SSS-Awakening: I Have Infinite Talents

"Sometimes the best thing about leaving is coming back with better shoes." — Unknown.

– – –

His system-granted talent was powerful, but it was a talent, not a technique. Talents were instinctive, passive, automatic. They enhanced what he already had. Manuals were different. They were structured training methods that taught the body how to process Flux more efficiently, creating permanent improvements to the cultivation base.

He scrolled through the catalog but couldn’t find a single manual. Weapons, armor, consumables, accessories. Everything was there except breathing techniques.

He stepped to the vault door and knocked. Chloe opened it from the outside.

"Do you carry Advanced Flux Breathing Manuals?" Micah asked.

Chloe’s expression shifted. The eager businesswoman smile faltered, replaced by something more cautious.

"I’m afraid not," she said carefully. "Advanced breathing techniques are strictly controlled by the military elite. The government monitors their distribution very closely. They’re classified as state secrets, and trading them on the open commercial market is completely forbidden."

She held up a hand before Micah could respond.

"And before you ask, the black market is not an option. Attempting to illegally purchase or sell restricted manuals immediately flags you as an enemy of the state. The Vanguard authorities take this very seriously. We’re talking military tribunals, execution for treason, the works."

Her tone was grave enough to tell Micah she wasn’t exaggerating.

"The government believes that controlling access to advanced cultivation methods is necessary for maintaining social order," she continued. "If anyone could buy a breathing manual, the power gap between nobles and commoners would disappear overnight. The ruling class can’t have that."

Micah nodded slowly. The logic was sickeningly familiar. The strong hoarded the tools that made them strong, ensuring no one else could catch up. It was the same system he’d dealt with back on Earth, just with more Flux and fewer lawsuits.

’I already have the Advanced Flux Breathing Talent from the system. A manual would supplement it, but it’s not essential. Still, it would have been nice.’

"Understood," he said. "Thank you for the warning."

Chloe smiled, relieved that he wasn’t going to push the issue. She pulled a small device from her jacket, about the size of a credit card, with a single blue button in the center.

"This is a spatial compression capsule," she said. "It creates a pocket dimension linked to your biometric signature. You can store your purchases inside and access them instantly. It’s standard issue for VIP clients."

She handed it to him. Micah pressed the button, and a soft blue light pulsed from the device. A small portal opened in the air beside him, roughly the size of a backpack. He could feel the spatial distortion, a faint humming sensation that made his teeth itch.

He placed all four items inside. The Phantom Carapace, the boots, the Void Fang, and the throwing knife harness. The portal sealed behind them with a quiet pop, and the capsule dimmed.

Everything was stored. Everything was ready.

He slipped the capsule into his jacket pocket and turned to Chloe.

"I’m done here."

Chloe walked him to the private elevator, her heels clicking against the marble in a rhythm that suggested she was very pleased with how the day had gone. And why wouldn’t she be? She’d just secured the most lucrative partnership in Syndicate history and moved nineteen million credits worth of inventory in a single afternoon.

"The auction will be held this Saturday at seven in the evening," she said as the elevator descended. "Private venue. Invite-only. I’ll send the details to your anonymous account."

Micah nodded. "I won’t be attending in person. You handle the bidding. I’ll monitor remotely."

"Of course. Your anonymity is our priority."

The elevator reached the ground floor, and the doors opened into the main lobby. Chloe walked him to the side exit, away from the public trading floor and its lingering crowd of gossip-hungry spectators.

"Thank you for your business," she said, extending her hand. "We look forward to a long and profitable partnership."

Micah shook it. Her grip was firm, professional, and brief.

He stepped through the side door and into the afternoon sun. The street was busy, civilians walking past without a second glance at the masked man in the torn brown jacket who had just spent nineteen million credits in an hour.

He started walking toward the academy, his hands in his pockets, his mind already turning to the tournament.

Dexter was at forty-four percent. Myra was at forty. Micah was at forty. But he now had the Phantom Carapace, the upgraded Shadow Step Boots, the Void Fang, and a set of twelve throwing knives. He had gear worth more than most noble families earned in a generation.

’See you at the tournament, Dexter. Try not to cry when I show up.’

Micah waited until full dark before making his move.

The commercial district was still buzzing with life when he left the Syndicate building, but the streets thinned out as he moved toward the military zone. The civilian lights dimmed, the food vendors packed up their stalls, and the air got quieter. By the time the academy walls came into view, the city was a wall of dark shapes and distant streetlights.

He crouched behind a collapsed barrier about fifty meters from the western gate and studied the patrol pattern. Two guards, walking the perimeter in a slow loop that took roughly four minutes to complete. They passed the gate, rounded the far corner, disappeared for about ninety seconds, then came back.

The gap was small but workable.

He waited until they rounded the corner, counted to fifteen, then moved. He stayed low, crossing the open ground in a fast crouch that kept him below the sight line of anyone scanning from the wall. His Shadow Step Boots — the old pair, not the Mark IIs — fired in short, controlled bursts that ate up the distance without making a sound.

He hit the wall, pressed his back against the concrete, and slid toward the drainage grate he’d spotted during his earlier exit. It was loose, the bolts rusted through, and it came away with a firm pull. He slipped through the gap, replaced the grate behind him, and dropped into the maintenance tunnel below.

The tunnel was dark, damp, and smelled exactly the way he remembered it. Like old concrete and bad decisions.

He navigated by memory, taking left turns and right turns through the service corridors until he reached the residential block. The hallways were empty. The night patrol had already passed through twenty minutes ago, which meant he had a clear window to his quarters.

He slipped through his door, closed it behind him, and leaned against it.

Alone. Safe. Undetected.

He exhaled so hard his cheeks puffed out.

’Okay. Mission one complete. I just walked into the most exclusive trading house in the city, got treated like garbage, got apologized to, made fifty million credits, spent nineteen million on gear, and walked out without anyone knowing who I am. Not a bad Tuesday.’

He pushed off the door and reached into his jacket pocket. The spatial compression capsule sat there, small and warm, its blue light pulsing faintly. He pressed the button.

The portal opened beside him with a soft pop, and his purchases materialized on the bed in a neat pile. The Phantom Carapace, folded into a tight square. The Shadow Step Boots Mark II, matte black and gleaming. The Void Fang, sheathed in a dark scabbard that hummed faintly against the mattress. The throwing knife harness, twelve blades lined up in their magnetic slots.

He picked up the Phantom Carapace first.

The suit unfolded in his hands like liquid shadow. It was impossibly light, the fabric so thin that he could see through it when he held it up to the light. But when he pressed his thumb against it, the material resisted with a density that made no sense given its weight. It felt like pressing against a steel plate wrapped in silk.

He stripped off his civilian clothes and put it on.

The Carapace clung to his body like it had been tailored specifically for him. The fabric contracted around his torso, his arms, his legs, adjusting to every contour of his newly densified musculature without restricting a single movement. He rolled his shoulders, twisted his torso, threw a few practice punches at the air. The suit moved with him, not against him. It was like wearing nothing at all, except nothing at all didn’t cost eight and a half million credits.

He threw a full-force punch at his bunk frame. His knuckles connected with the metal, and the impact that should have split his skin and bruised his bones was absorbed and distributed across the entire surface of the suit. He felt a faint pressure across his chest and back, like someone had pressed a flat hand against him, but there was no pain. No damage. Not even a mark on the fabric.

’Yeah. That’s going to come in handy.’

Next, the boots.

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