Chương 458: 216.First Piracy 2

After leaving the bridge, Jess and I each took one side of a cart and hauled the entire career-ending box of costumes down to the training room. The wheels rolled down the corridor with a distinctly ominous rhythm. Clatter. Clatter. Clatter. Listen to it long enough, and it sounded like Death pre-measuring a group of students who didn't yet know what was coming. Jess was in a fantastic mood the whole way.

Not ordinary good—the specific kind of good you get from watching someone else's misfortune approach and feeling, as a result, a deep appreciation for the beauty of life. She even tried to sneak the lid open mid-transit, apparently pre-sorting today's victims by outfit severity. If I hadn't been watching her, I'm fairly sure she'd have grabbed the most ridiculous cape available and done a victory lap down the corridor in it.

"Shimo." She leaned in, eyes bright.

"You really won't consider the gold-trimmed one? I think it suits you."

"It suits a funeral pyre."

"Which means you're admitting it has ceremonial weight."

"Jess, the fact that I haven't put you back in the medbay yet already counts as generous classmate loyalty." She laughed, entirely too pleased with herself. I was starting to suspect she hadn't actually needed that many days of bed rest—she'd just been saving her energy to mock me today. When we pushed the cart into the training room, it was already crowded. D stood at the front. One look at his face told me this box wasn't getting out of the room intact.

D usually gave off the energy of a wall solid enough to use as cover—enough presence just standing there, blunt when he talked, but not the type to detonate. Not today. Today his expression looked like someone had poured perfume into his ration coffee and then told him it made him seem more aristocratic. And it wasn't ordinary annoyance. It was the first time in my life I'd seen D wear the specific expression that said: one more word and this entire box goes out an airlock.

I hadn't gotten a word out before he went off.

"You must be kidding me." The moment he said it, the air in the whole training room actually flinched.

"I don't care if it fucking kills me—I am not wearing this woman's clothes on a stage." The class reps behind him nodded so hard, so fast, it looked like they'd all signed the same suicide pact five minutes earlier. It was an interesting visual. Normally, even when I ran them through tactics hard enough to make them regret enlisting, they at least tried to maintain a shred of young-officer composure.

Faced with a box of sequins, capes, masks, and shameless design philosophy, their solidarity climbed to levels usually reserved for treaties.

"Agreed."

"I'd rather go grab vacuum outside."

"This isn't a disguise, it's character assassination."

"XO, please. I have people back home who still recognize me." I stood by the cart and rubbed the back of my head. Honestly, I got it. I didn't want to wear it either. The problem was I couldn't join their revolt right now. The great tragedy of being XO isn't always the dangerous ops—sometimes it's cursing along with everyone else on the inside while your face is still required to say let's find a compromise. So I looked at D and tried to sound as reasonable as I could manage.

"If we swap it for something more masculine, would that work?" He stared at me. Hard. The kind of stare you'd use interrogating an enemy spy.

"Depends." Short. Heavy. Zero room for negotiation folded into it. Translated: don't come back at me with gold stockings and half a cape and call that masculine. I nodded quietly. That meant the door wasn't fully closed—just that whatever we put on the table couldn't be garbage. I relayed all this to Hedwig.

Before I even opened my mouth, I'd braced for the standard process: at least half an hour of debate covering the necessity of Imperial aesthetics, the theatrical value of noble crime, and no performance, no credibility—the kind of arguments that spike blood pressure just to listen to. It didn't happen. The moment I delivered "flat refusal" as a complete sentence, Hedwig, unexpectedly, backed off. She didn't even frown. She just said, evenly:"That's fine." I blinked. Genuinely blinked.

I'd been slowly learning not to feel gratitude toward princesses on principle, but for one second there I almost wondered if the Empire kept a small stock of miracles somewhere. Then she finished the sentence.

"When the time comes, only you and Jess need to be in costume. Everyone else wears balaclavas." I went quiet. Nobody in the training room said anything for a beat. Then the rows behind D let out a breath big enough to power a thruster. D didn't even bother hiding his "good, I get to live" expression; the jaw he'd had locked like armor plate finally eased a fraction. And I stood there, slowly bringing my eyes back to the light-pollution-grade prince costume in my hands. Trimmed jacket. Glossy cape.

Ostentatious mask. And one decorative sash that had no reason to exist and looked exactly like the kind of thing that garrotes an ankle mid-boarding. Wonderful. So this was the "compromise"—a very precise sacrifice, and I was it. I held the outfit and worked hard to console myself with the most mature, rational, world-embracing mindset I could summon. This is a special field trip. Other people's field trips peak at changing into uniforms for a group photo.

Mine involves dressing like a galactic opera house's most obvious ticket scam, in order to rob Imperial nobility. Jess stood beside me, shoulders shaking with laughter.

"Shimo, it really suits you."

"Shut up."

"I mean it. Especially the mask—once it's on, you're going to have this—" She paused deliberately, then finished, delighted:"—very heart-stealing phantom-thief energy." I pressed the mask flat against her face.

"Go steal your own oxygen first." Despite all that, Hedwig's plan held. Final assignments: D and the other reps in black combat gear, their faces concealed behind rigid, stark-white masks with wide, manic eyes and upturned mustaches. Basic tactical webbing—still the kind of thing a history textbook would file under Unidentified Armed Border Group, but at least it preserved everyone's outline as an actual human being. Jess and me: we handled being the face of the operation. Literally.

Both our faces very much on the line. Not long after, Odin's Eye and Roy's tracking work locked our first lucky recipient. A private solar-sail luxury yacht. Something like four to five hundred meters, double-decked, long and elegant, main sail spread against the starlight like a domesticated pair of silver-white wings. Gold filigree ran obnoxiously along the hull; the stern even trailed a purely decorative ring of light.

Light escort, light configuration—clearly built for presence and comfort, not for what happens if trouble shows up. In short: a fat sheep. The specific kind of fat sheep that's eaten well, moved slowly its whole life, and genuinely believes the universe will always be kind to it. The staging area beside the training room got busy fast. Balaclavas handed out. Weapons checked. Short-range jump parameters calibrated. Assault craft on standby.

I got boxed into a corner by Jess and Lan for what amounted to a humiliating fitting session. Calling it a "fitting" is generous. It felt more like a betrayal by civilization. Once the prince costume was actually on, it was worse than I'd expected—shoulder line pulled unnecessarily sharp, waist cinched too tight, the cape swinging off my back with an entirely unearned aristocratic sway every time I moved. Once the mask latched shut, I didn't even want to look in a mirror.

I had a strong premonition that seeing exactly what I looked like right now would cost the operation thirty percent of its morale on the spot. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Jess stood next to me, visibly in pain from holding back laughter.

"Laugh if you're going to laugh." I said it through my teeth.

"I'm not," she said, instantly. Then she turned around, shoulders shaking like she'd just grabbed a live wire. I watched her, cold. A few seconds later she gave up, leaned on the wall, and laughed outright.

"Sorry." She waved a hand mid-laugh.

"But you really do look like the type who leaves a calling card and a rose after stealing the jewels."

"I'm leaving a boot print on your head first." She finally reeled it in, walked over, and started adjusting the mask's ties. Her fingers were surprisingly gentle brushing behind my ear—probably still some afterimage of yesterday's near-miss. This time she didn't push the joke too far, just smoothed the cape's edge and said, in a tone still a little too pleased with itself but not quite over the line:"Relax, Shimo. You look good like this." I looked at her.

"Coming from you, that has about as much credibility as the pirate code."

"At least that means there's a code."

"Barely." Jess's own outfit today was more restrained than mine—relatively. Closer to a roguish first mate: finer mask trim, a more fitted jacket. Paired with her permanent ability to say anything serious like it's a joke, it actually, infuriatingly, suited her. Which made me even angrier. Why did I get cast as the protagonist forced into a crime against taste, while she looked like she'd been living this life the whole time? Once we were suited up, we boarded the assault craft. The interior wasn't big.

The moment it filled, the atmosphere flipped from combat deployment to a group of students on a field trip for a slightly illegal side hustle. D sat up front, balaclava already on, only his eyes and mouth showing. A face that was already intimidating at rest, upgraded under fabric to if they don't pay, they might genuinely die of fright first. Everyone else looked about the same—black gear, balaclavas, silence, pressure, and the specific professional effort of trying very hard not to think about how did I get here.

I looked around the cabin and felt something oddly close to sentiment. Good. This year's class had apparently already found its future career track. Officer. Or bandit. Possibly both. I took the front seat, buckled in, and looked up at the projection ahead. The luxury yacht sailed quietly through the stars, sails catching clean light, posture beautiful enough to look innocent.

It had no idea that a group in absurd costumes and Old Earth surrealist masks was on its way specifically to update it on the current state of border security. I took a breath. Fine. The outfit was on. The dignity was gone. The least I could do now was run this cleanly. I raised a hand.

"Launch." The assault craft cleared the rack and slid out toward the sheep that had no idea it was one. The assault craft Egersund II, the moment it locked onto that gleaming private yacht, upgraded itself instantly from "vehicle" to "licensed malice." It had never been pretty. Short lines, thick belly, armor plating radiating an entirely unreasonable industrial violence. If it resembled anything, it was a hunting dog that had been caged too long and had just spotted meat. Right now, that dog had bitten down.

Even its engine noise sounded like grinding teeth. The luxury yacht ahead had clearly noticed us. The elegantly spread solar sail began retracting. The light strips along the double-decked hull died out section by section. The stern thrusters flared bright—a textbook aristocratic version of this vessel is not currently receiving guests, especially ones out of proper uniform. Unfortunately, whether it was receiving guests today wasn't up to it.

I sat in Egersund II's forward cabin, watching through the port as the fat sheep started panic-accelerating, feeling remarkably calm. Once you put on an outfit capable of murdering your own self-respect, a lot of emotions just die automatically. Shame. Hesitation. Ordinary reflection on your life choices. What's left is usually just the job.

"Lock the propulsion nodes," I said.

"Locked," the pilot reported instantly. The next second, Egersund II's ventral weapon opened and a blue beam shot straight out. Not an explosive. No fireball, no shrapnel, not even a decent visual effect. It was more like a precise, almost boringly efficient slap, landing square on the enemy's engine system. The yacht's stern glow flared once, then died completely. Silence. Very brief. Absolutely fatal.

"Engine disabled." Akari's voice from the back, calm as reading off today's lunch menu.

"Clean hit."

"I was hoping for 'cleanly rich,'" Jess muttered beside me. I didn't look at her, eyes still on the stalling yacht ahead.

"Focus."

"I am focused." She leaned in, voice clearly smiling.

"Fully committed to being your phantom-thief sidekick." My temple twitched. Not the moment to deal with Jess. At least not yet. Because the next second, Egersund II rammed in. Not a straight collision meant to turn them into scrap—short, brutal, forced boarding with zero regard for anyone's face. The craft cut in at an angle, hull grinding hard against the yacht's outer plating, a shriek like nails on glass.

Then several grapple lines fired at once, steel biting into the hull, magnetic locks slamming shut, pinning Egersund II to the yacht dead solid. Then the nose opened. A long, thin, ominous boarding tube shot out—shaped exactly like some enormous insect's mouthparts—and drove straight into the outer plating without ceremony. Drill, cutting ring, pressure collar, all deploying in one breath, practiced enough to suggest this wasn't the procedure's first time meeting polite society.

I spared one second of internal mourning for the ship's unlucky owner. Out on a private stargazing cruise through Imperial space, and instead she had run headfirst into a vessel that had come specifically to teach her a new definition of the word "security." That encounter was probably more diary-worthy than the whole trip. I found out afterward the ship belonged to Countess Essen.

At that exact moment, she was very likely sitting in an obscenely expensive cockpit somewhere, staring in disbelief at the exact same thought I would've had: how do you get robbed on a self-guided tour inside Imperial territory. Simple answer. Because we showed up.

"Docking complete."

"Airlock cut."

"Forward hatch unlocked." The reports landed almost together. D was already at the front—black armor, that bizarre artist mask, plus a heavy plate ripped from god knows where. The overall effect wasn't so much 'boarding team leader' as 'a heavy breaching ram that had decided to walk on its own.' Behind him, several equally armed classmates carried either stun weapons or close-range suppression gear. The whole group's energy was unambiguous: not here to negotiate today, but not here to kill anyone either.

The hatch opened. I stepped through first. The interior of the yacht was, predictably, extremely rich. Wide corridors, warm lighting, walls plated with the kind of metallic sheen only aristocratic taste calls "subtle." Even the floor was laid with dark, slip-resistant soft material, quiet enough underfoot to make you want to swear. Even getting robbed in here felt more upscale than anywhere else. Deeply annoying. The guards were already coming up to meet us.

Several in powered armor blocked the far end of the corridor, carrying rifles or short combat axes. Good posture, decent reaction speed—clearly not pure decoration. Unfortunately for them, we had the numbers, and we'd been told in advance to keep it non-lethal. Which meant, across the board, everyone on our side had one less thing weighing on their conscience. I raised a hand, voice flat and cold.

"Everyone—mind you don't break the merchandise." I swept my eyes across the guards.

"This is a very expensive fat sheep." The corridor lit up the instant I finished. Beams crossed, white streaks scorching into the narrow walls. The guards fired first; we pressed straight back. At this range, whoever hesitated half a beat got knocked into a bulkhead. The problem was, D had no intention of giving anyone the luxury of half a beat. He led with the armor plate and charged straight in. For a second, I genuinely felt the floor ahead of us shake. D wasn't "advancing."

D was closer to a train that had recently derailed from rational society. The first guard's muzzle had barely leveled before D hit him—pure momentum and unreasonable force sending the man and his weapon flying. The two behind him caught the shockwave and their formation came apart on the spot. It was what "tactical breach" looks like translated into the plainest possible physics.

"Now!" At my call, the classmates behind me poured into the gap. Several stun beams landed together, blue-white arcs crawling across powered armor. The guards, still reeling from the hit, didn't even get their feet back under them before their bodies locked up and went down one after another, in postures that told the truth about how badly this had gone for them. Jess leaned out from behind me and whistled.

"Efficient."

"Because the thing up front isn't a person," I said, watching D.

"It's a mobile public-order collapse."

"Heard that," D said, tossing the armor plate aside without turning around.

"Good," I said.

"Means you can keep collapsing forward." Once the guard line broke, the whole ship's will to resist dropped a level instantly. We pushed hard up the main corridor. Doors on either side were locked, or half-open with the occasional panicked footstep or muffled scream behind them. Nobody charged out to fight to the death. Normal enough. Genuinely wealthy people share one consistent trait—their enthusiasm for a frontal confrontation runs well below their attachment to keeping their assets intact.

"Status," I asked, still moving. The scout ahead reported back immediately.

"Target's holed up in the bridge. Door sealed. Not coming out." Good. Fear means we've reached the negotiation phase. We stopped in front of the bridge door. It was a beautifully made door—fine detailing on the frame, obviously expensive material. Even the place someone chose to hide her life in radiated a specific "I have a lot of disposable income and applied it to every surface" energy that just begs to be robbed. I knocked. Knock. Knock. Knock. Then called out, very politely: "Open up.

We're here spreading a little community warmth." Several people behind me choked on the spot. I didn't need to turn around to know Jess was probably close to dying. The door stayed silent for a long time. Long enough that I started to wonder if the Countess was in there holding an emergency roundtable with her lawyer, her steward, several generations of family honor, and her own survival instinct. Finally, a shaking voice came through.

"What... do you want?" I answered cleanly.

"Money." The corridor went quiet for a beat. It wasn't a complicated question. We weren't here to teach a philosophy seminar, or discuss the structural failures of Imperial border governance—so getting straight to the point seemed appropriate. Whoever was behind the door seemed to choke slightly on how little packaging that honesty came wrapped in. The negotiation that followed went smoother than I'd expected. Maybe because the guards were already down.

Maybe because D standing at the door radiated the presence of a disaster that would let itself in eventually anyway. Or maybe because my ridiculous prince outfit made it genuinely hard to tell exactly how unhinged we were, since we didn't look like standard bandits at all. Whatever the reason, on my third repetition of "we collect donations, not lives," the door finally slid open. Countess Essen looked more like a countess than I'd expected.

Not old, excellent fabric, hair immaculate—even now, face pale as someone freshly dragged out of a financial nightmare, her posture still carried the stiff, bred-in dignity of good etiquette. When she saw me, she froze for a moment, her gaze sliding from the mask, to the cape, to the gold trim, to the weapon in my hand, expression settling into a brief loop of is this a bandit or a theater troupe. The more confused she was, the less work for us. With the money handled, one important thing remained. Leaving a name.

Not my idea. A specific instruction from the princess. Hedwig had phrased it elegantly, but the meaning had been unambiguous: if you're going to perform, perform the whole thing. You can't just take. You have to leave behind a name well-crafted enough to keep the patrol system working overtime—so every new report that comes in gives them a fresh headache. I took a breath. Honestly, just thinking about what came next made me want to find the nearest airlock and step out voluntarily.

Unfortunately, I was currently dressed as a masked phantom-thief prince, standing in front of a robbed countess, with an entire crew of balaclava-wearing classmates watching. The specific cost of the XO post is this: you always know exactly how humiliating something is, and you still have to see the scene through to the end. I cleared my throat and looked at Countess Essen.

"Listen carefully." I did my best to make it sound like a mysterious crime-syndicate leader delivering a line for the history books, rather than an unlucky student conscripted into a school-festival stage play.

"If anyone asks who did this—" I stopped. Very briefly. But I swear, in that fraction of a second, I mentally cursed Hedwig's taste—and her entire personality—from top to bottom. Then I said it anyway.

"Tell them it was... the Black Cat Thieves." The corridor held for one beat. Then—"Meow." Jess. Behind me. Delivered in a voice of extreme, deliberate restraint, and precisely enough force to demolish what remained of my dignity. My entire face caught fire. Not a figure of speech. Actually hot—hot enough that I half expected smoke to start leaking out from under the mask. I spun around. Jess was standing there barely holding it together, shoulders shaking hard enough to be a structural risk.

Behind her, the balaclava-wearing classmates had most of their eyes covered by fabric, but the sheer effort every single one of them was putting into not making a sound told me everything I needed to know. Excellent. Today's boarding operation had officially completed its transformation into my personal public execution.

"Jess," I said, jaw tight. She threw both hands up, the picture of innocence.

"I was just contributing to team spirit."

"One more contribution and you're swimming back to the Asgard." She managed to stay quiet after that, but her expression clearly said worth it. Countess Essen stared at us, her face carrying something even more complicated than before—not just fear, not just shock, more like someone who'd just witnessed a high-grade absurdity and whose sanity was attempting an emergency protective shutdown. I felt a small flicker of sympathy for her. Very small. Just a little.

Because if someone burst into my house dressed like this, robbed me, introduced themselves as the Black Cat Thieves, and had a partner add a "meow" for atmosphere, I'd probably start questioning what exactly had gone wrong with Imperial education too.

"You'll remember that?" I forced the last line out. Countess Essen nodded, very slowly.

"... I'll remember." Good. First case, closed. Now we'd see whether Imperial border patrol was going to enjoy their brand-new, freshly launched security nightmare.