"One kidney," Ethan Lyle said, his voice muffled by the cheap surgical mask covering the lower half of his face. "And throw in the corneas. I’m clearing out the stock."
The Broker looked up from a blood-stained ledger, his eyes narrowing behind a flickering fluorescent light. This was the Undercroft Exchange, a subterranean blight beneath Verdant City where desperate men traded their humanity for credits. He’d seen plenty of junkies and debt-slaves pass through his doors, but Ethan was different.
The boy walked to the operating table—a rusted slab of metal that smelled of industrial bleach and copper—and lay down with the practiced ease of a regular.
"Kid," the Broker grunted, his voice a gravelly rasp. "You sure about this? Look at your file." He tapped a grease-stained screen. "In the last six months, you’ve sold a kidney, your spleen, a gallbladder, both testicles, a section of your coronary artery, a third of your liver, and enough of your intestines to make a garden hose. You sell this last kidney, and you're a walking corpse. You won't last forty-eight hours."
Even for a man who made his living harvesting the poor, Ethan’s trajectory was psychotic.
Ethan squeezed his eyes shut, a well-timed tear escaping to roll down his temple. "It’s for my sister," he choked out, his voice trembling with practiced grief. "The hospital bills... I’ll do whatever it takes. Please."
The Broker sighed, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of predatory greed. A young, healthy kidney was worth six figures on the open market if the blood type matched. He’d give the boy thirty thousand credits and flip it for ten times that by midnight. The corneas were just a bonus—pure profit from the blind.
"Fine. Your funeral."
There was no anesthesia. No sterilization. The Broker worked with the brutal efficiency of a man who viewed humans as nothing more than biological machines. Ethan gripped the edges of the table, his knuckles white, as the cold steel bit into his flesh. He didn't scream. He couldn't afford to lose the energy.
An hour later, Ethan staggered out into the lightless alleys of the black market. He was hunched over, clutching a bruised side that leaked fresh blood onto his shirt, his vision a void of darkness where his eyes used to be. He moved by memory, counting steps and feeling the grit of the walls against his palms.
Once he’d navigated the labyrinth of the Undercroft and confirmed he wasn't being followed, he ducked into a derelict stairwell and collapsed against the brick.
System, initiate.
He didn't say it aloud, but the thought triggered a silent, internal tectonic shift. Deep within his chest, something ancient and immutable stirred.
[Undying Constitution: Activated]
The agonizing void in his abdomen began to itch, then burn with a searing, white-hot heat. Cells knitted together at impossible speeds. His remaining kidney split and regrew; his liver expanded; the severed intestines fused back into a perfect, functioning whole. In his eye sockets, nerves reconnected and glass-clear lenses formed behind his lids.
Ethan opened his eyes. The world flooded back in high definition, sharper than any normal human's vision.
"Sick sister. Right," he muttered, a cold smirk playing on his lips as he checked the balance on his credit chip. Thirty thousand. Added to his previous 'sales,' he finally had the hundred thousand credits required for the registration fee.
Ethan Lyle was a transmigrator. He had arrived in this world—a twisted, hyper-lethal version of Earth known as Azura—to find himself a 'pure orphan'—the classic protagonist template. But Azura wasn't a playground; it was a hellscape of Dungeon Rifts and nightmare beasts. Without power, an orphan was just monster bait.
He’d discovered his Undying Constitution early on, but he wasn't a fool. In a world where 'Awakened' were the ultimate authority, an immortal teenager was a one-way ticket to a government laboratory. He’d be sliced into pieces for eternity by scientists trying to bottle his secret.
He had to be an Awakened. He had to be strong enough that nobody could ever put him on a table again.
And tomorrow was the Class Awakening Ritual at Verdant High.
The morning air at the school was thick with tension. Hundreds of students stood in disciplined rows, their faces a cocktail of hope and terror.
Ethan stood at the very back of the line, his shoulders slumped, playing the part of the invisible charity case. He had no friends, no allies. To the rest of the school, he was just 'The Scholarship Kid'—a quiet, brooding ghost who barely scraped by.
"Ethan Lyle?"
He looked up. His homeroom teacher was staring at him, her brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you doing in this line? The registration fee is... well, it’s not for students on your stipend." Her eyes widened with a realization that quickly turned to pity. "Did you take out a Class Loan?"
Ethan gave a slow, somber nod. He didn't need to explain. A Class Loan was a predatory gamble; if you didn't awaken a high-ranking combat class to pay it back, the interest would enslave you for the rest of your life.
Whispers broke out among his classmates.
"A Class Loan? Is he insane?"
"Poor bastard. He’s basically signing his life away to be a manual laborer for the next fifty years."
The teacher sighed, shaking her head. "I... I see. Good luck, Ethan." She clearly didn't expect him to need it. In her mind, he was already a failure.
Up on the stage, the ceremony began. Principal Gao, a man whose smile never quite reached his eyes, presided over the Awakening Altar—a monolith of obsidian and pulsing blue veins.
"Craft-Class Vocation: A-Rank Avian Rancher!" Gao shouted.
A boy on the altar turned pale. A-rank was incredible, but 'Craft-Class' meant he was a glorified farmer. In the hierarchy of Azura, Combat Classes were kings, Support Classes were lords, and Craft Classes were the help.
"Don't be discouraged!" Gao said with the practiced tone of a politician. "Legend says an Avian Rancher once raised the Chaos Cockerel, a beast that made S-rank warriors tremble! There are no useless classes, only useless people!"
The boy nodded weakly, though everyone knew the 'Chaos Cockerel' was a once-in-a-millennium fairy tale.
The ritual continued, a monotonous drone of C and D-rank mediocrity. Gao’s patience was visibly thinning. He needed a star—someone to boost the school’s funding and his own reputation.
"Next: Nira Ashford."
The atmosphere shifted instantly. Nira was the school’s golden girl—beautiful, wealthy, and naturally gifted. As she stepped onto the altar, a pillar of crimson light erupted, swirling into the shape of a colossal firebird that screeched with the sound of a jet engine. The heat was so intense the students in the front row smelled their own hair singeing.
"SSS-Rank! Combat-Class: Pyromage!"
Gao’s face transformed into a mask of pure ecstasy. An SSS-Rank Pyromage was a strategic asset, a human nuke. "Nira! Follow me immediately. We have much to discuss regarding your future!" He turned to his assistant, Mr. Ward. "Handle the rest of these. I’m taking the Ashford girl to my office."
The remaining students were an afterthought. The 'trash' left in the wake of a goddess.
"Next," Mr. Ward called out, his voice bored. "Ethan Lyle."
Ethan walked up the steps. The crowd watched with cruel amusement. Following an SSS-rank Pyromage was the ultimate humiliation. It was like a gutter spark trying to follow a supernova.
"Think he’ll get 'Master Dishwasher' rank?" someone jeered.
"Maybe 'Professional Debtor' rank," another laughed.
Ethan ignored them. He stepped onto the cold obsidian of the altar.
Mr. Ward triggered the mechanism. A surge of raw, primordial energy flooded Ethan’s veins. It felt like liquid lead, heavy and ancient.
Then, the sky died.
The bright morning sun vanished, replaced by an instantaneous, suffocating darkness. Thunder didn't just roll; it tore the air apart. Above the school, the clouds swirled into a localized eye of a hurricane, bleeding shadows. Streaks of celestial fire, frozen tides, and howling gales clashed within the vortex. It looked like the end of the world.
The laughter in the courtyard stopped. It was replaced by the sound of hundreds of people hitting their knees in sheer, instinctual terror.
Principal Gao, who hadn't even reached the school doors, spun around so fast he nearly tripped. He stared at the sky, his mouth hanging open. "Another... another SSS-rank phenomenon?"
He scrambled back toward the altar, his eyes wild with greed. Two SSS-ranks in one day? He’d be promoted to the capital! He’d be a kingmaker!
Nira Ashford stood by the pillar, her flames flickering in the presence of the localized apocalypse Ethan was summoning. For the first time, her expression of cool indifference shattered. She stared at the boy in the center of the storm.
"Quickly, Ward!" Gao screamed. "What is the Class? Tell me it’s a Vanguard or a Blighter!"
Mr. Ward looked at the readout on the altar. His face went from shock, to confusion, to a deep, visceral horror.
"Ethan Lyle," Ward stammered. "Combat-Class... SSS-Rank... Forbidden Incantator."
The silence that followed was heavier than the storm.
Principal Gao’s face didn't just drop; it soured. He looked like he’d been forced to swallow a bucket of filth. "A Forbidden Incantator? SSS-rank... and it’s a Forbidden Incantator?"
In the world of Awakened, there was one class that everyone feared, and everyone pitied. The Forbidden Incantator was arguably the most powerful combat class in existence. At the same level, an Incantator could turn a Pyromage like Nira into ash with a single word.
But the class was cursed.
To cast a spell, a Forbidden Incantator didn't use mana. They used a 'tribute.' A minor spell might cost a fingernail or a week of their life. A major spell? A kidney. An eye. A decade of their soul. They were known as 'Glass Cannons'—the ultimate warriors who committed suicide every time they fought.
There wasn't a Forbidden Incantator in history who had lived past the age of twenty-five. Most died in their first year of service, having literally spent themselves into a grave.
Gao’s interest vanished instantly. He wouldn't invest in a dead man walking.
Nira Ashford’s eyes cooled. She turned away, losing interest. He was just a tragic firework—bright for a second, then gone forever.
The students below began to snicker. The jealousy was gone, replaced by a cruel, mocking relief.
"SSS-Rank? More like SSS-Rank Suicide Bomber."
"He took out a loan to get a class that kills him? Talk about bad luck."
"Good news: You’re a god. Bad news: You’ve got six months to live. Have fun, Ethan!"
Ethan didn't say a word. He kept his head down, his shoulders shaking as if he were sobbing in despair. He walked off the stage with a staggered, broken gait, playing the part of the doomed hero to perfection.
But behind the curtain of his hair, his eyes were burning with a terrifying light.
Cast-time cost: three years of lifespan? Ethan thought, a grin spreading across his face that would have horrified anyone who saw it. Sacrifice an organ to summon a meteor?
To anyone else, this class is a death sentence.
To me? Everything is free.