dropped the lieutenant. The man collapsed to the concrete, gasping for air and sobbing in relief.

"Tell your superiors," Glen said, his voice carrying across the silent, ruined junction. "Tell the Astra Guild that the Outer Rings are closed. Tell them that if they send another squad down here, I won’t just kill them. I will rot their souls."

Glen turned and walked away, heading toward the massive, glowing transit elevators that led up to the Inner Sectors.

He had the location. He had the power.

It was time to take the war to the corporate boardrooms.

Chapter 112: The Apex Predator

The rain in the Outer Rings of Neo-Kyoto was a constant, miserable companion. It fell in thick, acidic sheets that washed the grime of the slums into the overflowing storm drains, carrying with it the stench of chemical exhaust and rotting garbage.

Glen stood on the edge of a rusted, skeletal billboard overlooking Sector 44-Junction, a major logistical artery for the Astra Guild.

He didn’t wear a hood to shield his face from the downpour. The acidic rain hissed as it hit his skin, instantly neutralized by the faint, invisible barrier of his S-Rank aura. He was perfectly still, a dark silhouette against the garish, flickering neon lights of the city below.

He had been hunting for three days since the Ferryman’s ship disappeared into the stratosphere.

He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. The Apex Sovereign class didn’t require the same biological upkeep as a standard human Hunter. The void fragment, now perfectly fused with his core, sustained him. It fed on the ambient mana of the Eastern Spire, drawing energy from the very air around him. He felt a cold, absolute clarity that bordered on the divine.

Below him, the junction was heavily fortified.

Before Glen had robbed the Celestial Tower and burned the black-site, this checkpoint had been manned by a handful of bored, low-level enforcers extorting credits from independent scavengers. Now, it looked like a military staging ground.

Massive, mobile barricades of reinforced plasteel blocked the main thoroughfare. Four heavy, bipedal combat mechs patrolled the perimeter, their rotary mana-cannons sweeping the shadows with glowing red targeting lasers. Behind the barricades, a platoon of fifty elite Astra Guild operatives stood in tight, disciplined formations. They wore the sleek, cyan-lit armor of the corporate military, armed with high-frequency mono-molecular blades and heavy pulse-rifles.

They were terrified.

Glen could feel their fear radiating upward like heat from a furnace. His S-Rank senses didn’t just perceive mana signatures anymore; they perceived the emotional resonance attached to them. He could feel the erratic, spiking heartbeats of the enforcers, the cold sweat pooling beneath their helmets, the desperate, silent prayers they muttered to the Administrators.

They were looking for the Wraith.

Glen drew the Abyssal blade. The heavy black iron didn’t just hum; it seemed to sing, a low, resonant vibration that perfectly matched the dark rhythm of his core.

He didn’t need to sneak past them. He didn’t need to find a ventilation shaft or a blind spot in their patrol routes. He wasn’t a rat scurrying through the walls of their empire anymore. He was the monster they had built their walls to keep out.

Glen stepped off the billboard.

He plummeted toward the junction, the wind roaring in his ears. He didn’t use Shadow Thread to arrest his fall. He didn’t use Lightning Movement to alter his trajectory. He simply let gravity do the work, his dark eyes locked onto the center of the Astra formation.

At fifty feet above the ground, the targeting lasers of the combat mechs snapped onto him.

"Contact!" a synthesized voice roared over the junction’s PA system. "Airborne target! Open fire!"

The rotary mana-cannons spun up with a deafening whine, unleashing a torrent of concentrated, superheated plasma into the air. The sky above the junction lit up like a second sunrise, the sheer volume of fire enough to vaporize a small building.

Glen didn’t dodge. He triggered his Predator Domain.

He didn’t just expand the aura; he condensed it, forming a localized, spherical shield of absolute entropic decay around his falling body.

The plasma bolts slammed into the invisible barrier and simply ceased to exist. The anti-mana didn’t deflect the energy; it unmade it. The superheated plasma was instantly cooled to absolute zero, shattering into harmless, microscopic flakes of black ice that drifted away in the wind.

Glen hit the ground in the exact center of the Astra formation.

The impact was catastrophic. The kinetic force of his S-Rank landing, combined with the sudden, explosive expansion of his Predator Domain, created a shockwave that tore the junction apart.

The reinforced plasteel barricades shattered like cheap glass, the heavy fragments flying outward like shrapnel. The fifty elite Astra operatives were thrown off their feet, their cyan-lit armor flickering and dying as the anti-mana suffocated their magical shielding.

The four combat mechs, weighing several tons each, were pushed backward, their hydraulic legs screeching in protest as they tried to maintain their balance against the crushing pressure of Glen’s aura.

Glen stood up slowly from the crater he had carved into the concrete.

The rain around him had stopped falling. The droplets were frozen in mid-air, suspended by the sheer density of his localized gravity and the freezing cold of the void.

"I am looking for the Regional Director," Glen said. His voice wasn’t loud, but the dual-layered, resonant echo carried effortlessly over the groans of the injured enforcers and the whining servos of the mechs. "Who wants to point the way?"

The Astra operatives scrambled backward, their discipline completely shattered. They raised their pulse-rifles, their hands shaking violently, and pulled the triggers.

Nothing happened.

The anti-mana in the air had completely neutralized the firing mechanisms. The high-tech weaponry of the Eastern Spire was useless in the presence of the Apex Sovereign.

"Kill him!" the squad commander screamed, drawing his mono-molecular katana and charging forward, driven by blind, desperate panic. "Use the blades! Cut him down!"

A dozen enforcers followed his lead, drawing their swords and rushing Glen from all sides.

Glen didn’t even raise the Abyssal blade. He looked at the charging commander, his pitch-black eyes devoid of any human empathy.

He raised his left hand and snapped his fingers.

Spatial Fold.

He didn’t teleport himself. He folded the space around the charging enforcers. The air warped violently, a sickening, geometric distortion that defied the laws of physics. The twelve men were instantly teleported fifty feet straight up into the air, their forward momentum preserved.

They materialized in the sky, screaming, and plummeted back down to the concrete.

The sickening crunch of breaking bones echoed through the junction as they hit the ground. None of them got back up.

The remaining operatives froze, staring at the broken bodies of their comrades in absolute horror. They had trained to fight monsters. They had trained to fight rogue Hunters. They had no training for a boy who could rewrite reality with a snap of his fingers.

The four combat mechs, their AI targeting systems finally recalibrating to the anti-mana interference, stepped forward. Massive, hydraulic blades deployed from their forearms, humming with raw, unrefined kinetic energy that didn’t rely on mana.

"Warning. Lethal force authorized," the mechs droned in unison.

They charged, the ground shaking beneath their massive, metallic strides.

Glen turned to face them. He gripped the hilt of the Abyssal blade with both hands. He didn’t use Corrupted Synthesis. He didn’t need to merge his skills anymore. He just channeled the raw, unadulterated power of the void fragment directly into the black iron.

The sword didn’t glow. It became a tear in the universe, a jagged line of absolute nothingness that drank the ambient light of the junction.

Glen triggered Lightning Movement, blurring forward.

He didn’t strike at the mechs’ armored plating. He didn’t aim for their optical sensors or their hydraulic joints. He simply ran straight through their formation, swinging the Abyssal blade in a single, continuous, horizontal arc.

He reappeared fifty feet behind the mechs, the blue electricity of his movement fading into the rain. He slowly sheathed the Abyssal blade, the heavy iron sliding into the canvas scabbard with a soft, metallic hiss.

For a long second, nothing happened.

Then, all four combat mechs slowly slid in half at the waist.

The top halves of the massive machines crashed to the concrete, their internal circuitry sparking and dying as the anti-mana rotted their power cores. The heavy, bipedal legs stood frozen for a moment before collapsing under their own weight.

Glen turned around.

The remaining Astra operatives dropped their weapons. They fell to their knees, pressing their foreheads against the wet concrete in a gesture of absolute, terrifying submission. They weren’t surrendering to a Hunter. They were worshipping a god of death.

Glen walked slowly through the kneeling men, his boots splashing in the puddles of rainwater and hydraulic fluid. He stopped in front of a terrified, trembling lieutenant whose armor was heavily decorated with corporate commendations.

Glen reached down, grabbed the man by the throat, and lifted him effortlessly off the ground with one hand.

"The Regional Director," Glen repeated, his dark eyes boring into the man’s soul. "Where is he?"

"Sector 12," the lieutenant gasped, clawing desperately at Glen’s iron grip. "The... the Azure Spire. Penthouse level. Please... please don’t kill me."

Glen stared at him for a long moment. He could feel the man’s heartbeat, frantic and weak, fluttering against his palm like a trapped bird. It would be so easy to crush it. It would be so easy to let the void consume him.

But Glen wasn’t a mindless beast. He was a predator with a purpose.

He dropped the lieutenant. The man collapsed to the concrete, gasping for air and sobbing in relief.

"Tell your superiors," Glen said, his voice carrying across the silent, ruined junction. "Tell the Astra Guild that the Outer Rings are closed. Tell them that if they send another squad down here, I won’t just kill them. I will rot their souls."

Glen turned and walked away, heading toward the massive, glowing transit elevators that led up to the Inner Sectors.

He had the location. He had the power.

It was time to take the war to the corporate boardrooms.