1% LIFESTEAL

©2025 ROBERT BLAISE

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ALSO IN SERIES

1% Lifesteal - Volume 1

1% Lifesteal - Volume 2
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CONTENTS

1. The Passage

2. Invasion

3. Prime Vestige

4. Hundred-Part Harm Ye Bring unto Thine Enemy…

5. Turning The Page

6. The Netherecho

7. Unwanted Admirer

8. All The Blood There Is

9. Reasons to Live

10. Madame Morleppe

11. It’s All Real

12. Humble Beginnings

13. A Formal Introduction

14. Touching Some Grass

15. Being a Beginner

16. Flowing Down the Leg of Life

17. Immortal Freak

18. Above the Mortal Peak

19. Expired

20. Naivety

21. Shame

22. Annoying Enemy

23. Sneaky

24. Party

25. Afterparty

26. Immeasurable Spite

27. Rotten

28. Inescapable

29. The One in Power

30. A Step into Infinity

31. The Lake

32. Gains

33. Forager Incentives

34. The Right Choice

35. Assault

36. Public Enemy

37. Shark in a Pond

38. Skull Crusher

39. The Tiled Plains

40. Shrinking Path

41. Unscarred of Fate’s Filthy Hands

Thank you for reading 1% Lifesteal

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LitRPG

1
THE PASSAGE

The metallic torture device shackled around Freddy’s head rang, signifying the
arrival of yet another unwelcome morning.

The filthy sheets of his tiny bed shifted. With much effort, he freed his arm from
the lukewarm embrace of his thin covers. Then, he turned the crank on his headgear
alarm. Round and round, it went, speeding up as frustration overpowered his morning
weakness.

The sound of crystal vibrating inside grew brighter and eventually—

The mechanism triggered, the ear-grating ringing stopped, and the lock released,
allowing him to finally take it off. He opened his eyes. The depressing gray
ceiling of his room greeted him, held up by the tight walls on each side, its
corners adorned by black mold. His bed was tucked in a tight corner where he
couldn’t even spread his arms to their full length.

The only light source was the lick of sun peeking through his shades—just enough to
see where he was. Pulling the misery-inducing sleep annihilator off his head, he
released his shoulder-length, greasy, black hair into a short-lived freefall and
shuffled to the right, getting up.

Luckily, he was of average height. If he were any taller, he couldn’t stand upright
with the low ceiling.

Scooting sideways to reach the window, he twisted the handle. It opened, allowing
the sobering morning breeze in, carrying the smell of city-brand petrichor.
Finally, with a lift of the hatch, the shades were pushed aside, and the full power
of the dawn, already shining over the tall buildings, entered his room.

The sky was particularly blue that day, and the clouds of yesterday’s rain still
hung on the horizon, journeying to distant lands. Glittering reflections scattered
off the floating buildings to the right and jumped off the rooftop puddles
everywhere else.

“Fuck this shit, man,” he groaned. “Why do I gotta work today?”

The small studio apartment, or as he preferred to call it, the dungeon cell he
lived in, was an old, tiny, cramped living space—and the only home he had.

The basket with his clothes hung off the low ceiling. Below it was the old, broken
chest he kept his stuff in. It wasn’t that big, yet it occupied the lion’s share of
his room, leaving but a tight, L-shaped path from his bed to the door.

Picking his work clothes out of the basket—the white shirt, black pants, and red
vest—he took a whiff of their stench as he brought them up to and away from his
face.

He raised an eyebrow. “Rancid up close but unnoticeable from a distance,” he

evaluated. “I hope they don’t catch me borrowing the sample perfume again.”
After draping the uniform over the window and praying it aired out some of the
stink, he took another step over a stool and entered the “kitchen” part of his room
—a fridge cramped between the garbage can and the entrance to his apartment.

He dragged the stool over in front of the fridge. Opening it and bumping the door
into the chest, he grabbed the stale bologna sandwich he had half-eaten yesterday.
Closing the fridge again, he pulled the chair closer and sat on it, using the small
cooler as a table.

His seat was low, and he didn’t have the space to sit straight, so he ate head
pushed sideways, just barely past the ground.

Once done, he gathered the crumbs into his hand and threw them into the trash. The
can smelled horrible, with much garbage compressed into it to save on paying the
disposal fee.

He took his clothes off the window and a toothbrush from a glass on the fridge.
Then, he put his slippers on, squeezed between the cooler and the chest, and left
his apartment, still in his old pajamas.

The moment he opened the door, his stomach dropped.

His neighbor, an overweight middle-aged man with a massive mustache, was chatting
with an older brunette woman outside the toilet. The young man instantly looked at
the clock on the wall above the bathroom.

6:43 a.m.

Fright turned to anger, and he marched to confront his neighbor. “James, what the
hell, man!”

The older man jumped back slightly, turning to face him. “Good morning,” the man
greeted him cautiously as he leaned back. “Is everything all right?”

He shoved the older man toward the bathroom. “Get in the toilet and hurry up!” he
urged. “I’m next on the schedule!”

The man waved him down. “Relax, nobody will get on your back for being a bit slow
today,” he said with a chuckle.

“I’ll be late to work!” he declared, accenting the final part of the statement to
make sure it sank in.

“Work?” The man frowned. “Did you forget what day it is today?”

His tired, angry glare answered that question.

The older man awkwardly coughed as he shuffled into the toilet, hurriedly closing
the door behind him.

He waved weakly at the older woman still outside, doing his best to put on a
pleasant expression. “Hello, Sharon.”

“Hey there, Fred,” she returned the greeting amicably. “How unpleasant that you
have to work on the anniversary! I’d quit if I were you.”

“Oh, believe me, hahaha…” He laughed lightly. “I’d quit, too.”

She chuckled and turned around, waving him goodbye. “Bye, Fred! Have a good one!
Hope they don’t hold you up too long!” Just as she was about to rush up the stairs,
she paused and turned to him. “Hey, you could join James and I for drinks tonight
if you don’t mind!”

“Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll pass,” he declined politely. “Still, uhm…
hope you two have fun!”

“A shame… I assume you already have plans, then,” she said with a wink. “Well, have
fun!”

His wave dropped into a light slap on his thigh, and he leaned against the wall as
she disappeared up to the third floor of the building.

Plans, huh…?

As the clock ticked, he heard his neighbor singing in the shower. His foot
impatiently bounced on the ground, and he gritted his teeth a bit harder every time
a minute passed.

6:48

6:49

6:50

That marked the start of his turn, yet he could still hear the water running.

6:51

6:52

6:53—

The door unlocked, and just as James was about to apologize for taking his time, he
rushed past him and locked the doors. He glanced at the toilet, angrily squeezing
his buttcheeks. Looks like he’d have to crap on his break again.

He undressed so swiftly that he heard a slight tear from his pajamas. Into the
shower he went. Even though he turned it to the maximum temperature, the water was
still tepid.

At the very least, the landlord provided clean towels every day, one per person,
neatly stacked on a pile. Sadly, the shitty people that lived in this complex
frequently helped themselves to more than one, leaving the last few on schedule
with a pile of damp, stinky cloth.

Even he wasn’t entirely spared by this. Once, he had grabbed a used towel and,
sadly, ran into the part someone used to dry their genitals, wiping his face with
it. Thankfully, he would be spared such a fate as he was on the day shift again.

After drying himself and angrily wrapping the towel around his waist, he walked to
the mirror. He paused once he got a good look at himself. Just a week ago, his
twenty-first birthday had passed. Hard to believe.

Be it the stress or the acne pock marks and scars that spread over his face and
body, he looked aged and weathered; his black hair, draping down the sides of his
head, complemented the deep bags beneath his dark-brown eyes.
There was no time to ponder his looks. Nor did he care about them. In his opinion,
there was no such thing as being “ugly.” Only poor.

Toothpaste on brush, brush into mouth, and a short, furious scrub later, he was
dressing.

Buttoning the white shirt and pulling the black pants up, he combed his wet hair to
the side and donned the red vest with the store logo. After hearing knocking on the
bathroom door, he gave one last regretful look to the toilet and rushed out.

Back in his apartment, he grabbed his keys and opened the fridge, taking out the
cheap cold-brew coffee he had prepared the night before, one of the only luxuries
he could afford, and running it through a filter.

“I sure hope I don’t shit myself.”

Usually, if he were late to the toilet, he would simply run to work. His clothes
were already starting to smell, so if he ran today, he might get fired for stinking
like ass. Or worse, a customer might hit him again. Last time, he got away with no
serious injuries, as, thankfully, he didn’t anger an archhuman. The next time, he
might not be so lucky.

Coffee in hand and shoes on feet, he left the apartment and walked out of the
building at a measured pace, taking steady steps down the staircase to avoid
spilling his coffee.

Pulling the door open, he stepped outside and—

“Uwoah!” He jumped back as a large drake nearly flattened him. The asshole riding
the green lizard didn’t even register his existence.

Luckily, the coffee hadn’t spilled on his shirt. He breathed a sigh of relief and
walked out. Shooting a glance at the prick who rode away without a care in the
world, he scoffed.

He didn’t let the disturbance throw him off-kilter. The jumpscare did hasten his
heartbeat, but thankfully, it wasn’t enough to make him sweat. Thus, he continued
his daily ritual as he started the thirty-minute trek to his workplace.

There wasn’t much traffic this early, especially not in his district. The
dilapidated, pothole-ridden road he walked on held a few shallow puddles, and he
made sure not to step into any.

The usual carriages, pulled by more drakes, made their way slowly down the road,
avoiding the holes so they wouldn’t break a wheel. The smell of wet drake shit
filled his nostrils. They didn’t clean it often enough in this part of the city.

To his immense surprise, he had to dodge a splash when a speedy, self-propelled

carriage blazed by him. Those didn’t appear too often around here, but judging by
its direction, it wasn’t surprising.

The disappearance of the potholes marked the entry into the twenty-third district,
and Freddy glanced at the relatively new buildings with envy. Although few archs
lived here, shops still sold weapons, mostly civilian-grade, for self-defense.

Cafes were already pulling their chairs outside, and music could be heard from
multiple sources. The sound of crystals designed for purposes besides ear violation
was much more pleasant than the war crime that woke him up every morning.
Eventually, the clean but ordinary road was replaced by shiny marble paving. As
Freddy stepped into the 25th district, he began the most controversial part of his
daily routine. On good days, he would admire it. On bad days, he would plot a
fantasy terrorist attack in his head.

Floating structures, islands, platforms, colorful bridges leading from one tall
building to another, expansive, gravity-defying balconies, and vast yards, some in
the shape of floating, spinning balls, resembling miniature planet gardens, were
only some of the things in his vicinity.

The shiny white castle on a floating island way up in the sky, the ring building to
its left, and the tower that rose taller than both the floating structures were
even more impressive.

The wealthiest district in his entire city was a collection of the homes of
powerful archhumans and their family members, who were likely archs themselves,
probably with talents they were wasting with their luxury lifestyles.

Exotic plants pulled from passages grew everywhere, likely as a dick-measuring

contest between the residents. Despite the opulence, for over half the houses
there, he had never seen a single person inside or outside, which likely meant that
they were someone’s second, third, or fourth, or whatever home.

As he stepped into the district, he spotted the carriage that nearly splashed him a
few minutes ago. Several large men pulled heavy metallic fences from the inside of
the carriage, which was likely bigger than it seemed from the outside.

Freddy smirked at the pointy spikes lining the surface of the fences.

Someone’s renovating their fuck-you-poors decorations, I see? he thought with a

chuckle. Good for them.

Taking a sip of coffee, he walked onward, and eventually, another one of the
carriages overtook him, stopping near the district’s edge on the other side. A
strong sense of deja vu hit him. Similarly dressed men as those prior offloaded the
exact same fences.

He raised an eyebrow at that. Influential people hated feeling like someone was
copying them. That likely wasn’t the case, though. Some rich bastard was probably
making a long ass fence in the sky or splitting the district in half.

Yo, I heard you like segregation, so I put segregation in your segregation!

Freddy chuckled a bit, and the workers shot him a glance. Walking past the men, he
waved at them awkwardly. He finished the final sip of his coffee and threw the
single-use cup into a garbage can.

Once he was out of the district, he immediately took a sharp turn right and walked
through tight paths between the buildings to the place where he worked.

It was a medium-sized store in the 24th district where he had been working for over
eight years. Charat Hypermarket, the sign said.

He walked past the “special offer” signs that he had placed himself yesterday and
entered the massive store. A vast array of products stretched down the nauseatingly
large building. Colorful aisles of groceries spread to each side. Fruits,
vegetables, and other similar products sat to his left, while the cash registers
were to his right.
After making his way to the back of the store, greeting the manager to clock into
his shift, and sneaking into the fragrances aisle to use a sample, he walked to one
of the cash registers. Theirs was one of the few stores that worked today, and
people loved forgetting small things until the last minute. If the dozens of people
inside were a sign of things to come, today would be a long-ass day.

Although it could sometimes be tiring, he didn’t always hate his job. The twelve-
hour shifts were a pain, but he had no life outside of work anyway. The noon lull
struck, and he caught a moment to breathe.

A large, rectangular broadcasting crystal hung off the wall a bit away from the
cash registers. It was angled awkwardly, but he could see everything on it without
much problem, even though he had to strain his ears to hear anything.

A finely dressed reporter was talking about the anniversary. Freddy always found it
a little morbid that it had ever become a celebrated holiday. Well, he was sure
those in power today appreciated the sacrifice.

“Hey! Young man!” a middle-aged lady called as she angrily marched over to his cash
register.

He groaned internally, Oh, boy, here we go.

“You billed me wrongly! Thief!” she screamed, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

“Calm down, madam,” he soothed her. “Please, show me your receipt.”

With a smug, self-satisfied expression, the woman pulled the receipt out of her bag
and shoved it aggressively into his face. “You’ve billed me twice for the napkins!”

He briefly read through it.

I’ll be damned, so I did.

The deepening frown on his face only widened the grin on hers.

“I apologize, Miss. Allow me to fix my mistake.” He gave the woman a well-trained

smile as he reached for the bag in her hands.

“Hold on there, what are you doing!?” she interrogated as she clutched her bag and
stepped back.

“Oh, I apologize”—he withdrew—“but I have to count everything up again to refund

you.”

The woman looked peeved at that but, to his shock, managed to control her temper
and wait the half a minute it would take him to scan everything.

There was no way to prove she didn’t just buy two sets of napkins and hide one. As
a veteran in this business, however, he knew how the company dealt with such
situations. The odds of catching a petty thief in action weren’t high enough to
justify the risk of losing a paying customer.

Which is why the customer is always right, he thought sarcastically, wishing all
the worst on anyone who used that phrase unironically.
One item after another went past the inscribed metal scanner, and the total price
showed on the tiny crystal to his right.

He frowned and sucked air through his teeth as he squinted his eyes and bent
forward. “What?” he whispered to himself.

It was more, not less, than before.

His heart sank when he compared the receipt to the itemized list on the screen.
“Ah, I apologize… Miss, but uh… I, haha…” he chuckled stiffly. “I seem to have…
scanned the napkins twice instead of scanning the cookies twice. That… will be…
another two dollars,” he said, his voice getting smaller and smaller as he did.

Expression cooling, back straightening, arms crossing…

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The small line of people watched the manager lambast Freddy for a few minutes, and
the woman was given a coupon for the inconvenience.

He rushed to apologize when the woman walked out, but the manager waved him off,
whispering to ensure none of the customers could hear him and speaking fast as he
was in a hurry, “You have a good record, don’t worry, I get it, mistakes happen; I
won’t dock it from your pay or anything,” the manager blurted out and ran off in a
rush. “Keep your eyes open, and don’t do that again.”

“Oh… okay.”

That didn’t make it any less stressful… or embarrassing. The next annoying, rude
bastard rushed over before he had time to recover, pulling dozens of cans of beer
out of the shopping cart.

This would be a long day, indeed.

After spending fifteen damn minutes waiting for Jenny, the chronically late night-
shift worker, to take over, he finally headed home.

His hand gripped the plastic bag holding the can of beans that would be his dinner
tonight, and he walked on, leaving another exhausting workday behind.

Muffled, loud music could be heard from many directions, and he couldn’t help but
feel particularly lethargic today.

The 200th anniversary, huh…?

“Maybe I’ll cut loose for the 300th one,” he joked, but a considerable part of him
was serious.

Perhaps that was why people celebrated the Rift. The possibility of living to see
something a hundred years in the future would have been an incredible privilege for
anyone two hundred years back.

Sighing profoundly and keeping his head down, he reached the opulent 25th district.
The moment he approached the turn, he had to stop immediately.

“Uh-oh…”

There was a fence. And it was blocking the path through the district. He could feel
a headache setting in, but he calmed himself.

A man walked up to the fence and casually jumped over it as if it weren’t there,
startling him slightly. Turning to the right, he spotted a short line of people
looking to get in and a guard letting them through.

Just keep it cool, Fred. You got this, he told himself as he stepped into the back
of the line.

It went by rather swiftly, and soon enough, he waved at the guard and tried walking
through, but the man stopped him immediately. “Please provide identity verification
or confirmation that you have business inside.”

“What do you mean?” He tried playing dumb.

“This is a private district. Mortals aren’t allowed entry without permission.”

Fucking what!? Since when!? he raged in his mind, but none of that showed
outwardly.

With a polite smile, he scratched his head and chuckled awkwardly. “Oh, hahaha,
sorry, sorry, I am going to a party tonight, so can you just let me through?”

“Please provide a ticket or name of the person that invited you,” the guard
requested as he pulled a list out of his suit, and Freddy bit his lip.

“His name is John.”

The guard raised an eyebrow. “John, who?”

“John… Smith.”

“Nobody by the name of John Smith is expecting guests,” the guard declared.

“I’m not a guest. I’m a… uh… an en—ter—tainer? Yeah, I’m a dancer. Of a, you know”—
he waved his hands around his torso—“special kind.”

“Sir, I will have to ask you to step away.”

The line behind him grew longer, and he made a last-ditch effort. “Insolent! Do you
have any idea who my father is!?”

Glancing at the beans swinging in the bag he carried in his hands, the guard gave
him a flat look, then gently but firmly pushed him to the side.

Fuck! he screamed internally as he hesitantly turned around, tightening the grip on

the bag in his hand.

A few people in line laughed at him, but that was far from his biggest problem.

Biting his fist in frustration, he walked away from the gathering crowd and sat on
a short wall. He wasn’t here for sightseeing; he had to go home! Glancing to the
left of the Bastard Barricade, then to the right, he felt himself shaking a little,
and he had to swallow a lump in his throat.

It was already nearly 8 p.m. The 25th district wasn’t that big, but it was a
different story if he had to walk all the way around it. If he went left through
the rest of the 24th district, where he was currently located, he would have to add
another forty minutes to his daily routine, both to and from work. With his work
time, he barely had three hours of free time a day, and his chores devoured most of
that. Even that night, he was supposed to head to the damn laundromat to wash his
clothes.

Taking deep breaths and clenching the bag, he murmured into his chin, “Calm down,
Freddy. You got this.”

He could also go right, adding barely another ten minutes to the walk. Not that he
was a big fan of classism… but right… that was the bad part of the city.

The 26th district was quite firmly walled off from the twenty-fifth. And that
simple wall hop made all the difference in the world.

He wasn’t unlucky enough to get robbed… Hopefully.

“Whatever…” He breathed out as he got up and walked right.

What robbery? The only thing of any value on his person was a damn can of beans.
And he’d rather lose a kidney or two than walk home for over an hour.

As he proceeded, it wasn’t long until the sounds of music grew more distant and
muffled. The exact line that separated the 26th district was clear as day, given
that that was precisely where the street maintenance ended.

Ragged roads, worn-out buildings, and trash lining the corners reminded him of a
bittersweet part of his life.

Lots of people walked the streets. Teens gathered in every corner, and loud talking
could be heard everywhere. He couldn’t help but feel bad for his earlier thinking.
All he saw here were people having fun and living their best lives.

But he felt a lot less sorry after he ran into a group of three drunk, shirtless
men who hugged him, grabbed the bag of beans out of his hands, and ridiculed him,
screaming “boy got beans” and the like.

Thankfully, they returned his food, and he went on his way. Beans wouldn’t be on
the menu for a while again. Eventually, he reached a turn and took another quick
shortcut.

“Oh, yeah, this is where Greg’s place used to be,” he mused.

They used to take him there when he was little. Yet another reason not to walk this
route.

Walking through the relatively narrow space between the buildings, he noticed
someone had left their doors open. He was somewhat taken aback by how bright the
inside of that place was.

The doors were massive, and the light was far from natural. Some part of him
screamed that something was wrong, but he was too tired to put two and two
together.
It was only as he walked past it, turning his head and reflexively violating the
privacy of the supposed owners, that he realized this was no home at all.

His grip on the grocery bag tightened, and his legs froze.

The world spun as he stepped right in front of a portal leading onto an endless,
open field of golden grass.

INVASION

His instincts flared up. Every pore oozed sweat. His mind had yet to catch up, but
his body was already preparing for a life-or-death scenario.

The vast, unnaturally blue sky and the gently swaying golden grass stretched so far
into the horizon that the scale left him frozen. But his nose knew what it smelled.
Past the comforting smell of earth and grass, there was a shade of danger—a
fragrance he had met during a nasty workplace accident—it was the smell of blood.

The grass shifted.

“Ggegek!” a tiny creature called out in a strange tongue.

Wearing green, textured cloaks and wooden masks, miniature humanoids popped their
heads above the grass. With the sounds of metal rubbing against cloth, shiny
daggers appeared in their grip.

“Ggeheg!” another yelled.

“Ggonggi!” the one next to it replied.

It was at this point that it had become undeniable. “Oh God… it’s a passage…” he
breathed out in pure disbelief.

Another of these things appeared. It was uncomfortably close. His eyes met the two
black holes where its eyes presumably were, and he maintained eye contact. Every
second felt like an eternity.

Suddenly, the creature crouched and, with a loud thud, propelled itself toward him,
and he barely dodged by throwing his body to the side. A metallic twang rang off
the wall, and he turned, only to spot the creature struggling to extract its weapon
from the brick it was stabbed into.

“This can’t be happening…” he said as he rushed up.

It finally finished pulling its dagger out. Then, it turned to its brethren and
yelled, “Gonggi ggon!”

A cacophony of cheering and battle cries made its way out of the passage.

He screamed and ran like mad, swinging the bag with the can of beans as he sprinted
into the middle of the road, nearly tripping on one of the many potholes. The
people in the streets turned their heads in the direction of the screaming lunatic.

Barely catching a breath, he managed to yell out, “Passage break! Run for your
lives!”

Everyone was on their feet in moments.

A horde of tiny, humanoid creatures ran out from behind the building. The people
screamed and ran, tripping over nothing as they scattered. The locked doors of
buildings were pounded on over and over as the people begged to be let inside, away
from the incoming danger.

For many, it was already too late.

The monsters pouring onto the streets were fast, frighteningly so. They dashed and
landed on people within seconds, pulling tiny, nasty daggers from nowhere and
cutting throats open, disemboweling with a single swift movement, and piercing
hearts with lethal precision.

He saw a young woman’s decapitated body drop dead to the ground, her blood pooling
rapidly, and he whimpered, unable to get the gruesome picture out of his head.

A loud whoosh could be heard every few seconds, and a scream usually followed, if
the victims could muster even that. Whenever those things did that supernaturally
quick dash, it made an ominous sound, quickly becoming associated with a bloody
scream immediately afterward.

His heartbeat hastened every time he heard that thud of death, and he felt his back
tighten, expecting a blade to soon be embedded into it.

It sounded again.

And again.

And again.

The haunting thuds grew louder, and he couldn’t help but turn around. One of the
creatures had just finished stabbing an elderly man to death, and as he turned to
face it, it sensed his gaze and met it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he repeated as he madly dashed.

Breath ragged, legs on fire, he had no time to care; the pitter-patter of that
thing’s tiny feet grew louder in his ears until finally—

There was no time to think. Out of pure reflex, he swung the bag, and as he turned,
he came mask to face with the creature flying at him, everything moving in slow
motion as he watched the can of beans collide directly with the creature’s head.

The impact burst the can and spilled its contents into the bag, which tore, sending
a rain of legumes over the street and knocking the attacker away, sending its
weapon clattering to the ground.
It was still alive, and as he watched it try to get up, he grabbed the jagged
dagger before it could reach for it.

He leaped at the monster, fueled by more adrenaline than he’d ever experienced in
his life, and stabbed the serrated weapon, which he gripped with both hands, into
its back while screaming “Die, die, die!” like a maniac, ignoring its yelps of
agony. The creature’s body was as tough as tanned leather, but eventually, the
green cloak became drenched, and the dagger went deeper and deeper, every
subsequent swing squirting more blood over him. Eventually, it stopped moving.

As its life abandoned its tiny corpse, he felt something strange deep in his torso.
It burned. Suddenly, he felt dizzy, and he nearly collapsed. Irregular shapes
swirled in his vision, and noises and voices rang in his ears, saying something he
couldn’t understand as the searing-hot sensation became effervescent, sizzling and
spreading through his body and numbing it. Just as he felt like he was about to
lose consciousness, it popped like a bubble, and his vision cleared.

With the weapon in his left hand and the torn grocery bag in the other, he got up
and sprinted away, leaving the corpse behind.

Several creatures appeared beside their mutilated comrade, and soon they turned
their gazes to his back. “Ggehokk!?” one of them screamed. “Ggegge heggerrino
ghoggiarra!”

“Ghoggiarra!” the others echoed.

“Oh no… Oh no, no, no.” His steps quickened; the pitter-patter instantly followed,
and just like before, he heard them catching up at a frightening speed.

His grip tightened around the dagger, and he wondered whether he should try to
fight it out but instantly realized how stupid that would be. Yet he didn’t let go
of the weapon.

The adrenaline pushed his legs faster than he ever believed he could run; his gaze
rapidly searched for any hope of escape, and soon, his eyes met a man wearing a
fancy black suit.

Grasping onto the faint hope that it wasn’t just some drunk partygoer, he screamed,
“Help!” He nearly stumbled. “Help me!”

But the man suddenly vanished, and before he could see where, another thud sprang
off the road behind him.

Once more, he turned around, betting on one final, wild swing. However, the moment
his eyes turned behind his back, he knew it was already too late as he saw the
creature nearly on top of him, dagger poised to—

Suddenly, a spear came flying out of nowhere, impaling the creature’s throat and
pinning it to a wall.

He tripped, dropping to the ground and tumbling away, nearly cutting himself on the
dagger. The man he had seen just a moment ago appeared, and several others soon
arrived beside him.

A burly man dressed in expensive, fashionable clothing ran in, swinging a furiously
hot blade to cleave one of the invaders in half. Arrows soundlessly flew out of
nowhere, striking the creatures with lethal precision. Some were killed instantly,
and others were gruesomely wounded as they rushed to hide between the buildings.
A woman in a red dress, holding a massive hammer, jumped off the top of a building
to pulverize one of the fleeing creatures into mush, turning around and following
up with a smash to another’s chest and a tomahawk kick to a third’s skull. Another
one of the monsters was just about to leap off the ground to jump at her, but a
small patch of land beneath its foot spread open, trapping its leg within and
turning it into a sitting duck for the hidden archer.

The spear wielder pulled his weapon out of the wall, freeing the cloaked creature’s
corpse, which tumbled to the ground.

The other two paused and hesitantly observed the man until one of them began
yelling at him. “Ghoggiarra ggungi, gguggingo! Ggongi!”

“Revenge…?” the man asked with a chuckle, poising his weapon to strike. “It is you
who are invading enemy territory, little one. Our retaliation is just.”

The spear wielder dashed at speeds far greater than even the little creatures could
manage and cleanly stabbed through their heads with rapid, snappy thrusts, leaving
perfectly circular holes behind.

His savior turned around, and he tried thanking him but found his throat had seized
up.

“Hello!” the man greeted him. “Please wait until we sort out the break. We’ll need
you for the witness report.”

There was nothing he could say to that. The man ran around in the vicinity,
gathering more terrified survivors.

Time flew by simultaneously, unnaturally slowly and unusually quickly. All he could
remember were flashes of talking to someone else and seeing others crying and
calling names that would likely soon appear in an obituary.

It just felt so surreal. Soon enough, he was broken out of the strange stupor,
sitting on the street next to several others as men and women in uniforms gathered
around the crowds.

One of them wrapped his body in a foil blanket, and he didn’t understand why at
first. Soon, he noticed the bone-chilling cold that filled his body and his almost
wholly wet clothes. Sweat covered him from head to toe, and he was shivering
uncontrollably. His hands were colder than he ever remembered them being.

Once it was his turn, the paramedic led him to a chair, where an officer told him
to sit. They checked him for injuries and blared a light crystal into his eyes for
some reason. They asked him a few general questions about his well-being, to which
he either answered curtly or just nodded.

Suddenly, someone mentioned the word “insurance” somewhere in the background, and
he perked up, immediately cured of his trauma. “Insurance? Where? Who?”

“Sir, are you all right?” The officer before him waved a hand before his face, and
he slowly blinked at him.

“Huh?” he asked dumbly. “Ah, yes, I’m doing swell. I… I have a quick question, i-if
you don’t mind, of course.”

The man raised an eyebrow but soon nodded.

“Brilliant, thanks. I just want to know real quick, do we get uhm… any form of…” He
carefully picked his following words, “reimbursement for this horribly traumatizing
event?”

The man shook his head. “I’m not a lawyer, kiddo. You’ll have to check that later
with someone.”

A uniformed woman approached their position, and the officer turned to greet her,
then back to him. He paused, turning to the woman again, and forwarded Freddy’s
question.

She thought about it for a moment. “I think yes. Wait.” After turning to Freddy,
she asked, “Are you a resident of this district or one directly neighboring it?”

“Yes!” he rushed to confirm. “I live in District 19!”

“Mmmm,” the woman hummed with a shake of her head. “That’s not directly
neighboring,” she declared.

“What!?” he spluttered. “You go directly from one to the other!”

“You cross through a small patch of District 19 first.”

“That’s bullshit!”

The man lifted a hand to soothe him. “Relax, sir, please. General insurance will
still cover this,” he comforted him. After that, he grabbed a pen and wrote
something down on a notepad.

Freddy looked like he swallowed piss. He did not have insurance. Not even medical.

“Wait! I… I… I used to live here! And the border is so, so close. Does that not
count!?” he spat with a strange shiver in his voice.

The officer didn’t even raise his head. “Look, you can get a lawyer and take it to
court. Maybe you have a case.”

As if he could afford a lawyer. Tears pooled around his eyes upon hearing that.
Sure, it was a traumatizing tragedy, but if payment were involved… well, he’d get
over it.

“Wait!” he exclaimed, raising his head again. “Sorry, uhm, I… I also killed! Yes! I
killed one of them!”

The two officers shot him a death glare, and he rushed to explain. “The monsters!
One of the monsters! N-Not people! Monsters. I killed one.”

The officer in front of him straightened his posture and looked him in the eye.
“Can you please describe it in more detail?”

“Yes, yes, I can! Uh, I was… I carried a bag. Beans. I had beans in the grocery
bag. Where is my bag?” He looked around frantically, and the man pointed at his
hands, where he was still holding the broken bag. “Yes!” He lifted the brown-
stained object. “This bag! There was a can of beans in it! And then I… I swung it!
Like whoosh, I heard the sound they made while dashing, and then boom, the can of
beans in the bag hit one in its head; it was dashing like really fast, so it flew
into it, smashing its head with like a twunk, and uh, and then I stabbed it… and…
uh… it died.”

“Uh-huh. Right,” the officer confirmed as he wrote something down. “Can of beans,”
he said, punctuating whatever he had written on the notepad with an aggressive dot.
“On an unrelated note, you should probably seek a psychiatric evaluation after this
event.”

“What!? No, I’m not crazy! I-I really did it! Look!” he said as he pulled the
jagged, bloody dagger out of the foil blanket wrapping his body, a weapon he had
somehow managed to conceal through the paramedic check-up.

Instantly, the officer sprang forth, grabbing it by the dried bloody blade and
firmly pulling it out of his hand, seemingly without fear of cutting himself.

“I’m not sure where you picked this up, sir,” he said with an edge to his voice,
“but even if you’ve killed one, mortals don’t get paid for takedowns during breaks.
Unqualified individuals should evacuate, not risk their lives for money,” he said
the last part in a reprimanding tone.

The man carefully handed the weapon to a colleague and turned to him again with a
hint of curiosity in his eye. “However, if you did do it, you could perhaps
manifest a prime.”

His mood dropping like a stone, he deflated. Yeah, right, a prime. May as well buy
a lottery ticket.

In a last-ditch effort, he pointed at the officer carrying the dagger away. “Do I
get anything for the dagger?”

The man shook his head, and he nodded, disappointment clear in his expression. “I
see.”

Before he was allowed to leave, he was shaken down to ensure he hadn’t taken any
other dangerous objects from one of the invaders. The plastic bag was confiscated
as well, for whatever reason.

With that done, the man asked whether he had anything else to report or further
questions. He didn’t, so the officer moved on to the next victim.

He was about to head back home, but then… he paused. Every dark corner of the
streets before him resembled a death trap, and he felt a deep sense of panic
overtaking him. His breathing hastened, his heartbeat sped up—

He jumped as one of the female officers put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please
wait right here,” she politely requested. “We’ll be driving victims back to their
homes soon.”

So he stayed and was eventually escorted into a carriage. It was indeed a lot
bigger on the inside.

The vehicle was filled with exhausted-looking people, and many had vacant eyes.
Random blood splatters covered some of them; for better or worse, it didn’t look
like it was their own.

The light in the carriage provided ample illumination for him to confirm that he
was indeed one of those covered in blood. And judging by the gruesome splatters all
over his body, he was easily in the upper echelon of stained victims.

An old man sitting to his left, with clothes almost as bloody as his, suddenly
grabbed his shirt aggressively, and with tearful eyes, he asked, “Hey, did you… Did
you hide under a body, too? You did.”
Freddy was creeped out by this stranger’s behavior and tried his best to politely
push him away, but the man was insistent.

“Yes, okay, I hid under a body!” he said, trying to get the man off his back.

The man smiled, chuckling and muttering, “You did… Yes, you did. You did do it!”
The man shivered. “Of course you would,” he said with a pained expression,
defensively wrapping his arms around his stomach. “It’s better than dying.”

The others glanced at the two of them surreptitiously, and he avoided eye contact.
Eventually, his name was called when they reached his address.

Once he left, he hurriedly rushed into his building, anxiously checking every
shadow around him for movement, and by the end, he had entered a half-run. After
fumbling with the keys to the entrance to his building, he closed the doors a
little harder than he intended and winced at the loud crash.

The staircase was an intimidating opponent after such a day, but he forced himself
to walk up. Once he entered the hallway of the second floor, he groaned at the
time.

It was 2 a.m.

Yeah…

No.

His fear of his boss wasn’t enough to stop him from taking a day off tomorrow. He
groaned hard as he realized he had to go to the first floor again. He hurriedly
rushed down the stairs until he reached the contact tablet.

Someone opened the door to the building, causing him to violently jump, and he
spotted James and Sharon stumbling into the hallway, clearly drunk out of their
minds. The faint light of the half-broken hallway lantern made it hard to see, so
they spotted and recognized him far before they did his blood-splattered clothing.

Once they came close enough to see it, Sharon screamed, and James fell on his ass,
whimpering in fright. “Jesus Christ, Freddy!” he yelled. “What the hell happened!?”

The blood-covered victim waved his hands to soothe them. “Don’t worry! Don’t worry!
It’s not my blood!”

James’s eyes widened. “Whose blood is it, then!?”

“It’s a…” he rushed to explain. “Oh, God, there was a break and… monsters. Just…”
he pinched his forehead and sighed. “You’ll hear it on the news tomorrow.”

They calmed a bit, and Sharon approached him while profusely apologizing, grabbing
his face, and examining him for any injuries. “Are you okay!?” she asked. “Do you
need any help? Are you hurt!?”

“Don’t worry… I’m… I’m fine.”

James got up and approached him as well. “Dear God, Freddy, look at you! I’ve never
seen this much blood in my life!” the man said, his gaze betraying a hint of
fascination.

Sharon grabbed his arm, and he pushed her back out of reflex, more aggressively
than he intended, making them back away from him.
Putting his hands up and down a few times, he finally spoke. “I’m… Look, we’ll talk
tomorrow. Just…” He pointed at the tablet. “I have to get something done, and I…
I…” He turned around, hiding the blood splatters on his clothing. “I need some
privacy now.”

They nodded and walked up the stairs, shooting him a few worried glances as he
turned to the contact device. Given the slight tremor to his touch, it took him a
few attempts to correctly write his boss’s name and unique ID on the small stone
surface, but eventually, the tablet lit up.

He put a handful of coins into the open slot, parting with three dollars, which was
a total scam, and started writing on the tablet. He had to make the letters
relatively small to fit his entire message. Even then, the contents came across as
rather curt.

The threat of getting fired wasn’t enough to get him to cough up more money, so he
sent the message and returned to climbing the stairs. His legs and feet ached as he
pulled himself up with great effort. Once he was at his apartment again, he
unlocked the door and went inside.

The stale smell of his room immediately reminded him that he was supposed to throw
the trash out today.

Hurriedly, he took his bloodied uniform off and threw it on the floor, hiding it
behind the trash can. Breathing raggedly, he backed away but soon calmed himself
and plopped his stinky body onto his filthy sheets.

Oh, yeah… he suddenly remembered. I guess I’ll be eating sleep for dinner tonight.
Or so he thought.

Yet, he found the prospect of falling asleep impossible. He didn’t feel tired. To
his own surprise, he didn’t even feel bad, other than the few bruises he’d suffered
from his two falls. Once he calmed down a bit, he felt fine. So, he got up. If he
wasn’t going to work tomorrow, he might as well stay up as late as he wanted.

After getting off his bed, he walked to the chest and opened it. There was a pile
of books in a corner, and he pulled out one from the bottom.

Magic Before Ether, the title said.

It was his favorite book. It talked about the once glorious technology mankind had
achieved before the Rift took it away.

Cars. Televisions. Computers. Airplanes.

True, ether allowed for things that mankind hadn’t achieved even back then, but
that didn’t mean it had been impossible.

Most of the old technology had been recreated in new ways under the limitations
enforced by the altered physics, but he couldn’t help but admire the people’s
dreams back then. They dared aspire to achievements such as Dyson spheres,
interplanetary travel, and artificial intelligence.

A big part of him wondered whether greater heights could be achieved now or back
then.

Both eras had their advantages and perils. Life hadn’t been easier back then, but
at least monsters had been nothing but a fairy tale. At least—
The book’s pages slammed with a thump, and he found his heart beating rapidly
again. He put the book back into the chest and closed it. The room felt
suffocating, so he opened the window.

The fresh outside air didn’t make him feel any better. The music, still echoing far
and wide, filled his ears, and lights flickered through the sky, mostly coming from
the floating structures. He put a hand to his mouth as puke rushed up, and he
couldn’t hold it back.

There was nothing to throw up besides a few drops of yellow liquid, promptly
ejected with a few gags. He watched them fall to the street below and quickly shut
the shades, closing the window behind them.

The sheets wrapped tightly around his body. Restless, it wasn’t long until he got
up to check whether his doors were locked. Back in bed again, for the first time in
his life, he felt grateful that his apartment was so small and there was nowhere
anything could hide.

Yet, there was a bit of space under him. He moved to the side and checked, laughing
a bit. How stupid. He was so old and still afraid of monsters under his bed.

The space above his chest, where his clothes basket hung off the ceiling, was out
of sight. So, he bent forward enough to confirm nothing was there, either. He
checked the inside of the chest, too, just in case.

As he looked at every corner of his room and once again confirmed the apartment was
locked, he finally dropped onto his bed… just to again get out of it and move the
chest in front of the door to block it.

He grabbed the handle on the window, tightening it and making sure it was extra
closed.

Checking behind the garbage can, for a moment, he thought his clothes had shifted,
and he jumped back, yelling a bit. He kicked the can forward and on top of the
bloodied clothes to hide them from view.

That was enough for him to return to bed.

The raging sound of his heartbeat pounded in his ears, and the taste of acid was in
the back of his throat. The muffled sounds of the outside gradually silenced, and
eventually, exhaustion finally won as the long-awaited grasp of sleep whisked him
away.

He was awakened by a sharp pain that felt like it was coming from everywhere on his
body. It fizzled and crackled, numbing his limbs. A bright flash of green light
soon followed it, and the agony abruptly stopped.

He woke up with a jolt, taking a deep breath and looking around the room in a
panic. “Was that sleep paralysis? A nightmare? What the hell, man…? It just keeps
getting…”

The faint light peering through his shades only faintly illuminated his room, but
it was enough to spot something unusual sitting on his bed.
There was a ball. And it had a face.

A green face that looked as if it were stretched over a sphere sat on his sheets,
staring at him and grinning widely. “What are you looking at, you fucking bitch!?”

PRIME VESTIGE

“Sweet mother of—” Freddy kicked the green face off his bed, and it shrieked as it
flew behind his garbage can.

His legs burned, and his abs screamed in protest, but he rushed to grab the
headgear off the floor beside his bed and got up, accidentally slamming his head
into the ceiling. “Argh!”

The thing spoke again, “You bastard child! How dare you do that to me!?”

“What the—”

As his mind finally caught up with the reality of the situation, the headgear
dropped out of his hands with a metallic clang, and his mouth hung wide open.
“Holy…” He walked forward, carefully stepping off his bed. “Holy shit!” He grabbed
the garbage can, jumping back again at the sight of his bloody clothes, and as he
spotted the green face on the floor, he stared at it, utterly dumbfounded.

“What are you staring at, you idiot!?” the thing asked him. “If I had saliva
glands, I’d spit on your feet!”

His face gradually morphed into a shaky grin, and with a tearful laugh, he joyfully
reached for the green face, lifting it into the air as if it were a holy object. “I
can’t believe it!” He laughed again, tears running down his face. “Holy shit, I
can’t believe it! It’s a prime vestige!”

He immediately slapped his mouth shut. Slithering over to his bed, he covered his
head with his sheets and shushed the green ball, listening for any sounds in the
hallway.

Nobody was there.

“I swear, you’re a lunatic!” the ball said in a voice far louder than he wanted it
to.

So he yet again shushed it aggressively. “Shhhhhh! Be quiet, please! If someone

finds out, they might try to steal you!”

“As if you’d care!” it said. “I’m sure you watch men plow your wife’s fields every
day!”
“Men what!?” he scream-whispered to the odd ball. “I’m not married!”

“Ha! Figures.”

He took a deep breath and calmed himself. His heart roared in his chest, and he
struggled to remember what to do. As far as he knew, if asked a question, primes
had to speak if they had the answer.

So ask a question he would. “Tell me, now…” Yet he couldn’t muster the words. This
was a big deal. Depending on the answer, his entire future would change.

However, he had to ask. Rather than dwell on it, he forced himself to speak. “Tell
me…” he said with a lick that desperately tried rehydrating his parched lips. His
vision blurred, and his stomach felt like it was dropping into an endless pit,
reaching deeper by the second as he finished his question, “What power do you
hold?”

It stared at him for a mere moment. Then, it answered his question. “Super farmer!”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“If you embrace me into your soul, you will become a master farmer! All the crops
you plant shall have a greater yield, and you may even buy a wife with the produce!
So you can watch other men take her away from you!” it said, and then it returned
to its loud yells, curses, and blabbering.

Disbelief radiated from him. “You’re kidding, right?” But before the green face
could even answer, he knew the truth.

His hands tremored, his eyes teared up—

“No.” Blinking the tears away, he nearly bit himself in anger at his stupidity. By
the mere virtue of being a prime vestige, this object was worth more than all his
savings and possessions combined, even with a non-combat talent.

Hiding the ball beneath his blankets as he got up, he walked to his clothes basket
and donned his only set of casual clothing. He was still dirty, and his clothes
smelled of sweat, but this was no time to be concerned about that.

Returning to his bed, he grabbed the prime, urging it to be quiet, but it simply
refused to stop screaming.

“All right. If that’s how you want to play,” he said as he grabbed his sheets and
wrapped it up until its screams were reduced to a faint whisper.

He didn’t dare leave the thing in his apartment, yet couldn’t gather up the courage
to take it out either. He moved the chest still barricading his door, carefully
cracked the entrance open, and peered into the hallway.

Just barely in sight, the clock showed it was already early afternoon.

That was good news. It meant few people would be walking around inside the
building, and the toilet was likely empty. Although his looks were the last thing
on his mind, judging by how dirty he felt, he probably didn’t look all that
civilized.

At the very least, he should look presentable.

The chest shot open, and he threw things out until he made enough space to fit his
balled-up sheets. After stuffing them inside and locking the chest, he stepped out
into the hallway.

The moment he left, a woman almost bumped into him, and she screamed as she
violently jumped back, nearly giving him a heart attack. After recovering from her
shock, she gave him a strange look, and he raised an eyebrow as she quickly walked
past him. Ignoring the woman, he rushed to the bathroom.

“Jesus!” The mirror in the toilet instantly justified the woman’s reaction. His
hair was an absolute mess, and his face still had blood splatters, although they
had been reduced to brown stains. Quickly rinsing his face and wetting his hair to
comb it into shape, he made himself look at least somewhat presentable, although he
still smelled like crap.

The sound of running water reminded him that he was brutally thirsty, and he leaned
beneath the faucet, pouring the water straight into his mouth. Once done, he
prepared to leave.

His hand firmly gripped the bathroom door handle, but he hesitated. The rancid
smell of his body was apparent, even to himself, and where he was heading, it was
best he avoided being thrown out for something so petty. So he swallowed his
impatience and forced himself to undress and shower.

Once out, he didn’t even bother checking whether the towel was clean as he swiftly
dried himself, put his clothes on, and rushed out. Back in his apartment, he
unlocked the chest and picked up the pile of sheets.

Within seconds, he was out of his apartment, down the stairs, and on the streets.
When he was out, he slowed down a bit but still maintained a hasty pace.

Nobody even glanced at him.

But the vestige could still be heard from up close, and as three young men walked
past him, one of them turned around. “Yo, did y’all just hear screaming?”

He maintained the same pace, and within moments, the men lost interest, allowing
him to breathe a sigh of relief.

Soon enough, he stepped into the twenty-third district and marched onward. People
were already gathering in the cafes, and he overheard several conversations about
the break that happened yesterday.

A slight pang of anxiety struck him as he remembered the gruesome event, but it
didn’t take much for him to push it down.

Something, something, life went on, something—who gives a crap about that!? He was
carrying a damn prime vestige in his arms—the dream of countless people, a once-in-
a-lifetime opportunity to become an archhuman! If he, no, once he ascended, it
likely wouldn’t be the only time he witnessed something of the sort.

As he saw the massive, colorful buildings of the 25th district appear from between
the plain construction of the twenty-third, the anxious thoughts of yesterday’s
event were quickly pushed aside. He kept his eyes on the prize, and after a few
more minutes of walking, he appeared before the gates. It was blocked, and there
was a guard outside.

His steps slowed, and he bit his lip. “Oh, come the fuck…!”
How had he forgotten about this!? There was no way they would let him inside!

Or… wait. Didn’t the prime count as justification that he had business inside? But
showing it wasn’t something he was enthusiastic about. Why did they put these damn
fences up to begin with?

Anyone who could step foot onto a rich arch’s private property without dying
instantly wouldn’t be stopped by a gate like this. Hell, Freddy had witnessed a man
jump the fence, and the guard had ignored him. So why? Was this just a cruel flex
on them lowly mortals?

He swallowed the bitter feelings and stepped up to the gatekeeper.

“Please provide verification or reason for entry,” the suited, bald man recited.

Every cell in his body protested against unwrapping the sheets, but he pushed
through the reluctance and peeled the layers open, revealing the screaming green
ball inside.

“Put me in there again, and I will skin your ass with my teeth!” it screamed, eyes
bulging.

Everyone nearby instantly turned at the commotion, and the gatekeeper simply
nodded, moving away so he could pass.

“Was that guy carrying a prime?” someone asked.

“Lucky bastard,” another commented.

He ignored the strangers and walked into the district, wrapping the prime back up.

Huh… he mused. It really was that easy.

Vowing to fight injustice at some point in the future when he was unimaginably
wealthy and powerful, he stepped past the man and walked into the 25th district.

He knew where to go, and with every step he took closer to his destination, his
heartbeat sped up just a bit.

The 25th district often appeared barren, even if he knew damn well that that wasn’t
the case. It was just that the sky bridges connecting the floating structures and
the underground transport system were considerably more popular forms of transit
for the residents. And he wasn’t even privileged enough to see who was using them.

Yet, the closer he got to his target, the more people seemingly popped out of
nowhere, and the population of obviously, and sometimes, obnoxiously wealthy
individuals walking the streets sharply increased.

Even among archhumans, there were higher and lower classes. While power wasn’t
strictly tied to this, the number of stars in one’s soul was the primary way this
ranking was determined. Starting from a single star, archhumans were not much
different from regular humans. But from the second onward, there were visible
changes that made them clearly stand out.

Unusual physiological traits, like unnatural hair and eye color, superhuman beauty,
pronounced height or physical size, and most noticeably—the aura. Those of the
second star onward gave off a faint feeling of oppression to those below them. They
could hold it back, too, but… nobody here cared to do that.
Ragged breathing and shaky steps, nausea, dizziness, and intense anxiety
accompanied his every step. The way forward felt like he was walking barefoot up a
steep mountain covered in thorns and broken glass. But as time passed, he got used
to it.

Eventually, the massive, pearly white Archhumanity’s Trading Association building

appeared before him. He took measured steps to get closer. A large clearing, paved
in marble, spread before the building, and dozens of inscribed golden orbs floated
around ten feet or so off the ground.

A long set of stairs led up to the entrance, and the only thing stopping the many
people who were walking around from forming a crowd was the sheer size of the
courtyard.

Anxiously glancing at the ball of sheets, he quickly realized that he should get
rid of them. Nobody would dare steal here, but he may be thrown out if he walked
inside carrying something like this.

With some hesitation, he pulled the still-screaming vestige out and dropped the
sheets into a nearby garbage can. It was rather sad watching them go.

The prime vestige was still screaming its figurative lungs out, and he couldn’t
muster the bravery to walk into the building with something so attention-grabbing.
Several people dressed in clothing, likely worth more than his life, glanced his
way, making him wince at their cold gazes.

He squeezed the little green ball and repeatedly told it to calm down, without much
success. Finally, he snapped. “Will you just shut the fuck—”

“Sir?” a deep, male voice sounded.

He jumped and turned around, facing a formally dressed older gentleman, one that
heavily reminded him of a butler. “Huh? I mean, uh, hello, hi, how are you? I mean,
uh, who are you? No, I—”

The man chuckled and continued, “I apologize for the scare. I’m an ATA employee,”
he said as he pulled a small glass box out of nowhere.

Freddy stared at it in consternation. “What’s that?” he asked cautiously before

remembering to add, “If you don’t mind telling me… Sir.”

“This insulating box is used to restrain rowdy primes,” he explained.

“No offense, and I do mean this with all due respect, but”—he skeptically glanced
at the glass box—“how do I know that’s what you claim it is?”

“You can relax, sir.” The man pointed at a floating golden orb hovering slightly to
their right. “I assure you, if anyone attempted theft on the association’s grounds,
they wouldn’t even get away with their lives, let alone your possessions.”

He chuckled awkwardly at the ominous assurance but gratefully grabbed the glass
box, thanking the man for the help. After putting the prime vestige inside and
closing the contraption, he realized he could still hear the thing screaming at
nearly full volume.

Confusion set in. The man reached to pull a small hatch down, which immediately cut
the sound off.

He winced at his ignorance and nodded at the man in gratitude. “Thank you, kind
sir,” he thanked the man. “Uh, I guess I will be on my way…?”

“Enjoy your stay, sir,” the man said with a smile.

He started walking away.

“And please,” the ominous butler added, “do not forget to return the box.”

Parting with the man after those vaguely threatening words, he walked into the
building, his heart beating out of his chest.

Three steps up, and his abs and legs were already reminding him of yesterday’s
events. Enduring the pain, he walked up, and with every step he took and every
fancy individual he passed, he felt more shame at his ragged clothing and low-class
demeanor.

Eventually, he walked the last step and went through the golden gates that led into
the building.

“Wow…”

The marble highlighted the warm ambient lighting perfectly, and the dark wood
subdued the environment, creating a stark yet appealing contrast between haughty
opulence and humble but classy wood. Numerous paintings lined the walls, beautiful
chandeliers hung from above, and flickering, floating balls of fluffy, blue smoke
fashioned a faux sky across the ceiling.

Doing his best to avoid looking like a hick, he walked forward, confidently holding
the box, even proudly presenting it.

However, when he realized that everyone here carried something of value, commonly
more so than his singular prime vestige, he put the box down, holding it casually
as if it were a bag of groceries.

As he walked forward, he slowed down around the center of the room. He had
something of a problem. “Where the hell am I supposed to go?” he whispered into his
chin.

Countless people were walking about, leaving and entering dozens of doors lining
the wall on the other side of the entrance. There was nothing else anywhere to be
seen—no reception desk, no anyone that appeared to be an employee, no nothing.

Subtly peeking into some of the doors, he realized that inside them, yet again, the
rooms were bigger on the inside.

Rich bastards sure have a fetish for space dilation.

Casually striding closer to the entrances, he realized no signs were on or above

them. He could spot people walking around, but the crowd pushing in and out made it
difficult to tell what was happening. A big part of him wanted to choose randomly
and check what was inside, but the rest of him was worried he would accidentally
walk in somewhere he wasn’t invited.

So he strode along, passing all the doors, surreptitiously peeking into the rooms,
and eventually, he ran out of wall to scout. A convenient marble bench met him at
the end of his journey, and he walked over to it.

Just as he prepared to sit, a woman practically materialized out of nowhere. “Sir,

you’re not allowed to sit there,” she declared, pointing at the sign that stated
the same thing right above his head.

His back shot upright instantly. “Sorry, I am so sorry,” he apologized. “I did not
see that there, oh man.”

The woman nodded at him and turned to leave, but he grabbed the chance to get some
information. “Hey, uhm…” he called.

She turned around with a blank expression.

He hurried to explain himself. “I will be honest with you. I’m completely clueless
about where to go. Do you mind pointing me in a direction?”

The woman smiled pleasantly and pointed at the wall with the unmarked entrances.
“The doors.” With that, she turned around and left.

Well… thanks for nothing, I guess.

He took a deep breath and decided to wing it. The first door from the left it was.
The moment he walked through, he spotted a line of over ten receptionists to his
left and more doors along all the other walls in the room.

Eventually, he made his way over to a male receptionist. “Hello!” he greeted the
man. “I am here to either sell or trade a prime vestige.”

The man pointed behind him, over to the wall to his right. “Doors 14 to 37.”

He nodded and walked over. He quickly glanced at the other doors, observing what
appeared to be some form of hierarchy. Every door from ten to one grew increasingly
fancier, and one looked like the entrance to some emperor’s bedroom.

However, those weren’t his concern, and he turned back to the ones he was pointed
to. The doors had a light above them; some were red, and others were green.
Although he immediately assumed that green meant free and red meant occupied, he
still asked a random passerby to make sure. The woman he asked stared at him like
he was brain-dead. Still, she confirmed it.

He took a deep breath and summarily walked into the first room with a green light
above it.

The instant he opened the door, a thick cloud of cigarette smoke, not unpleasant in
smell, struck him, and he spotted a man sitting on a luxurious leather chair. The
trader looked ageless, with sharp features and a scruffy beard on his face.

He took a massive Cuban cigar out of his mouth, flicked the ash off into an
ashtray, and then spoke in a rough, deep voice. “Sit down, kid.”

Without hesitation, he walked forward and sat in the shockingly comfortable chair.

The man pointed at the glass box and gestured to him to hand it over.

Rather than immediately give him the box, he clarified, “I’m here to sell or trade
my vestige.”

The man blinked slowly. “No shit!” he yelled sarcastically. “Give me the damn thing
so I can see what it does!”

He reluctantly relinquished the glass container, and the smoker immediately opened
it.

“You bastards can lick my crack clean!” its resident spewed.

“Oh, shut up, you whiny thing. What’s your talent?” he asked, blowing a large puff
of smoke while waiting for the answer.

“Farming! Best farming! Supreme farming! Your crops do better!”

The man looked at the vestige for a few seconds, then at him as if waiting for
something.

He seemed to realize there was nothing else to say, so he continued, “Aight.” The
man scoffed as he locked the box again, then turned to his client, who stared at
the man expectantly for a few seconds.

The man stared back and frowned. “So, which will it be? Trade or sell?”

“Uh, I… It’s whatever, no, I mean, it’s uhm—”

“Stop yapping, kid, I don’t have all day.”

“I-I mean, it’s not whatever,” he said as he rushed to collect himself, “but I am
looking to get another prime regardless, so if you have any, I’d love to do that,
yes.”

The trader scowled. “So you wanna trade?”

“Uh, yes, I do want to do that, yes.”

“Whaddaya want?”

“I… I didn’t think of that, but something combat-oriented, sir…”

“Lovely.” The man bent over to check something in a drawer. “How ’bout I throw a
few ideas at you, and you take a look?”

“That—uhm…” he pondered. “That… suits me just fine.”

The man nodded and pulled a massive box out of the drawer.

He pulled one of the colorful balls out—a gray, three-eyed vestige that spoke in a
depressed tone, “Hello, you guys…”

“What does that one do?” he asked.

“Why are you asking me?” the man said, pushing the gray ball at his face. “Ask it.”

“Uh… What do you do?”

“Nothing much, really,” it answered his question. “I spend my days in boredom.”

“No, I mean,” he said as he rushed to correct himself. “What power do you hold?”

“A rat tail. A tail, like that of a rat… I know, not really cool…”
His stomach sank. “Uhm…” He glanced at the man. “Sorry if this seems rude, but not
even the prime itself thinks the talent is all that good.”

“And your vestige is rather enthusiastic,” the man said with a sly smile. “Not much
of an opinion, now, is it?”

“Fair enough, but this is still… If you plan to offer me stuff like this, I’d
prefer to keep my own.” He looked at the man, this time with a lot less
trepidation.

It was clear that this man considered him a sucker, and it wasn’t a surprise why.
As soon as he calmed down and thought about it, he realized he didn’t have to rush
to sell it immediately.

The man put the ball away and pulled out another, but as Freddy got off the chair
and started walking out of the room, the man spoke, “Kid, wait a minute, where are
you goin’? That was only the first offer.”

“I’ve…” he started with a half-turn. “I will go get the vestige appraised first.”

The man blankly stared at him for a moment, and then he burst out laughing,
coughing his lungs out.

He was taken aback. “What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Kid, do you have any damn idea how expensive proper appraisals are?” the trader
asked him and then turned serious. “At the lowest, you’ll pay the full value of a
cheap prime for one, and without the proper contacts, you will wait as long as six
months to get it.”

Hesitating, he turned around and looked at the man seriously. “I know it must be
funny to you, sir, but with all due respect, I would like you to take this
seriously.”

“What the hell do you mean, brat?”

That made him hesitate again, but something boiled over as he raised his tone a bit
above what he wanted to. “Rat tail!? Seriously!?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Do you take me for an idiot?”

“Yes, I do,” the man said, smiling smugly. “And your idiotic behavior doesn’t
convince me otherwise.”

That sent a chill down his spine as he realized who he had been yelling at. “I’m—
I’m sorry, sir…”

“Bah!” he spat, frowning. “You were almost manly, kid. Don’t ruin it by pussying
out!”

“I… What?”

“Sit the fuck down again.”

Despite quite a bit of hesitation, he eventually forced himself to walk back to the
chair, where he sat down.
The man sighed and gave him a long, hard look. “Tell me, were you involved with the
break last night?”

Freddy’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the man mused sarcastically. “A poor clueless kid comes in with
a prime, acting like a cautious, beaten dog the day after it happened. That’s just
a coincidence, no?” the man asked rhetorically, shaking his head. “You do know that
encounters with monsters can significantly increase the odds of manifesting a
prime, right?” the man asked.

He knew that was a thing but had never heard specific numbers. It definitely wasn’t
guaranteed, however. If it were, bringing mortals to fight weaker monsters and
generating infinite primes would be trivial to some… less human-rights-oriented
individuals.

The trader squinted at him. “Also, I’m not sure how aware of it you are, but you’re
acting a bit… uh…” Rather than finishing the sentence, the man twirled a finger
next to his head and whistled.

Freddy winced at that.

The man sighed. “Have you seen a shrink yet?”

“No, I haven’t, sir.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“What?”

“You shouldn’t do it. Fuck ’em.”

“Well, I mean, I can’t afford one anyway… but I…” He hesitated. “If I, somehow,
suddenly could afford one, why shouldn’t I go?”

The man leaned over the desk, pulling the cigarette out and putting it into an
ashtray. “Let me ask you something. Did you see anyone die?”

He winced a bit, recalling several fresh corpses so readily that, for a moment, he
felt as if he were right back when he first saw them. “Yes… sir.”

“Funny that, innit,” he said as he leaned back. “Didn’t you ask me for a combat-
oriented power?”

“What are you trying to say?” he responded with a bit more edge to his voice than
he thought there would be.

The man grinned widely in turn. “Go to a shrink. You know what they’ll tell you?”
The man leaned closer. “They’ll tell you that you should feel bad and sad and cry
it out. That it’s a-okay to whimper like a bitch and avoid conflict for the rest of
your life,” he said with a scoff. “And you’re gonna fucking believe it.” The trader
leaned back. “Screw that. You made the right choice. Man the fuck up and get ready
to see more.”

Those words left him stumped. That wasn’t why he had chosen to go with a combat-
oriented talent. He just wanted to be independent, to be free. With a farming
talent, he’d be a farmer. Forever. Until the day he died. Perhaps he could be his
own boss one day, sure, but if someone wanted to forcefully extract a few favors
from him, he’d be powerless to defend himself.
Screw that.

His lifelong dream had always been to become an archhuman. Because he wanted to
have the power to live on his own terms—and not kiss the bottom of someone’s shoe.

Thoughts whirled in his head, but before he could respond, the man pointed at the
glass box holding his prime again. “You realize we haven’t even asked your thing
what its affinities are, right?”

“I’m sorry?” he asked dumbly. “Wait, it can tell you that!?”

The man sighed and slumped a bit. “Boy, you should at least try to hide it if
you’re that clueless.”

Yet again, before he could respond, the man grabbed the glass box out of his hands
and opened it again, releasing the screaming green ball. “What affinities do you
have?”

Once it finally stopped hollering, it answered, “Earth, naturally! And water,

naturally! And nature, naturally! Naturally,” it said, promptly returning to
screaming again.

The man whistled, locked the prime back up, and sank into his chair. “Well, I’ll be
damned. Three affinities. That’s a rare find.”

Those words sounded like money, but rather than rejoice, he was offended. “So you
really were trying to scam me earlier!”

“Damn straight!” the man declared unapologetically, slamming an open palm on the
table. “I’m here to earn money, boy, not do charity.” And then, with a smile, he
continued, “I’ll be honest with you, kid. In this business, being the first trader
people like you talk to effectively means you’re either getting everything or
aren’t getting shit. You can tell why, no?”

Indeed. He wanted to get up and leave to get a second opinion.

“So here’s how it’ll be,” the trader said as he adopted a more formal tone. “This
is decent. It does come with the downside of having a highly restrictive non-combat
talent, which will impact the price considerably. But! Fighting isn’t for everyone,
and a triple-affinity is very desirable.”

“And that means…?”

“If it were a combat talent, you’d be rich,” he clarified. “But it ain’t, so you
aren’t. Still, it’s good stuff.”

“I might want to hear a second opinion on that.”

The man frowned and waved a hand. “Go then, get scammed somewhere else. You won’t
get a better deal anywhere you go. How about this? I’ll give you a special offer.”
The man straightened his back, shedding the snark and switching to pure business.
“If, and only if, you sell me this prime right now, I will offer you three things!”

The trader raised three fingers. “First, I will give you a prime of decent value,
and I will give you the one I believe is best-suited for you. Second, I will
provide you with twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. And third, I will pay the
consulting fee in your stead and recommend you for an immediate appointment,
allowing you to skip days, or even weeks, of waiting.”
He wanted to know what prime he would be offered and what consulting meant, but
there was a more important thing to discuss first. “Fifty thousand dollars.”

With a grin, the man retorted. “Twenty-six.”

“Come on, that’s too small an increase. I’m sticking with fifty.”

“Sticking it up your ass, hopefully. I ain’t taking that,” the man refused.

“Fine… You know we will meet at forty, so let’s skip straight to it.”

The man smirked. “Thirty is the most I can give you.”

With a somewhat fake frown, mostly there to conceal a grin, Freddy agreed, “Sold.
Well, not on the whole deal, but I’m happy with the amount.”

The man scoffed and shook his head. “So, the prime…”

“Can I just ask what you mean by consulting?”

“A guy will look at the prime I give you and advise you on handling the power or
approaching your growth at first.”

“Ah… I see.” That sounded pretty good. He didn’t know whether this was a good deal,
but that was precisely the point. He didn’t know anything. In every way, he was
oblivious about ascending and what he should do. And worst of all, he had no real
way to find out. At least not for free.

Everyone would try to scam him, just as the man had said, but at least he would get
some money here, and he was pretty aware of its value. And on top of that, he would
get some information, which he needed more than anything.

Rather than open the box on the table, the man got up and walked to a seemingly
blank wall. He tapped random empty spots, and an outline appeared, soon revealing
itself as a seam to a drawer that slid open. The man pulled an object out, bringing
it to the table.

Freddy swallowed.

It was another box, but rather than being transparent, it was entirely black. With
one finger on the hatch, the man opened the box and pulled out a red prime.

This one seemed to be solemn and calm, keeping its eyes closed.

“Go ahead, kid,” the trader urged him. “Ask it what its power is.”

Freddy gulped. He felt even more anxious about asking this time than when he asked
the one he had manifested.

After a few seconds of silence, he finally opened his mouth. “Tell me, vestige…

“What power do you hold?”

4
HUNDRED-PART HARM YE BRING UNTO THINE ENEMY…

Immediate appointment, my ass, Freddy thought with more than a slight hint of
bitterness. For over two hours already, he had been waiting in line. It was finally
down to only two people; then, it would be his turn.

Raising the glass box, he observed the red prime within, its eyes closed and mouth
shut. The cryptic words it had uttered still echoed in his mind.

Hundred-part harm ye bring unto thine enemy, one part ye shall recover.

Honestly, he hadn’t fully understood what the power was until the trader had told
him.

The talent it held was 1% Lifesteal. And it had a water affinity.

While the trader was adamant that this was a great power, he had refused the offer
almost immediately. Heal for a measly 1 percent of the damage done and have just a
single affinity; water, at that? He’d rather have the rat tail.

The trader put the prime away and pulled several others out. It was only after
seeing the other offers that Freddy changed his mind.

The trader was willing to part with some seriously valuable stuff; primes even
Freddy could tell were worth a pretty penny. Yet he insisted that this would be
best for him.

And, after he finally allowed the man to elaborate, it made a lot of sense.

It was the perfect power for someone starting poor and without backing. Well, not
perfect. Ideally, he would get something overpowered, but as far as budget talents
went, if the man was to be believed, this was a damn good one.

Healing was expensive. A talent like this was perfect for curbing that cost.

While he was more than glad to entertain dreams of fame and vast wealth, the death
rate and early retirement numbers for archhumans without a background were
staggeringly high. Not to mention that even mortal medical treatment was soul-
wrenchingly expensive at times, let alone the services of a specialized healer.

It also presented a rather attractive future prospect. As he went up the ranks, he

was excited to discover what types of evolutions it would undergo.

Would he become like an immortal vampire? An unkillable berserker that could face
down an army, completely disregarding any injuries he received, merely crushing his
enemies to stay in top shape?

Yeah, probably not. But dreams were good. And his heart was filled with hope.

Not much later, it was finally his turn.

When he entered, a tall, tan man with long hair tied into a ponytail practically
jumped him, shaking his hand and patting his shoulder. “What’s up, my man!? Come on
in, sit. You want something to drink?”

“Uh, hi, uhm…” His mind whirled, but there was only one real option to consider.
“I’ll have coffee if you have any.”

“Sure thing, my dude, sit.” The man turned around and waved a hand over a crystal
surface. Moments later, a cup of steaming hot coffee appeared on it.

He was a little taken aback.

Grabbing the cup, the man placed it right before him while he sat on the opposite
side of the table. “Sorry, please wait a minute, uhm…” His words trailed off as he
looked at something on a portable screen. “I’m just gonna check something out,”

“Sure thing…”

As long as it doesn’t cut my consulting short, he added inwardly.

Putting the screen down with one final glance, the man turned to face him. “So… Let
me see what you got.”

“Oh, uh, here you go,” he said as he handed the man the red ball.

“I like this one.” The man smiled as he eyed the stoic prime. “Reminds me a bit of
my grandpa,” he said with a cheerful chuckle. “What’s the talent and affinity?”

“It’s uhm… 1% Lifesteal and a water affinity.”

The man looked impressed. “Damn… that’s nice. Great, even. Especially if you’re
independent.”

The moment the man said that, Freddy instantly sighed in relief. He had been
deathly afraid that the trader had sold him some bullshit story. This at least
confirmed that he got what he had been promised.

“Hang on a second…” The man turned to the screen again.

He sipped the coffee while he waited… and almost spat it out in shock. It was the
tastiest thing he had ever put in his mouth, and nothing seemed to have been added
to it.

How expensive is this consulting if this is the coffee you get? he wondered. Geez…

Soon enough, the man looked back at him again, hesitantly taking his eyes off the
screen. “So… The first thing I recommend is that you look into moving to a place
with a massive body of water or something like a desert. The first will be good if
you want to grow reliably, and the second will be wonderful if you want to get
paid. The easiest place to delve would be a realm with maybe fire elementals, but
I’m not sure if you’ll be able to find a spot in one. Now!”

He turned around and pulled a box up on the desk, pulling out three white scrolls
and what looked like a large textbook, and handed them to Freddy, who grabbed the
neatly rolled-up, high-quality paper and marveled at the smooth feeling beneath his
fingers. The scrolls were all sealed with inscribed tape.

The man pointed at them. “These babies right here,” he said as he hovered over the
scrolls, “all have ether imprints. You just have to look at them, and the abilities
will be inscribed into your soul. The first is Frog Leap. That will be your example
of using hydraulic pressure for mobility. Second, you have Flowing Rain Martial
Arts. It comes with the Water Body tempering technique and Flowing Strike.

“The tempering technique is the generic one for water. Great for basic recovery,
excellent for health, and can evolve into a great vitality booster. Unfortunately,
you don’t get the Flowing River tempering technique with the package. I can’t
choose your path for you, but I do recommend you get it if you stick to martial
arts.

“Speaking of which, now we have Flowing Strike. It’s excellent for using the
momentum of water in your body in combat. Don’t use it to hit anything at first,
though, since you will burst your veins and capillaries. Use it on empty air until
your body gets used to it.

“Third, this is the Squirt spell. Nothing special. It’s just there for practice. It
is a great example of how to both materialize water from essence and how to
manipulate it. You shouldn’t waste any more time on it than you need to. Use the
way it feels as a guide to learn the basics of manipulating water, then make the
Create Water spell on your own,” he said as he moved to the book. “Finally, you
have The Basics of Gathering, adjusted for water affinity. Read the whole thing.”

He stared at the objects in shock. “For… For free?”

“What do you mean for free?” the man asked, almost insulted at the question. “This
comes with the consulting fee. Besides, this is all cheap stuff you can find
anywhere.”

Still… this was priceless to him. Despite some lingering qualms with his chosen
talent, he was starting to think this deal was better than he had thought.

The man frowned suddenly. “Now, about that talent…”

Something about the way the man had said that made his skin crawl. Was there
something wrong with it?

The man continued, “I recommend you experiment with it as much as possible. Healing
powers are notoriously tricky.”

“In what way?” he asked, holding back the anxiety bubbling in his gut.

“Well, for starters, what does 1% Lifesteal even mean?” the man questioned with a
frown. “Can you tell me what it said its power was?”

“Of course, it was uh…” His mind froze as he tried to remember the exact words, but
the man grabbed the vestige and asked it himself.

Once the vestige repeated the same thing it had previously said, the man set it on
the table and sat back with a deep frown.

“Is… Is something wrong?” he asked cautiously.

“There is a lot to say, so I will sum it up as quickly as I can. First, what does
enemy mean? Does that mean that it only allows healing from creatures you consider
foes? Or is it things that consider you a foe? What about recover? Recover from
what? Injuries? Do diseases or disorders count? What about scars? What about
something like poison? Would it remove it from your body? What about cancer? Would
it kill bacteria or viruses? Could it recover lost limbs?”
“What about the actual damage? One percent of what? Let’s say you kill an opponent
with a swift stab to their eye. Would it heal you the same amount as if you had
destroyed the entire body? If so, would it do it instantaneously or gradually as
the cells die? What about the harm thing? Could you set a forest on fire and heal
for 1 percent of the damage that did to the creatures within? Would your opponent’s
bleeding count as damage you’ve done if you’re the one that inflicted the injury?”

He sat there, dazed at the flurry of questions. How the hell was he supposed to
know? Wasn’t it the consultant’s job to tell him this?

The man could tell what he wanted to say based on his expression. “These are all
relatively basic characteristics of healing powers. There are different categories
of healing quality, and depending on which you get, the quality of the final
product could vary drastically. And even then, its quality could be unique and
specific to your talent and not on the usual scale. I’ve seen powers similar to
this one before. They only end up being as useful as the technicalities allow them
to be,” he stated. “Hold on, let’s try and puzzle it out a bit.”

The man grabbed the prime and repeated the questions, rephrasing some of them
several times. The prime either claimed it didn’t know the answer, answered
extremely cryptically, or simply remained silent.

“I see…” the man said as he handed the prime back. “No offense, but I wondered why
that old bastard gave you something this valuable and even added a bonus. I mean,
it should be fine, but the exact details are a bit of a gamble. Just out of
curiosity, what the hell did you sell him? You don’t need to answer if you don’t
want to, of course.”

“I sold him another prime,” he answered, mind not fully focused on what he was
saying. “Uhm… It had a farming talent and three affinities.”

The consultant’s jaw dropped, and soon, a smile popped on his face. “You’re
kidding, right? That’s a joke?” The uncertain look on his face was all he needed.
“Oh, man. Oh, boy. It wouldn’t be this one, would it?” He dragged the screen before
Freddy, who took a worried look at it.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking at initially, but he soon realized it was some
sort of auction site. It took him several seconds to comprehend what he was looking
at as the man pointed at the prime vestige he had just sold.

It was at the very top of the list.

“Se-Se-Seve…! Seventy million dollars!?” he screamed as he pulled the tablet out of

the man’s hands and accidentally dropped it in shock. Thankfully, it didn’t break,
but that was the last concern on his mind. “What!? How!? No, no, no… this can’t be
real!” He got up and paced around the room, gripping his head. “I’m gonna sue him.
I’m gonna go sue him!”

“Sit down, man!”

“No, I’m gonna fucking kill him!”

“I said sit down!” the man yelled, and a strange power washed over him, sobering
him instantly.

He shakily sat down and looked like he had a thousand things to say, but before he
could get anything out, the consultant gave him a stern look and spoke in an icy
tone, “Be careful with your words. You should be grateful.”
“Grateful…?” He breathed out. “For… For what!? He scammed me out of—”

“He probably saved your life.”

“Saved… What?”

“If you had known the value of that thing, you would have been dead by the end of
the day. There is no way you could put it up for auction anonymously, and if the
wrong person found out about what you had, they would take it and bury you before
anyone knew what happened.”

Those words didn’t do much to assuage his anger. If anything, it only made him feel
more pissed. “Is there anything else you want to consult me on?”

“Yes,” the man barked. “Keep your damn mouth shut. If you run around telling anyone
you’ve been ‘scammed’ by the association, you’ll regret it,” he warned. “They take
accusations like that very seriously.”

“Figures. Give me my damn prime.” He grabbed the glass box somewhat violently and
stuffed the scrolls into his pockets, rushing out of the office before the man
could say anything else.

Just as he was about to leave the building, he spotted the finely dressed gentleman
who had given him the glass box.

He pulled his vestige out and returned the box to the man, shooting him a sardonic
smirk as he angrily marched past him. “Wouldn’t even get away with their life,
would they?”

With poisonous thoughts floating in his mind, he soon made it out of the courtyard
and onto the open streets of the 25th district.

He locked the doors to his apartment, put the prime and scrolls in the chest, and
dropped to his bed, exhausted. It was already getting dark outside, and he groaned
at the time he had wasted getting home.

The money had been sent directly to his bank account, or, at least, he hoped it
had, but he still had to carry the prime and scrolls by himself.

He was rather scared that someone had seen him carrying the prime earlier today, so
he avoided leaving through the same gate he had entered through. A few other
paranoid detours later, he finally made it back.

Throughout the entire way home, he boiled in rage at what had happened, and by now,
he was thoroughly exhausted.

His entire body hurt from the tension, stress, and yesterday’s events. The top of
his head hurt from when he hit it on the ceiling this morning. Only when he almost
passed out did he realize that he hadn’t eaten anything for over a day.

He was thirsty as hell, too.

Grabbing a bottle from his fridge, he drank the entire thing and entered the
hallway to refill it. The toilet was empty, thankfully, and he was back in his
apartment within a minute.
As he sat on his bed again, his mind whirled with thoughts.

What should he do now?

He hadn’t expected to become an arch for years, even decades. Despite the eight
years Freddy had spent working, all he had saved up was a little over $19,000. One
couldn’t even dream of buying a vestige without at least a hundred, and even then,
saving for a more valuable one was wise.

Well, unless one wanted a rat tail.

That made him angry. When he should be happy at what he had achieved today, he
felt… dirty.

Exploited.

Years of backbreaking work, poor living conditions, shit food, zero life—and it
suddenly didn’t even matter anymore. A little bit of dumb luck, and here he was.
Emotions clashed, and he found his thoughts spiraling into a dark abyss.

Before they could sink deep enough, he lightly slapped himself on the cheek and got
up. “Thinking about this crap while hungry is bad.”

So he decided to go to a store and buy something to eat. On his way out of the
building, however, he paused. He didn’t… really have to save money anymore, did he?

Rather than leave the building and go buy poverty slop, he turned to the contact
device. But before walking over to it, he returned up the stairs.

He knocked on one of the apartments, and he could hear James’s voice from within,
“Coming!”

Soon enough, the chubby middle-aged man walked out, and his eyes shot wide open
when he spotted him. “Freddy!?” he called out, as if he could barely believe who
was standing before him. “I-I heard the news! Holy crapperoni, you’re damn lucky to
be alive!”

“Yeah… it was… Hey, uhm, I’m really sorry about what happened yesterday,” he
apologized, remembering the rude way he had treated the man and his companion. “I
want to make it up to you.”

“You’re what!?” James shouted. “Freddy, you’re out of your damn mind!” The man
walked up to him and pulled him into a tight hug. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as
composed as you were!”

“Still…” He gently pushed him back. “I was thinking… if you wanted to have dinner
together.”

“Dinner? I was just about to make something we could eat at my…”

“No,” he interrupted, “let’s order something.”

The man paused at that. “I’m… Not to sound like a cheapskate, but—”

“My treat.”

James frowned and spat, “No…! I couldn’t…”

“James. It’s been… Let’s just say money isn’t a problem for me right now.”

That earned him a shocked look from the man, and after a bit more convincing, James
finally agreed.

“Sorry for the wait!” Freddy entered Sharon’s apartment, seeing her and James
sitting at the table. Both his and the other man’s apartments were too small for
guests, so Sharon offered hers instead.

Despite being the largest, it still wasn’t all that big. It barely had space for
the table.

He had just returned from sending a message to a local restaurant with their order,
and soon, their food should be delivered. Once he sat down with them, they silently
waited for a few moments.

Eventually, James gathered up the courage to ask, “Can you… Can you tell us what
happened?”

He wasn’t averse to sharing, but. “Yeah, uhm, you know, how about we eat first?”

They nodded and decided to talk about something else instead. Every subject they
brought up felt forced, and conversations died quickly. James talked a bit about
his brother and work, while Sharon discussed some recent politics he knew about but
didn’t care much about.

Then, finally, knocking could be heard from the door.

He got up to get the food and paid the delivery woman in cash, and soon, the three
of them were eating some incredible barbecue pork. Nobody asked about the price,
but it was clear that it wasn’t cheap.

It took great effort for him to hold himself back from moaning at the fantastic
meal. It had been years since he’d last had something this delicious. All the
stress, worries, and bitterness washed away with each new bite he took.

Sharon pulled a bottle of wine from a cupboard, apologizing for the low quality. To
him, who had never tried alcohol, it tasted terrible and likely would regardless of
how pricey it was.

Once they had eaten, a few moments of casual conversation transpired. After a brief
visit to the toilet that he also used to check on his apartment, he finally readied
himself to retell the story.

There was no anxiety. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel afraid to share it, and soon
enough, it was as if he was retelling some funny anecdote. Naturally, things turned
serious whenever the subject got dark, but that lasted only for a few moments.

In the safety of their company, it just seemed so funny. How he mistook the passage
for a bright room, killed a monster with a can of beans, the interrogation, the
insurance—all of it. There was no way to retell it but through laughter. There was
no other way he could.

Ending the story at his meeting with them in the hallway, where he again felt that
how they reacted was funny, especially James’s reaction, he took another sip of
wine. It didn’t go down easy, but his frown softened as the previously ingested
alcohol kicked in.

Suddenly, James frowned and looked at him, mouth hanging wide open. “Freddy!”

“Wha—” he tried to ask but was interrupted by a hiccup.

“You said money wasn’t a problem!” James reminded with a deep frown. “Don’t tell me
you’re cutting into your savings?”

Sharon turned to him as well. “Yeah! I thought you got paid by insurance!”

“No, actually…” he started, pausing dramatically for the reveal. He leaned closer,
remembering that his prime was alone in his apartment and making sure to whisper so
that nobody would overhear their conversation. “This morning, I manifested a prime
vestige.”

Dead silence.

It took a while for them to recover from the shock, but as they did, they both got
up to shake his hand and congratulate him.

As they sat back down, James asked in a hushed whisper, “Tell us more! What is
it!?”

“It was a non-combat one,” he said, “with a farming talent.”

A slight hint of hesitation flashed on their faces, but they forced it away.

Sharon coughed. “You should try to sell it and see what they’re willing to offer!
If you get enough money, you can pay for education and get a better job! With that,
you could one day afford a better one if you don’t want that one!”

James added, “Yeah! But hey, that one might not be bad either! Everyone has to eat!
Besides, who knows what kind of mystical plants you could farm!”

Putting the glass down after another sip, he clarified. “Actually, uhm… I already
traded it.”

They glanced at each other. James was the first to ask, “Well, what did you get!?”

“I got a prime with an… interesting talent, really”, he chuckled. “1% Lifesteal.
Heal for a part of the damage I inflict.”

“Freddy… that’s…” Sharon asked, mouth hanging open.

“A combat talent, yeah,” he confirmed what she left unsaid.

“Are you insane?” she asked sternly.

“No…” he denied with a frown. “Why would I be?”

“I don’t know how you afforded the difference,” she spat, “but you should
immediately trade it for a non-combat one!”

“I don’t wanna do that,” he rejected with a frown.

James piped up, “Man, please don’t take this the wrong way, but… you’re damn lucky
to be alive. You’ve gone through something like that and still haven’t learned your
lesson!?”

“And what lesson am I supposed to learn?” he asked pointedly.

Sharon yelled, “It’s dangerous!”

James turned to her and grabbed her shoulder to try and calm her down, but she
continued, “I lost a father and an uncle to stupid dreams of being a warrior. Our
entire family’s savings were gone, and we couldn’t even get their bodies back!” she
screamed, tears running down her eyes. “Don’t be an idiot!”

“I’m not a fucking idiot!” he yelled back, and they both backed away, looking
shocked. “Feel free to advise me, but I won’t sit here and be insulted.”

James adopted a sympathetic expression and spoke softly. “Freddy… don’t take this
as an offense, but you have no life.”

He scowled at that one. “Pfft! Okay, wow! No offense taken, dude, geez.”

“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” the man said. “Your childhood was taken from you,
and… I don’t think you have the right perspective on life, yet you’re… you’re
rushing to throw it away.”

He rolled his eyes at that. “And what perspective do you have, huh?”

“Freddy, I…”

“You’re both over twice my age,” he pointed out, “yet you’re renting a place in a
shitty complex, in a run-down district, close to nothing to your name, and without
any sign anything will change! Ever!” he accused, then continued sarcastically, “No
offense, James, but you’re a loser! But hey, don’t get offended, there, now!”

Sharon spoke up. “Freddy, don’t be like—”

“Don’t be like what?” he asked and then took another sip of the wine. “I know you
both believe you’re trying to help me, and obviously, I can’t see things from your
perspective. But you can’t see things from mine either.” His voice grew shakier. “I
don’t want to keep being a goddamn slave! A life of killing myself for someone
else’s interest isn’t for me! And, okay, yeah, I get it. I might die. But if I
don’t fight for the life I want, I… I… Then what am I even living for?”

And with that, he got up and headed to the door. Their conversation had gotten
rather heated, and they hadn’t been watching their tone. He wanted to hurry back
and use the prime.

James yelled, “Freddy, wait!”

He paused at the door, and the middle-aged man continued, “Please think this
through… You still have time…”

Letting go of the knob, he turned around. “I… I said some things I didn’t really
mean. I’m a bit drunk, and I’ve never had alcohol before…” He chuckled
lethargically.

“Freddy…”

“You’re right, James,” he said. “You’re right. I really don’t have a life. I should
have been out somewhere, drinking for the first time with friends and maybe even a
lover… I’m sure I could have that by having a better job. But I also want to have
meaning.

“I don’t want to wake up every day to do the same thing. You can’t change your
talent, James. Once you take one, you’re stuck. Being trapped doing something you
hate without a way to set yourself free… That… I’ll fucking kill myself if I have
to go through that again.” He wanted that to sound like a joke. It didn’t.

Reluctantly, the two slowly nodded, and Sharon said, “Good luck, then.”

James added, “Good… Good luck, Fred.”

“Thank you.” And with that, he hurriedly left the apartment.

His window was open to air out the stink, and it let in the glow of the city below,
faintly illuminating his uncovered figure as he lay on the bed.

Freddy held the red orb and stared into its closed eyes. “Tell me, vestige…”

Am I making the right choice?

Said or unsaid, there was no answer to be had from the stoic ball. There was no
answer to be had from anyone.

He felt bitter, regretful, and just… sad.

And to think I went there to apologize… he thought, wanting to chuckle at the

irony, but all that left his lungs was a slight exhale.

The idea to return and say sorry again floated in his mind, but he ignored it. He
had already told them what needed to be said.

So, rather unceremoniously, he started the process of becoming an archhuman.

He quickly realized he had no damn clue how to do it. So he tried the first thing
that came to mind. “I wish to accept your power into my soul,” he said.

Nothing happened.

For a few moments, the red face remained still.

Until.

“As you wish.”

It opened its yellow, glowing eyes that held infinite aggression within—a filthy
desire weighing the price of life—muted by the calm surface of a lake. The prime
vestige glowed and began turning into a faint, red mist that seeped into every pore
on his body, settling somewhere deep within.

Once the last wisp of energy was gone, he shivered and let out the breath he had
been holding. “Well, that was creepy as hell.”

Not much else would happen for the time being. So he got up, picked up the
toothbrush, and went to the toilet. It was empty. He brushed his teeth in peace and
returned. Then he changed into his pajamas, closed the window, and lay in bed.
It was cold without his sheets, so he curled up into a fetal position. The pillow
was filthy, and its touch made his face itch. An intense headache set in, and he
hugged his knees for a semblance of comfort. They provided none.

The miscellaneous aches all over his body echoed with the shivers—

As he cried himself to sleep.

TURNING THE PAGE

The cold… The smell… Ugh…

The word headache wasn’t enough to fully encapsulate the headagony Freddy felt as
he woke up. Sparse light peered through his shades the same way it did every
morning, and his hand reached for the headgear.

But something was strange. The sound that usually tormented him was missing, and—

Wait… Where’s my—

“Oh fuck!” he yelled as he jumped up into a seated position. “Oh fuck, oh shit, oh
God!”

The alarm was on the ground! How could he forget to put it on!?

Rushing to get out of bed, he got up, eyes darting around the room, looking for his
uniform. “My clothe—” He sucked air through his teeth as he remembered where they
were.

No wonder his room smelled like an abandoned morgue. Rushing over to his dainty
trashcan and hesitating as he reached to move it out of the way, Freddy revealed
the pile of bloody cloth that had once been his work uniform.

“Oh man,” he groaned with a half-disgusted, half-panicked expression. “What time is

it anyway? No, what day is it!? Thursday?” he questioned with his eyes narrowed.
“Friday? It’s Friday, shit!”

The locks on his door were pushed out of the way as he peeked into the hallway.
There was a crowd of people waiting to get into the toilet, but he ignored them as
he checked the clock above.

9:31 a.m.

“Why!?”
If he had already overslept so long, couldn’t he at least feel somewhat good? Why
didn’t he…? Why…?

The realization struck him rather abruptly, and the rush he felt disappeared.

He closed the door.

Without thinking about it, he moved over to the window and opened it, then sat on
his bed and looked at his hand, mesmerized.

He hadn’t said anything about being late today, so there would be hell to reap when
he faced his manager. There was also a pile of bloody, rancid clothing sitting
behind his trashcan that he had to do something about.

And he was an arch.

He was an arch.

Freddy Stern—an archhuman.

The vividness of the last few days conversely served to dissuade him from the fact
that it was all real. The same brain mechanisms that prevented him from blending
the fictional shows he saw on the BC at work with reality now worked to prevent him
from coming to terms with it.

There was one way to undeniably prove it. His hand hovered, shakily floating toward
the lid on his chest, and as he touched it, he couldn’t pull it open since it was
locked. With a deep breath, he gathered up the courage to get up.

Grabbing the key he had hidden beneath a cracked floorboard under his bed, he put
it into the lock, and with one, then two turns, he unlocked it. His fingers rested
on the lid again, and while anxiously biting his lips, he pulled it up.

The scrolls he had received still sat precisely where he had placed them. Although
the feeling of anxiety subsided, there was no sigh of relief. “I see,” he
whispered. “I guess I’m an arch now.”

Good that it was real, but that was nothing to get too excited about. Not yet, at
least. Several responsibilities and tasks hung over his head, and there was some
serious adult decision-making to do.

The crowd outside made it clear that he wouldn’t be getting a turn in the toilet
any time soon, so he had no choice but to go without. He’d wash up at work a bit if
need be.

Pinching the unbloodied corners of the clothes behind the trash can, he threw them
into the bin, and after he got dressed into his other, barely-cleaner outfit, he
took the bag of trash with him as he left the apartment and locked the door.

It was time to go to work, he supposed. Once he left the building, he threw the bag
into the nearest dumpster and began his walk.

What was likely a combination of the smack he received to his head yesterday,
horrid sleep quality, freezing to death, huffing stink fumes all night, and a nasty
hangover gave him such a nasty headache that it made him almost forget about all
the other pains scattered throughout his body—of which there were many.

His legs still hurt, and he felt like his shoulders had nails driven into them,
while his stomach, neck, and ass muscles felt tense and inflamed.
Habit took charge, and he trod his usual daily route. “Oh, fucking great!”

The Bastard Barricade, or rather, the stupid fence that blocked his path, once
again appeared before him. But this time, things were different.

Freddy—the archhuman—squared his shoulders and confidently approached the man

standing guard. “I have to go through,” he declared imperiously.

“State your reason or provide verification, please,” the man responded in a

practiced tone.

“I have to get to the other side.” He winced at his own words. What was he, a
chicken?

“Please provide verification, sir,” the guard demanded again.

What’s happening? he wondered internally. Can’t he sense my power of whatever?

Given that the man didn’t even show the slightest hint of respect toward him, he
either couldn’t sense anything or just didn’t care.

Well, it wasn’t like he could sense anything off about the man, either. He knew
that archhumans were meant to have this presence, and he had felt it himself. But
that was only the case for those at the second star. And he was at the absolute
start of his first.

With a frustrated sigh, he looked up at the man. “You know what?” The urge to chew
the man out nibbled at the back of his throat for a good moment. But. “Have a good
day,” was all he said.

He was already late for work. What harm was there in taking his time?

So, as he bid his goodbyes, he turned around and started his trek around the
private district. This time, he took the long way around.

Jason, Freddy’s manager and long-time acquaintance, breathed out as he finished

hearing the summarized justification for his employee’s absence. “That’s rough,” he
said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “I’m okay.”

He had told him about his involvement in the passage break, leaving the part about
becoming an archhuman unspoken. He wanted to brag, but he had no way to prove it
for the time being. If anything, it could needlessly complicate his work
relationship. Until he got the hang of everything, he’d prefer having the security
of a job.

“Well…” The man looked at his cluttered desktop and pulled a paper from the messy
pile. “Naturally, nobody could ask you to work a day after going through something
like that”—he handed the paper to Freddy—“but today is different. Your message said
nothing about an absence, and I had to fill in for you for the past few hours.”

Freddy glanced at the warning paper detailing his transgression and penalty. Before
he could even read it, his manager transcribed its contents. “You’ll be filling in
half a shift in storage tonight,” he said with a slight glint of satisfaction in
his eyes. “And I’ll be deducting the destroyed uniform from your paycheck.”

The headache he felt grew more intense, and his grip on the paper tightened,
creasing it.

“Go. Get up,” the manager rushed him as he got up and headed out of the room, but
not before adding, “Get a new uniform first.” Then he left the room and closed the
door.

As he stared at the paper, he felt something inside him shatter. He reread the
contents, scanning over the words. Punishment… huh?

Several minutes passed, and finally, the door opened again as the manager walked
in, finding Freddy sitting in the same place he had left him. “What are you doing!?
Get up!”

With slow, measured movements, he crumpled the paper in his hands and threw it at
the garbage can in the corner. He missed, and the ball clattered to the ground.

“What are you—” the man tried to ask, but—

“I’m leaving,” he said as he got off the chair and walked past the manager, bumping
into him in the process.

“Leaving!?” the man squealed as he ran in front of Freddy. “What kind of behavior
is this? Do you think you’re tough stuff for surviving a break!? I’ll seriously
fire you if you don’t stop fucking around!” he shouted with a stern glare.

“You’ll fire me…?” he asked the man, stopping at those words. “All right, then. I
apologize. I’ve been a little out of it. I’ll get to work in a second.”

The manager wanted to add more to his warnings but was too busy to dish them out.
With a venomous glare foreshadowing further critique, the man walked away, and
Freddy headed to the back room to change.

Soon enough, he was at the register. The headache threatened to split his head
apart, and with every beat of his heart, a pulse of pain flashed through his
forehead.

A man walked over, slamming a large basket of items on the register. “Hurry up,
kid,” he urged.

Just as he was about to grab the item, he paused, slowing down. Then, maintaining
direct eye contact with the customer, the dutiful employee painstakingly slowly
moved the articles over the scanner.

The man-in-a-hurry kept trying to get him to speed up. But to no avail. Freddy took
his sweet time, and once he was done, the customer angrily jogged away, apparently
not having been bullshitting when he claimed to be in a rush.

Before long, a woman walked over, carrying several cartfuls of items. Then, with a
self-satisfied smile, she threw a collection of coupons down, acting as if she were
revealing a strong hand in poker.

Added together, they amounted to a roughly 90 percent discount on the purchase.

Ignoring the fact that several had already expired, he faced the woman. “I’m sorry,
ma’am, but company policy prohibits the usage of several percentage-based coupons
for a single purchase. It even states so on the coupons themselves.”

“Where does it say that!?” the woman asked with clearly fake outrage as she pointed
at the coupons, showing that there was, indeed, no such clause—but there was a
smudge as evidence for her attempt to remove it.

Rather than arguing, he picked up the coupons, tore them to shreds, and threw the
pieces into the garbage as he casually turned to the woman.

She gaped. “Why did you do that!?”

“Why did I do what?” he asked, his eyes sparkling innocently.

“You tore my coupons!”

“What coupons?” he asked again.

“This is outrageous!” she declared. “I’m going to sue this company! Take me to the
manager!”

“I am the manager,” he declared without as much as a hint of humor.

“That’s—” she tried. “You’re lying!”

“Prove it,” he dared with a smile.

The woman didn’t know what to do, and faced with a crowd that eyed her in
annoyance, she defaulted to evacuating the store, leaving the mountain of
unpurchased items behind. A pile he couldn’t be bothered to remove.

As the day marched onward, the newly ascended arch found handling rude customers
easier than ever. And with every straightforward solution applied, his headache got
just a bit easier to handle.

“Mmmm, yup,” the manager concluded, nodding his head. “You’re fired. Get the hell
out of my office.”

“Thank you, sir!” Freddy thanked the man with a beaming smile as he got up to
leave.

The manager scoffed. “That’s what you wanted, huh?” he asked sarcastically. “Well,
sorry to say it, but this isn’t how it works. You don’t get compensation for losing
your job like this,” he told him. “After all we did for you, this is how you pay us
back? I’m very disappointed in you, Freddy.”

“Don’t worry,” he insisted as he turned around, his grin spreading wider. “I got
all the compensation I needed.”

On the trek back home, Freddy’s gait had a bounce to it.

The air smelled fresher; the midday sun, whose powerful light he witnessed oh-so-
rarely, shone even brighter than usual. He didn’t even mind that he had to walk
around the 25th district.

Because, conveniently enough, the 24th district just happened to be where he had
some chores to wrap up.

Although paying the taxes made his soul want to evacuate his body, he couldn’t help
but grin at his bank statement.

Available Balance: $42,812.13

This wasn’t just forty-two thousand eight hundred and twelve point thirteen
dollars, no, no, no. This meant far more than the number itself indicated. After
all, all the money he had saved until this point had been because he wanted to
become an arch.

But given that he had already become one? He could do whatever the hell he wanted
with it.

Of course, he was in no rush to waste it, but… this value hung in an awkward limbo.
It wasn’t enough to buy something like a house or an apartment unless he wanted a
run-down shack, and it was far too much to quickly spend on daily necessities,
especially given his frugal nature.

There were plenty of things to buy, though. There was much to prepare. However, one
more annoying chore waited for him, so he put that to the back of his mind as he
focused on the task at hand.

Back on the stairs leading up to his apartment, he munched on the cheap sandwich
and glanced at the time on the clock in the hallway.

9:46 p.m.

What he thought would be a minor chore turned out to be a humongulagungus pain in

the ass. He lifted the trim card into the light as he glanced at it. It was his new
ID. Besides the somewhat fancier color and the statement that he was a water-
affinity arch, nothing was extraordinary about it.

Although interestingly enough, nobody had asked him about his talent. It made
sense, he supposed. The imperial government was hardly a unified, singular entity.
Numerous political parties and organizations would prefer to keep the information
of their members secret, including their involvement with said parties.

But this did not mean that getting the ID had been an easy task. For him, it had
been a monstrous undertaking. To his bewilderment, the first thing they had done
when he came to register as an arch was call the fucking police! His impoverished
background and lack of education apparently triggered several alarms, and they had
to investigate where he got his prime from.

So much for the aforementioned privacy; that was apparently a luxury one had to be
born into.
This had, naturally, obliterated any excitement he felt, and unfortunately, it
wasn’t the last thing that aimed to destroy his mood.

Seven. Not one, two, three, four, five, or six, but seven different offices—all
quite the walk away from one another—were necessary visits to collect all the
documentation. Thankfully, all the offices worked 24/7. Archhuman bureaucracy had
at least some privileges, it seemed. Finally, with the herculean task out of the
way, he was done with his immediate responsibilities.

Or so he thought.

The metallic, musty stink of rotting blood slammed his nose harder than a knee to
the face when he opened the door to his apartment. “Ugh, what the fuck!?” he yelled
with a frown as he angrily stomped his foot on the ground.

First, his room still stank. Second, he had no sheets on his bed. And third,
everything was filthy. He pinched his brow and angrily blew air through his pursed
lips. “No can do,” he said.

This was no environment to begin a new chapter of his life. Such things required a
certain degree of ceremony, at least some pomp. How was he supposed to believe his
life had changed if these were his living conditions?

Yet again, he was back home dead tired, having eaten nothing but some cheap,
filling crap, and was about to sleep like shit in a stinky, cold room.

If he had had the resolve to quit his job, it was also time to properly set his
shit straight.

Although he felt exhausted, he slapped his face and squared his shoulders.

Just a bit more, he thought. I’ll do what I have to do now, and I will begin my new
life tomorrow.

Hopping down to the first floor, he entered the storage room that held the cleaning
equipment. With a few brisk hops from the toilet to his room and back, he wiped the
bloody patch and finished cleaning his floor, window, fridge, and other dusty
surfaces.

Leaving the window open to let the room air out, he exited his apartment, locking
the door behind him.

It wasn’t long until he was bolting down the street. Soon enough, he reached the
entrance to the 25th district. A different guard stood outside this time, and he
simply showed him his ID, which was enough to let him pass through. Never had he
felt happier walking down that route.

Leaving on the other side was even more straightforward, and with a few turns, he
had reached his destination.

Charat Hypermarket, the sign said. Although he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic

about being back here, it was the closest store still open at this hour. With only
a bit of hesitation, he walked inside.

Not as an employee.

But as a customer.
Consensually spending money was a foreign concept to him. Looking at the cart of
items, he felt his heart tighten in agony. After all, he was about to spend a
hundred dollars—on a single shopping trip! Wow!

There wasn’t anything fancy in the cart. Really, he was just buying new sheets,
quite cheaply too, and some new clothes and shoes. Plus, the food he would have for
lunch and dinner tomorrow.

There wasn’t much of a line he had to wait through, so before long, he was
offloading his items at the cash register.

“Wait… Freddy?” the night shift worker, his former colleague Jenny, asked him.

With an awkward smile, he waved at her a bit. “Yeah, it’s yours truly…” he said
with a chuckle.

“Hi.” She laughed a bit, but her smile quickly vanished. “I, uh… heard about
earlier today… Uhm… Sorry about what happened,” she said.

“What?” he asked dumbly, somewhat confused by her words. “Oh, no, no, haha, don’t
be sorry. That was… Well, intentional.”

“No, I mean—” she said hesitantly. “I mean, that too, but about the… you know. The…
break.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Oh, I get it! Yeah, no, don’t worry about that either,” he
comforted her with a chuckle. “I made out of that one like a bandit.”

“You what!?”

“I what? No, I—” He waved. “Aaargh, no, I mean, Jesus! I didn’t steal anything!” he
clarified. “No, but uh, I ended up manifesting a prime the morning after.”

“Oh,” she said as she offered to shake his hand in congratulations. “Wow, that’s
amazing! Congratulations!”

“Thank you!” he thanked the woman as he clumsily accepted the handshake.

She grabbed one of the shirts and put it through the scanner. “So, what’re you
gonna do now?”

Stunned speechless, he simply stared at the woman. He pondered the question. What
was he going to do? That was a question that, by default, triggered a suffocating
feeling of anxiety. Or, it used to.

He scratched the back of his head, and his face morphed into the most genuine smile
he had ever given anyone as he honestly answered, “I have absolutely no idea.”

12:12, the clock said, marking the very beginning of a new day.

As he had stopped to wash his newly purchased clothes at the 24/7 laundromat, he
returned home quite a bit later than expected. But it was fine. It wasn’t like he
had a job to wake up to tomorrow. That thought alone left him satisfied to no end.

Soon enough, he got ready for sleep, tucked himself into his new sheets, and
prepared to wake up to a new chapter of his life.

Sheets warm, obligations out of the way, financial problems, at least momentarily,
resolved—finally, the last remnants of his headache withered away as he closed his
eyes and fell asleep.

“I adore you, Master…” a deep, gurgly voice called. “So why do you betray me like
this? Bathe me again… Bathe me again! Bathe me again!”

“Huwahaaba—” Freddy jolted awake, staring around the room in panic but finding
nobody there. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he shouted as he grabbed a handful of his
loose hair.

So much for waking up to the new chapter of his life in peace. But the fright of
that nightmare didn’t last long, as excitement rapidly overwhelmed it.

He clapped his hands and rubbed them like a greedy goblin as he shifted toward the
chest. He reached for the key, placed it into the keyhole, and turned, unlocking
the lock and pushing the chest open…

Revealing the scrolls he had hidden inside.

THE NETHERECHO

The vast fields were much quieter during the day than at night.

Golden grass stretched into the horizons so far that it boggled the mind. Even his
mighty perception could see little more than a yellow blur near the end of the
distant horizons. There were monsters, too. Many hid in the tall growth, but plenty
were soaring through the skies, be they ordinary animals or monsters with stars
glowing in the depths of their souls.

Airborne predators dipped into the yellow fields in search of prey, and grounded
hunters leaped like fish out of the ocean, snatching those above in their giant
maws filled with sharp teeth.

A man stood there with his arms crossed behind his back and a frown seared
permanently into his expression. He wore red robes accented with thick violet
string, and his long, messy white hair partially covered his pale face, which was
drawn in neat, red lines leading from his eyes and branching down his cheeks. His
pale, ghoulish eyes shone with a piercing light.

Standing confidently and eyeing the horizons, he pondered his discovery. After over
a day of scouting, he had gathered enough evidence.

A zero-step passage to realm C-000421 had appeared.

This was merely one of many entrances to the horrid, perilous realm spanning the
area of many earths, but it was the first to have appeared with a direct connection
to New Earth. A sigh escaped his lips, but as it faded, like a depressed sun
piercing through a pitch-black sky, a tentative non-frown appeared on his face.
That was the closest to a pleased expression he had made in many years.

Things were moving. There would be much conflict. But his clan was perfectly
positioned to profit from the chaos that was to come.

A sizable serpentine monster slithered nearby, carefully approaching his position.

His wrists opened, and his blood formed jagged blades that rushed at the creature,
tearing its body to shreds before it could react.

Well then. It was time to share his discovery with those waiting for the update.

The passage itself had already been reinforced with a heavy metallic door, and he
simply put a thumb to a small surface to make it open. The instant the barrier
rose, he met with the numerous messengers cramped into the tight alley, waiting to
confirm the news.

After a long, intentional pause, he merely nodded. The crowd almost instantly
dispersed, the sounds of communication crystals buzzing to life and footsteps
rushing to disclose the information to whomever had sent them here.

With measured, unrushed steps, he walked over to a nearby tent. It occupied the
entire street. The citizens had all been thoroughly compensated for the
inconvenience, but at this point, the entire area had already been evacuated.

The moment he pushed the cloth aside and entered the tent, he faced a bastard he
didn’t want to see.

“Janhalar, lovely to see you here!” greeted the cheerful man dressed in casual
streetwear. He had jet-black hair and serpentine eyes as dark as the void itself.
His clear, jovial, handsome face had light marks showing his tendency to force
smiles upon his face.

All the man got in return was a curt grunt and a spiteful glance. He deserved even
less.

“Come on, bro,” the man said, rushing to get in front of him. “Not even a hug!?” he
asked with mock offense in his gaze, his snake-like eyes closing into menacing
slits.

There was no such thing as a leader of the 25th district. But this man was the
closest thing it had to an owner. And it wasn’t just the district. He was the lord
of the entire city of Pittersville.

As they were technically equal in the empire’s hierarchy, dismissing him completely
was entirely within Janhalar’s rights, but he was in a relatively good mood today,
so he would at least greet the man. “Hello,” he said, and absolutely nothing else.
After a short, stunned pause, the man broke into cheerful laughter. “Oh, man,
you’re as talkative as the last time I met you,” he said, wiping a small tear from
his eye.

“Why are you here?” Janhalar asked directly.

The city lord seemed offended by that question. “Am I not allowed to thank you in
person for your favor?”

“If possible, yes,” Janhalar said. “I’d like to forbid you from doing so. I’m here
to receive my payment. I have no patience for your games.”

“Don’t be like that, man!” he said with a small sigh of disappointment. Suddenly,
his posture shifted. “So… you’ve confirmed it?”

Janhalar nodded, glad to finally get the business out of the way. “Indeed.”

The city lord simply shrugged in response. “Well…” he started with a sly grin. “I
don’t know about you, but,” he said, clearly pleased, “I’m feeling rather excited.”

Janhalar nodded again.

“Ah, all right, all right,” the lord said. “I can tell you’re itching to see the
goods. Let’s go.” He moved out of the way, revealing the room full of objects, all
neatly arranged in display cases.

He glared at the man, observing him carefully for any cracks that might appear.

The lord simply rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, you grump. I didn’t touch anything.”

There was no way he would believe that. But if he had dared to so much as touch
anything with his nasty fingers, he wouldn’t be able to hide it. So he simply moved
past the man and walked into the room.

Everything was covered in dried blood, some items more than others. Clothes
stripped from dead victims, lowly weapons, jewelry, or other miscellaneous objects
used for self-defense—they all possessed a quality that couldn’t be artificially
replicated.

They carried upon them blood spilled in tragedy and, more specifically, slaughter
directly caused by the appearance of a passage.

While he could tell from a glance that many of them radiated power, soaked in blood
and wrath, a more direct look would give him a better view. So he closed his eyes.

Instantly, they shot back open as he rushed toward a particular stand. Moments
later, he held what appeared to be an ordinary plastic bag. A smelly, dried, brown
substance was on it, and it wasn’t blood. But what the object was or what it was
covered in wasn’t important. What he had seen in the Netherecho was.

With an angry scowl, he turned around and spat, “Harold!”

The casually dressed man cocked his head. “What’s wrong? Ah, I saw that. Pretty
crazy, that—”

“Where is it!?” He rushed at the man, holding the torn bag like a lunatic. “Did you
think I wouldn’t notice!?”
“Whoa there, calm down…” Harold said, eyes growing colder. “We wouldn’t be throwing
any unfounded accusations around now, would we?”

“Don’t give me that bullshit!” he screamed out. “This is a catalyst! Of a unique

vestige—no… a remnant!? And yet it isn’t beside it in the Netherecho! How do you
explain that!?”

“First of all… I’m gonna need you to show me some manners,” Harold said, his eyes
squinting as a pulse of energy flickered through his leg and into the ground.
Before Janhalar could react, it morphed into asphalt serpents that wrapped all
around his body, baring their teeth at his throat.

This wasn’t enough to truly contain him, but if he recklessly tore it apart, he was
sure that their conflict would escalate into a fight. The man wasn’t weaker than
him, and any further tantrums could cause the situation to escalate.

He cursed his foolishness. But he wouldn’t back down.

However, before he could continue, Harold interrupted him, “Just calm down, okay?
If it’s a unique, it could have used something as a vessel and escaped. It could
have latched onto the victim’s bloody clothes and only manifested later.”

Janhalar held back a scoff. Such a thing was improbable, but… it wasn’t impossible.
As he calmed down further, he realized that the man wouldn’t do something as stupid
as taking a unique when there was this much evidence that it had manifested.

“I understand…” he surrendered. He was no idiot. His rash behavior was a massive

mistake. But with the appearance of this passage and the uproar that was to come…
if he could get his hands on the unique…

Harold removed the constraints, and Janhalar dusted his robes.

The city lord walked over to the pedestal that had held the item and picked up the
paper beside it. He scanned the contents. “Freddy Stern… blah, blah… still alive.
See? It probably hitched a ride on this man,” he said, putting the report into his
pockets. “If a unique has appeared, this dude could be in some deep shit. You wait
here, and I’ll go fetch it for you.”

“What!?” he yelled incredulously as he stepped forward. “Do you seriously think I’d
let you handle this!?”

“Mate,” Harold called, interrupting him. “You don’t have a choice. This poor boy
went through some horrible stuff just a few days ago.” He clicked his tongue as he
scratched behind his ear. “This is why I don’t get you freaks. If you appeared
before this guy looking like that, he’d probably get a heart attack!”

“Hmph—” he scoffed. As if that was his concern.

But, unfortunately, he couldn’t fight the city lord on this one. As per their
contract, it was Harold’s obligation—as well as his right—to retrieve any items
manifested from this incident. If he went against this clause, that would be enough
justification for the man to renege on their deal and claim the unique for himself.

He had displayed enough rash behavior for the day. Nodding his head, he watched the
lord walk outside with a slightly disappointed expression on his face. He gritted
his teeth at the cheeky bastard. All he could do at that moment was stay his hand.

And wait.
Coming back from the toilet, finally clean, Freddy took a deep breath.

Finding himself back in his apartment, he picked up the guide on his bed.

Breaking the seal on either of the three scrolls before he read through this book
would be premature. It probably wasn’t dangerous, but there was no need to take
unnecessary risks. There was no rush. He picked up the guide and started reading
it. It wasn’t long until he realized something quite upsetting. “This book is
boring as shit…” he muttered as he turned another dull page.

Self-education had been a constant presence in his life until that point, so he
wasn’t completely ignorant of what textbooks were like. And that’s what this was. A
textbook. At first, he was pretty confident that this knowledge was essential, but
the longer he went on, the more he felt like it was pretty useless crap that did
little more than drag the text out longer than needed.

Rift history… Arch history… He skimmed the contents, taking a deep, tired breath.
Major organization history…

“Man, what the hell is this!?”

Strongly resisting the powerful urge to skip it all, he sat down and forced himself
to read through it. Experience had taught him that recklessly disregarding sections
of textbook content was a recipe for disaster further down the line.

The rift happened on blah blah… People fought back, more prominent fighters
manifested prime vestiges, blah blah, founders, Archs United… Ugh.

Worst of all was that this was all stuff he already knew. But, fearing he would
miss something important, he kept pushing through it. By the time he was done, he
was confident—he could have skipped all that without any problem.

The following section was simply titled “Gathering.” He put the book down for a
moment as he went to eat. Two sandwiches were in his fridge, a step up in quality
above the crap he usually ate.

Once finished, he picked up the book and continued reading. “Fuck this, man,” he
said as he skimmed over most of the text. It was dull, irrelevant stuff discussing
boring ether theory. He would still read through it to ensure he didn’t skip
anything important… just… later.

Ether was quite simple, even intuitive, as far as he was concerned. It was mystical
energy that came from who-knew-where, and whenever it touched something, it became
like the thing it interacted with.

He briefly glanced at all the paragraphs until something important finally grabbed
his attention.

…this process, named “ether shift,” is how wisps are created.

Wisps are particles of attuned ether and are its most commonly found form.
Collecting wisps is called gathering. Gathering is…

The passage continued briefly, describing how it was done, but it was relatively
simple, even if there were several methods to doing so. However, rather than put
the guide down and try it, he continued reading. His attention was grabbed
instantly by the next section.

The Ethercosm and the Netherecho.

Freddy put the book down beside him as he got into a seated position on the bed.
Although it didn’t matter what pose one did this in, he still decided on the cross-
legged meditation pose. Simply because he found it cool.

Sitting like that gave him a backache, though, so he decided to lie down instead.
Now, it was time to focus. It could take a while the first time, so he prepared
himself to stay like that for as long as it took.

His breathing was regular, and his bodily needs were pushed aside as he focused,
seeking the center of his being.

A grand white star—a massive celestial object—appeared before him, making him feel
infinitely tiny in its presence as he…

…gasped, opened his eyes, and got up, startled. The book didn’t mention anything
about that jumpscare. It looked like it was described in the book, but… man.

This time, he entered expecting to see the same thing. And there it was.

His first star.

There was no actual size in one’s inner ethercosm. This was only a matter of
perspective. With some focus, he pulled back, distancing himself to get a better
view.

Yeah… that makes a lot more sense.

While observing the entirety of the ethercosm—the manifested projection of his soul
—it was utterly empty. Darkness was almost all he could see in the weird space
within, and the overbearing star looked like nothing more than a speck of dust, to
the point that if he lost focus, it took him a while to find it again.

Focusing on the star once more, he appeared before the grand object. It truly felt
enormous, slowly roiling with wild energy. He felt giddy looking at it.

Holy crap, I have a goddamn star in my soul!

If he had a voice, he would be cackling merrily in joy.

The still-unattuned star was stark white, glowing with an iridescent purity that
only raw ether could display. While this sounded like something special, in
reality, all it meant was that his essence was useless. This glorious object could
be compared to an empty cup. Now, he had to fill it with water.

He kicked his consciousness back out, finding his body covered in sweat, shivering
slightly. That was quite an unusual experience, but he had to get used to it. From
then on, it would become a part of his life.

Taking a deep breath, he once again calmed himself. What he was about to do now was
considerably more difficult. And very dangerous. His hesitation was perfectly
justified. Even the book had recommended seeking therapy if he couldn’t cope with
what he was about to see. But that was enough stalling.

Once again, he calmed himself and appeared within his ethercosm. Then, with some
focus, he imagined a door. It didn’t strictly need to be a door, but he had to
focus on anything he closely related to the concept of an “exit.” It took some
work, but a regular wooden door soon appeared before him.

There was no body with which he could grab the handle, but there was no need to do
that. Leaving the first time only required an imaginary exit and the intent to move
through it. So he imagined precisely that—and stepped out into the Netherecho.

He was surrounded by what he could only describe as a rainbow fog painted onto
reality by broad brush strokes. As the mist gradually dissipated, or, instead, as
it was erased, an object was revealed to his side.

It looked like a massive mannequin lying down on a surface. It also appeared as if

it were painted on, and it wasn’t long until he realized what he was looking at.
That was no mannequin. That was his body.

And it wasn’t huge. Instead, he was tiny. Taking a look down, he observed the
projection he found himself in. He couldn’t see his face, naturally, but he
appeared to be wearing a cyan dress or robes.

This was the Netherecho—a deeper layer of reality that only existed in truths and
concepts and could only be accessed by projecting one’s soul. All objects within
appeared like a cartoonified caricature of their real-world equivalent. But that
wasn’t all that could be found there.

The fog surrounding him continued its decline, and what appeared to be minor,
colorful splotches of floating paint remained behind—wisps. They fluttered and
shifted, slowly falling or rising, unfettered by air or gravity—neither of which
really existed here—and morphing in ways appropriate to their related element.

The projection he was embodying had many similar functions to his actual body, even
if they felt strangely exaggerated. And the way it would be for his real body in
such a situation, his heart raged wildly, so much so that he could see a cartoony
heart shape pushing his robes out.

He stared at the dissipating fog, slowly getting cold feet as it grew increasingly
distant. Before long, it would reveal at least one, and rather than run, he decided
to stay behind and observe.

The fog reached the ground below his bed, and the head of a creature popped out.
“Guys, we gotta hurry!”

Oh fuck that shit! he swore internally.

It looked almost like a cartoony alarm clock, and its entire body was a deep gray.
It was pretty small, too, only about perhaps twice the size of his balled-up fist.
He tried to convince himself that it wasn’t scary, but that didn’t change reality.
That was a wild vestige. And they could, and often would, get aggressive.

The projection of someone like him was miserably fragile, and if it were destroyed…
he would die. What stood less than a meter away from him could quickly turn into a
foe, and if it decided to attack, he had but a moment to react and leave before it
reached him.

His situation was akin to standing naked before a lion, and the only way to survive
its pounce was to react fast enough.

“Secrets… are good. And I’m… the best… at keeping those, yes, very secretive,” a
voice came from his left, and he turned to face it.

The fog revealed the chest beside his bed, and on it stood another creature. It
looked like a shriveled, obese old man with a key hanging on a necklace around his
neck.

“I’ll break the sun! Just wait, you slithery little glow ball! I’ll get you
eventually!” Yet another one appeared at his window. It looked like a glass panel
with a ray of floating light traveling through it and breaking at the halfway
point.

There was some sort of non-descript muttering coming from beneath the bed, and as
the rainbow mist finally reached his fridge, it revealed another one standing
beside the glass of water. It looked like a transparent orb holding shifting liquid
within.

It wept, “Can someone please just kick it out already? Waaaah!”

“Shut up!” the shriveled old man sitting atop his chest yelled. “You will rustle my
secrets awake! Scoundrel!”

“Such puny tears will never quench that bastard,” the glass panel proclaimed
dramatically.

“I think it’s time you stop whining!” the alarm screamed hysterically.

“Waaaah!”

None of them appeared aggressive, at least not from this distance. But the book had
named enough examples of seemingly docile vestiges abruptly killing someone that he
was struggling to gather up the courage to move.

But he had to. He was supposed to find a water wisp and grasp it—the first drop in
the glass, basically. It was essential for truly activating his star. But the
problem was that the few water wisps he saw flowing through the air were quite far
from where he was. He would have to move over and grab them.

His projection’s palm sat on the thigh of his body. He eyed one of the closer wisps
and prepared himself to grab it. The moment he felt that either one of these
vestiges was even a little hostile—

“It-It is you…” a deep, gurgly voice said, interrupting his thoughts.

It was considerably louder than that of any of the vestiges, and as it spoke, all
the others turned to face the garbage can.

He wanted to leave with every ounce of his being, but a morbid curiosity made him
linger just a bit longer. A decision he sorely regretted as a bloody skeleton
thrice the size of any of the vestiges appeared from behind the bin and opened its
dripping maw. “You have finally arrived.”
7

UNWANTED ADMIRER

Freddy appeared back in reality, and the first thing he did was the most rational
thing he could think of— “Holy fucking shit!” he freaked out. “Jesus Christ! Ew ew
ew ew ew ew ew ew—”

So that was what the book meant when it mentioned therapy. Crap like that existed
everywhere around him!? And how was he supposed to sleep at night knowing that
creepy bullshit like that was hiding behind his garbage can!?

And the whispering under his bed…

Oh, God, is that another abomination?

He got off the bed and kicked at the air apprehensively, fearing that he might
touch something invisible. After finally confirming what was relatively common
sense, or rather, that he couldn’t feel anything that lived within the Netherecho,
he finally calmed down.

There wasn’t a real need to enter the Netherecho within his apartment. Low-level
wild vestiges appeared everywhere, so he could just go to the park or something
when he needed to find some.

But… why!? Couldn’t it be like cute kittens or something? Did it have to be a

bloody skeleton!?

He groaned in displeasure as he plopped back onto his bed. Screw therapy. He should
get an exterminator or—

“Please,” something whispered into his ear, “come back.”

“Oh, fucking—” He jumped off the bed, heart beating wildly. Did he just imagine
that? He must have.

“Oh, please tell me I just imagined that…! Please…” he begged as he stood frozen,
waiting for something to happen. “Oh, thank God—”

“Please… Master.”

“Oh fuck fuck fuckity shit, it’s climbing on top of me!” he yelled as he waved his
hands sporadically, trying to slap an invisible skeleton out of the air.

Freddy took his shirt off and threw it to the corner of the room, then he moved
behind the trash can, using the garbage bin as a shield against the creepy thing.

As he stood there, frozen, he couldn’t see anything anywhere. In this situation,

the best thing to do would be to just run and look for someone to help him. But
what if that thing was still crawling somewhere on his body?

That didn’t matter—it shouldn’t, but it did! There was clearly something abnormal
about this creature. For some reason, it could affect reality outside the
Netherecho.

If it was still latched onto him, and if it decided to attack him, who could say
that it couldn’t hurt him? He most certainly didn’t know. But… if it could affect
him, then maybe he could also affect it. As long as he could confirm where it was
and if it was still on his body, he could throw it off before running away.

Okay, Freddy, in and out, he thought. Just in and out. Enter that place, and leave
it instantly when you confirm where it is. Okay? Got it? Good.

Since he had entered it twice, appearing within his ethercosm was relatively easy.
And this time, he didn’t even need to imagine a door since he already knew what it
felt like. Given that he was standing upright, with some deliberation, he ensured
that his projection would appear on top of his head, where he was most likely to be
safe. Hopefully, at least.

Pushing his anxiety aside, he focused on the door. In and out. In and out. With a
thought, he appeared inside and—

A sudden burst of numbness spread through his side as the world spun around him; a
powerful jet of water struck his projection, and he flew at the wall, slammed into
it with a wet splash, and plummeted to the ground behind his garbage can.

What… just happened?

He couldn’t move, and his connection to reality felt distant, flickering with
flashes of soul-rending cold. Why couldn’t he move? Barely managing to shift his
head, he looked at the body of his projection. There was a massive hole right in
the middle of his torso, and what looked like floating streams of paint were
liberally leaving his projection.

“Waaah!” the glass ball vestige wailed from the top of the fridge, the liquid
sloshing within. “You brought it back here! You stupid stupid stupid! Waaah!”

Ah… I see.

Barely lifting his tiny head, he looked at the garbage can. A moment later, the
bloody, dripping head of a skeleton peeked from behind it, its empty eye sockets
boring another set of holes in his projection. Was this the end…?

“No… please,” he begged, his weak voice sounding frail and distant, with hints of
indistinct buzzing to it. “I haven’t done anything yet,” he argued. “I just got my
chance. Please. Please don’t kill me.”

The crimson skull apparition gazed upon him, its size towering over his limp,
flickering form. Its eyes shone with a cold, crimson light. Its maw opened with a
clicky, snappy growl as it reeled in fury. But rather than direct that at him, it
turned to face the glassy orb on the fridge.

“What are you looking at!?” the glass orb vestige spat, sending a jet of water that
washed over the skeleton without causing harm. “Waaaaah! You’re scary! I don’t like
you!” it proclaimed.

Then, the skeleton slowly began walking toward the fridge and climbing it. It
wasn’t long until it forced its way up, and when it did—
It grabbed the glassy orb vestige like a ball and lifted it into the air. It cried,
yelling at the skeleton to make it stop, but it was too late. The massive bloody
bone man repeatedly slammed it into the fridge, cracking its body until it
shattered and dissipated into motes of flowing blue patches of color. Then, the
bloody thing grabbed a fistful of those motes, jumped back down, and walked over to
him.

Once it approached him, it somewhat forcefully shoved the wisps at his projection,
like it was almost trying to seal the gaping hole in his chest. As soon as those
motes touched him, he mustered the tiniest shred of willpower—all he could manage—
and absorbed it into his body.

His projection rapidly recovered from the damage it had suffered, and he felt a
change occur. The pure, unblemished white of his star morphed, adopting the
splotchy blue color that rapidly became the primary hue of his core.

The instant his projection recovered, he rushed past the skeleton, touched his
body, returned to the real world, jumped over the trash can, and ran to get out of
the apartment.

However, as his hand rested on the doorknob, he felt it shaking. Sweat poured down
his body, and the thundering sound of his heart hammering away echoed in his ears
like drums of war. Grunting in effort, he tried to force himself to open the door
and just leave, but—

“Shit!” he yelled as he once again returned to Netherecho, this time standing on

his left shoulder, where he could use his head as a shield if any of the other
vestiges tried anything.

The skeleton stood below his body, reaching for the nondescript, gray form that
represented his legs.

He threateningly waved his hands at it and screamed. “No! Bad skeleton! Get off me
immediately!” he ordered.

Despite being the one to dish out the command, he was still surprised when the
thing nodded, obediently released its grip, and began walking back away.

“This can’t be happening…” he whispered.

Why was this thing listening to him? And why did it save his life?

Regarding vestiges, they weren’t genuinely conscious and didn’t have what one could
call “free will.” They acted obsessively, latching onto an idea and following that
concept with every action they took. And for this bloody skeleton, following him
had become its paradigm.

Wisps were the lowest natural form of ether construct, and once enough gathered,
they formed a vestige. Vestiges could grow in power to become remnants, and those
could eventually become spirits and, finally, eidolons.

Judging by its size and power, this thing wasn’t a vestige. It was a remnant. They
were supposed to be pretty damn rare and were only meant to appear in extremely
ether-dense environments. So… why did one appear in his apartment?

His mind suddenly made the connection. Could this be related to the incident?

“The clothes!” he exclaimed, facing the garbage can. Indeed. Plenty of blood had
been pooled there just a day ago. Monster blood at that.

Either way, there was a more important thing to consider. Personified ether
constructs, in any of their forms, always told the truth if asked. So ask it, he
would. “You,” he called. “Do you… Do you have any intention of killing me?” he
started with the most pressing matter.

“No,” it denied. “Absolutely not, my lord.”

Did that thing just refer to me as “my lord?”

“All right then… uh…” His mind rushed as he tried to think of what to ask next.
“Why are you following me?”

It shifted its empty eye sockets up at him. “I am bloodshed,” it declared. “And you
are the one who sheds blood. I am convinced you are fated to bathe the universe in
red, my everything.”

“Huh?” he blurted out, utterly bewildered by its words.

“Through bloodshed, you rejected death,” it decreed. “You traded peaceful

prosperity for the uncertainty of violence,” it reminded him. “Be it fortune, fate,
or overwhelming power, nothing can stop you from heading down the path of
bloodshed.”

Well… if all that he knew about himself were the last few days of his life, even
he’d jump to some conclusions. He wasn’t done asking it questions, but no matter
how he phrased it, this being didn’t seem to have any ill intent toward him. It was
quite the opposite, actually. If anything, it worshiped him.

Leaving him with an important decision—what exactly should he do? If he tried

contacting authorities, he was confident they would get rid of it for free. Hell,
he might even get paid for it. But was that worth it?

No, a better question was whether that was the smart thing to do. This was a
remnant, meaning all it had said so far was the truth; anything less was
impossible, as dictated by the very nature of a sentient ether construct.

Before jumping to any rash decisions, he wanted to see this thing in action. “My…
uh… minion! Yes! I give you a command!”

It bowed to him. “Anything, Your Grace.”

Freddy glanced around. “Get rid of all the other vestiges in this room!”

“As you wish.”

The bloody skeleton ponderously trod toward the chest. It grabbed the ledge and
slowly pulled itself up.

“Secrets! You are here for my secrets! Well, I can always appreciate a seeker of—”
Before the chubby vestige could finish its sentence, the bloody skeleton balled its
fist and smashed its head from above, cracking its skull, which immediately began
unraveling into wisps. And then again. And again.

The fourth strike shattered the wrinkled phantom’s body into bits, and the chubby
ether construct dissipated into a small cloud of colorful wisps.

Vestiges were tied to certain, specific concepts. And such concepts, more often
than not, had an affinity for several different elements. This creature seemed to
have been made of wood and metal ether, and the appropriate metallic and wooden
splotches of color drifted away from where it stood.

The skeleton descended from the chest and walked over to the window.

“You cretin!” the glass panel assaulted. “Be you an ally of the searing—” Yet
again, before the creature could finish, the skeleton jumped up, grabbed its leg,
and pulled it down, smashing it into the floor and crushing it to pieces.

The vestige shattered into splotches of glassy, transparent stains and particles of
flickering light.

“We must hurry! It is soon time—” The vestige that looked like a cartoony clock was
picked up and repeatedly smashed against the wall, eventually shattering into wisps
of metal and crystal.

And finally, the skeleton bent down to reach under the bed.

It pulled out what appeared to be a tiny boogeyman—a dark vestige with a terrifying
outward appearance. It slashed and swung its claws at the bloody skeleton, being
the only one that had even put up a fight. But it was futile.

The skeleton opened its maw, far wider than he expected it to be able to, and bit
the tiny creature’s head off, dissipating it into fluttering splotches of darkness.
“That is all of them, my liege.”

This thing is freaking scary… but damn is it efficient, he thought.

“Ah, yeah… g-good job, uh…”

Should he name the skeleton?

Before he could decide on anything, it turned and looked at him. “Bloodshed. I am

bloodshed, so you can call me Bloodshed,” it introduced itself. Then it cocked its
skull. “Unless you wish to name me something else?”

“Uh, no, uhm… Bloodshed is fine,” his voice cracked, apparently still capable of
doing so even when he was in his projection. He coughed. “Quite the lovely name,
really, has very… uhm… It’s charming,” he eked out nervously. “Yeah, now, uh…” He
pondered what to do.

Should he make a… corner for this thing? Maybe buy a dog bed? Or just shove it
under his bed? Ah, no, he might as well cuddle it to sleep every night!

Yeah. No way. Even if he were a 100 percent certain that it wanted to cause him no
harm, there was no fucking way he could fall asleep with it in his room. So, he
thought about it a bit and eventually landed on a conclusion. There were most
certainly no archs in this building other than him, but even if one appeared by
some miracle, he doubted they would have any reason to check the Netherecho. This
meant he could hide this thing wherever he wanted.

Putting it in the middle of the hallway was definitely unwise, though, and on the
off-chance that someone actually did check the Netherecho, he’d rather not be
hiding skeletons right in front of his door.

Locking it in the chest in his room wouldn’t work. “Objects,” or rather, their
representation within the Netherecho, unless made of a special material, were a
temporary barrier at most to personified ether constructs.
Well, then… The toilet was… No. Just no. What about the storage room on the first
floor? He pondered that. Well, it was as fine an option as he could think of. Now,
there was only the question of convincing the skeleton. Maybe he could bait it
outside somehow?

“Hey, uh… Bloodshed?”

“What is it, my lord?”

“You know this apartment…” he started, contemplating how to phrase his offer. “It’s
kind of tiny and suffocating and all that. Wouldn’t you want to be somewhere else?”
he asked respectfully.

“My liege, whatever you wish, say it. I will simply obey.” It cut right to the
chase, almost as if it could see the web of bullshit he was trying to weave.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, moderately perturbed at this thing’s ability to read his

intentions. “Well, uh… okay then! Follow me.” And with that, he left the
Netherecho.

Once he appeared in the real world, he opened the door and waited for the slow
skeleton to move outside.

A woman walked through the hallway, the same person he had accidentally jumpscared
the other day, and she shot him a half-terrified-half-concerned glance as she
walked so fast she nearly jogged down the stairs.

At this point, he realized he was standing half-naked with a somewhat shell-shocked

expression, holding his door open for no apparent reason.

Pfft! So judgmental! I’m just taking my invisible pet skeleton, Bloodshed, out for
a walk! People nowadays, seriously…

But yeah, he should probably at least put his shirt back on.

As he guided the skeleton, he left and reentered the Netherecho several times, and
before long, they were inside the storage room on the ground floor of the building.

It was a small, dingy space filled with old boxes piled on rotting shelves. There
was nothing of value here; it was mostly filled with half-garbage, the type of
stuff people didn’t want to throw away but also wouldn’t mind having stolen if it
happened.

A few empty boxes lay around, and an idea flashed in his mind. “Hey, Bloodshed. Can
you get inside that box over there?”

The skeleton obeyed, and he returned to reality, moving the box from where it stood
to the other side of the room. Once he returned to the Netherecho, he discovered
that Bloodshed was still in the cardboard container.

“Huh… Neat.” For a second, he had thought that the skeleton would simply stay where
it was if he moved the box, but through whatever Netherecho fuckery was at play,
that didn’t happen.

He wondered what would happen if he crushed the box with the remnant in there, but
that was an experiment for another day, and with something he didn’t mind getting
squashed.
“Hey, Bloodshed,” he called, now back in the Netherecho. “Do you mind staying
inside this box?”

It again looked up at him with those creepy, empty eye sockets and muttered,
“Anything you wish.”

“All right then! That suits me just fine.”

He closed the box, taping it shut. Then he located an old marker, wrote fragile on
the side and top, and put it on one of the shelves in a far corner.

And with that, he returned to his apartment and dropped to his bed. He chuckled.
Then, he cackled vociferously. “Holy shit,” he said, “what even is my life
anymore!?”

In a few very eventful days, he had gone from a run-of-the-mill cashier to an arch
who had tamed a remnant! It felt so surreal that he didn’t know what to do anymore.

The longer this continued, the more he craved confirmation that this was real and
that he wasn’t on some acid trip. Lying on the bed, he couldn’t stop chuckling. His
heartbeat sped up, and he felt himself breathing uncontrollably, but he couldn’t
stop laughing.

This is nothing, he thought to himself as he grabbed his shaking hand… He was just
very excited. No, he couldn’t wait to continue! So, without hesitation, he returned
to the Netherecho again.

The desire to laugh still persisted, but he felt it gradually weaken in his
projection. Well, that made for a quick and easy way to calm down, at least. He
looked around.

His room was now filled to the brim with countless specks of floating color.

There were several ways to gather. He could sit and focus on thinking about water-
related stuff, and eventually, he could vaguely sense any nearby water wisps and
then slowly attract them to his body.

This was the go-to method for proper gathering. But he was too weak to do that for
the time being. So he resorted to another, far more hands-on and usually much
slower method—doing it manually.

One water wisp was flowing through the air to his side, and he reached to grab it.
The moment he touched it, it required nearly no effort to absorb into his body.

“Hmm…” he hummed, focusing on the sensation the action produced.

While he had little frame of reference, he could tell that it hadn’t been very…
satisfying? Fulfilling? He wondered what to compare the feeling to. Given that it
was a water wisp… well… if he were thirsty, the wisp he had just absorbed would be
the equivalent of licking a drop of dew off a blade of grass. Maybe even less than
that.

And there weren’t all that many of them around, either. While the space inside his
apartment was positively booming with wisps, water was in the minority. But, he
didn’t need to focus on only them. Approaching a fluttering patch of darkness, he
restrained it, gripping it with both of his little hands. Once he finally applied
enough force, the wisp shattered, dissipating into ethereal, white particles, most
of which almost immediately disappeared.
A small portion, however, was absorbed directly into his projection. Crushing a
wisp to turn it back into unattuned ether rewarded him with less than a tenth of
the benefit, but with no alternatives, it was better than nothing.

Suddenly, a powerful force began pulling his projection back toward his body. No
matter what he did, he felt powerless to resist it, and his legs moved on their own
to return him to reality.

Once he returned, he heard knocking coming from his door, accompanied by the call
of a man’s voice. “Hello!? Anybody in there?”

He was still shaking in his bed, but he forced it down as he got up. Part of him
wanted to ignore it, but he feared it might be important and was a little hopeful
that the insurance company might have changed its mind.

The door swung open, and an onyx-haired man dressed in casual streetwear wearing a
gray hoodie and black sweatpants greeted him. His eyes appeared somewhat snakey;
something was vaguely off about his irises. Other than that, he was pretty
attractive, and his pale skin was smoother than polished porcelain. “Hey there,
kid!” he greeted cheerfully. “Are you perhaps Freddy Stern?”

ALL THE BLOOD THERE IS

Freddy stared at the stranger standing right outside his apartment. “Yeah, that’s
me,” he answered the man’s previous question. “Uhm… is there anything I can help
you with?”

“You should probably get out of the apartment,” the man said casually. “There might
be something dangerous here.”

“Uhhh, who… who are you?” he asked skeptically, showing no intent to leave and even
lightly closing the doors.

Some random dude came barging in, claiming there was something “dangerous” in his
apartment, and now he wanted him to leave? This smelled incredibly fishy, and every
instinct he had honed during his time in this god-forsaken complex immediately
flared up.

However, the man didn’t force him to leave or do anything untoward. He merely
closed his eyes for a few seconds, but it wasn’t long until they shot open as he
glanced at him. “You’re an arch,” he said, slight surprise apparent in his lightly
raised eyebrow. “Freshly ascended at that. Huh…” he mused out loud as he cocked his
head. “What did you do in the Netherecho here?”

Well, this changed the situation quite drastically. Judging by the man’s demeanor,
he was undoubtedly an arch himself, and based on his behavior, he was here with a
purpose. Some details were beginning to line up. “Something dangerous” was probably
Bloodshed, and this man had somehow found out about the creepy skeleton remnant.

However, the idea of coming clean and laying it out straight to the man had never
crossed his mind for even a second. To him, who had grown up in an orphanage, the
unique combination of “This might be an authority figure” and “I might have done
something they don’t like” instantly triggered a deeply ingrained habit of his—“It
is time to lie my fucking ass off.”

“Oh man,” he said, shaking his head. “I went in there, and this thing was under my
bed. It went freakin’ wild, slaughtering all the vestiges in my room, and at the
end, it was quite wounded, so even though I barely touched it, it just went poof. I
nearly shit my pants. My hands are still shaking, see?” His hands were, indeed,
still shaking, albeit for several different reasons.

The man frowned upon hearing that. “Jesus! You shouldn’t do stuff like that at your
level,” he chastised. “You’re lucky to be alive. Wait, did the vestige that went
wild in your room look bloody in any way?”

“No,” he denied outright. “I’d say it was more of a mini-boogeyman.”

“I see,” the man said, nodding, likely convinced by the shadowy wisps he had seen
in the Netherecho. “Just a quick question. Was there anything strange behind your
trash can?”

“Yeah,” he responded with a tiny shred of hesitation, but an intentional one.

Because he wasn’t about to lie; he was about to tell the truth. “I had some bloody
clothes there. Ah, I mean, I didn’t, like, kill anyone—well, I did, but a monster
in the passage bre—”

“Bloody clothes?” The man latched on to that detail, as expected. “And where are
they now?” he asked with a clean undertone of urgency to his voice.

“I… Uh… I threw them in the trash.”

“Ah fuck,” the man swore and clicked his tongue. “When?”

“Uh… A-A day ago?” He tried remembering. “Yeah, something like that; sorry, I’ve
had a few crazy days, so I—”

The man groaned as he turned around to run. Halfway down the stairs, though, he
paused and turned around. “Just another quick question. Nothing serious, I’m just
curious,” he said as he squinted at him. “Did you kill a monster with a plastic
bag?”

He was caught off guard by the question, and he reflexively chuckled. “Yeah… I
guess.”

The man grinned. “How the fuck did you do that?” he asked with genuine mirth in his
voice.

“I uh… I—uhm, I swung the uh, bag, I mean, it had a can in there, a can of beans,
and I swung it like. You know, like a—”

“Ha!” the man guffawed, clapping his hands in mirth. “A can of fucking beans!?” he
wheezed. “What a riot! You bean flailed that thing, holy shit!”

“Bean flail?” he asked with a chuckle.

“You know what, kid?” the man said, wagging a finger at him. “I have a strange
feeling that this won’t be the last time we meet.”

I kind of really hope that it will, he thought but still forced a smile on his
face.

Now that the man was leaving, he finally permitted his curiosity some freedom. “I
have a question for you, too, if you don’t mind,” he said, “uhm, who are you?”

The man with strange eyes grinned at the question, waving him off. “I’m just some
random bastard,” he stated dismissively and, clearly in a rush, fled down the
stairs and left the building.

“Ah, I see,” he said to nobody in particular. He slowly closed his apartment door,
and once it was locked, his legs immediately lost all their strength, and he
crumpled to the ground, breaking into a cold sweat.

“Did I have to lie to him…?” he whispered quizzically into his chin. “He seemed
pretty nice…”

But someone just being nice wasn’t enough to stop the habit from kicking in. If
anything, it made him even more likely to lie. The nicer they seemed to be,
usually, the harder they hit.

If you come clean, we’ll go easy on you. The words flashed in his mind. Every kid
at the orphanage fell for it once. Only once. And never again.

He buried his face into his knees, unable to move from where he sat. For whatever
reason, his first reaction was to enter the Netherecho. The instant he appeared
there, he felt slightly better.

The anxiety and flush of adrenaline were gone, left behind in his physical body. He
still didn’t feel good; the vague sensation of anxiety and general distress was
still there, but it was easier to ignore it. Yeah. This could quickly turn into a
terrible habit. But, at the moment, if it freed him from feeling like that, he
wouldn’t mind letting it turn into one. Running away from one’s problems for the
win.

The swarm of colorful splotches of ethereal paint shimmered through the air around
him, each morphing and shifting in a way appropriate to their element.

Shadow wisps were like little balls of darkness; light wisps were tiny
constellations of flickering lights; water wisps flowed through the air like liquid
seeking a path through cracked stone; wood wisps were like branches growing in
random directions, wilting and vanishing at the tail end; metal, crystal, and glass
floated in chunks; and what appeared to be air wisps looked like tiny gusts of
cartoony wind, loopy squiggles flying through the air.

It was a mesmerizing sight once he finally had the safety to observe it as he

pleased.

There were even some he hadn’t noticed before, and now that he saw them, they
appeared kind of… ew. Bloody marks, tiny masses of what looked like pulsing,
freaky, organic matter, and clumps of… rot? There were also small masses of
shifting skulls, which he presumed represented the death affinity.

There was a rather high density due to the slaughter that had recently transpired.
Regardless of their nature, their ether would nourish his soul all the same, so he
started collecting them without much hesitation.
His projection wasn’t slow, per se, but it gave the impression of sluggishness.
Running in the Netherecho reminded him of running in a dream. His projection felt
weightless, and the air, or rather, the space around him, was like a dense liquid,
preventing him from gathering momentum. While walking, it was unnoticeable, but
whenever he tried to run, it stifled his movements.

First, he began gathering all the water wisps he could. Quite a few were floating
too high for him to reach. So he tried jumping. His leap was surprisingly high, and
he freaked out when he realized he was about to fall back down.

Yet, on his descent, not only did he slowly hover down, but when he hopped again,
even when allowing himself to descend faster, he didn’t feel any impact.

When he got slammed by that water jet, he certainly felt like he had fallen to the
ground, all right. There was a slam, a thud, and everything.

He gradually realized a few things about movement in the Netherecho through

experimentation. Strictly speaking, the “laws of physics,” or at least whatever was
left of them, didn’t apply here. This was a place of ideas and truths in concepts—a
dream world that didn’t like playing by outside rules.

It wasn’t much later that he replaced the physical action of “running” with the
idea of “traversing quickly” and embraced the difference between a “descent” and a
“fall.” His projection fluttered around without fear of injury, and gathering the
wisps in range became much more straightforward.

He went from forcefully crushing the shards of ether to pulling them apart and
unraveling them, which took half the time and exertion. One colorful splotch after
another was deconstructed and consumed by the little projection.

At a certain point, he was truly out of wisps in range. Granted, he could simply
wait for them to float down, but he had a better idea. Returning to his body, he
lifted an arm into the air. Then he focused, and his projection appeared on his
palm.

“Success! Now I just have to—” He was interrupted when the arm he stood on
vanished. His projection fell to the ground below, landing without any problem. But
he looked at his body in abject terror, seeing that his arm had disappeared.

“Did something cut my—” But before he could finish, his arm reappeared, but in a
relaxed position beside his body instead of hanging in the air. “Oh, yeah… I forgot
about that.”

Upon entering the Netherecho, his body would remain in the same position he left it
in, but it wouldn’t stay like that for long if the stance took any willpower to
maintain.

Almost immediately upon entering the Netherecho, his arm had relaxed and dropped
down to rest in a natural position beside his body. Given that moving objects
couldn’t appear within the Netherecho unless their movement was repetitive, like
the spinning of a wheel or a fan, the arm had disappeared and only reappeared once
it was stationary again.

Not a problem for his plans, though. He just had to react fast enough. Yet again,
he appeared on his palm, and before the arm could vanish beneath his feet, he
jumped off the hand. A water wisp entered his range, and he grabbed it out of the
air, consuming it.
Through repeatedly repositioning his body, he was able to collect every single wisp
of ether in his room. Now, all that remained was to check his progress. It was…

Honestly speaking, he could barely tell the difference. The star in his ethercosm
had changed slightly. But it wasn’t on the level of a few drops of water in a
glass. It was more akin to a thin layer of condensation gathering on the glass’s
surface.

But that was fine. He was alive and well. With time, he would find better places to
gather than this dingy apartment.

The sun was already setting, and he felt famished. His entire body was sore, and he
craved proper rest. So he would have it. He ate his other sandwich, got ready for
sleep, and went to bed.

It wasn’t even 7 p.m. But in more ways than one, he was just done. The same way he
had told himself many times recently, he thought it again as he drifted to sleep.

There was no more need to rush.

Harold stood at the dump yard, sighing deeply. He had tracked the shipment, the
person who shipped it, even the position it was offloaded in, and still…

Before him was a bag filled with ordinary garbage and a brown-stained work uniform.
It was dried blood. And judging by the amount, it must have been one heavy can of
beans.

A trip to the Netherecho revealed a cursed object, as expected. The uniform was
thickly oozing with blood and wrath aura. So much so that the surrounding garbage
vestiges didn’t dare come close to it.

He didn’t find what he was looking for. Thank God.

Placating that bloody toddler would be a pain in the ass, but it was preferable to
handing a competitor such a massive boon.

He bent over and picked up the smelly, sweaty clothes out of the pile of trash.

It was time to return and hopefully not have a fight to death.

Janhalar sat in the corner of the tent, his fury heightening with every second that
passed. His foot restlessly hopped on the ground, and as the room entrance shifted,
his foot slammed the asphalt hard enough to make it crack.

He rushed to get up and marched forward to the city lord. “Did you find it!?”

Rather than answer his damn question, the prick simply handed him filthy clothes. A
quick check of the Netherecho left him stunned. This was a very intense cursed
object. But it wasn’t a unique one. And the remnant was nowhere to be found.

“Harold…” He tried to be calm, but his upper lip still curled in a snarl as he
barked, “Where is it!?”

“Didn’t find it,” the lord responded calmly.

He took a deep breath. Wisdom and patience could topple any mountain and cross any
ocean.

He had been patient.

Now, he would be wise.

Without saying a word, he turned to exit and stepped forward.

Instantly, the ground shifted into snakes that wrapped around his ankles.

“Hold on there, partner,” Harold called. “Where are you going?”

“Are you instigating a fight against me, Lord?” he asked, a chilling calm
permeating his words.

“That depends,” the man answered. “Where are you going?” he asked again.

“Our deal is finished. Am I not allowed to leave?”

“Not until you answer my question,” Harold declared.

“All right then. Let me answer with a counter-question,” he said as blood dripped
down his arms and formed two red blades. He turned to face the city lord, eyes
bloodshot and teeth bared. “Where is your proof?”

Harold shrugged. “If you doubt my word, take it to the Empress.” The snakes
dissolved.

He retracted his blood blades as he scoffed. “I have no reason to bother her with
something like this. I will see for myself.”

“We are already overstepping the boundary here, Patriarch,” the slithery bastard
claimed. “Our actions until now can be justified as protecting civilians, but this
kid is a different story. Although he only ascended recently, he is an archhuman.”

“And why should that concern me?”

“We can explain it away as protection when it’s a matter of mortals, but legally
and morally speaking, you aren’t entitled to anything this man possesses,” Harold
informed him sternly. “You only get those clothes because he willingly threw them
away.”

That was correct. Technically. But he certainly didn’t care. “Do not take me for a
fool, Lord,” he spat sharply. “If that man is keeping the remnant around, that is
nothing but an act of delayed suicide. A freshly minted archhuman has no business
playing with powers out of his grasp.” Then, with a smirk, he added, “Or are you
being intentionally negligent in allowing him to endanger his own life?”

Harold smirked at that. “Come now. Isn’t it standard practice to let the ascended
endanger themselves as they please?”

“Do you truly believe I’m going to accept that?”

“I highly recommend that you do,” the city lord said, then hardened his gaze. “If I
learn that you’ve stepped into any form of contact with an independent arch,
intending to steal from him, no less, I will start the appropriate legal process,”
he threatened, wagging his finger. “A four-star arch arrested for petty theft? That
would be quite embarrassing, now, wouldn’t it?”

“I have no intention of stealing anything, you worm,” he spat at the insult. “I

know my rights. I will purchase it.”

“You can’t do that.”

His neck whipped around, and he snarled. “You would dare forbid—”

“I’m not forbidding you anything, Janhalar. I’m merely stating a fact,” the man
said. “Can you afford to buy the vestige off of him at market value?”

He hesitated at that one. “I’m not—”

“Exactly,” the lord confirmed, “you’re not going to buy it at market value. You’ll
scam the fuck out of the poor boy. He won’t be able to refuse an ‘offer’ from
someone like you, even if it is extremely unfavorable. Such an exchange cannot be
considered a consensual transaction, so I will be treating it the same as theft.”

“That decision has no legal standing,” he spat.

“That will be for the empress to decide,” the lord stubbornly persisted.

His expression darkened. “You would go that far?” He bared his teeth, growling at
the bastard. “I did not take you for someone who behaved like this, Basilisk. If
you proceed, I will consider it hostility against my faction. Are you sure you want
that?”

“Declare me an enemy then, and see what happens. I dare you.”

Janhalar stood, maintaining eye contact with the lord for a few seconds. Then he
turned around and started walking. “I’ve taken all that I’m interested in,” and
with those words, he left the tent.

“I liked you quite a bit more when you were quiet!” the lord yelled from within the
tent, causing him to grit his teeth harder.

The streets around the tent were thickly populated with men in uniforms. Things
were already moving. The nearby buildings were already being deconstructed in
preparation for turning this entire area into a hub. With such easy access to the
realm, it might even become one of the largest on the planet.

If he could secure his clan’s position, they would soar. And to do that, he needed
power.

Very well, then, Freddy Stern, he thought. I’ll show you what happens to those who
take what’s rightfully mine.

Bloodshed sat obediently in the small box, waiting for Master to command it
further. As it sat there expectantly, a long time passed, but nothing happened.

Master had told it to remain within this room. But there were no restrictions
regarding moving around it. Its skeletal hand touched the barrier surrounding it.
And as it focused, it began slipping through the thin box. Bit by bit, it phased
forward, and soon enough, it went through—and fell to the ground with the wet splat
of blood oozing off its bones.

“What are ye, ya creepy fucking thing?”

Bloodshed turned, spotting the small vestige that appeared like a pile of boxes.
Not even seconds later, the creature was turned into splotches of tumbling brown
wisps. It grasped one, clutching until it crushed it and absorbed a small portion
of the dissipating ether.

A few other vestiges hid around the shelves and within the boxes.

Grasping another one by its wiry legs, Bloodshed bent its victim’s body until it,
too, began dissipating.

“I will be preparing, Master…” it said impatiently, “for the glorious day where we
spill all the blood there is.”

REASONS TO LIVE

Asizable floating bus stopped at a terminal beneath a floating island, and a man
wearing a black hoodie pulled over his head stepped out.

Mark realized something peculiar, as small as it may have been. For the first time
in roughly seven years, he wasn’t wearing any academy clothing. They had a uniform
for every occasion because, of course, if one was an attendee, they had to ensure
that everyone in the world knew at all times.

His clothes had gotten a little small after all the muscle he had put on, and his
blue jeans were so tight he was worried they’d crush his nuts into infertility. He
tried flexing his legs a bit to loosen them, but he heard a loud tear the instant
he tried.

“Okay,” he said as he gave up. “Let’s not return home with half my ass hanging
out.”

He stepped onto a levitating platform, which lifted him from the waiting area into
the air above the 25th district, flying up to the nearest floating island with four
interconnected buildings.

The grass was an alien shade of green, and the surrounding growth was so colorful
that some would presume it had been painted to appear as such. Violet rose bushes,
red trees, yellow cacti, and succulents in pretty much every color of the rainbow.
He spotted a blonde girl waving at him from one of the detachable floating
balconies. On closer look, he realized it was his thirteen-year-old younger sister,
Sarah. She turned around, fumbling something, and the platform flew back, attaching
to their apartment.

Spotting her running back into the building, he prepared himself for the assault
that was about to arrive. And, as expected, it wasn’t long until she was rushing
out, jumping at him, and strangling him in a bear hug.

“What the—” she asked, removing herself from his body and knocking on his torso. “I
think I have a statue for a brother.”

Mark laughed as he pulled back his hood, revealing his ear-length wheat blonde hair
and forest-green eyes. “How have you been?”

She ignored his question and eyed his suspiciously empty hands and pockets. “Did
you bring me anything?”

“Am I not enough?” he said, feigning offense at her words.

She pouted and turned around, crossing her arms. “Rude!”

He shuffled her hair and lifted her into the air, causing her to scream, “Okay,
okay, put me down!”

Mark laughed and said, “How about we go see Mom and Dad?”

“Yeah,” she confirmed, dizzily grasping at her head as if trying to set it

straight. “Mom is making dinner, and Dad will be home soon, probably in around,
like, uh, an hour?”

Mark nodded, and soon they rode the elevator up to their apartment.

While his dorm had been sufficient, even if he had to share it with three others,
he always forgot how gigantic his home was. The first living room alone was enough
to do some running in. In fact, there was a pretty straightforward route around the
series of levitating couches in the middle.

He had to go through a part of the second living room and a short hallway to
finally reach the kitchen, where he found his mother washing some dishes. She was a
short, blonde woman who didn’t look much older than Mark himself.

“Mark!” she greeted him. “Oh my gosh, you’re back so soon! Wait—” She wiped her
hands and rushed to hug him, kissing him on the cheek. “Sit down! We’ll wait for
your dad, and then we’ll eat dinner, okay? Or do you want to have a bite first?”
she offered with a cheeky grin.

“Hahaha, thanks, Mom, but I’ll wait.”

He spent the next hour carelessly chatting with his mother and sister, who were
poignantly avoiding the topic of his graduation and future.

Soon enough, slightly earlier than expected, his father, an austere, brown-haired,
tall man, was back home as well, and they were eating dinner. It was a hagel-duck
roasted over some qurum root.

His dad shared stories from work, while his mother retold some tales about his
sister, which, judging by her almost crying in protest, were clearly shared against
her permission.
This wasn’t so bad. It was warm and cozy. He was just being stupid. Appreciating
what he had was far better than weeping over unrealized dreams. With that thought,
he pulled out the shiny certificate and placed it on the table. Everyone instantly
turned silent.

Aeroon Arch Academy Graduation Certificate.

Year 7.

When presented like this, it almost looked like something to be proud of.

Mark Afronte, the twenty-one-year-old grade seven Aeroon Arch Academy graduate. An
impressive thing to add to a resume.

But the full course went on for ten years. An early graduation… That was a
euphemism. Grade seven was rather impressive. Only around 6 percent of all the
candidates made it that far. A thought that did nothing to assuage his bitterness.

His father got up and knelt on one knee beside him, placing a firm hand on Mark’s
shoulder. “Son,” he said, “you have everything to be proud of. I won’t tell you
about all the people you’re ahead of, but I will remind you of one thing—we’ve made
it damn far if we’re thinking of crying with news like this.”

That got a chuckle out of Mark, and he nodded slightly.

“No, I mean it,” his father added. “Had someone told me ten years ago that I’d be
sending both my kids to the academy and that my son would graduate in the seventh
year, I would have passed out.”

“Stop,” he said, laughing but clearly trying to stave tears away. It was only then
that he realized what he’d just heard. “Wait, what!?”

His family shot him their best shit-eating grins as Sarah adopted a mock-arrogant
expression.

“What can I say?” she jokingly asked. “I guess I’ll have to pull the ten instead.”

“Oh my God,” he said as he got up, rushing over to hug his sister.

“Hey, let go—” She prepared to push him away but held herself back, gently
caressing his hair instead.

The rest of the evening was much merrier, and he eventually retreated to his room,
feeling quite satisfied. He put his hand on the doorknob, turned it, and went
inside. The door creaked slightly and swiftly revealed the room he had spent little
time in.

The size made him feel uncomfortable. It was far bigger than the room in his dorm.
There was a bathroom, its entrance slightly to the right of his emperor-sized bed.

After getting ready, he went to sleep. Or, at least, he tried to.

The tall ceiling looked like it was spinning above, and his heart beat unnaturally
fast. No matter how often he closed his eyes, he felt compelled to open them. He
shifted from left to right and back repeatedly, unable to stop his mind from
running at Mach 10.

He went into the toilet and stared at his reflection; it appeared foreign. The
firm, well-trained young man with a fire burning in his eyes was nowhere to be
seen, leaving a despondent, disheveled failure in his stead. No matter how many
times he washed his face, he couldn’t rinse off the shame. So he went back to bed.

He felt pain behind his eyes, and finally, he could no longer hold them back. Tears
rushed down his face, and he whimpered.

Ah, shit. I guess I’ll just cry it out and go to sleep was what he thought, but it
wasn’t meant to be.

The cracks spread, and all the emotions he had been forcing down came flooding out.
His crying soon turned to sobs, and it wasn’t long until his mother knocked on the
door.

“Mark!? Mark, is that you? Are you okay!?”

“G-G-Go—Go away, M-Mom,” he barely managed to eke out.

“What’s going on?” his father said from the other side.

His mother whispered something in turn, and his dad yelled. “No, I’m going in!”

The door opened. “Mark!” his father called as he rushed forward. “Is everything all
right!?”

“J-Just clo-close the… the… door, please,” he told them, pulling the blankets over
his head to hide.

His father wasn’t having it, though, and moments later, the blankets were off,
revealing the blubbering mass of misery beneath.

“Come here,” his father said, lifting him up. “It’s okay.”

He was extremely muscular, but now, with his curled-up shoulders and bent back, he
appeared smaller than he had for a long, long time. “I’m—I’m a failure, D-Dad,” he
said.

“Don’t give me that—”

“No, I-I am. I was so, so close to passing, I fucked up. I fucked it-it all up.
Everything. N-Now, my friends. I’m—I’m—I’m not going to see them again, Dad. I’m a-
a failure. They’re just stra-strangers to m-me now.”

There wasn’t much left to say. He supposed that even his parents felt it was
undeniable. His mother and father, seated on his left and right, held him until he
finally calmed down.

“You’ve worked hard for the last ten years,” his father said. “Way more than I
think any child should. Take a break. A year off, just make some new friends and
have some fun, all right? It will all be waiting for you when you come back.”

Of course. He was no longer at the forefront of his generation, either way. It was
shameful that he’d feel such relief at the opportunity to slack off, but he
couldn’t say no to his parents’ kindness.

“O-Okay. Th-Thank you, Mom, Dad. I love you.”

John sat out on the small balcony, sipping his thirteenth cup of tea and smoking
the pipe he practically never extinguished. He was a greasy-looking man with a
thick beard and long black hair.

It had been a while since he became the resident balcony clochard of this
neighborhood. For some time already, he hadn’t moved his eyes off the neighboring
building. Specifically, he hadn’t stopped looking at the second-floor apartment
where his target resided.

Target: Freddy Stern.

21 years old.

Freshly ascended.

Resident of the 19th district.

Unemployed.

No family members known to be alive.

Mission: Hospitalize the target and retrieve all vestiges and/or remnants in his
apartment without making direct contact.

Easy enough, he thought back when he accepted the mission.

The stage was set.

The moment that kid left his building, John would use a subtle long-range spell to
shift the ground beneath his target’s feet and then break his leg, arm, or
something when he fell. It would be a little weird that an able-bodied twenty-one-
year-old randomly tripped in broad daylight and broke a limb over nothing, but it
was just believable enough to not trigger any serious investigation.

There were a few problems, though.

First, this was a mission by an anonymous client. Now, John was willing to do some
nasty shit, but he rarely accepted requests without knowing who it was from. Too
risky. But with the amount of money this client was offering? In the form of
advance payment, at that? Shit, he’d suck dick for this much, and he wasn’t even
sure whether he was joking when he thought that.

The second problem was the nature of the mission. This wasn’t some high-level
target, and someone who could offer that much money should be able to waltz in and
take care of some no-name like this themselves. There was a risk that this involved
another high-profile party. But, as they said: no risk, no reward. So that wasn’t a
dealbreaker.

Now, the third issue was the one that was screwing him the hardest. It had been
over a week since this kid last left the building. The only reason he could even
confidently say the young man was still in there was because of the Netherecho.

Wisps, depending on the thickness of the physical object they made contact with,
had a chance to either bounce off or slip through to the other side. For most
apartments here, the same way they had wisps fluttering in, they had wisps
fluttering out. That wasn’t the case with this kid’s apartment. Meaning? He was in
there and gathering them.
And fuck was this stupid bastard’s sleep schedule messed up. John was used to
stakeouts, but this was just absurd. There was a possibility that the kid knew he
was being hunted. This meant that John had to constantly keep an eye out, getting
even less sleep than his target.

At some point, he had to swap to tea instead of coffee since he was drinking so
much, he nearly shit his pants.

When is this fucker going to—His thoughts were interrupted when he spotted
something in the corner of his vision.

A carriage was driving down the streets—not just any carriage, but a floating one,
entirely black, with shaded windows and all that.

That was a rare sight, even in the 25th district. And here, it was something that
made his stomach drop, especially as the carriage slowed down and parked right in
front of his target’s building.

A pale-skinned woman stepped out. She wore a watermelon-pink pillbox hat over her
cerulean-blue pompadour and exhibited an extravagant golden dress as she walked
into the building, followed by three bodyguards in black suits.

The instant he spotted the woman, the pipe fell out of his mouth, scattering ashes
over the balcony floor. He just barely stopped the tea from suffering the same
fate.

The odds of this being a coincidence were nonexistent.

“Well then,” he said as he got up, scratching behind his ear and pulling the
underwear out of his ass. “I guess I’ll be returning the advance payment.”

Freddy sat curled up in his blanket, holding Basics of Gathering and reading
through it for the god-knew-what time.

There is no need to rush.

These words had become something of a prayer, and every time he uttered them, the
near-constant anxiety subsided just a bit. He repeated this phrase over and over,
and eventually, he was fully convinced of the fact.

And now? It had been over a week since the last time he left the apartment. Besides
going to the toilet, of course. And even that was due to the lack of convenient
bottles and jars.

At first, he had deluded himself into believing he just had no reason to leave.
Given that the last of the food he’d had was eaten two days ago, it was long past
the time for him to admit that it was simply utter bullshit.

Well, technically, he did not have any reasons to leave, apart from the ones he
ignored, of course, but it was only natural that he’d start finally looking for
some.

Perhaps somewhere to socialize, maybe a place to properly gather, just possibly

looking for ways to find employment now that he was an arch, maybe look for a
trainer, or join some sort of discipleship or mercenary group and delve into
passages, but no.

He had the thought to do it—not just once, either, but every time his mantra came
in clutch.

There is no need to rush, he thought again, pushing all those plans back
indefinitely.

So he opened the damn guide again. He read through it countless times already
without even skipping the boring parts. Finally concluding that reading through it
again was a waste of time, he closed it and placed it on the bed.

Then he focused, and soon he was inside his ethercosm. The star in the center shone
just a bit brighter now, and it was accompanied by four blue specks orbiting it. He
focused on one, and it appeared before him.

From up close, it looked like a spherical cage of runes, void of anything within.
This was an ether shell, or rather, a stage zero ability core. And what ability did
it hold?

He left the ethercosm and lifted his finger. With a bit of focus, water
materialized right in front of his raised digit and squirted out, splashing on his
fridge.

It was the Squirt spell.

Using it left him feeling somewhat empty and as if a cold breeze had blown over his
heart and liver. The essence expenditure was a little harsh on that one since it
materialized water. It wasn’t long until the liquid on his fridge vanished; it
didn’t just evaporate; it was gone for good, reverting back into essence, which
seeped through the fabric of space and disappeared.

His second ability was promptly displayed when he swung a hand down in a karate
chop. Nothing noticeable happened outwardly. Or at all, really.

This was the Flowing Strike technique. It was an attack meant to add extra momentum
to his swings by moving the water in his body. It preferred specific movements,
which comprised the Flowing Rain martial arts style.

Next up was a move he didn’t have the space to demonstrate. The Frog Leap movement
technique. It utilized hydraulic pressure to force one’s body into a jump.

And finally, the fourth shell.

He lay down and relaxed. Soon enough, all the water in his body flowed much more
smoothly, from the cellular level to how his blood circulated. He could only
maintain this for a few seconds, and soon enough, those seconds passed.

This was the Water Body tempering technique. It was meant to be a tempering
technique, but in reality, it didn’t temper shit. It did make him feel damn good,
though. For a few minutes after using it, he almost felt well-slept. This was how
he imagined people who could afford to go to a spa or get a massage felt.

While these abilities appeared to be really boring and weak, in reality, they were
even more boring and even weaker than they appeared to be. Because that was it. He
was out of essence for today, and until he recovered it, he wouldn’t be using any
of them again.
This would become less and less of a problem the stronger he became, naturally, but
that wasn’t going to happen any time soon in an environment as poor as this.

Gone were the days of the vestige slaughter, where he picked ripe ether fruits as
he wished. Now, he was limited to a starvation diet of maybe five an hour, if
lucky.

It would soon be time. He had to go buy some food. The “fasting” he was doing was
becoming less and less of a valid excuse by the minute.

He was scared. Creepy shit in the Netherecho, random passage breaks, scummy
bastards abusing their power to harm him. The world was a perilous place full of
terrible things.

Rationally speaking, he knew that catastrophe wouldn’t strike the literal instant
he left the building, but he couldn’t shake off the nasty paranoia he felt.

Suddenly, he heard a knocking coming from the door.

“Hmm?”

Who could need something from him this early in the morning?

Oh crap, he thought. It’s the landlord.

That bastard probably came to see whether he was alive. He didn’t mind keeping that
piece of shit waiting as he took his sweet time putting on his clothes. More
knocking came. It was a bit creepy, actually. It felt strange. It was too… polite?
Fancy, almost. Both times, it was three perfectly timed knocks, and they sounded
practically identical.

Nobody he knew knocked like that. And he did not know enough people to write it off
as just forgetting about someone. A strange sense of anxiety bubbled within. Should
he ignore it? His cheapskate landlord only installed doors without spyholes, so if
he wanted to see who it was, he had to greet whoever was out there.

Eventually, he decided to check it out, putting his faith in the civilized

knocking. There was no thug in the world who knocked like that.

Once he was dressed, he walked over to the door and opened it.

10

MADAME MORLEPPE

When Freddy opened the door and saw who was standing before it, he instantly
slammed it closed. It was a reflex reaction. For a few moments, he simply stared
blankly at the peeling paint on the old wooden door. Then, he started shaking. His
heart raged in his chest, and sweat pooled all over his body as he realized what he
had just done.

Holy shit! he screamed internally. It’s Madame Morleppe! Holy fuck! I just slammed
the door in her face!

She was the biggest late-night talk show host in the entire country, and he spent
many a night shift watching her on the BC. So that begged the question—what the
hell was she doing here?

Fear of offending her far overwhelmed his sense of shame as he rushed to open the
door again. “Greetings, Madame. I am so sorry,” he apologized as he exited the
apartment, keeping his head down. “My living space is quite… humble, so I hid it
out of reflex.”

She was a head taller than him, but even if she wasn’t, he was sure that standing
in front of her would make him feel minuscule. Her three bodyguards wore shaded
sunglasses and neat black suits, standing a little behind her.

“You are Freddy Stern, I surmise?” she asked, her crystal-clear voice even more
beautiful in person.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Good,” she said as she turned around. “Follow me.”

“Uh, I, uhm…”

“What is it, darling?”

“Wh-Why?” he asked, mind uncomprehending.

She merely smiled at that. “Come, and you will find out.”

Well, that sure fucking cleared things up, he thought.

Spotting his hesitation, she shrugged. “I’m not going to drag you out, darling.
Will you come out… or have I wasted my time?”

“I,” he said, waving his hands around until a finger finally landed on the door. “I
have to, uh… I have to lock the door.”

She stared at him flatly for a few seconds. “All right, then,” she said. “Feel free
to do so.”

“Okay… I… Just a second.” He hopped into his apartment, retrieved his keys, stepped
out, locked the door, and was soon following after Madame and her entourage.

He didn’t know why she was here, what she wanted, or what the fuck was going on.
Part of him was reluctant to follow along. What if she had bad intentions? She was
certainly an eccentric person, and her whims weren’t something he should take
lightly. But refusing her invitation wouldn’t spare him anything. In fact,
offending her was certainly not a wise choice.

Although she kept to her line of work, that didn’t change the fact that she was a
Lord.

They stepped out of the building and walked into a floating limousine, which was,
as expected, bigger inside but not by much. Enough to make it comfortably spacious
but not enough to put too much distance between the people sitting there. To him,
who was sitting opposite a figuratively massive celebrity and next to her three
literally huge bodyguards, a bit of extra space would have been welcome.

While he wanted to know what was happening, he decided to be patient. His heart was
beating out of his chest, and no matter how hard he worked to keep himself calm, he
was getting sweaty. Thankfully, he hadn’t been wearing these clothes while shut in,
so they were still relatively clean.

He could see outside the shaded window, and they appeared to be heading toward the…
Of course. The 25th district. She certainly wouldn’t be taking him to the ghettos.

They flew over the Bastard Barricade as if it weren’t even there and then proceeded
to—

Oh, hell no! he screamed internally.

Even before the Bastard Barricade, there had been plenty of places in the 25th
district that were walled off to outsiders. Such as any of the floating islands or
buildings. Which seemed to be precisely where they were heading.

Between the fact that they were flying into the goddamn air and going to a very
upper-class center, he felt right about ready to throw up. Luckily, his stomach was
as empty as it had ever been, and it wasn’t a particularly long flight. Soon
enough, the flying carriage stopped, and the door opened.

Madame gestured to her guards, who were the first to get out.

Once they were out, she got up, and he mimicked her, unsure what to do.

She stepped right in front of him, smiling gently. “Don’t worry, my dear,” she said
soothingly. “I will explain everything you need to know.”

“Oh… all right.”

“First, relax. We are heading to a casual venue. It is not all that different from
any regular cafes or bars you visit.”

Ah, yes. From all my regular cafe and bar visits. Yes, he sarcastically thought to
himself. But her words did ease his anxiety a bit. Maybe it was just her soothing
voice.

“But,” she added, “there is one thing you do need to know.”

Freddy perked up, but before he could ask what it was, she firmly grabbed his right
hand and lifted it into the air. “You need to know how to properly escort a lady.”

He was bewildered by the sheer force of her grip, but her expert guiding hand made
it difficult to fail to follow her guidance.

“Posture straight,” she said as she placed a finger on his back, and a zap traveled
into it, causing his muscles to stiffen in a way that simulated perfect posture.

That was right. It was difficult to fail when he didn’t have to do anything.

“Left hand gently balled up into a fist, thumb over the middle and ring fingers,”
she continued, “and left arm placed behind your back. Then, you lift your right arm
into the air and open your palm. Head held high.” Her guidance was followed by
gentle taps of the tip of her index finger and pulses of essence that gently moved
his body into position.

Once he stood the way she desired him to, she placed her hand on his right palm,
gently this time. Her touch was embarrassingly overstimulating, and he hoped he
wouldn’t pop a boner. Thankfully, the stress of the situation seemed to have made
that an impossibility.

She guided him on how to walk, which was to say that as long as he was holding her
hand, she would do the walking for him by using her essence to move his muscles. He
couldn’t lie to himself. This was freaky. And honestly, it was beginning to
seriously hurt.

“Are you all right?” she asked him, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“Huh?” he asked dumbly. “No, I-I,” he stuttered. “I’m okay.”

Her contemplative gaze scoured his form. “This technique is quite intensive. If you
so wish, I can ease the influence and let you do the work on your own. Ah, but,”
she said with a slight smile. “Don’t blame me if you embarrass yourself.”

After staring at her for a long second, he laughed a bit. “Haha, sorry. Yeah, I… I
admit it’s a little intense, but I don’t mind.”

A delicate eyebrow quirked up at that. “That’s the spirit, young man,” she said
affirmingly. “Well then, shall we proceed?”

“Yeah, uh, lead the way!” he accepted as enthusiastically as possible.

She stared at him flatly and chuckled. “Darling, you’re meant to escort me.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. Uh… Let’s go.” And with that, they stepped out of the carriage.

Admiring the floating structures from afar was one thing, but seeing them in person
was different.

The sky island had a miniature forest planted in a ring around it, exclusively
growing scattered golden trees with thin, royal red vines hanging off every branch.
Their path was lined with rainbow-colored tiles shaped from fancy crystals and
shiny metals.

They were walking toward what could only be described as three buildings twisting
around a center, with surprisingly thin bridges interconnecting them, some
expanding into large platforms. In the middle, right between them, there was a
massive, wood-plated open ground populated with occupied tables, and several
floating platforms hovered above it, also carrying people on them.

The three bodyguards stood in front, and with every step they took, the guests, who
from a distance looked like a scattering of colorful ants, became more discernible.

While a good deal was dressed in what even he recognized as relatively regular
clothing, flashy, colorful, and violently ostentatious was the name of the game.

In the center was a round bar, which seemed to be where the drinks were made.

Just like any other cafe, now, is it!? he sarcastically mused in his mind.

Although he should be feeling stressed to the breaking point, he actually thought

he felt perfectly fine. Only then did he notice that his heart wasn’t beating that
fast anymore, likely due to whatever powers she was using on him.
A short walk later, they stepped onto the wooden platform and strode forward. The
others rather openly gawked at them, primarily focused on… him? Was he just
imagining it?

The murmurs clarified that, indeed, he was the person of interest. Apparently,
Madame was a regular here. Whoever she dragged here with her was usually the one
people were looking at.

A woman seated at a table they were passing by whispered to her friend, “Hey, who
is that? That’s a pretty wild getup. Is he wearing poorcore?”

Poorcore!? Bitch!?

If it weren’t for Madame’s help, his low-class status would be much more readily
apparent. Conversely, because there was no way to tell off his behavior alone,
people assumed that he was intentionally dressed to look poor in some sort of, at
least in his opinion, utterly tasteless fashion statement.

He spotted something unusual to the side of them. There was a section where the
floating platforms were boarded. Many of them were missing from their spots, but
some of the ones left behind were… ugly. Just plain gross to look at.

One particularly nasty offender was a neon blue and pink platform plated in gold.
It was an eyesore to look at. An opinion that he luckily kept to himself as Madame
took him to that platform and then boarded it.

The guards were left on standby while the two of them sat down, a medium-sized
table between them. She put her card through a scanner, and the gaudy saucer took
off, leaving them floating alone in the air. It rose considerably higher than any
of the surrounding ones, and it was definitely not by coincidence. Some form of
shimmer flickered around them for a moment, causing him to jump in surprise as his
every hair stood on end.

“Don’t worry,” she snickered. “That’s just a privacy barrier.”

That was… Well, if he was being honest, he wasn’t sure whether he really liked that
privacy. The fact that they were so high in the air wasn’t particularly fun,
either. On top of that, his muscles felt sore as hell.

Madame took her hat off and relaxed, although her “relaxed” was still infinitely
more dignified than whatever he was doing.

Leaning over, she pulled a pen and a small tablet from a hidden section on the side
of the table. “Tell me, darling, what do you wish to eat and drink?”

Far too close did he come to saying something like orange juice and pizza, which
was his idea of fancy food. Luckily, he had stopped himself in time, instead
resorting to the ol’ reliable—“I’ll have whatever Madame recommends.”

She chuckled much louder than he expected. “Oh, you’re going to regret that,” she
teased, making him wince.

Was she about to order something gross? The joke was on her, though, because he was
literally starving. Even if she put half-eaten carrion before him, he’d probably at
least take a bite.

Once done writing their order down on the tablet, Madame turned and stared at him
quietly.
Swallowing hard, he finally felt that it was appropriate to ask the question eating
away at him, “Madame… Why, uh, I mean, what—”

“Are you familiar with the code C-000421?” she asked, interrupting him.

“Uh, code?” he inquired, bewildered. “I, uh, most certainly am not.”

“That is the code for the passage realm you’ve encountered.”

Those words were like a slap to his face, and the instant she uttered them, he
already had something of an idea why he was there. Rather than ask anything, he
simply waited for her to continue.

“Not only is that the most dangerous realm we’ve ever discovered, but it is also a
hundred times larger than New Earth. We have found many entrances to it, but most
were already inside a passage realm, usually only appearing past the fifth step,”
she said, leaning closer. “This is the first direct entrance to it to appear in our
realm. And you, Mr. Stern, were the first to find it,” she declared, offering to
shake his hand. “Welcome to the history books.”

That was a lot to take in. He shook her hand absent-mindedly, unable to find a way
to appropriately react to hearing news like this. To begin with, what did this even
mean for him? Although he wanted to ask her a million things, as the nature of
their meeting finally became apparent, he knew he wouldn’t get the chance to do
that.

This was an interview. And he wasn’t the one asking the questions.

As if on cue, she pulled her hand back and settled, adjusting her dress as she got
comfortable in the chair. “So, Freddy, why don’t you tell me something about
yourself?”

“Wow, this is surreal,” he said, unable to keep the smile off his face. He took a
breath and asked her in turn. “Where do I start?”

“Just tell me your life story,” she requested, showing a girly excitement to get
things started.

He noticed that she didn’t have any sort of notebook or recording device. “Do you…
Do you need to write anything down?”

Rolling her eyes, she waved him off. “Honey, who do you think I am?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry…” He thought about it a bit and then got started. “My name is,
as you know, Freddy Stern. I’m, uh… I’m twenty-one years old. I was abandoned at
birth, and for the first nine years of my life, I grew up in an orphanage in the
26th district. I was then adopted by… well, a couple. They weren’t the best people
in the world, but they knew how to have fun.

“To me, they were never really parents but more like much older friends. They had a
drug problem… among others. One day, at twelve years old, I woke up, and they were
just gone. The landlord kicked me out after two weeks since I couldn’t pay the
rent, and I didn’t want to go back to the orphanage, so I lived on the streets for
a few days until I found a job. Eventually, I was hired at the warehouse and worked
there until I turned seventeen, which was when I was moved to the cash register. I
was employed there until recently, and then, when I became an arch, I was fired.”

Having mostly been nodding along until this point, she switched gears. “Tell me,
Freddy, in one word, how would you describe your social life?”

After a moment, he settled on a pretty good one. “Desolate.”

“Oh?” she purred with a smile. “A lone wolf, I see? What about your work life?”

“One word again?” He checked.

“No, just tell me about it.”

“Okay, uh.” He paused as he thought for a moment. “I worked for twelve hours a
day.”

“And you did…?”

“Yeah, I… was the cashier, mostly, and the most interesting thing that ever really
happened to me was encounters with annoying customers.”

“All right, all right… And what about your free time?”

“Either chores or studying.”

“Studying?” she intoned inquisitively. “Any specific fields?”

“Just general stuff. Didn’t really go to school, so I had to do it all myself.”

“Uh-huh.” Then, with a cheeky grin, she popped a big question, “What about your sex
life?”

“Yet to be born,” he admitted jokingly.

That made her frown. “You’re kidding?”

“What?” he asked, frowning in turn.

“Nothing, I just… Well, you know, I just thought that… You know what, never mind.”

For some reason, those words vaguely offended him. What, did she think poor people
went at it like animals?

She asked a few other questions, and no matter how hard she dug, all she kept
hitting was stone. His life until now, other than his turbulent childhood, was
fascinatingly uninteresting.

At some point, a small, floating disc hovered over their table, carrying their
food. He was already too overwhelmed to be blown away by this, but the stuff the
object carried most certainly roused his attention.

So this is what she meant… he thought with a shake of his head.

It was seafood. More specifically, it was an oyster found only in a specific

passage realm. One was meant to eat them by poking a sharp needle through the
small, hard-to-find opening, which killed them and caused the shell to open.

He had seen these on a cooking show recently, so he would be spared the

embarrassment of not knowing how to consume them.

There was also a glass of deep brown liquid, likely whiskey, but given the nature
of this place, it could be anything.
Madame was looking at him with a slight glint of glee in her eyes. Then, with a
teasing smile, she grabbed a piece of the pizza in front of her and took a smug
bite. How childish. But at least it fit with the persona she put up for the world
to see.

It was naive, however. She had underestimated the power of spending one’s life
before a broadcasting crystal.

And not only did he know how to eat them, he also had plenty of experience eating
crap far worse than this. So, with little hesitation, he stabbed the shiny needle
into one of the shells—

—and almost dropped it.

A faint pulse of… something, almost akin to a wave of warm liquid, coursed through
his body. It felt delightfully soothing, and he jolted at the unexpected stimulus.

The oyster squirmed, and the shell opened. Putting the weird sensation aside, he
slurped it up. Although the texture was rather unpleasant, it tasted pretty damn
good. A savory creaminess filled his mouth, and he raised his eyebrows in pleasant
surprise.

The disappointment was readily visible in her expression. Doing his best not to
smile in satisfaction, he ignored it, washing his meal with a gulp of the drink.

He just barely prevented himself from spitting it all over the table. This wasn’t
just strong; it was intense. A strong burning sensation spread through his mouth
and throat, and tears rushed to his eyes. It was accompanied by a veritable flood
of essence, drastically boosting the recovery of his minuscule reserves.

“How do you like the garewood spirit?” she asked, amusement back on her face.

“It is… good,” he eked out. And he meant it, at least partially. It took some
getting used to, but even as it was, he could understand why such a fancy place
served the drink. It was far less bitter than the wine he drank the other day at
Sharon’s.

They continued their meal, and he could swear that he felt that same pulse with
every stab. It wasn’t long until a thought crossed his mind.

Don’t tell me… Is that my talent activating? he wondered.

Against… oysters? That confirmed that it didn’t apply to only “enemies,” or, at
least, that the meaning of “enemy” wasn’t as specific as it could have been.

“Is everything all right?” she asked him, noticing that he was a little absent-
minded.

“Oh!” He flinched. “Uh, yeah, I… I apologize.”

They finished eating their meal, and the interview continued. She asked him to
retell the entire story of how he encountered the passage, starting from wherever
he thought it got interesting.

He began the story with how he finished his shift.

Madame listened to the entire thing, maintaining her professional composure and
asking him questions as needed—until he shared that he killed a monster with a can
of beans.

“Pfff!” She snorted. “You did what!? Are you lying to me?”

“I uh—” he tried, but—

“You know what, I don’t even care if you’ve made that up,” she declared. “No
offense, darling, but we’ll have to make some stuff up anyway.”

He continued the retelling, and nothing else piqued her interest, not even the fact
that he manifested the vestige. She asked him what it did, and he rushed to explain
that he traded it for another.

“Hmm… To keep things simple, we’ll just say that you manifested that second one.
And I believe that is all for the time being. Now!” she said as she pulled a paper
from behind her and placed it before him. “I would like you to sign this contract.”

11

IT’S ALL REAL

So… to sum it up: I am not allowed to say anything about what I’ve witnessed on the
day of the break to anyone—even mental health professionals—without Madame’s
permission; I have to roid up for the next six months to look good for the
interview, and finally, I don’t get paid.

Was he willing to sacrifice his body and mind to make progress? He was hesitant,
yes, but not unwilling. That was exactly what he’d been doing for a long time
already. It was only a matter of it being worth doing for what he would gain in
turn. But the problem was that it didn’t seem to be much.

To sign the contract, he would have to sign off on all forms of royalties, and
there was no clause about payment. He had read the contract over several times, and
while he was no lawyer, the contract was simple to interpret, even for him, so
there was little risk of fine print catching him by surprise later. But no money?

“Madame…” he said cautiously.

“What is it, dear?” she asked, twirling the straw in the cocktail glass with one
finger. “Need me to clarify something?”

“No, that’s… Well… I’m sorry, but I—” Asking made him so nervous that he felt like
throwing up, but if there was anything that could get him to overcome his anxiety,
it was money. “Do I really get no compensation?”

She looked thoroughly confused for a moment but quickly regained her composure.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve read the contract and don’t see anything claiming I will receive any money
for participating. Did I, uh… misinterpret a part of it?”

Madame looked as if a small fly was trying to get into her eyes as she blinked the
bewilderment away. “Freddy, darling, what are you talking about? Do you understand
what being a guest on my show entails?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Oh, please, you are clueless. First, let me clarify something for you,” she said,
steeling her gaze. “Getting a spot on my show is not something one can buy, and it
certainly isn’t something you’ll be getting paid to do. This is not a matter of
cost. It is a matter of brand. If you’re concerned about compensation, well, I’ll
give you a temporary place to live while—”

“Sold!” he said and prepared to sign the contract before she changed her mind. That
would be enough for him to stay financially stable for at least another half a
year, and according to the contract, he’d be provided a gym membership and a
personal trainer, not to mention free steroids. If she covered the cost of rent on
top of that, this gave him the perfect opportunity to—

“I’m not finished, dear.”

“What!? Really!?” he asked, stars shining in his eyes.

“Pfft!” She snorted. “While your naivete is adorable, it would do you well to
listen carefully before throwing yourself headfirst into this agreement.”

He winced at that, crumpling a bit into himself as he nodded, waiting for her to
continue.

“I’ll simplify it for you, dear—the cost of living and everything you are expected
to do will be fully covered.”

“Oh my God, that’s like…”

That was a lot of stuff. Maybe he could even push it a bit. Would she get angry if
he ate three meals a day? He at least hoped the temporary place to live would have
a toilet he wouldn’t have to share with anyone.

Madame wasn’t finished yet, however. “Now, let me get to the good part,” she
teased, taking a long sip of her drink while keeping him waiting. “Many people will
know who you are after appearing on my show. Depending on how you handle that
attention, it could be worth more than any sum of money I’d be willing to give.

“I, personally, don’t believe in fate,” she declared. “But that’s just me. Tell me,
dear, what do you think people will assume when they hear your story?”

He paused at that and stared at the table. Although the question seemed leading, he
decided to give her his honest answer rather than try and guess what she was aiming
for. “I think people will assume that I was lucky.”

“You’re almost correct,” she said, smiling at him. “Just one small detail—they
won’t assume that you were lucky…

“They will assume that you are lucky.”

“You will be picked up tomorrow morning,” Madame declared as she dropped him off in
front of his building. “Don’t worry about waking up early. My boys are good at
moving people without waking them up. See you soon, my dear boy. Mwah!” she said,
sending a kiss as she waved, the doors of the carriage closing as it took off into
the air.

Freddy stood there dazed for a long moment as he processed everything. His legs
moved him into the building and up into his apartment while his mind wandered.

He lay down on his bed, thoughts spinning endlessly. This was going to be his last
day at this place. The creepy moving crew would apparently take him even if he
wasn’t awake to consent to it.

It all suddenly felt so alien. On the one hand, this apartment had been his safe
place, an escape from all the harsh realities of the outside. And, on the other
hand, this was where he had been trapped all this time, slaving away for the faint
hope of maybe ascending in his forties or fifties if he were lucky.

He lightly slapped himself as he got up, heading to finish the last few chores he
had before leaving.

A knock sounded on his door, and he got up, paying the delivery girl as he took the
food.

Apparently, his rent would nearly double next month. A fact he had been thoroughly
oblivious to until the moment he faced his landlord to tell him he would be
leaving.

That fucking asshole was probably waiting until the last week to notify the
residents since he knew that most wouldn’t be able to find another place to move to
before having to pay the increased fee. Was that even legal? Maybe, but nobody here
had the money to take legal action against him anyway.

The beer-battered chicken tenders he was eating were far cheaper than the oysters
he had, but they were much more filling and, in his opinion, far more delicious.

A small part of him wanted to say goodbye to Sharon and James, but he felt too
ashamed to do that. Also, what was he supposed to say? With what had happened
between them, it might appear like he was bragging or rubbing it in.

He finished his meal, bathed, and returned to his room, wondering what he would do
for the rest of the day.

“Oh shit!”

What about Bloodshed?

“Oh fuck!”

Wait… No… Calm down.

Thinking rationally, he didn’t have to take the remnant with him. He was confident
it was valuable and that having an obedient remnant wasn’t common, but… that thing
was just too fucking creepy.

Not to mention that he was deathly afraid of getting into trouble for being “in
possession” of something like that. He was concerned that he might have had to
report its existence to someone and that failing to do so could get him into deep
shit, kind of like illegally owning a firearm in the old world.

There had been a time when making dubious decisions for uncertain gains was the
right choice. That time had passed.

But he wouldn’t be doing something as stupid as telling someone about it. It was a
personified ether construct, meaning it would never move from where he told it to
stay. It couldn’t. Ether constructs couldn’t change their minds since they didn’t
have “minds” to change. They had no free will or agency. Hell, they weren’t even
really alive.

Thinking about it further, he quickly realized that where it was wasn’t a half-bad
place to hide it. It was improbable that anyone would discover it in the storage,
and it wouldn’t cause any trouble. He could always use the pretense of “visiting
Sharon and James” to get into the building and retrieve it if needed.

With that, he was finally done with everything he had to do.

He spent the rest of the day playing in the Netherecho, utterly unable to fall
asleep. Between his dogshit sleep schedule and the anxiety keeping him awake, dawn
arrived before sleep did.

A far less luxurious carriage arrived the next day, boarded by the moving crew and
Madame Morleppe’s assistant.

The crew comprised four people dressed in dirty-white uniforms—three people too
many, really, as one of the men simply hopped inside and took out the chest,
carrying it with supernatural strength.

The assistant was a handsome, auburn-haired middle-aged man, or at least he

appeared to be. It was impossible to tell what the actual age of an arch was by
appearance alone. They all boarded the carriage, and another quasi-interview
started.

Matt, the assistant, kept asking random questions about his daily habits, and the
more he asked, the more perplexed he grew. The target of his questions was equally
bewildered by some of them.

How frequently do I have sexual relations!? he recited inwardly. Didn’t Madame tell
him?

Besides, wasn’t habitual sex just something of a myth perpetuated by the film
industry? There was no way that people just randomly had it all the time… Yeah,
that sort of stuff didn’t just happen, no way. At least, not often. Well, maybe
there were some people who did that. He totally wasn’t just coping with the fact
that he had zero action in his life.

It wasn’t long until the carriage stopped, and the people inside left.

They parked in front of a small complex of buildings surrounded by a tidy patch of

forest. The buildings themselves, of which there were twelve, were relatively
ordinary but clean. The walls were mostly either a shade of gray or beige, and
there were no floating parts.

One building, the one placed in the center, was considerably taller than the
others, reaching about twenty-five stories high, while the rest were all anywhere
between ten and fifteen. Now that he got a closer look, this looked quite a bit
like a place he walked by when he went to the bank.

No, wait, this is that place, he suddenly realized. Huh.

He had heard about it from a coworker once. It was a private neighborhood located
in the 24th district.

The 24th district wasn’t on the level of the twenty-fifth, not by a long shot, but
it wasn’t impoverished either—firmly middle class, with some middle-upper class
outliers, such as this neighborhood, was where he would place it.

The assistant took him to one of the shorter buildings. They walked by several
cheerful adolescents on their way inside, and he was struck with a pang of anxiety
upon hearing them giggling and chattering. Loud socialization like that always
stressed him out for some reason.

The hallways were squeaky clean, lined with neatly arranged patterned tiles and
some well-maintained plants.

Rather than walk up the stairs, the assistant took him to… an elevator!? An
elevator! Wow! He wasn’t sure he’d ever get to live in a building with one. Slight
excitement wormed its way into his mind, and he massaged the back of his neck to
relieve some tension.

This was getting him unduly excited, and he forcefully restrained his expectations
since he knew he would be disappointed if he let himself get too hopeful. The
elevator didn’t travel for long, and they exited on the third floor of the
building. They turned right in the hallway, walked past three apartments, then
turned right again, and stopped at the second door to the left.

Freddy felt like there was… an unordinary amount of space between the doors. Maybe
there were more apartments, but their entrances were from the other side or
something?

The assistant pulled out a key and opened the lock.

As the door pushed open, he swallowed. “Ah, do you have something to pick up, sir?”
he asked. That made sense. This was the assistant’s apartment, and he was likely
here to get something.

“Excuse me?” Matt said as he turned around and handed him the keys. “No, we already
have everything we need. Now come, I will give you a brief tour of your residence.”

His heart pounded like a rabid dog trying to escape a cage. It did not get any
calmer when they walked inside.

A short, L-shaped hallway branched into a massive bedroom, a living room so big
that he felt whatever the opposite of claustrophobic was, and even an entire,
spacious kitchen. Every room had large windows along the walls, and judging by what
he had seen from the outside when they arrived, they only let light through one
way.
There wasn’t a single toilet, though.

Because there were three! Three toilets! In one apartment!?

One was in the living room, past a small tucked-in corner; the second was in the
hallway; and the third was in his room.

For a brief moment, he got paranoid that there were hidden cameras somewhere and
that Madame was messing with him. That was quickly dispelled, however, since he
knew damn well that she wasn’t the type to do that. Or, at least, he desperately
hoped.

The fridge was filled to the brim with premade dishes best served cold.

“Since you’ve said you do not know how to cook, we’ve filled your fridge with
premade food. If you wish, though, you can always order a meal through the tablet
here,” he said as he pointed at a fully functional, massive tablet placed right
next to the fridge. “There is a menu in the drawer right next to the fridge, but it
might take as long as twenty minutes for your food to arrive, though, so keep that
in mind. Also, don’t worry about the food going bad. There are preservation
inscriptions in there, and if you ever express an interest in cooking, just let us
know, and we’ll supply you with fresh ingredients.”

He had barely comprehended any of what he had just heard. His brain was still stuck
on the first sentence. This man did, indeed, ask him whether he knew how to cook.
Like, ten minutes ago. And in that short time, they, whoever they were, managed to
stock the fridge with the appropriate food.

The tour didn’t get any less insane after that. Apparently, that suspicious black
rectangle in the living room was actually a damn BC. His own personal BC that he
could watch whatever he pleased on. There was also a surround sound system, one
that stretched out throughout the entire apartment.

“You do not need to worry about the noise, Mr. Stern,” the assistant said. “The
apartment is fully sound-isolated.” He winked at him. “Keep that in mind.”

He was too bewildered to comprehend what the man meant by that.

The toilets were all stocked with both a shower and a bath. The bedroom had a
massive bed in it, as well as a gigantic wardrobe of clothes fit for his build. Not
only that, but they came in several sizes, likely to account for his possible
muscle growth, with even a section of female clothing in numerous sizes, the
purpose of which was unknown to him.

It was then that it struck him. “Ah,” he yelped, the tiniest of hints of
disappointment in his voice. “When do I meet my roommates?” he asked the assistant.

“Your roommates, sir?” the man asked. “You do not have any. Unless you express a
desire to have someone move in with you.”

So… he was alone here? Now that he thought of it, there was only one room. What the
hell were the women’s clothes for, then?

The moving crew brought the chest in, and they asked him where he wanted the items
to go.

Most of it was placed in a small storage room in his bedroom, except for a few
books on a shelf in the living room.
And with that, the tour was over.

“Feel free to settle for the next few days,” the assistant said. “We’ll see each
other again Wednesday at noon, three days from now. Until then, I highly recommend
you get acquainted with the neighborhood.”

The man handed him a small card. “You can use this to pay for any goods or services
here, but keep in mind that it is limited to a budget of a thousand dollars a day.
Naturally, anything you don’t spend will accumulate. Now, if you have no further
questions, I’ll be on my way.”

He merely nodded absent-mindedly, brain failing miserably to catch up with

everything that had happened. The assistant left, leaving him alone. He turned
around, apprehensively eyeing the hallway. This just didn’t feel real. From one
room to another, he bounced around for almost an hour, too scared to touch anything
out of fear of it vanishing before his eyes.

Eventually, he settled for sitting on the bed. The neatly arranged, high-quality
sheets and blanket felt too sacred for him to disturb, so he just sat there in the
corner, heart beating out of his chest.

As he calmed down, he eventually braved the fall as he lay in the very corner of
the gigantic bed.

It was about 3 p.m., according to the massive clock on the wall. Nobody would judge
him for taking a nap, right?

Eventually, his accumulated fatigue won out, and he fell asleep.

When he woke up, he felt incredible. That had been some of the best sleep he had
ever had. Some of the longest, too, since it was 7 a.m. the day after. And now that
he had woken up, he was finally confident.

It’s all real.

So he got up and showered. The water there wasn’t just pretending to be hot, and he
turned it up so high that it almost burned him. He stepped into the wardrobe.
There, fingers ran through the silky, smooth material of a blindingly white shirt
as he examined it. Instead, he picked a blue hoodie and torn jeans so soft that it
was hard to believe they were made from denim.

After he changed, he ate a cold chicken salad from the fridge. It was goddamn
delicious.

He moved to the living room and turned on the BC, but he couldn’t sit for long. He
took a piss in the toilet, choosing the closest one. He went to his bedroom, then
the wardrobe, then the bathroom, then the living room, kitchen, bedroom, kitchen,
bedroom, wardrobe—

What did that man say again?

“The apartment is fully sound-isolated, right?” he said out loud as he started

running. Then he started cackling. Then he started screaming.

“Holy fucking shit!” he yelled, his eyes shining with glee. “It’s all real! Fuck
yeah, baby! Wooooooooo!”

He swapped the channel on the BC until he found a music channel, and he turned it
up a bit—not too much since he wasn’t confident that the sound isolation was
perfect. The next twenty minutes were spent with him jumping around like an excited
kid.

And just like an energetic toddler, he was quickly worn out. So he sat on the
couch, pop music still loudly blaring in the background. “It’s all real.” And this
time, it was followed by tears. “Oh… fuck, it’s all real, man.”

But it wasn’t free. While the contract put it very nicely, it didn’t change the
fact that he would be put on “chemical assistance” to achieve the look he needed
for the interview.

He was no endocrinologist, but he knew damn well that steroids could mess him up.
Still, weirdly, he almost preferred that. There needed to be some catch, some damn
evidence that this wasn’t simply too good to be true.

Besides, they would probably use some fancy concoction with minimal side effects.
He could live with that. After crying his damn heart out and rubbing his thighs so
much that his palms turned red, he finally relaxed.

He went to the toilet to wash his face and then visited the wardrobe. He planned to
head outside a bit, and while his current clothes were much nicer than anything he
had worn, they were just a tad too casual for him.

Dressed in a loose, long-sleeved black T-shirt, plain, untorn blue jeans, and some
cool-ass sneakers, he headed to the door. Every step felt heavier than the last,
and he hesitated to open it.

The doorknob might as well have been glowing red-hot in his eyes, and it didn’t
take long for him to figure out why. He was scared shitless of going outside alone,
but he forced himself to grab it.

While he knew damn well that he wouldn’t have the privilege of shutting himself in,
using that as an excuse to stay inside while he could, wasn’t valid. He had been
granted an opportunity. If he failed to put his best foot forward, then the
sacrifices he was willing to make wouldn’t be ones of resolve but of ignorance of
the consequences.

The doorknob turned, and the door was pulled open.

It was finally time for him to go outside.

Mark carried a gigantic bag as he exited the elevator and stepped onto the third
floor. While he could have hired someone to bring it over, the discipline beaten
into him in the academy wouldn’t go away so easily.

He turned right twice and approached the door to his apartment—or rather, to his
family’s old apartment. This small neighborhood in the 24th district was where his
family used to live, and it was the place where he decided to spend, at the very
least, a part of his year off.

Reliving the past to ground himself was one of the best ways he could come to terms
with all that’s happened. It would give him a perspective on how far he’d come.

The doors of the neighboring apartment to the right opened, and a young man stepped
out. As far as he remembered, that place used to be empty, so this was someone new.

He seemed… weak. Incredibly so. After being surrounded by monsters for so long, he
had forgotten what regular people looked like.

That wasn’t fair, though. Although he felt the incredibly faint presence of a one-
star archhuman, judging by his build and body language, this person was clearly a
civilian.

He wasn’t the type to be overtly judgmental. Also, this was his first neighbor. It
was only a matter of time until they got acquainted, and the last thing he wanted
to do was leave the wrong first impression.

So he straightened his back, took a deep breath, put on his most amicable smile,
and as the man walked toward him, he greeted him. “Howdy, neighbor! I’m Mark
Afronte! I just moved in here, and I sincerely hope we can get along,” he chirped,
holding a hand forward.

“Ah! Yeah, uh, hi,” the man responded as he awkwardly grasped Mark’s hand, grabbing
only two fingers that he shook limply. Then he just nodded and hurriedly walked
away at a half-jog. He didn’t even introduce himself.

Mark scratched the back of his head. “Boy, that was awkward.”

Did he come on too strongly? Well, he did his part, he supposed.

He dragged the massive bag into his apartment and jumped on the bed. It was so
nostalgic. A sheet of paper rustled in his pocket, and he pulled it out.

It was the contract for the job he had accepted. The money was all right, but it
wasn’t why he took it. Being jobless was an excellent way to spiral into bad habits
and lose discipline, so he wanted to have at least something to do.

Honestly, he was incredibly overqualified for this position. He was to be a

personal trainer for some kid. It came with a free gym membership, and the work
hours would be very flexible, not to mention rather undemanding.

The real reason he unhesitatingly accepted the job was because he would be granted
a special privilege. There were no advanced training facilities in this
neighborhood—except the private one under the gym, which he would be given access
to as an employee.

The owner wasn’t selling memberships for it, as it was part of some larger
organization’s operations, so this was the only way to get access.

Given that he would be spending half his day in the gym anyway and that he really
needed a special training facility, he couldn’t have possibly asked for a better
position.

“Well then,” he said as he put the paper away, “I guess I should unpack my things.”

It… Itches.
Bloodshed had spent so long trapped in this confined space, and after some time, it
grew capable of something incredible.

It could sense precisely where Master was. His existence was like a shining beacon
to Bloodshed, and it patiently waited for the mighty lord to rise and head for his
conquest. But he didn’t move. For so long, he stayed in one place, likely gathering
his strength and concocting his plans.

Good. The rivers would run red, and the oceans would drown in blood. All would be—

Suddenly, something stepped into the building. It was a being of a sinister nature,
a creature that spilled blood with every step it took. And it met with Master.

They left, both stepping outside and going far away. But it was all right, since
soon after, they returned. But then Master went away again, this time even further
away. And he wasn’t coming back.

Had he abandoned it? No, replaced it?

If that was his will, that would be its fate.

Or maybe he’d simply forgotten it? That could be possible. Master lived for greater
things than a mere servant like Bloodshed, and it wouldn’t be a reach for him to
lose track of everything he prepared.

Then, as Master’s diligent servant, it only had one choice.

Bloodshed phased through the box and walked over to the door. It placed a bony hand
on it, and within moments, it was phasing through.

“Wait for me, Master,” it said. “I am coming.”

12

HUMBLE BEGINNINGS

Although he had never been in a small community like this before, Freddy decided
that he hated all of them with a burning passion.

“Hey, I’ve never seen you around. Where are you from? Just visiting, or?”

“Are you…? No, wait, I don’t think I’ve seen you before!”

“Did you just move in?”

One person after another greeted him and tried to make small talk—realizing without
fail that he was an outsider.

There were only maybe around a few thousand people here, and they seemed rather
interconnected. It wasn’t like he was introverted, strictly speaking. However, he
had actively avoided people for the longest time. At the bottom of society, there
was no such thing as good company. Even good people would become liabilities when
they got themselves into trouble.

As a consequence of his avoidance of human interaction, his social skills were

lacking, to say the least.

He toured the neighborhood, his practice showing as he grew more proficient at

answering the greetings, and it wasn’t long until he ran out of places to discover.

There were a few cafes and restaurants, some miscellaneous offices, and a rather
big gym in one of the smaller buildings. He was sure there was more to be seen
inside these places, but going in was…

The thing was, right, every public space gave off a… kind of intimate feeling. The
people inside moved chairs and tables around as they pleased, and telling who was
hanging out with whom was a line that got so blurred that it might as well just be
a private party. The idea of walking in on that was awkward.

He had business elsewhere anyway, even though it was even less appealing—he was
going to the gym.

It was a three-story high section of a building painted in black and gold, with the
words Kargon Gym plastered right above the entrance, which was about as
intimidating as a damn passage.

But somehow, through whatever delirium was carrying him, he managed to walk through
the door. The loud groaning and steel colliding made his heartbeat immediately
speed up. The space in the gym was expansive, and quite a few people, more than he
had expected, were already working out.

Now, he didn’t have a frame of reference for either how much those weights weighed
or how much a human was supposed to be able to lift—but holy fuck.

Some man was in the middle of benching a metal pole with dozens of fat weights on
both sides, and when the man finished the last lift and placed the bar on the
holders, the ground freakin’ vibrated.

He briefly contemplated leaving until he was confronted by a tall man sporting a

buzzcut and wearing gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt. “Hey there, pal, I don’t
think I’ve seen you around before.”

After flinching at the unexpected interaction, he chuckled a bit. “I’ve heard that
probably twenty times this morning.”

“New to the community, I see?” the man asked with a chuckle. “So, you here to get a
membership or just a tour?”

“No, I, uhm… I think I have a membership?” he said half-inquisitively. “Or, at

least, I hope I get one.”

“What’s your name?” the man asked him.

“Uh… Freddy. Freddy Stern.”

“Ohhh!” The man’s face lit up in recognition as he leaned forward to give him a
handshake. “You’re Madame’s guest!”

That got a few people to turn around. He winced.

“Yeah, you’re right,” the coach confirmed. “You do have a membership. And you—” the
man started and then paused as he turned to face the entrance. He clapped his hands
once and pointed a finger at someone who had just walked inside. “You also have a
personal trainer.”

He turned around and came face to face with his first neighbor—the person he had
thoroughly embarrassed himself in front of earlier that morning.

“Mark,” the coach called. “Come here! This fella is your client!”

The ridiculously buff young man walked forward and shook his hand, his skin rough
and his fingers carrying the power of a metal vice. “Nice to meet you! I believe
you already know my name,” he said somewhat teasingly.

This time, he firmly grabbed his hand and even made eye contact. He had gotten
enough practice for a lifetime in the past few hours. “You, you, you,” he said,
wagging his finger at the blond man. “I’m not a morning person, man. You just
caught me off-guard. I’m Freddy Stern, by the way. Nice to meet you.” Then, with an
awkward chuckle, he added. “Also… Uh,” he stalled with a chuckle. “I don’t remember
a word of what you said this morning.”

“Yeah, you did look like you weren’t listening,” the cheerful man teased with a
cheeky grin. “I’m Mark Afronte. Nice to meet you, Freddy.”

“Well then,” the trainer interrupted, hurriedly giving him another handshake.
“Also, I’m Steve. Nice to meet you, too. Uhm… So,” he said as he pointed at Mark,
“you don’t start work until Wednesday, so, like…”—he waved his hands around until
he finally remembered what he was trying to say—“our boy here came to get a tour of
the place, and you aren’t obliged to do it or anything since you haven’t started
yet, but I think it would be nice. Up to you.”

“Absolutely no problem,” Mark confirmed and turned to face him. “But he needs some
clothes.”

“Yeah, yeah, uh, just go back to the changing room. There’s plenty of stuff there,
all clean.”

“Gotcha,” Mark said, fist-bumping Steve as he walked to the locker room.

He briefly glanced at the gym employee and followed after his new trainer. The
locker room had an entire damn wall of clothing, footwear included, all in every
color and size.

He picked a plain white T-shirt, blue shorts, and white running shoes. It all felt
pleasant as hell to the touch, and frankly, it allowed the air to flow through just
a bit too easily. It was hard to believe that he was even wearing clothes.

Once his trainer started changing, he almost dislocated his jaw in awe. This man
was ridiculously shredded. His muscles looked like they had muscles, and the man
was so vascular that looking at his veins made him feel queasy. Both of those
details were quickly pushed aside, however, when he noticed the numerous faint
scars lining the man’s skin.
“So,” his trainer said as he finished dressing in an entirely black set of clothes.
“How old are you, Freddy?”

“Me?” he asked, tearing his gaze away from the grisly marks. “Uhm, I’m twenty-one.
What about you?”

“You’re kidding?” he asked while adjusting his shorts. “Wow, we’re the same age!”

“We are!?” he asked in turn, utterly bewildered.

“Yeah, I thought you were a bit older.”

“Same.”

A presumption they had likely made for entirely different reasons.

His trainer grabbed two towels off a pile and handed him one as they left the
locker room. They exchanged a few basic questions; the more they asked, the weirder
the atmosphere got between them.

From his perspective, this man was absurdly high-class—to the point where it made
no sense. Not only was the man a resident of the 25th district, but he was also a
highly qualified combat-oriented archhuman with an academy diploma.

That castle Freddy saw on his way to work every day? That was where this guy went
to fucking school!

On the other hand, from this man’s point of view, he must have appeared
ridiculously low-class. As the atmosphere got too awkward to bear, they both
reached a tacit agreement to shut up and stop asking things. Everyone had their
story.

Although a good part of Freddy’s was locked behind a non-disclosure agreement.

Their tour started on the first floor. It was where all the heavy weight-lifting
contraptions were, and Mark walked through it, pointing at and naming random
objects.

He did not understand what any of this was, but if he stopped to ask for every
individual thing, they’d spend the entire day here.

The second floor was filled with things to be punched and kicked, ranging from
simple punching bags to more complex dummies with either moving parts or solid but
specific poses. There were also some ropes hanging off the tall ceiling for
whatever reason.

Finally, the third floor had a large area that appeared to be for either stretching
or Pilates or something, as well as a wall lined with treadmills. A part was walled
off, and walking through the door revealed a massive swimming pool.

After giving him a brief overview of where things were, Mark took him to a corner
of the third floor. A few women were stretching right next to them, and they eyed
the admittedly beautiful trainer as he explained a few things.

“So, what’s your history with sports and physical activity?” Mark interrogated
casually.

“Uhm… I don’t really have one,” he answered honestly.

“Don’t misunderstand me; this doesn’t just apply to actively training sports but
also anything casual, like playing basketball with the neighborhood kids, home
workouts, that sort of stuff.”

“Uh… Yeah,” he said, briefly glancing at the floor. “Does uh… Does moving boxes
around count?”

“Depends,” the instructor stated as he shifted his posture and licked his lips.
“Were those boxes heavy?”

“Not really,” he said. “I couldn’t lift any of the heavy stuff, so I was tasked
with carrying boxes of, like… plastic cups or bags of chips.”

“Okay,” Mark said as he scratched his head. “So, it’s fair to assume you don’t know
anything, then?”

“Yup.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mark said reassuringly, patting him on the shoulder.
“Everyone starts somewhere. So then, let’s get started! Every good training session
begins with a proper warm-up.”

The next thirty minutes were spent with Mark repeatedly explaining how to do basic
stretching and warm-up exercises.

It wasn’t complicated, but his coordination was so bad that he failed to do even
that much.

Where he just had to spin his hands around to warm up his shoulders, he fumbled,
and where he had to warm up his hips, he kept lagging and failing to maintain
momentum in the same direction. During jumping jacks, he almost tripped and fell
over literally nothing.

It was so bad that one of the nearby girls asked her friend whether she thought he
had a disability or something. He couldn’t even get mad at that, since he was
beginning to ask himself the same thing.

Next up was a short run on a treadmill. Or rather, what was supposed to be a short
run. The experience of the ground vanishing below his feet while the world stayed
where it was made him severely nauseous, and it took quite a bit of holding the
rail and walking to get accustomed to the sensation.

What followed after getting used to it was a stiff run that gave him a neckache
since he was absolutely focused on not tripping. Although his trainer reassured him
it would be fine, he didn’t want to get crushed beneath the moving treadmill.

The rest of the introductory training session wasn’t much better.

They skipped the second floor altogether and went straight for the weights. The
trainer said something about “splits.” Because he was a beginner, he would have to
“split” his muscles into smaller groups and work on those one at a time.

Today, they would be training the chest and triceps. This was where his absolute
lack of knowledge became a truly fearsome obstacle.

When told to bring the barbell over, he looked around awkwardly, looking for
anything that resembled a bell. Learning that those metal poles were called
barbells was pretty damn embarrassing. Then, he couldn’t lift the barbell in a
bench press, not even by itself.
Apparently, he was so weak that it was genuinely concerning. After learning what
kind of diet he had been living on, Mark looked worried but suddenly less surprised
about his lack of muscle mass and strength. Although he was trying to hide it, the
man appeared visibly perturbed by his explanation of how he lived.

As for the weights, he had to start with small dumbbells instead.

His trainer explained how to exercise his chest with the dumbbells, and after
confirming that he was doing it at least somewhat correctly, and with three-
kilogram dumbbells at that, he concluded that it was safe enough to let him work on
that a bit while he paid a visit to the toilet.

He was instructed to do three sets of twelve reps with two-minute breaks between.

So then he, who had no damn idea which one was which, proceeded to do twelve sets
of three reps. On his third set, he wondered why this was so easy, and that was
right about when his trainer returned.

“Sorry, it took me a while. All the toilets were occupied. How far along are you?”

“I just finished my third rep,” he informed the man innocently.

“Oh, so you’re done?”

“No, I have nine left…?” he answered, his words abruptly turning into a question at
the end.

“What?”

“What?” he asked in turn.

His trainer frowned. “You have nine what?”

“Reps left?”

“Reps? What? You mean sets?”

“Huh?”

“What are you…?” the trainer’s eyes shifted, seemingly looking for a sign from a
benevolent god willing to clear things up. “Just show me what you were doing.”

Then, he proceeded to do his three-rep set, and Mark facepalmed so hard that Freddy
nearly dropped the dumbbells in fright.

“Oh, fuck me, dude!” his trainer roared with laughter. “I’m so sorry for laughing,
but that’s just… Oh, man. I’m gonna have to adjust my approach to teaching you.”

Freddy returned to his apartment, locking the door behind him as he entered.
Physically, he felt slightly sore but didn’t feel that tired overall. Mentally, on
the other hand, he was fucking exhausted.

His trainer was extraordinarily patient and understanding. But that didn’t stop him
from feeling embarrassed. There was so much that he hadn’t known that he wouldn’t
know about working out.

Finally back in his apartment, he felt lost about what to do, so he just turned on
the BC and sat on the couch. He turned it off not long after, however. It wasn’t
boring or anything, just…

It kind of reminded him of work. He couldn’t focus on what he was watching because
he subconsciously expected someone to interrupt him. And, well, was this really
what he wanted to be doing?

Despite the delays and lessons, the training session hadn’t been long. Frankly, it
wouldn’t have lasted forty minutes if he wasn’t such a doofus. Besides the
occasional promised meetings where he would practice for the interview, that was
everything he was obligated to do.

Did that mean he would just allow himself to waste the rest of the time?

For the next six months, all of his expenses would be covered. On top of that, he
had a thousand dollars a day to spend on whatever the hell he wanted. He hadn’t
thought about it much since his fragile mind could barely comprehend it, but that
meant he would have over $180,000 to spend.

Apparently, an amount was so trivial to Madame that she didn’t consider it payment.

To him, though?

This was his opportunity to become a proper arch.

After eating a quick meal, he rushed outside. It was only now that he realized that
there were no stores here. After briefly asking around, he was informed that a big
part of one of the buildings, or rather, the few floors at the top, was practically
just a mall.

It wasn’t something that needed to be advertised to such a small community, so

there was no outward indication of this.

He entered the building, located the elevator, or rather, the section with fifteen
elevators, entered one, and selected the eleventh floor. The building was fourteen
stories high, but the elevator went up only eleven. The button leading to the top
floor was dyed gold, indicating that that part of the building wasn’t ordinary.

“Oh my God.”

With how often he ran into space dilation, he would think everyone and their
grandma used it. The mall wasn’t too generous with it, but they expanded the
available space by at least another 30 percent.

The white marble flooring and walls felt like they stretched in every direction,
and the glass ceiling scattered light all over. Barely suspended bridges connected
different mall sections over the atrium, and he was surprised at how many different
stores there were. The vast majority seemed to be fashion brands, but some shops
were dealing in combat equipment and other professional tools.

It didn’t take him long to locate what he was looking for. There was a library just
to the left of where he was, and he promptly headed toward it.

The clerk asked him what he wanted, and he informed the man that he was looking for
guides to water arts or anything of the sort.
There was a lot of material, and the man suggested he buy a standard guide for
beginners. The perfect place to start, he thought—until the cashier informed him
that it cost nine-hundred and thirty-seven dollars.

Lord almighty, what is this book made of? he pondered internally.

Although his poverty instincts did their best to dissuade him from buying it, he
knew damn well that he would have to get used to pricing like this sooner or later.

The scan of the card took a piece of his soul with it, and he walked out holding
the single most expensive object he had ever purchased.

Once he returned to the apartment, he cracked it open and quickly learned why it
cost so much. Would he say that the price was entirely justified?

Absolutely yes.

Even putting the animated, moving drawings visualizing what the text was saying and
the shimmering runes that helped him feel a particular flow of essence aside, the
book held broad sections on just about every class of water art.

Offensive, defensive, movement, martial arts, short-range, long-range, hell, even

how to summon water elementals—even though that was a pipe dream without a
designated talent.

The only thing it was missing was a direct ether imprint like those that the
scrolls he had used had. They imbued his soul directly with an ether shell, while
this book merely taught him how to develop one himself.

That was still precious information, and with how well-telegraphed it was, he
didn’t doubt that he had just made one of the best purchases of his life.

Unless he had gotten scammed like the ignoramus he was. But he doubted that. If
anything, he felt this was too cheap for what it provided him with, even with his
instincts trying to convince him otherwise.

While he wanted to spend today planning out his schedule, it wasn’t long until the
book consumed him, and one shiny page after another flipped.

Two hundred years ago, something weird happened on an otherwise unassuming day. The
laws of physics suddenly changed—the world expanded in every direction, the
distance between locations growing ten times what it used to be.

Gravity no longer worked by the same principles, nor did leverage and pressure.
Heat and cold went from abstract concepts that were only valid from the human
perspective to diametric properties of matter. Electricity was still real, but it
no longer followed the principles of the old, and it was debatable whether
electrons even existed anymore.

Space became malleable. Light was split into information that traveled infinitely
fast but carried no energy and destructive particles that could travel so slowly
that relatively ordinary humans could perceive them moving. Darkness became more
than just the absence of light.

Quantum mechanics who? General relativity what? Everything mankind knew of reality
shattered in an instant. As far as old world archs, some of whom lived to this very
day, claimed, the way things felt in everyday life remained precisely the same. But
almost none of the old-world technology was usable.

Yet, the most significant change of all was the appearance of ether.

While reading through his book, Freddy found himself… not disappointed, per se, but
more… No, he was pretty damn disappointed.

Half the book was just, Here is a cool idea… but wait, it’s actually stupid as
fuck, and we included it here so that we could preemptively crush your dreams
before you waste your time trying to make it work.

What’s that, a water blade!? Water shaped into a sword can’t cut shit, dumbass!

Oh my God, a water bullet? You’re an idiot for even entertaining the idea.

A shield of water, you say? What are you defending yourself from, a warm gust of
wind?

However, it didn’t dismiss any idea as objectively bad, which made sense. It simply
gave a run-down of what to expect and, if one wanted to, how to make it work.
Usually, by the time one made one of these ideas work, they could have done far
more with an ability that suited the water affinity, but that didn’t mean that the
less appropriate ones were always the wrong choice.

After all, talents could easily make a stupid idea brilliant.

Still, that didn’t change the fact that water had clearly defined strengths and
weaknesses. Water spells doing damage firmly belonged on the side of its
shortcomings, with a few notable exceptions, like Pressure Jet or Dehydration.

Water affinity thrived at two things: support and martial arts—

A strange ringing sound echoed around him, and his attention was violently ripped
away from the book. His heart raged in his chest, and he sweated profusely. It
wasn’t long until the ringing sounded again.

“Wait, is that a doorbell?”

He had never lived in a place with one, so it surprised him. Although, now that he
knew what it was, it didn’t make his anxiety magically vanish.

The clock showed that it was almost 6 p.m., and it wasn’t like he had been
expecting guests.

The bell rang again, and he realized he had no choice but to answer the door.

Could it be the assistant?

For a second, that made him panic. What if his visit to the gym today or the
preemptive meeting with the trainer violated the contract somehow? No matter how he
thought of it, neither should be a problem.

Oh fuck, what if I wasn’t allowed to spend money with the card yet?

Had he misheard the man? Had he been too dazed to hear that he could only use it
after Wednesday? What if he—
His thoughts were interrupted by yet another ring, and he knew that, no matter what
or who it was, it was time to get up and open the door.

One step after another felt like they were dragging him to an executioner, and with
great reluctance, he opened the door—only to spot his trainer, Mark, in the middle
of turning around and leaving.

“Oh,” the young man said. “I thought you weren’t home, so I—” he started but
stopped as he instead bowed. “I am here to apologize for my behavior today.”

“What behavior?” he asked, relieved that it hadn’t been trouble but also confused.

“I shouldn’t have laughed at you,” the man said simply, clearly ashamed.

“Oh, that?” he asked, chuckling slightly. “Honestly, man, that was pretty funny,
even in my—”

“No, I really, really shouldn’t have laughed at you,” he insisted as he got up from
his bow. “Technically speaking, I haven’t started work yet, but ridiculing you in
any way is a pretty clear violation of my employment contract.”

“Oh… that’s what you mean.”

“Yeah. Uhm… That was pretty inexcusable, not to mention highly unprofessional, and
if it made you uncomfortable, you should request that I be replaced with someone
more qualified.”

“Well… shit, man, you’re putting me on the spot here, uhm,” he said, scratching the
back of his head. “I really don’t mind.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, deflating a bit.

“I mean, as you said, you aren’t working yet, so technically, I’ve forced you into
unpaid overtime, not to mention disturbed your gym schedule. I think that makes us
even.”

The man forced a laugh out, but his smile looked forced. “Still. There is no need
to be considerate of me. Being comfortable, especially when getting started, is
essential for falling in love with the process and building motivation. Think about
it and speak to Matt Canstone about this,” he suggested. “Have a good evening, and
I’ll see you around.” He turned around and walked away, but before he could get
far, Freddy walked over and grabbed him by the arm.

He didn’t know why he’d done that, but his mouth opened before he could even begin
questioning his actions. “Do you want to have dinner with me?”

“Uhm… excuse me, what?”

“No, I—” Freddy pulled his arm back. “Not like a date or anything, God, I’m—I don’t
swing that way,” he rushed to explain. “It’s just that, you know, we’re neighbors,
and I thought it would be uhm… I thought it would be cool.”

The man paused for a moment, then snorted out a small laugh as he scratched the
back of his head. “Yeah, all right, that sounds great.”

It was a small gesture. It was no big deal.

But to him, who hadn’t tried making friends in far too long, this seemed like an
excellent opportunity to start.
13

A FORMAL INTRODUCTION

This was the first time that Freddy got to experience the food service in this
building. As nothing but a brown stain remained on the plate where, minutes ago, a
glorious steak had been, he felt incredibly salty that this event was hampered by
the awkward atmosphere.

Mark had likely only agreed to be polite and had shown little enthusiasm at being
there. Any attempt to start a conversation was about as effective as throwing an
egg would be at shattering a concrete wall.

Eventually, the man decided that he had waited long enough that leaving wouldn’t
appear rude. “Thank you for the meal, Mr. Stern,” Mark said, getting up from his
seat. “I hope to see you around.”

But not at work, Freddy added inwardly.

Before the mountain of muscle could leave, he asked him one final question. “Why…
Why did you accept the job?”

“Hmm?” Mark turned around.

“It’s just that, you know… judging by what you said, I assume you’re quite well
off,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not prying or—”

“It’s all right,” he said. “It isn’t some big secret. The gym owner owns a private
training facility here. Unfortunately, he isn’t selling access to it, but he does
allow his employees entry.”

“That sounds like a pretty good deal,” he commented, nodding as if very impressed.
“Honestly, if I were you, I’d do anything to keep the job.”

“I told you already, my actions violate the—”

“But they don’t,” he said, interrupting the man. “You weren’t on the job yet.
Besides, it isn’t like you’re getting fired. You’re voluntarily quitting.”

Something flashed through the blond man’s expression, and he responded with a
slightly grimmer tone. “That is just a technicality. It’s merely an excuse that
doesn’t change what I’ve done.”

“But I’ve already forgiven you,” he shot back. “And besides, it wasn’t like it ever
bothered me.”

“It was a major mistake.”

“But does that mean your only option is to quit?”

“With all due respect, Mr. Stern,” Mark said, turning to face him and frowning,
“why are you so insistent?”

That question made him wince, but before he could respond, the young man continued.
“Don’t worry, you won’t be left without a trainer. I’m sure they’ll find someone to
replace me soon enough. Have a good night,” the man offered as he again turned
around and started walking away.

He hesitated for a long while as he watched the man walk away. Just as Mark was
about to leave the kitchen and enter the living room, Freddy’s mouth opened. “Is
this because of my social status?”

Mark paused, “No, that’s not the case, I…”

“Are you sure?” he asked, staring the man down for any signs of betraying the
truth.

The man merely stayed quiet at that, his eyes shifting away slightly.

Freddy felt a pang of pain shoot through his chest. “I knew it,” he whispered.

“No, I—” the man suddenly yelled. “I swear to God that has nothing to do with it!”

“Then why?”

Mark’s eyes lowered to the ground as his jaw tightened. “I really don’t care about
that one bit. But I can’t give you a satisfying answer since it’s a private topic
that, no offense, I have no interest in sharing with a stranger.”

He stayed quiet for a long moment and then nodded. “Okay, I respect that. But,” he
said, staring the taller man in the eye. “Let me just ask you one more thing. If
you’re replaced, what are the odds that I will get someone who does care about my
background?”

That made the man wince. “I don’t know, but…”

“But they’re not zero, are they?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “If you
want to quit, I can’t stop you, but I will be honest. I am…” The words felt like a
clump of nails climbing up his throat. “I am scared shitless of this whole thing,
and… for whatever it might be worth to you, I felt lucky to get you as my trainer.”

“And why is that?”

“You didn’t shout at me a single time,” he said, blinking away hints of agony
appearing at the corners of his eyes. “You didn’t hit me. You didn’t threaten me.
You didn’t demean me. Not a single time that we’ve interacted did you treat me like
I was less human than you are.”

The two men stared at each other for a few long moments. A flash of sympathy warred
with the man’s reluctance, and then, finally, Mark sighed. “All right,” he returned
and offered him a reluctant handshake. “I guess I can stick around a while longer.”

An embarrassed smile flashed across Freddy’s face. “And I’d be glad to have you.”

“To be honest, I also felt lucky to get you as my client,” the man said, smiling
awkwardly.
“And why is that?”

“Because you aren’t a spoiled brat, Mr. Stern.”

He laughed slyly. “Please just call me Freddy, dude.”

“All right. Call me Mark, too,” he permitted, smiling. “But I will add that I still
feel guilty about my actions today. Don’t hesitate to ask if you need help with
anything.”

“I might just take you up on that offer.”

Mark got ready to leave again, but then he paused. “Oh, by the way, do you wish to
do another session tomorrow, or do you want to wait until the day after, when we
officially start?”

He thought about that for a bit, but he didn’t take long to decide. “I’d love to
continue tomorrow.”

“All right then! See you tomorrow at eight.”

“Eight?” he asked. “Isn’t that a bit late?”

“Hmm? Oh, I was trying to be considerate, but if you want, we can move it back to
seven.”

“Yeah, that’s a bit better, I guess,” he muttered, still slightly confused.

“Great! I’ll see you in the morning!” Mark said, patting him on the shoulder, but
he paused as he noticed the expression on Freddy’s face. “Is something wrong?”

“Ah… No… Hahaha… Everything is A-okay,” he said, too embarrassed to go back on what
he said.

He had assumed that it was eight in the evening, but he gritted his teeth and
accepted it.

The man was already doing him a major solid by sticking around. If he wanted to
work out in the morning, then by whatever gods might be out there, Freddy would
show up in the morning.

They shook hands and parted ways.

His sleep schedule had been atrocious for a while already, and coupled with all he
had done today, he felt positively exhausted. It was 7 p.m., and he didn’t want to
mess up his sleep schedule further by going to sleep too early, so he waited for
the next two hours, absent-mindedly flipping the pages of the water arts guide,
really just admiring the incredible illustrations, until the clock hit 9 p.m. and
he went to sleep.

Except for the fact that he forgot to turn on the alarm and showed up thirty
minutes late, the second day went by much more smoothly than the first.

This was in no small part because of Mark’s new approach.

If he was being entirely honest, his trainer’s explanations bordered on
condescending as he presumed that Freddy knew literally nothing, even some things
that were common sense.

But hey, it was all justified because Mark was right on the money more often than
he would like to admit.

They did back exercises today, with Mark very gently easing him into some
deadlifting. As in, he brought a broom from storage to use instead of a metal
barbell. They also did some rows and hyperextensions, with the man making sure he
was fully in the loop before allowing him to start.

At one point, a rude guy walked past them, glanced at the minuscule weight he was
lifting, and sneered at him.

Mark was about to call out to the man, likely to criticize him, but then Freddy
loudly groaned, “Ugh, this cancer treatment is killing me, dude.”

The man who had mocked him just a moment ago suddenly froze, and Mark smiled
guilelessly, winking at Freddy and shooting him a double thumbs-up.

It wasn’t possible to have perfect form without some training, but he needed to
know what “perfect form” was before developing bad habits and a lopsided posture.

Next up were pull-ups, of which he could do precisely zero. But, with a special
machine that supported his legs, he could kind of do it, but only after most of his
body weight was already compensated for.

After they were done with the training, they changed into swimming suits and went
into the pool, which was where they did their stretching exercises. Thankfully,
there was a section where he could stand without swimming because this was his
first time in water like this. Ever.

It was quite something for a water arch not to know how to swim.

The second day went by quickly, and he left the gym feeling sore but good overall.

When he returned to his apartment, he ordered some “fried jipur.” Apparently, it

was an avian species similar to chicken, even though it tasted many times better.

After that, it was roughly 11 a.m., and Freddy had precisely nothing to do for the
rest of the day. He opened the water arts guide again, but it wasn’t long until he
closed it. Reading it just kind of made him feel depressed.

There was a crap ton of cool stuff he could do eventually, but as it stood, it was
like an apple on the highest branch, and he didn’t know how to climb the tree.

He sat on the carpeted floor of his living room, legs crossed. Again, it wasn’t
long until he felt too uncomfortable to maintain the position, so he moved to lie
flat on the floor.

As he had a better feeling for water wisps after fiddling around the Netherecho for
a while, he finally began proper gathering for the first time ever.

It was a lot more complex than he expected. He imagined water flowing—rivers,

waterfalls, rain, faucets, anything that came to mind—and before long, his very
soul echoed with the images, spinning like a vortex that pulsed into the
Netherecho.
The star in his ethercosm roiled, and he felt it oscillate with calm energy.

One after another, like blue stars lighting up the empty night sky, wisps lit up
and began flowing toward him. One reached him, effortlessly seeping into his soul,
and it seemed like—

He gasped, getting up while holding his chest and breathing heavily. “Oh fuck,
man.”

That was like doing deadlifts with his soul. He felt like he’d been spinning in
circles, and now that he had stopped, the world was still rotating around him.

Meditative gathering was much faster than running around the Netherecho. Not only
that, but it also gathered wisps from the air and below the ground, pulling them
toward the individual meditating.

There were restrictions, however. It only attracted wisps of one affinity, even if
the person meditating had several, depending on which they were focusing on. It was
also tiring and required a lot of practice. And finally, it couldn’t be done for
too long.

Freddy was surprised by how many wisps there had been, and he very cautiously
decided to check out the Netherecho.

“I think it’s about time to stop being surprised at everything.”

He didn’t know why or how, but the Netherecho was bursting with colorful wisps
here. But there was something unusual as well.

There were no vestiges.

Could this apartment be warded to prevent them from appearing?

He knew this was possible from Basics of Gathering, but he didn’t expect this
apartment to have such a feature.

However, it only made things easier for him as he did the first thing that came to
mind—his projection hopped from one wisp to another, and he continued his
gathering.

Freddy was out on the streets. By this point, he was already beginning to recognize
some people here.

Once he passed a kind old lady, he walked to the next bench, sat down, and entered
the Netherecho.

It hadn’t taken him all that long to squeeze his apartment dry, and now, a few
hours later, he was out on the streets like some sort of addict, looking for more.

While his apartment was warded against the appearance of vestiges, the streets most
certainly weren’t. But he found that it wasn’t a problem.

He appeared within the Netherecho, and the rainbow mist gradually receded around
him, stopping at roughly a five-meter radius, marking the relatively short range he
could move.

There were no vestiges in his vicinity, and one or two was the most he’d seen at
once. It was likely that someone, or perhaps several people, cleaned the streets by
destroying any that appeared.

He gradually went from one bench to another, entering the Netherecho and scouring
it for goods. He couldn’t move too far from his body since the rainbow mist
prevented him from making it any further than his range permitted, so he settled
for physically moving around to reach fresh areas.

It wasn’t long until he noticed something peculiar. He moved and sat right next to
the central building, the twenty-five-story high-rise in the center of the
neighborhood.

Everywhere around it was packed with wisps of ether. There was only one explanation
for why that was.

There is a passage in there…

This neighborhood was built around a passage. He didn’t expect an entrance to the
interspace in a place like this, but some things suddenly began making sense, such
as why some people were walking around in armor and carrying weaponry.

While there were a lot of water wisps, compared to the thoroughly barren
environment of his previous apartment, they were vastly outnumbered by air, earth,
and loads of other miscellaneous ones.

After a day of gorging himself, he started wondering—wasn’t this kind of easy? He

could move quite fast with his projection, so cleaning the immediate range never
took longer than ten or so minutes.

Basics of Gathering never even referred to what he was doing as a legitimate

method. Slaughtering vestiges and reaping the mass of wisps was a different
subject, but collecting stray wisps with his projection shouldn’t be this
efficient.

It wasn’t long until these doubts turned into a strong sense of anxiety. Could he
be fucking something up? Or perhaps he was overexerting himself by doing this?
There was a strong feeling that he was ignorant of what he was doing, and he
decided to try something.

During the morning before the moving crew arrived at his apartment, he felt quite
tense and tired. Back then, he skipped practice with all his other abilities and
focused on the Water Body tempering technique.

He counted, and when he spent all his essence on it, he could maintain it for
approximately thirteen seconds.

Freddy calmed himself, got comfortable on the bench he was sitting on, and started
using the body tempering technique.

One…

Two…

Three…

…
Fourteen…

Fifteen…

Sixteen…

Twenty-five…

Twenty-six—

At that point, his technique collapsed, leaving him feeling refreshed. Twenty-six
seconds—precisely double the essence he had just a few days ago.

Rapid growth was expected for beginners… but this much?

He scoffed.

Truth be told, he had nothing to compare this against. Maybe he was even lagging
behind where he should be. With the intent to pull his head out of his ass and stop
getting so full of himself, he finally headed home.

Dinner, reading, hygiene, and finally, sleep. Everything else would come tomorrow.

So, this is when it kicks in…

Freddy woke up in pure agony, acutely aware of every muscle he had worked on in the
past two days, and even some he thought he hadn’t exercised at all, like his
biceps.

Today, he would “formally” meet Mark, his trainer, and be provided his schedule.
Matt would be here at noon, and it was 9 a.m., so he still had three hours until
the arranged meeting.

First, he went into the toilet and drank a ton of water. As his essence had
recovered, he began using his Water Body tempering technique without hesitation.

Some stage zero body tempering techniques had extremely minor effects. This was a
standard feature. While the ether shells were empty, the ability lacked ties to
supernatural concepts. Stage zero techniques were more or less just shortcuts for
what could be done with pure essence manipulation. Well, theoretically, at least.

Only when an ether shell’s true purpose was fulfilled did an ability evolve into
something incredible. And that purpose was quite simple—trapping a personified
ether construct within, either through beating them up until they were too weak to
resist being sucked into the soul or merely convincing them to get in voluntarily.

Depending on what sorts of concepts an ether construct was connected to, the
ability would evolve in different ways.

When he had first entered the Netherecho, there had been a vestige on his fridge—
the one that nearly killed him. It looked like a glass orb containing shifting
liquid within, and if he had to guess, that was likely a vestige connected to some
sort of “liquid containment” concept.

Once his body tempering technique was ready to upgrade, Freddy could trap a vestige
like that in the ether shell for the ability. The resulting effect would change his
body tempering technique drastically.

The ability would likely evolve into one that tempered his body into being
resistant to losing liquid, either through dehydration, bleeding, or maybe some
other similar effect.

Naturally, not every vestige could be forced into every ether shell, and,
interestingly enough, the vestige’s actual affinity didn’t matter that much.

For example, flow was something intrinsic to water, but not every water ability
wanted or needed the water to flow. On the other hand, something like compression
could be connected to myriad affinities, including water, so even if the vestige
was of the air affinity, it could still slot into many water shells without a
problem.

Preparing an ability for evolution was a long process requiring extensive practice,
so body tempering techniques usually took a while to become useful. Luckily for
him, he had one of the most favorable affinities for his current circumstances.
Water comprised over 60 percent of a human’s body and was essential for many
functions.

And now, that water was circulating through his body, performing its function
flawlessly.

His cells reestablished a balance between the extracellular and intracellular

fluid. His blood circulated to every corner of his body, carrying water to organs
and dehydrated muscles, and his cerebrospinal fluid supplied the necessary
nutrients and oxygen to his nerve cells while washing away the waste.

He hadn’t counted how long it lasted this time, merely focusing on the process
within. Once he opened his eyes, he felt goddamn amazing. This feeling didn’t last
too long, but at that moment, his body, at least regarding water-related functions,
was in an excellent state.

It wouldn’t take long for that balance to go to shit again, but the more he used
the technique, the more easily he would attain that state and the longer it would
last.

Theoretically, eventually, his body would attain that balance permanently. But way
before that happened, he would evolve the ability and add more to its function.

His muscles felt considerably less sore afterward, and he felt wide awake, as if
he’d had a nice cup of coffee.

Speaking of coffee…

He went to the kitchen, ordering a long shot of espresso. Before it arrived, he

showered and brushed his teeth.

The warm cup of delicious coffee was just the perfect thing to go with some
reading, and before long, he finally flipped the last page of the water arts guide.
Apparently, there was no information on body tempering techniques in this book, as
there were so many that a different volume was required.

But it still left him with plenty to think about.

He could choose to be either a support or a martial artist. There was also the
water caster option, but that was a rough path. If someone fully dedicated
themselves to a pure path of water spells, there was a strong possibility that they
would acquire an advanced affinity upon ascending a star. That advanced affinity,
in this case, was the ice affinity.

Ice was naturally more suited for damage than water, so getting it was an excellent
way to become a powerful mage—but it wasn’t guaranteed. Not at the second star, at
least. Even if he forged the perfect, optimal path, working for a decade on all the
spells he could, the most he could reach was an 80 percent probability of getting
the ice affinity.

Enough people got stuck at the second star, even with a decent path. Water-only
two-star casters? Yeah, unless they had a talent or a second affinity to bail them
out, they were probably screwed.

Water could do many cool things if one upgraded the abilities enough times and
patched enough flaws—but why the hell would anyone waste their time doing that when
they could simply do what water was best at?

However, there were many things to consider when making the decision.

According to the book, one must consider the “predisposition trifecta”—their

affinities, natural talent, and prime talent.

His affinity and prime talent were ideally suited for martial arts, but that didn’t
mean that was the best choice for him. He still had to consider his natural talent.
For one, his coordination was trash, and that was likely the number one requirement
for learning martial arts—

Ringing interrupted his thoughts again, and he put the book down as he got up to
open the door.

“Hello, Mr. Stern,” said Matt, the assistant. “I hope you had your rest.”

“I’m as fresh as could be,” he chuckled nervously. “So, where are we heading
first?” he asked, but he already knew that the gym was most likely their first
location.

“Follow me,” was all the man said as they left—but rather than head toward the gym,
they walked into a different building altogether. He remained silent throughout the
ordeal, and they walked to an elevator.

It took them to the seventh floor, and the doors opened to what appeared to be a
clinic.

14

TOUCHING SOME GRASS

It took Freddy a few moments to catch up with where he was and to realize what was
about to happen, but when he did, he felt strangely at peace with it.

He could have traded far worse things for an opportunity like this.

The clinic had a typical sterile vibe, with nurses wearing white coats and carrying
stacks of papers around. He had no fond memories of hospitals, as the last time he
was forced to go to one was when he had a near-lethal fever. The treatment and
subsequent medicine halved his savings, and he didn’t even get paid time off from
work.

This place gave off a distinctly different atmosphere, however. While that hospital
had been falling apart at the seams, with tired employees patrolling the hallways
and sick patients waiting in long lines, this place looked more like an idealized
version of a clinic, one primed for a movie set or something.

To be fair, he wouldn’t expect much else from a wealthy gated community.

Matt took him to a door near the entrance, and he was told to enter. The assistant
would be waiting for him outside, it seemed.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

An aged-looking man wearing glasses sat at a desk, his ear-length black-accented-

by-gray hair tucked behind his spectacles. His posture was great, and although he
appeared somewhat meek, he was balanced and composed, with a healthy complexion and
bright eyes.

He smiled the instant he spotted Freddy enter and got up to shake his hand.
“Greetings, Mr. Stern. I’m Dr. Leonard Garfield. Pleased to meet you,” he said in a
hearty, surprisingly loud voice, giving Freddy an almost painfully firm handshake.

“I’m uh… pleased to meet you too, Doctor.”

“Come on, sit,” the doctor urged him, rushing to his desk. “Don’t worry, today will
be a simple health examination.”

That made him release the breath he didn’t even know he had been holding.

The man chuckled a bit at that.

He looked down a bit, gathering up the courage to ask the man a question, but
before he could open his mouth, the doctor spoke. “As I said, there is no need for
worry. You’re in good hands.”

“Will I… Will there be side effects?”

“Yes,” the doctor confirmed bluntly, nodding. “That’s just how the human body
works. However,” he said while tearing a piece of paper out of the notebook he was
writing in, “it is my job to make sure you never notice them. And I don’t mean to
brag, but I’m pretty damn good at what I do,” he bragged with a smile and a cheeky
wink. “Just relax.”

The man asked him numerous questions regarding his health and lifestyle habits. The
doctor frowned enough times to make him realize that he had been living quite an
unhealthy life up to that point.
After that, the man extracted a few vials of his blood. It hurt a bit, but he was a
big boy, so he endured it. The man left the room for a few minutes, taking the
samples with him, and returned shortly with a chair, which he sat in next to
Freddy. “Now, Mr. Stern, please take your shirt off.”

He complied.

The man placed a finger on his sternum.

He felt a sensation that reminded him of what Madame had done to him when they
first met. A squirming warmth oozed its way into his chest cavity, and he felt like
his lungs and heart were being held up by gentle, firm hands.

“All right, now take a few deep breaths.”

He complied again, breathing deeply until the man told him to stop. The doctor then
got up, stood to his right, and placed his right palm on his chest while putting
his left palm on his back.

“You have a water affinity, right?”

Freddy nodded.

“Good. Please use your primary tempering technique.”

“Uh…” He hesitated. “I used up all my essence, so I’m pretty drained.”

“It’s all right. Even a second is fine if you can manage.”

He could, so he did, and the man nodded after feeling him use it. “Ah, generic
water body, good, good.” He nodded, taking his hands off. “That will be useful.” He
returned to his desk, but he suddenly paused and turned around. “Just to make sure,
do you have any other affinities?”

“No, why?” Freddy asked.

“Some people tend to hide them for personal reasons,” the doctor said, shrugging.
“I’m a medical professional, so I wouldn’t be telling anything to anyone, and
knowing would make my job a lot easier,” he said, and then, with a strange tone, he
added, “especially if you have the blood affinity.”

That made him pause for a moment. “No… I don’t. I assure you.”

“Oh, all right.” The man nodded, taking his word for it. “Also, I advise you to
refrain from attaining new affinities during the next six months.”

That claim made Freddy perk up. “Is that even possible?”

The doctor nodded. “There are treasures and other rare, special methods that can
achieve that, but using any of them could result in serious problems for you,
especially in the case of the blood affinity.”

“I will keep that in mind, but…” he said, chuckling, “I highly doubt I’ll have
access to something like that.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have my reputation if I weren’t thorough with my work,” he said,

heartily patting Freddy on the thigh with a chuckle of his own.
An adult man who appeared to be a nurse walked in, handed a paper to the doctor,
and left.

The man looked at the paper, sighing and frowning as he read its contents. After
reading through it, he got up, walked over to a nearby cabinet, and pulled out a
small collection of what appeared to be medicine containers. Then, he wrote a few
things on paper and handed everything to Freddy, who forced a smile on his face.

“I thought today was just an examination…” he said, eyeing the almost a dozen
medicines on the table.

“Well,” the doctor said with a chuckle. “I don’t see a reason to be so afraid of
vitamin and mineral supplements.”

He winced as he read the label on one of the bottles and flushed red in
embarrassment. “Oh…”

There was also a paper detailing the schedule for taking them… as well as an
exhaustive list of things he should and shouldn’t consume.

Seeing coffee and red meat on the list of things he wasn’t allowed to intake, he
nearly cried.

“A bit of advice,” the doctor added. “For now, use all your essence on the
tempering technique, and tell me as soon as it is ready to evolve.”

“You mean… I can’t train anything else?”

“You can if you want to. But the better you get at using it, the fewer long-term
consequences you’ll see, not to mention just how much faster you’ll be able to grow
muscle with the aid to recovery.”

That was a tempting prospect, but he wasn’t willing to completely give up his right
to work on other techniques. “I’ll think about it,” he said noncommittally.

“One final question,” the doctor said, grabbing a paper to write something down.
“What is your prime talent?”

That question made him pause. This was the first time anyone had ever asked him
what his talent was after becoming an arch. Madame knew, technically, but she
inquired about the prime vestige he manifested. This begged the question—wouldn’t
she have informed the doctor? Or maybe she was too busy for that—

“Is something wrong?” the doctor asked him, and he jolted a bit.

Freddy felt a weird repulsion toward the idea of answering the question. Reason won
out in the end, and he concluded that it was best this man knew. “It’s 1%
Lifesteal.”

The doctor’s pen paused, hovering over the paper as he slowly looked up, adjusting
his glasses. “Do you know the specifics of how it works?”

He shook his head. “Not many.”

“Do you have any intent of using it?”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to be putting myself in danger, that’s for sure.”

“Good,” the doctor nodded. “You shouldn’t.”

After some extra advice and arranging the scheduled check-ups, he shook the man’s
hand and left, with Matt promptly escorting him to the gym. Apparently, the
preparations for the interview wouldn’t begin for at least another three months, so
until then, there was only one thing left to do.

Dr. Garfield stared at the paper, noting the results of the health examination. His
hunch had been correct—there was muscle protein in Mr. Stern’s blood. This wasn’t
quite enough to diagnose the exact type of muscular dystrophy he had, but judging
from what he felt in the man’s heart, it was terminal.

He leaned back in his chair and sighed. This made things complicated. The man’s
body was in a decent state for the time being, but his illness would show itself
soon enough. Trying to train a body like that wasn’t going to be easy.

For a moment, he briefly pondered whether Madame was aware of the young man’s
plight. It was unlikely. If she was, putting him on a schedule like this was the
equivalent of trying to kill him.

Yet, his mind wandered back to the heart defect he had spotted.

Despite the complications, a smile crept up on his face.

Looks like his job would be much easier than he had anticipated.

The third day was spent working Freddy’s core and doing light cardio. He felt that,
even with his inflammation, this was a bit too easy.

Mark’s explanation cleared things up a bit. “All that forcing you too much now
would achieve is to increase the likelihood of you injuring yourself,” he said, but
not without adding, “although you are right. If you were training to become a
martial artist, you’d be going much harder than this.

“Training to become a warrior means pushing yourself physically, mentally, and,

ultimately, spiritually. You seek toughness, grit, power, and knowledge of what
your body can do.” Then he shrugged. “Training to achieve a look, on the other
hand… Don’t get me wrong, it can and will get pretty tough, but there is no need to
torment yourself. In fact, too much work can often be counterproductive.” He tapped
him on the shoulder. “You aim to become a fighter, right?”

Freddy nodded.

“Then focus on your abilities and gathering. Training your body, even just to grow
muscle, won’t be a waste of time. I promise.”

It was 3 p.m. Freddy had eaten, showered, and taken some supplements, and now he
lay in bed, feeling the deep aches all over his body. As far as his
responsibilities for the day went, he was done.

So he promptly delved into the Netherecho.

After roughly thirty minutes of gathering, he finally felt hints of essence

accompanying the wisps he consumed. All wisps had a specific essence capacity, but
appropriating this essence while consuming the ether wasn’t easy. However, the more
powerful one became, the more pronounced this effect was.

And now, gathering was starting to become a valid method of speeding up his essence
recovery. Although, frankly, the effect was weak. Even after nearly an hour of
gathering, having cleaned his entire apartment again, he gained only around a
second or two of using his tempering technique’s worth of essence.

He sighed, got off the bed, dressed, and left the apartment. He wanted to go
practice meditative gathering again but wouldn’t just do it anywhere. His training
would be much more worthwhile in an area rich in water wisps.

While there was a pool at his gym, there wasn’t much ether to gather there, as he
was far from the only water-affinity arch going to that gym.

So he was on a mission.

It was time to find a proper place to meditate.

Asking around the streets was almost entirely useless. The only places people
pointed to were either paid-entry gathering grounds outside the community or
private areas. Some paths were carved through the woods, but none of them led to a
water source.

It was only when a small child overheard him ask an elderly woman that he got some
answers.

The boy told him that there was a medium-sized pond in the small forest around the
neighborhood. Small problem, though—while most of the woods were tamed, the body of
water was in a wild section.

This wasn’t some rainforest or jungle; hell, he could see buildings on the other
side, even from the streets. That didn’t change the fact that he had never been in
a forest. He didn’t even remember the last time he had made contact with grass. It
was probably back when he went to the park with his adoptive parents.

So he was a little scared. Very, actually. Obviously, he wouldn’t come across

monsters or even wild animals. Or, well, at least he hoped he wouldn’t. There was
always the threat of an unregistered passage being in there somewhere. Not a big
one, but enough to trigger his phobia.

Yet, he found it surprisingly easy to grit his teeth and take a step forward.

It all left him feeling deeply unsatisfied.

At the end of his six months here, all he would gain was an impressive physique,
some more power as an arch, and a tier-one body tempering technique—as well as
possible consequences of steroid use.
Raw gathering could only take one so far. Without expensive treasures or killing
monsters, his progress would slow until it hit a brick wall. An impressive-looking
body was a reasonable basis for beginning training in martial arts, but it wasn’t
good enough on its own.

And the generic technique was just a damn luxury.

That was more than he had any right to ask for, but he wouldn’t settle for anything
less than the most he could get out of this situation. He was getting a lot out of
this deal, but not nearly enough to be ready to set out and become a passage delver
after it was all done. And he needed to be. While Madame made it seem almost
inevitable, he didn’t buy that someone would invest in him just because they
thought “he was lucky.”

He had no delusions about his actual status. He was a nobody. And all he received
here was only granted to him because he was useful to Madame. He would be thrown
out like a sack of spoiled potatoes when he expired.

There was only one thing he could do. No, there was something he had to do—work as
hard as he could and look for a way to take things into his own hands.

It didn’t take long to reach the edge of the forest. His palms began sweating, he
felt his lunch rushing to his throat, and his knees nearly buckled. A faint shiver
moved through his body as he lifted his leg to step onto grass for the first time
in almost ten years.

It was a mere step. Nothing more, nothing less. Yet, it felt as if it had taken the
tiniest of fractions of his troubles away, and he took another to confirm it.

Every time he put his foot forward, a piece of nature seeped into his body,
rejuvenating some part of him that he had lost through all his time in the concrete
jungle.

Was this what people meant when they said one should go “touch some grass”? Because
although he kind of hated to admit it, since that was something his manager used to
say all the time, that was some damn good advice. The forest grew sparse, likely
being artificially planted trees and only some short bushes.

Despite his fears reducing drastically, he still glared at every brush as if it

owed him money and ensured he could spot nothing hiding within.

The further he went into the wilderness, the wilder it became. His delicate, city-
raised skin scratched at contact with some sharp branches, and he started to worry
that he’d damage the clothing.

However, his worries were for naught since his clothes were made of some damn
durable material. While the pond wasn’t far from the streets, it took him an
embarrassingly long time to push through the growth and reach it.

And once he did…

He was a little disappointed. Nobody was here, and it wasn’t hard to puzzle out
why. Rather than call this a pond, it was more apt to call it a tiny patch of
marsh. It was overgrown with tall grass, with even a few trees growing within the
pond itself, and there was an unpleasant smell in the air.

A not-so-small part of him was hoping that he would come across some serene,
picturesque part of the forest, maybe discover a lonely girl twirling a stick in
the water and—
He cut the train of thought off before it went too far in that direction and
focused on the present. Luckily, there was a tiny patch of sandy clearing he could
sit on…

But it was on the other side of the pond. And there was no clear path to it. He
sighed and began the annoying process of getting there. He slipped on the muddy
bank with his first step forth and dipped his entire right foot into the filthy
water.

“Oh, fuck off.”

The wet sock sloshed in his dirty sneaker, and a few minutes later, he made it to
the patch of sand.

Once he did, he sat down, took his shoe and sock off to let them dry, and got into
a semi-comfortable stance. He did a few rounds of meditation, stopping only after
his soul started hurting. There was, indeed, a plethora of water wisps around him,
and he was pleased by his progress in collecting them.

Planning to continue his gathering in the Netherecho, especially after he dragged

so many water wisps to his immediate vicinity, he left his body—

And instantly returned. Vestiges surrounded him. Froggy, dirty, grimy masses of
filth and swamp-related concepts were everywhere, and he wasn’t planning on
repeating the mistake he made back in his old apartment.

If only Bloodshed was here to act as my bodyguard…

Oh well.

He had no reason to stay here, but he still decided to loiter just a bit longer.
The patch of sand was surrounded by thorny growth on all sides, and he wanted to
push it away to make a path through it so that he wouldn’t have to walk along the
pond’s edge again.

He needed something to push the brush aside, so he broke a branch off—

Hmm?

A distinct, calming feeling radiated through his body. He broke another branch and
then kicked a patch of grass, and the same sensation accompanied both actions.

There were two possible explanations for this. Either mother nature was a
masochist, and the “calming feeling” was his reward for being violent with her, or
the infinitely more likely explanation—his talent was triggering when he damaged
the plants.

“First oysters, and now this?” he mused.

At first, this didn’t stand out as anything too special. Just a wacky quirk of his
talent, something that—

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait a goddamn second…!”

His talent was triggering against plants!? That was… No, wait, yes? Wasn’t this a
pretty big deal? When it activated on the oysters, he hadn’t thought much about it,
but didn’t this completely shift the nature of his prime talent?
Healing being only usable in combat was a rather strict requirement. What if he
were too injured to fight? Having the option of just kicking some bushes around
was—

“Wait,” he said out loud, cupping his chin and pacing in circles.

His mind was rushing around a rather important question—what about the healing
quality? Every time he used the talent, a minor pulse of soothing energy washed
over him. Was this just what it felt like to use the ability…

Or was it actually healing something?

The mere thought of it made his heartbeat speed up. His sore muscles…

Immediately, he grabbed the stick and began smacking it around. He tore leaves off,
broke more branches, and crushed grass, trying to do as much damage as possible.

The more he did so, however, the more concerned he grew—after all, not even the
faint red scratches on his hands were going away.

Was he not doing enough damage? Or did the healing…?

Rather than jumping to conclusions, he decided to push it as far as it would go.

He put his wet shoe and sock on, pushed through the growth in a rush, and returned
to the streets. He found a hardware store that sold machetes and bought one. It
cost forty dollars, and he bought it with his own money. Someone could be observing
his purchases with the card, and he wanted to avoid suspicious items on record.

As he returned to the forest, the instant he entered the wild area, he started
cleaving grass, cutting branches, shredding bushes, and stomping mushrooms. Even
some bugs were caught up in his wanton eco-terrorism.

The feeling of power that entered his body was addicting, and he spent far longer
than he expected fighting the poor plants as if they were his mortal enemies.

The intensity of the sensation of his talent activating fluctuated wildly depending
on what he did. He didn’t quite understand what worked best, but he allowed the
feeling to guide his actions.

It took surprisingly, even concerningly, long for the faint scratches on his hands
to vanish. After he warmed up a bit, the feeling of soreness in his body subsided.
And when he finally cooled down…

He grinned.

It wasn’t that he felt better after doing this. He felt goddamn perfect. While his
arms were tired from swinging the machete around, they didn’t hurt. Nothing did.
There was no soreness or muscular pain to speak of. Because it fucking worked.

His talent had sped up his muscular recovery!

While a small part of him wanted to share this information with his trainer and
doctor, he immediately gave up on that. Based on what his doctor said, this could
mess something up. Not for a second did he believe it would endanger him, though.

In fact, he would bet everything he had that the doctor was worried about it
hindering the effect of the steroids. If the man’s treatment failed to work, it
could ruin his reputation.
Now… as long as he followed the schedule, he couldn’t be held accountable for any
unexpected, weird effects that his talent had… right?

But they had no reason to worry. He would be giving them the action-hero physique
they wanted. Because he was about to begin training in martial arts.

As long as he did enough eco-terrorism to recover from his daily workout and then
again enough to recover from his personal training, he could dedicate the second
part of his day to martial arts.

His trainer would undoubtedly notice something was off, but he could probably
bullshit his way out of it. He’d just claim it was related to his NDA-locked
secret.

Extremely pleased, he made a mental note to buy a book about martial arts and
healing at the store, hid the machete under a patch of leaves in the forest, and
returned to his apartment.

He ate a huge dinner, feeling ravenously famished after his machete workout, and
then he showered. He grabbed the toothbrush and put it in his mouth while still
drying his hair.

The mirror before him was clouded with the steam of his hot shower, so he grabbed
the small fan and used it to lift the fog. It wasn’t like he needed or wanted to
look at himself. It was just—

The condensation lifted, revealing his face, and he dropped the fan. It clanged
against the sink and skittered across the ground, the sound of it still blowing hot
air echoing through the large bathroom, creating a backdrop that harmonized with
the sudden ringing in his ears.

His face, the same face he had looked at countless times, appeared before him. And
the acne scars that plagued his skin, the old, nasty pockmarks of his adolescence…

Were almost entirely gone.

15

BEING A BEGINNER

Freddy watched Mark enter the changing room. The young man was clearly surprised
that he had found him already there.

“Bit early today, huh?” the trainer asked him teasingly.

“I was late for one day, and the man already has an opinion of my character, tsk,
tsk,” he said, clicking his tongue. “I’ll have you know I’ve been an early riser
for many years.”

The man chuckled as he shook his head. “Well, that suits me—” he started, but as he
approached him, he raised an eyebrow. He stepped a bit closer, shifting his body
around to get a look at his client from a few different angles. “There is something
different about you,” he noted, scratching his chin.

“You noticed?” he grinned. “My doctor handed me a special cream for acne scars, and
it seems to be doing wonders.”

“Wow, this much better after one day of use? Damn,” Mark said, clearly impressed.

“Yup,” Freddy lied. “It’s some good stuff.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty insane,” the man said, a clear note of disbelief still
clinging to his voice. Then he shrugged. “Put the swimsuit on, by the way.” He
changed the topic. “We’re going to be swimming today.”

He did so, and the two of them went to the pool. Rather than do anything
particularly demanding, they spent their time swimming around, with Mark
instructing Freddy to keep his muscles moving. Learning how to swim was
surprisingly hard.

And that was all they did for that day.

Mark presumed his body must be sore, and this day was dedicated to smoothening his
physical recovery. The trainer didn’t believe in “rest” from working out, as light
activity was always better than lazing around.

They kept this session short, and Freddy walked away quite “grateful” to his
trainer. In reality, this was little more than a waste of time for him since he was
already fully recovered from all the training they’d done.

He soon returned home and picked up a book off a shelf.

Healing Arts: A Comprehensive Guide.

After brushing his teeth yesterday, he rushed to the bookstore, where he promptly
spent nearly three thousand dollars on a guide to water spells. Then, half an hour
later, he returned to the store, unfortunately “just discovering” that they didn’t
do refunds, despite the massive sign stating that, and could only swap the book for
another one, or several of the same or lower value.

Then, he swapped the water guide for a book on healing arts and a cheap martial
arts training guide, adding to precisely the price of the water spell manual.

The reason he went through this convoluted process was quite simple—he didn’t want
any strange items on his card record.

He doubted that this much would cause someone to investigate what he was doing, but
if he consistently kept buying weird things, it could result in someone checking up
on him, leading to the doctor finding out about what he was doing.

He made his way back home and cracked open his new textbook.

Healing ranged from minimal to supreme quality. Minimal quality only stopped the
target from bleeding out, doing the bare minimum to keep them alive. In contrast,
supreme quality could reconstruct the body on the cellular level, regrow limbs, and
even recover from extremely complex ailments, including chronic disorders,
otherwise incurable illnesses, and cancer.

Oh, and it was the only quality that could remove permanent scar tissue—including
acne scars.

He had known that it was weird. From the moment he saw his face, he was aware that
his talent wasn’t ordinary.

But as the textbook confirmed it… The feeling was indescribable. All the shame and
regret of losing the super farming prime evaporated as pure, unadulterated joy
filled his body. He cackled, dancing around the apartment like he’d just won the
lottery.

Supreme-quality healing was really, really expensive. Having a practically

unlimited source of it? It was hard to put a monetary value on such a resource if
it was even possible.

However, reading more about supreme-quality healing, he learned that this power
came with a not-so-insignificant trade-off.

First, it was more or less utterly useless in combat. Even knowing that it was only
1% Lifesteal, he had initially made the assumption that it took him so long to
recover from his state because he was damaging plants. This wasn’t the case. The
answer was much simpler.

Whatever energy or concept his talent extracted after he damaged living creatures
needed to be piled sky-high for the healing to do anything significant. One could
barely even call his state yesterday “injured.” Yet, the few light scratches and a
bit of muscular soreness required a lot of dedicated eco-terrorism.

This would be an absolute deal-breaker if the effect was only functional in combat.
But given that it could be used on plant life…

It didn’t need to be helpful in fights. It would contribute plenty enough outside

it.

Countless people were forced into early retirement because they lost a limb or
suffered a debilitating injury. For them, the solution was a wildly expensive
treatment that could potentially not even make for a full recovery.

For him, the solution was just to piss off some environmentalists. He had no doubt
that something like losing a limb could take weeks to recover from, but he had that
option. He would never be out of the fight as long as he was alive. It was akin to
having the ultimate insurance plan.

After eating his lunch, packing some food into the bag, taking his supplements, and
donning the set of clothing he dedicated to forest-delving, he grabbed the martial
arts training guide and ran into the woods.

He quickly located the machete and did a bit of forest desecration just to make
sure he was in top shape. Then, before starting his training, he pulled the martial
arts guide out of his bag and cracked it open.

It was nothing special. Granted, it did still cost several hundred dollars, but he
was already getting used to obscene pricing.

For the most part, it was the absolute, most fundamental basics. A lot of it was
off the table, given that he didn’t have a sparring partner or specialized
equipment, but the book was good enough at covering everything he could do without
those two things.

The first was stances. A lot of ’em. Any pose a human could maintain could be used
for one reason or another. Core strength and stability were essential to practicing
martial arts.

Next up was flexibility. He winced at the mass of painful-looking stretches. What

stretching he’d done with Mark so far revealed that he was incredibly stiff and had
a limited range of motion, to say the least.

He couldn’t even fathom how he’d do half of these poses without breaking a bone or
something.

After that, it covered balance. Anything from basic footing to standing atop a
staff, which he wanted to call bullshit on, was covered in this section.

Most of the book covered endurance, toughness, strength, agility exercises, and
many examples of martial arts moves ranging from simple to more complex. At the
very end, however…

This was the section where it covered ether techniques, starting with body
tempering.

The Water Body tempering technique was a decent generic technique. However, its
purpose was to balance the body by aiding the flow of water throughout it. Simply
put, it was too gentle.

This book didn’t provide any ether imprints or even essence flow rune scripts, but
it did name and describe many techniques from all common elements.

And… oh boy, were they brutal.

Tempering techniques didn’t do damage the same way other sources of harm did.
Abilities could hurt the user, naturally, but it was different from external
sources of damage. Most of the harm one could cause directly to oneself through
one’s abilities could also be recovered from, aided by a supernatural concept that
acted as a crutch for ability usage—this concept was called Ethereal Mercy.

This meant that tempering techniques could do quite a bit and still permit full
recovery.

Unless pushed too far. Then, one would either become a cripple or just straight-up
die. Even before reaching that point, some were seemingly designed to test the
limits of one’s patience, pain tolerance, and willpower.

There was one that forced water into muscles to harden them, another that
compressed vast quantities of liquid into the body, and even a technique that
circulated the water within the body so fast that it made one feel as if they were
about to explode.

All of these had limited use before they were upgraded to tier one when their
effects would grow more directed and substantial, but even then, he couldn’t fathom
what kind of freak would subject themselves to something like this.

Other than that, it also covered some of the standard martial arts techniques.
Flowing Rain Martial Arts with the Flowing Strike was, unsurprisingly, the first
among the water types. It was as basic as basic could get, and apparently, the book
praised it quite highly.
It was flexible yet elegant, focused on large, decisive strikes with a ton of
momentum behind them, interspersed with faints and parries that flowed right
through an opponent’s defense like water through cracked stone.

It was a difficult style to master, but it seemed worth the trouble.

It didn’t take long for him to learn why the book sang it such high praise.
Compared to some of the other bat-shit insane techniques, it was much more
acceptable.

There was a cerebrospinal fluid–manipulating technique focused on maximizing one’s

reaction time and boosting mental processing speed. It took ages to master, and
until then, most users looked like tweaking crackheads while using it.

Many were the water-affinity equivalent of blood-rush-style abilities, best for

mindless berserker types. It tended to leave men… excited, let’s say.

So, yeah, elegant and flexible was good in comparison.

He hesitated to settle on Flowing Fist, however. At least, he wasn’t sure whether

he wanted to grow the ability he already had. Ether shells made by oneself
developed significantly faster than those imbued through an ether imprint. Not only
that, but ether imprints were unlikely to create a particularly compatible ability
to begin with.

It was a matter of testing it out and seeing how it was. If it was good enough, it
wouldn’t be worth it to waste time recreating it.

That was for later, though. Now, he had to focus on the task ahead—starting his
martial arts training.

The book was very loose on what kind of order things should be trained in, leaving
him with many decisions. Apparently, this was by design, as the book preached
independence and “seeking one’s path.”

Freddy’s foot was seeking the ass of whoever wrote this unhelpful piece of shit, as
he had no damn clue where to begin.

So he picked the first thing in order and began with stances.

After fiddling with a rather basic martial arts stance, a low one with a foot
forward, the other to the side, and both knees bent at roughly a forty-five-degree
angle, he quickly realized something problematic—he wasn’t nearly flexible enough
for this shit.

Hell, he wasn’t even balanced enough to get into the damn stance without falling on
his ass. And he was supposed to be able to hold this stance while hopping around!?

“All right, not a big deal,” he declared. “I’ll just start with flexibility then.”
A decision that somehow went even worse than the previous one.

He already knew that his flexibility was crap, but so did his trainer, and Mark
didn’t force him to do anything without gently easing him into it.

It didn’t take long to learn why.

On his first-ever attempt at doing a split, he realized that the best he could do
was roughly thirty degrees. His legs were barely even spread apart, and his crotch
already felt like it was about to burst open like a bloody pinata.

Taking deep breaths, he tried pushing it ever-so-slightly. After all, it was the
only way to improve. He just had to tolerate the pain a bit as he—

Freddy adjusted his foot slightly, and it landed on a leaf that treacherously
failed to grip the grass beneath, causing him to spread into a much broader split
than expected, instantly sending a sharp pang of tearing pain through his groin and
causing him to buckle to the floor.

“Oh, fuck that hurts!” he scream-whispered as he tried his best to ensure that
nobody would hear his voice and come to investigate.

It hurt like bloody hell, but only when he tried getting up did he realize why Mark
was going so easy on him. This was an injury. And it wasn’t a light one, either.
Agonizingly crawling to the place he left his machete, he began a limp conquest to
regain the structural integrity of his crotch area as he did his best to cleave as
much grass as was necessary to help him recover.

This seemed to be a lot of grass. He had no way to track the time, and the agony
made every second feel like an eternity, so he didn’t have a reasonable frame of
reference for how long it took him to heal from the injury. But it sure felt like
it took forever, and he felt exhausted afterward.

“Hoooo, all right,” he said as he lightly spread his legs, checking for the
twentieth time whether it still hurt. “Don’t force the splits. Lesson learned.”

The rest of his workout session was considerably more cautious. When anything felt
like it hurt more than it should, he instantly grew hesitant and reflexively
stopped doing it. Even beyond that, many of the exercises were terminated halfway
through because they were too uncomfortable or inconvenient.

Frankly, he was truly starting to feel like nothing but a bitch-made city boy.

Bugs crawling on him made him jump as if any damn beetle was a deadly, venomous
abomination that could kill him with the tiniest scrapes of its jaw. Random rocks,
branches, or even “sharp grass” inhibited any pose that required him to lay on the
ground.

When he had to just hold onto a branch for a while, his poor, delicate hands hurt
too much to maintain a grip on the rough wood.

By the time his “workout,” if one could even call it that, was over, he sat on the
ground and cried. He felt so ashamed of himself, and his crying only made him feel
more pathetic.

What the hell kind of martial artist’s story began like this? He was losing faith
in himself by the second. Maybe he really just wasn’t cut out for this…

He got up and grabbed the machete. It flew and cut through bush after bush, quickly
removing what barely even qualified as damage.

Was he cut out for anything? When was the last time he truly felt good at
something? His feelings of self-worth rapidly deteriorated under his doubt, and it
wasn’t long until he was packing his things and heading home.
It was already quite late, and he spent the remainder of his day locked away in his
apartment, using the fact that he needed to bulk up to overeat.

With his exhaustion and more or less perfect physical health, it didn’t take him
long to drift into sleep.

Freddy yet again appeared in the gym on time, but a bit more mechanically than
yesterday.

Mark once again noticed a considerable improvement in his skin complexion, and so
did he himself. He didn’t care enough to bullshit something, so he just shrugged
and said the cream must be doing wonders.

Today, they did leg exercises.

They started with the regular warm-up and dynamic stretches and immediately jumped
into doing squats.

The man didn’t even give him the barbell. Figures. He obviously wasn’t qualified to
do that yet. Even while doing squats without weight, he shook too much and
reflexively resorted to swinging his hands to make it easier.

Mark didn’t warn him about it at all. However, when they started the next set, he
approached him. “Great job!” the man encouraged. “All right, now, to make it a bit
more challenging, you will keep your arms in front of you like this.” He
demonstrated by holding his arms out.

Freddy raised an eyebrow at the man and then did as he was told.

With every subsequent exercise, a similar thing happened. Rather obviously, he

messed something up, but as long as it wasn’t dangerous or put him at risk of
injury, Mark just waited it out, then suggested the fix as if it were an
“additional challenge,” never reprimanding him or making him feel like he was
messing something up.

This son of a bitch, he thought to himself, unable to keep a small smile off his
face. This bastard is actually making me feel better about myself…

As they finished today’s session, to his surprise, Mark invited him to have lunch,
or rather, brunch, given that it was still relatively early.

“What brought this on?” he asked his trainer. “Aren’t you going to go do your
training today?”

“No, I gotta go see my family,” Mark clarified. “I promised to visit them at least
once a week. I’ll do some work on gathering, though.”

“Oh, nice, nice… So, where do you want to go?”

“I was thinking of going to my place,” Mark said. “I cook for myself.”

“Really? Shit, dude, you really are Mr. Perfect.”

Mark chuckled at that, and Freddy scowled at him in faux anger.

They made their way back to Mark’s place, which was actually a bit smaller than his
own. It was perhaps a bit shameful, but he counted that as at least half a win.

The young man wasn’t joking, though. He could cook. After smashing a massive
portion of something akin to a lasagna, he was just about ready to go back to
sleep. Until he realized something. “Oh shit! This was red meat, right?”

Mark nodded. “Yeah… Something wrong with that?”

“Argh!” He facepalmed. “I’m not allowed to eat that!

“What?” Mark nearly got up, panicked. “Are you okay?”

“No, I mean…” he groaned. “My doctor gave me a list of things I should and
shouldn’t eat, and red meat is on there.”

“Oh… that’s what you mean,” he said, settling back down as he chuckled. “You scared
me for a moment.”

“Dude, this is serious!”

“No.” Mark shook his head a bit. “It kind of really isn’t.” Then he grinned a bit.
“It’s certainly better for you to avoid it, but come on, that’s already in the
realm of perfectionism.”

Freddy shot him a strange look. “Weird… I thought you were more of a stickler for
the rules.”

“Did you?” Mark grinned at him. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, wow,” he said sarcastically. “Watch out, we got a bad boy over here.”

Mark laughed at that. “No, I mean… Following every damn rule costs you more
willpower and happiness than it’s worth sacrificing. I’d be damn depressed if I
couldn’t eat steak. The vague health benefits of avoiding it aren’t worth the sad.”

“Wise words,” he acknowledged with a nod. “Does that mean that I can drink coffee,
too!?”

“Uh… maybe don’t?” Mark suggested with a cheeky chuckle. “But what do I know? I
never made a habit of drinking it. By the way, let’s move to the Netherecho.”

Freddy raised an eyebrow at that. “Why?”

Mark seemed confused by that question. “Why… wouldn’t… we?”

“I don’t know… Just seems like a weird thing to do.”

“It’s pretty normal.”

“What?” he suddenly grimaced as he made an angry realization. “Am I experiencing

culture shock right now?”

“I… Kind of, yeah. I guess.” Mark scratched his cheek.

They both summarily dove into the Netherecho.

The first thing that he noticed was Mark’s projection. It was at least 50 percent
taller than his own, and it looked like a cartoony caricature of an absurdly
muscular man.

And apparently, the first thing the man noticed was Freddy’s projection. “Holy
crap!” he said, rushing forward admiringly. “Your projection is so cool!”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve never seen it?” Mark asked, promptly rushing to describe the projection,
“You look like a blue grim reaper.”

Freddy immediately lit up upon hearing that. “That’s so fucking cool. Tell me the
details!”

“So you have the hood, right, and where your face is supposed to be is just like…
pure black. With two yellow specks for eyes.”

He thought this was probably what normal children felt like for Christmas as he got
all giddy.

“Freddy,” Mark said with tension in his voice. There was a noticeable shift in his
stance as he got into a battle-ready position and turned to the window.

“Run back to your body immediately.”

Reflexively, he turned to face the window that Mark was turned to and spotted a
large, bloody, skeletal arm pushing its way through the glass.

16

FLOWING DOWN THE LEG OF LIFE

The skeleton soon entered the room, clattering to the ground with a splat of blood.
Although Mark had reflexively adopted a combat pose, it didn’t take him long to
turn around and sprint back to his body.

Freddy watched the man vanish, panicking for a different set of reasons. “Why the
hell are you here, Bloodshed!?” he screamed. How the hell was this even possible!?

The remnant paused at that and cocked its skull at him. “I…” It dropped its head.
“I seem to have made a mistake. I will go back immediately.”

“No, you can’t return now! Aaarrgh!” He grabbed his head, mind whirling with
thoughts on how to handle this situation.

Before he could land on anything, Mark reappeared, rushing at him and screaming in
an incredibly high-pitched tone, his words melting together,
“Whaddafuckareyoudoing!?” He tried forcefully pulling Freddy away, but his
projection seemed surprisingly tricky to move.
The little blue reaper tried pacifying the mountain of muscle. “Relax, Mark! I know
what this is!”

“If you really knew what this was, you’d shit your pants and die! We have to get
out of here!”

“No, dude, please let me—”

Mark appeared bewildered, his cartoony eyes practically popping out of his skull as
he looked at him and then at Bloodshed, moving his gaze back and forth. “Look,
Freddy, I know it seems calm now, but that’s a remnant. Do you get it? Death. We’ll
die. It will kill us. It does NOT look peaceful, and their looks are a good sign of
their nature, so we! Have! To! Go!”

“But Bloodshed listens to me!” he finally yelled out.

“What does that even mean!?” Mark asked pleadingly, seeming ready to leave him to
fend for himself.

“Bloodshed,” he called, “are you going to kill us?”

The skeleton immediately knelt on the ground, its bony skull kissing the floor as
it prostrated itself. “I would never harm the Bloody One and his servants.”

“See?”

He was slowly beginning to understand why hanging around in the Netherecho was
normal. Mark’s jaw hung comically low, reaching nearly halfway down his torso. It
was certainly more expressive than reality.

“This… This is insane,” Mark said, eyeing the prostrated remnant cautiously. “An
ether construct obsessed with serving someone? I’ve never heard of that in my
life.”

“Really?” He was genuinely surprised to hear that.

Mark nodded in confirmation, and after shooting a squinted glare at the remnant, he
turned to him. “Do you have any idea how useful that is?”

“Honestly, no.”

“Hooo, boy,” Mark breathed out as he slumped on the ground. “If I listed all the
possible ways you could use that, I’d be here all day.”

“You gotta be exaggerating,” he said disbelievingly.

“You’d be surprised at how little,” the man said, still eyeing the remnant
cautiously. “Here is an example for you. Say you have a powerful ally,
hypothetically. If they entered the Netherecho with you to help subjugate a
vestige—”

“It wouldn’t work,” he finished the sentence.

The guide he had read was rather explicit in stating that the usefulness of
external help in the Netherecho was minimal. It was true that one could help
another indirectly or, at the very least, keep one safe, but it wasn’t so easy when
it came to handling a personified ether construct.
If someone beat a vestige half to death, it would be impossible for anyone else to
coerce it into their soul. The concept of “subjugation” was intrinsically tied to a
single person’s actions. Doing it for someone else was like trying to breathe for
someone else.

“Exactly,” Mark confirmed. “However, this thing, on the other hand,” he said with a
quick nod at Bloodshed, “can subjugate vestiges for you. And it doesn’t count as
external help.”

That was a lot to take in. Judging by what little he knew of ether construct
subjugation, something like that could practically skip the entire process.

“I can think of many other uses, but we must first discuss something else. There is
a reason why I invited you to the Netherecho,” Mark said.

“Why?”

“Because it is practically impossible for someone to spy on what you’re doing

here.”

The implication of what Mark said sent shivers down Freddy’s spine. “Do you mean…?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was watching you.”

That made chills spread down Freddy’s spine. “What do you mean?” he asked anxiously
as he waited for the young man to continue.

The seated Mark sighed deeply. “Shit, dude, I just learned today that you’re signed
with Madame.”

“What?” he spat. “You didn’t know that?”

“Well, you never told me,” the man pointed out.

“Weren’t you told at work?”

“No,” he denied. “Well, that was really my fault since I didn’t ask. No offense,
but I had no reason to care about who you were,” the man said, sighing. “Listen,”
he said, adopting a grim expression. He then pointed at Bloodshed. “Is this thing
related to why Madame needs you?”

He momentarily contemplated whether disclosing that would break his NDA but
eventually nodded in confirmation. “Sort of. Tangentially, at least.”

“Then it’s probably worse than I thought.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Have you ever watched Madame’s show?”

He nodded. “Quite a few times, actually.”

“You should know that she never interviews ordinary individuals; hell, she won’t
even briefly mention someone without a damn good reason.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Look,” the man said. “No offense, but you’re damn clueless. And you just got swept
up in something you aren’t qualified to handle properly. I don’t know what the hell
got you a place on her show, but I know for a fact that you’re gonna have many eyes
on you afterward—too many. That’s not a good thing.”

“That isn’t what I was told,” he said, a strange whimper accompanying his voice.

“No shit,” the man spat crassly. “What did she promise?”

He hesitated. “She said that some might see potential in me and take me in.”

Mark scoffed at that. “Does she know about that thing?” he said as he pointed at
Bloodshed.

“No,” he denied. “That’s a secret. I can trust you to keep it, right?”

“Yeah, my mouth is sealed,” the man promised. “What about your talent? Can you use
your healing on others?”

“No, I—” He froze. How did he know about that?

Mark rolled his eyes. “Your acne scars nearly vanished after using your ‘magical
cream’ twice,” he said. “Do you take me for an idiot?”

“Fair enough,” he conceded. “Shit, though, how am I gonna hide it from the doctor
then?”

“Look.” Mark brought his attention back. “Madame wasn’t lying to you. You will get
offers by the dozen. But big organizations won’t care about you at all. They only
care about elite talents and backgrounds.”

“Is that a problem?” he asked.

“The problem is that anyone who does try to approach you won’t have much to offer,”
he said. “The only people who will seek you out are middling groups trying to use a
rising star to their advantage.”

“What if I just say no?”

“Most of them will walk away,” Mark said. “But if you’re particularly weak… I’ve
seen shit I still can’t believe happened. Some people are simply evil, and
particularly among those who are just on the rise… Look, all I’m saying is that
I’ve heard stories of people like you, and some of them turn out really…” He
sighed, slumping. “Really poorly.”

“Oh,” Freddy said, trying to laugh but finding his voice shaky. He knew what the
man was aiming at. He had seen it himself. Men lashing out at women who rejected
them, people getting offended at someone refusing their “generosity” when their
intent was selfish.

He knew better than anyone what an entitled fuck’s response was to rejection by
someone they saw as below them. “They’re gonna attack me, aren’t they?” he asked,
already knowing the answer.

Mark reluctantly nodded.

“Oh, great!” he exclaimed. “Some piece of shit might try to kill me! Great!” he
yelled, laughing shakily. “That’s just my life! Just what I fucking need! Every
goddamn time I reach a puddle, I have to cross a desert to get to the next one!”

“Calm down! These people won’t be elites; you just have to—”
“I can’t!” he screamed hysterically. “I fucking can’t, Mark!” His projection began
crying large, cartoony tears that disappeared into the ground. “I am stupid, and I
suck at everything!”

“If you work—”

“I can’t do that, either!” he declared. “I don’t have what it takes! I have no

resources or knowledge! My talent is nonexistent, and I don’t even have the grit to
fucking work for it! I am surrounded by nothing but misery!”

Mark looked like he kept trying to say something, but every time his mouth opened,
it closed again.

“Master,” Bloodshed called and began walking toward him.

Mark turned to the creepy remnant, swallowing and causing a prominent bulge to
travel down his throat. He stood frozen, clearly unable to stop the remnant but
visibly contemplating trying to do it anyway.

“You are indeed surrounded by misery—” it said.

That actually got him to chuckle a bit. Even an ether construct literally obsessed
with him agreed with his words.

“—for your existence extinguishes all hope.” It stopped right over his body, gently
caressing a bony hand over his hood, shocking him out of his self-deprecating
state.

“When I was born, Master, you were fated to die,” it said.

“Stop it, Bloodshed,” he said, inching away from it. Then, seeking some comfort in
humor, he joked, “You’re violating my NDA.”

“Do not be afraid, my lord,” it consoled him, bowing before him. “Anyone who seeks
your life will lose theirs instead. I wager my existence on it.” The bloody bone
man didn’t take long to make the mood extremely awkward.

Mark used the opportunity to very poignantly gesture at their true bodies in an
attempt to get as far from the massive remnant as possible.

Rather than leave the Netherecho, he turned to the remnant. “Hey, Bloodshed, please
wait in the corner over there.”

“As you wish.” And the skeleton obeyed.

Freddy stood for a while with his back turned to Mark and eventually gathered up
the courage to speak. “Sorry for venting like that,” he said.

“No… I… Sorry, I… I didn’t know what to say…”

“You’re a good guy,” Freddy stated. “And don’t worry, I’m not giving up on myself.
I just needed to get that out of my system.” He turned around. “Yesterday I… I
realized something. When I had to use some willpower, I found it lacking. My body
is weak and sick from lack of use. And so is my determination.” His words petered
out as he glanced at his tiny, blue, gloved hand poking out of the long sleeves.
“Does that mean that I’ve never really used it? Or maybe I just wasn’t using
willpower as much as I thought?
“For so long, I thought I was working hard and doing my best. But I think I just
confused a difficult life with fighting for a better one. Do you know how it feels
to realize that?” he asked, his voice shivering again. “I mean, who am I even? I
thought I knew who I was, but now I think I was just delusional. I didn’t see
nature for so long, not because I didn’t have the time, but because I never pushed
myself to do it. I am weak and sick because I was too lazy to stay physically
active.

“I’ve just been cruising through, fully convinced that I’m tough shit when I was
actually diarrhea, flowing down the pants of life.”

“Pfff!” Mark snorted and clamped his mouth shut. “I’m so sorry, but—”

“Hahaha, what the fuck did I just say?” he laughed.

Mark chuckled, too. “Oh God, that’s something, dude.”

They laughed it out for a while, and Mark finally stepped over, placing a giant
hand on his robed shoulder. “But I think I understand your problem a bit better
now. You’re right. Willpower is exactly like a muscle. If you don’t use it, it
won’t develop.”

He slumped a bit, but Mark shook him out of it before he could slip into his self-
pitying state. “Nuh-uh, none of that. Keep your head high. Willpower can grow.
You’ve learned something new about yourself today, and you shouldn’t use that as an
excuse to run away from your problems. They won’t go away on their own.”

The depressed reaper looked up, nodding his head slightly.

“Don’t worry, though. I might be wrong. I’ve learned that it’s best to be cautious,
but that doesn’t mean you’ll get in trouble. In the worst-case scenario, you could
hide somewhere until everything blows off. Besides, you have my help, a good
talent, and that creepy thing that’s… looking at me from the corner… We have to do
something about that. Wait, be right back.”

Mark jogged to his body and vanished into it. Moments later, his body vanished as
well. Moving things didn’t appear within the Netherecho unless their movement was
repetitive. Which begged the question of how Bloodshed could interact with his body
even when he was outside.

Did it have some sort of strange connection to him?

Before long, a large, opened plastic bag flashed into existence, likely placed
there by Mark, who also entered the Netherecho. “Can you tell that thing to get in
the bag?”

He nodded and told Bloodshed to get inside. After it did, they left the Netherecho,
and Mark walked over to the plastic bag on the floor. He promptly closed it and
crumpled it into a small ball.

“No!” He panicked. “Why the fuck would you do that!?”

“Relax!” Mark raised his hands. “It’s safe! Trust me,” he urged, blinking
violently, hoping Freddy kept his mouth shut about the thing in the bag.

He realized what the man was aiming at. “Okay, I trust you. I just thought that all
the… uhm… wisps would go to waste,” he said vaguely, hoping to throw off anyone who
might be listening in on them.
The man enthusiastically latched on to the string Freddy offered. “Yeah, you can
transport a clump of wisps like this. Just make sure that they don’t. Leave. The.
Bag,” the man said pointedly.

“Whaaat?” he gaped. “I wish I knew that sooner. That’s really convenient.”

“It most certainly is. Now, I must hurry since I’ll miss my ride home,” the man
said as he handed Freddy the bag, which he quickly placed into his pocket. “We’ll
talk tomorrow, and for today, just do what you think you should.”

They shook hands and parted ways. Freddy was left with a lot to think about.

There was no way he could tolerate waiting around, especially not after hearing
what Mark had to say, but he was hesitant. There was resistance to going to those
woods, revulsion to the thought of embarrassing himself again. There was a risk
that someone might be watching him.

What was it that the young man told him? Willpower was indeed like a muscle?

If that was so, then…

It was about time he started working it out.

The only reason Bloodshed’s actions weren’t causing bloodshed was because vestiges
couldn’t bleed. The pond that had until recently been infested with nasty stuff was
now free of such invaders and literally bursting with water affinity wisps.

There was a slight fear that someone might notice the remnant in the Netherecho,
but it was unlikely that anyone would spot it even if he was being watched.

Even a five-star archhuman had a maximum range of fifty meters they could see in
the Netherecho. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone had a reason to spy on the
Netherecho around him.

He was pleased to see Bloodshed’s work as he left and began a session of meditative
gathering.

This time, when his soul started hurting, he kept pushing on. As far as willpower
exercises were concerned, this might have been the best one. No matter how much he
pushed, it wouldn’t hurt him in any real way. Total inability to continue preceded
soul injuries by quite a bit.

That wasn’t to say he could reach such a state just because he felt motivated.
However, as one wisp after another flowed into his soul, reaching nearly thirty
consumed, with the pain threatening to knock him out, it was clear that he was
willing to try.

Finally collapsing, he breathed heavily, experiencing the flavor of torment

specific to soul exhaustion. It didn’t feel good, to say the least. Once it went
away, he felt thoroughly drained and depressed, and he wanted to sleep.

But he delved into the Netherecho instead.

The water vestiges he had attracted were packed into a dense cocoon around him, and
he hopped around collecting them until they grew scarce.
Doing so with his soul in such a state only drained him further, but he mustered
the will to get up.

As soon as he did, a peculiar thought wormed its way into his mind. I’ve done quite
a bit today, he thought. I’m pretty proud of myself already, he argued. Maybe I can
stop it here.

But before such thoughts could take root, he crushed them and walked over to a
nearby tree.

Mark had told him to do what he thought he needed to. And after careful pondering,
he landed on one pretty obvious option. His pain tolerance was just pathetic. Hell,
even his “vague discomfort” tolerance wasn’t all that impressive.

It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that the amount of pain one had experienced was a
suitable measure of their overall power, if only an approximate one.

So there was only one thing left to do. It was time to feel some pain, he thought,
as he got ready to punch a damn tree.

The fact that someone might be around and watching him was unnerving. But he wasn’t
concerned about that. Given how liberally he was using his talent, there was no way
to avoid having the doctor notice that something strange was happening.

If he wanted to use it, he’d have to disclose that he was doing so. It really
shouldn’t be a problem, however. With what he knew of supreme-quality healing, if
anything, it would make the doctor’s job much easier.

Putting that behind him, he focused on the task at hand. The brown, uneven bark of
the tree looked rough and rugged. The last thing he wanted to do was punch it. But
he willed himself to do it anyway.

He just swung at it with his left hand, trying not to break his hand in the
process. Unfortunately, the nonexistent form, coupled with a lack of confidence,
resulted in a middle finger injury that hurt like hell. He shook his hand in a
futile attempt to make it go away.

“Mmmm, yeah, that sucks.”

The thought of quitting leaped at the opening, but he repelled it.

“No! None of that shit! You’re a man! Who’s a man? You! Now, be a man, and get
ready to punch some damn wood!” He tried slapping his face in a “manly” attempt to
psych himself up and, unfortunately, decided to do it with his left hand, resulting
in a pang of pain spreading through his arm again.

“Fuu—No, no, pain good, it good, yes,” he tried convincing himself, squeezing hard
to stop his tears from surfacing.

Then he readied his right fist, squeezing it harder and preparing himself for a
serious punch. A punch that fluttered out into a not-so-manly pose as he realized
something—how would he swing the machete if both his hands were messed up?

No problem. He’d kick the tree instead. Landing kicks with shoes on wasn’t
particularly painful, so he just hit his with his shin instead—

“Aaaaaah!” he yelped as he collapsed, aggressively rubbing the impact area. He

breathed like a woman giving birth, then groaned with gritted teeth, and finally
settled on something akin to caveman sounds, cradling his leg as if it were an
injured child.

It took quite a while for the pain to subside, and once he got up, he decided he’d
just do punches and figure it out later. Hey, if someone was watching, he would be
rescued if he was in trouble. Right?

…Right?

“Okay, Fred, you got this.”

His left hand still hurt like hell, with a lot of the pain flashing up his forearm,
but he reasoned that whatever that was would go away after some plant molestation.

This time, he ensured that his fists were sealed tight, even if he didn’t have the
strength to keep them like that for long. Still, after the first punch, he realized
it wasn’t that bad. As long as his fist didn’t land awkwardly, he could kind of do
it. He started with feeble punches and gradually amped them up.

Occasionally, he’d land with his knuckle or stub a finger and reel in pain, but he
pushed through it and kept going, sweating like mad. It wasn’t long until he
noticed something. The faintest flickers of lifesteal could be felt from this. He
clearly wasn’t gonna kill the tree with punches like these, but it was enough to
tell that he was actually doing some damage.

His talent felt good to use. Really good. At first, that wasn’t something he
actively noticed, but now he realized it was kind of addicting. As he acclimated to
the pain in his hands, his punches grew ever stronger, seeking more life from the
unmoving plant.

More. He wanted more. Suddenly, his left fist landed close to the hardest he could
punch, and he felt something crack.

Mark’s head was cluttered with thoughts of all that happened today as he made his
way off the floating carriage and toward the platform that would take him up to his
home island.

He didn’t know why he went out of his way to help Freddy like that. It was the
right thing to do, sure, but getting personally involved with a guest on Madame’s
show… He would be fine, he thought. He hoped.

It was hard to ignore the suffering of someone his age. People were like that. All
you needed was one thing in common and—

“Mr. Afronte?” a somewhat pretentious voice came from behind, and he turned to face
it.

A slick, gray-suited, short man with side-combed hair gelled to high hell called
for him, and he already knew this person was here to sell him something. Usually,
he would just ignore him, but this was potentially problematic given that the man
somehow knew his name.

He’d hear him out, if anything, to see whether he should report him to the
authorities.
“I’m so glad to have run into you,” the man said, acting familiar. “I was just on
my way to your address.”

Well, that made things even worse.

“With all due respect, sir, I would like to know why you are stepping into contact
with me,” Mark said politely, but with enough edge to make anyone realize that it
was a little more than a veiled threat.

Anyone except this man, apparently. “Yes, yes, yes, I will get to that shortly.” He
pulled clearly decorative glasses out of his pocket and put them on, adjusting them
with his middle finger and pulling out some paper. “I’m a journalist, and I’d just
like to ask you a few questions.”

That somehow simultaneously made him more annoyed yet more relaxed. At least that
explained his sliminess and privacy intrusion. Now, it was time for this man to
berate him about his time at the academy and—

“At your new job, I believe you are working with a man named Freddy Stern. Is that
correct?”

17

IMMORTAL FREAK

Mark’s gaze was among the coldest he had ever given anyone. “With all due respect,
sir,” he said, keeping his back straight and maintaining eye contact. “I have no
interest in sharing my clients’ personal information. Have a good day,” he spat as
he turned around and continued walking over to the levitating platform.

“I’m not asking for much!” The man insisted, but Mark summarily ignored him. “You
have a sister, correct?”

His steps halted. He turned around with abject fury in his eyes.

The man saw this and rushed to defend himself. “No! No, no, God forbid, I’m not
insinuating anything! I merely wanted to give you a sugges—”

“Get out of my sight,” he spat. “This conversation is over.”

“She will go to the academy, right?”

“Why are you still talking?” he said, taking a few steps toward the man.

“I can help out!” the man replied, raising his arms in defense and taking a step
back.

“With what?” he fired.

“I have a few connections at the academy. I could make the acceptance process go a
bit more smoothly.”

“She’s alrea—” Mark started and halted, seeing no reason to disclose anything.
Without parting words, he turned around again and started walking away, showing no
intent to stop this time.

“It can get complicated, you know,” the man shouted. “You are never guaranteed a
spot at the academy until the semester begins.” But his words went ignored. “This
is your final chance,” he said, his voice turning slightly less slimy and annoying
and just a bit more serpentine.

Mark’s feet halted yet again, and he turned around once more, this time ready to
throw hands if the bastard didn’t shut up. But as he faced the journalist, he found
himself hesitating.

Something about him had changed.

Gone was the slightly hunched, weak asshole. In his stead stood someone who had
been playing a persona, and like a snake shedding its skin, his mask had been cast
away.

This was nothing but an attempt to plant doubt into Mark’s mind. And he knew better
than to fall for it. “As I already said,” he provided. “Have a good day.”

The man hadn’t stopped him then, merely nodding as he turned around and left.

The tiniest of shreds of worry wormed into his mind as he stepped on the levitating
platform, and he knew he would sleep poorly that night.

The sun was setting. Freddy was sprawled out on the forest floor, grime and filth
be damned. His entire body shook, and he still felt pain in his wrists.

Fatigue had settled deeply into his body. That day had been a rather educational
one.

First, he learned that his talent didn’t heal him from a lack of energy. Either
that or it had been too preoccupied with reconstructing his shattered finger, which
had taken him the better part of the day to put back together.

That was the first time he had ever broken a bone. Truly, if there was a stupid
idea championship—

No. Freddy cut that train of thought off. Because what he had achieved today wasn’t
just a stupid injury. It was victory. Over himself and… maybe not over the tree,
but still. It hurt so bad, but it hadn’t been unbearable. Could he do it again?
Hesitantly, but yes. He believed he could.

For that day, that was enough. Mainly because he wasn’t sure that his body could
properly recover the lost energy. He still had exercise to do tomorrow. Bloodshed
happily jumped into the bag again, having spent the entire day slaughtering the
vestiges scattered throughout the forest.

He could swear that it appeared slightly bigger than before. Maybe he shouldn’t let
it loose too often. If it turned into a spirit, that could spell trouble.

Frankly, the fact that it had defied his orders to stay in the storage room hung
heavily on his mind. As he watched the blood skeleton slowly make its way into the
bag he would carry it in, he couldn’t help but worry that his knowledge of this
construct was incomplete.

Something about it felt different from the myriad vestiges and remnants he had seen
scattered around this community. And, as he believed to be pretty understandable,
that made him scared shitless.

After leaving the Netherecho, he sighed and crumpled the bag, placing it into his
pocket. The bag was no heavier despite the remnant it was carrying. It shouldn’t
be.

The machete went to its regular hiding spot, and he went home, falling asleep
almost as soon as his face landed on the pillow.

Freddy sat beside Mark in the locker room, frowning. His trainer had just finished
retelling the story of the creepy journalist, leaving both of them with a bad taste
in their mouth. “Mark…” he started. “I really appreciate that you listened to me
and stayed, but—”

“No,” the man rejected him immediately. “I’m not gonna quit. It wouldn’t change
much at this point. Even if I leave, I’ll still likely get a few visits from prying
pricks. Besides,” he said as he got up, “it’s not a big deal anyway. Pestering
people is strictly in my community. Stepping into contact with someone once isn’t
illegal, but trying to intimidate residents or repeatedly harass them is frowned
upon, to say the least. I’ve already made the report, and that guy won’t be making
an appearance again.”

“Hmph,” Freddy scoffed. “That’s some fancy rules you got there.”

Mark shrugged with a sly smile. “What can I say? I would never catch a break from
all the women otherwise.”

“Oh, fuck off, you bastard,” he said, grinning.

The two of them proceeded to the gym, and Mark asked, “What did you do yesterday,
by the way?”

“Broke a finger,” he bragged.

“Huh?” the man blubbered. “You… You good?”

“Yeah, already healed. See?” he bragged as he lifted his hand. “Good as new.”

Mark shot him a strange look. “How does your talent even work? You don’t need to
share it if you—”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he said, briefly describing 1% Lifesteal.

“Damn…” Mark breathed out. “That’s honestly insane.”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, brimming with pride. “But it comes with a few caveats.”
“Like what?”

“Well, first, I doubt it will be much use in combat.”

Mark opened his mouth but paused to think about it before nodding slightly. “Yeah,
I can see that. For now, at least.”

Today, they did biceps and shoulders; this time, the green-eyed blonde trainer had
significantly less mercy to show.

“Mate,” Freddy spat. “What am I gonna do with that?” He pointed at the five-
kilogram dumbbells the man was handing him.

“Lift them over your head like this.” Mark demonstrated.

“Are you sure?” he asked cautiously. “That seems a bit heavier than most stuff
we’ve done.”

“Oh, come on, this is light as all hell. Besides, I had to ensure that you didn’t
injure yourself before. Now that I know that won’t be a problem…” He wiggled his
eyebrows.

“You’re kidding,” Freddy said with a deadpan expression.

“Nope,” Mark cheerfully denied, giving him a thumbs-up and flashing a cheeky grin.

“Are you allowed to do this?” he asked with a sneer. “What about the contract?”

“Depends,” Mark responded in kind. “Are you willing to remain injured just so that
I’ll lose my job?”

He clicked his tongue. “Just give me those, you bastard.”

The man cackled evilly. “Let’s see how hard you can go. This should be fun.”

It wasn’t fun at all. The man seemed to extract some sort of sick pleasure from
tormenting Freddy.

“Just one more,” Mark said as he lifted the barbell in a forward raise. “Okay, now
juuust one more.”

“You—kuh!” he groaned, blinking sweat out of his eyes. “You said that three times
already!”

“Okay, but this is seriously the last one,” Mark lied.

They continued the grueling workout, finishing with a run that left Freddy gasping
for breath. “Is this… Is this how it’s gonna be every time?” he asked, feeling
unsure that he would survive if things continued like this.

“Nope. It will be way harder,” Mark said, grinning at his miserable expression.
“I’m changing the schedule. We’ll cut it down to only four days. We’ll do push-
pull-legs, and add an extra day to wrap it up,” Mark said as he picked up his water
bottle and took a swig.

“What the fuck does any of that mean?”

“Push day will cover upper-body muscles that push things away from you. So, your
chest, front shoulders, traps, and triceps. Then we’ll do pull, which is back and
biceps. Leg day is self-explanatory. And we’ll add one day to train your core, work
on your neck, forearms, a few isolated muscles, and do a ton of cardio.”

“That seems fun,” he said sarcastically, gasping for breath.

“It will be,” Mark said, but not in a joking tone. “I mean it. Once you get into
it, exercise can get pretty addicting. The rush of adrenaline, endorphins, and the
feeling of personal growth and triumph. It’s some good stuff.”

Freddy wanted to shoot him a snarky retort, but he thought back to yesterday and
nodded. “Yeah. That actually does seem pretty fun.”

Freddy found himself in the forest again, this time with Mark at his side. He had
just finished his plant slaughter, and his trainer looked like he could barely
believe it. “That actually works? Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t the strongest
talent I’ve seen, not by a long shot, but it just seems… like this really shouldn’t
work.”

“I sure am glad it does, though,” he said.

“Now,” Mark barked as he adopted a more serious tone. “I can’t afford to be your
trainer 24/7, so you’d better do your best today. I will show you what proper
martial arts practice looks like. Do your best.”

As he had already assumed, martial arts practice was hard to do when you were by
yourself in the woods. Mark knew this quite well and did his best to teach him all
he could.

It came down to a lot of repetition. Mark promised to ensure that his muscles would
be trained well enough through what they’d do at the gym, so that left a ton of
technique.

Again, as was to be expected, without guidance or a partner, actually learning how

to fight was tricky business. It was akin to trying to learn piano without… well… a
piano. But that didn’t mean studying music theory or practicing your dexterity was
worthless.

From how to hold stances to how to switch between them; how to throw a punch to how
to launch a kick. Many athletic achievements served an essential purpose, like
doing a backflip, a headstand, climbing a tree quickly, landing a kick after a
quick spin, and so on.

And finally, he had to be flexible.

“Let me see your split,” Mark said.

Those words made him tense up, but he soon did one.

“That’s the best you can do?” the man asked, eyeing his legs with squinted eyes.
“We are gonna have to change that.”

Mark stepped forward and put his foot under Freddy’s, pushing it further.

“Ow! Dude, what the—”

“Forcing splits is incredibly stupid, and all that it will result in is an injury.
For normal people, that is. For you, though… You can take a shortcut.”

Freddy’s ass finally touched the ground as he did a full split, not even an hour
after they started. He was sweating profusely and did not look happy.

Mark had simply forced his legs apart, as wrong as that sounded, all the way until
it started hurting more than it should, and then told him to heal. Rinse and
repeat, and voila, full split acquired.

Although he did not like the experience, he had to admit that it was quite
satisfying to see such rapid progress.

“I think we should do your back next,” said Mark.

He contemplated running away.

After a few arduous hours and quite a few back, shoulder, elbow, knee, and just-
about-every-tendon-and-joint-in-the-body injuries later, Freddy was an impressively
flexible man. Anything from giving himself a handshake behind the back to some
freaky back bending to crossing his legs behind his head was entirely within his
abilities.

It felt damn liberating to achieve such an extensive range of movement, even if the
acquisition method had been quite dubious. Very painful, too.

Still, any “injury” Mark inflicted on him healed much faster than the stuff he had
inflicted upon himself, showcasing just how well-versed the young man was in
matters of the human body.

There was one thing he couldn’t ignore, however. “The results are plain to see,
yeah, but don’t you think you’ve been a bit way too fucking harsh to me today?” he
accused. Even as a favor, there was such a thing as taking it too damn far.

Mark shrank a bit upon hearing that and nodded meekly. “Yeah. I was. Sorry.”

Although he wanted to be angry at him, it was hard to do so with the results so

readily apparent. Not to mention that this was something the man was doing for his
sake. So rather than say anything, he sat on the ground a bit to the side of Mark
and waited.

“It isn’t okay, man,” Mark said. “This whole thing with that creepy shithead left
me in a bad place.”

“You think he’s gonna do something?”

“I don’t think he can. He shouldn’t be able to anyway. Maybe I’m just being
paranoid…”

He patted the man on his massive back, and with a slight and short-lived smile,
Mark nodded in gratitude. “Now,” he said as he got back up again. “We still have
quite a few things to cover.”

Freddy practically crawled from the hallway into his room. Showering after a day
like that was pretty up there with one of the most challenging things he’d done. He
had been so sure that he had healed perfectly, but the echoing aches let him know
that he would have to make extra sure that he was fully healed after a day like
this.

After all was done, he made a few conclusions.

Apparently, smashing his body against a tree was the right idea since an excellent
way to get tough was to repeatedly bludgeon yourself until you no longer felt it.
While successful backflips were cool, unsuccessful ones were agonizing, and
finally, he hoped that he was dropped on his head as a kid or something.

Why? Because his lack of coordination was so terrible that it better have been an
injury he could heal from. Mark hadn’t been enthusiastic about his prospects as a
martial artist, but, in the man’s own words—as long as he was alive, he could
afford to fail as catastrophically as was necessary for him to learn.

Although he had technically recovered from all that had been done to him, his
energy level was so low that he could eat a whole cow. After smashing a record-
breaking three full meals in the kitchen, exhaustion knocked him out before he
could even get off the chair.

Starting the day by arriving late would usually be a sign of poor discipline, but
on that day, it had been anything but. When Freddy woke up, the first thing he
realized was that he had greatly underestimated the state of his body.

He had been in so much agony that he could barely get out of bed. Thus, it hadn’t
been too hard to explain to Mark that he had to run to the woods and do some quick
eco-terrorism to put himself back into shape. Which was the right choice to make,
given that, on that day, his new schedule began.

For the second time, he was doing chest exercises, and this time, Mark told him to
just lift the barbell on its own. That was a tall demand since he had done two
three-kilogram dumbbells last time. The barbell was marked “20kg”—nearly thrice as
heavy as his previous record.

“Are you sure I can do this?” he asked Mark cautiously.

“Just trust me. I’ll spot you.”

“Okay, then.”

He was instructed on how to grip the barbell, and with a few deep breaths, arching
his back, and firmly planting his feet, he pushed. The barbell lifted off the rack
surprisingly easily, and he nearly dropped it from how much he overcompensated for
its weight. It was still hefty, and the last few reps took much effort but not
nearly as much as he expected they would.
He finished a full eight reps and put it back on the rack, nearly exploding with
excitement. “That was so easy!”

“You’d better cherish this, boy,” Mark said in a weird accent. “Beginner growth is
a precious thing, indeed.”

“What are you,” he asked, “some sort of kung fu master?”

“Hmm, yes, you seek a lashing, I see?”

“No, Master,” he replied, putting his fist into his palm.

They both chuckled at each other’s antics.

Freddy looked up again. “Seriously though, am I gonna get thrice as strong every
time I work out?”

Mark scoffed at that. “Sedentary muscles go into a sort of hibernation. If you

don’t need them, your body doesn’t want to spend unnecessary resources on
maintaining them. Merely making the flip from inactive to active makes a huge
difference, and I suspect your talent might have sped that process along.”

Sped that process along, indeed. But it felt like there was more to it than that.

His eyes slid down his forearm as he felt… weird. His body felt light. Usually,
moving hurt. Straining his muscles felt uncomfortable in a way that he hadn’t
recognized until that moment when he found that feeling suddenly absent.

They proceeded with the rest of the workout. It was some of the most fun he had
ever had. He felt like an entirely different person. No longer did some of the
absurd weights people were lifting around him seem like an impossible
accomplishment.

He usually avoided looking at his body since he felt a little ashamed of it, but he
couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of himself in a mirror in the locker room. His
scars were gone. His shoulders were a bit less bony, and his torso was no longer
just a flat, saggy surface of sickly white.

What stood in that reflection was a somewhat skinny man. But he was full of life,
flushed red with light reflecting off his sweat-drenched body. And there were just
the faintest hints of strength beginning to appear.

Mark had instructed Freddy to exercise shirtless and bare-footed, wearing only
skimpy shorts. Primarily so that he’d get some of that precious vitamin D and
expose himself to the elements.

While his barely dressed form wasn’t a problem, not having shoes was an utter pain
in the ass.

“Ow, fuck my life!” For the twentieth time that day, he stepped into something
sharp in the grass and injured the delicate bottom of his foot. Just standing was
tricky with how soft his feet were, and his compromised footing ruined nearly
everything else. He wouldn’t permit that for long, though.
He repeatedly kicked the harsh bark with the bottom of his foot, healing it
whenever it started to bleed. It didn’t develop the toughness he wanted even after
hours of doing so, but merely acclimating to the pain was enough to put it out of
his mind.

He fell over many times. He landed many awkward strikes on the tree. He failed to
maintain a stance as long as he should.

But any time he failed, he took a deep breath, healed if needed, and continued to
work.

Toward the end of the day, he sat in a spot where he specifically instructed
Bloodshed to gather water-affinity wisps. The obedient remnant had done its job,
creating an impressive cloud of water-affinity ether.

When he meditated, the storm of wisps flooded his soul, pushing him into too much
pain to handle almost immediately. But compared to the drop of dew off a blade of
grass he’d received so far, this session felt like he’d drank a full glass of
water.

Freddy got up, walking over to a tree. He was finally confident enough to use
Flowing Strike on a target. It probably wasn’t going to be pretty. He fully
expected to break a finger again, so he would use his left arm.

Getting into the pose, he pulled from the ether shell in his soul, and essence
flowed through it, forming a series of waves that traveled through his blood. The
water in his body bounced from one end to the other, gradually losing momentum with
every cycle. He felt it reaching his fingertips, and he clenched his fist.

Now, the momentum gathered in his entire hand. He pulled it back, feeling the shift
in the flow in his body. Timing the punch perfectly would be challenging, but as
long as he ensured that the momentum served to add force to his strike rather than
take it away, he would be satisfied.

It was hard to keep track of the sensation in his body, so he closed his eyes and
focused.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Like the chimes of a bell, the tips of his fingers reverberated
with every change in momentum. Until finally…

Now!

His eyes shot open, and his fist flew forward, carrying the full force of the water
in his body; just as the strike landed, so did the wave catch up, almost perfectly
synchronizing the ability with his punch.

The burst of pressure crushed his knuckles, blew his nails off his fingers, and
instantly turned his entire hand purple. His elbow hurt like hell, and his shoulder
seemed to be dislocated. He wailed with gritted teeth, bewildered at how severely
that damaged him.

The rest of his day was spent frantically smashing plants, and by the time night
arrived, he was still busy cleaving through the grass. It took far too long to
recover from this injury, and he now knew that severe damage could easily cost him
an entire day.

But the fear of that wasn’t as prevalent as he expected it would be. For the point
of impact where he landed his punch…
Had left a slight, fist-shaped mark on the tree.

Despite eating a large breakfast, Freddy was still starving as he finished the
pull-day workout. On his trip home, he ate a large lunch and even packed some food
to take to the woods.

He went through his routine, focusing on all the advice Mark had given him. He used
Flowing Strike, and then, following along with the momentum, he merely sought the
moves that best complemented that flow, swinging his limbs at empty air. Large,
full-body movements, like a tsunami falling on his enemies, seemed the best for
allowing the technique to shine and felt the most natural to use.

Any of the fancier moves were utterly beyond him, and until he understood martial
arts well enough, he’d stick to the basics.

It didn’t take that long for his essence to run out, and when it did, he noticed
something alarming. His hands and feet were blue. That was where the momentum
concentrated, so it was natural that his weak capillaries and veins couldn’t keep
it contained.

Usually, this was where Ethereal Mercy kicked in. But the problem was that he had
already been doing this for a while. And he was starting to lose feeling in his
extremities.

Given that this was probably, most likely, definitely a goddamn emergency, he
hurriedly worked to heal it.

The rest of the day was spent holding stances, hitting trees, and working on
maintaining his flexibility.

The next day went smoothly, but his appetite grew so voracious that it was
beginning to hinder his schedule. He snuck into the locker room four times to get a
snack, using the excuse that he needed to use the toilet. And once, he wasn’t even
lying. His stomach rumbled like a wild animal, and the call of nature couldn’t be
ignored.

For the second half of the day, yet again, he worked on his Flowing Strike; this
time, his extremities were less bruised.

The fourth day was by far the least fun since it mainly focused on cardio. The
hunger was so bad that he considered drinking raw oil to get his calories. And when
he stepped into the locker room and took his shirt off, it wasn’t hard to tell why
he felt like this.

The fat on his body was vanishing rapidly. Even though his muscles hadn’t grown
that much, his physique had utterly transformed in just a couple of days. The
surface of his body was shredded, and he started worrying that something was off.
And so was Mark. “Wow. Well, that takes the cake as the most extreme transformation
I’ve ever seen. Are you eating anything?”

“Dude, I’ve been doing nothing but eating,” he shot back. “But I don’t stop feeling
hungry.”

“Then tell me,” Mark started with a flat look. “How are your bowel movements?”

He winced at that question and stuttered, “Th-They have been… explosive.”

Mark sighed. “Yeah, as I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just because you’re eating enough doesn’t mean your body is digesting enough,”
Mark clarified. “You’ve changed your lifestyle habits drastically in less than two
weeks, and now your body is struggling to keep up. You’re probably only absorbing a
tiny portion of the calories you take in, and that’s probably why you’ve been
losing so much weight.”

“I don’t get it, though,” he said. “Shouldn’t my talent be dealing with that?”

“Somewhat…?” Mark said as if he wasn’t sure himself. “It probably is staving away
more serious side effects. But the thing is, right, your body’s ability to absorb
the food you consume is like your muscle size. Even supreme-quality healing can’t
help you with small muscles. In the same vein, it can’t undo that your body isn’t
used to taking in so much food and spending so many calories.”

“I see…”

That day, Mark told Freddy to rest and take it easy. He didn’t fully comply. First,
he went to the woods. Then, he ate a small amount of food and used his body
tempering technique to aid his blood in getting all those nutrients to his cells.
And finally, he swung his machete around to help recover his body from its current
state. Rinse and repeat.

The rest of the small breaks were spent gathering, and he went home a little early.

After all, tomorrow morning was the first arranged check-up with his doctor.

“…that’s why I suspect that the food I consumed is somehow triggering my talent,”
Freddy finished his bullshit excuse. He was lying on a bed in the clinic, having
just undergone a physical examination, and, naturally, explaining his drastic
change hadn’t been easy.

He had provided the doctor with an explanation that involved his talent triggering
whenever he ate meat or fruit, which was only half a lie since vegetables and
fruits, if eaten raw, actually did trigger his talent.

The doctor nodded. “I believe there is a whole collection of possible ways your
talent could be triggering without you being able to tell, and that isn’t an
impossible explanation.” Then, the doctor smiled a bit. “Although, that suits me
quite fine. It could eliminate the side effects of your treatment, and even if it
doesn’t, it could make it less necessary. You’re already well on your way to
looking good enough even without it.”

Freddy lit up upon hearing that, but the doctor’s following statement quenched his
excitement almost instantly. “You’re stable enough for us to begin. We’ll do one
dose tomorrow and then see where to take it from there four weeks from now.”

Dr. Garfield watched the young man leave the office. The instant Mr. Stern was out
of the room, he paled.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “What the hell is that talent!?” he asked as he

scratched his scalp. “This isn’t gonna work. If he keeps doing whatever he’s doing,
it won’t be long before his heart defect is entirely gone,” he said, biting his
nails.

“I have to act immediately.”

After the doctor’s appointment, Freddy went to the gym and explained his situation
to Mark. The young man simply shrugged. “Relax. Supreme-quality healing works on
the endocrine system. If it does any damage to you, you should be able to recover
just fine.”

…should be able to…

…could possibly eliminate…

It was the way both Mark and the doctor phrased it that made him hesitate. Still,
for that day, he swallowed his anxiety and did his best. It was push day again, and
he outdid himself compared to the last time. Then, yet again, he had a nature
hater’s idea of a picnic in the woods.

The next day, they did another push day, and when Mark headed home to see his
family, Freddy headed to his meeting with the doctor.

Mark’s head was filled with thoughts of wanting to see his family immediately. His
kind little sister, his patient mother, and his hard-working father. But for some
reason, his mind was swimming with dark thoughts. The anxiety had been ever-present
these past few days, and if it continued, he’d be joining Freddy in the soft-stool
club soon enough.

As he stepped onto his home island, he first noticed that their balcony was docked
to the building. Although that was nothing strange, not seeing his sister on it
made him hurry just a bit for some reason.

He stepped into the building. Went up the elevator. He stopped before the entrance
to his apartment, unlocked it, and then gently opened the door.
Freddy waited in the well-illuminated room, pants off and lying on the firm bed.
His heart was beating out of his chest, and he couldn’t help but glance at the door
every few seconds.

Once the knob turned, he winced a bit, and the doctor stepped into the room
carrying a small box. “Be there with you in a second, Mr. Stern. Please breathe
slowly and relax.”

The box cracked open, and the man pulled out a gigantic syringe. He kept trying to
get his breathing under control, but the substance within did not look like
something he wanted in his body. Hell, just looking at it made him feel… scared. A
lot more so than he should be.

As the doctor walked toward him, every subsequent step grew slower.

“Are… Are you all right, Doctor?” he asked.

The man’s hands shook profusely, and he dropped the syringe. It fell to the ground
and shattered as the doctor’s arms limply hung to his sides. For some reason, he
started cackling nervously, and his body was bathed in sweat within seconds.

“How did she find out…?” he wondered.

Suddenly, the door cracked open, and a woman stepped inside. A tiny black hat
decorated her cerulean hair, which flowed down her back in rippling curls, and she
donned a full gray suit complemented by her white high heels.

The doctor took a few shaky steps back as he did his best to greet her, “L-Lady…
Madame… How…?”

The moment Mark pushed the doors open, his breath caught. His apartment seemed
empty. The lights were off, the shades were down, and there was no welcoming smell
of food. Nobody had made lunch today.

His steps hurriedly carried him forward, moving from one empty room to another
until, finally—

His mother appeared in one of the hallways, standing awkwardly.

“Mom!” he yelled as he rushed to hug her.

She jumped in fright and hugged him back, confused about why he acted like this.
“Are you okay, Mark?”

“I’m—Hahaha,” he laughed, pushing his tears down. “I was just so… I don’t know, I
had a bad feeling coming here, and I…” Suddenly, he realized something. There were
faint signs of crying in his mother’s eyes, and they were standing right outside
his sister’s room…

Where sobs echoed from within.

“What is…? Haha…” Mark chuckled anxiously. “Is she just…”

Only when she handed it to him did he notice the still-moist piece of paper in his
mother’s hands.

It started with the words, “We apologize for the sudden correction…” and as soon as
he read them, his limbs went numb, and all color drained from the already-bleak
world around him.

The doctor took unstable steps back, stumbling into a cabinet as Madame approached
him. “Stay—Stay away from me!” he yelled.

Freddy was already getting off the bed, and as Madame stepped right before the man,
he grabbed scissors off the shelf to his side and swung them at the tall woman, who
simply took the sharp blow with her open palm, allowing the object to stab right
through it.

“What the fuck!?” Freddy exclaimed as he stumbled back, unsure of whether he should
or even could run away.

Suddenly, the doctor’s hand began to morph into a gross, slimy mass of flesh, a
transformation that traveled up his arm and down his torso, turning his entire body
into a disgusting, pulsating biomass.

“What the fuck!?” he screamed again. “Holy shit, you crazy—” His knees buckled, and
he fell over to the ground.

With a swift thrust, Madame bent down and ripped the man’s still-beating heart out
of what had once been his body. The pulsing biomass froze and shrank as if all life
had been drained out of it.

Her hand that had been stabbed through wasn’t even injured.

She turned slowly to face Freddy, who was rapidly crawling away.

The wall appeared behind him, and he slammed his body into it, realizing he was out
of room. But Madame was approaching him.

“Wh-Wh-Why!? Why did you do that!?” he yelled.

Rather than say anything, she stepped forward, crouching and sitting in his lap,
pressing her index finger to his lips. “Shhhhh…” she shushed him as she ripped his
shirt off, using it to wrap the sloshing organ into a bloody bag. “You’re lucky
that I caught him,” she said, her voice even softer than usual. “He was about to
kill you,” she declared, accenting the word kill with a tightening of the
improvised knot on the bag she made out of his now-bloody shirt.

“K-Kill me!?”

“Slow-acting, untraceable poison. Three weeks at most, and poof. Mysterious heart
attack, judged to be due to your heart defect.”

Freddy’s heart was pounding, and his breathing was erratic. He couldn’t bear to
look Madame in the eyes, but she cupped his chin with her fingers, and his body,
entirely on its own, moved to face her in direct eye contact.
“He would have gotten away with it so easily,” she continued, “but your talent
scared him, so he got sloppy. Shame.” Suddenly, she pulled a strange pill from
somewhere and forced it into his mouth. “Did you know that oral steroid consumption
is dangerous? For you, however, there is no such risk. You little immortal freak,”
she said with a finger tap on his nose.

He didn’t want to swallow the pill, but his throat muscles moved independently,
pushing the drug down.

“Good boy,” she said, handing him the heart still sloshing in the makeshift bag. “A
present for your trainer…

“To ensure that he, too, doesn’t suddenly become an idiot.”

18

ABOVE THE MORTAL PEAK

Two young men sat in the kitchen, their expressions tired and lost. A human-heart-
shaped blob of flesh pulsed eerily on the table between them—the dead doctor’s
heart was still beating.

It was already nearly noon, and finally, they were both finished saying what needed
to be said, having struggled greatly against the ever-present feeling of dread.
Although there was a sense of camaraderie in their mutual plight, the details of
each other’s tales had only worsened the storm of emotions brewing in their chests.

Freddy shared the tale of having nearly been killed for reasons he didn’t even
understand, and Mark explained how the academy had retroactively rejected his
sister’s scholarship—his father having decided to pay for the tuition himself,
putting their family in dire financial straits.

The man who had contacted Mark was definitely after more than a “couple of
questions.” And it was likely that whoever was behind that person had also bribed
the doctor.

The still-living organ on the table between them was a brutal warning to Mark: if
he was approached again, he was to make the same choice—or else.

Ringing interrupted the silence, and Freddy hesitantly got up to open the door.

Matt, the assistant, greeted him and handed him a medium-sized box.

His heart nearly burst out of his chest as he opened it, fully expecting a severed
head in there or something of the sort, but it was just a collection of pill boxes.
He thanked the man, closed the door, and returned to the table to sit with the
young man.
The list of side effects attached to any of the drugs was so vast that he wondered
whether his talent could outpace them before he dropped dead.

Mark somewhat hesitantly pointed at the heart on the table. “While that thing is a
threat to me, it’s also probably meant as a gift for you.”

“How nice of her,” he spat with a lethargic chuckle. “She must be in love with me.”

Mark scoffed a bit, unable to muster a laugh at the joke. “I am vaguely familiar
with what that is, and while it is gruesome… it will help you with your talent.”

The insinuation behind that would usually make him want to vomit, but his emotions
felt bleached and weak after all that had happened.

At Mark’s instruction, he stabbed a kitchen knife into the mass of flesh. He felt a
rush of vitality unlike any he had experienced so far, and once he extracted the
blade, the small gash sealed almost instantly, bleeding not a single drop. As long
as he supplied it with raw meat so it could feed and maintain itself, the heart
could recover from anything he did to it.

It was, more or less, a health battery.

“It isn’t going to last forever,” Mark said, “but it will stay alive for at least
another three months.”

He chuckled a bit at that. “Whose heart do you think she’ll give me next?”

Finally mustering a tired laugh, Mark retorted, “Hopefully not mine.”

Mark was contractually obligated to train Freddy every day, but he had total
control over the schedule.

The gym’s second floor was one they hadn’t yet visited, as it didn’t have much use
for them. Under the excuse that Mark had a few things to show him, they got around
to hitting things.

The thuds echoing from the man’s punches made Freddy’s heart tense, and his small
fist-shaped dent on the tree no longer looked like anything worth noting.

Mark took a stance and addressed him, “If you’re basing your martial arts off of
Flowing Strike, then you’ll have to work on big, arching moves with a lot of weight
behind them.” He pulled his fist back slightly over his head and readied a strike.
The movement that carried most of his body weight ended with the punch landing on
the target and sending a resounding thud through the ground, a sensation that got a
few other men in the room to sheepishly distance themselves from the blonde man.

“Like this,” Mark said as he followed up with a kick, causing a similar thing to
happen.

Although Mark smiled throughout the demonstration, the joy didn’t reach his eyes.
Freddy found himself in the forest, punching and kicking as hard as he could.
Although it still hurt when he landed an awkward strike, severe injuries from
something like this were becoming a thing of the past.

The structure of his hand was changing. His feet no longer looked the same either.
And the rest of his body was slowly beginning to morph.

Every time he took the time to eat, he ended up salting his meal with his tears.
Although he wasn’t letting it hinder his training, he couldn’t stop crying.

He wasn’t to blame for this.

So why?

Why did he feel like what happened to Mark was entirely his fault?

He wasn’t tone-deaf enough to try and apologize, and he wasn’t naive enough to
think he could help—but he had decided. If he ever got the opportunity to, he would
find a way to repay the man.

After getting the tears and aggression out of his system, he finally turned around
and spoke. “I know you’re there,” he said to no one in particular. “Madame is
clearly keeping an eye on me, so it’s only natural that someone would be watching
me from the shadows. You must be incredibly bored, though.

“Why don’t you reveal yourself instead? I’m sure it isn’t all that fun just sitting
behind a tree somewhere, twiddling your thumbs. Or maybe you’re dramatically
peeling an apple. I don’t mind having an audience, but having someone to talk to
while I train would be nice.”

Silence.

Well, it was only natural. He was a 100 percent confident that someone was
observing him, and while that didn’t make him feel comfortable, it did make him
feel safe, at least.

For the entirety of that day, he talked out loud, trying to bait his observer into
the light. Whoever was watching him must have been a good fighter, no? In that
case, he could possibly extract some advice. And he wasn’t afraid to get annoying.

He had no idea what was happening. But it seemed that he had become a pawn in a
game played by people far more powerful than him. Did he even stand a chance at
protecting himself? The thought made him anxious.

But he knew one thing for certain—Madame was trying to protect him. At least for
the time being.

Come hell or high water, there was no excuse not to make her job at least a little
easier.

For the whole day, he carried a one-sided conversation. The day after, he did the
same thing. And the next day as well. But there was no reply, so either nobody was
observing him or, the more likely scenario, they just had no reason to reveal
themselves.
As the days marched onward, Freddy’s body changed drastically, visibly growing each
day he looked at himself. It didn’t take long for his trainer to alter their
schedule again; this time, he skipped to doing full body every day.

It didn’t really matter how many muscle groups they did. He could always perfectly
recover by the time he returned the next day.

At first, he was hesitant to consume the drugs, but as he read more about supreme-
quality healing, he realized something quite reassuring. Supreme-quality healing
had something of a crucial flaw: it was too dilute. It was difficult to contain and
focus, meaning it always healed everything it could in a person’s body.

This was a flaw because an old scar on one’s leg was clearly less of a priority
than a missing limb, but the energy would be split between them with little
discrimination. Everyone’s body had damage scattered throughout it. This
drastically diluted the effect of supreme-quality healing since it simply had too
many things to do.

This was why he felt his talent was too slow at the start. But now? He finally
realized why Madame called him an immortal freak. Because he was immortal. He had
been healed of all sequelae in his body, including the type of micro-damage
responsible for aging.

This was a pretty damn neat bonus—but it wasn’t anything special.

Death-affinity archhumans got the Spark of Undeath tempering technique at their

first star; life-affinity archhumans also didn’t age at three stars and above; even
for other affinities, high-class healers could heal aging away as if it were no
different than any other ordinary ailment.

Few archs died from natural causes. But they died nonetheless.

Putting the implications of possible eternal life aside, not only did this mean
that he healed much faster now since there was less to heal from, but it also meant
that there was practically no danger when he consumed steroids. None whatsoever. On
top of having no hidden defects that could put him at risk of sudden death, the
balance of hormones itself was effortless to re-establish. Perhaps to a fault,
even.

He gulped down a single pill from every drug he had the moment he returned from all
the training since overnight, when he was sleeping, was the only time they could do
their job. The instant he stabbed the health bank, his healing would eradicate
their presence in his body near-instantly.

For a while, he chose to temporarily pause his martial arts training for an
experiment.

It took him roughly three hours to finish a full-body workout. With a half-hour jog
to his apartment and back, where he stabbed the heart until he fully recovered and
ate a large meal, he could be back and simply continue his training.

Granted, Mark was no longer there, but he was already proficient enough at all the
exercises that he at least wasn’t at risk of hurting himself when he was alone. And
even if he did hurt himself, well… who cared?

He pushed himself to his absolute maximum for a while and did four daily workouts.
Several people approached him to ask whether he had a talent that allowed him to do
this or if he was just trying to kill himself, but he reassured them that it was
fine.
Steve, the employee, was the most concerned, and he actually tried banning him from
doing this, fearing for his life. Given that he almost instantly retracted the ban
and appeared vaguely anxious the day after, it was safe to presume that either
Madame or one of her assistants gave him a talking-to.

Eventually, he dropped the experiment. The results were impressive, but they
weren’t four times more impressive than just a single workout a day. There seemed
to be a biological limitation to it that couldn’t be cheated through his talent, at
least not any longer.

After around a month, his body weight reached 78 kg, an increase of almost twenty
from his previous 59. He wasn’t massive by any means, but he was lean, so most of
that mass was in muscle.

He could bench 132.5 kg, squat 236,5 kg, and deadlift 262 kg. At first, almost
every time he exercised, he could increase the weight by several kilograms and
still power through it, with the difference being particularly drastic after a
night of rest. As time went on, the difference he could reasonably lift kept
shrinking further until all he could do was add two tiny 0.25 kg plates. If even
that.

It didn’t take him long to acquire near-elite mortal human strength and physique,
but the growth had plateaued too hard. He wondered whether he had broken any
records with how quickly he grew, but knowing how ridiculous some talents were, he
wouldn’t bet on it.

He stood before the mirror in the locker room, observing the changes to his body.
It was ridiculously shredded, with body fat way below what should be possible by
normal standards. It was to the point where he wondered if anything less would
actually count as damage and be healed by his talent.

His skin was tan and healthy, his hair had a rich, hydrated sheen to it, and his
eyes were clear as day.

He was extremely pleased with how he had grown, but now it was finally time. After
around a month, he reached close enough to what could be called peak mortal human
performance.

Now, he was going to transcend it.

Another week passed, and this time, he was almost entirely focused on his martial
arts.

Fueled by Flowing Strike, a wide swing landed on the tree, shaking it a bit and
causing the slightest of cracks to appear. Then a kick, and finally a straight.

Nearly all the bark had been stripped off the lowest two meters of the tree he
picked as his victim, and it appeared visibly battered, with even some pieces
breaking off. It wasn’t enough to make the plant fall over—at least not yet—but it
was enough to show just how much work he’d put in.

He wiped some sweat off his brow, then walked over to the biomass that had once
resembled a heart. It had healed and grown so much that it no longer appeared like
anything but a freaky, squirming pile of flesh. It was no longer beating, either.
A couple of minutes of stabbing later, he was in more or less perfect physical
condition.

He walked over to the small pond in the woods and sat next to it, but rather than
start meditating, he raised his hand over the water. Essence flowed from his palm
with a blue light, pouring into the water, and he flexed. The water raised just
slightly before dropping, leaving a disturbed surface behind.

Several attempts later, Freddy finally extracted a tiny orb from the water. His
excitement instantly collapsed the round structure, but that wasn’t enough to
hinder his reaction.

“I did it!” he exclaimed, thrilled at his success.

While his talent was the perfect cheat for boosting his physical growth, he had no
such advantage with his essence control. Mark said he was somewhat talented for
essence control but wasn’t a prodigy.

And now, for the first time, he managed to do something other than just disturb the
water.

He took a moment to enter his ethercosm and observe the result of his efforts.

Four distinct blue specks flickered around his star, which had grown considerably
in the last month. The ether shell for Flowing Strike was by far the brightest. But
there were several other, much fainter specks flickering in the darkness. He
focused on one of them, and it appeared before him.

It looked like a small mass of morphing symbols. It was the absolute start of the
formation of an ether shell. If Freddy supplied it with a few water wisps, it would
crystallize, and he would acquire another spell.

It would only be capable of briefly materializing an unstable, floating drop of

water. As his control grew finer and more stable, he could form the water more
liberally, and every specific action he made would contribute to the formation of
another ether shell.

So there was only one thing left to do. He focused on the concept of water, an idea
he had grown much more intimate with through all his meditation, and attracted
water wisps into his soul. This time, instead of allowing them to enter his star,
he moved them to the fledgling shell before him.

They seeped into it without any problem, and the ether shell formed with what
looked like a miniature supernova of water droplets. Three blue symbols that
represented concepts related to water wrapped around an invisible ball, creating a
cage of runes. It was far less complex than any of the other shells he had.

Once done, he left his ethercosm, lifted his hand, and materialized a tiny speck of
water, which promptly fell to the ground and disappeared.

This was a fundamental spell for water archs. The only reason he wasn’t given a
scroll for it was that he had to make it himself. It needed to be as compatible
with the individual as possible.

It was the Create Water spell. It formed water out of essence without any fancy
effects. Naturally, the fake water would disappear, but while there, it was the
perfect target for working on one’s essence control and forming other ether shells.
The reason why he had to make this ability himself was simple—as he had created it
through his essence manipulation, the water would be most optimal for manipulating
with his essence.

He compared the effects of Create Water to Squirt, and the difference was readily
apparent. Create Water was utterly without form, while Squirt directed the water in
a thin stream.

But while Squirt was impossible to control, Create Water was entirely at his mercy.
Or, rather, his competence, but he didn’t have much of that.

He postponed a critical shopping trip to focus all his essence on achieving this.
Now that he was finally done, excitement flowed through his veins.

For a while already, his Water Body tempering technique had been utterly useless.
Why? Because the water in his body was already in perfect balance. In fact, the
tempering technique only ruined it now. It was more than safe to say that he almost
definitely wouldn’t need this ability in the future, so there was only one thing to
do.

He got up, walked home, and donned less filthy clothing. Then he headed to the
library.

“Hello, sir,” the clerk greeted him. “Do you require assistance?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “I’d like to buy the most dangerous water-affinity tempering
technique you have.”

19

EXPIRED

Freddy was back in the woods, holding two ether scrolls. Both of them were for
tempering techniques. The first was named Abyssal Depths. And the second was named
Hundred Wet Hells.

This time, he didn’t bother hiding his purchase.

While it was true that producing an ability by oneself was most optimal, this
wasn’t the case for tempering techniques. Not only were the more complex ones too
difficult and time-consuming to create, but few tempering techniques aimed to be
appropriate for the user’s body.

No, it was more accurate to say that tempering techniques aimed to hurt the user to
temper them, just like when a hammer came down on hot steel to forge it. While he
was thrilled to have found Hundred Wet Hells, even if it cost him most of his
savings, the Abyssal Depths tempering technique was a spur-of-the-moment decision.

He had initially aimed to find Flowing River, or rather, the technique considered
the most optimal to use in conjunction with Flowing Strike.

What changed his mind was… well… he lived by the words “most simple is likely
best.” But in this case, the path wasn’t necessarily the best. It was just the most
well-known.

Flowing River resulted in a body with designated water streams that supported
Flowing Strike. On the other hand, Abyssal Depths simply compressed water into the
user’s body.

The difference was simple: while Flowing River considerably lessened the backlash
of using Flowing Strike, Abyssal Depths amplified it—but it also boosted the power.
Drastically.

Greater water density naturally resulted in far more momentum. Usually, this would
mean that he was on the fast track to, yet again, burst his limbs like fragile
ketchup packets.

This was where Hundred Wet Hells came in and why he gambled with the Abyssal Depths
and Flowing Strike combo. There was another reason, too—Abyssal Depths was one of
the rare few tempering techniques that could be reversed. So it wasn’t like he
couldn’t jump ship and switch to Flowing River. It would just be a moderate waste
of time and money.

According to Mark, there was a rivalry between earth-affinity and water-affinity

archs. Objectively speaking, when it came to external toughness, earth was king.
But when it came to internal toughness, water was the undefeatable champion.

Hundred Wet Hells and tempering techniques like it were the primary reasons why
this was the case. But even among such techniques, Hundred Wet Hells was the most
extreme. Not only had it been costly, but he had to sign a waiver disclosing that
he understood the risks of using it before being allowed to buy it.

As far as internal toughness was concerned, it would be the only tempering

technique he needed. If he could handle using it, that was.

Unceremoniously, he cracked open the ether scroll. The runes imbued within graced
his eyes, and he felt their power pulse into his spirit, gradually constructing the
basis of the ether shell. Not even seconds later, the once-radiant runes faded into
vague burn marks on the paper, and, with a large splash, the shell in his soul had
formed.

He repeated the same thing with the other scroll and was finally ready. Freddy
fetched the large pile of flesh that had grown considerably and put it into his
lap, holding the knife close to the surface of the biomass.

With a deep breath, he initiated Hundred Wet Hells…

And instantly lost consciousness.

In the biggest building in the 24th district, there was a large room. The walls,
floor, and ceiling were lined with rectangular, dark metallic plates, and right in
the center sat a heavily reinforced metal door, seemingly not connected to
anything.
Several people sat at the benches scattered around the room’s walls, all dressed to
delve into the passage behind the artificial barrier. With three shrill rings, the
door cracked open, and a large, armored man with a giant sword strapped to his back
walked out, dragging a massive bag behind him. His synthetic armor was camouflaged
with shades of green and yellow, and his bag shared the same colors.

Everyone who spotted him couldn’t help but shoot him a glance, but it wasn’t long
until he walked through the room of onlookers, summarily ignoring all of them.
Stepping into a room adjacent to the one holding the passage, he walked over to a
clerk and dropped the massive bag on the table.

The moment he released his grip on his loot, he removed his helmet, revealing the
beautiful wheat-blonde hair and shimmering verdant eyes hidden beneath, shining
with the bright warmth of a fall pasture.

Mark smiled politely at the woman, nodding at the bag of monster parts he had
collected.

The clerk, a middle-aged woman with short, black hair, gave him a slip, slapped a
tag on the bag, and picked it up as if it weighed nothing, dragging it to a room in
the back.

He walked to a changing room, put on his regular clothing, and went to the training
facility he had access to. In the back rooms of the gym, there was an elevator that
took him deep underground.

From highly specialized weight-lifting equipment to rooms full of golems and

animatronics he could spar with, it was a facility that would pass even the 25th
district quality checks. He was alone, so he started his training session without
any ceremony.

Dressing into his equipment and grabbing the massive practice sword, he entered the
sparring room and walked up to the tablet beside the entrance, selecting a single
opponent—an animatronic swordsman. Once he got ready, the door on the other side of
the room slid open, and his sparring partner walked out.

It was a primarily gray mannequin roughly shaped into an average-sized male adult.
This was merely the warm-up, and it didn’t take him long to thoroughly disarm the
puppet and give it a good slash across the chest. Wherever his weapon made contact,
the color of the animatronic’s surface changed, with yellow indicating light,
orange heavy, red critical, and black marking lethal damage.

His talent, Rebalanced Musculature, allowed him to wield large, two-handed weapons
with almost comical ease. Most of his smaller muscles were greatly strengthened,
and his entire body had a much wider effective range of movement.

He didn’t have to worry about damaging the equipment here, as it was made to
tolerate a whole load more pain than what he could dish out. So he promptly
selected two enemies on the tablet. It didn’t take long to finish the fight.

That felt like enough warm-up to skip straight to five opponents, a level he knew
he was comfortable with.

Three rushed at him in a wedge formation, while a fourth flanked him and a fifth
stalked from behind the frontline. Mark ran at the flanker, capitalizing on its
isolation to finish it before the others could reach him.

He swung an overhead strike that the animatronic blocked with its sword, causing
its shoulders and hands to light up yellow. A kick left an orange spot on its
torso, and given that it couldn’t retaliate in that state, it wasn’t hard to sneak
a thrust at its neck, leaving a black spot that finished the fight.

Suddenly, he heard a beep.

He turned around and spotted one of the mannequins frozen in place. Its blade
nearly touched his back, right around where it would have thrust through his heart
in a real fight. The others had also been deactivated, signaling his failure.

His eyes shot open. He couldn’t believe it. Kicking the frozen mannequin out of
frustration, he moved to another room that held punching bags.

After fifteen minutes of throwing furious strikes at the object before him and
yelling like a maniac, he finally ran out of essence.

He dropped to the floor nearby, sitting with one arm around his knees and clutching
his hair with a shaky hand.

Freddy’s eyes popped open not long after he was knocked out. His entire body hurt
like hell, and he instantly stabbed at the fleshy blob before him.

“Holy fuck, what the fuck was that!?”

He already knew that this tempering technique would be… troublesome, but he hadn’t
expected to get knocked out instantly.

Hundred Wet Hells was a tempering technique that basically turned all the water in
one’s body against them. Pretty much any way it could harm one from within was part
of the Hundred Wet Hells tempering process.

He likely got unlucky, and his first attempt touched something in his brain that it
probably shouldn’t have. Thanks to Ethereal Mercy, he was at no risk of dying from
this much, but it was still scary to see that it could knock him out before he
realized what happened.

It took a surprising number of stabs at the fleshy blob to eliminate all the pain
in his body, leaving him hesitant to try that again. Pain and discomfort had become
more commonplace recently, but that didn’t mean he could tolerate something like
this.

Still, he had walked into this one fully expecting to just toughen up and push
through it, and now his pride was absolutely not going to relent, even if he had to
suffer for his arrogance.

With a lot of hesitation, he triggered the ability again.

Perhaps getting knocked out was lucky, he thought, as the searing pain rapidly
spread through his body, forcing him to cancel the ability almost immediately. He
had thought that prolonged meditative gathering was a test of willpower. Compared
to this? It barely qualified.

It was akin to being boiled alive, but from within, and the urges to puke and
scratch every inch of his skin warred for priority. He couldn’t breathe, his vision
morphed into blurry blobs, and his hearing echoed with an intolerably loud sound of
sloshing tides.
Rapidly stabbing the flesh blob until the pain disappeared, he got a hold of
himself and breathed again.

He finally understood why he had to sign a waiver and provide confirmation that he
was legally an adult. It wasn’t hard to imagine hordes of overzealous teenagers
trying themselves against this torture method and getting themselves hurt.

Ironic that he was quick to judge the arrogant pricks who burned themselves by
getting this technique when it was hard to deny that he might have very well been
one of them.

The embarrassment of having to face the fact that he had thrown a fuck ton of money
away was enough to get him to at least try himself one more time.

This time, before he started using the technique, he was already stabbing the mass
of flesh. The instant he triggered it again, he kept his focus dead-locked on the
inpour of life force.

To his surprise, this actually created an unexpected result. While, yes, his veins
did feel like his blood was replaced by angry wasps and his head was indeed trying
to explode, the feeling his talent gave off was just enough of a distraction to
fight off the desire to cancel the ability. Not enough to not puke all over
himself, though.

Using his talent felt good. Really good. It was like a drug, and the sensation only
got more intense when contrasted with the agony he was living through. It wasn’t
uncommon for people to use… pharmaceutical aid, so to speak, to ease the pain of
tempering techniques, but that was a stupid idea and an excellent way to
permanently disfigure oneself or straight-up die.

But, given his drug of choice, he had no such concerns.

His perception of time was screwed sideways, and, to his surprise, his essence ran
out before his desire to stop could prevail.

While his talent had kept him going, it was most certainly not keeping up with all
the damage the technique had been causing, and it took him a good while of stabbing
and feeding the mass of flesh to return to full health.

It was only then that he could finally grin in excitement. Not that long ago, he
had wondered what kind of freak could torment themselves for power.

Now, he meditated to recover just a bit of his essence and approached a tree.
Flowing Strike flew out, smashing into the bark, shaking the tree, and leaving a
small dent. The impact was still there. The backlash didn’t go away.

But his grin widened nonetheless.

The difference was already noticeable.

The morning after, he was in the gym, continuing his routine. As expected, the
tempering hadn’t boosted his strength. It wasn’t designed to do that. Not directly,
at least. But with time, having a more durable body would allow him to exert more
strength without pain or discomfort.
For a while already, he had noticed that his trainer seemed… off. At first, it made
sense, given the situation with his family, and he wasn’t insensitive enough to
needlessly pry. But at that moment, as he observed the young man… there was
something off about him.

Occasionally, his gaze would drift away, and not how it did when someone was
distracted by thinking about something.

Indeed, he could recognize that look anywhere. He had seen it in a mirror numerous
times—those were the eyes of someone overworked and dead-tired.

He finished a set of deadlifts and walked over to Mark, snapping his fingers before
the blonde man’s face. “Hello? Wakey, wakey, sweetheart!”

“Huh?” Mark replied dumbfoundedly, his eyes slowly refocusing. “Oh, sorry… I was
just dozing off a bit.”

“Hmmm…” He gave the young man a good look and asked, “Are you delving into the
passage in the main building?” He had many reasons to suspect that Mark was doing
so, but he had been unwilling to ask about it.

The man nodded, wiping his right eye with the back of his hand. “Yeah,” he answered
unapologetically, apparently not intending to hide the fact. “Not gonna lie, it’s
been messing with my schedule a lot.”

“Why?” he asked.

Mark chuckled. “Because it’s damn exhausting, that’s why,” he spat, his fatigue at
least partially being pushed away by frustration. “I delve solo, so I have to do
everything myself. Scouting, carrying, fighting, dissecting, everything!” he
shouted, attracting a few gazes. He took that as a cue to calm down a bit. “It’s
just too much. And I can’t be sloppy, either, since there is always a risk that a
deviant will catch me off-guard.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said with a shake of his head. “I asked why you’re
delving into the passage!” he said, coming off as a bit more aggressive than
intended.

Mark scoffed at that.

Freddy shook his head. “Dude, you can’t do this to yourself.”

“Fred,” Mark started, gesturing with his arm. “I’m sorry to say this, and please
don’t get offended, but this is my personal business. I appreciate your concern,
but maybe keep it to yourself in the future, all right?”

“Aight, aight, dude, chill,” he placated, lifting his hands in mock defense. “I
didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

They continued their training, but not even half an hour passed until Freddy sighed
and opened his mouth again. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do next?”

Mark seemed surprised by the question. “Not… really… why do you ask?”

“Uhm…?” Freddy was about to ask but was so surprised that he couldn’t get his words
out. Did Mark seriously not realize it yet? Without saying anything, he merely
raised an arm and flexed his impressive biceps. “See these guns, boy?” Then he
jokingly kissed it and winked at Mark. “Your guidance has taken me a long way, but
I don’t think it will be needed much longer.”

“What… What are you saying?”

“I mean, realistically…” Freddy started but paused once he saw the expression on
Mark’s face.

The young man appeared stricken. He was shaking, and his eyes were staring at him
as if he were an executioner.

“Whoa!” Freddy said as he took a step forward. “Are you okay, dude?”

“S-Stay away from me!” Mark yelled as he took a few unstable steps back and then,
without warning, started running away.

“Wait!” Freddy yelled as he ran after him. “Damn, he’s fast!”

Mark appeared to be running back to their building, and despite being quite a bit
slower than him, Freddy was well aware of where the blonde man was going. Once he
reached Mark’s apartment, the first thing he noticed was that the doors weren’t
just open—

The young man had broken through them.

“What the fuck…!?” he whispered under his breath and walked in apprehensively,
worried about the constant sounds of banging coming from within.

He walked in on his trainer flipping a table and then kicking it into two pieces.
Then, with a few heavy breaths, he turned, glaring icy daggers at him. “This is
your fault.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, you maniac!?” he yelled.

“Shut up!” Mark screamed hysterically. “This is your fucking fault!” He walked over
to him, grabbed him by the collar, and threw him at a nearby wall, a smash that
would have seriously injured him had he not gotten so much tougher.

“What are you—” he tried to say.

“I said shut up!” Mark yelled. “You with your freak talent, your secrets… You’re to
blame for this!”

“Blame for what!?” he shot back.

“My family…” Mark said, hyperventilating and breaking into tears as he let go of
him and took shaky steps back. “My contract lasts for three months!” he yelled.
“You’re right; why would they renew it!? They’re gonna fucking fire me, and then
what!?” he shouted, clutching his heart and dropping to the ground. “I’m dead.
Madame is gonna kill me.”

“Okay, first, calm the hell down!”

Mark strangled his own throat with one hand and screamed through that, his voice
coming through as a rough whisper, “They haven’t contacted me yet! But once I lose
this job, they’ll come.” Then he grabbed his head, pulling it down into his knees.
“They’ll ask me questions… They’ll threaten my family. If I don’t answer, my family
is doomed. If I do… Madame will kill me. She’ll kill me, and you’ll get my heart.
I’m going to die, Freddy.”
He couldn’t believe it. There were signs that something had been wrong with the man
lately, but this… This was far worse than he dared to hope. Yet, what came out of
his mouth next weren’t words of comfort—

“None of this is my fault,” he argued, barely holding his tears back.

“Does it matter!?” Mark asked through choked sobs. “Do you really think I care?”

With his fists clenched, he felt himself slowly panicking, losing control of his
emotions. But far before it could get to that, he swallowed hard and opened his
mouth to speak. “I know you’re listening in on this.”

Mark looked up, eyes wide open and mouth hanging loose.

He continued, “I think this much is enough. I’d like to request a formal audience
with Madame or a representative.”

Mark’s breathing hastened, but he controlled himself, merely sitting there and
waiting.

He was glad that the young man seemed to trust him at least somewhat, but that
didn’t stop him from walking over and giving him a good kick in the stomach.

“Oof, wha-what the—”

“Don’t you ‘wha-what the’ me, you bastard!” Freddy snarled. “That’s for throwing me
at the wall!”

Mark looked down, smiling beside himself. “I guess I-I deserve at l-least tha-that
much,” he eked out, unable to speak correctly.

Without any warning, Freddy bent down and hugged the mountain of muscle. “Don’t
worry, bro. I’ll do what I can,” he promised.

Mark grabbed the short sleeve of his gym shirt and nodded, breathing a little
easier.

They both waited in the wreck of what used to be Mark’s kitchen, and not even two
minutes later, Matt Canstone walked into the room. He took a single look at them
and nodded. “Very well. Madame will see you in person.”

20

NAIVETY

Freddy couldn’t help but ogle the interior decor of the opulent building. Matt
strode before them, leading down the colorful, slick hallways. Everything was
plasticized; pink, beige, and turquoise were the dominant colors, and the flowers
growing in the space swayed on their own, even though the air was perfectly still.

They had been escorted into Madame’s headquarters—a large, gaudy building dominated
by a headache-inducing color palette. And now, the assistant was taking them to
Madame’s office.

Mark looked stricken, glancing anxiously at every corner, and Freddy kept trying to
calm the young man with affirming nods and kind smiles.

The last thing he wanted was to be judgmental, but if Mark didn’t get his shit
together, it would only worsen his situation.

Matt brought them into an ample, open antechamber with a massive golden door on the
other side, the murmurs of a crowd echoing through it. The door’s frame looked like
fluffy, pink clouds, and there was a neon light shaped into a cartoonified version
of Madame above it. Numerous people sat along the benches encircling the room. Most
were women dressed in, at least in his opinion, silly outfits that looked like
something that belonged in a sci-fi-themed circus.

God, I hate rich people, he thought.

It wasn’t long until they were among the strange crowd, sitting on one of the
benches lining the walls.

“Excuse me,” called a woman sitting to their right.

She wore a skin-tight, black leather suit with extremely pale makeup, and her red
hair tied into a… side tail? Like a ponytail, but starting from above her right
ear. It was also weirdly stiff and protruded far out. That looked frighteningly
inconvenient to live with, and given that her head turn made her hair slap the
other woman sitting next to her, it probably very much so was.

“I was just wondering, are you two orphans?”

He blinked at that, surprised at the question.

“Ohohoho, I must be correct!” the woman declared without even a hint of shame.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry, trust me, you two are lucky. Parents can be such a
drag.”

He had no idea what made this person presume they were orphaned, and it kind of
miffed him that she was even half-correct. But, rather than say anything, he merely
politely nodded at her with the shakiest smile-frown he had ever given anyone and
turned around. The unusual actions of the woman seemed to have confused Mark out of
his frightened state, at least partly.

Both the men jolted a bit as the neon light above the large door suddenly lit up,
and a surprisingly loud voice rang out as Madame spoke through the speakers,
“Greetings, my darlings!”

“Hi, Madame!” a chorus of female and a few male voices echoed throughout the room.

Suddenly, the door opened with a rainbow light show, with giant arrows lighting up
on the ground below, guiding whoever was inside, out of the building. Two suited
men left through the door, shooting disgusted glances at the people around the
room. They promptly walked out, and the voice continued, “I would like the two boys
that just arrived to step inside, darlings, and our meeting will probably take a
while. You know what that means!?”
As if on cue, all the women got up and yelled, “Coffee, tea, and cake, bestie!”

Jesus Christ, this is a damn cult! he thought, wishing he could die from the cringe
he was experiencing and contemplating whether coming here was a mistake.

The large crowd gathered in the room slowly left, and Matt, who had momentarily
disappeared to who knew where reappeared again and escorted them toward the door.
The confusion was gradually replaced by fear once more as the three men strode into
the office.

It was a large, primarily pink chamber. One of the walls was a massive window
looking over the twenty-fifth and 24th districts. There were numerous couches, bean
bags, and chairs scattered around, and the desk in the middle stretched
considerably and formed heart shapes on both ends.

On the other side of the desk was a fluffy chair with its back turned to them, and
only as they stepped right before the desk did the chair rotate, revealing Madame
seated on it, smiling cheekily at them.

Her cerulean hair was, this time, combed back into a much more ordinary hairstyle,
and she was wearing a beige suit. With an appearance like this, it wouldn’t be hard
to mistake her for a slightly eccentric businesswoman.

“Boys,” she called in a sultry tone, maintaining the smile on her expression. “I
hear you want to talk to me about something.”

“Yes,” Freddy declared, taking a step back and opening his mouth to—

“Hold up, sweetheart,” Madame said with a lift of her hand. “First, why don’t you
take a seat?”

He looked around. While there were plenty of things to sit on, they were all
scattered around the room. Not to mention that there was a drastic lack of
“ordinary” seats to be seen, which made picking something much more difficult.

“I would prefer to stay standing, Madame,” he said politely.

Mark couldn’t stop a fearful gaze from flicking between Madame and the ground. She
was most certainly aware of his state but tactfully ignored it.

“I…” he started, but paused to take a deep breath. “I want to offer you a trade.”

“A trade?” Madame said with a slight surprise.

He steeled himself, forcing himself to execute the plan he had prepared. “You have
the life-affinity, correct?”

“Life is one of my affinities, yes,” she confirmed, her smile growing more amused.

“Well,” he continued, “I believe my talent would be handy to you.”

“In what way?” she asked skeptically, squinting her eyes.

“First, I would like his,” he said with a gesture at Mark, “family to be guaranteed
safety. And in turn, you can… You can…” he tried, doing his best to keep himself
from shaking. “You can do whatever you wish to me.”

This was his plan. Regardless of how extreme an injury he suffered, his talent
could heal it. He was the perfect target if she needed or wanted someone to
experiment on.

He wasn’t just making this offer to help Mark’s situation.

No matter how he thought about it, the assassination attempt and what happened to
Mark were just a bit too extreme.

His story came down to him beaning a stray monster; would anyone truly go that far
just to sabotage Madame’s interview?

There was more to it than that. No matter what it took, he would get closer to
Madame and unravel—

His thoughts were interrupted as Madame finally reacted to his suggestion. The way
she did, though, wasn’t what he expected to see.

She sighed, an exasperated look descending upon her expression, followed by a hint
of… shame? Guilt? Her hand reached for her forehead and sat there as if she were
experiencing a headache. “How manly of you, darling”—she breathed out, unimpressed
—“but I really don’t want what you’re offering.” And then, with another sigh, she
got up. “I believe I owe you two an apology.”

Mark appeared flabbergasted, but Freddy didn’t react to her actions.

“Believe it or not,” she said, “I’m not a sadist that goes around killing people
for sport, and I certainly don’t enjoy torture or human experimentation,” she
explained. “What happened then caught me in a bad mood, and I might have
overreacted slightly. I hope you,” she said with a slight nod at Freddy,
“understand that I did that for your protection.”

“As for you,” she said as she turned to Mark, causing the young man to flinch. “I’m
really sorry for the untimely threat. I didn’t know that you already refused the
offer, and I certainly wasn’t aware of the fallout. What you did deserved a reward
and encouragement, not… that. Sorry for what happened to your sister. I hope you
accept my sincerest apology.”

Mark appeared bewildered at Madame’s apology, but Freddy simply nodded and thanked
her. “Thank you, Madame. I also apologize for my presumptuousness.”

That earned him yet another glance, this time from all three of the people present
in the room.

Madame raised her eyebrow, but she didn’t comment on his behavior. “Regarding the
transpired events, I believe it would be best to inform the two of you of what’s
happening. How about we have a seat and get a bit more comfortable?”

This time, Madame took the lead before they could refuse, moving to a half-moon-
shaped couch with a small coffee table in the middle.

“Do you boys want anything to drink?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” Freddy refused instantly.

“I—Uhm… I would like tea if you have any,” Mark said, wincing, likely at the last
part of what he said. “Whichever Madame recommends.”

Madame clapped her hands and got more comfortable, taking the coat off her suit and
throwing it loosely on the couch beside her. “I will cut right to the chase,” she
said. “Freddy, darling… who did you offend and how?”
He was genuinely surprised at that question. But it didn’t take him long to realize
why she was asking him that. “Do you mean to suggest someone is specifically after…
me?”

“Bingo,” she confirmed. “Or, at least, that’s the only conclusion I can make.”

It didn’t take him long to remember the unusual man who paid him a visit a while
back, but unless explicitly asked to mention him, he would refrain from talking
about that. “If I did, it was without my knowledge,” he answered truthfully.

Madame sighed and pinched her brow. “It has been giving me the biggest headache. No
matter how I think about it, it doesn’t make sense.”

“What exactly?” he asked.

“At first,” she said with a squint of her eyes, “I assumed that the threat and
assassination attempt were from two completely different individuals. It would make
sense. The party that went after Mark wouldn’t have called for such a costly favor
if they knew that you would be dead soon. But it’s already been nearly a month and
a half… so why haven’t they appeared again?”

He thought about it for a second, landing on one possible answer, but he closed his
mouth before giving it. The first thing that came to mind was that they didn’t
expect Madame to find out, but that was preposterous. They must have acted knowing
that Madame would know and likely had a way around it.

His thoughts were interrupted as he noticed Madame grinning at him. He broke out of
his contemplation, looking at her apprehensively. “Is… Did I do something strange?”
he asked.

“No… No…” she denied, leaning back on the couch. “I just remembered something
funny.”

“Sorry about that,” she said. “Back to the topic. I believe the party that
contacted Mark is the same one that bribed the doctor. It isn’t that they weren’t
aware that you would likely be dead; it was that they were expecting it.”

He frowned at that. He hadn’t made that connection quite yet, but if that was the
case—

“Which is what makes me so confused,” she admitted, twirling a handful of her hair
while blowing air.

At that moment, a seemingly seamless patch of the wall slid open, revealing an
entrance that a strangely dressed waitress walked out of. She wore frilly, skimpy
clothing, comprising barely more than a tight crop top and a short skirt.

Freddy made no comment or showed any outward indication that he noticed the unusual
get-up, deciding it was none of his business.

As the woman placed coffee before him, he was taken out of his thoughts. It smelled
enchanting. He immediately grabbed it and brought it up as if he were about to take
a sip, but then paused, putting it back down while frowning. “Madame…”

“What is it, darling?”

He didn’t actually intend to drink anything she served him, because he simply
didn’t trust her one bit.
He barely held himself back from wincing as Mark slurped loudly. “This tea is
incredible!” the man complimented.

Madame smiled and nodded at the young man, then turned back to Freddy. “You don’t
need to feel obligated to drink. I just don’t like seeing my guests empty-handed.”

“Thank you, either way,” he said.

Madame took a large sip of her cocktail and continued, “So… I’m very confident that
this was all orchestrated by a single individual or organization, but I have no
idea who or why. Which is why I’ve asked you whether you’ve offended anyone. Can
you tell me if you have met anyone powerful or participated in some sort of
political event?”

He tapped his lips contemplatively and frowned. Then, he proceeded to retell his
business at the ATA, sharing precisely what happened without any omissions or
alterations, even intentionally accenting his own naivete and foolishness.

After a bit of hesitation, he decided to share his meeting with that strange,
casually dressed man who visited him at his apartment. While he wanted to stick as
close to the truth as possible, there was no way he would mention Bloodshed.

He did say that the man was strangely interested in his filthy clothing; however,
the moment he said that, she seemed to light up with realization.

Shiiiiiit, he cursed internally. Did that just give away a critical hint?

“Oh my God,” the woman said while putting her cocktail down. “That couldn’t… But
wait. No!” she said with a massive grin. “How didn’t I think of that?”

“What… What exactly?” he asked cautiously.

“All right, darling,” she said, “I need you to retell me what happened when you
encountered the monster. Please do not lie or change any details.”

He frowned at how she said that but agreed to the request, retelling the whole
thing.

She chuckled incredulously when he finished his story. “Incredible. That creature
must have been a two-star monster, then.”

Mark had been listening to the story with rapped attention, and when she said that,
he nearly choked. “What!?”

“What?” Freddy also asked, genuinely confused.

“Let me explain it like this,” she started. “How has your growth been recently?”

He thought about it and answered honestly. “It has been slowing down a bit.”

“I see… After almost two months of intensive gathering, you are only beginning to
slow down.”

“Is there something off about that?” he asked with a frown.

Madame scoffed. “Yes. Very. Why do you think people fight monsters to begin with? I
promise you that it isn’t because of boredom—at least not for most. It is because
your growth stagnates unless you challenge yourself.”
He already knew this, but he had no idea when it was supposed to kick in. He
chalked it up to his martial arts training and overall growth, but there seemed to
be more to it.

Madame continued, “True, you can simply overcome yourself through training and
practice, but putting your life on the line to come out on top in dangerous
situations is much more rewarding. While yes, killing a monster does provide a
portion of its ether, it also does more than that. It generates pure ether directly
inside your soul and the abilities you use, especially if the opponent is
significantly more powerful than you.”

“So…” Freddy started. “Is someone trying to kill me because I’m…?”

“No,” Madame denied before he could even finish the sentence. “While it’s true that
you have a head start in your growth, it is a temporary boost. What’s more
important is what that pure ether generation did to the environment around you.

“What you’ve done in that situation was impossibly unlikely. Consequently, the
generated pure ether likely caused some form of anomaly. Or several. The three-
affinity prime vestige you manifested is just one of them. And the clothes you
wore, which had likely become a powerful cursed object, is another.”

And Bloodshed is likely the third, he realized.

But there was something else that caught his attention. “Cursed object?”

“We’ll get to that,” Madame dismissed the question. “That doesn’t matter now. What
does matter is the possibility of something you’ve generated being what’s called a
‘unique.’”

Freddy was about to ask what it was but immediately realized she would likely
explain it anyway, so he kept quiet.

It was going to be something, he realized, once he noticed that Mark’s jaw dropped
upon hearing that.

Madame smiled. “A unique is an ether construct that holds a true soul within.”

She jokingly wagged a finger at Mark and nodded approvingly. “That’s a pretty
appropriate reaction. Uniques are, well, unique among ether constructs.

“They contain far fewer limits and are priceless in value. Unique cursed objects,
for example, can grow in power. Say you have a cursed sword and use it in combat.
Depending on its affinity, it would have some form of extraordinary ability.
Usually, a cursed sword would lose power with use, eventually becoming garbage like
any weapon did with time. On the other hand, a unique cursed sword would evolve and
grow along with its user.

“Then you have unique prime vestiges. Simply put, they completely ignore that
you’re already an arch, allowing you to acquire another talent and more
affinities.”

He paled upon hearing that, but Madame waved him down. “Don’t worry, that little
thing you sold wasn’t a unique prime. Only three have ever been found, and their
asking price is above what money can afford.

“There are also many different shades of unique treasures, all possessing some form
of absurd effect that ignores conventional limits, and the last one, the type of
unique that is likely the least rare but also the most difficult to obtain—unique
sentient ether constructs.”

It took all he had to not show any external reaction, and by some miracle, he
managed to keep his heart from beating faster than was ordinary for a situation
like this.

“These,” she continued, “are notorious for being frighteningly dangerous. We have
encountered plenty of them. But they grow too powerful by scouring the passages and
swiftly become eidolons that nobody is qualified to subjugate. If one were to
discover a unique vestige, on the other hand… well, that’s a different story. Their
defining trait is that they possess true will.”

Every sentence she uttered made his blood grow colder.

“What makes them so priceless, however, is something else. Ether shells, and
subsequently, their abilities, can’t be evolved through any random concept. There
needs to be some form of connection. Uniques don’t have that sort of limit. You can
use any unique to upgrade any ability. Do you want the general death concept tied
to a fire spell? What about fusing heat and cold into an unholy abomination that
defies basic logic? What about making your water sharper than a sword?

“Not just that, but also, upon absorbing a unique, you will acquire the affinities
it holds a connection to, and if you already have one of the affinities, it will
evolve into a unique affinity.”

“So…” he started, gulping. “Do you think I generated a unique vestige!?” he

exaggerated his panic. It was pretty easy, given how he already felt.

Madame nodded hesitantly. “It’s possible. And I’m starting to form a few theories
about who might be after you. It probably disappeared from where it spawned, and
you are among the suspects who might have taken it.”

It really pissed him off that she phrased that as if he’d stolen the damn thing. He
was the one who manifested it. It was rightfully his.

“Either way,” she said, finally finishing the final sip of her cocktail. “I think
that’s all we can talk about. I can’t really share any further details without
compromising your safety. I will say one last thing, however,” she started, smiling
at them gently and softening her voice. “You are under my protection, and while
that is the case, you can feel free to focus on your work. I will use my influence
to keep you safe, and we’ll figure something out for when you’re done with your
contractual obligations.”

“I—” Mark tried, but couldn’t bring himself to speak.

“You can relax,” Madame assured him. “Your family is safe under my protection, and
yes, while your services aren’t strictly necessary, we will extend your contract
for another three months,” she said with a wink.

“What about…?” He gulped. “My family. This has put us into a… rather unfortunate—”

“I can’t help you with that,” she said flatly.

He frowned, a look of frustration flashing through his expression. “Why?”

“Because that would create a weakness,” she stated, picking her cocktail back up
and swirling the straw around. “If I make a habit of doing that, my enemies will
make a habit of harassing the people under me to force me to dip into my personal
funds. Stopping once I start would be tricky because it would cost me the loyalty
of my subjects.”

“Couldn’t you…” Mark tried, but—

“I’d love to make an exception,” she said, smiling sympathetically, “but I can’t. I
made that mistake once already, and it hurt far more people than it helped… Don’t
worry, though…” Her expression darkened. “When I find out who’s behind this, I will
pay them back. Nobody will make a mockery of my name and get away with it. I
promise you that.”

Mark and Freddy gulped nervously, and after some more inane chatting, they headed
home.

Mark’s apartment had already been cleaned up, likely as a favor from Madame, and
his door had been repaired. They entered the room, mostly staying quiet, until—

“So,” Freddy said, yawning loudly. “I think I’m gonna take a short nap.”

“In my living room? Dude, go home,” the young man said, clearly tired from all that
had happened today.

“No,” he refused. “I don’t think I will.” Then, with an evident change to his tone,
he said, “I think I want to take a nap right here.” He promptly closed his eyes and
appeared within the Netherecho.

Mark didn’t take too long to catch on, and as the mannequin representing his body
appeared, so did his projection.

“What are you—” Mark started, but—

“Do not talk about Bloodshed,” he said, “and don’t trust anything Madame says.”
With that, he left the Netherecho, and the man soon followed.

“Dude, you…”

“Your couch is hella uncomfortable, bro,” he said teasingly. “I think I prefer my

bed instead. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.” He waved goodbye to the man and
left his apartment.

Moments later, he was at his place, walking over to a specific drawer in the
kitchen. A crumpled-up grocery bag was in there, and, with the drawer still open,
he entered the Netherecho.

His projection slithered into the drawer, walking over to the small, crumpled bag.
His tiny hand landed on the bag, and with a push of his will, he gradually sank
into it, appearing within the smushed space with the giant skeleton.

“Bloodshed—” he greeted. He now knew how this thing had disobeyed him and followed
him here despite being explicitly told not to.

Because it had a will of its own.

He couldn’t safely get rid of Bloodshed and couldn’t use it himself since it was
too powerful to enter his soul. And it wasn’t like he could sell it, either. He
only had one option—ensure that it remained loyal to him and keep it hidden at all
costs.

“—I bring dire news,” he continued.

“What is it, my lord?”

“Gah!” he spat angrily. “My enemies… they are after you!”

“After… me?”

“Yes, my loyal minion,” he said, clenching his fists and turning to look at the
wall of the grocery bag. “They fear the potential you have, the contribution to my
future plans you might provide! They wish to cut you down before you grow to your
full potential, but they aren’t aware of where you hide.”

“My lord… should we eradicate them?”

“Patience, my little lake of blood,” he declared dramatically. “All will come with
time. Speaking of which, I do not have much left. I will speak with you again soon
when I am confident they aren’t watching.”

He had spent much time talking to the remnant and developed a sense of how it
operated. While getting it to do what he wanted wasn’t hard, bringing it to
understand could be tricky. Speaking in terms it could more readily comprehend just
made the process faster.

Bloodshed nodded, and he retreated, leaving the Netherecho. “Where was it again?”
He scratched the back of his head, pretending that he was just looking for
something. “I guess not here… Well, whatever.”

He proceeded with his regular routine, eating, cleaning himself, and going to
sleep. Or at least trying to. But he couldn’t.

Because how the hell was he supposed to walk out of this situation alive?

21

SHAME

Although being watched over did mean that Freddy was at least somewhat safe, it
made some of the tasks he had to do painfully embarrassing. He yet again squatted
as deep as he could and made yet another clumsy jump forward—for what was likely
past the hundredth time in a row.

That day was the first time he had used the Frog Leap technique. Not only did using
it give him a splitting headache, but it also felt like something was being
violently shoved up his ass whenever he triggered the ability.
He had gotten rather lucky with Flowing Strike, which suited him quite well, but
this version of Frog Leap simply didn’t fit him. This meant he had to buy a new
movement ability or make one himself.

Now, Frog Leap was a decent ability, but he had grown more ambitious lately. So, if
he had to choose between an easy way out or a challenge, he would pick the latter
every time.

Thus, he had tasked himself with manifesting a particular ability—Hydraulic Flex.

This wasn’t a movement ability, at least strictly speaking.

It was a general martial arts technique. It used a pump of pressure to flex a

specific muscle. It was generally considered top-tier for all forms of martial
arts.

And it also couldn’t be obtained through a scroll.

Manifesting this ability was a tremendous investment of time and effort. Everyone
was unique, and this ability needed to fully suit whoever was using it. Many tried
and succeeded at creating a partial version that only worked on a few select
muscles.

But he was hellbent on making it perfect.

Regarding mobility, Hydraulic Flex was a one-stop shop for everything from jumps,
leaps, dashes, running, swinging, and pretty much all forms of parkour. In fact,
Frog Leap was just a limited version of the skill, one that focused on leaps.

Getting down into another squat and focusing on the water in his legs, Freddy
exerted his essence again and tried compressing the water to enhance the flex of
his muscles. It yet again failed to do anything but cramp his leg, and this time,
he sprawled on the ground.

Yet again, he realized how lucky he was to have 1% Lifesteal. One of the primary
barriers to mastering Hydraulic Flex was the ever-present risk of setbacks due to
injury. For him, that was far from a concern.

It had been only a few days since his meeting with Madame. He had already noted
that his growth was slowing down, but the degree had drastically worsened over the
past few days.

He sensed himself running out of essence again, so he meditated. Keeping Bloodshed

fully hidden was the best for the time being, so he no longer had help gathering.
Still, he was improving enough that it wasn’t a massive hindrance.

Blue wisps flowed toward him, seeping into his soul and slightly aiding his essence
recovery. But they seemingly made no impact on the size of his star. He pushed his
meditation onward, but he was out of water wisps to consume even before his
willpower faltered.

With a deep sigh, he got up and continued his standard training, too low on essence
to continue practicing his techniques.

This was the main problem he was facing.

There was Flowing Strike, his tempering techniques, Create Water, and now, he was
working on Hydraulic Flex. It was akin to a penniless beggar making an extensive
shopping list. There just wasn’t enough essence to go around.
Focusing on his star, he felt for its capacity. When he tried sensing it, he could
roughly feel how far along his progress was to reaching the apex of the first
star’s total potential.

At that moment, he felt that he was at around 27%, a bit over a quarter of the way
to finishing his star.

Even with the slow-down accounted for, he had been expecting to be able to increase
his reserves by at least another 10% in the next month. Now? He wasn’t sure if he’d
raise them by 2%.

This meant he had to schedule different techniques on different days, making him
feel like his progress had slowed to a crawl.

Stabbing the mangled mass of flesh to heal himself perfectly, he punched and kicked
the tree. His fists had grown bulkier, and his wrist had widened. The top of his
feet felt like a solid plate of bone, and the bottom felt like tanned leather. His
shins were as solid as iron.

His physique was gradually becoming more and more suited for martial arts.
Unfortunately, however, the changes had slowed there, too, with the only noticeable
difference being his continuous weight gain and muscular growth, but even that was
slowing down.

It was the same with his strength in the gym. He could bench 155 kg, squat 281 kg,
and deadlift 334 kg. It was an improvement compared to what he could do less than
three weeks ago, but given how much he’d grown the three weeks before that, it
wasn’t as impressive a difference. In fact, most of it seemed to be from pure
muscle growth.

Mark still easily tripled his numbers, which was ridiculous for a one-star arch.

But perhaps even more impressive than his strength was his endurance. He was a
perpetual motion machine, slamming the tree endlessly without slowing down.

None of his moves were awe-inspiring. It was just plain low, mid, high, and
straight strikes with a few basic variations. Even with his physique and training,
martial artists who had trained against other people would still kick his ass.

But a heavenly tower would stand upon the foundation that he was building. Maybe.
Hopefully. All he could do at that moment was place one stone at a time.

Given that he needed every damn shred of ether he could get a hold of, Freddy was
gathering practically all the time. Mark was bewildered that he could handle so
much meditative gathering. Soul fatigue was torturous, and his ability to handle it
so well showed how much willpower he had built over the last two months.

While there was a large pool of water in the gym, that didn’t mean that there were
many wisps to gather. After all, he was far from the only water-affinity arch in
the gym, and many used recovery techniques and such after sets, then gathered a bit
to recover some lost essence.

This was a problem, but it wasn’t a massive one. If he focused enough, he could
pull water wisps from further away, gathering more from outside the building.
However, as some reached closer, they drifted to the side. He could only attract a
portion of them into his soul, and the rest was lost to another gym member who just
happened to be gathering at the same time.

Well, that’s fucking annoying, he thought, sighing.

Suddenly, a deep voice came from behind him, “Hey buddy, how about you take a
hike?”

He turned around, staring up at the bald man who appeared to be in his thirties,
standing around a head taller than him, and although there was plenty of fat, it
was undeniable that the man was a mountain of muscle.

“Is there a problem?” Mark asked the man.

“Yeah,” the man confirmed, glaring at Freddy. “Boytoy over here is stealing my
wisps.”

He scowled. “The fuck did you just call me, fat ass?”

“Oh, you want it?” the man asked angrily, stepping forward.

“Whoa, whoa there, is there a problem?” This time, it was Steve who came to see
what was happening.

The man turned to face the trainer and explained the situation. Steve merely raised
an eyebrow and clarified, “Look, uh… You’re Hilbert, right? It’s uhm… We’re in, uh…
We’re in a gym,” he reminded, exaggeratedly waving a hand behind him. “This isn’t a
gathering ground. While some consider it rude, it’s not illegal to yoink a few
wisps that someone just happened to be going for. They’re public property and free
for anyone to take.”

“Bu—”

“There are no buts,” the trainer interrupted. “I don’t care. Harassing other
members is against the rules. I’m warning you; repeat this again, and I will revoke
your membership.”

After a few seconds of hesitation and yet another hostile glance at Freddy, the man
scoffed and walked away.

“Don’t be shy, Fred,” Steve said with a pat on his shoulder. “If he causes trouble
for you again, let me know.” And then he also turned and left.

Mark was about to say something but was interrupted as Fred shot him a devious
grin. “Mark… Marky. Darling.”

“What?”

“What are the odds of that guy jumping me when I leave the gym?”

“Don’t worry,” Mark tried comforting him. “As long as I’m here, you—”

“No, no, no, don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I’m afraid of him…” he said
leadingly.

“Freddy,” Mark said with a roll of his eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah, what’s the problem?”

“That’s just…” The man sighed. “You know, that’s really not like you.”

“What?” he asked.

“I’ve noticed that you’ve…” Mark said with some hesitation. “Look, confidence is a
good thing, but don’t let it go to your head.”

“Dude,” he said, shooting Mark an exasperated glance. “I was willing to let it go

and be the bigger man, but no, this bastard comes in looking for a fight,” he
defended himself. “It wouldn’t be my fault if he fucked around and found out.”

“And you’ll willingly walk into that?” the trainer asked him. “Really!? Why?”

“I’ve never been in a fight,” he said. “Well, not since I was a kid. And I don’t
have any other way to get battle experience.”

Mark rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. “A street brawl like that wouldn’t
really count as ‘battle experience.’”

“I disagree.”

“Oh, really?” Mark spat, his exasperation morphing into genuine anger. “What if
that man pulls a weapon on you? Even if he doesn’t, you—”

“You really think I’m going to die?”

“Do you think you’re…?” Mark started, then paused as he likely remembered that
someone was watching Freddy. Whoever it was, they would intervene if the fight
became life-threatening. “Still, it’s dangerous.”

“Because I could get injured?” he said mockingly.

“Okay, be honest with me—is this just because you want to fight that man?”

Freddy grinned in response.

“You know what, just do whatever you want, but please,” Mark added, “don’t get
yourself kicked out of the gym.”

“I have two witnesses that he is the instigator,” he said confidently. “No matter
what happens, he’ll be the one to blame.”

Freddy sauntered out of the gym.

It had been a while since he had been afraid of pain. And he still wasn’t. But he
had to be honest. Getting into a fight made him a bit jittery. It wasn’t
necessarily fear of getting hurt, but it was like… it would just be really
embarrassing to get his ass kicked. Maybe it was his manly ego, but he couldn’t
deny that pride was on the line here.

Still, he resolved to go through it. If Mark’s prediction was correct, bullshit

like this could become a regular part of his life. Even if he got his ass handed to
him, it could be worth it just for the experience.
But as he walked on, he realized the man was nowhere to be seen. He had seen the
man leaving the gym a while back, so it could be that he had either gotten bored of
waiting or took Steve’s warning seriously.

He glanced around, observing the people walking around him until he—

Wait.

This was out in public. Getting into a fight in broad daylight could result in
someone calling the authorities.

Given that he was getting close to his building, he had to do something immediately
if he wanted a fight. With a smooth movement, as if that had been his plan from the
start, Freddy turned and walked into a tight alley between his building and the
neighboring one.

It didn’t take him long to cross it halfway, and once he did, he stopped and turned
around.

Nobody seemed to be coming that way, and he moved to lean against the wall. Hiding
in a back alley like this made him feel like some sort of hooligan, and perhaps it
wouldn’t be unfair to say that, at that moment, he genuinely was being a hooligan.

His idle thoughts were finally interrupted as the burly man, or rather, Hilbert
walked into the alley.

“Hilbert, is it?” he called, putting his hands into his pockets and desperately
regretting that he wasn’t holding a cigarette he could dramatically flick aside.

Rather than say anything, the man just walked toward him, approaching him as if he
were heading to throw out the trash. Although the man’s confidence was
intimidating, he wouldn’t leave this hubris unpunished.

The man strode forward, and as he stepped just before him, he immediately pulled
his fist back and readied to throw a straight.

An attack that couldn’t possibly be more straightforward.

Dodging a punch or getting out of the way was so much more challenging than he had
ever expected, and he didn’t even manage to raise his guard properly; instead, he
took a giant fist directly to the face and tumbled back.

The man immediately rushed forward and kicked him in the stomach, pushing him
further away. The sheer rush of adrenaline got him off the ground, and the man was
taken aback. “Tough bastard,” he spat.

Freddy wouldn’t agree with that one. His face felt like it had been caved in, and
he felt like his internal organs had been rearranged. At that moment, he thought
that perhaps getting into a fight with someone twice his size wasn’t his brightest
idea.

The man rushed forward again, and he hesitated once more. There was an opening
under the man’s wide swing, and nothing defended the man from retaliation besides
his relative size and reach.

As long as he threw an uppercut at the man’s face or kicked at his stomach before
the punch landed, his target couldn’t defend himself. So he tried to go in,
activating Flowing Strike. His fist landed on the man’s face, but presented with a
moving target, he mistimed his ability and lost almost all the force.

His preemptive attack ultimately failed to stop the man from swinging again at him,
and, this time, through sheer panic, he raised his left arm to defend himself. The
man’s punch landed awkwardly, so he grabbed the arm to throw him aside.

But before the man could do that, Freddy panicked again, swinging a wild haymaker
with Flowing Strike right at Hilbert’s face, who didn’t seem to be expecting him to
be in a position to attack like that, so he had no time to react.

The Flowing Strike landed with a nasty crunching sound, and in the eyes of the
completely disoriented Freddy, the man seemingly vanished out of sight. Glancing
around, wondering through what magic this giant hunk of a man managed to disappear,
he finally looked down, only to find his target unconscious on the ground. Only
then did he register the influx of lifesteal and realize that he had accidentally
landed a critical hit, knocking his opponent out with a single strike.

“Hahaha…” he laughed. “Hahahaha! Fuck you, asshole!” he yelled as he kicked the man
in the stomach and stepped back. His face and neck hurt like hell, and he brought a
hand to touch his nose.

It was utterly shattered, and he was bleeding so much that he felt lightheaded.
“Shit…” he whispered.

Rather than wait for the mountain of muscle to get up, he prepared to run away, but
something unusual happened suddenly—an unexpected rush of essence flowed into his
soul, and it wasn’t a small amount, either.

He couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting back to the body on the ground.

As it did, his breath caught in his throat.

The head was turned at an odd angle.

Freddy’s breath released, but it was shallow.

There was a dark blue patch on the neck, and it seemed to be spreading rapidly.

His hands shook, and he couldn’t stop his left palm from rushing to his mouth.
“This… It can’t be… With just that…?”

Suddenly, a figure almost too fast for him to see fluttered down from above and
picked up the man, only to vanish into thin air.

“Wait!” he yelled, stumbling forward. “Is he…? Oh, God.” His breaths came faster
and shorter. “Oh my God.”

He pulled his shirt over his bloody head, hiding his face, and rushed out of the
alley. He was right next to his building, so it didn’t take long for him to run in
and reach his apartment. As he did, he locked the door behind him and immediately
rushed to his kitchen.

The mass of flesh lay on the ground nearby, and he grabbed the knife to take a stab
at it. But as he saw the blade in his hands, he couldn’t keep hold of it, and it
soon fell from his grasp, clattering to the ground.

His breathing grew even more difficult as blood rushed and pooled in his nasal
cavity, and he found himself coughing it out, his vision turning blurry. With all
he could muster, he gripped the kitchen knife and stabbed.
It was hesitantly at first, but the soothing sensation overpowered his reluctance,
and he continued striking at it in a daze. He didn’t know how long had passed, but
he had calmed down somewhat and was already fully healed.

Sitting on the ground, sweaty, covered in blood, and holding a knife, he whispered,
“I… I’m a murderer.”

22

ANNOYING ENEMY

As Freddy walked into the gym, Mark greeted him, “Hey, man, what’s up?” Then he
asked the dreaded question, “So… did that guy come after you?”

“Nah,” he lied. “He must have pussied out.”

“I see…” Mark said, his voice drifting off. “Honestly, I thought about it a bit,
and I think the smartest thing to do would be to just apologize.”

Freddy remained quiet.

Mark continued, “It’s much better to take a small hit to your pride than deal with
trouble that isn’t worth it.”

Freddy looked at Mark with a distant gaze and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Yeah. I’ll… I’ll keep that in mind.”

It didn’t take Freddy particularly long to rationalize his actions. That guy was a
dumbass, and he could have gone after someone else. If that had happened, the roles
could have been reversed.

No matter how he thought of it, that idiot was a hostile maniac who should have
been taken out. In fact, he was willing to go as far as to say that if placed in
that situation again, he’d make the same choices, even knowing the results.

But… his excuses didn’t change anything.

Every time he woke up in the morning, his essence reserves would be topped off. The
morning after that incident, he woke up and checked his essence reserves—they were
at 28%—1 % more than the day before.

Every time he struck out with a technique, a shred of its power felt borrowed.
Stolen. And it would forever be a part of him.
By day, when around people or training, he was fine. Things were different at
night. Repeatedly, he would wake up in a cold sweat, nightmares ravaging his mind
whenever he closed his eyes: images of how easily a neck snapped, the visions of a
body appearing before he could tell what happened.

Every time he trained, every step forward he took, and every bit of progress he
made… suddenly, it felt so heavy.

What exactly was he preparing himself for?

Days passed, and eventually, on one evening, just as he was about to take the
collection of medicines…

His doorbell rang.

Freddy walked over, expecting it to be Mark. But as he looked through the spyglass,
he spotted Matt Canstone, the assistant, instead.

He couldn’t keep a breath from escaping his lips.

With quite a bit of hesitation, he turned the lock and opened the door.

“Hello,” Matt said. “May I come in?”

Freddy’s mind froze when he heard the question. “Uhm… sure, feel free. I’ll uh…
Yeah, do you want me to order something to drink?”

“No need for that, but thank you, regardless.”

The handsome auburn-haired man sat on the couch in the living room, and he sat
across from him, shifting awkwardly.

“You can relax,” the man said. “I’m not here for business. I just wanted to have a
conversation with you.”

Regardless of what the man said, there was no way in hell he was here without
Madame’s knowledge. And if she allowed him to come here, it was because she was
playing at something. He showed no indication of his suspicion outwardly, instead
feigning relaxation.

“I’m… Am I in trouble?” he asked.

“No, you are not,” the man said. Before long, he added, “You don’t have to worry.
The situation has been dealt with—officially, it would be concluded that Hilbert
died during a delve.”

Although it made him feel ashamed, Freddy couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief
at that. “I see… Thank you, and I apologize for the trouble I caused.”

Matt simply smiled and nodded slightly. Then, with a swing of his hand, a large
bottle of alcohol appeared, and two glasses appeared next to it.

Ah, okay… he thought. So that’s what he meant by no need.

“Do you want to have a drink with me?” Matt asked, shaking him out of his thoughts.

“Uhm… I’m not personally in the mood for it. Thank you for the offer, though,” he
thanked the man. Truthfully, he wanted a sip but was afraid that it was spiked with
something.

“I see. That’s all right,” Matt said as he poured himself a glass and took a swig.
With a deep sigh, he turned to face him. “That was similar to how my first
happened.”

“What did?” he asked.

“The way that man died by your hands.”

The bluntness of the man’s statement was like a punch to his stomach, but he just
nodded in response, waiting for the man to continue.

“I’m a single father,” Matt said. “When my daughter was two years old, I took her
everywhere since I couldn’t bear to leave her alone.” He poured more of the pungent
drink into the glass and downed half the glass in one gulp. “One night, I had some
late shopping, so I took her with me. I put her down briefly at her request to walk
by herself. That was when that man appeared.

“He looked homeless and disheveled. With sure steps, he approached my daughter and
reached to grab her. I reacted instinctively, kicking him in the head. His neck
broke, and he fell to the ground.”

Freddy sat silently, then said, “Seems fair enough to me.”

“The court said the same thing,” the man added with a lethargic chuckle and another
sip. “I was never punished for my actions, but… I’ve never made peace with what
I’ve done.

“I don’t know who he was or why he did what he did. Perhaps he was on drugs and saw
something that made him reach for my daughter. I don’t truly know if his intent was
to harm or take her… He didn’t jump at her. He didn’t have the eyes of a predator.
He simply reached out with his hand,” he said, gesturing the motion. “Maybe he just
wanted to pat her on the head, and I judged him by his appearance before he could
prove his innocence,” he confessed, tearing up a bit. “And my lovely angel…

“She claims she doesn’t remember seeing that happen, but I see it in her eyes. She
jumps when I show up beside her without her noticing. She averts her gaze when she
holds mine for too long. Even if she doesn’t remember, I’m sure the experience
still haunts her, lurking deep in a long-forgotten corner of her early childhood
memories.”

Freddy listened with rapt attention, nodding slightly at the man’s words. “Yeah, I…
I definitely wouldn’t want to trade places with you.”

The man chuckled a bit. “Indeed. And I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat.”

“So, you’re the one observing me?” he asked the man, but the assistant stared at
him with a mysterious smile.

Then, ignoring the question, Matt said, “I wanted to give you a few words of
advice. First, never get into a fight unless you’re prepared to kill your opponent.
Never.” He let the word sink in for a moment. “Let me ask you something. Would you
wield a knife if you wanted to fight someone but didn’t want to seriously injure or
kill them?”

He frowned at that and shook his head.

“Obviously not,” Matt said. “A knife is a weapon. Weapons injure and kill, by
definition. While being unarmed seems less hostile, that is nothing but a
misconception. A punch can have serious consequences even between mortals; killing
someone takes a lot less effort than people think. With archhumans, it becomes much
worse. Special constitutions, talents, techniques… These are far more dangerous
than a mundane knife,” he declared.

“You might believe you can learn to hold back or control your strength. But when
you’re about to lose, instinct takes over.”

Freddy took the words in and couldn’t help but ask, “Sir, do you… Do you think I’m
at fault here?”

The man scoffed at the question. “Fault?” He laughed a bit. “There is no such thing
as fault among the powerful…

“There is only shame,” the man stated, his expression darkening, “and not everyone
has it.”

The days passed, and Freddy made steady progress.

He felt he’d never get anywhere with how he split the techniques. So, for the time
being, he kicked Create Water out of the schedule. It was an essential ability,
yes… but for creating spells. And with his many abilities, getting more was far
from his biggest priority.

He had also paused Abyssal Depths. This only left him with Flowing Strike, Hundred
Wet Hells, and his work on creating Hydraulic Flex. He did Hundred Wet Hells one
day, Flowing Strike another day, and worked on Hydraulic Flex on both.

Although meditative gathering was considerably faster than manual gathering, it was
only so if there were enough wisps of his affinity around. Since it didn’t take
long to exhaust an area, he often had to swap to manual gathering.

On a rather ordinary day, having finished his gym work, he went to the forest to
work on his techniques and martial arts. Draining all the water wisps didn’t take
long, as usual, so he entered the Netherecho through his projection.

And when he appeared, he finally noticed the sensation he had been waiting for.
While meditative gathering could only be used through one’s actual body, there was
a one-time exception to this rule.

Ether constructs could exist in several forms, but they all needed to be attached
to an anchor. Personified ether constructs were attached to a concept; ether shells
were attached to a soul; prime vestiges were anchored to reality; and non-
personified ether constructs were either attached to a representation of a physical
object, a personified ether construct, or a projection.

In the first case, that was how cursed objects were created. The second case was
when vestiges, for example, had a weapon or a piece of equipment. And the third
option…

Every ascended had a latent soul construct they could manifest and use through
their projection. Knowing what one would get until one got it was impossible, so it
was mainly down to luck. Still, one could make a rather good guess, depending on
the nature of their talent.
And this was where that one-time exception came in.

His little projection sat on the ground, and he put his palms together. When he
focused, contemplating not the concept of water but rather his prime talent, a few
nearby wisps reacted to his call.

Uh…

Several metal wisps were popping out of the ground and tumbling toward him, which
was a good sign, but something unusual happened. The patch of marsh he trained
close to bubbled, and small balls of what looked like molten masses of skulls
bounced toward him.

Death wisps.

Metal and death, it seemed, would be the ingredients for whatever his soul was
about to manifest. It didn’t take a genius to guess what it would likely be. A
weapon began taking shape as the wisps gathered and concentrated between his
little, gloved palms.

In seconds, a metallic clang ran out, and a large armament appeared in his grasp.

Of course…

He got a damn scythe.

Shimmering with a blue gleam, the scythe was a menacing piece of equipment, arching
over in a large half-moon with a shaft twice as tall as the body of his projection.

Soul constructs could be a myriad of different things. While getting something like
a bundle of flowers seemed horribly underwhelming, one must remember that fighting
was far from the only option one had when dealing with vestiges. They had no such
thing as a “desire to live” unless they were explicitly attached to such an idea.

Charming them with flowers was a solid strategy for getting them to voluntarily
crawl into one’s soul or even forfeit their existence. In fact, as a soul
construct, it would hold a supernatural allure or otherwise increase the odds of
persuasion working in those circumstances.

But… well… he couldn’t say he was disappointed. He focused on the scythe and tried
to discover what it did. He focused, pushing his essence through it in trepidation,
but no matter how hard he concentrated, it didn’t respond.

Oh, come on!

Whatever its special power was, it was a passive effect. If he had to guess, he
would say that it would likely cause vestiges to rot on touch. While this seemed
great, it was common knowledge that soul constructs with an active effect were far
superior to those with passive effects in at least ninety-nine out of a hundred
cases.

While passives were great during sustained combat, actives were far better when
dealing with a single powerful opponent. And in the Netherecho, well, there was no
such thing as “sustained combat” unless one had a few screws loose and a death
wish.

Personified ether constructs should always be tackled one at a time. In such cases,
an active ability that imbued his weapon with a decisive, powerful rot attack would
be infinitely better than a passive effect.

Either way, at least for the foreseeable future, it didn’t matter to him. As soon
as he was done with his contract and could go on an expedition somewhere, he could
use Bloodshed to deal with vestiges and remnants.

The primary reason why he cared about his soul construct for now, and the reason
why he was glad that he received a weapon, was because it could be used to harvest
wisps during manual gathering.

It wouldn’t be much faster than picking them up, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Freddy took a few practice swings with his weapon and couldn’t stop himself from
getting a little giggly. The scythe felt weightless in his grasp, and every time he
swung it, it left a black mist in its path.

So freakin’ cool.

Now, then, it was time to test it with manual gathering.

He located a small earth wisp just a bit to his side and swung at it. The scythe
cleaved through it effortlessly, and he felt the ether and essence move into his…

Suddenly, his little legs ran back toward his body, and once he arrived there, he
blinked. He had just felt something unusual, and it shocked him enough to force him
out of the Netherecho. Swallowing hard, he dove in again and carefully approached
another wisp, taking a swing at it.

The wood wisp was sliced apart, and the tiny droplet of ether felt the same as
always. But the amount of essence his swing extracted was far more significant than
usual.

He had done quite a bit of reading on the topic, and he knew that using a weapon to
do this increased neither the ether nor the essence recovery. It should just make
the unraveling faster. Which could only mean one thing—

Don’t fucking tell me… that this thing’s passive is… The words didn’t come to mind
easily, but as he finally pushed past his incredulity, he realized what he was
dealing with. Essence Extraction!?

That was absurd. There was no mention of anything like that in any of the books
he’d read. One’s soul construct mattered, yes, but it was exclusively due to how
much easier or more challenging it would be to handle personified ether constructs.

Something that could affect essence recovery, however…

“Holy fucking!”

That was on the level of a talent. Not only that, but talents that affected essence
recovery were easily among the most desirable.

Yet again, he returned to his body, and this time, he took a deep breath.

Relax, Freddy… it might not be that good.

The last thing he’d want was to get too excited and overreact. So, he returned to
the Netherecho again and began the test run of his new soul construct.

Filling his essence back to total capacity was something he couldn’t do even with
several straight hours of gathering. But when nearly empty, his soul recovered
essence faster. Usually, he would dive into the Netherecho for around fifteen to
twenty minutes at a time, which would be enough to regain approximately 5% essence.
Then, once he spent that, he would return and do the same thing.

He did as usual this time, spending roughly fifteen minutes in the Netherecho. But
the longer he spent there, the more he felt the pull to go back to his body so it
could process the shock.

Because by the time he was done, he hadn’t regained a mere 5% essence. He had
regained nearly 22%.

For the next few days, he spent most of his time not abusing his newly discovered
cheat but contemplating how he would hide it. It didn’t take long for him to land
on the perfect solution. He just wouldn’t.

There wasn’t enough merit to doing so. Madame almost definitely wouldn’t hesitate
to snatch Bloodshed if she discovered it, but that was different. Bloodshed was
something she could use. His talent wasn’t.

On top of that, if he wanted to remain safe after leaving Madame’s protection,

using this advantage to become more powerful would serve him far better than hiding
it.

He still didn’t intend to advertise that he could do this, and he made sure to
disguise it to the best of his ability, but if someone was keeping an eye on him,
it wouldn’t be long until they discovered that something was off.

As more days passed, his growth sped up even further. His star was, yet again,
growing at a crawl, but his ether shells were developing rapidly. Hydraulic Flex
was still far from being finished, but Hundred Wet Hells was at least 20% along
with being able to upgrade to a stage one ability, and Flowing Strike was closer to
40%.

As his time spent here passed two months, he noticed something worrisome. He had to
stop using the steroids because, simply put, he was growing too big. While his
muscular growth was utterly insane initially, it had slowed down somewhat. But it
was still going. He had already reached 91 kg. He had put on 11 kg of weight in
less than three weeks.

While some of that mass was due to his limited use of Abyssal Depths, judging from
what he knew of the tempering technique, with how little he had used it, it
couldn’t have added more than 100 grams to his total weight.

Even if his growth slowed further, another four months of development like that
would put him way above 100 kg. Being at around that much mass would still be
manageable, but if he grew much more than that, it would seriously compromise his
mobility.

Freddy wasn’t all that tall, either.

Mark, who was much bigger than him, weighed 115 kg. But his talent and weapon
choice permitted it. He, on the other hand, needed to stay mobile.

Although he was quick to kick the drugs out of his schedule, he wouldn’t limit his
calorie intake. Because otherwise, he might just starve to death.

On another ordinary evening, Freddy was getting ready to go to bed until his
doorbell rang again. He immediately knew it would be exhausting, but he forced
himself to walk there anyway.

The moment he peeked through the spyglass, however, his stomach dropped.

Madame stood before his room entrance, wearing a loose, white dress, her hair tied
up into twin ponytails, and her arms crossed right across her torso. Her nails were
painted each in a different color, and one finger playfully tapped against her
forearm. Although spyglasses were meant to only go one way, her eyes showed she was
well aware that he was looking through the other end.

He took a single deep breath to calm down and opened the door. “Greetings, Madame!”
he chirped.

“Freddy, darling, how lovely to see you!” she said as she walked into the
apartment.

“Yeah!” he concurred. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Please, cut the shit, young man,” she said in the most polite tone she could
manage with such a phrase.

The whiplash momentarily stunned him, and Madame patted him on the shoulder with a
casual smile, causing him to jolt reflexively.

“You don’t need to pretend to be happy to see me. Anyone can tell that you trust me
about as much as a man with IBS trusts a fart, so let’s not do this pretend play,
okay?”

He nodded hesitantly, and Madame walked past him. “Let’s go have a seat. We have
something important to talk about.”

With clenched fists and shaky steps, he followed her, and they sat in the kitchen.

It was as if she extracted some sort of sick pleasure from awkward silence, and she
let it stretch on for far too long, simply observing him from top to bottom. And
then, finally, she spoke up. “You’re growing fast.”

“That I am,” he confirmed, still somewhat stilted.

“Lovely. You should have at least asked before dropping the steroids, though.”

Freddy winced at that and wondered whether she would force him to return to taking
them.

“I won’t,” she said, as if she could read his mind. “I was going to tell you to
stop anyway since a freak who belonged in a circus is the last thing I’d want on my
show.” Then, with a dramatic sigh, she summoned a cocktail from thin air and
started taking a long sip through the straw.

Then, the way an interrogator questioned a criminal, she opened her mouth and asked
him, “How exactly did you manage to piss off the patriarch of the Kraven Clan?”
“Who?” he asked, genuinely confused, but Madame showed no indication that his
confusion held any worth to their discussion.

“I will be straightforward with you. If I conclude that you knew he was after you
and decided to trick me into taking you under my wing anyway,” she said, leaning
forward and freezing the smile on her lips, “I will kill you immediately.”

He gritted his teeth. Rage boiled in his heart, but he took a deep breath and
calmed down. After all, he was innocent. Even if he wanted to tear her head off her
shoulders for the threat, he was powerless to do anything.

“Madame,” he said, taking a moment to think through what he was about to say. “I
have no idea who that person is, and this is the first time I’ve heard of the
‘Kraven’ clan,” he answered honestly, holding her gaze throughout the ordeal.

She squinted at him and took another long sip of her drink through the straw. The
cocktail ran dry, but she kept slurping it up, producing an annoying sound all the
while. “All right, I believe you,” she said, just like that, putting the glass back
into her storage device with a pop of air rushing to take its place.

He didn’t let himself relax.

“Well,” she said, “I still have to ask you a few things. You’ve somehow made an
enemy that is a pain for even me to deal with, and given that I have no choice but
to defend you, I would like to request your full cooperation.

“So,” she continued, “I guess I should clue you in on who we’re dealing with. His
name is Janhalar Kraven, and he leads a clan of blood-affinity warriors.”

It all happened in an instant.

The moment she mentioned the clan of blood archhumans, he immediately thought of
Bloodshed, and as soon as he did, her arm morphed, extending forward, and her
rainbow-colored nails sharpened into pointy claws that grasped his neck, drawing
blood.

Bent over the table, her arm stretching out of her dress, she struck an utterly
inhuman picture, yet it was her expression that sent the fear of death into his
heart.

With a murderous look of wrath on her face, she growled. “So, you do know
something, after all.”

23

SNEAKY
“Madame—ack! Please!” Freddy begged as the sharp, claw-like nails drew blood.

Madame pulled him over the table and threw him across the room, and as he landed
back first on his wall, he concluded that he was starting to despise being thrown
into damn walls.

“Please wait!” he continued pleading.

“Do you know what I hate the most?” she asked him as she took a firm step forward.
“Idiots who believe they have the right to offload their personal problems onto me.
I am an entertainer, Freddy,” she said in a way that a pacifist definitely
wouldn’t, “and I don’t enjoy conflict.”

“I swear to you, Madame; I swear to God,” he said. “I had no idea that someone was
after me!” he said honestly.

Her eyes squinted. “Then why did you—”

“I remembered some—” he interrupted her, pausing to see whether she would let him
speak.

She merely remained quiet, waiting for him to continue.

“All right,” he said, sweating bullets. “Back when we talked about this, I told you
about the man who approached me.”

She squinted harder at that.

He continued, “Well, I remembered something, or rather, I-I realized that I

misinterpreted something he asked me!” he spluttered. “While he was interested in
my clothing, that probably wasn’t what he was looking for… because the first thing
he asked me was whether I had seen anything bloody in the Netherecho.”

That made her eyebrows raise slightly, and she gritted her teeth. She opened her
mouth to ask a question, but he cut her off before she could do that. “I believe he
was looking for a unique vestige! Given that this other blood arch is after me,
it’s likely that it hasn’t been found yet and that I’m on the list of suspects!”

“Well,” she said, “Are you hiding it?”

“Am I hiding a unique vestige!?” he spat as if insulted at the question. “I… I

don’t even know how I would hide it!”

Intentionally, at least.

“Freddy,” she fired, her voice colder than ice and sharper than a dagger. “A simple
yes or no will suffice; are you hiding a unique vestige?”

He froze. Technically, the answer to that question was no. He was hiding a unique
remnant. But did he have the balls to deny it? For whatever reason, this whole
conversation gave him the sense that she could tell whether he was lying.

“No…” So he said the truth. His heart clenched as if cold, skeletal hands had
grasped it, and he froze. That was stupid. That was real stupid. Even if she took
the damn remnant, it was way better than dying. All he could do now was double
down. “No,” he said again, “I’m not hiding a unique vestige.”

“I am going to ask you one more time,” she said, taking another aggressive step
forward. Her tall, lithe body loomed over him like a reaper, casting a shadow while
her narrowed eyes shimmered like glass orbs.

He didn’t dare raise his eyes. Droplets of blood flowed from his neck and trickled
down his shirt, with every drop marking a step closer to his demise.

“Did you,” she started, “or did you not hold any suspicion that you would bring
enemies to my door by signing a contract with me?”

“No,” he denied without hesitation. “I had no idea.”

“Very well,” she said. “Next question. Are you, or are you not, hiding something
important from me?”

He flinched. Not even a moment passed until her arm stretched and grasped him by
the neck, raising his entire body into the air.

“Wait!” he eked out.

“What are you hiding?” She demanded an answer, her tone making it very clear that
he was royally fucked if he said the wrong thing.

“I’m—I’m, wait, please, let me elaborate.”

“Speak.”

“All right,” he said, nodding frantically. “I discovered the other day that my soul
construct can extract essence from wisps!”

Her lips twitched. Her gaze bore a hole into his eyes as she inspected them,
peering so deeply into them that it was as if she were examining his soul. “There
is something else,” she said, bringing her face closer to his.

“I… I…” He could barely speak from the terror. “I… I told Mark… I… I told him some…
de-details… I broke the NDA.”

He couldn’t tolerate the weight of her gaze any longer, so he closed his eyes and
turned his head, gritting his teeth in preparation for whatever was about to come.

Until, “Hmph—” she scoffed as she retracted her arm, letting his body drop to the
ground. “While I don’t appreciate your behavior, it’s hardly out of the norm for
someone like… you,” she dismissed.

Her tongue visibly rubbed over her upper teeth beneath the skin, and she tapped a
finger to her lips. “I just can’t brush off the feeling that you’re still scheming
something,” she said. “I’m good at reading people, you see,” she declared as he
crouched down and cupped her chin between her index finger and thumb as she looked
at him again. “And I can practically taste an… incongruence. Something isn’t lining
up.”

He reflexively bit the inside of his cheek.

She smiled a bit. “There it is,” she remarked as she stretched her arm and poked
his cheek, making him flinch violently. Then, with a shrug, she got up. “You aren’t
forbidden from keeping secrets, you know.”

His body language instantly shifted as an aching hope sparked on his face despite
his attempt to hide it.

“What?” she asked. “Surprised?” she teased. Then, her smile vanished. “Of course,
that doesn’t mean that I like it, but as long as you’re not my enemy or doing
something that will bring me trouble, I don’t need to know everything about you.
So, what do you say to that…” she said teasingly. “Are you my enemy?”

His lips pursed as he took a few deep breaths through his nose. “I really don’t
want to be.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Then she started giggling. Her head cocked
back as she started laughing, her beautiful voice echoing through his apartment
like the cries of an exotic bird. “Now there is an answer I like!” she declared.
“Very well. I guess I’ve bothered you enough. Thank you for your time, young man,”
she stated simply as she turned around and, just like that, started walking away.

He couldn’t believe his eyes. Through some miracle, he had actually managed to keep
Bloodshed hidden and stay alive. But he wasn’t satisfied. An immense, blazing-hot
fury bubbled in his gut as she shook, trying not to scream at the top of his lungs.

Just as she was about to leave the room, believing she was out of earshot, he
whispered under his breath. “You fucking bitch.”

The room froze. The aura of death returned instantly. Madame stood so still that he
would believe she was a statue if he didn’t know otherwise.

The room subtly vibrated with the movement of something unseen shifting through the
air, and the ether lamp that kept the space illuminated flickered, turning
considerably less bright afterward. She turned around, a stony smirk plastered on
her tight lips.

“You do not have the right to speak to me like that,” she said. “Do you
understand?”

It took him a few moments to shake off the momentary paralysis as he frantically
nodded.

“Good. Don’t let that happen again. If you must vent your frustration, I believe my
previous gift shall suffice.” She gestured at the shifting mass of flesh sitting in
the corner of his kitchen. And with that, she walked out and slammed the door shut.

And he, as Madame had suggested, crawled over to the mass of flesh and pummeled it.
But his anger didn’t go away. Instead, with every punch he threw…

He only felt more pissed off.

Freddy appeared at the gym the next day, only to find Mark with his arm wrapped in
bandages. “Whoa, you okay?” he asked the young man. Mark looked as if movement
pained him, and his skin appeared rather pale, with deep eye bags highlighting a
lack of sleep.

Mark winced and sighed. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I was caught off guard during the
delve yesterday and got a slash across my forearm,” he informed. “Not a big deal.
This sort of stuff happens rather often when you delve alone. If anything, I’m
surprised I managed to avoid injuries for so long.”

Given how many scars the young man had lining his body, he was sure that this was
little more than a plus one to a long series of scars. Although he didn’t envy
Mark’s inability to swiftly recover, he did think that his scars were cool.

No matter how tough he got, outwardly, he would always appear smooth as polished
marble. That kind of sucked.

Throughout that entire training session, Freddy consistently broke his personal
records.

Not by much, but it was enough to leave Mark clearly impressed. “You’re on a roll
today, damn.”

“I’m feeling it,” he said. Feeling deeply frustrated, that was.

If he had learned anything yesterday, it was that he was in deep shit. Whoever the
Kraven Clan were, they were trouble. Big trouble. If even Madame wasn’t happy to
have to deal with them, anything short of moving across the damn empire wouldn’t
give him enough peace of mind to sleep at night.

The list of things he could do to improve his odds of getting out of this situation
alive was short, to say the least.

On that day, he had made a decision. He needed money. A lot of money. His head
turned to face his trainer as a burning question prickled the top of his tongue.

Mark noticed his stare. “You good?” he asked.

“Yeah… Uhm… Would you be willing to take me along for a delve?” he asked.

“No,” the man shot him down.

“But—”

“There are no buts!” Mark shouted, attracting some gazes their way. He calmed down
a bit in the next moment. “You have no bloody idea how dangerous delving is,” he
said. “If anything happened to you, and trust me, it could and would, Madame would
kill me.”

“We’ll try to reason with her,” he tried. “Maybe she would let me do it.”

Mark scoffed at that. “No,” he said, biting his lip as a look of profound
frustration washed over his face. “That won’t happen.”

Mark headed home with Freddy once they were done since his injury prevented him
from training. They headed down the street, and before long, they were back in
their building.

Freddy turned to Mark. “Hey, do you want to—”

“No, sorry,” the man refused. “I already have lunch prepared.”

He laughed awkwardly. “Well, that’s not a big deal, right? Just grab the lunch and
come over to—”

“Freddy,” Mark interrupted him. “I… I have to deal with a few other things. We’ll
have lunch tomorrow or maybe dinner tonight. How does that sound?”
He nodded at him and patted him on the shoulder. “Okay, chief, you’re the boss.
I’ll see you later, man. Rest up.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Mark headed into his apartment and locked the door behind him as soon as he
entered. With a shaky hand, he pulled another pill out of his pocket and shoved it
into his mouth as he headed to the bathroom.

He put his mouth under the faucet, gulped the water down, and swallowed, fighting
against his gag reflex as his stomach tried to eject anything that entered it.

Taking the bandages off, he winced at the pain but endured. He couldn’t help
himself from panicking once he saw the wound.

A grisly, deep, inflamed gash spread from the back of his hand to his elbow. The
stitches were barely holding together.

He poured the disinfectant over the wound again and cleaned it, wincing at the pain
as he pinched the red injury and squeezed several tablespoons of pus out. Seeing
that made him panic harder, and he wiped it off with a sterile rag, applied more
disinfectant, and bandaged his arm back up.

It was fine. No, it would be fine. It just had to hurry up and heal. And he had to
hurry and return to his work.

With deep breaths, he returned to his room and lay in his bed.

Sleep did not come easy to him, however.

His arm burned. So, so bad.

Freddy finished his lunch and was getting ready to head to the forest when his door
rang. It was Matt. In his hands was a small box wrapped up like a gift.

He raised his eyebrow. “What is this?” he asked.

“A small present from Madame,” the man said, causing his throat to tighten
slightly.

“I… I see,” he said as he held his hand out and received the box.

The man also handed him a piece of paper.

A cursory glance revealed that it was an invitation. To a party, at that.

He glanced at Matt and tried returning the invitation, but the man held a palm up
to stop him. “Your participation is mandatory, as per Madame’s request.”

“Tell her I refuse,” he tried, but—

“I am not here to negotiate, Mr. Stern. The gathering is on Friday evening. Please
be ready to leave at 7:30 at the latest. Have a good day.” And with that, he turned
around and left.
His hand dropped to his side, and he shrugged. “At least I tried.” He turned around
and headed to the living room.

A small part of him was afraid to open the box for fear of it being something
dangerous, but it wasn’t like Madame needed to use underhanded methods to harm him.
He pulled the numerous hatches open and peeled the seal off. The small lid was
flipped open, revealing a tiny, thoroughly wrapped-up piece of meat.

There was a small piece of paper detailing a rudimentary recipe for its
preparation. Apparently, most he was allowed to do with it was put a light sear on
it, and even that “reduced the meat’s efficacy.”

He couldn’t be bothered to do that, so he ate it raw. A small part of him was still
afraid that it was laced with something like a truth serum or some other bullshit,
so before digging in, he prepared the knife and approached the flesh blob, readying
himself to start stabbing the instant he felt something was off.

He peeled the plastic off and gingerly grabbed the tender piece with his fingers.
As his teeth reached the fleshy substance, he bit, eating a small chunk of it.
Immediately, the knife fell out of his hands. The next beat of his heart was like a
gong being struck by a meteorite, and before long, he was violently shoving the
treasure down his throat.

A soothing yet ravenous power flooded his body, seeping into his soul and
nourishing his bones.

His ether star instantly jumped from 32% to 47% capacity, drastically increasing
his overall essence reserves.

“What the fuck was that!?”

Apparently, she was more aware of how much of a bitch she was yesterday than he
presumed. Hell, if he could expect gifts such as this one, he’d offer himself up
for another beatdown without hesitation.

He licked the fingers he grabbed the meat with, and even that sent a pulse of power
into his body. He even licked the plastic wrapping.

The emptiness of the box suddenly felt heavy, and upon realizing that there was
none left, he felt almost as disappointed as when he woke up to find his adoptive
parents gone. His state was so strange that he had to stab the flesh blob a few
times to ensure he hadn’t been drugged.

Well. At least she knew how to apologize. Although he hated to admit it, as he knew
that was what she was aiming for, he couldn’t help but feel less hatred toward her.
Sighing, he got up.

It was time for his martial arts training.

Freddy was bewildered at how drastic the increase in his essence reserves was. And
it wasn’t just a matter of overall capacity. His Essence Extraction soul
construct’s power slowed down the closer his reserves were too full. This was a
matter of percentage, meaning that with the 50 percent increase to his capacity,
the speed at which he recovered had nearly, but not quite, also increased by 50
percent.

Given the means and more than enough motivation, on that day, he truly pushed
himself.

Sweat beads rolled down his glistening body as he punched the tree over and over.
And finally, after God knew how many punches…

The tree finally fell down.

Freddy returned to his apartment later in the day, and the first thing he did was
knock on Mark’s door. He rang the bell, too, but the young man wasn’t answering.

Probably isn’t home, he concluded, feeling slightly betrayed.

He went into his apartment and walked over to the kitchen. After dinner, he
pretended to nap on the table while his projection crawled out to visit his
favorite skeleton.

“My liege,” Bloodshed greeted him as it bowed. “Do you require my servitude?”

“As a matter of fact, I do, my loyal minion!” he declared dramatically.

Back when Bloodshed suddenly appeared, he overlooked an important detail—how did it

know where he was? So, he proceeded to ask it precisely that. “Tell me, Bloodshed.
How can you tell where I am?”

“It is simple, my lord,” Bloodshed answered. “No matter how far you are, I can
sense the true direction I must take to reach you. For that is the only path that
lies ahead of me.”

He would cock an eyebrow at that if his projection had any. “Do you think that
would work, let’s say, if I entered a passage?”

“That is irrelevant,” Bloodshed declared without hesitation. “Distance and realm

are no barrier to my loyalty.”

Even if they didn’t know the answer, personified ether constructs couldn’t say
something untrue. Which meant that it could track him down even if he was somewhere
in the interspace.

While that was actually pretty damn terrifying, it also revealed a possibility to
him.

“Say, Bloodshed,” Freddy started. “Can you keep track of time?”

“I can always tell when a day has come and gone.”

“Can you count to seven hundred?”

“Yes.”

Freddy wondered if the inside of the shadowy hood covering his head had revealed an
outline of the shit-eating grin he flashed at that moment.
He didn’t have a way to reliably hide Bloodshed. As it stood, the only reason it
hadn’t been discovered was probably because Madame and Matt didn’t consider the
possibility that a goddamn plastic bag could capture a remnant.

This meant that he was on a timer. Either he found a way to hide Bloodshed before
the six months were up, or he would lose it. There was no way to get an ability to
tier two in such a short time, meaning that he had to keep Bloodshed hidden. Either
way, if given the ability to consume it, he didn’t want to do so.

It was Bloodshed, after all. It was his loyal minion. What kind of cruel master
would devour his own subject?

His reasoning definitely didn’t have anything to do with the fact that Bloodshed
could evolve into an eidolon. It also had nothing to do with the fact that a loyal
eidolon servant was likely the best ally anyone could possibly ask for.

Nope. Definitely had nothing to do with that.

Fantasies of possible futures weren’t his priority now, however. What he needed the
most was to find a way to keep the remnant hidden.

And with what he had just learned, he was confident that he knew the perfect method
to do so.

24

PARTY

Freddy crawled out of bed. Despite his perfect health, he felt horrible. Although
it couldn’t catch up to him physiologically, stress seemed to still leave a
psychological mark on him. Where the line between “brain damage” and “mental
instability” was, he didn’t know, but it was becoming increasingly clear that his
talent wasn’t omnipotent.

He washed himself up, had breakfast, and proceeded to a particular drawer.

Given how little shopping he did, there was practically no garbage to deal with.
But, when a bit of trash did show up, all he had to do was throw it down a small
hatch in his kitchen. Thus, without any ceremony, he threw a wrapped plastic bag
into the hatch and turned around without care—as if he didn’t just throw away the
single most valuable thing he owned.

He had instructed Bloodshed to wait until the trash reached the dump yard and then
continue waiting, never leaving its bag for any reason until roughly two years
passed.

The reason why he picked two years was somewhat arbitrary. He first landed on that
number because it seemed the safest, but then contemplated whether a year would be
safe enough or if he should make it five or ten years. But it didn’t make much
difference.

Owning Bloodshed had put a target on his back—and the best way to remove it?

Convince his pursuers that he genuinely didn’t have it.

Naturally, not being in the immediate possession of the construct was the logical
first step. Step two, though? He had just over three months to think of it.

He walked over to the tablet and ordered himself an extra-large cappuccino. There
was no reason to watch his health, so he didn’t have to deny himself. And he needed
something for his morning headaches.

It arrived quickly, and he sat on the couch in his living room, sipping the coffee
and contemplating his plans.

For the time being, he would mooch off Madame while he was still valuable to her.
As for what he would do about the trouble he was in, well, he had a few ideas.

As long as he had 1% Lifesteal and Essence Extraction, he had all he needed to

succeed as an independent arch. With his talent, he wouldn’t age either, so he
could afford to take as long as he needed to let the dust settle.

If there was any one word that described him best, it was bitter; endlessly bitter
at how unfair the world was and how willing those in power were to abuse it.

He yearned to go back to being an utterly unaffiliated nobody. He couldn’t help but

chuckle as a ridiculous thought brushed through his mind. What if I faked my own
death?

Truly, this whole thing was driving him insane.

He finished the last sip of his drink, downing it with gusto, and got up. It was
time to go to the gym.

The next day, the day of the party he was invited to, Freddy finished his workout
and headed home with Mark by his side.

“You sure your arm’s fine?” he asked for the twentieth time that day.

“I already told you that I’m fine,” Mark spat with undisguised frustration.

“Ah… aight.” he walked on silently for a while, but eventually, he added, “I can
smell it from here, you know.”

Mark’s legs froze, and he stopped.

He turned to face him. “You okay?”

“Yeah… just… I’m just feeling a little tired.”

Freddy paused for a while before nodding. “I get it. I’ll stop asking.”

“Y-Yeah. Thanks.”
They walked on in silence, and this time, before he could even invite the man for
lunch, Mark slammed the door to his apartment shut.

Freddy returned early from his training in the woods, and as soon as he entered his
bedroom, he noticed something strange.

There was a brand-new rack of clothing right in the middle of his bedroom. He
stepped before it, examining several pieces of clothing. With each new article he
picked up, his frown deepened.

“Fuck no, I ain’t wearing that.”

Ridiculous combinations of colors, black leather with holes in highly revealing

places, what amounted to basically just string covering barely anything, and more
perverted, gross, rich people stuff.

For a moment, the idea of faking his death sounded real good. He did not want to go
to this party.

The more he stared at this pile of sin, the more willing he was to do anything to
get out of whatever gathering these clothes were appropriate for. Or was this just
a bad joke by Madame? Maybe she was hoping that he would pull up in something
absurd.

With a deep sigh, he picked the most ordinary items he could find. They were an
ultra-slim-fit white shirt and black pants that appeared mostly normal but were
made of exquisitely soft material.

There were a couple of glass boxes of jewelry, and he did his best to pretend that
the do-it-yourself piercing kit wasn’t there as he contemplated his options. The
jewelry, while not super-high-end, was definitely quite pricey.

He picked a watch, an annoyingly thick gold necklace that screamed “I’m an arrogant
bastard” and a small, elegant platinum ring.

The first order of business was taking a shower, and once done, he put everything
on and got a good look at himself in the mirror.

It was hard to say that he was beautiful, but it was impossible to deny that he was
handsome. His tanned skin was so smooth that he could see the light reflected off
it, his hair was healthy and thick, his eyes clear, his teeth perfectly aligned,
and most importantly, his utterly hairless jaw was chiseled to perfection.

That wasn’t even touching on his body, which, in the super tight shirt, showed the
complete outline of his impressive physique, even allowing faint lines of his thick
veins to shine through.

Oh yeah, he thought, smirking arrogantly, I wonder if Matt is gonna watch if I

bring someone over tonight.

Speaking of Matt, the man didn’t take long to show up. “I see you’re already
prepared to leave,” the assistant said.

With a fat grin, he answered, “I see you’ve been keeping an eye on me.” Then, with
a sly chuckle and a pat on Matt’s shoulder, he walked out of the apartment and
followed the man’s lead.

Mark punched his father.

It wasn’t even close to full force, but a punch from the young man, even half-
hearted, sent the man tumbling to the ground. His mother screamed, and his sister
cried hysterically.

His eyes were bloodshot, and he stared at his father on the ground, teeth bared.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he spat venomously.

“Stop! Just stop!” his sister screamed. “You have to get treat—” Her words were cut
off as he raised his healthy hand at her for a moment but quickly restrained
himself.

He tried reaching down for her, but she was already backing away. He didn’t let her
get far as he grabbed her arm and spoke to her, “Listen to me, Sarah. I won’t have
it. You’re going to the academy,” he said, mania in his expression.

“Son, please calm down,” his father said, getting off the floor with a massive
bruise on his face. “You don’t have to do this!”

“Shut up!” he yelled. “Shut… the fuck up… I’m not having it. If you cancel her
admission, I swear to God I won’t have anything to do with any of you again. I’m
going to disown you.”

“Please…” Sarah cried.

His mother strode forward carefully, biting her lip as he swallowed the lump in her
throat and said bitterly, “But you’re going to lose it…”

“So what?” he spat. “You think using the money for the scholarship to pay for my
treatment is a good idea?” he continued, tearing up and taking a few steps back.
“I’ll solve the issue of my arm eventually. If she misses it now, she’ll never get
to go to the academy.”

“I don’t care!” Sarah yelled. “I don’t want to go to the stupid academy!”

Mark tried smiling, but it just looked like a scowl. Determined, he walked over to
the door and left the apartment. “You don’t have a choice. I’m going to have it
amputated immediately.” He slammed the door shut as he walked outside, leaving
nothing but silence and sobbing behind.

Freddy’s default reaction to seeing new things was a wide-eyed mouth drop and an
internal dialogue about how absurd it was.

This time, things were different. As he walked into the seizure-inducing “club,”
one filled to the brim with flashing lights, smoke, which, once inhaled, actually
served to recover some essence in his ether star, thunderous, horrid music, and a
myriad of colors, be it the floor tiles, furniture, ceiling, or the people around
him, the only thing that went through his mind was, I literally can’t see shit.

This place was more akin to a war zone than a party. No matter where he stood, he
could barely see a couple of feet in any direction, and with the tight crowds,
blaring noise, and more than one puff of smoke that stirred funny feelings in his
gut, he felt thoroughly disoriented.

He didn’t know whether this was just a particular breed of rich bastard, but if he
ever found himself among the wealthy, he vowed to join the crowd who preferred old-
timey tea parties over brain-rot raves like this one.

Matt stood ahead of him and asked one of the waiters a few questions. Neither of
the two men were yelling or leaning closer, marking the impressive hearing of—

Wait.

Was the waiter a two-star arch!? What the hell kind of service…?

It didn’t take long for Matt to nod to the waiter and wave at him to follow him.
After a short but gruesome trek through the suffocating mass of bodies, he was
plopped down at a small private section, seated on a round couch facing a fancy
table.

At first, he was by himself, but it didn’t take long for others to be brought to
sit beside him. The vast majority of people sitting there were complete strangers,
but to his surprise, he recognized a man who sat next to him.

It was a face that made him panic a little as he recalled unwanted memories, but he
restrained those feelings as he waved at the handsome individual and greeted him,
“Hey! Remember me?” he yelled, but that didn’t seem to be necessary. The man
clearly didn’t struggle to hear him.

The man said something in what was likely a regular tone of voice but soon realized
that Freddy couldn’t hear him, so he leaned in and yelled a bit, “I’m sorry, but I
don’t recall ever seeing you before.”

He was about to yell back but restrained his voice as he realized the man didn’t
need to strain to hear him. “You’re the spear user that saved my life during the
break!”

The man frowned at that. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific than that!”

“I’m the first person you saved!”

The man raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that. The first person I saved was one of the
victims.”

“Yeah!” Freddy confirmed, grinning. “That was me!”

“What!?” The man seemed incredulous. “No, it was this skinny boy who—”

“Yeah! That was me!” he repeated himself.

The man gave him a once over, mouth agape. “You must be joking!” He chuckled a bit.
“What the hell kind of magical potion did you drink!?”

He cackled merrily at that one. “Oh, you don’t even want to know!”

Soon, the drinks arrived, and the man introduced himself, “My name is John, by the
way!”

“Nice to meet you. My name is Freddy!”

The man looked over and grinned at him as he pointed subtly with his thumb.

Freddy turned around, spotting a group of four girls who sat on the other side of
the table, waving at the two men invitingly and patting empty spots beside them.

Mark had rushed out of his apartment, fully determined to head to the closest
hospital and have his arm cut off. But it didn’t take long for his steps to wane
and his will to crumble.

Hiding on a small bench tucked behind a few trees on the island, he sobbed
hysterically, unable to hold back the tears. It burned so badly. And he could feel
the pain slowly moving up.

It just didn’t feel real. How was it even possible to fall so low in such a short
time? It felt like he stood with his teammates just yesterday, one among the elite,
a trailblazer of the next generation of archs that would take humanity to new
heights.

Sobbing on that bench, he felt like little more than an empty shell of the person
he once was.

He shouldn’t have delved so much. His efforts had been putting his family back on
track, but pure hubris led him to this situation. Even if they would have dragged
him down, he should have found a new team. Even if that would make his profits
dwindle, he should have taken a more extensive break between expeditions.

And now…

What rotted his arm wasn’t an ordinary infection. He had gotten struck by a death-
attuned ability, a claw swing of a deviant ravager raptor. Those creatures were
usually of the blood affinity, and deviant members of their race were exceptionally
rare.

He got too careless. Rather than get out of the way, he tried to defend against the
deviant’s attack—a strike he would have realized needed to be dodged had he not
been so tired.

The death-affinity essence had invaded his bones. Removing the infection would take
a high-level holy-affinity spell, and actually fixing the damage could require as
long as three months of daily healing.

Perhaps if he wasn’t so useless, he could join an organization and have them pay
for the treatment as an advance payment for his services. But he had tried. Nobody
wanted him. He had tried requesting it from Madame, too. She also said no.

Mark was still a one-star arch. Ascending was serious business, and before one went
up, it was wise to first achieve the full potential of their rank. Rare events
caused bursts of ether, and incredible feats accomplished the same thing but deep
within one’s soul.

The quality of one’s talent evolution depended on how much they achieved at their
current rank.

He had already done a lot, but not enough to evolve his mediocre talent into an
incredible one. Postponing his ascension to the second star was another greedy,
selfish act that brought him to this situation.

He should have put the thoughts of stardom to rest as soon as he dropped out of the
academy. He should have just ascended. He should have rested, he should have found
teammates, he should have—he should have never taken this job.

The weight of his sins and the height of his despair brought him up to his feet.
Absent-mindedly, he walked forward, soon reaching the edge of the island.

It was a long way down to the ground. And the thought of taking the leap felt way
too natural. He wasn’t cowardly enough to do it, though.

But having the option felt… It felt just a bit comforting.

In the corner of his vision, he spotted someone appear. It didn’t take him long to
recognize the man—the same person who got him into this situation—the “slimy
journalist.” That persona was nowhere to be seen this time around, however.

He was well-dressed, standing confidently, gazing at the city below as if it truly

belonged under his feet.

Rage flooded Mark’s body, but he knew that he stood no chance against this person.
And other than that… he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

The man turned to face him. “You just have to answer one question, Mr. Afronte.”

Mark didn’t respond, his breath speeding up and his heart raging wildly. He bit his
lip. Fuck off, he wanted to say. Get out of my sight! he wanted to shout. But his
arm hurt. The bone-piercing cold of death seeped deeper, claiming a more
significant chunk of his arm with each moment it went untreated. “What do you want
to know?” he finally said.

The man smiled widely. “Does Freddy Stern, to your knowledge, possess a blood-
affinity remnant?”

25

AFTERPARTY

Freddy had lived his life believing that, for men, looks were utterly irrelevant.
Ultimately, the number on the bank statement, status, and owned property mattered
the most.

However, as he, a relatively poor, low-status man, sat surrounded by women who
were, by how they spoke, definitely from wealthy families, he was forced to update
his worldview ever so slightly.

No matter how many fuck-ups he made, his looks seemed to be enough to give him a
free pass. Even after he said awfully cringy stuff, some of which had caused him to
physically recoil, they simply giggled it away and changed the subject.

Recently, he had grown aware that he had become drastically more handsome, even if
he wasn’t all that pretty face-wise. But as the night went on, he realized he had
underestimated himself. A lot. Whatever these girls wanted, he had it, and no
matter how hard he tried to repel them with his aura of virginity, they were going
to get it.

The anxiety gave him itchy hands, and he reached for a drink every so often to take
the edge off. As one drink after another went down his throat, it didn’t take long
for all the liquid to force a visit to the toilet.

John, who was also busy doing his thing, did his best to explain how to find it,
but… it wouldn’t be easy.

Freddy excused himself and got up, shoving his way through the crowd as he went on
the mission. Pushing past the mass of people was damn tricky, and his size, as well
as the alcohol coursing through his veins, didn’t make it any easier, but he seemed
to be making progress—

Until a sudden, powerful strike to the back of his head made the entire world go
dark.

Mark returned home only to find his family there, surprised that he had returned so
soon. They seemed relieved to see his arm still attached to his body and tried
comforting him, but he barely heard anything they said. Their voices sounded like
they were coming from behind a closed door, and the sound of distant ringing
muffled them further.

He pushed past them, walked to his room, went inside, and locked the door behind
him. The large bedroom echoed with the locking of his door, and he walked over to
the bed. Soon, the blankets were wrapped tight around him, and he sweated
profusely, unable to pull his head out of the covers.

The endless pounding of his heart was the only thing he could hear as the
mountainous weight of his sin settled on his back.

“Oh, God…” he spat, clasping his mouth shut as his eyes shot open and a profound
desire to vomit raged in his gut. He shook and shivered, his teeth clattering as
the ringing got louder.

“What have I done?”

Matt Canstone appeared in the private booth where Madame was seated.

The guests were already dispersing as Madame held her ear to a contact crystal,
listening to a message.

“Madame—” he said, but she interrupted him.

“When?” she asked curtly.

“Ten minutes ago,” the man answered. “He went to the toilet but disappeared among
the crowds. None of the guards spotted him leaving the premises.”

She scowled. “I just got news of several men breaking into the apartment we
provided him with. They flipped the whole place upside down and even went through
the woods he exercised in.”

Matt pondered it for a moment. “I believe they—”

“They shouldn’t have any proof,” she spat as she bit her nails. “I couldn’t find
any evidence myself, and we’ve been watching over him for—” Suddenly, her eyes shot
wide open as she remembered something. Her jaw clenched, and she bit her nail clean
off. “So that’s what he told his trainer…”

Matt stood silently, keeping his posture straight and waiting. Soon enough, she
pulled a communication crystal out of her storage device and selected one of the
contacts.

The crystal buzzed briefly until a cheerful voice rang through it. “Madame! Dear!
To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hello, Harold. I have some news that might interest you.”

“Oh?” the man said. “What happened?”

“Freddy Stern was taken.”

A few moments of silence elapsed until a sigh came through the crystal. “Let me
guess, Kraven?”

“Indeed,” she confirmed. “They seem to be rather confident that he has something
they want.” Her jaw clenched even harder. “Didn’t you say you already took measures
to prevent them from overreaching?”

“I did!” he said. “This is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you!”

She gritted her teeth hard enough that they creaked, but she forced herself to
relax. “Well, then. Am I allowed to surmise that you’re in the mood to uphold the
law?”

“Well,” he started, “I suppose I don’t really have a choice.”

“How’s five minutes from now sound?” she asked.

“Meet you at their premises!” And with that, he hung up.

Madame gripped the crystal so tightly that it shattered, and she looked up at her
assistant. “We are leaving immediately.”

She left her seat and rushed toward the nearest window, showcasing superhuman
speed. She opened the window and jumped out. Matt seemingly disappeared behind her
as he shifted into the darkness of the night, moving across the buildings.
On the other hand, she morphed her arms into gigantic wings and took flight,
soaring above the city as she beelined straight toward the headquarters of the
Kraven Clan.

“Go to the planned location and wait for the next two hours,” Janhalar said to one
of his disciples, a young woman. “In that time, the outcome will be decided.”

She nodded, and with that, she ran off.

The entire Kraven Clan was in an uproar. Alarms were blaring, members were rushing
deeper into the safety of the underground bunker, and all of their operations were
grinding to a halt as they contacted all members outside the premises.

Three elders stepped up and knelt before the patriarch. A tall, lithe woman and two
men, one bulky and young in appearance, the other elderly and frail. All of them
were hardened warriors of the Kraven Clan, wearing the signature clothing and
tattoos of elite members.

These would be the elders who would fight beside him. All three of them were
specialized for close-quarters combat. They were neither the strongest nor the most
important members of their clan, but they were all he was allowed to take.

Conflict between Lords was commonplace, as was only natural. But the empress would
have them slaughtered like pigs if they waged all-out wars and collapsed entire
cities in disputes.

He didn’t like his odds with just them by his side, but he hadn’t come without a
plan, either. While he loathed to use it, he had an ace up his sleeve that would
ensure he got his way, even though it would come at great cost to his clan’s
operations.

Even then, it would be well worth it if he could get his hands on the remnant.

In less than a few minutes, the premises were deathly quiet.

A slight tremor shook the ground beneath him as if on cue, and the echoes of their
front gate landing in the middle of the courtyard followed soon after.

“Do not fear your destiny,” he told his elders as he turned to face them. “We are
facing Basilisk and the Scorched Fleshmancer.

“Prepare yourselves to die.”

“You arrived faster than I expected, Madame!” Basilisk greeted Madame cheerfully in
his standard disarming tone.

They found themselves right in front of the entrance to the Kraven compound. A
large, metallic gate barred entry into it, dyed partly red in the shape of a
silhouette of the mythical “vampire,” a creature taking the form of a poshly
dressed man wearing an extravagant cloak. A wall of red-tinged stone surrounded the
entire area.
It would be trivial for either of them to jump over the barrier, but she thought it
would be best to send a message.

Without a response to Basilisk’s greeting, she kicked the metallic gate. Although
it was more of a decoration than a proper defensive barrier, the fact that she
could send the several-ton-heavy gate flying as if it were made of Styrofoam made
even Harold gulp.

In a matter of seconds, followed by an entourage of three powerful three-star

archs, the patriarch appeared.

His pale skin highlighted the numerous red lines marking his face. “Basilisk,
Scorched Fleshmancer,” he greeted them. “Welcome.”

Madame scoffed. “Refrain from using that infantile monicker when addressing me,
Bloodlord.”

“I would prefer you used my true name as well, Narcisse,” he shot back.

“So,” Basilisk butted in, “you should already know why we’re here. Hand the young
man over and pay a fine of—”

“You lied to me, bastard,” the patriarch said. “Don’t think I will forget that.”

“Okay, first of all—” Harold started, but before he could get far, Madame raised
her hand and interrupted him.

“What did he lie to you about?”

The patriarch sneered. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Madame frowned for a fraction of a second.

The bloody arch scoffed. “You have become rusty, Narcisse,” he jabbed.

“Okay!” Basilisk loudly interrupted them, stepping in between them. “None of this
is relevant to the problem at hand. Janhalar, I was rather clear when I gave you
the warning. Besides, kidnapping? Do you know the kind of disaster your
transgression will cause if it becomes public knowledge? You can’t just do whatever
you want.”

Janhalar clenched his fist with his right hand and lifted two fingers on his left.
In response to his gesture, the three elders behind him moved in front, readying
themselves for battle.

“I promise you,” Harold threatened, “going through with this is a bad idea.” He
shot a quick glance at the fuming woman beside him.

Despite an involuntary wince betraying that he was well aware of the danger,
Janhalar steeled himself. “You know damn well it’s worth it for what’s at stake—”
His words were interrupted as the lithe woman standing to his side barely blocked a
spike of bone-like material as it was about to penetrate his eye.

She did so with her unprotected hand and now couldn’t take the bolt out, no matter
how hard she pulled.

Madame’s arm had morphed, moving her bones in a configuration that created an
improvised crossbow, with her tendon acting as a string and a shard of her bone as
the projectile.

A bead of sweat dripped down Janhalar’s neck. All three elders pulled out curved
twin daggers, with the woman only managing to hold one due to her injury. Basilisk
shook his head, preparing himself to fight. The atmosphere around them grew tense.
All six of the people present were poised to strike, and soon enough, the needle
dropped.

The ground beneath the Kraven fighters’ feet morphed into stone serpents, but it
wasn’t long until they were dashing out of the way, clearly prepared to face such
tactics. The bodies of all three elders turned red, with the tell-tale bulging
veins appearing along the surface of their skin as they all triggered Blood Rush.

With a loud twang, several more bolts of bone came rushing at them, and while they
managed to block most of them, the bulky elder received one of the projectiles
directly to his left rib, groaning with pain.

Janhalar’s pores seeped out blood, and it wasn’t long until it coagulated into a
full-body armor surrounding him and javelins that he threw with intimidating speed
at his opponents.

Basilisk’s skin was soon covered in stone scales to help him defend himself from
the incoming projectiles, but Madame seemingly had no issue dodging the overbearing
barrage, and even while avoiding it, she managed to push forward, making her way to
the elder, who received a bolt to the ribs. His gait was uncertain, and it wouldn’t
take much for Madame to catch up with him.

The tall, lithe woman whose hand had been pierced reacted immediately and rushed to
her comrade’s help, but the soil beneath her shifted. A gigantic head of a snake
appeared below her, its jaws spread wide and ready to bite down on her body.
Reacting instantly, she jumped, but that wouldn’t be enough to avoid a four-star
arch’s attack while already caught in it.

The serpent’s jaws slammed shut, and the woman’s legs were cleaved clean off, just
slightly below the knees. She tried to scream, but it took only a moment for Madame
to reach her.

Her hand injured and her legs gone, the elder lifted a dagger, her body raging with
the intense pulsing of her heart, but that meager defense went thoroughly ignored
as Madame slammed sharp claws directly into her torso. Just as the woman’s soul
abandoned her body, a pulse was sent in its stead.

With loud snaps and the sound of flesh stretching to the breaking point, the
woman’s body morphed into a freakish biomass roughly in the shape of a monster with
two bulky arms. Using its unwieldy limbs, the creature shambled toward the
patriarch.

An angry snarl escaped Janhalar’s lips as he repelled a stone serpent head with a
giant spear, but it was caught in his throat as Madame picked up the abomination
she had created the way a little girl picked up her doll and threw it with such
speed that he could barely raise a defense.

“Patriarch!” the skinny old man yelled, and the mass of flesh began to glow.

“Crap!” Janhalar yelled as he moved his arms before him to block; just in time as
the corpse grew bright hot and violently exploded, sending charred flesh and guts
everywhere, knocking the patriarch back and overloading his Coagulated Blood Armor,
causing his defenses to dissipate.
Madame immediately used the opening to rush at the injured, bulky elder, and
Janhalar used Blood Rush to boost his speed and try to stop her, but after taking a
single step forward, another massive serpent appeared, this one slamming his body
directly and sending him tumbling.

The injured man was reached, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. Several
bloody spikes thrown by the patriarch whizzed through the air past Madame’s head,
dodged with delicate grace, but her movement created an opening.

The elder stabbed his twin daggers at Madame’s body and somehow miraculously
reached his target, sinking the weapons into her flesh.

The shadow of a grin appeared on his face, but it vanished as he realized there was
no blood. Her tissue simply moved out of the way to allow the blades to enter her
body, and her claws tore another heart out as the elder joined his comrade in
turning into a monstrosity.

“Patriarch’s Domain!” Janhalar yelled.

The air shifted.

Janhalar’s body suddenly exploded in a shower of blood, but it didn’t simply splash
to the ground. The crimson liquid began floating and spinning around the people
present, rapidly expanding its radius and multiplying in volume every second.

A raging typhoon soon enveloped all the combatants, and Basilisk, despite his best
attempts, couldn’t get out of the range in time.

The thick, oozing blood coated Madame and Basilisk, drastically restraining their
movements and attempting to invade their bodies as it turned into freaky red
maggots trying to bite through their skin.

Since the moment the ability was used, however, Madame hadn’t moved an inch. And
now, she lifted her hand into the air as she uttered, “Vigor Flame.”

Upon contact with her hand, the blood ignited. At first, the flame was a few scarce
sparks being washed away by the raging tornado of blood, but those sparks spread
like wildfire, igniting the mighty life force within the blood, soon turning the
entire area into a raging inferno.

Janhalar screamed as he canceled the ability, and he barely scraped enough blood to
return to his body without having to be left entirely drained.

“Ouroboros,” said Basilisk, and the soil around Janhalar’s body morphed into
another snake. It surrounded his body, devouring its tail and constraining it until
the mighty patriarch could no longer move.

“All right!” screamed Janhalar, clearly ready to surrender. “I will sell 40

percent!”

Madame frowned.

“Sixty percent,” responded Basilisk.

“I—”

Morleppe rushed forth before the patriarch could continue, dragging the fleshy
abomination along. The elderly man that had been pushed aside clearly didn’t dare
step in her way, as he had seen what happened to the other two, so it didn’t take
long for her to get dangerously close.

“I accept!” Janhalar agreed, and Basilisk raised a wall of stone snakes to stop
Madame from getting any closer.

She screamed as she slammed the mass of meat into the barrier with a nasty crunch,
and gore splattered all over the men on the other side. “What the hell is this!?”
she screamed. “Basilisk, you piece of—”

“Just hear me out, okay?” he said, raising his arms to placate her, but that seemed
to be doing anything but. “Look, Janhalar’s clan has a mining business under their
wing.”

Her expression turned cold as she realized what this was about. “You treacherous
pig,” she said.

“Well, I wouldn’t really call myself a pig,” he joked.

“All right,” she said. “Now that he is restrained, I’ll get the young man myself.”

The snakes on the wall hissed at her as they shifted and got in her way again.

Her head slowly turned to face the man, and he jumped back in mock fright at her
crazed gaze. “I have to be there for my business partners, you know,” he justified.
“It’s a matter of reputation.”

The Ouroboros that still held Janhalar tightly restrained crumbled into dust, and
the man shook it off his robes as he moved to the side.

“Look,” Basilisk said, “I get it. You probably feel rather miffed, but think of the
bigger picture! I’m sure we can make a deal. How’s 10 percent of my shares sound?”

Madame clenched her teeth so hard that they began cracking one after another,
emitting a sound that resembled chewing on gravel. Until it abruptly stopped. “I
will remember this,” was all she said as she turned around and began walking away.

“I’ll give you 20,” he tried.

She snapped her finger in response, and Matt Canstone moved through the shadows,
beheading the last living elder and vanishing before Janhalar could retaliate.

“Well, shit,” was all the city lord could muster as he stared at Madame’s back.

Janhalar glowered at him momentarily before scoffing and turning around, walking
away with an evident limp in his gait.

Freddy suddenly felt cold as a splash of water hit his naked body. Panicked, he
rushed to get up, but his head hurt so bad that he could barely think straight. The
dizziness and disorientation hit him immediately, and he found himself puking the
alcohol he had drunk that night.

“Get up!” a coarse voice yelled, and soon, a kick followed directly into his
stomach.

Someone gripped his hair and lifted his entire body off the ground. He could hear
snickering all around him.

Another bucket of water was spilled over his head, but that wasn’t enough to undo
the intense trauma his head had suffered.

“This bastard is so soft,” another voice said, clear and manly, and a moment later,
a punch landed on his stomach, and the hand gripping his head slammed it into the
wall, worsening the nausea.

“Hey, Jared!” a third voice said, this time slightly nasal. “Heal him.”

Moments later, a soft, warm touch pulsed through the top of Freddy’s head, and he
could finally comprehend what was happening. “What the fuck!?” he screamed as he
reflexively threw Flowing Strike with his leg, kicking at the man before him. His
leg landed on the man’s ribs, and his target buckled as a loud groan escaped his
lips.

Finally taking a moment to look around, his gaze scouted the room. There wasn’t
much to see. It looked like an abandoned construction project made of brute
concrete with numerous pieces and bits of rusty metal lying around. The only way
out seemed to be through a firmly shut metal door.

“You! You bastard!” the same coarse voice came from the person who had been
manhandling him until a moment ago.

He looked at the man, but it was hard to focus his sight. As he did, however, he
felt his butthole clench.

The first thing he spotted were the vibrant red tattoos.

The man was still bent over, but it didn’t take him long to get up to his feet,
standing head and shoulders taller than himself, burly and bald.

The other three were also without any hair, all tattooed in red from the top of
their shiny scalps to the bottom of their feet.

Without thinking, Freddy swung another kick at the giant man’s leg, but the man
caught his foot easily and threw him at a wall behind them as if he weighed
nothing.

Freddy slammed the wall back first, and all the air in his lungs was pushed out as
he fell to the ground, too winded to breathe.

Still not a big fan of being thrown at walls, was all his panicked mind could
muster as he tried to think of anything.

“This fucker kicks like a truck,” the big man said, and the other three laughed at
him.

Oh, I’m so fucking screwed.

Suddenly, the metal door cracked open, and a young woman dressed in red robes
entered. Her cheeks were tattooed with thin, red lines, and her eyes held an icy
calm that sent shivers down his spine.

The four men instantly bowed to the woman as they stepped back.

She approached Freddy, and yet again, before he could even see what had happened,
he was knocked unconscious.
26

IMMEASURABLE SPITE

Freddy woke up in a place that appeared to be, as he had feared the most, exactly
where he had expected to arrive—a sterile, white ceiling, shackles all over his
body tying him to a cold block of stone, and an assortment of sharp, terrifying
objects at his side, ranging from knives, saws, pliers, cutters—

Yup… he confirmed it mentally. Torture chamber. I’m in a torture chamber.

While his thoughts seemed calm, he was anything but. Still, he forced himself to
settle and focus.

As it was, he was alone. That probably wouldn’t remain the case for long, so now it
was time to do all the thinking he could—while he still had the chance. Had his
stomach not been empty, he’d have failed the fight against the urge to throw up. He
collected his thoughts and tried to devise at least half a plan.

It wasn’t forthcoming as quickly as he would prefer, but it wasn’t surprising given

the situation he found himself in. First, these were almost certainly the people
who wanted Bloodshed. He couldn’t think of anyone else who would want to do this to
him. Second, they were going to—

Oh, God…

—torture him until he told them where it was. Okay. Not good. However, not all hope
was lost. First, as long as he refused to share the location of Bloodshed, they
wouldn’t kill him, at least. Probably. He didn’t need to fear what they did to him
as long as he could make it out alive, as he could heal from any damage his body
sustained… even if they put that serrated saw to use and…

Yet another jolt of panic rushed down his body, and he started moving
involuntarily. He pulled at the shackles and heard the rustling of chains, inciting
a claustrophobic feeling that did nothing to ease his nerves.

Think, Freddy, focus.

As long as he remained alive, there was a chance that he could walk away from here.
In the worst-case scenario, he could bargain Bloodshed’s location, and they might
keep him alive at least long enough to confirm whether he was telling the truth.
Maybe. If they didn’t just go and look for it themselves.

Once more, he tugged at the restraints, more desperately this time. He tried using
Flowing Strike to add momentum to his flailing, but it was clear there was no use.
His breathing was ragged, and he was beginning to hyperventilate as a sickening
realization dawned on him.
He had no agency here. He had no control over this situation. Even if he tried
explaining to his captors that Bloodshed would come to him, there was a snowflake’s
chance in hell that they would actually believe him. Even then, they would likely
just resort to scouring the dump yard and looking for it. So he had to make a
choice. The only option he had.

Would he tell them exactly where Bloodshed was, thus instantly becoming disposable,
or would he keep quiet, playing the fool as long as it took while praying for a
miracle?

The mere thought of either option made him sick to the stomach, and before he could
think his choices through, he heard the bone-chilling sound of a door, one that was
behind his back, thus out of sight, slide open with a metallic screech.

Three people walked in, all dressed in the same freaky, red clothes the woman that
had knocked him out had worn and donned the same crimson lines on their faces.

The first was a man with long white hair and several nasty burn marks across his
skin. Judging by the man’s posture and the intense feeling of suppression he felt
from him, this was someone in Madame’s weight class.

The second was a younger woman who strongly resembled the one who had knocked him
out, wearing the same placid expression as the man beside her, her purpose unclear.
The third person was a middle-aged-looking man with short, brown hair, a man who
had taken to fiddling with the rack of torture tools.

“Freddy Stern,” the white-haired man said. “I am Janhalar, the patriarch of the
Kraven Clan,” he introduced himself, his voice calm, cold, and even. “You own a
unique remnant that embodies the concept of bloodshed,” he stated, and it became
instantly apparent that he knew that for a fact. “Tell me where it is.”

“I…” he managed limply. “I don’t know.”

The white-haired man nodded, and the man standing to his left picked up a pair of
steel cutters.

His left fist reflexively curled up, but he could not defend himself as the man
pried his ring finger open, placed the tool blades around it, and squeezed just a
bit, drawing blood.

“I will ask you again,” said the patriarch. “Where did you hide the unique?”

He thought long and hard about the question. Losing a finger wasn’t a big deal to
him—or so he repeatedly tried convincing himself. His will to hide Bloodshed
deteriorated by the second, but he couldn’t tell them. As far as he knew, the only
reason they had to keep him alive was to extract that information.

So, with a resigned grimace, he repeated, “I don’t know.”

And the cutters pressed down on his finger. First came a sickening crunch that sent
a jolt of pain through his hand, and then the severing that triggered a pang of
agony up his forearm. It bled profusely, and he instantly turned light-headed.

He screamed through gritted teeth, and tears rushed to his eyes. Before he realized
it, the man had moved, this time holding his leg and prying his long toe open.

Yet again, he denied it. And yet again, the man cut.
With a haphazard throw, the young woman launched Freddy’s bloody, disheveled body
into the tight, solitary confinement cell and locked the large, steel door, leaving
him in the darkness.

He still vividly felt everything his body had gone through. He was a ring finger,
as well as several toes, short; his entire body was scattered with bruises, cuts,
needle pricks, and red sores. All his nails had been torn off, and his ear lobe had
been nicked, likely to foreshadow losing an entire ear.

It was curious, he felt, as he sat on the ground, curled up and whimpering. Even
without 1% Lifesteal, they hadn’t done anything genuinely crippling to him yet.
That was probably just a part of the show. Make a few nasty threats, show that
they’re ready to deliver on them, then have him wait, fully aware that he might
lose an eye, an arm, a leg, or a more critical finger. Something anyone, especially
those who fought for a living, would fear.

He couldn’t help but laugh, although it sounded more like moans than chuckling.

Many people wondered what it would be like to go through torture. Many wished to
believe they would bear it like badasses and spit in their tormentor’s face,
consequences be damned.

Although he had been screaming too much to spit at anyone, he had joined the oh-so-
exclusive club of people who hadn’t talked, no matter what had been done to him.

A small part of him felt a miserable pride—a sad attempt at coping with his
situation—but every other cell in his body was boiling in fury. The man who cut
fingers and toes as if he were trimming weeds, the young lady who had likely been
whispering recommendations into the patriarch’s ear as he decided on what methods
to use, and the patriarch himself. He wanted all of them dead, broken into as many
pieces as he could tear them into with his bare hands.

He wondered—did they not know of his talent? Were they unaware that he could heal
from anything they did to him?

It was only then that he realized. They likely didn’t care. He knew how angry he
felt. How betrayed, vengeful, and furious. And they knew, too. Letting him go would
only be releasing a potential enemy into the wild.

He was dead. This was it. Barring a literal miracle, this was where he would die.
If not that day or the day after, then… eventually. The only alternative he could
think of was indefinite captivity, and even that seemed rather optimistic.

His coughed moans turned to cries and sobs as he asked, “Oh, God… What have I done
to deserve this?”

Where had he committed his first mistake? Was it remaining silent about Bloodshed?
Was it when he traded his prime vestige? Was it back when he decided to go through
the 26th district?

But… No… From the start, the Bastard Barricade, the scam, the mysterious visitor,
hell, even Madame. Everyone he came across wanted to exploit him and use him. Mark
was the only person he’d met so far who hadn’t sought benefits at his expense.

Wasn’t that just what reality was then? Was it really that natural? Had he been
living in a jungle, surrounded by predators that need only feel a shred of hunger
to devour him alive?

He shivered as a patch of his wounded skin made contact with the stone, sending a
jolt of pain up his leg. His entire body was sore and aching, and even though he
was in a far-from-comfortable position on the floor, moving was too painful to
change it.

How long had he been behaving like an idiot? Should he have known his position as
nothing but prey and thus hid, never lifting his head above the grass?

He felt like shit making this realization now. Staying away from society as much as
he could have perhaps kept him somewhat safe over the years, but it had also kept
him woefully ignorant of some truths that would have helped him not end up in such
a situation.

His crying yet again flipped to laughing, this time violent and unhinged. Many of
the wounds on his body flared up and opened, bleeding again, but he disregarded
them as he got up.

He walked over to the door, and with all he had, he threw Flowing Strike
repeatedly, leaving minor dents in the metal. His rigid arms didn’t break under the
stress, already used to such treatment, but the cuts echoed in pain with each blow.

Eventually, he exhausted himself, but nobody came. There was no face to bash in, no
target to spill his rage on. He had nobody to blame but himself.

There was only one final thing he could do… and he knew it. On that day, he had
kept quiet. And on that night, he was still alive. It was so pitiable. All he had,
all he could rely on, was blind hope. A faint chance of, just maybe, surviving long
enough to encounter a miracle.

He ignored his sore body as he used the Water Body tempering technique. He felt his
condition improve ever so slightly, akin to putting a cold compress on a broken
arm.

Once he felt satisfied with his state, he used Hundred Wet Hells. The pain was
greatly intensified by the roiling rage of water in his body, and he bordered on
falling unconscious, only spared when he ran out of essence.

But every time he did, he took a quick hop into the Netherecho, reaped a few wisps,
of which there were many, most blood-affinity, and continued using the tempering
technique.

There was no 1% Lifesteal to help him recover from the damage, but his body was
accustomed enough to using it that his talent was no longer essential.

Throughout the night, he kept pushing himself to the limit, ensuring he spent as
long as he could tempering his body. If he wanted to make it through this, he would
need every bit of pain tolerance he could build up.

The morning eventually came, and a random guard opened the door.

As he faced the tattooed man, he felt a lump in the back of his throat.

He really didn’t want to go.

But he had no choice.

Bloodshed could roughly feel not only its master’s location but also his condition.
And now, for the entirety of the last day, it felt a disturbance.

Master was in trouble. Big trouble. As much as Bloodshed wished to rush to his
help, it also felt something quite distinct through whatever bond they shared—he
did not want it to come.

But why?

Was there a reason why Master felt such aversion to Bloodshed’s arrival? Could it
be those enemies Master had talked about? Did this mean that… Bloodshed was to
blame for Master’s current situation?

Could Master not have wanted it to come before, either? If that was the case, then…
had Bloodshed committed a grave sin?

But it was helpless now. All it could do was wait obediently. But a part of it
knew. Master wouldn’t die. It knew it, felt it with every shred of essence that
comprised its existence.

Master wouldn’t fall until the oceans were dyed red.

Time passed, and at first, Freddy was dragged out of his cell every single day. By
now, he was an ear and many teeth short, and just a couple of hours ago, they had
taken his testicles as well.

Still, with the overwhelming certainty of death lurking at the back of his mind, he
had found just barely enough strength to persevere. Despite convincing himself that
1% Lifesteal could help him recover from anything they did, the instinctual
aversion to severe injury and loss of limb was still going strong, and it sure
flared up when those cutters sat on the base of his nuts.

On the first night, they had thrown him into the cell without much extra
precaution, but since then, they restrained him first, likely to ensure that he
didn’t kill himself. Why they hadn’t done so the first night, he didn’t know. But
he was confident that it was, in one way or another, just another strategy to get
him to speak.

A full-body straitjacket, a gag to prevent him from biting his tongue off, and
restraints that kept him in place. Although they had limited his physical movement,
nothing could be done to stop him from using his essence.

Occasionally, a guard outside his cell would smash the metallic door, likely to
wake him up and keep him tired and vulnerable. It drove him insane. When he did
fall asleep, he slept so tightly that not even being set on fire could wake him up.

As the days blended into one another, he inevitably grew more used to the agony.
Despite the constant escalations of what they did to him, he found his resistance
ever-so-slightly outpacing the desire to give it all up.

The way they scheduled his torture sessions seemed to be designed to methodically
crumple his will away. But it seemed that his plan of building resistance through
Hundred Wet Hells threw their calculations out of whack.

But boy were the Kraven good at torture. He was impressed by their increasingly
inspired methods and techniques. When they concluded that plain ol’ pain wasn’t
enough, they moved on to putting parasites into his body, which would eat him from
the inside.

And, to his delight, ones that died whenever he used Hundred Wet Hells. Even
triggered 1% Lifesteal for a short stint.

Then they moved on to drugs. Pain-inflicting venoms, nerve-sensitivity-boosting

neurotoxins, and finally, a concoction that made him feel an undeniable urge to
speak and say literally anything. This was the closest they had reached to
defeating him, but after some quick thinking, he bit his own tongue off.

They were forced to surgically reattach his tongue and heal it back into place, but
every further attempt at using that drug resulted in him biting it off again, and
if they tried fixing his jaw to make him unable to do that, naturally, he couldn’t
speak coherent words.

They also tried dulling his teeth by using sandpaper to scrape them smooth, but he
had, to his own surprise, managed to use Flowing Strike with a bite to still mangle
it enough to become unusable.

Eventually, they put a pause on physical torture, deciding to get more creative.
Once, they tried conning him into signing a “magical contract” that would make them
unable to harm him, keep him imprisoned, or kill him if he gave them the
information they wanted. Through some magical bull crap, of course.

It was an impressive piece of work, that one. Ether script, sparkling paper, and
shiny letters, all wrought from a pricey material that radiated a sense of power
and authority, created a rather convincing image—but it was total bullshit. They
were probably banking on him being too wrung out and desperate to think clearly
enough to see through it.

But, if anything, it was quite the opposite.

Around this point, he began to wonder whether they were looking for his family or
trying to kidnap someone he found dear to use them to coerce him into speaking.

But it wasn’t long until he realized there was nobody to target. He didn’t give a
shit about his biological parents, and as for his adoptive parents… well… nobody
knew where they were.

Perhaps he’d hesitate if they brought Mark over, but kidnapping someone who lived
in the 25th district would bring the wrath of the entire upper class on their head,
so that was out of the question.

So… maybe Sharon or James? But that was unlikely. Given that the rent in that
complex had doubled, likely due to its proximity to the soon-to-be-very-important
passage, they had both most certainly moved out by now, along with most people who
had lived there.

And even then, if they went after and interviewed everyone who had lived in that
complex, nobody would admit to knowing him, not even those two. A pretty basic rule
of living in misery was that if someone came knocking asking if you were involved
with one of your neighbors, you denied that shit without hesitation, precisely
because of situations like this one.
So… an amusing realization dawned on him—there wasn’t much left that they could use
to get him to speak.

And the list of options grew shorter with each passing day.

Now, it was only a matter of seeing what was waiting for him at the end of that
list.

Freddy was tied up in a straitjacket, completely unable to move, yet again trapped
within the sterile torture chamber in which he had gotten quite comfortable. A
needle pierced his veins, another futile attempt to use some mysterious drug to get
him to speak.

He was sure he’d be pretty shocked if he could see himself in the mirror. By now,
all that was left of his hair were a few loose, sickly strands. The light in his
eyes had dimmed considerably. Every inch of his skin was profoundly scarred, and
nasty, long hairs grew sporadically throughout his body.

His joints ached, and his muscles had atrophied due to the lack of movement and the
pathetic diet of half-rotten leftovers he ate. A constant stomachache lingered in
his gut.

He waited in anticipation, wondering what they were up to this time. But as the
drug seeped into his veins, he was caught off guard. A flood of intense ecstasy
rushed through his body, and he found himself short of breath. Then, without being
subjected to anything else, he was dragged to his cell and thrown back inside.

As the feeling settled, he found breathing much easier, and he even cried simply
due to the intense relief he was experiencing.

Eventually, he opened his mouth and began singing. “…always beside me, always on my
mind. Lovin’ you baby, you own my heart. I can’t shake the feeling of your arms
around my waist…”

It was a habit that had stuck as a byproduct of one of their recent attempts. They
played an incredibly cheesy pop song for several days straight and then approached
him with the offer to turn that piece of shit off if he would tell them where
Bloodshed was.

While they had ensured that he couldn’t go into the Netherecho to escape the music
by filling the room with dangerous remnants, they had done nothing to prevent him
from using Hundred Wet Hells, which completely deafened him as it sounded as if a
dragon was taking a piss in his ear.

It wasn’t long until they turned it off, looking for other ways to get him to
speak.

For the next few days, they kept administering this new drug, giving him larger
doses every time, and he found himself at a loss as to what the drug actually did
other than make him feel incredible…

Until they cut the supply off.

Ah… so that’s what they’re playing at.

The withdrawal was intense, and he mentally applauded them for this one. That
night, he stayed up, shivering and sweating profusely, a fierce headache drilling a
hole through his forehead. He was already imagining when they offered him the drug,
and he knew that saying no wouldn’t be easy this time.

The following day arrived, but he wasn’t dragged off anywhere. A familiar figure
strode into his chamber instead.

Janhalar himself, who had been less and less involved with the interrogation as
time passed, walked into the room carrying a small suitcase. He placed it before
him, opening it and revealing a very generous supply of the drug, separated into
many small bottles. Squatting on the floor, he gestured to the open case and leaned
closer.

He made him an offer. “This can last you an entire year,” he said, pausing to let
his words sink in. “You just have to tell me where you’ve hidden the unique. You
already know you aren’t leaving this place until we have it, so why do you stall?
What are you waiting for?” he asked, pushing the suitcase forward. “You have proven
yourself. And you have wasted enough of both of our time. Go on. Take it.”

Freddy’s mouth felt dry, and he gulped.

“Take it…”

He bit his lips and breathed heavily.

“Take it!” the patriarch yelled.

An overwhelming desire to spill the beans filled every cell of his body, and he
shook, trying to lean forward.

And then he opened his mouth to speak. “Baby Janhalar went on a walk with his mommy
and daddy,” he said, shivering and short of breath, eliciting a frown from the
patriarch.

But he continued, “They spotted another child walking with their parents. A little
girl who held a shiny toy, one that baby Janhalar wanted for himself. So he cried,
‘Mommy, Mommy, Daddy, Daddy, please get it for me!’” he said in an annoying voice.
“His parents pulled out knives and brutally murdered the entire family, all to
please their little crotch goblin’s—every—fucking—whim.”

Then he began laughing, cackling maniacally. “Does this sound familiar to you,
Janny, huh!? Is this how you were fucking raised!? No wonder you’re such a spoiled
brat! And now you’ve finally stepped into reach!” he said as he spat in the
patriarch’s face. “Bullseye!”

The man winced and closed his eyes, feeling the drool flow down his cheek and,
finally, his jaw. He lifted an arm and wiped it off with his sleeve. Picking up the
suitcase off the ground, he left the cell and calmly closed the door behind him,
leaving the cackling Freddy alone in the dark.

Time passed, and, well, it was becoming apparent. Either they were busy concocting
another method, or… they had given up. He almost felt lonely. Devising ways to
counter them had become a game to him, his only source of entertainment.
Thoughts of escape or getting out of here alive had long abandoned him. Even if he
merely stayed here and waited, Bloodshed would eventually appear. A rather amusing
thought crossed his mind. What if they failed to notice?

In fact, there was a rather distinct possibility that Bloodshed would reach him,
with them being none the wiser. Judging by the number of blood wisps in the
Netherecho, blood-affinity personified ether constructs probably weren’t all that
rare here. That goofy little skeleton would blend right in.

In fact, he found the idea thoroughly hilarious.

If it did come, he’d tell it to get lost. He considered consuming it to spite

Janhalar further, but poor Bloodshed didn’t deserve that. Besides, there was no way
for him to get an ability to the peak of stage one anyway.

Actually…

A thought crossed his mind.

For whatever reason, they were keeping him alive. Although the chance of that was
slim…

He remembered something Madame had told him. The interspace had many uniques, but
most had evolved into eidolons too powerful to subdue.

So if Bloodshed did visit him… couldn’t he tell it to go out there, become an

eidolon, and then return and save him?

He had this thought once before, but just because Bloodshed was a unique, it didn’t
mean that it was guaranteed to succeed at such a mission.

Theoretically, it was possible. But it was extremely unlikely to work. It wasn’t as

if everyone would simply ignore a damn eidolon walking around the city. It would be
taken out before it could reach him.

Still, he wondered why he was even alive. Well, he supposed that compared to the
value of a unique personified ether construct, keeping a prisoner fed for a few
years was barely an expense. Especially given what they were feeding him.

With little else to do but daydream, he occupied himself with training, even if
there was probably no benefit to doing so. At the very least, it was fun, and it
gave him something to focus on.

Hundred Wet Hells had grown immensely due to his repeated usage of it. By now, it
should be around 90% finished, quite close to reaching a threshold for an upgrade.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t upgrade it without access to vestiges, but that didn’t

mean he would be out of things to do. Even if it didn’t grow further, it could
still temper his body, although the efficiency would rapidly dwindle because he
would adjust to it.

While using Flowing Strike was possible even when fully restrained, the ability
wouldn’t grow if he did that. Repeated usage wasn’t enough by itself to develop an
ability. Even tempering techniques required patience and concentration. The key to
growing an ether shell was to explore what it could do.

His tempering techniques could grow just fine because none required movement to
explore those possibilities.
Freddy hadn’t yet willed the Hydraulic Flex shell to crystallize. Manipulating
water and flexing his muscles through that was possible even in his state, but it
was best to couple the practice with movement to ensure that the effect didn’t grow
lopsided or unwieldy during practical use.

So this left him with only four abilities to grow: Hundred Wet Hells, Water Body,
Abyssal Depths, and Create Water.

Although Create Water did manifest liquid, it took only a few moments to disappear,
so there was no threat of flooding his little cell.

The days marched on, and he immersed himself in his abilities.

Janhalar sat before the council of elders, back in the New Earth headquarters of
his sect, for the first time in months.

The council chamber was a construction of cold, dark stone and spiky decorations,
with crimson ritual carvings coating every surface in the room.

“…and with today’s meeting, we shall conclude matters regarding the finalization of
moving our headquarters to Faralethal,” one of the elders said, finishing his
speech before the chamber of dozens of crimson-robed archhumans.

With that, their meeting began.

One issue after another was brought forth, most of it so menial that Janhalar
wanted nothing more but to be done with it.

Although he would never show such a mood outwardly, he felt giddy.

It seemed that not all hope was lost. There may be a method to tracking down the
unique hidden by Freddy Stern, after all. After nearly eight months of work, the
bloody clothes, the dagger, and the broken bag that had acted as a catalyst were
finally formed into full-fledged cursed items.

The jagged dagger had been reinforced drastically and bathed in a unique concoction
of blood. The plastic bag had been melted into a round plastic ball shaped into a
pearl to fit on a ring. And the bloody clothes had been carefully disassembled,
specially treated, and used in combination with costly cloth made of crimson spider
silk to make robes.

All three items held an intense power of blood and the sin of wrath. Not only that,
but the ring was showing a hint of potentially developing into a unique cursed
item.

Although that was excellent news, the other part of what the ring could do made him
even more excited.

It resonated. The properties as one of the catalysts to the birth of a unique

remnant stuck around, and although faint, that connection still existed.

“Patriarch?” one of the elders called out, and Janhalar returned his mind to the
conversation.
Although he hadn’t been paying full attention, he had many years of practice
keeping only a part of his mind on background conversations like this one.

But as his conscious mind caught up with what the conversation was about, he froze.

Somebody had put forth the suggestion to sell off the nearly five hundred political
prisoners they kept at this location.

“Who suggested this?” he asked. “Please come forth.”

To his absolute surprise, Rahal, Janhalar’s brother, was the one to stand up. His
long, black hair draped over his shoulders as his crimson eyes openly projected his
confidence.

“What are you thinking?” Janhalar asked him.

Rahal knelt. “I believe this would be the best way to make use of our prisoners.”

“No,” Janhalar said. “Execute all of them.”

“Patriarch, I beg—”

“Nothing good ever comes to those who underestimate their enemies, Rahal,” the
patriarch said. “What you’re suggesting is tantamount to releasing five hundred
potential future threats into the wild—an act of insanity I am surprised to see
coming from you.”

“With all due respect, Patriarch, you’d be less surprised if you first heard me
out.”

Janhalar openly frowned at that. His brother would hear from him privately, but he
couldn’t afford to openly bash and deface him before all the important clan
members. “Speak,” he permitted.

Rahal nodded and got up again. “Patriarch, dear elders, allow me to introduce you
to someone.”

Upon receiving a nod from Rahal, one of the guards walked outside. Half a minute
later, a man walked in.

His slightly chubby body was clad in a luxury suit; his receding hairline was
combed neatly and his face, although fully shaven, showed thick stubble that could
easily grow into a full beard.

“Thank you for your time, esteemed elders, Clan Patriarch,” the man said with a
confident, calm smile. “My name is Stephen White. I have a business proposal for
you.”

27

ROTTEN
Rahal sat in the small office, bitter at the task he had been burdened with. His
brother, the patriarch, was a petty man. Although Rahal’s suggestion had been
ultimately accepted, that didn’t stop Janhalar from enacting an unbelievably
childish punishment upon him.

He had been tasked with sorting through the five hundred prisoners and judging
where each of them was supposed to go.

There were many different sectors he could send them to, and depending on their
individual prowess and their talent, he was to decide where they belonged.

The lowest among the prisoners, those without notable talents and backgrounds,
would be placed into the miscellaneous project pile, where they would be sent into
indentured servitude doing manual labor.

As for those with greater individual power, they were to be handled more…
delicately. If judged to be too dangerous, they were to be executed immediately.

Granted, nobody would even make it out alive from any of the projects they could be
allocated to, but Janhalar didn’t like the idea of even the tiniest possibility of
a miracle happening regardless. Anyone who escaped was bound to become trouble in
the future.

Thus, he slowly worked through the large pile of papers, quickly reading through
them and putting them in different piles.

Eventually, he stumbled upon one that immediately caught his interest.

Freddy Stern.

The man who kept silent for nearly half a year, enduring through practically every
form of torture they could throw at him.

Personality-wise, this was the exact type of person who would immediately go on the
execution pile, no questions asked, but…

This man had absolutely nothing going for him—zero background, was judged to be
incompetent in all forms of combat, and on top of that, the man was practically
crippled with all the damage the excessive torture had done to him.

Glancing at the talent, Rahal paused.

1% Lifesteal.

Information on it had been gathered right from the source, or rather, the person
who sold this man the prime. The trader had been quite pessimistic about the
prospects of this talent.

The only case where it could be of notable use would be if the healing quality was
first aid or minimal quality. That would make it act fast enough to have some
utility in combat, but… even in that case, the user would die if they suffered too
much damage unless they were healed immediately afterward. Coupled with the water
affinity, it became even worse.

If it was fire or death, it could be at least passable with an evolution or two,

but water?

If the healing quality was natural, the situation became even worse. That was the
worst healing quality by far, and having it forced on a user during combat was akin
to an anti-talent.

And if the quality was higher than that, at supernatural or even supreme quality…
would it do anything? Water’s inability to do damage, the low percentage, high
quality… and with that mangled body?

At that point, he might as well not even have a talent at all.

Rahal sighed. “Pitiful bastard,” he muttered into his chin as he put the paper on
the miscellaneous pile. For a moment, he entertained the idea of having the man
executed just to put him out of his misery. But no.

The man had nobody but himself to blame.

Had he cooperated, he would have been granted the mercy of death a long time ago.

Freddy sat in his dark cell with a small globule of water floating around his body
in an unstable orbit, losing a few drops every few seconds. As the last of the
liquid left the grasp of his essence control, he used Create Water again. His arms
were trapped in a profoundly filthy straitjacket, and the burst of water from his
right hand flowed into the dirty clothing.

With all the focus he could muster, he extracted a few drops of the conjured water
before they could disappear, while the rest vanished, returning to essence. The
liquid he grasped formed yet another ball, and that sphere again made its way
around his body.

Reaching the peak of a stage zero ability and preparing it for an upgrade wasn’t an
awe-inspiring achievement. But it frequently required a lot of time. Combat-
oriented abilities grew optimally in, well, combat, and tempering techniques needed
a vast investment of time, effort, and essence to grow.

Given that he had nothing but time and essence in this dingy cell, it took him
nearly no time to perfect the ether shell for Hundred Wet Hells. By now, whenever
he used the tempering technique, the surface of his body visibly vibrated under the
intense forces raging inside him.

But, as he continued using the ability, the less and less that turbulence could do
to him. The ability was no longer growing; consequently, his resistance had
drastically outpaced it.

So then he had moved on to Abyssal Depths. Yet again, it took close to no time to
max it out and for the effect to drastically slow down. His body was shriveled,
thinning, and withering under the lack of movement and calories, but he was still
at least as heavy as he had been before losing all that body mass, purely due to
all the water that had been compressed into his form.

And finally, he had maxed out Water Body as well. While 1% Lifesteal made this
ability obsolete, in his circumstances, he was sure that it was likely the only
reason he could even think straight. It was fantastic at eliminating inflammation,
easing joint and muscle pain, and improving his health.
Hell, given how long he had been restrained here, it was likely that he would have
already died from septic shock had he not been using it.

Surprisingly, Create Water had not been maxed out yet, but it was getting close.

Despite his impressive overall growth, given his utter lack of freedom and
resources, he barely progressed in growing his star. The capacity had only reached
55% despite the countless hours of work he had spent gathering.

But that was far from surprising. He barely had more freedom than an industrial
farm animal, let alone enough to train properly.

The gag that filled his mouth had a hole in it. When it was time to “feed” Freddy,
an employee or servant would walk in, put a funnel to the gag hole, and pour
disgusting slop into it. Or, occasionally, passable slop.

He guessed that his meals were a product of blending all the leftovers of whatever
the employees and clan members ate that day. The quality and amount of food he
received varied, and occasionally, he received none.

He was shackled right above a hole in the ground, and his suit had a just-barely-
convenient-enough gap for whenever he had to do his business.

For a long time, his life had come down to seeking ways to entertain himself. Once
he ran out of abilities to grow, he resorted to practicing his essence control. As
the ball of water accidentally touched his shoulder, a good part seeped into the
cloth, and the remainder collapsed as he lost control of it.

Just as he was about to Create Water again, the giant steel door of his cell opened
with an all-too-familiar screech, immediately causing his mouth to water as his
saliva glands got to work.

It was feeding time.

A large man dressed in muted red robes walked in. This was nobody he had seen
before. The man wasn’t hauling the slop bucket, either.

For a brief instant, every cell in his body exploded with terror as he assumed they
were returning to torturing him. But there was little he could do to prevent it.

Stepping in right above him, the man unlocked the shackles which held him attached
to the wall.

Oh, shit, was all he had time to think as the man picked him up over the shoulder
and hauled him out of the room.

Before long, the guard, with him in tow over his shoulder, reached a sizable
chamber paved in pale stone. There were a few doors along the edges, and a large
window on the ceiling revealed a small patch of the sky, something that he hadn’t
seen in a long time.

However, he had no time to ponder the clouds as his attention was occupied by
something else entirely. As several red-robed individuals guided them, numerous
naked, completely bald prisoners were put into lines, with cracking whips and
authoritative yells ensuring they all stayed there.

He was placed at the end of this line. He stood on top of a two-by-two meter
metallic grill, with light faintly illuminating a pool of liquid beneath it. The
thought that the grill would open and drop him into the pool struck him suddenly,
but—

Before Freddy could react, a man splashed him with a stinky fluid. It prickled his
skin on contact, and he felt the grime and filth being melted away… together with
his clothes and what little was left of his hair, both disappearing at the touch of
what could only have been some sort of acid. The resulting concoction of melted
organic material flowed through the grill, adding to the container of rancid liquid
below.

That, at least, explained why everyone was nude and bald.

The substance didn’t seem dangerous, but it was pretty irritating, with the bit
that got into his eyes burning so bad he could barely see. Thankfully, he was hosed
down after a few seconds.

Moments after the last of the filth was washed off his body, he was pushed forward
into the line, making space for another prisoner up for a bath.

Although he was drenched, it didn’t take too long for his nude form to dry, leaving
him feeling surprisingly clean. What little air moved over his skin tickled in a
cold yet burning sensation that wasn’t strictly unpleasant. A glance at his body
revealed something that came as a shock, even to him.

His skin was so fucked up that he barely even looked human. Numerous pale scars
were scattered all over, varying in shape and size, and noticeable “lumps,” among
other imperfections, including black spots, visibly protruding veins, and patches
of yellow or otherwise discolored skin, were spread among them. Raising his eyes,
he spotted a few prisoners take their eyes off him in panic when they spotted him
looking.

Walking wasn’t quite as agonizing as he expected, but it was damn hard. His legs
didn’t want to go straight, and the lack of use worsened his already poor
coordination. The missing toes weren’t helping either, as whatever role they played
in keeping balance was clearly quite impactful, judging by the impact of their
absence.

For a brief instant, he pondered attempting to break free of the line and trying to
escape. A moment later, one such wannabe rebel broke away. A black whip flashed
with red light as it cracked against the man’s skull, and he was dead on the ground
a moment later.

There goes that plan.

After an excruciating hour of slowly making his way forward, he reached the end of
the line. There, he was handed a set of striped orange clothes with convenient
flaps and zippers, allowing him to put them on even though his hands and legs were
shackled. They didn’t give him any footwear.

Finally reaching the end of the chamber, he arrived in… another chamber, nearly
identical in size, shape, and the light-gray stone that paved the floor, walls, and
tall ceiling, the missing windows being the only noticeable architectural
difference.

Another thing that caught him off-guard was that, despite his wild expectations of
what he would see on the other side, the prisoners were instead just seated all
over the floor, most chatting amicably, and the number of guards had been
significantly reduced.
As he was… almost politely guided to his seat, he was also provided a two-liter
bottle of water and a sandwich.

Unable to restrain his incredulity, he cautiously glanced around him. A few times,
he tried asking some of the prisoners what was happening, but most replied that
they had no idea, and then, with barely any subtlety, moved some distance from him.

It wasn’t too surprising. None of the captives he had seen looked like they had
been tortured, at least not much. Only God knew what went through their minds when
they saw him, but it was clear that they weren’t thrilled to be seated beside him.
Judgmental and rude, but he wouldn’t complain about having some personal space.

A door that he hadn’t even seen until that point opened, and a voice shouted a name
from within, “James Hilfinger!”

One of the prisoners got up, walked over to the door, and stepped inside, while
another walked out, seemingly in high spirits. A faint hope sparked in his heart,
but he extinguished it immediately.

He wasn’t about to believe for a second that he would be allowed to walk out of
here, no strings attached, but… after seeing numerous prisoners walk in and out,
and with most at least a bit happier than they were stepping in, with a few
outliers that seemed quite frustrated, he couldn’t help but feel some trepidation.

Hope was out of the question, however. That emotion had been thoroughly stomped out
of him.

Hours marched on, and the room was already stuffed full. It would probably take
several days for all the prisoners to finish whatever was waiting for them on the
other side, and he couldn’t help but think that he would have preferred waiting in
his cell. He was at least used to that.

After a while, he felt drowsy, and to his absolute bewilderment, one of the guards
walked up to him and offered him a cup of coffee. It was a plastic cup filled with,
judging by the smell, crappy instant coffee, but it was so much more than he had
been expecting to receive that he couldn’t help but grow suspicious.

But… as soon as he denied the offer, the guard merely nodded and walked away,
offering it to another prisoner who gladly accepted it. He kept a close eye on the
woman who took the cup, but even after several hours, there was no indication that
the coffee had any adverse effects.

It was difficult to tell, though, given that she was clearly distressed by his
staring.

After another half hour or so of waiting, he finally heard it.

“Freddy Stern!” a woman yelled, and he got up.

Anyone who got up was stared at. Gazes didn’t linger on him for long, though, and
whispers immediately spread among the prisoners.

As soon as he walked into the room, the cuffs on his wrists were removed, and he
was allowed to step into what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary office space.

Two guards stood at the entrance, and a man seated on the other end of a large desk
greeted him. “Hello! My name is Stephen White,” he introduced himself cheerfully.
“I’m here to help you fulfill your commitments to the Kraven Clan.”
He was a formally dressed, slightly chubby middle-aged man with slight signs of
balding appearing on his hairline and a pleasant face with thick stubble along his
fat-padded jaw.

Although he appeared quite polite, there was something about him that he instantly
disliked. His demeanor reminded him too much of his old manager. The practiced
manners, the Pan Am smile, the soulless eyes… ugh.

“First, take a seat,” the man offered, and he complied, getting comfortable in the
soft office chair.

The man handed him a pre-prepared piece of paper, and he glanced at it, frowning.
It was a statement claiming that he owed Kraven Inc. a staggering $13,321,739.

Before he could say anything, the man lifted a hand. “Please wait, Mr. Stern.”

There was nothing to elaborate on. As this did not go through a court, it was
clearly not a legally binding document. But that didn’t really matter, because this
whole situation was bullshit.

The man pointed at the paper as if he could read his expression. “That isn’t just a
paper with some numbers on it. That is an estimation of your debt based on the
theft of Kraven Clan property, limited to that amount by your status and the nature
of your offense.”

The only thing preventing him from gritting his teeth was that they had almost
entirely rotted away. So this would be his fate in the end. They had slapped an
arbitrarily large debt on him and were about to force him into slave labor until he
“paid it off.”

“Mr. Stern,” the man said as he snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Do not
be discouraged. While this number might seem impossible to tackle, that is
precisely why I’m here,” he declared proudly. “Through a partnership with the
Kraven Clan and their corporation, I am acting as their official debt repayment
manager. I have prepared a few options for you that we will go over, but I will
give it to you straight. I believe the best choice for you would be to join the
mining expedition on Faralethal.”

“The what?” he said, wincing at how weird his voice sounded. The gag had been on
his mouth for so long that he had nearly forgotten how to speak.

“The mining expedition,” the man repeated himself.

“No, I mean…” he started but had to cough a few times. The man patiently waited as
he spent a few seconds warming his throat before finally asking, “What is
Faralethal?”

“Oh!” the man realized after a second. “I apologize. Yes, you aren’t the first
client to not know. Faralethal is the name of the passage realm C-000421. You might
be more familiar with that term.”

The irony momentarily stunned him. The passage realm he had discovered would now be
where he would be sent into slave labor. So much for stardom and being written into
history.

“Now,” the man said, interrupting his thoughts again, “as I said, your debt isn’t
as large a concern as you might believe. The mining expedition is a highly
lucrative business; I estimate it could take you ten or even as few as five years
to pay off your debt!”
Now that was some grade-A bullshit. Thirteen million in five years? This man must
seriously be taking him for an idiot.

“I know this sounds surprising, but believe me when I say that the money won’t come
easy,” the man said, a glint of severity appearing in his tone. “The mining
expedition is frighteningly dangerous, and the death rate is staggering. We cannot
and will not force you into participating if you do not wish. This is the fastest
way for you to repay the debt and the job I was instructed to offer to every
captive, but it is far from your only option.”

The man then quickly listed a lengthy collection of possible jobs he could do to
repay the debt. All of them were factory work. And they all had ridiculously long
debt-repayment periods, averaging well over a hundred years of labor.

Clearly, these offers were presented to make the mining expedition appear more
palatable, but he had other plans. “This job here.” He pointed at an offering.
“Gutting fish in a factory. I think I’d like to do this.”

Sure, it would take him a hundred and seventy years to repay his debt through this
job, but that was no big deal. If anything, it gave him plenty of time to form and
execute a proper plan. Besides, there was the whole part about him being
practically immortal. What was a hundred and seventy years to a man who would never
die of old age?

The man’s eye subtly twitched at that, and he suddenly looked deep in thought.
“Actually,” Stephen said, “I just realized something.”

He felt a prickle at the back of his head and a strong desire to punch the man in
his nose as he had a solid premonition of what he was about to hear.

“Most—no, all of these factories would run a general health test before allowing
you to work there.” Then, glancing at his numerous scars and missing finger, he
added, “No offense, but I believe you stand no chance of passing them.”

I could pass them with flying colors given a few days in the woods was what Freddy
thought, but he was forced to keep that to himself.

It was likely that the Kraven Clan didn’t fully understand how his talent worked.
He based this assumption on the fact that they hadn’t already turned him into a
living organ farm.

So, with a hint of bitterness, he was forced to swallow his words and ask, already
knowing the answer to his question, “If that’s the case, can you just show me all
the jobs I qualify for?”

And, as expected, the man only put aside the mining expedition.

He wasn’t done taking the piss yet, however. “And this expedition won’t have any
general health requirements?”

The man laughed at that. “Well, as cruel as that might sound, no. It does not.
But!” he said as he segued into what would likely be a bullshit excuse. “People
like you need some method to repay their debts, and this might just be the best
option.”

Fucking called it! He mentally high-fived himself.

“All right,” he said, still not done annoying Mr. White. “I’d like to run every
health exam in all the factories.”

The man winced at that. “I’m sorry, sir, but that won’t be possible.”

“Why not?” he asked with a sly grin.

“Well… you can only register for one position, and if you fail to pass their test,
you will be left without a job.”

“So… what happens if I am left ‘without a job?’”

The man frowned at that. “That is not up to me to decide. But given that this offer
results from the clan cleaning up their business as they prepare to move their
headquarters… that will be their decision.”

He smirked. “That’s what you should have said from the start, dickwad,” he mocked
as he got up, had the shackles placed back on his hands, and walked out the door.

In a small, barely human-sized box, Freddy lied uncomfortably.

Given that the entrance into Faralethal was the roughly double-door-sized passage
he had discovered, it was obvious that it would constantly be busy with archs going
in and out. Naturally, this meant that getting over five hundred prisoners through
wouldn’t be a cheap ordeal—unless they transported them like this, apparently.

Luckily, at least, he was alone in his container and had been provided with a
generous supply of water and snacks.

For the vast majority of his trip there, he scoured the Netherecho. Not only did it
spare him the constant turbulence, but it also allowed him to gather to his heart’s
content.

The moment they entered the passage was easy to time, judging by the density of
wisps that poked into his box. He briefly wondered how these wisps made it in when
he was in a moving object, which should, by all means, not even be actively visible
in the Netherecho, which yet again reminded him of the conceptual nature of the
underlying layer of reality and its stubborn refusal to follow coherent rules.

As the journey continued, his mind wandered to one subject—Bloodshed’s arrival.

Judging by what he discovered, it had been over half a year since he made his deal
with the skeleton.

After several hours of what seemed to be quite a turbulent flight, they reached
their destination. The lid on his box popped open, and he was allowed to leave. As
soon as he did, his breath caught in his throat.

A sky that had no sun but still shone bright midday, a horizon that went far
further in all directions than should have been possible, and a scale that made
breathing difficult. They were currently located at the foot of an enormous
mountain, one of many in a range of spiky, dark gray masses of stone that stretched
so far into the sky they faded into vague, blue outlines at their peaks, which
might even be stretching further than that.

The growth surrounding them appeared normal at first glance, but every plant was at
least slightly exotic in one way or another, and the air smelled like nothing he
had ever experienced.

The soil beneath his feet felt harsh, and everywhere he looked, his attention
flitted from one insane sight to another; often, a flying monster would appear in
the distance and disappear too fast for him to see what it was.

A collection of floating islands was located to the left of the mountains, a forest
of gigantic, coiling trees further in the same direction, a massive desert beside
that, and, finally, vast, seemingly never-ending golden fields to the right of the
mountain.

Numerous fascinating structures teased at the edges of the horizon, but before he
could pay them enough attention, the man who had opened his box shoved him, pushing
him toward the gaping entrance of an overgrown cave.

Freddy had no idea if he could survive this “mining expedition,” but he knew one
thing.

To the bastards who underestimated him, to those who tormented him, to the rotten
world that had betrayed him over and over and over and over and over and—

He had a debt to repay, indeed.

So, no matter what it took or how rotten he had to become himself…

He would do anything to make it out alive.

28

INESCAPABLE

As soon as the large crowd of captives and the guards guiding them entered the
cave, it was as if they had stepped into an entirely different world.

The air around Freddy was different; the floor beneath his feet was colder, softer,
and covered in wild growth.

The cave mouth was large, leading into a gigantic open cavern, with fungal and
bushy growth all over the walls and floor and massive vines hanging from above.
Everything looked shiny and slimy, and the sounds of footsteps echoed endlessly.

The peculiar smell reminded him of the back of the warehouse he used to work in,
where numerous old boxes rotted and the walls were covered in mold, but with a
distinct sludgy tint that reminded him of the small patch of marsh he used to train
by.

Several hundred people had decided—at least those who had a real choice, if anyone
did—to join this expedition. Everyone here seemed to be a male. Women were likely
sent to a different camp.

Despite the large cavern, this still made quite the crowd.

The captives were led down a path carved through the growth, and eventually, they
made it to the back of the cavern. Large crystals in rusty metal frames comprised
the lanterns hanging off the walls that lit their path forward, and as the cave
reached its end, the trail of light took them into a narrow entrance that went
deeper underground.

A metal barrier encased a part of the wall just to the right of that entrance. Most
likely, there was a passage behind it.

Every passage realm had at least two passages within, depending on the size and
shape of the dimension.

There were A-class passage realms ranging from the size of a room to the size of a
large building, B-class passage realms that were usually the size of a biome, and
C-class passage realms that comprised gigantic, sprawling environments.

The realm they found themselves in was C-000421, or, rather, Faralethal, as it had
been named. While it was classified with C-class realms, it would likely be placed
into an entirely different category, given that it seemed to contain an entire,
spherical planet, many times the size of New Earth.

When one entered a realm, one could go through another passage, leading to an
entirely different space. The further one went out, or, rather, the more “steps”
they took, the number of possible realms they could reach multiplied exponentially.
The quasi-fourth-dimensional space with a near-infinite number of realms was called
the interspace.

It suddenly made much more sense why he was still alive. Because this place was a
virtually inescapable prison. Even if he managed to run away from the encampment,
he’d be completely lost and at the mercy of so many monstrosities that he would be
quickly reduced to a mere snack.

That realization made him grit his teeth. Survival here would be a lot more
complicated than he realized. As he stood, he didn’t even have a shred of a plan.

The prisoners were lined up and instructed to go down the tight path one at a time.
It took a while of waiting, but eventually, he entered the narrow corridor carved
into stone. There was enough space to walk upright with his head held high, but
some of the taller captives ahead had to hunch a bit.

This path appeared man-made, forming a circular tube through the ground that
spiraled smoothly. The floor had been carved into rough, slippery steps. Moss and
mold gathered on the walls, and the swampy stench worsened as he entered the
constrained path.

He, along with every other captive here, was entirely barefooted. Many of those in
front and behind him lagged because their feet were too soft to tolerate the
occasionally sharp and always slippery floor of the cave corridor.

He had no such problems. His feet were as tough as tanned leather, and his pain
tolerance would allow him to push through even if they weren’t.

The stench wasn’t intolerable, but the air became more challenging to inhale the
deeper they went. He felt his throat tighten as it grew more sore by the minute,
whether it be due to allergies or the naturally irritating properties of whatever
he was inhaling. Soon enough, the tight tunnel echoed with numerous people fighting
for air; some even seemed to be on the brink of a panic attack.

Suddenly, a masculine voice echoed around them, “Don’t worry about the air! You
will get used to it eventually.”

Splendid.

Not only was that voice thunderous, but everything was. The loopy, tubular shape of
the tunnel echoed constantly, and he could hear the endless pitter-patter of feet
as if the entire expedition were walking on top of his head.

Every so often, someone, somewhere in the line, would cough or yelp, and each time,
it sounded as if they were doing so directly behind him. The fact that he was
missing an entire ear didn’t help since he couldn’t tell which direction the sounds
were coming from. This was highly disorienting.

He still had the hole that led to his eardrum, and he could somewhat hear things,
but if anything, he felt that the quieter, muffled hearing of his injured ear only
made the situation worse.

Eventually, they reached another natural cavern, one more overgrown but distinctly
less verdant. Sickly blue and sludgy brown were the primary colors of plant life in
this cave, although some species still stubbornly clung to shades of gooey green.

Their trip through the natural cavern was brief, and it wasn’t long until they were
again making their way down a man-made tunnel.

The difference in how sound traveled between the open caverns and the tunnels was
staggering. There was no echo in the overgrown rooms as the plant growth absorbed
much of the sound, giving him the occasional, momentary reprieve from the noise.

Their trip continued for hours, heading deeper down. People constantly complained
about headaches, but he had no such problem. Yes, the air stank, it was damn cold,
and both his eardrums popped due to the change in pressure, but other than that, he
was fine.

It was most likely due to Hundred Wet Hells, which had, at that point, made his
body quite resistant. The cold was the only thing that bothered him, but he could
endure it just fine.

Eventually, they stepped out of a tunnel that had been closed off by a metal gate,
and after walking out of it, he realized they had finally reached their encampment.

The cavern that most likely served as their base of operations was quite spacious.
It was still overgrown, but a far cry from the wild, unrestrained flora of the
underground they had been walking through.

Most of the growth here was green and leafy, and neat paths had been carved,
leading through the maze of tall, heavy cloth tents stretching through most of the
cave.

Countless workers strode around carrying mining equipment and large bags or carts
of whatever they were extracting. Given the predominantly haggard looks of the
workers, these were no voluntary employees either, it seemed. While the new
arrivals were all completely bald, hairless men, many of the workers already there
had grown their hair back out.

Their party was taken through the maze of tents and over to a large clearing, where
they were instructed to sit in organized rows and wait for a lecture to begin.
Freddy couldn’t help but sigh deeply as soon as he spotted the man who would be
holding their lecture.

Stephen White, the slimy middleman who acted as the “debt repayment manager” for
the Kraven Clan, stepped onto a shabby, wooden platform in front of the large crowd
and pulled out a small microphone. He was almost impressed at how much he hated
this person despite only a single prior meeting. Truly a champion of ass-hattery.

No fucking wonder the man had a vested interest in getting more people to come to
this death trap. He would be the one profiting from their labor.

“Greetings, gentlemen!” he said, his cheerful voice echoing around them. “And
welcome to Camp Violet!”

Sure sounds inviting, he thought sarcastically, shaking his head in amusement.

“I have already met all of you personally, and I hope we can have a decent work
relationship from now on! Now!” he said, scratching his beard and taking a few
steps as he walked around the platform. “I will be telling you all about your role
here! Don’t worry if you fail to keep up with everything. At the end of the
introduction, you will be handed a guidebook containing all the information you are
about to receive—and more.

“First, I’d like to warmly welcome all of you and establish some ground rules, as
well as give you a few words of advice,” he said, pausing for a second and eyeing
the crowd. “The most important thing to remember is to be civil. Do not get into
disputes with your coworkers! At best, you will be disciplined; at worse, you will
be monetarily penalized; and in the worst-case scenario, you will be kicked out of
the expedition.”

A deathly silence spilled over the entire room. Everyone knew what that meant.

“Now!” he said, turning around. “We understand that you are all archhumans. We know
that some of you are warriors and that, as such, you have your pride and that
combat is an essential aspect of your life.

“So, if you have any disputes you wish to resolve and decide that the only way to
do so is through confrontation, you can participate in a sanctioned duel. There is
an arena in one of the abandoned yellow zones. Keep in mind that we’re always
keeping an eye on it, so don’t get too wild. Do remember that both participants
need to give their consent. But before it gets to that point, I will clarify
something immediately.

“You do not and cannot ‘own’ a territory. You aren’t entitled to any resources
unless you’ve extracted them and brought them back yourself.” He paused for
emphasis again and glanced around the room. “Any confrontation judged to have been
started over territorial disputes will always result in an immediate expulsion from
the expedition.

“With that out of the way, there is another important thing to remember. You will
quickly discover that there is no such thing as a ‘fence’ keeping you contained
here. There won’t be guards or supervisors around while you work, and some might
consider this an opportunity to shun their moral and legal responsibilities and
escape through the caves.

“If you do this, you will die,” he said, yet again letting the statement sink in.
“We have mercenaries patrolling the areas we have already explored, so we can say
with relative certainty that you won’t be at risk as long as you stay within the
marked and illuminated part of the caverns. But outside the borders of the
territory we have claimed… terrible things lurk. Creatures that could put even
three or four-star warriors at risk of life or limb. Putting yourself in their path
is suicide.

“There are many rules, all of which you can discover in your guidebook, so I will
not be covering every single one. But there is one more thing you do need to know.
You will be given a daily quota to fulfill. Two days out of every seven, you can
take a break, and you are allowed to miss the quota thrice a month or more if you
provide a valid reason, such as a debilitating injury or illness.

“And that quota is 3,500 dollars a day.”

That elicited gasps and angry yells from the crowd, but the man quickly waved them
down. “I know that sounds absurd. And, if we are being honest, it is. But this…
This is why all of the powerful factions of New Earth are doing their best to
establish themselves on Faralethal as soon as possible. You will quickly learn that
this isn’t a very strict quota. In fact, on average, the workers already
established here fulfill that quota in roughly three hours of work a day.”

That elicited more gasps and yells, but they sounded entirely different this time.

“Yes, my good people,” he offered, spreading his arms out. “Humanity is entering an
era of prosperity and wealth unlike any other we have experienced. And you! You are
at the front lines.”

Freddy rolled his eyes in exasperation.

The man continued, “There are more rules and regulations to cover, but I will leave
that up to you. Please read the guidebooks, lest you find yourself in trouble. And
now, I believe it is time for my good friend Killean to take over.”

The following person who walked up was a skinny but muscular man with long hair and
an unkempt, scruffy beard. The first topic he covered was the equipment they would
be provided and a rough guideline on how to use it. Examples of everything he
showed appeared on a massive projection floating beside him.

They would all be provided standard mining equipment in the form of a pickaxe, a
hammer and chisel, a sledgehammer and wedge, protective gear, a weight-reducing
holding bag, and a foldable cartwheel, as well as an assortment of cutting tools
and numerous pieces of optional equipment, depending on personal preference or
predisposition.

Next, he covered the basics of what they were doing there. Their goal was to
extract ore, first and foremost. First, he covered ores that could be discovered on
earth, including copper, iron, gold, silver, platinum, and so on, what their
respective ores and veins looked like, and how to find them.

Then, he covered ores unique to this planet. There were many, and yet again, the
captives were instructed to reference the guidebook. The man showed crystals, gems,
metals, and other exotic materials that could be discovered here.

Some among them were so valuable that even a single fingernail-sized piece could
cover the daily quota more than ten times over—the most expensive among them, a
white crystal named “tzenekite,” cost over 100,000 dollars per gram—a mindboggling
sum.

Some of these materials, including tzenekite, required special care during their
extraction, transportation, and storage, so everyone was instructed to read the
guidebook carefully before interacting with anything unfamiliar.

After finishing the descriptions of what they were looking for, the man briefly
covered all the secondary ways money could be earned. Certain monster corpses could
be sold for a sum, although actively hunting them was heavily discouraged. Numerous
plants, bugs, fungi, small animals, and more could be captured, and there were even
the occasional free lectures explaining how to hunt and forage these species most
efficiently.

Other than that, every so often, job postings would be placed on a board in the
middle of their camp, usually with decent rates attached to them, and some
individuals, if they believed their specific talent or abilities could be otherwise
valuable, could file a form and request specialized jobs or roles.

After that was done, the man briefly described the most common dangers that could
be found in the caves. Of course, the most common were the monsters, but those were
far from the only threats to look out for.

Venomous bugs, poisonous mushrooms, unstable ground, shaky structural integrity,

living plants that could either attack them or make traps, and apparently even
spirits—which could temporarily manifest a physical form in reality and attack
them.

Spirits were a personified ether construct that was a step up in power from
remnants.

Since spirits could easily pose a two-star or three-star rank threat and appear out
of thin air, they posed one of the most unpredictable risks in the caves, but that
was a reality everywhere within the interspace.

Luckily enough, their appearance was rare, and more often than not, they wouldn’t
engage in combat if unprovoked, and even if they did, their physical form could
only last so long.

And finally, the thing that nobody wanted to hear—there was a threat that an
eidolon might appear.

Eidola could maintain physical form indefinitely. In fact, they existed both in the
Netherecho and in reality, transcending the barrier between the layers of
existence. They posed a four or even five-star threat in some cases. So, if anyone
came across an eidolon that decided to attack them, they would die. And given that
constructs that reached that level of power were usually the aggressive ones, they
almost always did precisely that.

The final thing that was discussed was the schedule. Or rather, the lack of one.
The caverns had no day or night, so no strict work or sleep hours existed. There
was, of course, still a public clock, a giant one attached to the ceiling above,
keeping track of time so that everyone could know when they had to fulfill their
quota.

They were also briefly shown the alarm—an incredibly grating warning that would be
sounded in an emergency. If triggered, all workers were instructed to either hide
or return to camp as soon as possible.

Once the introduction was over, all the captives were handed the guide and shown to
their living quarters. Everyone received a small tent to sleep in. Trespassing in
another worker’s living space was considered a serious offense, even if there was
little to take from them. They were also shown where they could get their meals,
and that was about it.
The next day would be their first day on the job, starting in twenty hours. Until
then, they were free to do whatever they wanted.

The crowd dispersed, many in significantly higher spirits than one would expect
slaves to be. But it wasn’t hard to tell why.

They had been granted a degree of freedom that nobody would expect to get working
as a slave somewhere. Sure, their lives were at risk, but everyone was aware of
that coming in. He was effectively forced to come, but he was sure that most others
had a choice when picking where they wanted to work.

That begged the question—Was this operation legit?

He pondered that. Could the people here legitimately pay off the debt and then be
allowed to leave? Some part of him absolutely refused to believe that was the case.

He was handed a slip with a number and went through the tents.

He found the tent with the number 765 written above the entrance flap and walked
inside. It was tall enough to stand in and wide enough to lie comfortably. A small
blanket and a futon were neatly rolled up to the side, and there were a few pairs
of clothes and the pile of equipment they were provided.

A small lamp sat in the corner, and a testing pull on a string hanging from it
showed that it worked just fine.

Overall, it was rather cozy.

Freddy picked through the equipment and found a canteen. Then he walked outside and
strode over to the part of the camp where they served food.

A medium-sized stretch of land was free of any tents, instead populated by many
tables and chairs. It was positively packed, and the sight of the long line made
him instantly lose his appetite.

He instead walked over to one of the many large barrels standing to the side,
turned the tap, and filled up his water canteen.

Most people didn’t notice him among the crowds, but those who caught sight of him
instantly turned their gazes away.

Heading back to his tent, he limped past the crowd of people, accidentally
overhearing some of the conversations.

Many were discussing their debts and how soon they believed they’d be able to pay
them off, and he even overheard a man wondering whether he could choose to stay
here and work indefinitely, even after he was done paying back what he “owed.”

It all imbued him with a strange, profoundly wrong sensation. He only overheard two
people say how much they owed, and both numbers were meager, less than $200,000,
which wasn’t a small number, but it paled compared to the sum they slapped on his
ass.

Soon enough, he had left the crowd behind and was walking between the tents. It
took him a good few minutes to track down his tent, and once he did, he entered,
lying down to get some sleep.

But it wouldn’t come.

He knew damn well what was wrong.

They still didn’t know where Bloodshed was. Unless given solid enough evidence that
it was gone, they would likely not stop searching for it. He could only reunite
with Bloodshed if Kraven didn’t find it. And if Kraven didn’t find it, they would
still consider him to hold the knowledge of its location.

And as long as they had any reason to believe he knew where it was, they wouldn’t
let him walk away somewhere where he could retrieve it for himself—or provide
another faction with information about its location.

His heartbeat sped up at the thought.

According to what Stephen had said, a debt of $200,000 wouldn’t take even three
months to pay off. So why would they let him come to a place like this, where he
could tell someone about to be set free where Bloodshed was?

The answer to that, as dark and depressing as it was, was simple.

It was because nobody would escape this expedition alive.

29

THE ONE IN POWER

Once Freddy realized what had been bothering him, it didn’t take long to come to
terms with it. To him, this changed nothing, although, somewhere deep in the back
of his mind, he felt disgusted at himself for brushing it off so quickly, he knew
damn well he had no reason to care about what happened to the others who were here
with him. Horrible shit happened all the time. That was just the way life was. The
only fate he had any interest in changing was his own.

If anything, finally having some confirmation that he was right was like a burden
off his shoulders. The circumstances of his situation were clear. It was time to
look for a way out.

After sleeping for nearly thirteen hours straight, he felt pretty good. He was now
more used to the smell and the cold, and he still had almost six hours until his
first actual workday began.

So, as was the best choice, he grabbed the guide and started reading it.

After glancing at some of the more common ores and treasures, he promptly skipped
the rest and went straight to the rules section. He wasn’t planning on paying off
the debt any time soon. While he wanted to earn the quota as quickly and
efficiently as possible, not dying was more important.
Rules were his priority, and then, the dangers the caverns might pose.

As he read over the rules, he found himself quite amused. It had been a long while
since he had done anything fun, so even reading these bullshit rules was enough to
make him audibly laugh.

Don’t congregate in groups larger than five unless staff is present, don’t gather,
don’t ascend, don’t intentionally grow abilities (unless for productivity
purposes), don’t train, don’t communicate with people in set patterns, do not hide
any form of written content you have received from another worker, do not preach
religions, do not… and so the list went on.

The rules were clearly aimed at crushing any chance of organized resistance
appearing, and there was even a rule that outright stated that one would be
rewarded quite handsomely if they reported suspicious behavior.

Even though training, gathering, and growing abilities were forbidden, that
wouldn’t stop him, and hell, it wouldn’t stop most people. The rules even added a
very convenient exception for productivity. And as long as nobody saw him, who
could say whether his growth had come from work or training?

As for gathering, there was just no point in keeping constant track of every single
person, and even then, it took quite the acute senses to determine whether a one-
star had gotten slightly stronger. The only thing the administration could reliably
track was whether someone had ascended or not.

But the rest of the rules weren’t there for no reason. They made trusting anyone
nearly impossible.

The rest of his free time was spent combing over the cave’s threats and dangers.
There was little merit in knowing the ores if he walked into his own death due to
ignorance.

Eventually, the bell rang, pulling him out of his focus. It was the sound that
marked the start of a new day. While, strictly speaking, as long as he fulfilled
his quota within the next twenty-four hours, he could start whenever he pleased, he
got up anyway.

A large box was seated right beside his futon in the tent. Inside, he discovered
the new gray work uniform and an assortment of essential tools.

He donned the clothes—the rocky-gray-and-brown camouflaged uniform made of thick,

rough material, scattered with numerous pockets and compartments, the large, metal-
plated boots, the helmet, the goggles, and the tool belt.

On the tool belt, he placed the first-aid kit, a utility knife, a metal baton, the
weight-reducing bag, and the chisel, while he put the sledgehammer and pickaxe into
a strap that he swung over his back.

There were some more tools he could take with him, but most he either wanted to try
later or just had no idea what they were meant to be used for.

So, without hesitation, he stepped out of the tent and followed the flow of the
crowd toward a large cave entrance on the other side of the camp.
On his first day out into the wilds of the cave system, Freddy boldly walked past
the heavily populated area with several expedition employees organizing the
workflow and stepped out, looking for a place to work in peace.

Most of the immediate surrounding area was filled with workers. The plant life was
low to nonexistent, while most of the walls had tunnels dug into them, held in
place by heavy support beams that looked to have been created by earth
manipulation.

The populated area was rowdy, the air was full of dust, and while some air-affinity
archs seemed to be tasked with keeping the dust down, they could only do so much
when earth- or water-affinity archs swung their pickaxes with force that sent
shards of stone flying.

Several people simply put their hands against the wall and, through either an
ability, a talent, or just raw manipulation, forced a section of the wall to break
off and clutter to the ground.

Earth-affinity archs were clearly in their element here, while other affinities had
to get more resourceful.

There were the standard attack-strengthening abilities that most affinities had at
least some form of access to, but there were more creative applications as well. A
woman with the nature affinity used it to spread roots into the stone to break
chunks off, a fire-affinity worker triggered tiny explosions between cracks and a
death-affinity arch employed some undead servants to work for them.

The little creatures were clearly assembled out of the bones of dead monsters, and
their power wasn’t all that impressive, but they were reliable enough to help carry
heavy loads.

Even if the sight of them left him feeling rather disturbed.

The sounds of metal on stone resounded loudly through the cave, and so did the
half-orders given out by the organizers. They seemed to be more like suggestions,
actually. Stuff like “Please move aside,” or “Do not move along this edge if
possible.”

He was absolutely sure that every captive here would be executed in one way or
another.

That only made this clear morale management feel that much more disgusting.

Many workers stared at him as he passed by, and it couldn’t have been more evident
that his looks made them uncomfortable. Given that if he ever wanted to get out of
here, he would have to prepare out of sight of others, he wasn’t thrilled to be
around them either.

Eventually, he made it past the core of the mining expedition and stepped into an
area that hadn’t been processed so thoroughly. Every part that had been explored
had also been marked in numerous ways. The most basic were the lanterns. They were
everywhere, illuminating the entire cave system’s moist, glistening outline.

Other than that, numerous signs were laid out, marking sections, characteristics of
specific areas, notable dangers present, the overall danger level, directions, the
most common ores, which tools were recommended for use in certain areas, and so on.

Maneuvering through the caves was a damn nightmare. Everything was overgrown with
thick plant life, and the colors varied from zone to zone. At first, he walked
through the area where the plant life had been stripped down quite heavily—without
even realizing it. Only when he walked into the less explored section of the cave
did he understand what a genuinely overgrown cave looked like.

Once he reached a bulky metallic fence that blocked off what could only be called a
wall of thick, verdant vines, fungal growth, and these soft, white… trees? Big
mushrooms? There were muffled sounds of movement within, too, not to mention the
lack of illumination. Only then did he realize that the unexplored area required a
machete and a lantern at the very least, and plants might not be the only thing
he’d have to cut through.

And that was a problem. A big one.

Without much hesitation, he turned around and returned to the already-explored

section, looking for a place to start mining.

While a bit of plant slaughter wouldn’t impact his current state much, if he used
his talent too much, he’d reveal its quality sooner rather than later. Whether this
was something to be worried about depended on how the expedition leaders would
react.

They could end up not caring. But was that really going to happen?

No.

The far more likely outcome was that he would be used as a test subject for
experimental alchemical concoctions. If not for some other morbid purpose he wasn’t
brave enough to imagine.

That obviously didn’t mean that he could stay as he was. His body was falling
apart. Finding a way to use 1% Lifesteal without raising eyebrows was pretty high
on his list of priorities.

The first thing he needed to do was find a place where he could have some privacy.
The less interaction with others, the better.

Unfortunately, however, most of the places in the caves had at least one or two
stragglers looking for decent spots. True privacy was a problem he would have to
find a solution to eventually. As it stood, it was either other people or monsters.

For the time being, he would settle for the scattered stragglers.

To his surprise, however, he found a place that might actually be entirely

abandoned.

Danger level: Low.

Recommended tools: Standard pickaxe, sledgehammer, and wedge.

Notable ore deposits: None.

This was the first time he encountered an area with no notable ore deposits. Not
even he was interested in mining here, per se, but he still headed there to give it
a once-over and check for any decent hidden spots.

The area itself was a cavern of barren rock, with no growth of any kind in sight.

To his bewilderment, however, the first thing of note he found inside were… people.
At least ten men, actually. They weren’t a part of a single group either, but all
were heading in different directions. One of them walked past him, a burly man with
long hair, and he was bruised, with a cut lip and a large black eye.

Huh…? he mused internally. Had he encountered some form of gathering spot?

The pattern of people coming and going was quite obvious, and he couldn’t help but
get somewhat curious. He casually followed behind a few men who seemed to be
heading in the same direction. He eventually noticed a faint sound. It was muffled
and non-descript, like overlapping whispers, clinks, and distant grunts, all
underlined by the constant hum of… wind?

Eventually, however, the sounds became clearer. It was cheering. The men finally
reached a well-concealed, tight turn that led into a large, open room.

“Fucking get him!”

“No, you dumb cunt! Don’t grab the leg!”

“Hahaha, that’s gonna hurt like a bitch!”

Two large men, dressed in nothing but boxer shorts, stood in the center of what
could only be described as an arena, surrounded by a crowd of cheering onlookers
sat upon a makeshift stadium. The fight between the two of them was far from a
graceful martial arts match, but it was clear that neither of the two were
amateurs.

Oh, so this is where they hold the sanctioned matches… he realized immediately.

Rather than stick around, he decided to turn tail and leave, but before he could,
several men quickly walked over to him, surrounding him and effectively cornering
him.

Oh boy, here we go.

“What’s this?” one of the men, a skinny, dirty guy, asked.

“Shaven fella, I see?” a bearded man to his left commented, remarking on Freddy’s
appearance, which was in line with what most rookies looked like. Anyone who had
been here for a while had already grown their hair back, making newbies easily
identifiable. “I reckon you know what’s up already.”

Freddy grinned at the man, and two people before him winced once they saw the
absolute terror inside his mouth. One of them even swung a hand before his nose,
likely in a futile attempt to chase away the stink.

“Do you eat coal as a snack, you rotten bastard?” the skinny man asked, and the
bearded one put a hand on his shoulder to interrupt him.

“Listen,” he said, referring to Freddy. “This place has a certain… tradition. Need
me to spell it out for ya?”

As if to punctuate the man’s question, the slightly larger of the two fighters
landed a solid punch on the other man’s liver, dropping him to the ground. A wave
of cheers and boos echoed out, and he could see numerous people exchanging bags,
likely the stakes of a bet between them.

A couple of men ran out, using different forms of healing on the two fighters. It
didn’t seem to be anything special, and it was hard to see what they did through
the thick layer of blood covering the two men’s faces, but the one still standing
appeared visibly relieved after receiving the heal.

“Well then,” Freddy said as cheerfully as he could, “you boys have fun. I’m gonna
go get some work done.

“Wait a minute,” the man said, grabbing his shoulder. “I don’t think you quite
understood me.”

The others moved before him, and he felt that he could sense the direction this was
going. He was heavily outnumbered, and there really was no point in resisting, so
he hurried things along rather than let them waste more of his time.

The bearded man was clearly about to speak, but he interrupted him. “Who am I up
against?” he asked.

The man’s demeanor shifted slightly, and he grinned. “You’ll know when you’re
called out.”

Freddy nodded and waited as the man ran off to a couple of people, pointed at him,
and waved him over. After a brief talk with who appeared to be the ring leaders, he
was told to wait a few minutes as they looked for an opponent.

“Remember,” one of the ringleaders instructed him, “no lethal techniques, keep
external abilities to a minimum, and don’t aim for the nuts.”

No lethal techniques, huh? he thought jokingly. What a stupid thing to say.

He put his equipment aside and took off the goggles as he waited. Nobody was
fighting, so most people were looking at him and the other ringleader running
around searching for an opponent.

He felt his body flush with adrenaline as he waited, seated in the corner of the
arena. It was hard to pinpoint precisely what he was feeling. Was it just
excitement? Maybe it was fear. Before he could place it, his opponent was already
stepping into the ring.

He got up, took a few steps forward, and walked into the plain, cleared stone of
the arena—

“Wait!” one of the men behind him yelled. “The uniform, man! Take it off!”

Without any protest, he merely nodded and complied. As he unzipped and gradually
removed the gray suit… the cheering of the crowd grew quieter, and as he finished
stripping it off, the room turned deathly silent.

The missing fingers, the scars, burns, and other marks lining his skin were
gruesome. He looked like he’d been put into a giant blender, then an oven, and then
struck by lightning. Every inch of the surface of his body was battered, and he was
pretty skinny on top of that.

The many days of confinement had cost him most of his body mass, and even now, he
felt stiff and rigid. Yet, despite all of that, he stood ramrod straight and walked
forward with absolute confidence.

He wasn’t sure he’d win, but he had little to lose. Hundred Wet Hells at peak stage
zero made the odds of him dying from a single strike by another one-star
nonexistent.

And he had a thing for coping with injuries.

“Hey!” someone yelled from behind him, and he felt a hand grabbing his arm. “Wait!
Are uh… Are you sure you can fight?” the man asked, wincing at the sight of his
mangled skin.

“It’s fine,” he said, pulling his arm back with more force than this person was
expecting to see.

The last thing he wanted was for others to see him as weak. The weak were prey. He
was done being at the mercy of others.

His opponent was a bald man roughly his own height but with a bit more muscle and
quite a bit more fat on him. Another one-star, just like himself, and just as
expected.

His eyes were green, his face was clean, and he had his fair share of battle scars.
Yet the air of uncertainty was thick around him as he took Freddy’s form in,
despite his blatant attempt at trying to seem confident.

Freddy’s body was a consequence of torture. A lot of torture. And anyone with a
good head on their shoulders would wonder what kind of lunatic could still stand so
proudly while looking like that, regardless of how they earned such injuries.

Upon stepping right before the man, Freddy stood, calmly taking his opponent in.
His guard was down, and he was simply standing still, waiting for the fight to
begin.

The man who would be the judge of the fight glanced at someone beside him, and once
he received an affirmative nod, he finally swung a fist down. “Begin!”

The bald figure lunged, capitalizing on his opponent’s total lack of defense. His
movement was unnaturally smooth and quick, likely due to whatever his talent was.

His fist landed right in the middle of Freddy’s torso, who felt like a boulder had
smashed into his stomach. The man had used Tectonic Strike, and his stone-like skin
was clearly the product of much tempering. Even beyond that, the man’s attack was
simply well-placed.

But Freddy hadn’t moved an inch.

Flowing Strike could be used in several ways, but in essence, it was about moving
water within one’s body in a particular direction. Just as the man was about to
land his blow, Freddy used Flowing Strike to concentrate the thick, heavy water in
his body right in the middle of his torso, countering the momentum.

The result had echoed loudly through his body, and even with his internal
toughness, he felt the pain. But he ignored it. The man’s shock at finding his
attack ineffective briefly exposed him, and Freddy rushed to grip his wrist.

For all that time during confinement, he could barely move. But there was one
action that he could still do and often inadvertently did while coping with the
pain of Hundred Wet Hells—clenching his fists.

The steel grip of his left hand was like an iron vice, even with his ring finger
missing, and the man was stuck out of balance, awkwardly trying to wrench his arm
back, now very clearly afraid to be standing where he was.

It was finally coming together. Beneath all the shame and panic he felt when he
killed that man in the alley…
He pulled his fist back. Flowing Strike pushed his arm in a clean haymaker, and as
he watched it land on the man’s chin, he felt it. That was it. The rush of a
decisive blow. The pleasure of life force coursing through his body.

His entire life, he had been a speck of dust. A pitiful animal that could be
stepped on and played with by predators.

As his opponent crumpled to the ground, unconscious after receiving the blow, and
the crowd gawked in absolute disbelief, he knew exactly what he felt.

The refreshing rush of finally being the one in power.

30

A STEP INTO INFINITY

After that fight, nobody stepped in his path when he headed back out into the
caves. The crowd cheered wildly, and he heard those noises gradually quieten as he
left the area.

The punch had sent a notable healing pulse throughout his body, but not an
impactful one. It was only 1% Lifesteal, after all, and the sheer amount of healing
needed to help him recover from the numerous layers of scars and permanent injuries
wouldn’t be covered with a single punch.

Still, though, he had forgotten just how good using his talent felt. So, with a pep
to his walk, he strode out of the makeshift arena, feeling refreshed. But he most
certainly wasn’t feeling good.

Frankly, if he had to fight that same man again, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to
win, at least not that easily. Such a trap wasn’t going to work twice, and the
moment anyone realized just how bad he was at actual fighting, nobody would let
themselves fall for such a trick.

But—

“Pfff!” he snorted after making it a bit away from the crowds. “Hahahahahahaha! The
look on his face! Ha! Holy shit, he was like, ‘Aw, fuck, this man gon’ kill me,
ain’t he?’ Hahahahahah!”

His laughs echoed around him, even though his stomach was killing him. Indeed,
although his little Flowing Strike trick had worked, it wouldn’t become a
cornerstone of his fighting style any time soon. His internal organs felt like they
had been scrambled, and it wasn’t like he could heal up quite yet.

Still, despite the force of the impact feeling like a damn explosion had gone off
inside him, it had done surprisingly minor damage. Hundred Wet Hells held up to its
reputation.

“Now then, let’s go do some actual work.”

After quite a bit of looking around, he settled for a relatively secluded area. A
worker or two passed occasionally, but it was out of the way enough, at least, that
nobody was working beside him. Too far out, and he’d step into severe danger zones,
where the risk of a monster appearing was too high to take lightly.

He settled for a patch of the wall that another worker had already started on. The
growth had been stripped, and a roughly two-by-two-meter wall patch had clearly
been worked on, but only the surface layer had been removed.

Putting his equipment on the floor beside him, he picked up the pickaxe and lifted
it. Flowing Strike worked its way through his arms, and the tool came down with all
the might he could muster—only to awkwardly bounce off the uneven surface and
wrench itself out of his arm, pulling on one of his forearm muscles.

“Ow, what the—”

Was this wall just that damn hard?

The noise of the impact had been deafening, and he could still hear the echoes
through the cave.

Picking his tool back off the ground, he started again; this time, he swung without
using a Flowing Strike. It was pretty damn tricky. His missing ring finger on his
left arm made holding the handle a bit clumsy, and if the pickaxe landed at an odd
angle, it would just twist or ricochet off. Surprisingly, even the fact that he was
missing some toes was a hindrance. He struggled to direct his force correctly, as
getting into a proper stance was tricky.

With some practice, however, he was starting to get the hang of it. Every
subsequent swing landed more precisely, and before long, he was transferring the
force into the wall instead of his arms. Every swing landed with a metallic clink,
and sparks flew off. But he made almost no progress.

The wall was hard, and he was beginning to suspect that this place had been given
up for a reason. A few shards of rock chipped off, and as far as he could tell,
nothing about them marked them as ore of any kind.

A tiny shard of rock chipped off and hit him in his exposed throat. It didn’t make
him bleed, but it startled him somewhat.

Given his slow progress, he started to suspect that he was doing it all wrong.
Pulling the guide out of the strap on his toolbelt, he went to the tools section,
which he skipped entirely on his first read-through.

“Aaah, okay,” he chirped in realization.

Apparently, slamming the pickaxe right in the middle of pure rock as hard as this
wasn’t a good idea unless you had substantial force behind it. The goal was to
strike where the stone’s structural integrity was weakest—seams, bends, nooks, and
places where rock protruded. Either that, or just find softer material.
A cursory glance at the almost smooth stone surface revealed no such weaknesses.
Maybe he really did pick the wrong place. He’d seen other workers do it, and while
it took some force, it wasn’t rare to see big chunks of stone falling off.

Too lazy to read through the plentiful text in the guide, he decided to try
something. Leaving the pickaxe aside, he picked up the sledgehammer.

Flowing Strike yet again coursed through his arms, and with the weight of the
sledgehammer, his dense body, and the momentum of the ability, the tool landed with
a resounding thud that instantly broke off a large chunk of wall. While it looked
like the entire stone surface had collapsed, it was a relatively thin layer. Still,
it was progress, and with it being removed, he was beginning to spot some of those
weaknesses the book discussed.

After grabbing the pickaxe and chunking a few chips off, he revealed a large crack,
perfect for the wedge he had brought. It was a small, triangular piece of metal
meant to be placed into cracks and then slammed with a sledgehammer. Its purpose
was to force large fragments of stone apart.

So, he promptly put the wedge into the crack and swung the sledgehammer. He
completely missed the wedge, and the sledgehammer slid down the rock, flying just
slightly to the right of his leg.

He stood frozen, keenly aware that he had nearly just smashed his shin into a
million bits. Lifting the tool again, he repeated the movement, slightly slower
this time, and managed to hit the wedge. He did so repeatedly until, finally, when
he felt confident enough, he used Flowing Strike.

It landed right on the small piece of metal, to even his own surprise, but the rock
didn’t break off. In fact, most of the force had been transferred right back into
his arms, and he felt his bones strain to their limits.

After cursing and swearing for a while as he waited for feeling to return to his
hands, he repeated the damn movement, having to swing seven times until, finally, a
massive boulder broke off from the wall, nearly crushing his foot as it tumbled
down.

As he barely avoided the tumbling piece of rock, he thought that maybe the workers
shouldn’t have as much freedom as they do.

Freddy cursed his decision not to bring the foldable cart with him just because it
had looked inconvenient to carry along. The weight-reducing part of the bag was, by
no means, a weight-eliminating function. Shit was still heavy when placed inside,
maybe seventy percent less, but that wasn’t as much as it seemed when a couple of
larger pieces of ore already became heavier than he himself, even after the
reduction. He realized that fulfilling his quota might take several trips back and
forth.

Or, well, that was what he had thought.

After returning to the camp, he placed the bag on the counter, where a burly man
grabbed it and emptied it on the floor behind him. He picked up the pieces inside,
one by one, and without even looking, threw them into one of the baskets behind his
back.
Once he was done counting the ores, he turned to him and said, “Hm, 4,200. Name?”

He stared at the man, utterly dumbfounded. Glancing at the clock above him, he
realized it had only been around seven hours since the start of the day. And this
bag was a fraction of the work he had actually done. He had picked up a few
interesting pieces of rock without even knowing what they were, and apparently, he
had hit the jackpot.

“Freddy Stern,” he answered.

The man wrote something down and shooed him away.

Well then. That left him with most of the day free to do whatever he wanted. He
left the line, carrying his equipment back to his tent.

It all left him so confused. But maybe that was the point. Perhaps this expedition
was designed to disarm the workers and give them a sense of safety, freedom, and
ease so they wouldn’t riot or protest.

That way, they need less staff to keep them under control. Or maybe they were doing
it this way to encourage people to volunteer to stay even after their debts had
been paid off?

Something about this whole thing kept gnawing at him. Either way, his goals didn’t
change. He still had a plan to make.

After leaving practically all his equipment in the tent, keeping just the uniform
and the shoes on, and taking only the baton and dagger for self-defense, he
promptly returned to the caves. And then he began exploring them.

The immediate surrounding area, which was marked as a green zone, was the same for
the most part. Clean of growth, constantly populated by workers, numerous tunnels
boring into solid stone, and many signs detailing directions, section
characteristics, warnings, and so on.

It also seemed that the work was tallied and the profits were split based on
relative worker merit, meaning that roles could be split more evenly. One person
mined, another carried the ore, a third installed support beams, and so on.

The so-called yellow zones began appearing once one stepped out of the immediate
area. It was the area that had already been mostly explored, but it hadn’t been
processed as thoroughly as the green zones, so some dangers might still be present.

What characterized the yellow zone was the lack of organized groups, the numerous
messy holes in the walls, patches of stripped area, fewer signs and directions, and
slightly less pronounced illumination. The plant growth was present but clearly
disturbed by the constant commute of the many workers looking to go out further.

Even further away was where the red zones started. It was the part that had already
been contacted in the sense that people had explored it and made their way through
it. Most of the vegetation was removed through fire or some other specialized
talent. Some of the more recently claimed sections were still charred, while other
areas, notably those with few promising ore deposits, were already beginning to be
reclaimed by nature.

What characterized a red zone, more than any of the other characteristics, was a
distinct sense of danger. Noises that just barely crawled above the limen of
hearing, shifting, subtle vibrations, and bugs. A lot of bugs.
And finally, the absolute frontier, which he had already made contact with earlier
that day—the “black zone.”

As he stepped past the charred remains of a recently claimed red zone, he made it
down an open cavern that continued getting narrower and narrower the deeper he
went. Eventually, the walls closed in on him, and just past a turn, he reached the
entrance to another cavern. One that hadn’t been claimed.

This was the part of the caverns that hadn’t been reached yet, and what waited
inside was anyone’s guess. He couldn’t stop himself from gazing at it, peeking from
behind a wall. The mere sight of the overgrown, thick, clearly untouched caves
inspired a sense of awe and excitement. That wasn’t just the wilderness. It was the
far beyond, a step out into the untamed infinity of the interspace.

It was like looking into the night sky, but if one could stroll among the stars.
The sheer weight of a world that seemingly had no limits humanity knew of was
overwhelming, and gazing at the entrance to a maze one had little to no hope of
escaping from felt like staring into the maw of a beast preparing to swallow one
whole. What could be waiting in there? How many beings, unknown treasures, and
perhaps other civilizations were there?

Humanity had already contacted several sapient species; hell, even he did when he
encountered those little creatures. But most seemed rather primitive, with the most
advanced species being the Khorks, a species of swine-men who had reached a quasi-
medieval level of development.

Putting such idle thoughts aside and turning the fuck back to get away from this
very hazardous area, he continued his exploration.

Eventually, he felt mostly satisfied. The underground was perilous, yes, but it was
maintained rigorously. He hadn’t spotted any monsters, even in the red zones, so,
at least, those didn’t seem to be an ordinary threat one would encounter daily.

The biggest possible threat, actually, seemed to be the unpredictable structural

integrity of the caves.

As he walked past a bald old man hammering away at a wall, he became the
unfortunate witness to one such accident. A significant chunk of the wall broke
off, falling onto the man. He managed to deflect most of the weight with his left
arm, but the momentum behind the impact shattered his forearm and injured the man’s
back, knocking him down to the ground.

Freddy calmly observed the wall, making sure it wouldn’t collapse further. Once it
showed no signs of doing so, he helped the man and carried him down a part of the
cave. No words were exchanged between them. The injured man could only produce
pained grunts and effortful, deep breaths.

Eventually, several others spotted them, and a staff member was called. They took
the man off his arms, walking away without thanks, while he walked away without any
demands.

That hadn’t been much effort, and what went around came around… Hopefully.

He’d still make extra sure not to land himself in situations where he needed such
help. Or, well, he would try.

Freddy walked away from the commotion and briefly entered the Netherecho, ensuring
he appeared on his shoulder, where he was at least partially hidden from danger.
The leafy floor of the cavern turned into a beautiful painting of lush, natural
growth. Numerous wisps of ether flashed into existence around him. While many were
of earth and nature variants, there were a few wisps of water, innumerable ones he
couldn’t even begin to recognize, and even a few of the fire affinity. There were
so many, in fact, that he could barely see.

That was hardly an issue in the Netherecho, though. He merely willed himself to
ignore their existence, and they vanished out of his sight.

Several vestiges popped up around him. One looked like a relatively anthropomorphic
female wearing a leafy dress and lazing around on the floor. Slightly to its side
was a small rock with roots growing through it. And behind him was what appeared to
be a rather large stone golem. It took the form of a muscular man and repeatedly
flexed as if looking itself over in an imaginary mirror.

Shit.

Seeing a remnant the instant he checked the cavern’s Netherecho gave him a nasty
sense of foreboding.

The creature noticed him almost instantly. “Who is you, pussy? Weak and fragile!”
it said in a rough, manly voice. Then it pointed a finger at its chest. “Me solid.
Rock solid! Stone hard and strong!”

A concept of solidity, he guessed, but it could also be something like strength

through hardness? It was difficult to tell what precisely. And he certainly wasn’t
curious enough to wait for it to attack him. He left the Netherecho immediately,
quickly moving to another area and checking again.

While, for the most part, he was after an area rich in water wisps, he was also
doing his best to check every vestige he came across. They didn’t necessarily have
to be connected to water to be of value to him. He had maxed three tempering
techniques, growing their shells to the peak of stage zero.

It was far from unusual for martial artists to have several tempering techniques,
but having three while still being a one-star was definitely out of the ordinary.
With three tempering techniques, Create Water, Hydraulic Flex, once he created it,
Flowing Strike, and one more ability he desperately wanted to develop, that meant
he had seven powers to actively work on.

For most people, that would take too long to grow while still a one-star, and it
wasn’t worth the effort. Ascending as fast as possible was generally much better
for one’s lifespan, given the immediate power boost. But he wasn’t in a rush to
ascend, given that he was forbidden from doing so and had an inordinate amount of
essence to work with.

When one ascended a rank and attained a new star, their talent evolved with them.
While this was relatively unpredictable, there were numerous methods to skew the
direction in which the talent would grow.

The first was accomplishments, which generally improved the quality of one’s
talent. But the second one was equally important.

Depending on which abilities one had, one’s talent would generally evolve to
accommodate said powers if possible. This didn’t have to be anything significant,
but sometimes, a tiny change to the nature of one’s talent could make a world of
difference.

There were known cases of even non-combat talents becoming combat talents, although
it was rare, and the talent was rarely anything special. That wasn’t the thing that
concerned him, however.

The number of abilities one had didn’t make much of an impact on the direction of
the talent. If they were of a similar nature, that was. But if one had a collection
of drastically different abilities with little synergy, that could mess with the
direction.

For this reason, discarding any abilities one didn’t actively incorporate into
their fighting style was recommended, and he would be doing precisely that to
Squirt and Frog Leap.

That would leave him with three tempering techniques to develop his body, a
movement ability in the form of Hydraulic Flex when he acquired it, an offensive
ability in the form of Flowing Strike, a utility ability in the form of Create
Water, and a special ability he would do his best to attain.

While he had no active defensive powers, seven was still nearly twice as many as
the standard four archs worked on before reaching their second star.

Eventually, he stepped into a particularly overgrown and moist part of the yellow
zone. And a single, brief step into the Netherecho revealed precisely what he had
been looking for.

It was time for his tempering techniques to receive an upgrade.

31

THE LAKE

Underground cave systems after Earth’s integration into the interspace had become a
rather terrifying area to venture into, and if Faralethal was any indication, this
seemed to be the case for any planet scattered with passages.

Numerous portals leading to different realms frequently resulted in unwanted pests,

invasions, diseases, and other problems that created a volatile environment.

Camp Violet had their hands full trying to manage this volatility, and a particular
area they had encountered was an excellent example of a problem that simply
couldn’t be resolved—a place that had predominantly remained a red zone, frequently
referred to as the Wastes.

There were no notable ore deposits, plant life, or value to be extracted.

Something, likely an invasive species or some other form of natural phenomenon, had
combed through this underground section and stripped it of pretty much everything
worth taking.

During the relatively recent early days of the camp, when this area was first
discovered, it became a rather popular hiding place for numerous wannabe rebels and
other troublemakers. And the administration obviously hadn’t allowed that to
continue.

In a relatively open cave, a match between two men, a short, scrawny old man and a
tall, muscular youth, was nearing its end. The burly youth was winning, but
honestly, the old man had every advantage from the start. His talent, which allowed
him to temporarily extend the reach of his weapons, and his air affinity made him a
good counter against the taller fire-affinity arch.

Unfortunately, just like most who fought in this shitty ring, the old man was
nothing but a cowardly fool, and his bout ended with a predictable, shameful loss.

Among the crowds, seated in one of the higher rows of stone roughly formed into
seating, a silver-haired man gazed down on the fight with his light blue eyes,
scoffing at the display. His unusually healthy skin glistened under the torchlight
as he lifted the canteen to his mouth and took a sip of mystery moonshine some
random idiot had sold him earlier that day.

It tasted pretty good, even if it was lightly poisonous and likely to cause
cataracts if consumed frequently. He noted the face of the drink’s seller and put
it aside for now, leaving the judgment of what to do with the man for later.

As far as any of the people sitting beside him and cheering like rabid animals
knew, Peter was just another indentured servant sent to the mines, even if his
status as a two-star arch, of which there were very few on this expedition, set him
apart from most others.

In reality, Peter, as well as over half the two-star archs disguised as ordinary
workers, was one of the employees of the expedition, even if his presence here was
something of a punishment, too.

His task was simple—be wherever most trouble was brewing, and most importantly,
carefully observe. This entire arena was orchestrated by the camp administration
itself because the devil you knew and all that stuff.

Given how large the caves were, there was no chance they could stop all the rule-
breakers. Allowing them to gather in a place with “loose” surveillance made the
administration’s job far easier. It also worked to keep these animals entertained
and served to boost the morale of—

The arena suddenly erupted in cheers as the fight Peter had been paying no
attention to came to another embarrassing conclusion, and the man sitting beside
him jumped up, swinging his arms. The man’s wild flailing caught Peter’s forearm,
and the moonshine was promptly ejected from his hold. He shot the man a death
stare, but the cheering spectator was too busy wailing like an ape to notice it.

With a resolved sigh, he lifted the half-spilled drink off the ground and took a
hearty swing.

Sure, his performance at work could have been better, but had his work really been
bad enough to deserve being sent to this place? Sighing, he slumped in his seat.
How far he’d fallen.

He was no legendary figure of his generation, but he did reach the third year of
the Isilon Academy. Only a third of all students made it that far, and that was
only among those who actually made it into the academy to begin with.

Watching these thugs fight it out felt like the highest form of torture imaginable.
Although… he was treated to an… interesting match every so often.

Earlier that day, he witnessed the fight between one of the “promising rookies” as
they called him and a man named Freddy Stern. The scarred figure was still being
discussed among the spectators, and even he had to admit he was somewhat curious.
He had been at least interested enough to hop back to the camp and check the man’s
documentation.

What he found, however, was not what he expected to see.

Name: Freddy Stern.

Age: 22 years old (Archhuman for 8 months.)

Repayment period estimate: 15 to 20 years of labor.

Sentenced for: [CLASSIFIED INFORMATION]

This was the only person in this entire expedition who had the reason for their
sentencing classified. If that wasn’t enough, there was practically nothing even
remotely notable about this individual.

Formal education: None.

Faction: None.

Achievement history: None.

Nothing.

Even his water affinity and 1% Lifesteal talent seemed bland, even if they were
somewhat surprising. Peter had been confident that this man had the earth affinity
and perhaps a talent that specialized in defense. Even his extensive education in
abilities left him utterly bewildered about what the man did in the fight against
his opponent.

Was he a practitioner of the Abyssal Depths tempering technique? But given that he
was a one-star, he couldn’t have become heavy enough to absorb all the momentum of
such a strike. Besides, he was sure the man had used a Flowing Strike on his
opponent. Using Flowing Strike with the added density of Abyssal Depths would be
the act of an absolute lunatic.

Not only would such a combination result in absurd backlash, but the cost of using
Flowing Strike would skyrocket at higher ranks, making it both wildly expensive and
severely self-destructive.

But the most surprising thing was something he only noticed on his second scan
through the document. This person had been an archhuman for only eight months. Not
only that, but nearly six of those eight months were marked as being spent in
captivity.

This mystery gnawed at him, and he knew he couldn’t get his mind off it until he
reached a moderately satisfying conclusion.

With that, he finally turned to the man’s talent.

No… That probably didn’t have much to do with anything. Even if this was the first
time he saw a talent that directly converted damage to healing, many talents healed
the user upon killing an enemy, and while there were some exceptional talents among
the type, most were useless.

If one needed healing, they probably couldn’t stand on equal ground with their
opponent any longer. If they couldn’t stand on equal footing with their opponent,
they couldn’t fight and activate their talent. And even if they managed to win the
fight, their talent only worked once they no longer really needed it unless they
had suffered life-threatening injuries, which could have been prevented if one had
an offensive, defensive, or movement-oriented talent instead.

The only scenario where they tended to thrive was against many weaker opponents
with high offensive capabilities, but in that case, physical, mental, and soul
exhaustion became the bigger problem.

Even if his specific talent somehow circumvented all of these problems, it wouldn’t
have been much use during the six months of captivity, and judging by the state of
the man’s body, the healing quality couldn’t be higher than natural quality.

Actually…

Peter cupped his chin as he thought about it. What if he had minimal-quality
healing?

True, even with only a 1 percent conversion rate, that would provide enough healing
to keep the man alive through most injuries that weren’t immediately lethal.

Suddenly, everything felt like it had slid into place. For the first two months of
his journey as an archhuman, this man had likely spent his time fighting in either
a weaker realm or an artificial environment. That would explain his unusually
potent abilities and confidence in combat. Actually, Peter had only presumed that
the man’s injuries were a byproduct of torture.

What if they were, at least partly, a byproduct of reckless monster hunting?

The gears were spinning, and a grin appeared on his face. If one sprinkled in a
mysterious supporter to explain away the classified part of the documents and took
the lack of background and the absurdly long sentence into account, one would have
a pretty clear picture of what was happening.

This man was likely the disciple of a political enemy of the Kraven Clan.

And now that he thought about it, his performance in the fight could have been a
complete fluke. If he had used Flowing Strike, it wasn’t impossible that the
momentum of the ability had canceled out his opponent’s strike entirely by
accident. While enduring the backlash of such an interaction was impressive, it
probably wasn’t much compared to all the other injuries he’d suffered.

Perhaps his deduction was wrong, but he doubted he was far from the truth. Either
way, this man’s existence suddenly became much less interesting.

Thoughts of the mysterious Freddy Stern were shelved away into the vast collection
of minor curiosities he had spotted during his time here, and he refocused on
observing yet another boring fight.

As the two combatants entered the field, numerous murmurs spread around the seats.
After all, one of the two combatants was a two-star—but he hadn’t been just a few
days prior.

Peter supposed an example hadn’t been set in far too long as he mentally jotted the
man’s name down on the execution list.
And at that moment, a stray thought struck him.

If Freddy Stern was the disciple of someone important, there had to be something
promising about him. And if there was something promising about him…

Why the hell was he allowed to join the mining expedition?

The sounds of stone crumbling echoed through the moist caves as Freddy launched
another Flowing Strike at the wall. Notably, he didn’t bring any mining tools, so
his bare hands were put to the task. His fist landed with a crack, and finally,
another small rock broke off, widening the hole just enough for him to crawl into
it.

He put the lantern ahead of him to light the path, and a grin appeared on his face
as he spotted the shimmering reflection. As he forced his way through the tight,
slippery stone and lifted the lantern, his eyes finally saw what he had been
looking for.

A small lake sat in a giant, empty chamber. The trickling of water down the
stalactites hanging above accumulated in the body of water, and for the most part,
the growth wasn’t overwhelmingly thick.

It still smelled incredibly mossy, and every surface seemed slippery, but it was
nothing that would impede him for long.

After glancing at the small tunnel he had crawled through, he shifted a large stone
to hide the entrance.

The place he found himself in was in a red zone—a wet and relatively poor one.
Nobody besides water archs would intentionally head here, and even they would
likely avoid it to not attract suspicion that they might be looking to gather or
evolve abilities. This made the area relatively desolate, but even then, he wanted
to be careful not to get caught in the act.

He placed the kind-of-stolen lantern on top of a rock and scouted the nearby area.
There seemed to be no other paths into this cavern.

Something of a rocky shore surrounded the entire lake, even if it was too uneven
and slippery in most places.

Going into the water itself was out of the question, and he would ensure that he
stayed as quiet as possible until he confirmed that the water wasn’t festering with
monsters.

That being said, he grabbed one of the larger stones and threw it across the lake
with the help of Flowing Strike’s momentum. It smacked right into the water’s
surface, and a few anxious seconds later… nothing appeared.

Throwing stone after stone revealed that, at least, nothing was itching to jump out
of the lake to devour him. That was good enough for now.

Focusing on appearing on the shoulder of his body, he entered the Netherecho.

The thickness of the water wisps surrounding his body made him feel almost as if
his entire projection was submerged in water. Quickly focusing on peering through
it, his vision revealed precisely what he had been looking for.

A small fountain cheerfully danced around. A tiny water snake scurried through the
air, swimming in loops and coiling around other vestiges. A small angry cloud
chased a three-legged fish around while something akin to a merman swung a trident
at a cracked rock with water endlessly flowing out of it.

As expected, regardless of which shell he focused on, most vestiges felt like they
could slot right in without much trouble. And thankfully, no remnants were anywhere
to be seen, at least not within the radius of his perception.

Now, it was only a matter of making a choice.

Four abilities were waiting for an upgrade. He only knew what he wanted for two of
them.

Create Water would be, as was the best choice, coupled with a generic water
concept. This would simply make it produce more water that would cost less essence
and be easier to control.

The second was Abyssal Depths. He just wanted compression for it. Either generic
compression, liquid compression, or water compression. He would stack all three
eventually, so it didn’t matter which went first.

This was where it got tricky. He didn’t strictly need Water Body anymore—not the
standard version, at least. Its most popular version was the one that enhanced
physical recovery by utilizing the life from water concept. Needless to say, that
was pretty redundant with his talent. Which begged the question—what should he do
with this ability?

Simply discarding it wasn’t out of the question, but that felt like too much of a
waste. Given that he had no real inspiration, he decided to go with his gut and see
what he could find. He had little to lose, and if it turned out to be crap, he’d
remove it.

Which finally left him with Hundred Wet Hells and a massive problem. The guide to
developing Hundred Wet Hells was ten times more expensive than the scroll. Needless
to say, information on it wasn’t readily available. Now, while he had little to
lose with Water Body, Hundred Wet Hells was essential. It was his only ability with
a genuinely synergistic relationship with his talent, and losing it would hurt even
more than using it.

But he simply had no clue what to do.

However, he decided to put it out of his mind. Hundred Wet Hells could wait until
he finished the first three abilities. By then, he would at least have a better
idea of what concepts he was dealing with and at least some experience with
evolving abilities.

Ensuring that no remnants lurked on the horizon, he jumped down to the relatively
isolated fountain vestige.

It danced around while humming a tune, and he tried befriending it by dancing

along.

The instant he stepped next to it, however, the vestige screamed bloody murder.

What the— His mind whirled while he barely jumped out of the way of a burst of
water.

“Horrible creature!” the fountain yelled. “Deceitful little liar. You seek to
poison my—ack!” Suddenly, the creature had to stop as it found a giant trident
embedded into its side.

“You vile beast!” another vestige yelled from a bit further away. “Will you ever
stop disturbing the peace of my kingdom!?” the merman vestige asked, clearly intent
on fighting the fountain.

“It’s you again!” the fountain screeched at the top of its lungs. “You you you you!
Will you ever learn that water must flow to be—”

“Silence!” the merman yelled as it jumped forward.

The animosity between the two didn’t go unnoticed by Freddy. This was his chance.

He worked his projection’s throat to adjust his voice, then lifted his scythe at
the fountain, speaking in a whispery, sinister tone. “You are an enemy of peace and
shall be exterminated.”

“Wha—” the fountain turned from the merman to him, clearly flabbergasted.
“Hrrrrrnuuurggh, that’s enough!”

The water that flowed through the fountain unabated suddenly stopped, and the main
body of the vestige began to bulge, clearly preparing a large burst of water it was
still deciding who to direct it toward.

Before it could decide, however, the merman jumped on it, pulling the trident out
and preparing to bring it down. However, it was in a terrible position and found
itself exactly where the blast of water was about to be sent.

A pressurized burst of liquid smashed through the merman’s shoulder, blowing its
entire arm off and pushing it back. However, before the fountain could do much more
damage, a scythe appeared, slashing its back open.

The vestige whirled, but he was already bringing his weapon down again, this time
point-first at the vestige’s face.

The fountain used its small, rocky hands and grabbed the scythe by the blade before
it could land. It began bulging again, preparing another burst.

That’s not good! He panicked as he pulled on his scythe but found it stuck in the
creature’s grasp.

Losing one’s soul construct was a big deal. They took nearly half a year or an
ascension to recreate if lost. However, before he had to decide whether to let it
go, the merman slammed into the fountain shoulder-first, sending it tumbling to the
side. The blast it had charged up missed, harmlessly splashing over the ground.

He finally found the leverage to wrench the scythe back, slicing through the
fountain’s fingers, and with a panicked slash, he made a large gash down its body.
As water flowed through the cracks, its body suddenly unraveled into a collection
of earth and water-affinity wisps.

Those wisps didn’t merely flutter away, however. Instead, half of them flowed to
the merman, and the other half made its way into Freddy’s soul. The earth-affinity
wisps turned into pure ether, with most of the actual power lost in the process,
while the water-affinity wisps effortlessly seeped into his soul, joining the
roiling mass of ether that comprised his star, pushing it to 57% completion.

His projection’s heart was beating out of its chest, and he couldn’t stop himself
from constantly looking around in panic. Every inch of his existence begged him to
return to his body, but he knew there wasn’t much reason to. Besides…

The merman’s arm regrew as the wisps seeped into its body, and it grabbed its
trident again. Standing proudly on its fishy tail and looking in the direction of
where the lake should be, just slightly out of Freddy’s limited field of view, it
turned to the tiny form of a blue reaper.

Freddy stood, facing the prominent vestige as it smiled at him and said, “Thank you
for your assistance, little reaper. May I have your name?”

32

GAINS

In the splotchy Netherecho of the caverns, thick with water, darkness, earth, and
mysterious wisps Freddy didn’t even recognize, a transparent snake of coiling water
morphed through the air, shifting and shuffling above the painted ground as it made
loops in a set pattern.

Suddenly, a pointy blue trident whistled, catching the fluid snake by its tail. The
weapon didn’t remain embedded in the liquid body for long, but even once it dropped
to the ground, the pattern of shifting water was clearly not as smooth as it had
been.

The snake hissed as it turned to the culprit who injured it, “You beassst! How dare
you disturb—” But before it could finish its sentence, a faint blue outline of a
scythe coiled around its neck and pulled down, slicing the stream of water apart
and unraveling the creature into the wisps of ether that comprised its existence.

Freddy dropped to the ground, clumsily grasping at the blue scythe as he did his
best to prevent his projection from shaking in excitement as another flood of ether
poured into his soul. That had been the cleanest kill Stillness and he had executed
thus far, putting him at 60% progress with his star.

Indeed, he thought. Stillness, the trident-wielding merman obsessed with the

concept of liquid stillness, made for one hell of an ally. The vestige in question
trod over to its weapon, plucked it from the ground, and stood tall, proudly
scouting the area for more disturbance to quell.

He had used the vestige’s nature as being attached to the concept of “liquid
stillness” to convince it to partner with him by playing the role of “death.”
Indeed, corpses were quite still and made no habit of disturbing bodies of water.
He managed to get the merman to go on a crusade through some bargaining.
Allying oneself with vestiges was a common practice. If anything, facing them
directly was the least common way of handling them. Personified ether constructs
were extremely powerful compared to the might of an arch’s projection, and getting
a bit creative was practically indispensable, even if one had a powerful soul
construct.

The only people who went out of their way to challenge the residents of the
Netherecho in “fair” mortal combat were lunatics who were trying to get themselves
killed.

Liquid stillness as a concept didn’t have much use to him. It would be excellent
with Water Walk, Water Shield, or Manifest Water Weapon, but his abilities weren’t
suitable for it. So, a tentative alliance had been the most he could get out of the
situation.

Stillness, however, wasn’t Bloodshed. This thing had no attachment to loyalty and
servitude, and it wasn’t a person, he thought to himself for the hundredth time. It
was not a person. He had to make doubly sure not to forget that.

It wouldn’t take much for it to arbitrarily decide that he had to die, so

throughout all their fights together, he kept his eyes on the merciless merman just
as much as he did on any of their opponents.

Speaking of which, he hadn’t had much luck. This was an excellent opportunity to
try and snatch an upgrade, but his efforts hadn’t borne any fruit so far.

Most of the vestiges they had stumbled across were either too unpredictable to take
a chance on, their nature was too unclear, or they weren’t suitable for any of his
abilities.

But damn was this an effective way to grow one’s star. Not a single other time
until then had he made so much progress so quickly. He had tasked Bloodshed with
clearing the Netherecho for him, but having a higher degree of participation seemed
much more effective if one wanted to progress past a bottleneck. Given the risk to
his life, it made sense.

His first star was roughly just above halfway formed, and he was already reaching a
point where he could see its completion on the horizon.

Taking his mind off his growth, he refocused on the task at hand—deciding which
target to hunt next. He stood as far as he could from Stillness without risking
annoying or aggravating it and simply observed, allowing it to pick its next
target. The less he got involved, the lower the odds were of it turning on him.

“Hmph,” Stillness scoffed as it raised its trident. “Over there.”

He turned to face the direction it was pointing in and quickly spotted their next
victim. It was an almost entirely non-descript blob of water that shifted and
morphed as it moved what appeared to be rough, limb-like appendages to traverse
around.

Even without interrogating it, he already knew what that thing was. His sleeves
shuffled slightly, and an ominous wind blew beneath the hem of his robes in a
colorful display of what seemed to be barely restrained excitement. That was the
generic concept of water—the exact thing he needed for an optimal upgrade for his
Create Water spell.

“Very well,” he answered briefly as they approached their target.

Stillness lifted its trident and threw it forward when they stepped into range
while he broke off to flank their opponent.

Surprisingly, the mass of water flicked the weapon out of the air, and he found
himself backing away just as the creature prepared to break his fragile projection
apart. After dodging the limb by a raindrop’s worth of distance, he stepped away
and raised his guard.

Stillness growled. “Why is it that you move?” it asked indignantly. “It is your
sacred duty to remain undisturbed!”

The blob of water didn’t necessarily look at Stillness, but he could feel its
attention turning to the merman nonetheless. Then, with a deep, gurgly voice, it
spoke. “Stillness… flow… equally make me whole.”

“Blasphemy!” Stillness screamed as it recklessly charged forward.

Lifting its fist into the air, the merman prepared to lunge, but a massive tentacle
of water slammed it upside the head, stopping it dead in its tracks and slamming it
into the ground with a puff of cartoony smoke.

Uh-oh.

This vestige was powerful. It was likely close to turning into a remnant.

A burst of water slammed Stillness’s torso, and he could see a visible indentation
appear.

Capturing a vestige of this power would give him a slight starting boost to his
stage one Create Water, but would have no other benefits. On the other hand, if
Stillness lost, this thing would likely become a remnant, and he didn’t like his
chances of victory or even escape in that scenario.

A nearly arm-like appendage sprung out of the vestige’s body and slammed at
Stillness’s ribs, pushing the merman to the side and leaving it bent over.

Spotting the opening, he decided to act. Rushing forth, he grabbed the unequipped
trident and threw it toward Stillness. The merman managed to catch it out of the
air, and immediately, it swung the weapon down, slashing at its opponent’s side.

The trident faced a heavy defense as a giant bubble of water protected its target,
but at that moment, Freddy appeared from the other, unprotected side, swinging his
scythe down in a wild arc, leaving a giant gash of splashing liquid behind.

Instantly, he felt the vestige’s attention turn to him, but at that moment,
Stillness was already thrusting again, this time piercing through and doing some
damage, and as the vestige was distracted yet again, he flicked another quick
swipe, and this time, backed away.

That was all the help he could safely provide. After that, if Stillness won, he
would be set, but if it lost, he could remain far away enough to escape unharmed.

Standing at a healthy distance from the confrontation, he ensured that nothing else
would barge into the fight as he observed the brutal battle between two vestiges.
Chunks of one and the other broke off repeatedly, and he was sure that Stillness
wouldn’t be the one to come out on top. Not if it were fighting alone.

The water that comprised the body of the general concept of water sloshed
chaotically as it struggled to muster another attack, but it was still doing far
better than its opponent, who was practically falling apart. As it prepared to
strike, however, the blue reaper suddenly appeared, slashing his scythe across its
body.

He fumbled his swing, leaving nothing but a shallow cut, but it wasn’t meant to be
anything more than an extra precaution.

The little reaper focused, turning his attention within as an intense force
prepared to rush out of his soul. Within moments, a small ball of ether runes
comprising a closed shell appeared before him. With an ear-shredding pop, it burst
forward, smashing into the vestige. One blue, ethereal chain after another sprouted
along its body, and as it resisted, several snapped and broke off.

He winced at the echo of agony that flashed through his soul, but he endured,
forcing the chains to tighten. The aquamarine shackles responded to his will, and
within moments, the chains extended into his projection and rapidly dragged the
vestige into his soul.

As the mass of liquid shrunk and spun out into the vast emptiness of his ethercosm,
the fight was already over. The shell of Create Water wrapped around it, and in
mere seconds, it was fully encased in a prison of shimmering ethereal runes.

A pulse of soothing energy washed over his soul, and when observing from a
distance, the little speck of blue that orbited his star grew bright enough to see
without even having to focus on it.

Bringing his attention back to the Netherecho, he quickly scouted the area,
ensuring his safety. The only vestige nearby was Stillness, and it was in horrible
shape. Indeed, with him so greedily stealing the entire vestige for himself,
Stillness was left without the ether needed to recover the damage it had suffered.

It was vulnerable, and for a moment, still riding the high of his recent success,
he wondered whether he should take a chance with it. He felt all three remaining
shells, including Water Body, resonate with this concept. It could work.

But… after letting the thrill wash over him, he cooled his head and thought about
it. He practiced Flowing Strike. His repertoire had no room for Stillness.

“Tell me, little reaper,” it said, half its body missing and its trident broken.
“Did we calm the raging tides?”

With a slight nod, he stepped forward and cut the merman apart at the waist,
unraveling its body and absorbing the flood of ether. A short moment later, he was
out of the Netherecho and back in his body.

He slumped a bit as he slowly breathed out. “It wasn’t a living thing,” he muttered
into his chin, reminding himself. “That wasn’t Bloodshed.”

With a deep sigh, he put such thoughts aside and focused on something more
substantial. His soured mood lifted slightly as he raised his hand and used Create
Water, his first stage one ability.

A burst of liquid, enough to fill a massive bucket, flowed out, and he found that
he could control it with so much more ease. He used to be able to manage around the
size of a large droplet, perhaps as large as a human eye. Now, he could handle a
blob the size of an apple.

He reduced its size just a bit to gain more freedom over it, then summarily
proceeded to flex his essence control as much as he could.
With each new movement he tested, he could feel hundreds—no, thousands—of latent
ether shells materializing in his soul. What had once been an utterly imperceptible
collection of several pieces of vaguely blue debris had now turned into a sizable
misty cloud of pale aquamarine, giving the inside of his soul a glow that reminded
him of the vast night sky.

Every one of those shells held a specific movement, a peculiar intent, and could be
developed into a full-fledged ability through repetition. Granted, the overwhelming
majority were useless, comprising mere minuscule variations of super-specific uses
of essence manipulation, but it was still a sight to behold.

The cave he was still in was predominantly empty, beside the rocks and the water,
making it a nearly perfect location to practice. And there was one ability he had
been waiting to create for the longest time.

The water affinity was notoriously bad at non-martial-arts offensive abilities.

Those who became water spellcasters usually only did so if their talent could cover
the offense. Those who kept true to a purely offensive style throughout their first
star had a high likelihood of attaining the ice affinity upon ascending to their
second star.

Attaining advanced affinities wasn’t guaranteed, however, making it a risk few were
willing to take. Most water casters specialized in supporting roles—another area
water excelled at.

But that didn’t mean that water had no offensive spells. Several outliers shone
through at higher ranks, such as Dehydration or Turbulent Wave, but one ability
stood out right from the start.

Freddy lifted his hand, opening his palm away from his body. Then he focused. Stage
zero Create Water was limited in function, as were most stage zero abilities. It
simply created a set amount of liquid without any shape, and only once that water
was created could it be manipulated with essence. Having the general concept of
water within changed the situation drastically.

While he still had a maximum of water he could produce in a single use, he could
manipulate the minimum as freely as he wanted.

With intense focus, he concentrated his Create Water in the center of his palm. The
water shrunk into a tiny ball, and as soon as he tried pushing more water into it,
he was already sweating from exertion. Not long after he started, his control
faltered, and the concentrated ball of water was disrupted, splashing all over his
palm, down to the ground, and into the air.

While that was a far cry from what he had been trying to do, it was a surprisingly
good first attempt. That gave him hope that he might just be able to do it.

Pressure Jet was the single most potent stage zero offensive water spell. Sure, it
had numerous shortcomings, such as its limited range, an insane essence cost, and
difficulty in obtaining the ability. But if one was solely talking about its
damage, it was top tier, even compared to other affinities.

A concentrated jet of high-speed pressurized water had been one of the most
efficient methods for cutting things back on Old Earth. And that power, when taking
the form of an ability, was precisely what he wanted as part of his repertoire.

If it weren’t for his soul construct’s Essence Extraction, he would have outright
been an idiot for entertaining acquiring both Hydraulic Flex and Pressure Jet while
still being only a one-star.

It still wouldn’t be easy, and it would take a long time, but his decent essence
recovery at least gave him a fighting chance.

While he had been planning on spending the rest of the day practicing his
abilities, he just now realized how tired he felt. There was no 1% Lifesteal to
keep him from physically wearing himself out, and it was clear that his battered
body needed some work.

He decided to test something out.

Pulling out the knife from its sheath, he slashed at a few mushrooms. The rush of
Lifesteal was invigorating, but… pretty much as soon as he stopped, the effect
disappeared, so he continued. He went at it for a while, but realizing he had to
stop didn’t take long.

The complexion of his skin was changing quite rapidly. He hadn’t done anything too
noticeable, but he could tell his skin appeared less… ill. He sighed. The problem
with supreme-quality healing was that it split equally between all bodily injuries.

In that short time, it had done little to nothing for his internal problems but had
already managed a noticeable impact on his outward appearance.

While many people instantly averted their gaze upon seeing him, just as many stared
openly. The workers weren’t allowed to wear masks or use other methods to conceal
their faces, as per the rules written in the rule book.

If he overused his talent, it wouldn’t be long until people realized his appearance
was changing. If people realized his appearance was changing, they would wonder
why.

Desperate folk were an ugly sort.

If someone who had an injury or other health problem saw him suddenly improving,
they wouldn’t go, “Oh, golly gosh, that disfigured bloke is healing! I am so happy
for him!”

No.

They would go, “Those scars are disappearing. He has access to supreme-quality
healing. I need supreme-quality healing.”

Then, they would approach him and ask how he did it. He would have to fuck them off
because, obviously, he couldn’t use a self-healing talent on others. Of course,
they wouldn’t go, “Ah, sorry mate, I really thought you could help me out! Shucks,
that is unfortunate!”

No.

They would go “This bastard is hiding something from me.” Because they had nothing
to gain from believing him. To them, the reality in which Freddy was a liar was the
only one where they still had hope of finding a solution to their problems.

So they would pry. They would ask over and over. They would spread rumors, threaten
him, and even possibly outright assault him to try and find an answer.

And once they concluded that there was nothing there, they would be disappointed.
Angry.
Envious.

If I can’t have it… this bastard can’t have it either.

There was a reason why he had decided to remain a loner for so long. Hell, the only
reason he even interacted with James and Sharon was because those two were
genuinely the nicest people he had met. Even then, he kept contact to a minimum.

The only thing misery loved more than company was creating more misery. The
despondent kept each other down almost desperately, fearing nothing more than
seeing those they cared about succeed without them.

If he wanted to make a full recovery, he needed two things—a plausible excuse for
how he did it and the power to protect himself from those who wanted him to share.

With a resigned sigh, he decided to head back to the tent. The feeling of using his
talent had left him with a reinvigorated resolve.

So, he walked over to the large stone and pulled it back. It was demanding, and he
felt his elbows, shoulders, back, and knees scream in protest, which he summarily
ignored with the cold mercilessness of a dictator commanding his soldiers to march
in the cold.

As he crawled out of his little hiding spot and closed it up from the other side,
he turned around and started his long trek back to the camp. It wasn’t that far
away, but a few kilometers could feel like a marathon when walking through an
incredibly inhospitable set of caverns and tight passages.

But as he started his way back, it didn’t take him long to realize he had a
problem.

His body’s protest—the one he had been ignoring this whole time?

Yeah, it seemed to have turned into an all-out rebellion.

With a sudden cramp and a visceral tearing, he felt the part of his right leg
around his shin tighten, with a few small clumps of something appearing just below
the knee.

“Uuurgh, what the—” he screamed through gritted teeth.

His foot was stuck in an awkward position, and with another searing bolt of pain,
he felt his kneecap pop out of its socket and move down his leg. Another pained
moan escaped his lips, and he felt the agony spread up his leg and over his hip,
reaching his glutes and lower back.

The thing with torture was that it wasn’t just a matter of pain. Numerous
incisions, pricks, different venoms, and drugs didn’t just hurt. Everything that
had been done to him had come with a set of consequences, sequela his body wouldn’t
recover from naturally.

He’d grown so used to ignoring pain, so complacent because of a perfect recovery

waiting on the horizon, that he hadn’t realized a crucial problem until that
moment. The pain ravaging his body was screaming at him that something was wrong.
And one such error had finally reached a breaking point.

Another pained growl escaped his lips, and he finally couldn’t stay on his feet. As
he tumbled to the ground, the tendon that connected his crotch also tightened, and
he could feel himself losing control over his other leg.

Ignoring pain was more manageable when one believed it would have no permanent
consequences. Spicy food could hurt as much as licking a hot iron, but one’s
reaction was far different. There was a notion of safety, a sense of security, in
it being nothing but a benign sensation that would eventually pass. All forms of
pain had become just that when viewed through the lens of his talent.

But at that moment, when the agony signaled an inability to move in a deadly part
of the caverns where few had a reason to venture, oh, it hurt. Suddenly, the pain
was unbearable.

His lips parted to scream for help, but he bit them to stop himself from making a
sound. He was just as likely to attract the attention of something he didn’t want
finding him in this state.

He instinctively reached for his knife without much thought and began slashing
around through the mossy growth. It provided some relief. But it did virtually
nothing to undo the catastrophe that was happening to his leg.

With all the willpower he could muster, he had to stop himself from slashing
further. Nothing short of a full recovery would put his knee back into place.

And he hadn’t prepared any bullshit excuses yet. He didn’t have a plan. But he had
no intention of letting anyone bully him any further. Thus, with gritted teeth and
legs unable to move, he crawled back toward the camp.

With one arm gripping a rocky protrusion, he tightened his core and shifted his
left leg, pulling himself forward across the mossy ground.

The agony and panic made every second feel like a century, and he could barely even
tell the passage of time.

His torso was stuck crawling along the floor, so his clothes got caught on sharp
edges more than once. The work uniform was made to be tough, so it wouldn’t tear
easily, but as long as he was wearing it, he would hold little hope of making
progress past the nooks it would get caught on.

Rolling himself over, he unzipped his uniform and pulled it down, taking it and the
metal-plated boots off, remaining clothed in little more than a solid piece of
underwear.

As he continued onward, he quickly noticed the difference that protection had

provided. Without it, his body scraped along jagged edges, and while he wasn’t
bleeding much, his torso was constantly bruising and hitting against hard surfaces.

Something slimy crawled along one of his legs. A quick glance down revealed that it
was a giant centipede, and he was forced to pause and wait for it to leave him be.
Just as it was about to leave, his leg cramped again, and the small jolt spooked
the creature, causing it to instantly whirl and sink giant fangs into his skin.

“Fffffuuu!” he swore through gritted teeth.

Ignoring the creature, he pushed onward, and it eventually decided it was done
“defending itself” as it scurried off into the distance, leaving him in even more
pain.

Up steep ledges and down tight paths he went, several times coming into contact
with either yet another venomous critter or a poisonous plant that shouldn’t be
touched with bare skin.

The call of his talent begging to be used whispered into his ear. After all, at
this rate, he might very well not make it back to the camp. But he denied the
temptation. If he healed fully, going back to the camp was impossible anyway.

One part of the cave was terribly cold, freezing even. Another was so sharp he
would have bled out had his skin not been so tough, and yet another cave was filled
with nasty fungus and plants that definitely shouldn’t interact with bare skin.

Every time, however, every step he made forward only grew more confident and
determined.

But while the spirit was willing, the body was well past wrung out. His grip
faltered, and the longer he went, the harder it became to breathe. His sight grew
blurry, and his hearing was even more muffled than usual.

How far out in the caves had he been? What were the odds of not having encountered
a single person so far? Could he have made less progress than he thought?

Or were the other workers simply ignoring him?

Eventually, however, the hubbub of human speech reached his barely conscious mind.
For a while already, he wasn’t following the signs but simply trying to move
forward in hopes of getting to someone.

Several figures he couldn’t identify through the daze lifted him off the floor.

“Get him to the medical tent,” he thought he heard someone say. That was enough.

With that, he finally allowed the deep dark to whisk him away.

33

FORAGER INCENTIVES

Freddy woke up in an almost entirely dark room, disoriented. It took his sight a
few moments to snap into focus, and as it did, he observed the filthy, draping tarp
cloth that comprised the ceiling of what appeared to be a dingy, poorly lit tent.

A strange, startling noise came from his side, making him jolt as he tried to turn
to face it, but his entire body, which he just then perceived to be wrapped in
bandages from head to toe, hurt at even the mention of movement.

It didn’t take long for him to identify the muffled sounds as pained groans, and
once the profoundly pungent medicinal smell finally kicked in, it didn’t take long
to extrapolate where he was.
He would have sighed in relief if he could have drawn more than a short, pained
breath. Someone had dragged him to the medic tent, and now he was recovering.

Immediately following the relaxation of safety was an intense sense of dread. He

somehow doubted that this service would be free. No, he knew it wouldn’t be. That
wasn’t the problem. What frightened him was how this scummy camp would try to
extract that payment. Thoughts of that were for later, though. He needed rest for
the time being.

A raking cough caught his attention a moment later. It was so violent that, for a
moment, he was concerned that someone was in the process of kicking the bucket.

Surprisingly, however, the coughing came from someone who was approaching him.
“These damn spores,” an old man’s voice said, forced through a tight throat and
followed by a long gargle and the sounds of spitting. “Oh, hey,” the voice
continued, and a moment later, a lanky figure hung right above his face.

It was a man on the cusp of ripening into early old age. It was rare to see someone
who was presumably an archhuman appear so old. Usually, such people had become
archs later in life or ascended long ago.

This man was bald on the top of his head and had a rough, weathered face and an
incredibly pronounced mustache, despite, as he judged by the long, stringy
patchwork of an unshaven “beard,” struggling to grow facial hair elsewhere.

“You’re awake… right?” the man asked, waving an arm before his immobilized head.

He moved his head in an affirmative nod, a movement he struggled to make against

the layers of restraints and, with all the strength he could, mustered a meek
“Yeah.”

“Good. Let’s have you checked out.” The entire world suddenly lurched as the man
effortlessly picked up the bed he was lying on. A short, dizzying journey through a
few tent flaps later, he was finally placed back on the ground, right about ready
to throw up and die.

What followed was one of the longest half-hours of his life. The old man carefully
examined his condition, and to do so, he had to peel off the numerous layers of
crap that his body had been constrained in.

The air grew smellier with every piece of cloth the medic removed. The mix of stale
sweat, greasy skin, blood, pus, and rot made him wonder how long he had been out.

But bandages weren’t the only thing wrapped around his limbs. Wooden splints kept
his entire body from moving, and his right leg, which betrayed him in the caverns,
was tied up in wires, keeping an intricate construction of metallic pieces
together.

His body felt quite numb for the most part. Sensation, along with his good old
friend pain, was slowly returning to his limbs as he felt blood flow freely again.

Once everything was finally pulled out, including the numerous needles placed along
his right leg, crotch, and right side of his lower back, he realized how bad his
situation really was.

His entire torso had scabbed over, and since it was already just a massive scar, it
probably wouldn’t look much different. Looks weren’t on his mind, however.

He could feel it. His legs were functional, for whatever that was worth, but he
knew they would hurt with every step, and he wasn’t sure how many of those he could
take.

“Young man.”

His attention was snapped away from his body as he turned to face the doctor,
medic, or whatever this man was.

The man pulled a chair over from a corner of the tent and sat beside him, staring
deep into his soul. “What’s your name?”

He smiled guilelessly and committed to several practice coughs to test his throat
before finally saying, “You should probably already know that.”

“I do,” the medic confirmed. “I would still like to hear you introduce yourself.”

He paused for a moment, then humored the man’s request. “Freddy,” he responded. “My
name is Freddy Stern.”

“And how old are you, Freddy?”

“I’m twenty-o—no, uh… no, yeah, I’m twenty-one years old.”

“You seem unsure,” the old man inquired.

“Let’s just say,” he said with a dry laugh, “that it feels like a lot more than a
year has passed since my last birthday.”

The man chuckled a bit, but his expression betrayed that he probably didn’t find
that funny. “Well, nice to meet you, Freddy. I’m Frank.”

“Let me hear it, doctor. What’s my situation looking like? You can be Frank with
me,” he joked.

“Real funny, young man,” he said with a cheeky smirk. “Maybe you’re doing better
than I thought.”

“But seriously,” he interrupted with a severe expression.

The old man sighed. “Besides the fact that your body is in a severe state of
deterioration, with several ailments simply waiting to ripen, your condition is
stable. For now. As you already know, you’ve had a life-threatening emergency, and
as such, the cost of your treatment was added to what you already owe.”

He couldn’t stop himself from chuckling at that.

“Something funny?” the doctor asked.

“I just find it very amusing,” he said honestly, “how the severity of my condition
matters more in terms of money than it does in terms of actual health.”

“Don’t worry,” the old man said, not sharing his amusement. “I’ll get to that part
in a moment. Your physical condition is bad. And it will probably get worse before
it gets better. But you do have your limbs mostly intact, so that’s a plus, and as
far as I’ve seen, you aren’t at much risk of permanently losing any critical bodily
functions in the short term. Or at least you wouldn’t be under normal
circumstances.” His face turned sour, and he could smell terrible news brewing
behind the medic’s stormy expression.
“Your uniquely large debt, coupled with your partially disabled body, has forced
the pieces of shi—” He coughed. “I mean… the executives to vote on a one-time ban
for you. You are partially barred from further emergency treatment.”

“Uuh…” He stared unblinkingly. “What?”

The doctor continued without pause, “You were judged ‘extremely unlikely’ to repay
the total sum of what you owe, so you will no longer be allowed to incur a further
deficit, not even if your life is at risk.” He said that last part with such a
palpable disgust that he wondered why this man was even working here.

Before long, the old man continued, “You do have one option, though. If you
consistently deliver more than twice the daily quota, you can be allowed some
credit, and if treatment is needed, you can repay a second loan on different terms
parallel to the primary debt you owe the company.”

Well, that sucked. Even without hearing the man out to the end, he could tell where
this was going. “So basically, I’m forced to work twice as hard if I want to have
rights to emergency treatment?”

With a scoff, the medic nodded and frowned deeply. “Exactly. And with your body,
working harder will only increase the odds of you needing it to begin with.”

He thought about it momentarily, and… well… that wasn’t that bad. Something about
the way the old man put it made him curious. “I have a quick question for you, if
you don’t mind.”

The man nodded, and he continued, “You said I can be given credit if I deliver more
than the daily quota, right? Can I spend that credit elsewhere? On, let’s say, non-
emergency treatment?” he probed.

“Bad idea,” the doctor dismissed it out of hand. “While preventative action would
be wise, you need at least some credit open in case of another emergency.”

“Well, I don’t have to blow all my credit on emergency treatment,” he argued. “Do
I?”

“That depends. You could take a longer repayment period with significantly worse
interest.”

That actually sounded like a great solution. The debt was total bullshit anyway;
why would he care how long it took him to ‘repay’ it? “What if I had like two and a
half times over the daily quota in credit?” he asked.

The man sighed and planted his forehead on the palm of his hand. “That much work
wouldn’t be easy to sustain even if you weren’t disabled.”

“All right then…” he mused aloud. After a few seconds of thinking, he decided he
might as well just ask the man outright, “What would you advise me to do if I
wanted to heal as much as possible?”

“Pray for a miracle.”

He rolled his eyes at that. “Realistically, I mean.”

“That is the most realistic hope you have,” the man stated bluntly.

But Freddy kept staring at the man eagerly, waiting for a more legitimate answer.
For a good, long moment, the medic simply stared back at him. And then, the tiniest
of smiles shone through his stern expression. “You know…” he started. “I won’t lie
to you, Mr. Stern. You’re in a uniquely terrible situation. But…” After his gaze
crossed Freddy’s battered, scarred body, he added, “You’re one tough bastard,
aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “Moping and crying about it won’t help. So I might as well see where
I’m standing.”

“Well,” the doctor said, “I suppose I’m about to go on a break, and there are no
emergencies to handle. I guess I could give you a few pieces of advice.”

A few days later, the mandated minimum of rest Freddy was provided ran out, and he
was forced to return to work. He was far from ready for it, but he had no choice.

Within the next few days, he was forced to come to terms with… well… a lot of
things. First, his leg hurt like a bitch, and that, according to the doctor, wasn’t
a good thing. So, he had to do his best to keep it safe. The second thing he had to
come to terms with was that he had to work with other people.

Out in the yellow and red zones, it was high-risk, high-reward. Find a good spot,
get some good ore, and it didn’t take much work to fill the daily quota. The green
zone, however, wasn’t like that at all. It was streamlined, the roles were clearly
defined, and, worst of all, the profit was split as equitably as possible.

One of the main reasons he didn’t like the prospect of socializing here was that
most workers wouldn’t survive. Making friends whose lives were on a timer sounded
like a great way to saddle oneself with unnecessary emotional baggage.

Fortunately—in a morbid way—he didn’t have to be worried about that. But the thing
with splitting profit with people you didn’t intend to befriend was that people
sucked. Especially badly when stuck slaving away with their lives at risk.

At first, most of the other workers kept their distance from him, but as they
habituated to his strange presence, it wasn’t long until the mistreatment began. He
had shown himself more than capable of pulling his weight, but the reflex reaction
of most miners was to go, Ew, this fucking cripple is taking part of my money!?
What is this, a charity!? As was unfortunately expected.

Needless to say, having to repeatedly prove that his part of the profit was earned
and not donated to him out of pity was frustrating to no end. And it was especially
difficult to prove that his daily wage, which was always at least twice the daily
quota, had no foul play behind it.

On top of that, most of the people here were so incompetent that even a “cripple”
could do a better job. As he had repeatedly proven, those with disabilities didn’t
deserve to be compared to these absolute wastes of oxygen.

The mistreatment and prejudice he could deal with. Rude customers had long
conditioned him to that in his previous line of work. But the incompetence was
killing him; several times, almost literally.

On not one but three separate occasions, just within the first few days of work,
someone’s mistake nearly cost him an injury. He couldn’t carry the loads, so he was
stuck swinging the pickaxe. His coworkers’ haste in extracting ore frequently left
the overhead stones poorly secured and unstable.

He could hit like a damn transport carriage when he swung the pickaxe, so it wasn’t
rare to see chunks breaking off despite appearing relatively secure. He did his
part of yelling at someone, anyone, to set the beams up when he saw the stone
shaking apart from the walls, but his pleas would almost always be ignored, seen as
nothing but the cries of someone who had to be babysat because he was “holding
everyone else back.”

On one such occasion, one of the workers there lambasted him in a way that
particularly reminded him of his old manager’s drilling. The man yelled and accused
him of stealing his part of the profit by lazing off.

His response was initially calm and collected, but at a certain point, he just told
the man to take the damn pickaxe and try swinging it himself.

The man did as suggested, teaching poor little Freddy how a “real man who feared no
pebble” did it—only for the aforementioned boulder-sized pebble to come crashing
down on the man’s leg, turning it into a mushy paste. Not that long ago, he would
have felt guilty for doing such a thing, but at that moment, if anything, he only
felt regret that the man hadn’t died.

This got him into trouble with the staff, but there were plenty of witnesses to
what happened, so he was let off the hook. People weren’t quite so willing to bully
him afterward, and a tinge of that initial wariness returned.

Overall, based on what he saw within his first few days working with others, he was
more willing to take the risk and just venture out on his own. It was probably
safer, too.

But… his body wasn’t thrilled with that idea.

Carrying the load by himself was basically impossible. His right knee felt about
ready to explode under stress, which meant that if he wanted to earn money through
mining, the green zone was the best he would get.

Getting sleep became increasingly difficult night after night as the pain worsened.
His calves and quads cramped repeatedly, and his knee cracked every time he moved
in his sleep, frequently waking him up with jolts of pain.

Stopping himself from running out into the caverns and healing took more and more
willpower each and every day that passed, and more than once, he asked himself
whether hiding his supreme-quality self-healing was worth it.

But the more time he had to think about it, the more confident he felt in his
decision to hide it. This was in no small part related to another piece of advice
he had received from the doctor.

Frank, the medic, had given many helpful recommendations. But the vast majority was
directed at how to keep himself safe and healthy—except for one peculiar bit of
advice that gave him hope.

And a plan.

After hearing of the incident that man had been involved in, Peter, the silver-
haired poison master, was absolutely sure that would be the last he heard of Freddy
Stern. The subsequent week he spent in a coma only reaffirmed that belief.

As one of the observers, he naturally had to work in the green zone to keep his
eyes and ears out for any talks of misdemeanor by the workers.

So, naturally, he was among the first to find out when that man returned to work.
Initially, he was convinced Freddy wouldn’t last long with his injuries.
Eventually, he would fall behind his daily quotas and get “expelled” from the
expedition.

Not only did the man work to fill twice the usual daily quota, he did so
consistently and with the work ethic and efficiency of a goddamn golem. Whenever he
used his abilities, his swings held so much power behind them that Peter was left
scratching his head for days. What the hell kind of martial art did this man have?
He used Flowing Strike, which was obviously only stage zero, but its power was
extraordinary.

The medical report, which stated his body weight as being 21 kg above his height
and body volume, revealed the trick to be in the Abyssal Depths tempering
technique.

That made this man an absolute lunatic in Peter’s eyes, but for what it was worth,
with his mangled body, the dangerous combo didn’t seem to be taking much of a toll
on the man’s body. Did he also have Hundred Wet Hells, then? What a damn freak!

His idle musings were interrupted as the lecturer called his name, and he got up.

He was currently attending one of the lectures on foraging. The class was being
held in one of the larger tents. The classes mostly covered elementary subjects
such as locating herbs, primary extraction and storage methods, safety
fundamentals, and so on…

For a highly educated nature-affinity arch with the Poison Master non-combat
talent, this was on the level of returning to kindergarten and studying basic
shapes. Which was precisely why he was performing the role of an “assistant.”
Truthfully, he was a lot more qualified to hold this class than the current
lecturer, but he had his part to play as one of the observers.

Foraging was only a tiny department in this expedition, and their work was
secondary to ore extraction. But delivering alchemical products was expensive and,
sometimes, impossible. Supplying the expedition with the necessary resources was
crucial for its success. With such a massive point of failure, his work as an
observer was essential to ensuring none of the workers caused trouble.

With his finger pointed at the sizable cloth upon which the presentation was being
projected, he gestured at the roots connecting two plants on a drawing and started
explaining, “As you can see, this root system creates a connection between the two
herbs of entirely separate species. This is an example of a quasi-parasitic
relationship. The bloodula fern doesn’t steal any of the crown orchid’s nutrients
but instead injects it with a growth-inhibiting hormone. The way the bloodula fern
establishes local dominance is quite fascinating.

“It achieves this through several means. First, it distributes toxins, temporarily
paralyzing the surrounding plants’ reproductive systems. Then, it inhibits their
growth. But, interestingly enough, it actually doesn’t aim to kill competition;
quite the contrary. It uses the surrounding flora as a…” His words trailed off as
the entrance flaps were suddenly pushed open, and a familiar figure stepped into
the room.
Several people turned around, and whispers soon spread through the confined space.

Freddy Stern walked a few steps forward and paused as he scouted the inside of the
tent. The seating area comprised rows of wooden chairs organized into neat lines.
The crowd was considerably denser to the back of the room, and the only place one
could find seating was in the two front rows.

With little hesitation, he limped forward to the first row, the one right before
the presentation, found a seat smack dab in the center, and plopped down, staring
daggers at Peter as he waited for him to continue his explanation.

“Uh… Where was I?” He scrambled to regain himself. “Right, bloodula fern.”

At first, Freddy was quite confused for several reasons. This class seemed to be a
lot more advanced than what he was expecting to find. However, as the lecture
continued, he eventually realized what was happening.

Once it was done, he was the first to step up and approach the ginger-haired
lecturer. “Hello!” He tried his best to seem cheerful, but if anything, his forced
energy made him sound somewhat insane.

“Hi! You are new to this class, right? Welcome aboard!” the man said, shaking his
hand. If anything about Freddy made the man uncomfortable, he wasn’t showing it.

“Thank you,” he responded, infusing his words with much less forced cheer this
time. “I was just wondering, is there any material I can read up on? It seems that
I have some catching up to do.”

The man briefly nodded. “Don’t worry about that,” he said as he turned around,
walked over to a nearby closet, and pulled out a large stack of concise books. At
the bottom of the pile was a relatively normal-sized guide, and the rest seemed to
be editions of weekly reports.

Without demanding anything in return, the man simply handed over the collection of
reading material. “The guide at the bottom is the bulk of the basics, and the rest
are the reports we’ve made about any new and unusual plants we haven’t encountered
before. If you encounter anything new, you could one day add to this knowledge
yourself.”

There was a naive joy to the man’s explanation that betrayed the excitement of a
scholar in his natural element. This dude was the happiest person he’d come across
here so far. Naturally, that could only mean that he was fucked in the head.

Without further questions and with no intention of involving himself with this man
further, he simply accepted the stack of books and left the tent.

As he quickly learned by trying to attend all of them, there were many classes on
foraging. There were three to seven a day, and the content ranged from repeats of
basics to cutting-edge news regarding the discoveries of entirely new properties in
never-before-seen species only found in these caves.
For a while, his schedule effectively came down to working in the yellow zone, just
out of range of the streamlined section, until he earned his daily quota and then
returned to his tent to study.

As he quickly learned, foraging was a rather unpopular activity. There were several
reasons for this. It was difficult, time-consuming, dangerous, and had a steep
initial learning curve that most weren’t willing to push through. But the main
reason was that it wasn’t particularly profitable.

This expedition was located in an area wealthy in ore deposits. Regarding

alchemical ingredients, however, it was nothing special.

The classes had many students who weren’t foragers, including him for the time
being. Anyone who attended all or at least most of the scheduled lectures was
frequently rewarded with samples of alchemical products.

Even though the caves weren’t especially rich in potent plants, foraging was
essential to the expedition. Resources were hard to supply and all that. So, the
camp administration set up some incentives for those who wished to be foragers.

The samples they were provided were subpar at best and outright failures at worst,
but they still held considerable value to those with no alternative. He had little
interest in stinky creams and potions that caused acne outbursts.

He wanted the good shit. The real shit. The type of stuff they awarded to the most
significant contributors. Sure, even if he acquired a ton of healing treasures, it
would take God knew how long for him to fully repair his body. But he didn’t need
to do that.

He only needed to heal his skin and fix his teeth, and 1% Lifesteal would take care
of the rest.

The supply crisis that the camp was under only reinforced his resolve to keep the
specifics of his talent hidden. If anyone needed an infinite supply of body parts,
it was a place like this, one where people were constantly losing them.

For the time being, he had something to work toward. He had found a plausible
excuse.

He just needed more power.

34

THE RIGHT CHOICE

Despite only barely fulfilling the daily quota, Freddy felt dead tired. His body
was struggling, and his constant abuse of it didn’t help one bit.
With a shiver in his arms and a lop in his gait, he waddled back to the camp. He
visited the public “bathhouse,” or, rather, the cleansing pond used for washing
clothes and bathing.

Enchanted with ether script, the water within had strong cleaning properties and
made hygiene simple, if, admittedly, unenjoyable. The frigid liquid had an
uncomfortable zap that left skin irritated, dry, and red. The pond was tiny and
cramped, and using it was always coupled with rude, impatient shoves by those
waiting their turn.

After wrapping things up, taking a dump in the small underground cavern nearby, and
returning to his tent, he donned his other uniform as he started his first day on
his second job.

The forager suit was quite different from the miner one. The focus was on light
fabric and camouflage, with shades of green and brown dominating the entire get-up.
In stark contrast to the steel-plated boots, he was provided lightweight rubber
sneakers that dulled the sound of his footsteps.

He put the foldable yellow sign on his belt, the one he was to use to quickly
identify himself if he accidentally startled a worker, small scissors, a razor-
sharp scalpel, a delicate trowel, and a large bag with an assortment of specialized
containers in case he encountered any of the rarer plants. His regular dagger and
baton for self-defense were naturally there, too.

He also brought a small net he could use to capture rare flying bugs, but he was
bringing it along as more of a weapon against critters that bit and stung than a
tool to catch them.

With that, he was set.

His walk back out into the caverns was a painful ordeal, and he wondered whether he
could get away with a bit of healing. When the agony became unbearable, he took out
his knife and nicked a few juicier mushrooms.

The small healing burst did nothing of use besides momentarily easing his pain. And
that was more of a demerit than a cure since he relied on his sensation to judge
whether he was pushing himself too far.

Based on his recent experience, his leg was whatever the crippled equivalent of “a
bit tired” was. He had perhaps enough juice for a short foray into some yellow
zones.

For foragers, abandoned yellow and red zones and the edges of black zones were the
only places to consistently find good herbs. Since mining was the main priority of
the expedition, flash-burning newly discovered caves was the primary way to clear
them. It was the safest way to claim unexplored areas, and plants naturally weren’t
a big fan of it.

Even then, the areas nature had reclaimed primarily had the more common specimens,
as the rarer plants took much longer to sprout or only did so only under a complex
set of conditions.

Making his way past the heavily populated green zone, then through a tight series
of verdant-fungus-dominated caves, he walked into a yellow area, notably near the
hidden lake he had discovered previously.

It wasn’t the best place to forage, but he might as well look for vestiges while
already out.

The moist caverns were a terrible area to spend time in. The stale, mossy stench,
intense humidity, and a lack of solid, non-slippery ground to stand on made this
place a living nightmare. The thoughts of progress with his abilities had made him
forget that the slimy stone of this cave would be challenging to traverse with his
leg’s state.

As expected, mushrooms and moss were this area’s primary source of exciting herbs.
The butterfly crown was the most valuable fungus he could locate. It was a golden-
wing-shaped shroom, lined with intricate patterns and a waxy, glossy surface. It
smelled of pine and old oil.

Overall, foragers had a considerably lower daily profit requirement, having to earn
only around a thousand dollars to fill their quota. Even with that fact, it was
still more challenging than mining. Not to mention that the lower pay deterred many
who wanted to “leave” as quickly as possible.

The butterfly crown went for around forty to fifty dollars apiece. While that
seemed quite pricey, one thing after another worked in tandem to make actually
earning anything a monumental pain in the ass.

First, extraction was a delicate process. These had a visible, green-tinged seam
along the middle, which was practically the only place they could be cut without
leaking all the juice they held in their bodies. To make matters more complicated,
that seam was a thin, wiggly line that, in some mushrooms, had gaps, making it
impossible to extract them.

They could still be removed from the wall altogether, but that wasn’t a perfect
solution. The mycelium led deep into the stone, and too much damage to it could
cause the mushroom to rapidly wither and lose all its properties.

With that in mind, as well as the fact that the extraction process, locating, and
even just identifying precious herbs took time… Yeah. If it weren’t for the
incentives, he’d take swinging shit at a wall any day of the week.

He started cutting, and immediately, 1% Lifesteal kicked in, as expected. His

gentle, methodical extraction was far from enough to make any noticeable impact on
his body. Until he accidentally nicked one of the shrooms.

White juice immediately began flowing out, and he was startled to realize how much
more significant that burst of healing had been than those he usually got when just
cutting. The effect was instantaneous, meaning that a long-held question of his
finally received an answer. Causing bleeding didn’t produce a sustained heal, but
it did seem to impact the overall amount of life force he received, meaning that
his talent still registered the injury as more significant.

It wasn’t long until he noticed that not all shrooms were made equal. Some had a
notably higher impact on his talent, and he presumed that meant they were more ripe
or something.

After cutting only seven mushrooms, three of which he ruined by accident, and
storing them by simply throwing them into the bag, he allowed himself a quick break
beneath one of the lanterns. Just doing that much had winded him since he had to
stay focused for several minutes as he performed the incision along the seam. The
bigger problem was staying still in uncomfortable positions.

The light source illuminated the narrow corner of the cavern he was resting in, and
the moist, smooth rock wall shimmered like an assortment of jewels, momentarily
mesmerizing him with its beauty.

Sweaty, tired, and in complete agony, he decided he was safe enough to take a
break. He needed one, too. He literally couldn’t afford a repeat of what happened
last time. Slumping against the wall and closing his eyes, he entered the
Netherecho.

“Oh, come on,” he said in an annoyed reaction to the immediate appearance of a big
pile of shifting rocks—a giant remnant.

As his star grew, the range he could actively perceive when entering the Netherecho
expanded. This remnant was along the outer edge of his field of view, which put it
at a comfortable distance, but no amount of space was enough when faced with
something that could poof him out of existence if it had any form of ranged attack.

With half his focus on the rocky mass of ether, he briefly scouted the nearby area
for interesting vestiges. The regular assortment of water, dark, earth, metal, and
so on was present, with several charred vestiges likely originating from the
burning of nearby caves.

One among them stood out. Not for a good reason, though. A fish with muscular,
human-like legs was dancing right beside where his body was resting, isolated from
all other vestiges in the area. Goofy-looking ether constructs were far from a
rarity, but this was among the few that nearly made him audibly laugh. Not that
he’d risk offending it by doing so.

As he observed the vestige in action, something unusual caught his attention.

Every water vestige had a certain degree of resonance with his ether shells. This
had nothing to do with how “good” a choice the vestige was for a particular
ability, but it was instead an indication of how closely connected it was to the
concepts within.

For example, his Create Water had positively vibrated in response to the generic
concept of water; in that case, it had been an excellent choice. But there were
numerous examples where slotting in barely passable ideas into an ability was the
secret to making it work, such as fitting sharpness into Create Water Weapon.

What caught him off-guard was that this vestige resonated with not just one but all
three of his tempering techniques; and not a little. All of them were buzzing in
resonance as much, if not more, than Create Water had with the generic water
vestige.

Was this perhaps a concept of tempering?

A single glance at its appearance was enough to conclude that likely wasn’t it.

So… what exactly was it?

Let’s find out, he thought.

Keeping an eye on the pile of rocks, he took a leap down and landed just a bit away
from the dancing fish. He approached it by dancing along, and this one, luckily,
didn’t take offense to him copying it.

Unfortunately, it seemed to like it a bit too much. “Mmmm,” it purred in a deep,

manly voice. “The perfect specimen has arrived. Your seed will be optimal for—”

Before it could finish its sentence, he was bolting toward his body. Moments later,
he was out of the Netherecho, shivering in fright.

Having nearly avoided the most traumatic experience of his life, he was keenly
aware of just how much he missed having Bloodshed around.

Well then… Fish with legs, mating dance, optimal seed… Resonance with tempering
techniques… Hmmmm, he mused internally.

He felt confident that he knew what that thing was. It ticked too many boxes for it
not to be the case. It was likely the concept of evolution. If one really stretched
it, tempering techniques could be defined as a method to forcefully “evolve”
desirable traits. A more effective internal water cycle, denser body fluid, and
greater internal toughness were the three traits he was “evolving.”

This left him wondering—exactly what would the concept of evolution achieve? Would
it be something similar to the generic concept of tempering? Or maybe it would be
more specific or even more generalized than that?

Either way, he didn’t know. He wasn’t willing to gamble with Hundred Wet Hells, and
he already knew that compression was best for Abyssal Depths.

After a quick visit to his ethercosm, he stood before the empty shell holding his
Water Body tempering technique. This was among the most widely used abilities,
especially among non-combat water-affinity archhumans. One would be hard-pressed to
find a water arch that didn’t have it in at least some form.

For those who fought for a living, growing this ability down its standard—health-
improving generic water or life from water—route was a luxury. Most frequently,
people evolved it into a temporary combat boost or a strength or endurance-
enhancing tempering technique.

He didn’t have the knowledge needed to shape this thing into something optimal. But
he knew that there was a trap in how it worked. Some of its paths directly clashed
with Hundred Wet Hells. He didn’t have a guide to tell him which concepts to use or
a mentor who would advise him on the best path.

For all intents and purposes, no matter what he did, he was shooting in the dark.
Might as well try his luck.

Yeah, but he would have to tackle that horny fish somehow, wouldn’t he?

With an open-ended plan, he dove back into the Netherecho. The fish was still
dancing near his body, and he thought he knew what to do.

Preparing himself mentally, he yet again danced his way to the fish with bulky
human legs.

“Mmmm, my sweet, sweet lover has returned to me,” it said, exuding passion. “Mmm,
yes, you scrumptious little thing. I shall devour you whole.”

This shit isn’t fucking worth it, was the only thought he had as he snaked his way
closer to the vestige.

Just as he stepped into range and the fish spread its nasty, hairy legs, he swung
the scythe and cleaved straight through one of the limbs.

“Aaargh! You are terrible at foreplay!” the fish exclaimed as it toppled to the
ground.

That was it. Now, all he had to do was—suddenly, a giant stone flew past his head,
and he had to duck with all he had to get out of the way. The rock smashed into the
fish’s body, leaving it almost entirely disabled, just on the brink of unraveling.

Shit!

Something he had done caught the attention of the remnant, and without much
hesitation, he conjured the ether shell for Water Body, flung it at the fish, and
ran before the absorption process could even finish.

The giant mass of rocks was barreling toward him at an abnormal speed, and with
only a fraction of a second left, before it could crush his projection, the
ethereal chains finished dragging the vestige into his soul, and he returned to his
body.

He opened his eyes with a panicked start and immediately looked around for threats.
As he realized that he was safe, he calmed a bit. A centipede was slithering on his
leg, but he grabbed that bugger with a pinch and flung it across the room.

The merciless beating of his heart sent sharp pangs of pain through his knee, and
with a sigh, he got up, preparing to head back to rest for that day. He wasn’t even
close to his quota, so he would have to use one of his off days.

Even as he got up, his tempering technique was in the process of evolving in his
ethercosm. As the process finished, a soothing sensation washed over him, and he
managed to calm himself a bit.

While he wanted to test his new ability, it was time to head back to safety first.

His way back down the caverns was arduous. As he exited the tight tunnels and
strode into an open area, a ragtag group of four approached him.

Oh, for fuck’s—

“What’s up, man? You’re that scars guy, right?” A tall, lanky man with buck teeth
smiled down at him.

At his side were two shorter men, both clearly physically capable. He wouldn’t rate
their physiques as those of dedicated martial artists, but they definitely had the
looks of long-time manual laborers.

Neither of those three caught more than a cursory glance from him.

Standing slightly behind the other three, the fourth man gave off a very different
vibe. He was of average height, perhaps a bit taller than himself, and had long,
black hair and a scruffy beard. His green eyes were sharp, much like a predator’s,
and he, unlike his compatriots, didn’t look like a pushover.

The other three kept trying to ask him questions, but his gaze didn’t leave the
approaching man for an instant. Even though this man was a one-star arch, he
instinctively knew—this person was dangerous.

“Howdy, partner!” the man greeted him, his cheerful tone contrasting with his
intimidating body language. Given that the other three men shut up immediately, it
couldn’t have been more evident that when this man spoke, others listened. “You’re
one of them foragers, right?”
He simply nodded.

“Heard you got injured recently,” the man said. “I’ve seen your match in the
Wastes. Shame you can’t make a return,” he commented with what was probably
intended to be a pleasant smile but looked more like a sneer. “Say… would you mind
cluing a brother in?”

“What do you want to know?” he replied calmly.

“What’d you do in that fight?”

Deciding that there was not much point in hiding it, he answered, “Timed Flowing
Strike to counteract the momentum of the attack.”

The man thought for a moment, then frowned. “That’s some shit, ain’t it?” Then,
with a scratch of his head, he asked, “You’re serious? Impressive stuff. Real shame
you won’t be coming back.”

“Is that meant to be a threat?” he inquired cautiously.

“No, no, God forbid!” the man denied vehemently as he waved him down. “I’m just
making an observation.” The man’s eyes closed into slits. “You’re in no state to
get beaten up.”

Freddy just barely stopped himself from biting his lips. As soon as he realized
what was happening, as if on cue, the man continued. “Say… you must have realized
it too by now, right?”

“Realized what?”

“This camp,” the man stated with a derisive sneer. “The scam ‘healthcare,’ the
expensive food, billing us for equipment damage… the fines for the tiniest
misdemeanor… I’ve been here for much longer than you greenhorns, and I’ve seen
close to no one leave. Usually, those with highly efficient non-combat talents or
with minimal debts make it… but the rest of us?

“They keep hammering us down with debt after debt… after debt… until we have no
hope of ever paying it back,” the grizzly man spat, oozing spite and hatred. “This
work is nothing but suspended death row.”

“Look,” Freddy interrupted. “I’m pretty tired, and I have to go get some rest.
Chatting with you guys was fun, but I should get going.”

The men looked at each other briefly, and the leader cocked his head at him. “You
foragers get… special privileges, I hear, right?”

“Yup,” Freddy confirmed. “Creams, potions, pills, injections, all sorts of stuff.
What, you guys looking to trade?” he offered openly.

They all hesitated briefly.

“Yeah…” the man said slowly. “I guess you could say that.”

“Well, what are you offering?” Freddy asked as he crossed his arms and raised an
eyebrow.

“You supply us with goods. We give you a spot in our crew.”

He cupped his chin. “And what will this crew of yours do for me?”
“Look,” the man said, shifting his posture a bit. “I can tell that you’re
skeptical, and I get that. But you know it already. With a body like yours? You’re
fucking dead, dude,” he declared bluntly. “Hell, we’re all probably dead men
walking. Why not take a chance? Work together? If we get enough people on our side,
we’ll stand a chance at overthrowing the camp.”

“Uh-huh…” He nodded. “Well, I guess you have a point,” he answered. “But what if I
said no?”

The subtle shift in their stances told him all he needed to know. If he said no, he
would die. If not right where he stood, then soon enough.

“Well…” The man sharpened his gaze. “We wouldn’t be delighted to—”

“Actually, I’m in,” he agreed instantly. “You guys are right. I’ve known it for a
long time. It’s just that my talent is no good for combat, so I thought…”

They suddenly relaxed, and the head honcho stepped up to place a hand on his
shoulder. “I get it. We’re all scared. But don’t worry,” the man said with an easy
smile. “You just have to supply us with goods, and I promise you, whatever you give
us, we’ll pay it back tenfold when we’re out. I swear my life on it.” Then he shook
his hand. “Just make sure you don’t, you know… accidentally reveal anything to
anyone. The guards aren’t going to act without enough proof of what we’re doing,
but we will make sure that word doesn’t get out.” And then, with a subtle
tightening of his grip, he added, “No matter what we have to do.”

They shook hands and soon parted ways. Freddy returned to the camp, sold the four
shrooms he acquired for little money and no special benefits, and immediately
headed to one of the official tents.

He told them everything about the men who had threatened him, including their
looks, plans, and everything else he remembered. In hours, an investigation was
launched, the men were apprehended and interrogated, more witnesses were found to
testify against them, and by the end of the day…

Freddy stood in a crowd of workers, all scared shitless and stiffly observing the
display.

It didn’t take much to get “exiled” from the camp. Most probably knew that meant
death, but there was at least some deniability.

As the four men stood tied up, whimpering and crying, with their mouths gagged, he
stared them down with a cold, unblinking gaze.

The sleazy businessman Stephen White gave a short, cheesy speech about loyalty and
integrity. And as soon as he was done, the men were beheaded to be made into an
example of what happened to those who rebelled against the administration.

He was granted a small favor of his choice for his show of loyalty. He requested
that the ban on emergency treatment for him be lifted, and he was promptly granted
this wish—as well as extra credit for non-emergency treatment for his leg.

Eventually, the sweet embrace of his tent greeted him, and he dropped to the
ground, dead exhausted. His mind rushed back to a moment in his childhood—something
that hadn’t happened for a long time.
“You shouldn’t be afraid, Fred,” his adopted father said.

That night, young Freddy sat on a short wall in the 26th district, observing the
night streets with his dad.

“Many racketeers bet on the fact that you’ll be too scared to report them to the
authorities. There is always a chance that the cops won’t act and you get stabbed,
but the bastards threatening you will probably stab you eventually anyway. Don’t be
afraid to stand up for yourself.”

With the gentle smile that he missed more than anything in the world, his father
pet his head and repeated, “You should never be afraid.”

Freddy’s eyes snapped open, having dozed off without realizing it. A pang of
sickness spread through his body, and he forced himself up as he puked the barely
digested slop sitting heavy in his stomach.

The image of the men’s beheaded bodies briefly flashed through his vision, but he
pushed it away. His mind rushed to justify his actions, but he didn’t care enough
to excuse himself. All of it was pushed down.

He just wanted to sleep.

Usually, in moments like these, in the restless nights that gave him no peace, he
wondered why they had disappeared. But in that moment, with his stomach acid
burning the back of his throat, he finally came to terms with it.

Abandoning a worthless piece of shit like him…

It had been the right choice.

35

ASSAULT

Over the next few days, Freddy gradually got more comfortable with his new job. And
in no small part, his newly upgraded stage one Adaptive Water Body was to thank for
this.

The upgrade had unexpected results in several aspects. When his Create Water
upgraded, the outer shell basically didn’t change at all, besides a few minor
adjustments to the individual runes.
Water Body had been a straightforward shell, barely more complex than Create Water.
But the upgraded version…

What had once been a handful of ethereal lines stretched over an invisible
spherical surface had expanded into an intricate mess of hundreds upon hundreds of
runes, some overlapping, others connecting through wiggly, ghastly strings, and
some shifting as he tried directly observing them.

Freddy was ignorant about anything more advanced than the basics, so this newly
formed shell left him utterly dumbfounded. Had that vestige been notable in some
way? Or was the concept of evolution rarer or more complex than he’d thought?

People were meant to sense precisely what their ability did through a sort of
intuitive “soul sense,” but this thing was an absolute mystery. Sure, he could feel
what it did, but he didn’t understand it. The main problem was that… well… the
shell was like a page full of text. But he could only observe the entire page at
once without focusing on any of the words or only one word at a time.

The problem was that he didn’t know where the page started and where it ended, so
he could only observe the words entirely out of order. No matter how he read it,
even if he knew all the individual words, without order, there were practically
infinite ways to arrange them.

As he used his newly upgraded tempering technique, if he could even call it that
anymore, he eventually got the hang of what it did. Mostly.

His knee was still fucked up, but as he used Adaptive Water Body, he found it
easier and easier to cope with. The caves that used to frequently cause headaches
through their rapidly shifting temperature, the awful smells, and the probably-
toxic fumes no longer bothered him. And finally, the horrid food that used to upset
his stomach sat much lighter in his belly—even though he still decided to upgrade
to the paid stuff when he felt he could afford it.

It wasn’t a healing technique. It did not make problems magically vanish. It simply
helped him adapt to cope better. This ability enabled him to “evolve” to better
handle his current circumstances. The way it did so happened entirely through the
way water moved in his body, and given that water made up most of it, it could do a
lot.

However, in principle, it was basically the exact opposite of a tempering

technique. While a tempering technique aimed to force a body to fix a problem it
introduced, this ability helped fix issues already there, making it an… adaption
technique? An evolution technique?

This was the first time Freddy encountered anything like this, whether in practice
or theory.

He had his guesses about how it helped him adapt, such as supplying nutrients to
crucial parts of his body, adding extra liquid, removing impurities, or whatever,
but the truth was that the process was so complex that it might as well just be
voodoo bullshit.

While it seemed exceptional, it didn’t come without its demerits. First, the
essence consumption was intense. It both acted slowly and drained him quickly.
Without Essence Extraction, this ability would be functionally useless until he
ascended a rank or two.

Second, while it did a great job of adapting him to his current circumstances,
which he roughly felt to be based on the previous two to three days of his life, it
raised an important question—what would happen when he healed and left the caves?
Did it mean that all the adaptation would effectively go to waste? If so, that
would remove one of the primary benefits of a tempering technique—the permanent
impact on one’s physique.

Still, he theorized numerous ways to utilize this ability and was already itching
to give it another upgrade. Perhaps he could upgrade it with life through water or
generic water.

Even at its current stage, it did wonders for his productivity. His knee was
deteriorating much slower now, and it hindered his movement way less than it used
to.

As he got more experienced with foraging, his daily income multiplied. There was
the usual acquisition of experience, but his talent proved invaluable in maximizing
his profits.

Experienced foragers could tell how healthy a plant was through wilt, firmness,
color, number of leaves, size of certain parts, and numerous other symptoms that
betrayed an herb’s condition and value. But there was little even experts could
deduce about plants they knew little to nothing about.

For Freddy, however, checking an herb’s state was trivial.

A single cut, or even just a tiny poke, was enough for him to quite literally feel
how healthy, well, anything was. His 1% Lifesteal had a stronger response to
organic matter with higher vitality.

While rare specimens were a decent bonus, most of his income came from consistently
retrieving high-quality common herbs.

At first, the best he received from his efforts was half-spoiled, low-quality,
ineffective, and otherwise flawed products. But not even a week into his new
career, he was among the elite.

Even though he stuck strictly to abandoned yellow areas, spending so much time
roaming the caves maximized his odds of encountering danger. On four separate
occasions, he had come within a hair’s width of having to confront a monster.

Two of those times, he had managed to escape before the monster could follow him.
Once, he received timely help from nearby scouts, and last, when he found himself
cornered, he somehow managed to scare a creature away by banging his baton against
the wall and yelling like a moron.

Funnily enough, he’d somehow failed to see what he was even dealing with in every
encounter, only hearing noises from behind a corner.

As his value and the quality of his rewards increased, he finally began making
noticeable progress in his recovery. He could choose what he wanted, so he
requested a relatively ordinary selection of products, precisely what would be
expected from someone dealing with his specific conditions. While he aimed to fix
his skin to conceal the effect of 1% Lifesteal, he had to somehow justify why his
overall condition was improving so rapidly.

After finally breaking through $10,000 of income a day, he visited the medic
station to receive non-emergency treatment for his knee. Nobody present was skilled
enough to perform surgery on him, but there just happened to be an elite healer
capable of providing him with supernatural-quality healing, just a single step
below the supreme quality.

This person was there to exclusively treat the staff, and no worker was… meant to
have access to their services. His little stunt of squashing a rebellion and his
value as a top-tier provider of high-quality herbs seemed to have granted him some
unique privileges. The administration had probably estimated that improving his
productivity was a worthwhile investment.

It didn’t take him long to upgrade Abyssal Depths. Between liquid compression,
water compression, and just compression, he discovered a liquid compression vestige
first and unhesitatingly evolved his ability. It had maxed out at increasing his
body weight by 30%, and now it could keep going past that, up to 60%.

Hundred Wet Hells would have to wait, though. Nothing he found so far was worth
taking a risk on.

Soon, the days turned to weeks. Every single day, his skin appeared healthier.

As he kept retrieving more and more quality herbs, the administration kept
investing in him. And as his income increased, so did his non-emergency treatment
credit, which he used to fix his missing teeth.

The healer worked on regrowing his missing ear, ring finger, and toes—his testicles
were unfortunately out of the purview of anything below supreme-quality healing.
The treatment could help regrow the scrotum, but it would be little more than an
empty sack.

He still felt rather loud echoes of his previous state. But outwardly, every day
that passed made it more difficult to tell that anything was wrong with him. The
bit of healing he received from 1% Lifesteal while foraging was only enough to
moderately boost his recovery. But it gradually accumulated.

Eventually, the staff decided he was healed enough to stop providing him with the
healer’s services. That was the exact moment he had been waiting for. He quivered
in anticipation as he went to a secluded area, carrying a machete on his toolbelt.

He stared at the thick, verdant vines. His mouth salivated, and his entire body
shook as he lifted the machete—and brought it down. An involuntary whimper escaped
his lips as he felt the intense rush of vitality. So he swung the blade again.

All throughout his body, one after another, his numerous wounds healed. He felt a
popping echo beneath his skin, a rubbery stretch in his muscles and tendons,
clicking in his joints and bones, and a faint, electric tingle from his brain to
the tips of his toes and fingers.

The ever-present stiffness, the lumpy scar tissue, the numbness, the pain. As
minutes passed and more of the cave herbs were sliced apart, it all vanished. The
empty sack between his legs felt complete again, and he spit his fake teeth out one
by one as his real ones grew back to take their place.

As he finally stopped feeling the changes, he dropped the machete and wept, curled
up into a fetal position in a dark corner of the cave.

After all that time.

After all that suffering.

He was finally whole again.

Janhalar stood in the middle of a busy street in the seventeenth district. Despite
the thick crowd leaving little space for pedestrians, everyone who encountered him
avoided him with a wide berth. He stood like an ocean predator among a flock of
fish, with a near-perfect circle of personal space on each side.

The patriarch of the Kraven did no such thing as disguising himself for the
convenience of these animals.

He kept his senses tightly focused on the items equipped on his person—the red
robes, jagged dagger, and the pearled ring that strongly resonated with the unique
remnant he was searching for.

By this point, his eyelid had developed a permanent tic. Each moment he failed to
find the goddamn unique, his fury rose to higher levels. It was still out there.
The ring was proof of that. So why couldn’t he find it?

He’d searched every area that lowly scumbag could have even theoretically hidden
the remnant in. How was this situation even possible? They hadn’t found a trace of
proof that the unique had been stolen by Madame, Basilisk, or some other third
party. So how had a barely sapient one-star ape managed to hide it?

He cut that train of thought off, took a deep breath, and refocused on the task.
Suddenly, his steps faltered, and he decided to stop there. This was his third walk
through the entirety of Pittersville. The remnant clearly wasn’t in the city.

It was time to expand the search to a broader area.

“Huak! Hur! Huah!” Freddy exhaled with every strike he sent at the giant boulder.

Each fist landed with a resounding crack, and his bare hands made swift progress in
crushing the stone into a pile of pebbles. He was back in the hidden cave and, as
he had long anticipated, back to training.

His body felt divine. He ate much better recently and regained much of his lost
muscle. That, combined with his newly upgraded Abyssal Depths, had likely pushed
his body weight above 100 kg. And, oh man, did he feel the momentum behind his
punches.

Unfortunately, however, his Flowing Strike was growing quite slowly. He had pushed
it around about 90% completion through his use while mining, but it had been a slow
grind to get there, and by that point, it had nearly crawled to a stop.

It wasn’t hard to tell why that was the case. This was no utility or tempering
ability. It was a combat skill, something he had to use in a fight to see it grow.
If anything, how far he’d managed to progress without battle was the impressive
part.

But he was in no rush to complete it. After all, it wasn’t like he lacked abilities
to work on.

After stretching, healing a bit, having a snack, and briefly using his Adaptive
Water Body, he got up and prepared to work on an ability he hadn’t put any work
into in a long time.

The unfinished shell for Hydraulic Flex sat lonely in his ethercosm, still well
away from completion. So, he got to work.

After many hours of clumsily jumping and flailing his limbs, he was quickly
reminded of just how ambitious his idea to produce this ability was. Hydraulic Flex
was a high-level ability. Even though he had gotten a lot of practice with essence
manipulation, manifesting it while still a one-star was quite the undertaking.

If he was being honest, if he had any real talent for essence manipulation, with
how much he’d worked on it while being held captive, he should have already been
much better. Thankfully, his soul construct was there to help him compensate.

Even with his slow progress, he could afford to work on it as much as he had time
for. Many hours of practice later, he was slowly starting to get the hang of it.

A key trick, as he had discovered, was actually pretty counter-intuitive.

Every time he used Hydraulic Flex, he, well, flexed. He would focus on the muscle
while manipulating the water within and try to flex and flex simultaneously. Timing
this was arduous, but he had long ago concluded that this was the key to making it
work—but he was wrong.

Using internal water manipulation to tighten a muscle also triggered the muscle’s
flexion reflex even without conscious thought. Relaxing the muscle beforehand was
the trick to making it work consistently.

This seemed obvious, but doing that wasn’t an easy task. Not only was it
counterintuitive, but it also clashed with a lifetime of muscle memory and basic
instinct.

Surprisingly, however, it took him much less time to get a hang of it. Perhaps all
that time getting… intimately familiar with the internal workings of his body had
helped him develop greater control over it. Or maybe it was something else. He was
just guessing, after all.

Once bored of practice, he swapped with the other ability he was trying to attain—
Pressure Jet.

It didn’t take him long to give up on it, at least for the time being. No matter
how much training he put in, as long as he didn’t have sufficient skill with
essence control, he wouldn’t be able to do it. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t
even direct the water into a measly squirt, let alone a compressed jet he could cut
something with.

He wouldn’t stop trying to get the ability, but he would have to first turn his
focus on his lack of control.

After cycling between his tempering techniques, checking the Netherecho for
something to upgrade Hundred Wet Hells with, finding nothing, and gathering a bit
longer, he picked up the bag with today’s haul and returned to the camp.

He started his usual after-work routine. Selling his goods, organizing his stuff,
cleaning himself, visiting the poop cave, and finally, eating.

It turned out that the disgusting mystery slop wasn’t the only meal on the menu. He
could get much nicer meals in return for an increase to the next day’s quota.
A tasty mushroom stew, a rather expensive meal he favored, steamed pleasantly on
the table before him. His spoon sank into it, and he hauled the creamy dish into
his mouth. Indeed, eating the way he did set him back a noticeable sum. Several
hundred dollars, actually. The price of food was hiked up to absurd degrees. What
was pretty ordinary grub went for the price of luxury cuisine.

Not that he minded anyway. He’d prefer to postpone repaying his debt for as long as
possible.

“Hey, it’s that guy,” a voice rumbled behind him.

“Prick,” a nasal voice responded. “Probably got that stew from Stephen Shite
himself.”

Ah, there it was. His meal wouldn’t be complete without the not-so-subtle shit talk
behind his literal back.

The preferential treatment the staff gave him didn’t go unnoticed. It didn’t take
long for the ugliness of despair to shine through.

The overwhelming majority of the rumors surrounding him painted him as some sort of
villain. Either a shady bastard profiting from others’ hard work or an even shadier
agent or “paid actor” secretly working with the camp staff, or whatever. He had no
doubt that first the workers he showed up in the mines, then his forager
colleagues, were the ones spreading such bullshit.

Either way, it was convenient for him. Be it his healing or other benefits, all of
it was blamed on his connection to the camp administration.

He got up as he finished his meal, and—with a splat, a handful of the disgusting,

free slop landed on his neck, right below his ear. A few tables away, a rowdy group
of men cackled in delight. Indeed, this, too, was a common occurrence. He didn’t
even bother wiping the food off as he walked away from the eatery.

On his way back to the cleansing pond, a burly man intentionally bumped into him.
Given his deceitful weight, it wasn’t enough to topple him, but he decided to take
the piss and collapse on the ground like a ragdoll. With a loud thud, his body
landed on the nearby soil.

Then, he got up. “Hey,” he said, turning to face the man who bumped into him.
“Watch where you’re going, pal. Touch me one more time, and I’ll break your spine,”
he threatened. His provocation didn’t work.

The man merely scoffed and walked away, appearing slightly rushed.

He sighed. If only these cowards dared to do anything more to him. Fighting outside
the arena wasn’t allowed. Unless it was in self-defense, of course. He had no
interest in returning to the Wastes for many reasons, the biggest being his bad
reputation.

People had enough reasons to hate him already. Losing to him in the arena might
just earn him a few too many enemies.

Going to the pond, he washed himself and returned to the tent.

As he lay there, he didn’t feel tired like usual. Sleep still tugged his eyelids,
but it was the ordinary, healthy desire of someone who had spent an entire day
awake, not the usual, sickness-and-pain-induced instinct for rest and recovery.
There was nothing he wanted to do now that he couldn’t do tomorrow, so he decided
to—

A shuffling of his tent flap broke him out of his half-asleep state, and a large,
burly arm rushed to grab his leg and violently pulled him out.

His entire body lurched, and he was thrown on the nearby ground.

Several men stood in a circle around him, but he was too dazed and confused to
count them. However, it didn’t take a genius to puzzle out what was happening.

“You’re the one who snitched on Ross, aren’t you?” one of the men squealed. “You
ratted him out like a bitch!”

Before he could regain his bearings, a dagger was stabbed right into his thigh, and
a baton slammed into the side of his head. He fully expected to be knocked out cold
and reflexively fell to the side. It was almost nauseating when he realized he was
still fully conscious, with little more than a headache and a light bruise on his
head.

“Slit his throat,” one of the men said, and a dagger rushed to his neck.

Simply by instinct, he raised his right arm and caught the blow, grabbing the man
by his wrist and stopping the attack dead.

“What the—aaaaargh!?” the man yelled as he squeezed and pulled, using his body
weight as leverage to pull the man to the ground and throw him aside.

The sharp pang of pain in his thigh didn’t even cause a flinch as he got up to his
feet. The wound wasn’t even that deep.

The other men immediately rushed at him.

36

PUBLIC ENEMY

Freddy glanced at the five men rushing at him and the one still on the ground. They
had all covered their faces in brown, make-shift cloth masks. Three had short, two
had longer hair, and the man he toppled was bald.

Before he could discern anything else, he simply turned around and started running
through the maze of tents.

“Help!” he yelled. “Help me!” he yelled louder.

His thigh bled profusely.

People rushed out of his way and past him, and his pursuers were hot on his trail.
The tents rose high enough that one couldn’t see above them, and they were packed
tightly enough that maneuvering around them made for a dizzying trip.

“Get him!” one of them yelled.

He grabbed and pulled anything he could get his hands on to slow the men’s
approach, collapsing a few tents and even people in his efforts, and while they
were moving faster than he was, he stayed ahead, albeit not by much. Abyssal Depths
made itself known as he struggled to make quick turns due to his increased body
mass.

Suddenly, with a sharp whistle—and likely, talent-aided precision—one of the

daggers flew and struck his back. “Ack!” It didn’t stick deep, but it stalled him
enough for one of the men to reach him with a baton, just slightly grazing the back
of his head but hitting hard enough to blur his vision.

He continued running, ignoring the pain, as he charged into a thick crowd of

workers, ramming through them like a bowling ball, which even triggered a small
response from his talent. For this purpose, his dense body was more than welcome.
The mass of screaming, confused men presented a considerable obstacle to his
pursuers.

“Stop! Where are you going!?” another of the assailants screamed, but Freddy had no
time to see who he was referring to.

Having turned once, then twice, and finally past another small crowd of workers on
high alert, he thought he was safe—until a knee suddenly slammed into his side,
sending his heavy body tumbling straight into a tent, collapsing the structure on
him and burying him in the thick cloth.

“Shit, shit, shit—” He wheezed as he desperately tried to claw his way out of the
heavy fabric.

“Don’t worry!” someone screamed. “I can see him!”

A dagger stabbed right through the fabric, nearly getting him in the eye, but a
quick reaction made it strike his forehead, luckily failing to pierce the bone but
still sending him reeling.

He lifted his hands to defend his face, and the dagger mercilessly shredded his
arms, but thankfully, his Hundred Wet Hells–tempered physique made the wounds too
shallow to bleed him out—but they were accumulating fast.

A second knife joined the first’s efforts, albeit with far less precision, and
eventually, the men shredded the cloth enough for him to pull himself out.

Only three men were there, the two with longer hair and the bald one, but he had no
time to contemplate where the others were. A man to his left lunged at him, and,
with little to no grace, dazed as he was, he swung his right hand with a Flowing
Strike, open palm, catching the man completely off guard with a near-perfect slap
and knocking him out instantly.

An attack he failed to notice in the heat of battle pushed through, and the bald
figure stabbed his stomach. Reflexively, he swung a backhanded counterstrike, but
this fighter proved to be much more experienced as he dodged back, out of the way
of the attack, and made some distance, just in time for his companion to slam
Freddy in the back of his head with a metal baton.
He felt his skull crack, but it still wasn’t enough to knock him out, so, with
adrenaline-fueled rage, he grasped the man’s weapon and then his arm, trying to
push him to the side. Suddenly, it was as if the man was rooted in place, and, as a
quick glance revealed, it turned out that he indeed was—with literal roots tying
him to the ground, courtesy of a nature-affinity ability.

Those same woody tendrils wrapped themselves around his own arms, and he was kept
firmly in place as the bald man approached to finish him off. Left without much
choice, he triggered a Flowing Strike and swung his head back full force.

His physical weight, combined with the momentum of his ability, aided him in
pulling the man out by his roots and into the way of the incoming attack, making
the bald man accidentally strike his own companion.

If he didn’t have Hundred Wet Hells to prevent his brain from exploding, that stunt
would have outright killed him. With the Flowing Strike pushing so much water into
his head, he felt dizzy and lightheaded, with large black spots appearing in his
vision.

For a moment, he blanked out, and an instant later, he was on the ground with a
dying man stuck on top of him.

With an enraged roar, the bald figure pushed a dagger straight toward his face, and
he barely defended himself by putting a hand in the way. The blade went clean
through his palm and out the other side, nearly through his eye, and he gripped,
preventing the extraction of the weapon.

The man’s attacks whistled as he decided to swing wind-boosted punches into his
exposed side instead, but he failed to do any real damage.

“Die, you piece of shit!” the man screamed like a rabid animal as he kept throwing
punches, grunting from exertion.

After finally getting his other arm out from under the limp figure on his body, he
grabbed the bald man and threw him over to the side as he crawled from beneath the
other figure, still holding the dagger, together with his opponent’s hand, in place
as they both rushed to their feet.

The man threw a punch at Freddy’s face, boosting its speed considerably as it
landed right on his cheek… but failed to do any damage. The man threw another
punch, and yet again, it was as if he hit a wall of tanned leather. His expression
visibly paled as he tried to pull back, finally realizing that he didn’t have the
power to inflict any real harm with his bare fists.

But Freddy’s fingers held the man’s hand tightly, the grip stronger than an iron
vice, making escape impossible as, without any more grace than the bald man, he
imitated him, throwing a flurry of punches, too frenzied to correctly time the
Flowing Strikes.

His fist landed on the man’s stomach and face, but the failed ability nullified
most of the force. The man tried defending himself with his other hand, only for
Freddy’s fist to shatter his wrist and palm.

He rapidly ran out of essence with his wild swings but kept throwing ordinary
punches that hurt far more than botched Flowing Strikes.

His fist landed on the man’s liver twice, winding the man and buckling him over
just as a third punch struck his nose, shattering it into a bloody pulp, the strike
after strike creating a constant flow of lifeforce into his body that wasn’t enough
to make any difference to his current state, but eventually, his fist struck the
man’s chin hard, nearly knocking him out.

The man reached over to the ground and grabbed something.

He was rushing to attack again, so he failed to notice as the man swung a massive
iron tent peg right at his head, far too fast to dodge as the blunt weapon landed
with a loud metallic clang and the crack of bone shattering.

He was too dazed to defend himself as the man swung the peg again, hitting his
neck. Just as the man raised the weapon once more, preparing a third strike, he
reflexively raised his arm, blocking the strike with his forearm and grabbing the
man by the arm. Holding both the man’s arms, he pulled him in and slammed his
forehead into the man’s mangled nose. His opponent went limp and dropped to the
ground.

There was no rush of essence, so he knew the man wasn’t dead.

“There he”—someone yelled from Freddy’s side—“is…”

He turned to face the three other men who had broken off at some point.

The men’s eyes flicked between his profusely bleeding form… and their knocked-out
comrades.

He raised his back straight, ignoring the trickle of blood flowing down his body.
“Well?” he called. “Are you gonna come at me or what?”

“He’s bluffing!” one of them shouted. “Get him while he’s weak!”

In response, he lifted the unconscious man up into the air and grabbed his neck.
“Take one step forward, and you can say goodbye to Baldy.”

The men froze. “Shit!” one of them yelled. “Let him go!”

He squeezed the man’s neck harder. “Or what?” He chuckled. “You’re gonna kill me?
I’m only doing this to spare myself the trouble with the staff. If it wasn’t for
them… I’d slaughter every single one of you.”

That was very much so a bluff. In reality, he was so dizzy and light-headed that it
took all the willpower he had to stop himself from wobbling on his feet.

The stalemate between the two parties continued as people began gathering around
them.

Between three masked men and Freddy, who was bathed in blood, nobody was rushing to
take a side.

“Shit!” one of the three men screamed as he broke off and started running. Seconds
later, his two friends followed.

As soon as the men were out of sight, he dropped the unconscious man and started
walking, heading to the infirmary to get some treatment. “Show’s over, folks. Step
aside.”

“Step aside where, you asshole!? You knocked my tent over!” someone from the crowd
yelled.
“You bastards spilled my load on the street!” another person screamed. “Half of it
was stolen!”

“You’re that goddamn scars guy, aren’t you?” a long-haired man accused as he
stepped out of the crowd and approached him, stepping right into his personal space
as he pointed the finger at his nose. “Everyone! This guy is a fucking snitch!
That’s why he—”

Before the man could continue, Freddy grabbed his finger and twisted, breaking it,
and before the man could scream, he kicked him full force in the stomach, causing
him to puke on the ground and then, unceremoniously, pass out in the pile of his
own vomit.

“Either you get the fuck out of my way, or I move you out of my way!” he shouted at
the crowd as he confidently stepped right toward them.

Nobody else was willing to take any chances, and soon, a clear path was parted for
him as he walked through it.

He had lost a lot of blood. None of his wounds were deep, but they were severe
enough to threaten his life. Gritting his teeth, with a wobble to his steps, he
strode forward.

Despite all the damage he did, his talent had been utterly useless in that fight.
No matter how miraculous it was outside of combat, this was a reminder that it made
practically no difference during a battle.

For him, who had almost exclusively relied on it outside of combat until that
point, it had seemed like a godlike power. Now, the weight of the tradeoff hung
heavily on his mind. Nobody among those men had an awe-inspiring talent, allowing
him to close the gap with pure power.

But that won’t always be the case.

The soil beneath his feet was marred with bloody footprints, and while it was
slowing down, his bleeding was still actively killing him. But he flatly refused to
pass out. There was no way in hell that anyone would step in to help him.

“Whoa, what the hell happened to you!?” someone asked, but he couldn’t muster the
strength to turn around and face them.

Silver hair and piercing blue eyes caught his attention, however, as the figure
walked in front of him with his hands raised and offered to help.

“You’re the…” This was the assistant who helped with lectures—as well as one of his
forager coworkers.

“Yeah, yeah, uh—” the man said, eyeing his bloody body. “Oh, man, you’re bleeding
pretty bad. We have to get you some help.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I can get there.”

“No, wait,” the man insisted as he crouched before him, back turned, offering him a
piggyback ride.

He tried refusing, but in trying to turn in a different direction, he fell over,

draped over the man’s back.

With strange, almost practiced ease, the man lifted him up, and he surrendered. If
this person was willing to help, he might as well take him up on the offer.

While the man carried him rather confidently, his weight didn’t take long to slow
them down. By their journey’s end, the silver-haired figure looked haggard,
struggling to catch his breath and sweating profusely.

Once they reached the tent, the man dropped him to the ground. “Man…” he said as he
blinked sweat from his eyes. “You’re damn heavy,” he observed, fighting to catch
his breath.

Soon enough, a medic brought him in, and his wounds were treated. As was the case
every time something like this happened, a brief investigation was launched. He
gave his side of the story and was left nervously waiting for judgment, unsure what
witnesses would say about him. It likely wouldn’t be flattering.

To his surprise, however, the staff quickly deduced that he was innocent.
Suspiciously so, actually. Could it be that they were leaning into the rumors that
he was being favored so that they could bait those who wanted to target him?

The cost of his treatment was waived as thanks for dealing with several
troublemakers. One of the three he knocked out was dead, while the other two would
be publicly executed. Given the rumors people were already spreading about him, he
wasn’t happy to hear that. The three men who fled hadn’t been caught.

Thankfully, his injuries weren’t too complex. Nothing that wouldn’t heal well
enough on its own that it would make his talent suspicious.

Only once he was left entirely alone to rest in the smelly confines of the recovery
room did it finally catch up with him.

Six men had assaulted him while he was sleeping—and almost succeeded at killing
him.

He vividly remembered the crowd’s reaction. Had his reputation really gotten that
bad? Maybe the boss of his assailants was the person he had snitched on, but it
could also be entirely unrelated.

Even if true, what evidence did these people have that it was his doing? But, no…
these people didn’t need proof or a solid reason to blame him. The rumors of the
privileges he had been provided with were enough to make anyone suspicious.

“And it has to be me,” he lamented. “It just fucking has to be me, doesn’t it?”

It must have been the numerous visits to the elite healer. Those were unavoidable,
so he had taken the hit to his reputation as inevitable.

But this was bad.

Really bad.

After several more hours of rest, he was finally released. His wounds still ached,
and he felt dizzy, but a recovery potion from his stash had dealt with the most
pressing injuries.

As he walked out of the tent, he heard a voice. “Oh, thank God!” someone called
from behind him. “You’re alive!”

He turned around, only to spot the silver-haired man getting off the ground nearby.
“Uh…” he started, somewhat bemused. “Hello?”
The man patted some dust off his forager uniform as he stepped forward and gave him
a handshake. “My name is Peter Vane.”

“Okay, Peter… uhm… why are you still here?” he asked without returning the
introduction.

“Oh, I…” The man appeared taken aback. “I helped bring you here, so I was rather
invested in seeing—”

“Thank you… for your help, I mean,” he said. “But uhm… I’ll be fine now.”

“I see,” he replied, his gaze scouring the state of his body. “Say, you’re pretty
strong, right?”

He winced. Indeed. He was pretty strong, but… judging by his shameful display from
earlier, he had a long way to go with using that strength properly. “I’d say I’m
pretty tough, yeah,” he confirmed, carefully wording his statement.

“I have to admit,” the man started with a shy smile. “I saw your fight at the
Wastes. You were quite—”

“Look,” he interrupted, “are you here for a reason or…”

“I… You know, there is something I’d like to talk to you about,” the man started.

Freddy eyed him curiously. The shifting posture, nervous glances, forced smile…
This man, or Peter, rather, wanted something. While he was too tired and in too
much pain to care, he couldn’t help but feel that something was off. He wanted to
leave… but his instincts told him to stay.

The man glanced around. “Maybe we should go somewhere a bit more private.”

So they did, going to a secluded area in the corner of the main cavern.

Peter started. “Have you ever wondered why the officials allow the arena to exist?”

Not really was what he wanted to say because he hadn’t concerned himself with it
until now, but— “Yeah…” he offered tentatively, curious as to where the man was
going with this.

“Right? It’s suspicious, isn’t it?” the man said. “I’m a regular in the stands, and
people often show growth that they shouldn’t have been able to reach just by doing
their job, but the staff still overlooks it despite it being an undeniable
violation of the rules.”

“Figures,” he said. The staff probably couldn’t be bothered with examining the
growth of every individual. “What about ascending?”

“No, that’s guaranteed exile,” the man clarified. “And two-stars like myself are
watched way more carefully, but other than that, they don’t seem to care about
anything else.”

Two-star? he wondered internally. This man was a two-star? Indeed, as he tried

focusing on it, he couldn’t tell how strong the man was. That meant the man could
perfectly hide his presence, confirming that he was a star above him. “So?” he
started. “What about the arena?”

“I was just wondering… are you planning on coming back?”

He squinted at the man. “Why?”

“Well…” the man started, his eyes shifting. “You’d be able to repay your debt much
faster.”

“Through the betting, you mean?” He had heard about the betting system in place in
the arena. Naturally, if this whole operation was legit, it would be the perfect
way for him to make it out of there. But it wasn’t, so he had no interest in it.

“Yeah,” the man confirmed. “But not just that, but you’re pretty strong, too…
Perhaps fewer people would go after you if you showed what you’re made of.”

He laughed at that. “Maybe. Maybe not. Is that all you wanted to talk about?”

The man paused for a moment, then shook his head.

“Cut to the chase, then. What do you want?” he asked.

“Well… I was just wondering… and please don’t tell anyone I asked you this, but…
just theoretically, if you were trying to escape, what would you do?”

Freddy froze. A sneaking suspicion snuck into the back of his mind as he stared the
man down. Then he smiled. “I would give up,” he said, chuckling. “This place seems
to be more or less an impenetrable prison.”

“What if I told you it didn’t need to be?” the man offered, his expression growing
slightly darker.

“I’d prefer paying my debt back, anyway,” he said. “Why risk it?”

“I—” Peter started, suddenly seeming extremely anxious.

“If that’s all you wanted to talk about, I’m off,” he said as he nodded and turned
around.

“I—Wait!”

But Freddy didn’t stop.

“There—There’s a rumor!”

He paused, slowly turning to face the blubbering man. “What do you mean?”

“I…” The man shifted, his eyes dodging as he gulped. “They… they say that you
might… you know… You might not be set free after paying your debt back…”

His eyes closed into slits. “That seems like a silly conspiracy to me.”

“I’m… I’m not sure,” the man said. “There isn’t a guarantee that they’ll just
release us.”

“And where did you hear that rumor?” he asked.

“I… Just conversation.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Just wondering, you said you were a two-star, right?”

The man nodded.

“I’m just curious, but as far as I know, the two-stars here are only non-combat
archhumans, yeah?”

The man confirmed hesitantly, “Indeed. None of us have combat talents,” the man
declared, and he couldn’t react fast enough as Freddy gripped the back of his neck
and pushed him to the ground, restraining the man by locking his arm behind his
back.

“Scream, and you’re dead,” Freddy threatened. “Now tell me, what the fuck do you
want from me?” he questioned.

“Please! Argh! I’ll tell you everything!” the man begged.

“Let me guess, trying to recruit me into a rebel group? We’ll see how the staff
feels about that!”

“That’s not why I’m here!” he defended himself.

“Prove it, then!”

“I’m…” The man coughed as he inhaled some dust. “I just want to help you out!”

“You’re lying,” he said, pushing the man’s head further into the soil and pulling
his arm harder. “You’re here for personal interest. So tell me, motherfucker, what
do you want?”

“You’re right!” Peter admitted. “You have a powerful master… Am I correct?”

He paused. Instead of denying it, he played along. “How do you know that?”

“The information in your documents!” the man said. “It’s classified! And your power
is—”

“How the fuck do you know what’s in my documents?” he interrogated.

“Because I work here!” the man declared. “I’m a staff member in disguise!”

Oh… fuck my life, he cursed internally. He had just assaulted a staff member. The
thought of killing the man outright and hiding his body crossed his mind, but he
restrained himself. “What business do you have conspiring like this?” he asked.

The man took a few calming breaths. “I don’t plan on being stuck with this shitty
company forever!” he yelled. “I would like to offer you a trade. I’ll help you make
it out of this place! In return… please convince your master to take me under their
wing!” he said. “I have a Poison Master talent, but it’s useless in combat. I never
wanted a non-combat talent!” he shouted. “I need a favor from someone powerful to
help me skew my next evolution!”

Freddy kept the man pinned to the ground for a long moment. For all he knew, this
person could be lying, but his motives were selfish enough to at least give him
some credit.

Usually, he would never take a chance with a figure as suspicious as this.

But he didn’t have even a hint of a plan for making it out of these caves. Running
away was suicide. And what other choices did he have?

Sighing deeply, he gritted his teeth. An opportunity like this wouldn’t come to him
twice.

“All right,” he said, releasing the man’s neck. “I accept your deal.”

Naturally, as he had no master, he had no way to hold up his part of the bargain.
Was it dishonorable? He didn’t care. He needed a way out of there.

Eventually, Freddy made his way back to his tent. There, he picked up his stuff. It
was too dangerous to stay there for the time being. So, at least for a while, he
would be moving to the abandoned cave.

On his trek out, every person that glanced at him seemed suspicious. Anyone who
even as much as lifted their arm as they passed him was treated the same as if they
were holding a dagger.

How little would it take for someone with a specialized ability or talent to kill
him in a crowd like this? And, if several men ganged up on him like that, how
likely was he to win again?

His conversation with the disguised staff member had been a short one. For the time
being, the man would subtly look for ways to get him out of the expedition.

Until their next meeting, he was still responsible for keeping himself alive.

One thing was glaringly obvious—he needed to learn how to properly defend himself,
and swinging at empty air without guidance wasn’t good enough.

His reputation seemed to be unsalvageable—but who said that he needed to fix it?

No, he had a much better idea.

37

SHARK IN A POND

The biggest problem Freddy noticed after moving out of the main compound was that
it was nearly impossible to keep track of time. Luckily, he hadn’t missed any days
before and still had free days, so it had no considerable consequences.

His solution to the problem was simple. He just went to the equipment distribution
center and requested a small pocket watch. Yup. They gave those away. For free. He
had no clue. Made sense when he thought about it. People had to return from the
caves on time, so they had to know the time. Even an idiot should have been able to
guess that much.
Needless to say, he was pretty ashamed of himself for not knowing that earlier.

Sleeping in the cold cave was hard to get used to at first, but his Adaptive Water
Body allowed him to acclimate much faster than would otherwise be possible. Nothing
could get him used to the occasional bug—most often, those giant, nasty centipedes
crawling over his body and tickling him.

While, at first, he simply draped his futon over a random patch of moss and dealt
with the problems as they came, he eventually located and polished an elevated
piece of stone and slept there. Expecting the stone to be exceptionally
uncomfortable, he was pretty surprised to discover that it was, honestly, maybe
even better than the bed he had had when he was renting his own place.

His overall productivity and the rate at which he was repaying his debt had crawled
to barely above twice the mandatory daily quota. That seemed like a lot, but for
him, who had pulled well over twenty thousand dollars a day at his best… yeah, it
was a monumental slowdown. He planned on returning to full glory eventually, as he
didn’t want to lose the benefits he had access to.

The reason behind his sudden productivity crash was simple— he spent the
overwhelming majority of his time awake training.

Flowing Strike experienced a massive surge in growth after his fight with those
men, and after a few days of practice, the shell finally reached its complete
state.

On top of that, the progress with his star shot up to 65%.

He had trained Flowing Strike by smashing a clear path around the small lake. He
could crush stone with a solid swing of his fist. Frankly, it was stupid, as he
frequently cracked bone and mangled his fingers until they bled, but healing was
easy enough, and his bones grew less fragile the more he abused them.

And once he finished that, he picked up a boulder roughly the size of his torso,
placed it on his back, and ran circles around the cave.

Abyssal Depths was a phenomenal tempering technique. Having a denser body meant it
was more difficult for enemies to push him around, and greater mass meant greater
force behind his strikes.

But as he had learned the hard way in his fight against his assailants, it also
slowed him down considerably. And now that he had upgraded it, that problem
wouldn’t get any less prominent.

On his first run around the lake, he barely reached halfway around before he
collapsed from exhaustion. His abs and lower back burned as if set on fire, and his
calves felt as if they were about to snap from overexertion. Not to even speak of
his spine, hips, shoulders, neck, and knees. Without his talent, those would be
fucked for life.

Such intense training naturally demanded a lot of energy. For this, mushrooms were
a blessing, and he was, thankfully, a pro at finding edible ones, as well as other
beneficial herbs.

While heavy processing was essential to transforming raw ingredients into useful
alchemical products, some could exhibit a limited degree of their beneficial
effects even when consumed raw. Naturally, there were always treasures that didn’t
need to be processed, but that wasn’t what Freddy was eating. At all.
Tough to digest, sometimes poisonous, or with other non-lethal, or even just
slightly lethal, side-effects was the name of the game.

But 1% Lifesteal, coupled with Adaptive Water Body, and likely just his body’s
natural adaptation, made it possible to eat them without much trouble—and to much
benefit.

Enhanced regeneration, higher energy levels, more focus, slightly enhanced essence
recovery, a small but noticeable boost to his toughness, endurance, speed,
reflexes, and even strength. He thought clearer, saw sharper, heard crisper, and
felt… good. A bit too good.

Maybe he was getting more than he had bargained for.

None of the effects he was experiencing were anywhere near as prominent—or long-
lasting—as they would be after the herbs were processed. But having even a minor
increase in, well, literally everything across the board wasn’t a bonus to scoff
at.

It yet again reminded him of how absurd his talent was.

His daily diet consisted of constantly snacking on one herb or another and shoving
about as much protein as he could force down his throat. There was a hole in the
corner that he was rapidly filling up with… waste. It was starting to overflow, and
he could smell hints of poo all the way from the other side of the cavern.

His training, besides crushing his spine and joints through self-abuse, also
consisted of a lot of essence control practice.

Freddy knew nearly nothing about standard essence control exercises, but with all
the time on his hands, he eventually began puzzling a thing or two out.

These, as far he had discovered, were the primary variables—first, whether he was
controlling an internal or an external source of water; second, the volume of
liquid; third, the number of separate blobs he manipulated at once; fourth, the
complexity of the shape he was trying to maintain; fifth, the uninterrupted time he
spent holding water afloat; sixth, the degree to which it was compressed; seventh,
the complexity of the trajectory he moved it through; and finally, eight, the speed
to which he accelerated it.

Hydraulic Flex was enough practice for internal water manipulation. Probably. He
didn’t know much about doing that stuff himself, as all his internal abilities had
come from ether scrolls.

So, trying to learn it through practice seemed good enough for the time being.

For all the others, he devised specific exercises working on one variable and that
one variable alone.

Perhaps this was simply due to his Essence Extraction supplying him with enough
essence to practice to his heart’s content, but as soon as he employed this new set
of exercises, his manipulation skills snowballed.

He no longer bothered keeping it in the shape of a ball, so the volume he could

control ballooned.

If they were tiny enough and their form was nothing but a morphing blob, he could
manipulate at first only two, but soon enough, up to seven separate water droplets.
Given that he hadn’t done anything besides a simple ball shape until then, he was
shocked to discover how difficult it was to keep other forms afloat. He struggled
with this the most by far, and the most complex object he could maintain, other
than the aforementioned ball, was a cube—a very wobbly one.

The pocket watch he carried around told him that endurance in keeping water afloat
was definitely the part he was most advanced at. It wasn’t surprising, as it had
been the primary aspect he worked on while trapped for all those months.

Next, compression, which was, as far as he was concerned, basically impossible. It

was like trying to compress slime with his hands—the harder he pressed, the more
likely it was to escape through a gap in his control. He surmised that if he wanted
any chance of doing this one, he had to be able to first form a near-perfect
sphere. That wouldn’t be easy. The best he could do was more of an egg.

Then there was the trajectory, another thing he was relatively good at from his
time in solitary confinement. He didn’t struggle with a full-body orbit, and he
could almost manage a few loops in a row, but only close to his hands, where his
control was strongest.

And finally, the speed, which he struggled with. The problem was that he instantly
lost grip on the water he was manipulating as soon as he accelerated it. However,
it didn’t take long for him to realize that, well, that was kind of the point. It
would eventually escape his control—he just had to work on adding as much speed to
it before that happened.

For the first few days, he experienced explosive growth.

It didn’t take long to run the circumference of the lake, and soon he ran it twice.
Then thrice, four times, five times, before he realized it, he was running long—and
fast enough—to justify picking up a bigger boulder.

As soon as he split his manipulation exercises into specific skills, he instantly

realized that those skills were precisely what he had been missing.

Soon enough, he could manipulate the entire volume of his stage one Create Water,
which amounted to a greater volume of water than there was in his body, twice over—
and soon enough after, he could manipulate it for well over a minute.

He had gone from seven to twelve blobs he could hold up at once, which was mighty
impressive, as the difficulty seemed to be scaling exponentially. Moving them,
however, was utterly impossible.

The cube became less wobbly and was soon joined by a prism, while the ball finally
appeared even, at least from some angles.

And he finally had what could generously be called a breakthrough with compression.
He still couldn’t compress water much but could at least noticeably squish a ball
for a fraction of a section.

And finally, he could push water fast enough to send a small orb flying halfway
across the lake.

The improvements in manipulation quickly started reflecting in his work on

Hydraulic Flex. He could target the shape of the muscle better, and flex faster,
stronger. He was growing in precision, power, and control enough to, hell, even use
raw manipulation to simulate an inferior version of the ability through manual
control.
Was he good enough to crystalize it already? Hell yeah, he was good enough, but
there was no way he would settle for anything less than the absolute best he could
do.

Eventually, after checking the Netherecho enough times, he finally tracked down
something he wanted—the concept of turbulence.

After wasting nearly half a day attempting different methods of subduing the
chaotic vestige, which was practically just a mass of turbulent energy, he
eventually, through sheer stubbornness, wore it down enough to slot it into Hundred
Wet Hells.

While something like toughness would have been great since it would have directly
improved the effect of the tempering technique, his choice was more effective—even
if much more dangerous and painful. Toughness sped up the results. Turbulence
escalated the challenge. Massively.

As he tried himself against this new torture method, he nearly regretted choosing
to take that vestige. He felt as if he was using the ability for the first time
again, and this time, he had no flesh blob to help him cope with the agony.

The surface of his skin visibly wiggled in a gross, shifty display whenever he used
the tempering technique. But he could barely tell, given that something similar
also happened to his eyeballs, making it practically impossible to see. His nails
lifted, bleeding from beneath; his mouth, ears, eyes, and nose bled, and he swore
he could feel his intestines tying themselves into a knot.

It wasn’t sustainable. He couldn’t keep it up for long. Whether that upgrade had
been a mistake depended on whether he could find a way to cope with the upgraded
ability.

He also discovered numerous vestiges he could slot into Flowing Strike but,
frankly, had no idea which he wanted. Or needed, for that matter. He even found the
concept of flow, which resonated strongly with his ability, but while it was a good
one, he knew it wasn’t the optimal choice.

So, rather than think of what the ability needed or what he wanted, he tried
thinking outside the box. It was a technique that enhanced the power of his blows.
It aimed to crush blocks and deliver force. So… maybe momentum would do well? No,
that wasn’t quite it.

But then it happened. As soon as he saw that vestige, he knew. It was a metal ball
that jumped every few seconds and then stopped dead as soon as it touched a
surface. And he felt it. Not the resonance; that was mediocre at best, but he knew
it was precisely what he needed.

It was a vestige of force transference.

The crowd at the Wastes was as wild as ever.

“Get him!”

“Kill the bastard!”

“Cave his skull in!”

The match was nothing special. It was a sanctioned match between two fighters.
Nobody really cared why they were fighting. For most, the Wastes were a place to
see some blood, scream their lungs out, and vent their frustration. It was the
closest thing anyone in Camp Violet had to therapy besides the staff, who had an
actual therapist on board—Leo. Nice guy.

Peter slurped the slightly citrusy cocktail through a makeshift root straw, which
he had fashioned out of a wheelzipper brush. It gave everything he drank a bitter
tang and helped take the edge off the other nasty flavors. But the effect was
already wearing off.

As he finished the drink, he threw the straw on the ground beside him, haphazardly
flinging it to the ground.

It had been weeks since his talk with Freddy. He had done a highly reckless
violation of his contract but had taken the risk anyway. Why? It was simple. That
man likely had a master who was trying to rescue him. Giving Freddy a hand was
Peter’s attempt at earning himself a favor.

He had to be here for only a single month longer, but it wasn’t like leaving would
be an improvement. He sighed as he thought about it. No, actually, leaving Camp
Violet would reduce his income to less than 10 percent of what he was earning here.
Thankfully, his work had earned him some savings so he could invest in himself, but
that was far from enough to make the type of difference he wanted to see.

For his ambition, he needed to strive for more—and as they said, no risk, no
reward.

He had a few ideas for how to help the man, but… he’d have to actually talk to
Freddy to discuss them. He knew that the man was still alive, given that he was
fulfilling his daily quota, but he seemed to have become paranoid. Getting a hold
of him was like trying to grab wet soap out of midair.

Well, it wasn’t like he could blame the man. He had seen the bloody state he had
been in.

Peter took another drink and gave a half-hearted cheer as one of the fighters
landed a heavy blow.

As the match ended between the man with slightly enhanced toughness and the man
with moderately boosted strength—both common and plain talents—with the tougher of
the two simply outlasting his opponent, the crowd quieted as the next match was
prepared.

Taking a moment to think about his future, Peter—

“Bastards and gentlemen!” the announcer yelled as he stepped out. It was a man with
greasy, long hair wearing a black sleeveless shirt that had been fashioned out of
an old, char-bathed uniform.

“Oh?” His focus was suddenly squarely back on the ring. Matches weren’t often
announced. But he usually knew who would be up well in advance.

Is it another special event? he wondered, half-prepared for disappointment, but—

“Today, we have a special bout. Few of you probably remember, but some might recall
a strange man. A while back, a newbie had been sent in for a hazing. But he stepped
out, head held tall, displaying a body forged in hell… and proved those scars
weren’t just for show.”

No fucking way, he thought as a fat grin spread on his lips.

The reaction of the rest of the crowd, however, wasn’t nearly as positive.

Boos and jeers spread through the audience.

“That’s the snitch!” someone yelled.

“Bastard asslicker! Give him hell!”

“Kill the rat!” a man started, and—

“Kill the rat!” several others joined.

He knew of the man’s unfortunate reputation. Indeed, anyone who got such benefits
could have only gotten them through selling out someone who was up to no good, so a
lousy rep wasn’t a surprise… but to think it had gotten this bad…

“Now, now,” the announcer yelled, calming the audience. “You don’t want to anger
the staff by bullying their golden boy,” he joked, adding a jab of his own. “But
I’m serious. You know what happened last time you cunts took things too far.”

That made the crowd cool down in a heartbeat.

“So! It is time for—”

“You know what, you pieces of shit!?” a new voice yelled as Freddy, wearing a skin-
tight black suit, one of the pieces of the forager set, stepped out of a cave.
“Come the fuck out! Anyone got a problem with me!? Step into the ring!”

Peter’s jaw dropped.

The jeers and boos in the crowd got that much worse, and several people looked
ready to get up and fight.

“Oh, you wanna go!? You wanna fucking go!?” Freddy fanned the flames. “Come here,
you motherfuckers! I’m gonna take you all at once!”

“What the hell is he doing?” Peter wondered.

“Silence!” the announcer screamed, but barely calmed the crowd. He rushed to
Freddy, grabbed his arm, and forcefully shoved him back to his cave, kicking him in
the ass as he did so.

Unbelievable, he thought as he shook his head. That moron is trying to get himself
killed.

Freddy wasn’t just being a hot-headed dumbass by doing what he did. That day, he
was there to prove he wasn’t messing around.

Well, he might have gotten a bit carried away, but he was juiced on so many
different herbs that he was itching to bite someone’s head off. He had come
frighteningly close to leaping into the audience and starting a brawl.

As he finished his warm-up, shadowboxing, and stretching in the cave, and the
announcer finished calming the audience and announcing the fight, he stood
prepared.

Was he a good fighter? Definitely not.

Did he come strapped with a killer combat talent? Nope.

Was he confident in beating anyone here in a fight? Absolutely yes.

He stripped himself out of the skin-tight suit and revealed his impossibly chiseled
muscles, wearing nothing but the standard boxer shorts to cover his privates.

As far as one-star archs were concerned, from what little he knew, his power was
easily in the middle-upper echelon of warriors. Most rich, elite kids could still
easily wipe the floor with him. Combat talents among the upper class weren’t an
advantage he could easily overcome. And that was only a part of it.

Treasures, training, secret abilities, high-level alchemical products, a

practically infinite number of essence-recovery elixirs, healing, and more added to
a qualitative difference between him and those who stood at the peak.

Nobody here was such an elite, though. People with especially dangerous talents had
been sent somewhere else, with most camp workers having either non-combat talents
or just ones on the weaker side.

On top of that, external techniques were limited in these fights. Nobody could
target their opponent directly with something like a fireball for relatively
obvious reasons. These were sanctioned matches hosted by camp staff. Naturally,
they weren’t hosting them to see their workers kill each other. Deaths had happened
before, but only because it was better for them to occur in a ring by accident than
out in the caves by premeditated intent.

Even past that, using weapons was prohibited. He couldn’t possibly ask for more
optimal circumstances. His opponent wouldn’t be the best the arena could offer, but
that was no reason to get complacent.

“You got this, Freddy,” he said as he slapped his cheeks.

“And now! Fighters! Step into the Wastes!”

He walked out at a jog, pumping his chest and screaming at the audience. Nobody was
booing him this time. Instead, they were cheering, “Skull Crusher! Skull Crusher!”

It was only then that he turned to look at his opponent.

It was a man he had seen a few times in passing but never paid particularly close
attention to. At that moment, as the over two-meter-tall giant stood stripped of
his uniform, revealing muscles that stretched his tan skin to the breaking point,
only one thought went through his mind.

Oh, fuck my life.

38

SKULL CRUSHER

Mark woke up with both his arms numb: the large, opulent bedroom curtains were
pulled over the windows, and the light barely revealed the warm, soft reasons why.
Trapping his left side was a beautiful brunette woman, and lying on the other was a
handsome blonde.

“Son of a—” he whispered under his breath. “Not again…”

Pulling his arms out from under his two naked companions, he got up and went to the
toilet.

Going up a star was often accompanied by notable physiological changes that got
more drastic the higher up one went. For his second star, he was granted a thick,
full beard of black hair. And he hadn’t been doing much to keep it in check, even
though he’d been keeping his blonde hair cut extra short.

Washing his face, he observed himself in the mirror, meeting his own green eyes.
Funny, he thought, how often he failed to recognize himself. For a brief moment, he
looked at his arm. There, yet another in a long series of scars rested. But
whenever he looked at it, it ached far more than any other.

Shaking those thoughts off, he returned to the large bedroom and entered another
door on the other side. There, he had a small office. Pulling out a paper from a
drawer, he grabbed a fountain pen and started writing.

I’M SO SORRY FOR—

He immediately scribbled over that and threw the paper in the trash.

I HAD FUN LAST NIGHT—

And again.

THANK YOU FOR—

“Gah,” he groaned. Putting a palm to his forehead, he took a deep breath and
decided to be honest.

HELLO. I’M MARK, IN CASE I DIDN’T INTRODUCE MYSELF LAST NIGHT. I DON’T REALLY DO
THIS SORT OF STUFF OFTEN.

Well, he did, but not because he wanted to.

I JUST WANTED TO SAY I PROBABLY HAD FUN, BUT I DON’T REMEMBER MUCH. I’VE LEFT THE
APARTMENT, AND I’M GOING TO BE OUT ALL DAY. YOU DON’T NEED TO RUSH TO GET OUT. IF
YOU WANT, YOU CAN ORDER A DRINK OR BREAKFAST ON THE TABLET NEXT TO THE FRIDGE. MY
TREAT.

SEE YOU—
He immediately scratched that last part.

PLEASE LEAVE BY—

And again.

“You know what, screw it.” He gave up. They’d probably leave by the time he was
back anyway. Hopefully.

He put his uniform on as quietly as he could to avoid waking the girls up. A black
accented by red, military-style suit was on his body in minutes, and the cap with
the Kraven insignia on it was on his head.

It’d been a while since he had gotten this job, working as a part of their militia.
A big part of him regretted signing with them, but…

It had been the only way to avoid getting assassinated by Madame.

He left the apartment and strolled down the long hallway. Eventually, he reached a
door.

After knocking and waiting for a while, his father opened it. “Hey! Come on in.
Your mother just made breakfast.”

So he did. His mother appeared cheerful and pleased. His father was as happy to see
him as always. Sarah, his sister, was already attending her lessons. None of them
knew what he’d really done to earn this privilege. And they never would.

As he ate his mother’s food, his father asked, “Any updates on the academy?”

“The main building has already been constructed,” he informed his father. “But
they’re planning a lot of specialized equipment and rooms. Ethertech is evolving
rapidly with all the new resources pouring in, so they must account for any new
breakthroughs if they don’t want to become outdated too fast.”

“I see, I see,” his father said. “So, how’s work?” he asked cautiously.

Mark frowned. “Good,” he said. “There have been some concerning sightings recently,
but nothing that Empress Kaiya can’t handle if worse comes to worst.” After another
moment, he added, “But yeah. Establishing a permanent settlement isn’t viable
without a five-star around. But the passage is under the jurisdiction of the
American Empire, and naturally, politics makes that difficult.”

“Just don’t get yourself killed,” his mother warned. “I’ve heard some scary
stories, you know.”

“Don’t worry, Mom,” he comforted her.

As long as I work beside that monster, I’ll be fine, he added internally.

After finishing his meal, he said goodbye to his parents, left, and strode down the
extensive maze of hallways. Eventually, he reached an elevator and stepped inside.
He was on the thirty-seventh floor, so he could see the whole city through the
glass walls.

A massive dome surrounded the entirety of Starhold. Its web-like, metallic

reinforcements, partially concealed behind a few larger floating islands, held the
reinforced glass dome solid and stable. The half-sphere kept flying creatures out
and protected the settlement from the harsh, rapidly changing weather. Numerous
buildings were in construction as far as the eye could see, and every day he found
himself looking over the city, he spotted a few newly finished ones and a few
freshly started ones.

This was the only permanent settlement that had been established on Faralethal. And
he was among the pioneers settling it. With the incredible amount of resources
humanity was extracting in this passage realm, which had been reclassified as a D-
class realm, Starhold had been experiencing explosive economic growth, and
ethertech grew more advanced by the day.

Speaking of ethertech, his pocket started vibrating. He pulled the portable long-
distance etherwave communication and computing device, or as they called it in
honor of Old Earth technology—the phone—out of his pocket and held his finger on
the giant red button for a second.

“Yo, Mark!” a voice sounded.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes, Nahar,” Mark answered.

“Of course you will,” the man teased with a laugh. “Not even two beauties like that
can keep you—” Before the voice could finish the sentence, he ended the call,
shaking his head.

Upon reaching the bottom floor, he stepped to a second elevator, pressed a finger
to a scanner, and walked inside, this time going to the underground. Less than a
minute of descent later, he left and entered the Kraven militia headquarters.

The walls were plain gray, and the halls were full of men and women clothed in
uniforms similar to his own. They were heading to the morning training, which he,
as an operative directly under the command of a VIP, wasn’t forced to attend. He
still participated whenever he could, but he was more often than not busy with
other matters as well as personal training.

This was no matter of official rank. Although many envied his privileges among the
troops, unfortunately, he received them by being friends with…

In the communications center, surrounded by men and women observing the numerous
screens that flashed important information, a man sat on a couch with seven empty
bottles of fine spirit right on the table before him.

He wore the Kraven core family member uniform, had those creepy red lines all over
his face, as well as red hair, and wore… sunglasses… despite it being day and them
being underground.

“Mark!” he greeted him. “Did you have fun last night?”

“I… don’t remember…” he responded shyly, glancing at some of the officers eyeing
him with cheeky smiles.

Nahar clicked his tongue. “You damn lightweight.”

“Aaanyway.” He rushed to change the subject. “I believe we have an important

mission today.”

“No, we don’t, Marky-moo,” he denied. “We have a chore.”

He heavily disagreed with that statement. They were to join the stampede
suppression unit today. On a daily basis, Starhold was swarmed by hordes of
monsters trying to break through the barrier. Frontline work was dangerous, bloody,
and tiring.

But he supposed it was no surprise that anything related to blood would feel like a
chore to the young master.

Suddenly, Nahar’s phone rang loudly. He took his sweet time picking it up once he
saw who it was from. Answering the phone, he put it to his ears and responded with
the occasional “Uh-huh” and “Will do, pops!”

Putting the phone down, he groaned.

“What is it?” Mark asked.

“Looks like you’re on your own today, Mark. Old man Janny just called me,” he said
as he got up and stretched. “Core family members are to return to the main base…

“Apparently, he will be bringing some good news soon.”

There were two types of matches in the Wastes, and depending on what the fighters
agreed upon, it was either one or the other.

The first type was tournament-style combat. There was a circular border; any
fighter who left that border or was thrown out was disqualified. The fights were
judged, and if someone was knocked down, they’d be given the time to get up—if they
didn’t, they were out. There was also a point system, and the judge could, at their
discretion, end the match or call a break whenever they deemed fit.

The second type was different—and heavily restricted. The staff only permitted it
if both fighters had the credit to afford extensive treatment and had a defensive
tempering technique. This was because the second type was deathmatch-style combat.

It didn’t go until death—not often.

But there was no barrier one could get kicked out of. There was no grace if one was
knocked to the ground. It was until surrender, unconsciousness, or, well, death.

As the announcer finally called today’s match as being of the second type, the
crowd exploded with excitement.

Freddy’s opponent—an absolute giant of a man—stood confident. Given that his

moniker was “Skull Crusher,” this probably wasn’t his first rodeo.

The stands echoed with his name, which soon turned into a “crush his skull!” chant
that Freddy wasn’t a big fan of for some mysterious reason.

The massive man had limbs as thick as tree trunks and weighed more than Freddy,
even with Abyssal Depths. His skin was the color of bronze, and his face was
surprisingly handsome despite how stern it looked. The man had long hair, the type
that only those who had been a part of the expedition for a long while had.

Rather than allow himself to panic, he took deep breaths to calm himself. The
announcer was still hyping the fight, so he had a few dozen seconds until it was go
time.
Every muscle in his body screamed with energy, blood pumped through his veins with
an audible thudding in his ears, and his nerves were stretched so thin that a light
breeze could trigger a premature jump at the man.

His opponent was large, which made him a big target. He probably wasn’t too big on
speed, especially given his height. Freddy didn’t have to fear harm for numerous
reasons, so he decreed that—

“Match start!” the announcer screamed, and the giant man rushed forward.

Shit! he exclaimed internally while his mind whirled. Despite being in the middle
of preparing himself, the start of the fight still caught him unprepared, and now
Skull Crusher was charging at him with the momentum of a bull seeing red.

No matter, he thought as he lowered his stance and prepared Hydraulic Flex. His leg
muscles inflated like balloons for a fraction of a second, and he was launched
forward with an explosive twang like that of a ballista string, swinging a clumsy
but adequate Flowing Strike.

The man didn’t expect such a fast dash, so he couldn’t muster a solid guard before—

Freddy’s fist landed on Skull Crusher’s chest with a crackling sound of ribs being
crushed, and as his stage one Flowing Strike pushed the water through his arms, so
did it transfer the immense momentum of the human cannonball behind it.

It was as if the massive human weighed less than a balloon someone slapped out of
the air; his body launched backward, bouncing off the ground with a bloody skitter
and slamming back first into the far wall of the arena, right under the stands,
leaving the stone cracked, the man’s mouth bleeding liberally, and the crowd—
silent.

“I… Ugh… I surrender,” Skull Crusher barely mustered as his eyes rolled back into
his skull, and he went limp.

Freddy landed back on the ground in a crouch and got up, bewildered. But it didn’t
last long. A fat, unrestrained grin spread over his face as he glanced at the
silent stands. “Well?” he asked, directing his animalistic rush at the spectators.
“Anyone else wants to have a go? Well!?” he asked in a yell. “Any volunteers!? Come
on, who else wants a shot at crushing—my—skull!?”

One of the spectators tried booing him, likely expecting others to join. Nobody
did. The bald man stood alone. Freddy stared at him directly, and those sitting
beside him inched away.

“I asked, does anyone else want to have a go? Come on, people, we don’t have all
day! No one?” As he asked the stand again, the rush started to wear off. “Come on,
you cowards! I know at least three of you here want a rematch; how about it?”

The announcer approached him and patted his shoulder, whispering, “Get out of the
ring, dude. You’ve proven your point.”

“I didn’t prove shit,” he spat. “Fuck!”

But, with a quick nod, he started leaving anyway. His breaths were stifled, and he
felt a heavy weight settling on his shoulders. Again. His steps felt like each and
every one of them lasted an eternity, and the world around him drained of all color
as the realization finally set in.

Nobody in this expedition was supposed to be great at combat.

So, how would the administration react to him being this powerful?

Was he valuable enough to get away with it?

He hadn’t been. Not lately. They would realize that he was basically training the
whole time.

His breath sped up as he felt a drop of sweat trickle down the side of his face.

Would they make an example out of him?

His gaze traveled to the stands, and he immediately spotted the silver-haired man.
Raising a hand in a “wait for me” motion, the man got up and pushed through the
stands.

Freddy entered the side cave, put on his clothes, and left the Wastes as quietly as
possible.

In a small side cave, he spotted the silver-haired man waving at him to walk over
to a hidden spot.

“Dude, that was epic!” he scream-whispered at Freddy. “You really—ack—” The man
choked as Freddy gripped his throat and, with a swing, slammed the man’s back
against the cave wall. “Why… are… you…?” he choked out.

This man was a two-star, but that didn’t matter. He was a non-combat arch, and
Freddy’s raw strength overpowered him greatly.

“For your own sake, I really hope you found the way to get me out of here,” he
said.

“I… Please…!” the man begged, and he loosened the grip ever-so-slightly, just
enough for the man to speak, “I have a few ideas! But why are you—”

“Because you should have fucking said”—he screamed, slamming the man against the
wall—“that these arena motherfuckers”—he slammed the man again—“are this fucking
weak! God damn it!” He dropped the man to the ground.

“Why are you…?”

“Read the mood, you imbecile!” he insulted. “They’ll make an example out of me. I’m
a dead man walking.”

The man fought to catch his breath. “Don’t worry,” he placated him, gulping. “I
have a way to keep you safe for now.”

39

THE TILED PLAINS

Stephen woke up as his alarm went off—a sound of chirping birds accompanied by a
faintly glowing orange light illuminating his room, simulating the lighting of a
beautiful sunrise. His living quarters were predominantly an elegant white,
accented by a few shades of gray, mainly to make the expensive Cloudego-brand
furniture pop out. His room had fake window screens of shifting light that mimicked
a time of day, currently shining Morning’s Optimism—the setting he enjoyed the
most.

As he woke up and entered the large dining room, a warm breakfast was already
waiting for him, and the servants were out of sight, as they should be. Fried
bacon, sunny-side-up eggs, and some waffles on the side made for a meal deeply
reminiscent of home. A home he hated dearly. But the breakfast was still there, a
daily reminder of how far he’d come in life.

So he ate, washed up, donned his Jackal suit, a refined black set, and headed into
the Camp Violet administrative staff residential facility hallway.

On the left side were doors to more rooms, while on the right side, at least in the
section he lived in, was a one-way window stretching down the length of the path,
disguised as nothing more than stone from the outside, watching over the length and
width of the camp below.

He couldn’t help but pause as he took a glance. A satisfied smile perked up on his
lips at the sight of the worker ants.

Well, then, he’d better hurry to make it in time for the meeting.

As he strode into the meeting room, he arrived first, as usual. Being anything less
than half an hour early meant being late by his standards—and that went doubly so
for the boss.

One by one, the administration members strode in.

Kayla, the tall Black woman working as the acquisitions director, was the first to
arrive, sitting three seats to his left. They exchanged polite nods and idly
chatted about the horrid living conditions.

The park—a designated area with a generation-seven fabricated sky projector and
carefully designed flora—wouldn’t be finished for another three weeks! It had been
months since any of them had seen the outside world, and it was driving them
insane.

Stephen had found a way to cope by spending extra time in the sensory deprivation
chamber and the massage parlor, but his shoulders grew stiffer by the day. Kayla
also said something about some hobby or something, but he hadn’t been paying
attention.

Next, John, their skinny, meek accountant, arrived, followed by Marcus, Sven, Leah,
Harry, Liam, and Bertram. All nine staff members gathered around the table, and the
meeting started.

The first topic of that day was the recent slump in productivity and what they
could do about it. A few unfortunate issues, such as their previous cook who
prepared the worker’s meals refusing to extend his contract and an unexpected drop
in herb collection, which made basic healing ointments and other productivity-
boosting products more difficult to produce, were only some of the theorized
reasons behind the sudden reduction in revenue.

There had been a forecast of increased productivity due to the arrival of newer,
more efficient equipment and better bags of holding, which made the situation even
more complicated.

After that, they briefly discussed the recent news in transportation. Due to a
recently developed hovering mechanism, newer cargo ships could operate at twenty
percent less cost. There were many resources they were merely keeping stored for
the time being, as their transportation would spell a net loss for the company, so
this was excellent news.

Some more Starhold development updates were briefly discussed, and relevant
information from sister camps, such as the female-only Camp Aquamarine, was
covered, too.

Then, the miscellaneous topics began, where any member could suggest a subject.

Stephen hated this part but did his best to humor the suggestions. More often than
not, it was some trivial malarkey that these goons brought forth to feel important.

But as he grabbed a paper from Liam, the short, chubby man who worked as the head
of the alchemy department, he was stunned.

Squinting at the report and frowning at the man who had handed it to him, he read
aloud, “Staff Member: Observer Peter Vane; Notable Worker Activity Report. Subject:
Freddy Stern. Report summary: After a bout at the designated combat arena where
Subject displayed notable proficiency, he was spotted running deeper into the
Wastes red zone. Escape motive likely to be fear of staff action in response to his
combat performance…?” After reading it out loud, it didn’t seem any less silly.
“Say,” he said, turning to Liam, “why exactly are you suggesting this as a topic?”

“W-Well, uhm…” Liam stuttered, speaking rather quickly. “I… uh… The worker
mentioned… in that report is a… He is a very notable individual am-among the
workforce. Has the third highest earnings record for a monthly period… uhm… and in
foraging, at that, and the only reason he didn’t get the first place was because he
was attacked by an organized group of rebels and subsequently reduced his work time
to a minimum,” he spluttered, pausing to take a breath. “He was likely attacked due
to the perceived ‘special privileges’ he received from the—”

“Get to the point, Liam,” Stephen interrupted with a smile. “We don’t have all
day.”

“Yes, uh…” The man paused to gather himself. “I believe we should send a mercenary
group after him.”

“Why?” he asked, putting the paper down on the desk. “Recruiting someone for the
mercenary department isn’t meeting material.”

“Actually, that’s precisely why I’m bringing it up,” Liam said, regaining a bit of
his confidence. “I don’t think this man should be recruited with the mercenary
department. This man was a pretty no-notable source of high-quality herbs crucial
in the production of several medicines, and I believe that his absence played a
role in the recent slump. With how mu-much he could supply, we were planning to
make some of the muscle fatigue–alleviating medicine and the localized healing skin
cream available for purchase through temporary quota credit, which would—”

“Yeah, but I don’t understand,” he cut the man off, pinching his brow. “As far as
we know, he isn’t even missing. He just ran out into the caverns. This report is
from a few hours ago.”

“Still, I-I believe that checking u-up on him would be a wise choice,” Liam
stubbornly continued. “That man’s performance in the arena wa-was ex-examplary. He
had clearly been training for self-defense reasons, and he mi-might now fear
retribution. If we can ease his fears, he’ll be a valuable asset. If anything, I
want hi-him to share what method he used to gather healthy herbs wi-with such
precision and consistency. And, gi-given the numbers he was told to be earning, I
wouldn’t be surprised if he signed a-an extension to his work contract and decided
to stay even af-after expiring.”

“Hmmm… I see,” he said, nodding slightly, a bit irked that this seemed to actually
be a somewhat valid topic. “What about the combat prowess?” he asked.

“Oh… right,” Liam said, shuffling some papers as he looked through them. “The se-
seven observes p-present, including the aforementioned P-Peter Vane ha-have
estimated him to be… elite in power and unknown in skill.”

“Elite in power?” several members asked at once and then turned to each other,
whispering.

“Wait!” Harry, the tall man with long, curly hair and the head of the transport
department, exclaimed. “Isn’t this the highest-classification guy!?”

“Yes, he is,” Liam confirmed. “But th-that is irrelevant. He has uh… He has been c-
cleared for regular treatment, so h-he isn’t dangerous.”

“Are you sure about that?” Marcus, the muscular chief security officer, added,
speaking for the first time in the meeting. “He showed elite power in a Wastes
match. I’ve seen the detailed report; his opponent was Lance Fetter, a man commonly
referred to as ‘Skull Crusher’ in the arena. While Mr. Fetter isn’t a particularly
impressive warrior past his large build and above-average strength and toughness,
Mr. Stern sent him flying like a damn ragdoll.”

“What are you trying to say?” Stephen asked.

“I think he’s afraid for a reason,” the bulky man said. “Making an example out of
him only makes sense.”

From a corner, a brunette woman with large glasses raised her hand.

“You may speak, Leah,” Stephen permitted.

“I do not believe,” she started in a high-pitched voice, “that Mr. Stern will be a
problem. According to his previously observed behavior, he has shown antisocial
tendencies but hasn’t been observed to be rebellious. If anything, he has shown
himself to be rather non-conspiratorial in nature.”

“That just means he’s smart,” Marcus said, scoffing. “Let me ask you all something.
Not even we are allowed to know why this man is here. But do you really think that
someone involved in a ‘highest-classification’ ordeal, who arrived looking like
that, then proceeded to make a near-perfect recovery while excelling in combat and
foraging is just some regular guy?” he asked, frowning at them. “We were warned to
keep an eye out for any individuals that might exhibit unusual characteristics. Do
I need to remind you all that this person was recently involved in an attack by six
individuals, and he routed three, mortally wounded two, and killed one?” he said,
leaving the others in contemplative silence.

Before anyone could respond, he shifted in his chair, grabbed a piece of paper, and
continued, “You know, I’ve been watching this guy for a while. I was going to
mention him one of these days anyway. Apparently, he has been practically living
somewhere in the caverns.”

That elicited a few shocked gasps.

Bertram, the oldest-looking among them, the head of Human Resources, raised his
hand. “I’ve been in contact with Marcus about this subject,” he said, getting
everyone’s attention. “That man hasn’t been eating or sleeping on camp, meaning he
has been living rather self-sufficiently. If this was merely due to paranoia from
having been attacked, it wouldn’t be a detail of consequence. But judging by his
physical condition, he isn’t struggling.”

“My point exactly,” Marcus said. “Thank you, Bertram. This is the main reason why
I’ve been keeping an eye on him. If that man has the resourcefulness to live
outside of camp, he could become a giant pain in the ass in the blink of an eye.
He’s been cleared for regular treatment, so he’s also been cleared for elimination.
I say we deal with him immediately.”

“Whoa!” Liam half-yelled as he got up. “That’s a b-bit of a l-leap, don’t you
think!?”

“Calm down,” Stephen said. “Marcus, Liam, please. We’re in a professional setting.
Your opinions have been noted. If none of you have anything else to add, it will be
put up for a vote.”

Nobody raised their hands.

So he continued, “All right then. All wanting to put an option to a vote, please
raise your hands.”

Liam and Marcus raised their hands.

“Liam, present first.”

The short man got up and said, “I-I believe we should a-approach M-Mr. Stern
amicably and t-try to con-convince him that he i-isn’t in danger.”

“Suggestion noted. Marcus, you’re up.”

The burly man rose and said, “Send a kill squad.”

“Noted. I’d also like to add a third option myself,” he said, getting up. “I say we
send a squad after him with priority on capture rather than elimination. Once he
has been apprehended, we can take it from there and see whether he is up for making
a deal with us.” He sat back down. “Those in favor of Liam’s suggestion, please
raise your hands.”

Only Liam’s arm rose into the air.

“Those in favor of Marcus’s suggestion, please raise your hands.”

Marcus and Bertram cast their vote.

“All those in favor of my suggestion, please raise your hands.”

Everyone else joined his own arm in the air, and he barely concealed a smirk. “Very
well then. Marcus, please…
“File the request immediately.”

Freddy sat in a pile of growth, wearing his camouflaged uniform. Peter soon arrived
from a nearby cave and stood in the middle of the space before him.

He took a long moment to confirm that nobody was following the silver-haired man,
and once he did, he finally left the bush and revealed himself.

The staff member handed him a paper, and he looked at it.

It was a stamped copy of an official report claiming that Peter had witnessed him
running away into the Wastes. Good. The man delivered on his promise and sent the
dogs down the wrong trail.

“Hey Peter,” he called, not even raising his eyes off the report as he casually
shared, “I know the location of a unique blood remnant that the Kraven patriarch
wants to get his hands on.”

The man’s facial expression instantly darkened, and he asked with a shiver in his
voice, “Why… Why would you tell me that?”

Freddy stared him right in the eyes with a casual smirk as he winked and said, “Now
that you know something you’re not supposed to know, you won’t be sharing your
involvement with me any time soon. Sorry, mate, nothing personal. I just want to
make sure you don’t stab me in the back.”

Peter bit his lower lip and nodded, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead.

“So,” he said as he handed him the copy of the report, “how about we discuss the
details?”

Thus, the two men sat down.

Peter started. “On top of my observation, I work in the storage facility in the
alchemical products department. I could possibly sneak you into a transportation
box that would take you into Starhold, but once you get there, you’d have to
somehow escape the warehouse and… dodge the security check.”

He stared at the man pointedly. “What?” he asked.

“That’s my plan,” Peter said.

“And?”

Frowning, Peter asked, “And what?”

“That’s all you have?” he asked incredulously.

“For now, yes.”

As if magnetically attracted to one another, the palm of his hand met his forehead
in one of the loudest facepalms he had ever made in his life. “Peter,” he said. “No
offense, but that’s a really stupid idea.”

The man deflated. “I understand that this isn’t likely to work. But this place
isn’t called an inescapable prison for no reason,” he said. “It will take me some
time to develop a more legitimate plan.”

“And what am I supposed to do until then?”

“Until then?” Peter asked. “You should hide.”

On the edge of the Wastes, three people stood side by side at a lesser-known
entrance. On the left was a woman of average height wearing thick steel armor, her
hair concealed beneath a practical, simple helmet. Her equipment shone with a
polished sheen and formed an elegant, functional, stylish, and modern design that
openly flexed every penny it cost. Her weapon was a long axe with a tzenekite-
imbued steel axe head and a synthetic carbon-hennezium handle.

On the right was another woman, over a head taller, dressed in slightly less heavy
armor that permitted more flexibility, with a greater focus on synthetic material
made to allow a greater range of movement and more speed. At her hip was a saber
made of a hard, crystalline material called fertren, which could resist chipping
even under direct impact with another blade.

And in the middle was a black-haired man shorter than his two companions. He had no
armor, as it got in the way of his talent and fire-affinity abilities, so standing
in his loose black shirt, protective glasses, and without any headgear, he looked
the least imposing of the three.

“Get a move on it,” the tall woman, or, rather, Hellen, said to the other two as
she strode forward.

The other two followed. After walking a short while, the other woman, Jenny,
groaned, “I freaking hate going into this place. Gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“What do you think made the Wastes?” Joshua asked. “Last I heard, most of it was
explored, and nothing of note was found.”

“Maybe like…” she pondered, “alien termites?”

“Focus on the mission, you two,” Hellen warned, “and stop blabbering. You’ll alert
the target of our presence. Josh, keep your eyes peeled. Any heat signatures are
designated as foes by default.”

“Aight, captain,” he said somewhat sarcastically.

They made their way through the caves, finding nothing of note. As they went,
Joshua looked increasingly more disturbed.

“What’s up, Joshua?” Jenny asked. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “It’s just unusual to see no heat signatures of any kind
anywhere. I feel like I’m blind. This place is weird.”

They strode through open caverns and dove into tight passageways, finding nothing
of note. There weren’t even any passages, which was the weirdest part. What on
earth could have prevented even them from appearing?

Eventually, they reached a dead end. Just as they were about to turn around and
head down a different path, Joshua exclaimed, “Wait!”

The other two turned to face him.

“What is it?” Hellen asked.

“Look up there!” he directed with a point of his finger aimed at the spot he was
looking at.

They both turned to where he was pointing but found nothing.

“Are you okay?” Hellen asked, no humor in her tone.

“Yeah, uh… Sorry, I forgot you guys can’t see heat, just,” he said, pointing at a
section of the ceiling, “that part of the wall up there is cold. Much colder than
its surroundings.”

“Is that… bad?” Jenny asked.

He breathed in and half-turned to face them. “Well, I don’t know,” he admitted,

“but that probably means there is a passage up there, just behind the wall. That’s
the only explanation I have.”

“So uh…” Jenny started. “Get the fuck out and report?”

“We are contractually obligated to check any passages we encounter for immediate
danger,” Hellen reminded, “so that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

“I…” Joshua said. “I really… really don’t like this, guys. I don’t know; something
about this is really triggering my instincts. I think Jenny might be right.”

Hellen turned to him, and he could feel her frown even through her face protection.

“We are going to be penalized for ignoring this if we turn around,” she said. “You
feel free to leave, but I have no interest in letting cowardice cost me a
paycheck.”

“There is no proof that we’ve been here,” Joshua begged. “Besides, that thing is
buried behind a wall. We keep things quiet and walk away. Please.”

“I told you,” she repeated. “Feel free to leave.”

With awkward glances at each other, Jenny and Joshua caved in and stepped forward.

The two women were both earth-affinity archs, so they, through a collaborative
effort, manipulated the nearby stone into forming a set of stairs that took them up
to the frigid patch of rock. With a few swings of the flat side of her axe, Jenny
broke through the wall and revealed a small, empty space—

And a circular, meter-wide passage on the ceiling, glowing with a murky, gray
light.

There was something off about it, and even Hellen could feel it. But they had
already staked their pride on entering, so rather than following their guts, they
made their way up, crouching through the tiny space until they reached their
destination.

Hellen made her way up first, followed by Jenny, and finally Joshua.
“Holy…” Jenny whispered.

The sky was a monotone gray mist, and the floor was made of gigantic, square stone
tiles at least ten meters wide. And that was it. The empty, featureless sky and the
recurring flooring stretched endlessly in all directions. Dizzyingly far. More than
even the mind-bogglingly vast horizons of Faralethal’s surface.

The three of them swallowed as one.

“All right…” Hellen said cautiously. “I see what you were talking about. I don’t
see anything. Check the Netherecho.”

Joshua closed his eyes. But then he opened them again. “I…” he whispered as his
eyes dulled and turned to his two companions. “Yes,” he agreed to something, “I do
want that…”

“Josh?” Hellen asked, waving a hand in front of his face. “Jenny, check the
Netherecho.”

“I—”

“I said check the Netherecho!” she screamed out, and the other woman obeyed
reluctantly.

And as soon as she did, she started screaming. Her voice grew coarse from how
loudly she was yelling, and she clawed at her body, trying to peel something away
while screaming, “Get away from me! Get awa—”

Suddenly, Joshua’s arm flew out and grabbed Hellen by her neck, displaying a
strength that bent the synthetic material protecting her as he squeezed and pulled
her down.

His eyes stared directly into hers, and she watched his pupils turn into an eerie
square shape.

“Who are you, woman?” he asked softly in a strange accent, and she reached for her
saber but found moving her arm nearly impossible as something grabbed it. Was it an
invisible spirit?

Jenny was still screaming bloody murder, and Hellen, unable to do anything, dove
into the Netherecho in a last-ditch attempt to find out what was happening.

And then she went limp, her eyes twisting into a square shape all the same as
Joshua’s did.

“Ah, I see,” he said. “A comrade.”

The being possessing Hellen’s body ripped his arm out of the clutch around her neck
and spat. “You have assisted me,” it said, “so I will humor your companionship
until we discover where we are.”

As Jenny finally calmed herself and tried getting up, her two companions turned to
her.

Square eyes watching, piercing deep into her soul.

40

SHRINKING PATH

They said that Janhalar, the reigning patriarch of the Kraven Clan, smiled only
once in his life. It wasn’t when his child was born, nor was it when he underwent
his marriage ceremony.

The only time he had ever truly smiled was when he reached the third star and
evolved his talent.

To the Kraven, blood was all, and his was particularly special. Aptly named Blood
of the Patriarch, his talent made his blood incredibly potent. Whether in creating
blood-attuned equipment or for alchemical purposes, the liquid running through his
veins was like pure gold to any blood-affinity archhuman. Even drinking it raw was
said to increase the richness and quality of one’s own blood, purifying their bone
marrow and cleansing their veins.

In its crimson greatness, his blood was like a key that could unlock the potential
of any other blood it was mixed into, while itself having superb quality and combat
application.

So that was why, at that moment, for the second time ever, while digging through
trash in a dump yard like the lowest of subhuman scum, he was grinning from ear to
ear.

With the acquisition of a unique blood remnant, not only could he create an
incredibly potent new ability, but he could also acquire a unique affinity. Perhaps
that could push him enough to earn himself a fifth star, a step that he hadn’t been
able to make much progress toward for over thirty years, finding himself stuck at
90% completion of his fourth star.

He picked up a broken dishwasher as if it weighed less than a feather and flung it

behind his back, then he morphed his blood to shovel further underneath it. No
response from his ring. But he knew that it was close.

Anywhere between a few hours from that point to a few days at the latest, it would
be in his grasp. Finally. After so long. After losing all hope, reality finally saw
reason and corrected its error.

Finally.

He would be victorious. As he had always been fated to.

Camp Violet, as dangerous, filthy, and exhausting as it might have been, was the
hope of many archhumans—a light shining at the end of a long, dark tunnel.
For many, the damp environment of the caves was an upgrade to the subhuman
imprisonment standards of the Kraven facilities. Here, there was warmth sometimes;
there was a goal to strive for, a way out. There was hope.

But some, try as they may, couldn’t outpace the inflation of their debt. Breaking
or losing equipment was punished severely. Breaking or losing a limb was punished
even worse.

Through the maze of tents, a disgruntled giant pushed his way forward. It was true;
he was no hero. He was no great warrior, despite his physique leading many to
believe otherwise.

Cupping the still-tender wound on his chest, he, who was nicknamed Skull Crusher,
prayed for a quick return to the Wastes. It wasn’t just a place to settle
grievances and have fun. Many placed bets and forged contracts, which the camp
staff happily enforced in a way that benefitted them the most—by cutting credit or
enforcing stricter daily quotas to force one worker to repay the debt of another.

For him, who had had a five-million-dollar debt, which had shrunk to just under
four million recently, a successful career as a ring-fighter was his only way of
even dreaming of repaying it.

With his affinity for earth and impressive body, he had a place there. With his
talent, Enhanced Sense of Smell, he was fated to never be able to reach the top.

Several lesser men got out of his way as he angrily brushed past them. The thick
forest of tents was a pain to navigate, and the poor lighting wasn’t much help.

What the hell kind of crazy talent did that snitch bastard have? Weren’t the ones
with powerful combat talents supposed to be barred from even joining this
expedition? And if they were, meaning if that bastard indeed didn’t have anything
special…

He sighed. If that man didn’t have an impressive talent, he certainly had

remarkable potential. But it was fine, he admitted begrudgingly. He never wanted to
be a warrior anyway. He wanted to be a master chef.

If only he hadn’t given in to his greed and poisoned—

The sudden, unexpected shattering of a nearby lantern made him jump in a way that
made both his existing wound ache and added another to his pride.

“What the—” he asked in his deep voice.

The lamp was shattered, and the small fire crystal was exposed to the open air.
Back in his days in the kitchen, he had worked with many of those, so he knew how
strictly they were designed with utmost safety in mind. Once broken, the fire
crystal would—

It was supposed to cool rapidly and deactivate… but it didn’t. At all. The small
shard started glowing brighter before his eyes, and then it set aflame.

“You gotta be joking!”

Thankfully, if he recalled correctly, the tents were made of fire-proof material.

But as the crystal finally got hot enough to burn through the metallic shell it was
trapped within, it dropped onto the tent cloth—which started burning.

With an ability, he pulled a large block of earth up and kicked it onto the tent,
but it was useless; the blaze was spreading fast, unnaturally so.

The faintest of sparks merely touched the edge of his uniform, landing on the
sleeve of his leg. Then, it burned, igniting a yellow inferno that scorched red,
violet, and finally pure white as it spread to his entire body.

With the hot air turning his lungs into pure ash, he couldn’t even muster a scream,
merely falling soundlessly on the soil as the hellish flames spread to another
tent.

And from far away, from the distant entrance to the open caverns, a pair of square-
pupiled eyes blazed with the bloody orange light of a devil.

He observed the screams of the filthy skin monkeys as they scattered away from his
unholy flames. Their primitive huts burned violently, and just over two-thirds were
already ash.

But his eyes already bled.

Grabbing his head to push away the headache, he laughed somberly. “I could once
turn cities to ash with a glance… and now look at me. Look what I have been reduced
to.”

His companion, the swordmaster who had taken the body of a tall female of the ape
race, glared at him with her unnerving eyes.

She cocked her head and mused, “What were you?”

“A lord among the proud kalishitt race,” he declared. “A demon of six stars. What
about you?” he asked in turn.

“A champion,” she said, “of the beautiful poppolone beastkin. Also of six stars.”

“I see,” he said with a nod. “And what power is it that made you a champion?”

Rather than say anything, she raised the admittedly high-quality crystal saber in
her right hand. With a minor flick of her other wrist, a near-identical copy of the
weapon appeared, one with a phantasmal shine.

Watching the burning, screaming creatures rushing toward them, she swung her arm
and threw the copy of the weapon. As it took flight, it did not spin, but it flew
with the delicate grace of a mighty arrow, straight and true, right through the
forehead of a hairless male.

With his death, another copy appeared, one that she threw straight through the body
of another victim and into the stomach of a second. With that, two copies appeared,
and with the use of an ability, she kept both crystal weapons afloat.

His eyes widened slightly at seeing that. So she also had an advanced affinity,
then? Crystal, and maybe even metal. Impressive.

Then she launched them, killing three. Three weapons appeared. Then she killed
five, and yet again, the same number of weapons appeared floating around her.

“I see,” he said. “A talent worthy of a champion.”

Stephen’s phone was a cacophony of ringing and overlapping voices. With a press of
both thumbs, he silenced everyone except the surveillance officer.

“Tell me immediately!” he demanded. “What the hell is happening!?”

“Less than a minute ago, a large fire enveloped the camp!” the voice came, oozing
with panic and confusion. “There is… I…”

“Request the mercenaries!”

“They’re there, sir,” the surveillance officer responded strickenly. “Th-They were
there.”

“J-Josh… Hellen…” A kneeling, armless, burned skin ape, who had moments ago stood
with the pride of a life and water affinity warrior of three stars, now begged like
a miserable worm. “What… What ha-happened to you guys!?” he cried. “Where is this
power coming—”

Thankfully, the saber woman cut his words—and head—off, ending the pathetic
whining.

“My name is Firrita,” she finally introduced herself. “Or it had been. I do not
know who or what I am anymore,” she echoed his very thoughts. “I vaguely remember
who I was and what I stood for… but the details are vague. And most of the power I
once held seems to have been lost.”

Whatever had happened to them, they were both in the same situation.

“I would never betray my kin,” she said, “was what I truly believed when I was
myself. Now, while I embody one of these soft, fleshy underground dwellers, I do
not accept them as my own.” Then, she turned to him. “You are the closest I have to
a kindred.”

He smiled at her. If it had any use to him, he’d stab her in the back in the blink
of an eye, having no such pathetic weaknesses himself. But having a temporary
servant was just what he needed.

“My name is Kaefalge,” he introduced himself as well. “I used to be Sanae Illitit

Kaefalge, but that title holds no more weight. We could be anywhere in the Great
Labyrinthe, meaning we will likely never find our old homes.” He raised his hand,
offering her an arm-lock. “An alliance is the best choice for both of us.”

She reflexively presented her arm with an open palm before pulling it back.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Is that the greeting of your people?”

“No…” she denied. “That seems to be the way these dwellers greet one another. This
body still holds some habits from its previous owner.”

He squinted at her. “Ah… I see… I believe I feel the same pull myself. Very well.
That is how we shall greet each other then.” He offered her the same gesture. “A
grasp of the hands. An elegant greeting, indeed.”

“What the fuck!?” something screamed from their side, and they both turned to face
one of the apes who seemingly just returned to its settlement.

It was a man with silver hair and striking blue eyes. It didn’t take long for him
to register their presence. As soon as he did, he turned around, running back into
the caves as fast as he could.

Kaefalge raised his hand, preparing to throw a flame lance at the fleeing target,
but Firrita grabbed him by the wrist, stopping his attack.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you intend to spare that
creature?”

“Not at all,” she declared. “I merely wish to give you a suggestion.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“My people,” she said, “we have a tradition.”

“Oh?” he mused. “And what is this tradition you speak of?”

She smiled at him. “New friends bond through a hunt.”

He smiled back at her. “Very well.”

The nine head administrators of Camp Violet appeared on the surface, leaving
through a hidden elevator with only them in tow. It was an emergency evacuation, so
they had to go at once.

They all looked ill for one reason or another. Some out of fear, some out of worry
or guilt. But Stephen felt sick knowing he had just lost so… so much money.

Up on the surface, in a concealed hangar, was a ship. It was an elegant shape of

steel construction, resembling a giant pill with windows. They boarded it, and
Stephen prepared to push a button. But before he could, Liam rushed over, gripped
his arm, and pulled it back.

“Liam,” Stephen said, frustration boiling over. “What on New Earth are you doing!?”

“I-I…” the man tried. “We… There is… The sh-ship is… It’s big. Th-there is sp-space
for a-at least t-twenty more people,” he said, sweating profusely.

Stephen gritted his teeth. “All right, then, anyone in favor of putting this stupid
idea to the vote, raise your hands.”

Nobody did. So Stephen pushed the—

“Wait!” Liam yelled, holding his arm tighter.

“Marcus!” Stephen barked, and the burly man got up and smacked Liam on the back of
his head, knocking him out instantly… Then, without any further protest, Stephen
finally pressed the button.
The ship started, lifted off the ground, and flew off into the distance—

Abandoning the camp to its fate.

Peter ran for his life. “Fuck!” he screamed as he dodged out of the way of a
phantasmal saber, nearly slipping on the wet rock.

He needed help. And he needed it soon. So he ran as fast as he could toward—

Suddenly, a fireball exploded to his left, burning half of his body and sending him
tumbling to the ground.

The vision in his left eye went blank. The feeling in most of his body disappeared.
With the looming threat of death hanging above him, he did the only thing he could
do.

He screamed for help.

Freddy sat leaning against a wall in his secret hideout, banging his head
repeatedly against the stony cavern wall.

He couldn’t help but sigh. He was so tired. Tired of hoping, tired of working.
Tired of always having to escape one problem or another.

There wasn’t much risk of him getting captured. It wasn’t like he was easy to
identify—muscular, average-height men with black hair weren’t all that hard to
find, and it was likely that he would be deemed dead before long.

The man helping him, Peter, was just another desperate, selfish prick trying to
claw his way up in the world. So it was again that he found himself alone, part of
him waiting to see what that man cooked up and another part trying to think of his
own plan.

For now, training was his best option. There was no harm in gathering more power.
His star was at around 71% of its capacity, and as long as he fought some monsters
in the caves, he should have no problem reaching the second star.

What he would do after that was for later. Perhaps with enough searching, he would
find the right opportunity, but… it was getting depressing. The caves were a lonely
place—at the best of times. And he was tired of being alone.

He missed Mark. Honestly, he’d kiss the man on his forehead if he saw him. There
was also Steve, the gym trainer, even though he was a bit of a prick. And James,
Sharon… All of those people he had taken for granted. He had taken people for
granted in general.

At that moment, he did not want anything more than peace and good friends.

Suddenly, the faint sound of screaming reached his ears. It was barely audible, and
he was surprised to have noticed it.
He got closer to the pile of rocks that blocked the entrance into his cave and
shifted it aside, carefully listening, trying to puzzle out if it was anything he
had to be concerned about—

And immediately realized that it very much was. Because whoever it was, they were
screaming his name.

Carefully making his way out, he followed the faint echoes as they first got
louder, then quieter.

Kaefalge basked in their prey’s agony, feeling his heart bubbling in joy at the
music of the pitiful creature’s wails of suffering. “I missed this,” he said. “It
feels like I haven’t properly enjoyed myself in a long, long time.”

Firrita raised her hand. “Be quiet. Its calls might attract another of its species.
My instincts tell me he hadn’t been running in this direction for no reason.”

Kaefalge would never tolerate being told to stay quiet. But he humored the woman.
She could consider it a reward for not being as soft as he feared her to be.

Not too long after, just as their prey was reaching its wit’s end… another of its
species arrived at its call.

From where they were hiding, Firrita raised her saber to throw it at the man who
arrived, but this time, Kaefalge was the one to stop her. “No…” he whispered,
grinning wickedly. “Let us observe.”

After a few minutes, Freddy reached the clearing where he had met with Peter, only
to find the man in the same place again.

“Fre… Fre-ddy—” This time, however, he was lying on the floor, covered in ash and
soot. Half his body had been severely burned, his silver hair was charred to a
crisp, and a good chunk of his face was missing. His left eye hung outside its
socket, flat, deflated, and barely holding on to its nerve. His uniform was singed,
and the synthetic material had partly melted and fused with his skin.

“Fraeeh… Freeeddy… Hel-Help me. Help me,” the man cried through his wounded throat,
spitting blood as he forced his words out. “I’m dying,” he said. “I-I’m going to
die.”

He took shaky steps back from the injured man.

“My eye,” the man wheezed weakly. “My body… Help… I can’t feel my—” Peter tried. “I
can’t…”

A strong urge to puke overwhelmed Freddy as he leaned to the side, ejecting the
concoction of mushrooms he had consumed that day onto the slippery cavern floor.
“What the fuck!?” he screamed, breathing heavily. “What the hell happened!?”

“The camp…” the man breathed out. “Fire…” he said, raising his one good eye as it
widened. “They…” was the last he mustered as he lost consciousness.

After approaching him and placing a careful finger on the man’s neck, on the
unburned side, he confirmed it. His successive few heartbeats came, each slower
than the previous one, and then they stopped altogether.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he tried to think.

“The camp… Fire? They?” he whispered in a panic, turning to face the path to the
camp. He swore he could hear a faint, distant sound, but it might have been his
imagination. The camp wasn’t too far from his hiding place, but the maze of paths
would certainly kill any noise before it could reach him.

He swallowed. What should he do? Had the camp been destroyed?

A lump appeared in his throat as he had a terrifying realization. Could… Could it

be an eidolon? Or perhaps a monster of similar strength? If not, then… what?

They? Who was the man talking about?

Suddenly, the spacious cavern felt like it was closing in on him. The only reason
he was even remotely safe standing there was because the surrounding area was
regularly cleared of monsters. If… If the camp had suffered irreparable damage…

“Oh, shit!” he hissed. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…”

There was a reason why the camp didn’t keep their prisoners leashed. If he was
abandoned here, the chances of ever reaching civilization were… nonexistent.

“What the hell do I do then!?” he asked nobody in particular as he grabbed a

handful of his hair with both hands.

It wasn’t like he could go back and check! That was suicide! No… actually… wait…

He cupped his chin as his thoughts ran an anxious race. If the camp had really been
destroyed, it was likely that somebody would be sent to investigate.

Could he use that to his advantage?

His eyes slowly traveled to the charred corpse beside his feet.

He swallowed.

Leaning down, he carefully checked the man’s clothes, wincing whenever he touched
anything gooey. To his dismay, the stench of charred flesh wasn’t at all
unpleasant, and the contrast between the smell of roasted meat and the sight before
him made him feel sick to the stomach.

Eventually, he managed to find an ID. It was a pretty well-concealed piece of

plastic that clearly identified the man as a staff member.

Freddy bit his nails anxiously. It had a picture of Peter’s face, but the heat had
lightly melted it, bending the plastic ever-so-slightly and making it difficult to
tell. Still, it was clearly a young man with silver hair.

He felt the short stubble of black hair on the top of his head. He had no idea how
he’d disguise it, but if he could find something… A thought came to mind, and he
swallowed as he looked at the corpse again. Indeed, while he didn’t have silver
hair, neither did the burn victim who lay lifeless beside him. All that was left on
his head were nasty burns.

… What if he burned his own face and hair off? That would make him utterly
unrecognizable. He was a bit bulkier than Peter, but that was nothing that a bit of
starvation and intense cardio couldn’t change. On top of that, they were of similar
height, and if he burned his vocal cords, nobody could recognize him by his speech,
either. But there was also Abyssal Depths. His body weight was clearly unnaturally
high, so he had to devise a technique to undo the water density and return to a
normal body weight.

Finally, something akin to an actual plan began forming in his mind.

It was likely that, if not soon, someone would eventually come along.

And he… no… Peter Vane would be found hiding in the caves, his face and body having
suffered severe burns and his vocal cords having been damaged beyond repair.

For a moment, he felt like a stranger in his own body. He cackled mirthlessly and
pushed those feelings down. When it came to survival, there was no place for
questioning himself. No matter what he had to do.

With all the resolve he could muster, he grabbed the dead body by the unburnt arm
and rushed to a pit several caverns away, where he promptly hid it and then threw
several large stones to bury it. It would be eaten by bugs soon enough.

Returning back to his secret cave, he closed the entrance. The hand holding the ID
card shook profusely, and he accidentally dropped it. Picking it back up, he
decided to put this thing somewhere safe. He didn’t trust himself to not lose it.

Eventually, he found an easily identifiable little nook, wrapped the ID into some
cloth he severed from his own uniform, placed it inside, and then put a large,
marked rock to cover it.

Then… it was time for the most challenging part. The burns will have to look
convincing. They had to look as if he had gotten them around this time. It wouldn’t
be easy. Perhaps he could use a fire crystal from one of the lanterns, and with
essence manipulation, he could make water evaporate, meaning he could dry some
leaves or roots with relative ease and use them as kindling.

Taking a deep breath and swallowing the sick feeling swelling up in his throat, he
shifted the rock to the entrance to leave and find a—

A sudden burst of fire pulverized the rock he was holding. He was sent flying back,
tumbling over the short distance as he flopped into the underground lake.

A shard of stone had nicked him in the eye, and he had notable burns over his body,
even though he hadn’t broken anything.

Shit! he cursed internally. Had the thing that destroyed the camp been chasing
after Peter!?

His mind whirled. There was only one entrance to the cavern above. Did whatever had
attacked him know that he was in there? He had no clue, but he knew that swimming
up to the surface would be a stupid idea.

Shifting the water around his body, he rapidly sank to the bottom of the lake. With
his level of fitness, he could probably last a while. During that time, he simply
had to stay still and not move.
Out of fear that simply remaining at the bottom of the lake left him exposed, he
used water manipulation to push his body further. His left eye bled profusely; it
was dark, and even with the water affinity, he hadn’t worked on developing an
underwater ocular ability.

He simply moved to wherever it was darkest to ensure he was as hidden as possible.

As he sank deeper into the shadow, he felt algae tendrils tickling the surface of
his skin, but he kept going deeper. Grasping a few pieces of algae, he pulled them
apart, hoping to heal himself a bit. To his surprise, however, the stifling feeling
in his lungs lessened. His one good eye shot open.

Could supreme-quality healing undo… asphyxiation? Another grab of some plants

confirmed that theory. That calmed him down a bit. He had more time than he
initially thought, then.

Grabbing one herb after another, he kept sinking deeper into the small hole to
ensure that he was as hidden as he could be.

Just when he thought to stop, his hand touched something gooey. With a reflex of
such speed that it was impossible to avoid, a tentacle wrapped around his shoulder,
just under his armpit, and started pulling him in deeper.

What the fu— he yelped internally, caught off-guard by the sudden appearance of a
monster.

But before he could do anything about it, the limb pulled harder, dragging him into
a tight, jagged hole where the rough edges cut and bruised his skin, leaving large
open gashes all over his body.

After a few turbulent seconds, he found himself being sucked into the maw of a
giant octopus thrice the size of his body. Rushing to grab the dagger sheathed on
his belt, he stabbed repeatedly while the horrid creature bit his leg with a beaked
maw, tearing deep into his thigh. He screamed, losing all the air in his lungs as
he pushed Flowing Strike into his swings.

The rush of lifesteal slightly alleviated the pain, and after another few good
stabs, the creature stopped moving.

With the haze of blood surrounding him, he could barely see where he was, but one
thing stood out—it was bright. Swimming up, it took him a mere few moments to find
himself on the shore of a miniature lake in a tropical forest.

“What the…!?”

Had he just been dragged through a passage? While that had been a terrible
experience that left him horribly injured, it might have also possibly saved his
life, so he supposed that it kind of evened out.

The trees surrounding him were a violently saturated green in color, and what
little growth there was around his feet was bushy and yellow. Up above, he spotted
the sky, but it was unusual, shimmering with a strange, shifting light.

Making his way to a small clearing, holding his bleeding thigh, and occasionally
stabbing a tree he passed to heal a bit, he finally saw it. “Wow,” he couldn’t stop
himself from breathing out in awe.

The fake sky hiding behind giant floating rocks appeared like the surface of a
liquid when viewed from below. It shimmered and shifted with the turbulent
fluctuation of a large body of water, and every few seconds, a wave passed by,
leaving a shimmering trail of glittery, scattered glow behind.

It was beautiful. He hoped there were no more monsters around.

A short while of stabbing short bushes and trees later, his leg was doing well
enough for him to stand on, and it at least wasn’t bleeding anymore.

A strange sight caught his eye through the thick, tropical growth, and he slowly
approached it, cautiously observing his environment.

As he finally exited the bushy forest, he walked onto a beautiful, picturesque

beach.

An ocean spread distantly in all directions, and every so often, a colorful shape
jumped out of it in a short-lived leap, likely the activity of fish or whatever
those things were; it was hard to see from afar.

Judging that there was no active threat, he pulled back, ensuring he didn’t step
too close to the water. He didn’t want a repeat of what happened just a few minutes
ago. As he pulled back, he took another swing at a tree. Frankly, these things held
a lot more vitality than seemed obvious. He hadn’t been at it for long, but his
condition was already improving.

So he took another swing. As he stabbed it, something felt deeply wrong. It was as
if the entire world had leaned at the slightest of angles, but enough for him to
realize something wasn’t right.

Then, the soil began vibrating. The sea started roiling. The entire island lifted,
and he lost his footing.

As he fell to the ground, he saw the titanic shadow of a long, snaky head rising
from beneath the ocean’s surface as it turned to look at him. The dozens of pearly
eyes adorning the head of something akin to a blend of a dragon and a turtle homed
in on him.

The creature spread its jaw wide open, and its tongue split into hundreds of
tentacles that rushed at him.

There wasn’t an appropriate way to react. There was no chance of escape.

Not a single coherent thought went through his head as one of the tendrils grabbed
him by the leg, pulled him high into the sky, and dragged him into the maw of the
leviathan.

Bloodshed felt it. Master was in trouble. Deep trouble. More trouble than all the
other trouble he had been in combined, and the path of blood was rapidly drying up.

It had to remain obedient. But… what was the point if there was nobody to obey?

In the underground beneath it, it felt the closest path to Master. Pulling itself
down, it moved from one tight space to another, eventually dropping into what
seemed to be a carriage buried beneath tons and tons of trash.

And in that carriage, right on what used to be its roof, there was a passage. It
had to hurry. This was the first of many steps it would have to take. But it would
do anything to get there in time.

Janhalar whistled cheerfully, and he scooped up another pile of garbage. At that

moment, he felt like there wasn’t a single thing that could ruin his mood—and it
took but a moment for him to regret that thought.

The ring on his finger, the focus of the intense resonance, the feeling he had been
basking in…

Suddenly went deathly quiet.

41

UNSCARRED OF FATE’S FILTHY HANDS

Being dragged into the mouth of the beast left Freddy frozen stiff, terrified
beyond what he believed was possible; his hand clutched the dagger in a death grip,
but his shoulder was locked, making him incapable of even taking a swing, and as
the numerous sharp teeth flew right past his face, he was left helpless,
practically waiting for the creature to close its maw and skewer him with hundreds
of spiked, needle-like protrusions.

But it didn’t.

Instead, he was dragged to the back of the throat as the giant monstrosity likely
deemed him too small to even bother chewing; the tentacle squeezed hard enough to
snap his spine and several other bones, then he was pushed down into pure darkness
where, with his body mangled, he was helpless to resist as the hot, stinky,
slippery throat swallowed, crushing his body again and pushing him further on a
dizzying journey where up and down and left and right and front and behind blended
into a singularity he couldn’t escape.

He tried cutting with the dagger, but the flesh was more akin to slippery metal
than actual organic tissue, and without any foothold, he could apply practically no
force to his strikes.

In an instant, the suffocating tunnel of tight muscle disappeared, and he fell in a

short freefall, splashing back-first against a liquid that immediately began
sizzling.

He screamed, and the breath he took after burned so badly that his lungs felt as if
they were melting.

The stomach acid of the beast was intense; the upper layer of his skin was already
succumbing to its corrosive might, and with the depth of the liquid and the
constant sloshing as the beast moved, he had no chance of making it anywhere.

He was rapidly approaching a state of unconsciousness, and he knew that if he did,

it was over—death was inevitable.

A sudden lurch sent him tumbling against the wall of the stomach, and his dagger
nicked the hard edge. Yet again, the stomach was far too strong to succumb to the
sharp piece of metal in his hands, and in the next moment, he had already tumbled
back into the liquid, continuing his swim to the other shore of river Styx.

Time was running out. Each moment, the distinction between the pitch-black darkness
and the encroaching unconsciousness grew blurrier.

He lifted his hand and cast Create Water. A large-basin-worth of liquid flowed out
of his hand, washing over him and temporarily diluting the acid. With that, his
mind cleared just a bit, but enough to think properly for a moment—enough for him
to swim forward, pushing through the pain until he reached the wall of the stomach,
and then take a swing imbued with Flowing Strike.

The dagger sank only a few centimeters into the surface, but it was enough for 1%
Lifesteal to send a powerful wave of healing through his body, doing little of
substance but clearing his mind enough to give him some hope that his plan was
possible—until the entire world started vibrating.

The creature screamed with such fervor that the stomach acid began evaporating, and
his hearing was destroyed in an instant. The intense vibration nearly shook his
heart apart, but he pushed through and took another swing.

The leviathan began shifting, writhing in pain, and he was flung to the other side
of the stomach, where he attacked again.

Time was running out faster than expected, and there was no way to breathe as his
lungs had been corroded away, and he was rapidly suffocating. With the small dagger
and his insufficient strength, there was no way for him to cling to the stomach for
longer than a single stab, after which he’d be thrown back into the depths of
acidic hell.

Only a single, reckless gamble stood before him, the only thing keeping the fear of
unavoidable demise at bay—he dove into the pool of sloshing acid, its rotten,
putrid currents near impossible to maneuver through.

But one Create Water after another diluted the viscous liquid enough for him to
swim forward, even though he had no clue which direction to swim in. Eventually, he
reached the bottom of the stomach and followed the edge along the path he assumed
went down, even though that was barely a reliable sign.

Luck was on his side, and fortune must have found his situation funny enough to
humor him. There, he discovered the entrance that led him deeper into the
intestines, where the liquid grew thicker, and the acid more powerful.

The entire surface of his skin was already damaged beyond repair through ordinary
means, and death by shock was seconds away.

With what little essence he had remaining, he engaged Hydraulic Flex, bracing his
feet against one side of the intestine and pushed his dagger into the other, and
despite putting damn-near everything he had into it, the blade barely sank into the
surface.
He was completely deaf, but the vibrations traveling through the viscous liquid
told him the intestine’s owner wasn’t happy with his plan.

With the last of his essence, a Flowing Strike flowed through his body, and the
momentum transferred into the dagger, pushing it deeper inside. Another wave of
healing washed over him.

Deeper and deeper, the cut went, and soon enough, he could feel the warm flow of
blood mixing into the ruthless digestive juice, easing the ever-present pain and
encouraging him.

After an eternity of inching the tip to widen the gash, he thought he had made the
cut big enough to travel through. Grabbing a loose chunk of tissue, he pulled
himself up with a death grip, and crawled his way out into the guts of the
leviathan.

After nearly an hour of digging through trash like a maniac, Janhalar still hadn’t
come to terms with it. He had been so close, standing at what felt like the finish
line to a long, grueling journey, only to suddenly find himself lost deep in the
woods.

What the hell happened? What the hell could have happened? Anything short of
reality itself stepping out of its way to bully him wasn’t rational enough to
explain away this ungodly level of misfortune.

Then he felt it. The connection between his ring and Bloodshed, which had been
entirely dead a mere moment ago, sprang to life again. But something was wrong; it
was different.

“Don’t tell me… it became a spirit!?”

If that was the case, there was only one explanation for what had happened, and as
soon as he made the conclusion, the ring flared up again. In his mind’s eye, he saw
a path. It was a crimson road, a way forward, wading through a metaphorically knee-
high river of blood. Without hesitation, he ran down it.

A mile or so away, it took him underground. Digging through trash with fervor
unlike anything he’d displayed in his life, he reached a buried old carriage and
saw it.

There was a passage that delved into a perhaps B-grade desert realm. And the path
in his mind’s eye was already leading to another passage, all the way on the other
side.

All sense of time vanished as Freddy desperately clung to the last string of hope
he had. Again and again, he cut through flesh, unsure of where he even was anymore.
The insanely high body temperature of the thrashing leviathan was cooking him
alive, and the lack of oxygen made him feel like he was constantly on the brink of
suffocation.

But thanks to the miraculous work of supreme healing supplied by his talent, he was
still alive.

Swinging the already bent and dulled dagger like an animal swung its claws—all
instincts heightened to their maximum—he was but a beast trying to survive.

Although at first he thought that was his imagination, by then he was confident his
body was shrinking. Such a fervent, intense hunger raged in his gut that he knew
his body must have been eating itself alive, be it through the insane calorie
consumption or through discarding tissue that had been boiled to well done.

Either way, it was a crisis; his swings were already weakening, and the dehydration
was getting critical as well. At some point, he started biting away without even
realizing it—swallowing mangled flesh and drinking blood like a parasite.

It wasn’t tasty, and it was clearly not suitable for human consumption. Every crumb
and drop of meat and blood was like swallowing a thunderstorm that threatened to
obliterate his body with whatever ether was concentrated within, and it was only
through his talent continuously repairing the damage that he could push through it.

Every so often, he had to dive into the fleshy confines of the Netherecho to
replenish his essence reserves—and every time, he found more and more blood wisps
surrounding him.

At some point, his weakness started leaving him. Although his body felt like little
more than a skeleton with a few strings of flesh attached, unbelievable strength
filled it to the point where his bites alone could tear flesh apart like raw dough.

The endless suffocation no longer bothered him. Thoughts of escape fizzled out, and
he simply indulged in the never-ending stream of life force flowing into his body.

Then, it began weakening. And whatever effect the flesh had on his mind was briefly
pushed aside as he had a terrifying thought—the leviathan was dead, and he was
still trapped deep within its body.

A newfound fervor, now born of panic, flushed him as he clawed forward like a mole
burrowing through dirt, desperately seeking the way out.

With each swing, the life force grew thinner; soon, he was suffocating again.
Gripping torn flesh with the power of a vice grip, he kept pulling himself forward
as one downward slash after another forged a path—until his blade struck bone and
its tip chipped.

Shit! he screamed internally, terror filling him.

Making his way around the bone, he kept pushing, increasingly uncertain where he
was going. But eventually, he broke through and dropped into an open space—a
slippery tunnel he immediately started gliding down.

Stabbing the dagger into the wall, he took deep breaths, but the air felt thin.
There wasn’t much oxygen here, and a powerful smell of fresh meat filled his lungs.
Taking effortful breaths, he picked a way to go and clawed his way up. There was a
fifty-fifty chance that he was going the right way, and what if he couldn’t push
past the maze of teeth?

Then, the path before him disappeared again, and he dropped down—right back into
the stomach acid.

“Fuck!” he wheezed and rushed to get up. The darkness was absolute. There was no
way to tell where the way back was. He braced himself against the side of the
stomach and leaped with Hydraulic Flex anyway, but he slammed into a solid surface,
bouncing off it and right back into the stomach acid.

The lack of oxygen was well past making him merely dizzy. If it weren’t for his
peak-one-star reduced need for oxygen, he would have likely already been dead.

The stomach acid was eating his flesh again, but he got up again. And failed to
make the jump the second time. And then, the third time. The fourth time, he
reached the hole and barely managed to cling to it. With a few desperate pulls, he
brought himself back up.

There was another crisis to face. As the muscles relaxed, the beast’s throat began
closing up. The way back wasn’t a climb through an open tunnel but a crawl through
a tightly shut barrier of meat flaps. He thought he would push them apart and make
his way through, but it was easier said than done. The mucus was drying, turning
into glue that sealed the path shut.

But that just happened to be precisely what he needed. It was no longer slippery,
and despite yet again facing a lack of air, he at least didn’t need to claw his way
up with the dagger.

Crawling up, he did his best not to think about how long the neck of the beast was.
Instead, he hurried along. At one point, he lost consciousness for a mere moment
and decided that he couldn’t afford to stop taking swings at the flesh, even though
the healing was already petering out.

His exhaustion kept getting worse. The throat kept growing stickier. It wasn’t
going to happen.

Panicked, he rushed to claw at the throat again, then he pushed his way into the
muscle. In death, luckily, the beast’s flesh seemed to have gotten a bit more
tender, and he found himself emboldened, swinging the dagger faster and praying he
didn’t hit bone again.

At one point, cutting became more difficult, and he struggled to make much
progress. It was hard to even call his dagger a blade by then, as it had been
dulled to the point where nothing but the sheer force of his swings made it usable.
Suddenly, he saw a faint ray of light, and water poured into the gap.

Widening the opening, he pushed himself out and swam. The entire world spun, and
instead of getting brighter, it felt like the surface was growing darker. With each
moment, the last bits of his strength thinned, and the wall of absolute exhaustion
grew closer.

Then something bit him.

He screamed in reflex and lost what little air he had in his lungs as he turned
around to face his assailant. It was a massive fish with giant, serrated teeth,
most of which were embedded deep in his leg, where they, admittedly, had little to
bite on other than thin muscle, tough skin, and bone.

A flock of these things surrounded him, and he swung the dagger down, empowering
his movement with Hydraulic Flex, which worked better underground than Flowing
Strike.

The dagger stabbed into the head of the beast, and the intense rush marking the
critical strike to its brain made the world brighten again.

The rest of the flock circled him, eyeing him warily, and he panicked. Why didn’t
they come closer? Were they waiting for him to drown? If so, they didn’t have to
wait for long! In his desperation, he cut at his own body, hoping that the smell of
blood would be enough to bait some of them to come closer.

It worked immediately. Three of the flock broke away and rushed him, but instead of
salvation, he faced another crisis. Their attacks were merciless, taking sharp,
nasty bites at his body. His attacks weren’t fast enough.

One of them grabbed his arm, and he caught something in its throat to keep it in
place as he stabbed at it. Through sheer chance, his many swings killed another.
While he was keeping suffocation at bay for the moment, the loss of blood would
finish him off first.

Another of these demon spawns rushed at him, and in a reflex reaction, he hugged
it. The fish swam away at insane speed, and he barely clung to its slippery skin,
staying attached through nothing more than his recent practice of sticking to
slippery surfaces.

To his immense displeasure, the fish dove down, and if he wasn’t tempered by
Abyssal Depths, he was sure that he would have lost consciousness due to the
intense pressure. But then it changed course. It started swimming up, yet another
move that would have killed him if he were an untempered mortal.

He watched with trepidation as the surface rapidly rushed to meet him, and rather
than chance the monster turning back down, he let go when he was ten meters from
the shore, where he swam up.

Inch by inch, the glorious promise of air reached closer, and with a decisive push,
his head finally popped above the surface.

Taking his first breath in what felt like forever was the best feeling he had ever
experienced in his life. Granted, the fish that bit his foot the moment later
ruined it, but landing a solid stab on its stupid head and killing it improved it
again.

Although his focus was on swimming back to shore, he couldn’t help but notice the
state of his body—the surface of his skin was snow-white, all his hair had been
melted off, his nails were crimson red; he was so skinny that he more resembled a
well-embalmed mummy than a human.

In fact, if he didn’t have the aid of his water manipulation, he would have been
sinking due to how dense his body was, both because he had no fat tissue to speak
of and because of Abyssal Depths.

Still, effortfully, he pushed his way to the shore and landed. Pulling himself up
on the sand, he felt too tired to even breathe.

Just as he was about to succumb to temptation and fall asleep, a man’s voice
reached his ears. “How incredible…” someone mired, and he quickly rushed to get up—
and failed.

He couldn’t get up to his feet, no matter how hard he tried, and all he could do
was raise his head to take a look.

Two people stood before him—a short man and a tall woman. The woman stood, carrying
a crystal saber which she had casually slung over her shoulder, and the man
squatted unarmed, cocking his head at him.

No matter who they were, he wasn’t happy to see them, and their strange, eerie,
square eyes raised every hair on his body—or they would have if he had any left.

“Do you think he will pass the trial?” she asked.

“We shall see,” he answered. “I am curious to witness the means of these dwellers.
Let us watch.”

What the hell are they talking about? he wondered, but then he realized something.

Although it was through absurd means, he had technically just slain a creature God
knew how far above him… so why hadn’t he felt any ether entering his soul?

Then he looked into his ethercosm.

“Oh… so that’s where it went,” was all he could say when he saw the storm roiling
around his star.

Wisps of dark, shadowy water coiled around it, orbiting it, but none of them sank
in and absorbed. Instead, they began dispersing, seemingly disappearing, until—

“Ack!” he gasped as he suddenly felt as if something was trying to burrow its way
out of his soul, and as he opened his eyes, he realized that that feeling wasn’t
far from the truth.

What appeared akin to a painting etched into reality, one of a long neck carrying a
monstrous head that resembled the leviathan he had just slain, but angrier, more
sinister, and malicious, stared down at him with murder in its eyes.

“Unacceptable,” it growled in a deep, thundering voice dripping in venom. “This… it

cannot be forgiven. I will not fall to you, parasite!” it bellowed, bending down to
bite into his soul like it was trying to take a chunk out of an apple.

Pain far transcending the worst he had felt engulfed his entire being, and it was a
miracle that the soul attack hadn’t knocked him unconscious.

“How unfortunate…” the man whispered.

“What a shame,” the woman lamented. “Without a talisman, his soul is too exposed.
Should we end his suffering?” she asked, then cocked an eyebrow. “What is that?”

Suddenly, Freddy felt the burden he was suffering reduce significantly. With blood
dripping out of its bony hands, a mirage of his long-lost—no, wait, it was
Bloodshed!

The skeleton remnant… or rather, the skeleton spirit as it now seemed to be,
gripped the head of the leviathan and pulled it back, trying to extract the
invading construct from his soul.

“Master…” it said, “I am sorry for being late.”

Tears rushed to his eyes, and he felt overwhelmed by emotion. Not once would he
have believed to be capable of feeling such joy at the sight of something so… No,
Bloodshed was a precious little munchkin worth every tear he shed, but surrounded
by mysterious people and pretty sure they wanted him dead, he didn’t know what to
do.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted a crimson trail descending from one of the
floating island-stones. The red blur dropped unnaturally fast, and as the kicked-up
sand cleared, the image of a man peered through.
He stood tall in his crimson robes, his red tattoos marking numerous lines over his
cheeks, and his white hair draped over his back. An angry, furious expression hung
on his face, and he instantly rushed at Freddy and Bloodshed.

“This fucker—” was all Freddy could manage before, suddenly, a massive explosion of
fire engulfed the bloody archhuman, and a saber flew at his face with the speed of
a fired arrow. The metallic blade was deflected, and the fire poofed out of
existence with a burst of bloody mist.

“Who the hell are you!?” Janhalar screamed, eyes red and body swirling with a
crimson mist. “I knew someone powerful had to be involved! You wretched scum will
face the consequences of your sins!”

“Kaefalge!” the woman yelled.

“I know! This warrior is strong. Stay close to—” he started, but his words were cut
off as a sharp projectile of coagulated blood flew past his face.

The Kraven patriarch ran at them, keeping one eye on Bloodshed as he rushed to
finish the fight as soon as possible.

That instant of distraction hadn’t been a good idea. In that brief moment, the
short man conjured an intense orange orb, and seconds later, that turned into a
massive explosion of bright, hot fire.

Freddy was caught in the blast and thrown into the ocean with the leviathan and
Bloodshed, who was holding onto it.

His skin was severely burned, and the impact had dazed him. Perhaps if he had been
awake, he would have had the strength to do something… but there was no more power
left in his body.

As the ocean’s surface grew more distant, he sank both into the sea and into the
depths of unconsciousness.

Bloodshed could tell that the situation was desperate, but it wouldn’t give up the
fight as long as it still stood.

“Let go of me, you vile thing!” the annoying violator screamed, but Bloodshed
gripped it tighter.

Pulling itself forward, it used the gap this pest created in Master’s soul to also
crawl into it. The beautiful blue star, roiling with the cool, methodical
mercilessness of Master, and the scattering of tiny specks surrounding it was a
sacred, holy sight—

“—and not something to be defiled with such wanton vulgarity!” With a primal
scream, Bloodshed dug its clawed hands into the neck of the wretched scum impeding
on this pristine temple, and the beastly creature bit back, breaking one of the
crimson bones in its arm.

Although Bloodshed had no intent of surrendering the fight, it could tell that it
was vastly outmatched.
“Tell me, oh great Master!” it begged. “What is it I should do!?” It craved the
wisdom, the infinite well of knowledge it knew its master possessed.

It was then that it saw other vile things invading its master’s soul—but this was
different. They were caged like the animals they were, and rather than wreaking
havoc, their power was constantly being sapped—their might was thoroughly dominated
by the Master’s will.

Of course… It was enlightened. That was precisely how such beasts should be
handled.

With the toothy grin permanently etched into its face growing wider, Bloodshed
peered past the surface layer of Master’s soul. As always, the aura of bloodshed
was thick—this time, numerous times more than ever before. It sank a single claw
into it, temporarily borrowing from Master and promising it would work hard to
repay this debt.

Freddy was roused awake, but he appeared not in his body but in his projection,
surrounded by the flickering of distant stars.

Am I dead? he asked, but he soon recognized it to be the inner sanctum of his

ethercosm—the inside of his soul.

Why was he here? It was then that he saw the thundering storm of blood wisps
roiling in a giant vortex.

What the—

Deep within, the wisps crystallized, transforming into an uneven, messy cage.

Mind flooded with questions, he floated forward, desperately trying to discover

what the hell was happening. As the storm cleared, he saw something that blew him
away.

Bloodshed stood—nearly torn to pieces—as it placed the final rune on an oddly

shaped red cage. The crimson script forming the uneven barrier suddenly pulsed,
taking on a deep blue light instead.

Within it, the floating head of the leviathan was trapped entirely, completely
unable to break past the barrier. Its roaring quieted, and it gradually went
catatonic like the other ether constructs trapped in his soul.

“Blood… shed…” he called, feeling a lump welling in his projection’s throat. “What
are you doing?” he asked.

“I… I am… I am fixing you… Master,” it said weakly as one of its bones unraveled
into wisps of blood. “I can no longer sustain myself… but it is all right. I have
done all I could… I have fulfilled my purpose.”

“N… No,” he denied it. This couldn’t be happening.

Thoughts of power were pushed aside as he cried genuine tears of sadness. For all
the people he had met… for all the wretched, unworthy scum he had come across, it
was this goofy, bloody skeleton that had loved him the most.
A small laugh escaped him as he thought of it. How absurd. He wanted to deny it,
wanted to pin its behavior on nothing but a quirk of its nature, but he knew that
wasn’t the case. Not entirely. Bloodshed was unique. It had a true soul.

In a sense, it was a person. It wasn’t just a mindless construct of ether. And its
life, which he had so liberally abused, was at that moment being forfeited to save
his own.

There was no goddamn way he would let that happen.

“Bloodshed!” he called out in a commanding tone.

It perked up weakly. “What is it, Master?” it asked, ready to heed his words even
in its final moments.

“Hang on just a bit…” he said, voice shivering. “I am going to save you,” he

promised with a smile.

With all the effort he could muster, he forced himself to shake awake.

There was practically no strength left in his body. With its density, he had sunken
to the bottom, and he could already see faint shadows of predators swimming through
the darkness around him. With all the will he could muster, he tried to move his
arm. But it felt like there was no point. Every cell in his body screamed for
substance, and he had nothing to give it.

So, instead of moving his body, he focused on Hydraulic Flex. His drained body was
forced to move through the essence, pushing it into action, and his hand moved to
pluck a piece of algae. With that, the darkness around him grew slightly brighter.
So he pulled more. And more. The world around him brightened with each piece he
plucked, and drowning was pushed back by another moment.

The assault of the carnivorous fish was so sudden and his body so numb that it took
him a few seconds to register that something was trying to chew his arm off again.
With more power than he expected to be able to extract, Hydraulic Flex gripped the
bony protrusion that he presumed to be the tongue and pulled. It squirmed and
fought him, but his will prevailed as the creature spat out blood and stopped
moving.

He plucked one of the creature’s sharp teeth and continued flowing.

Anything he came across, be it fish or algae, was torn apart as he went on a

rampage. Every shred of focus he could muster went into controlling water to propel
him further.

His mangled body was slowly pieced back together.

With each drop of blood he shed, more fish appeared; this time, he welcomed their
rush, brawling with them. He bit right back and used the power of Hydraulic Flex to
split their jaws apart, barely keeping himself from drowning. His talent was doing
far less than he wanted it to, and wounds kept accumulating, but thankfully, the
creatures’ teeth could only do so much to his bony, rigid body.

He momentarily peered back into his soul. “Bloodshed!” he demanded. “Lend me your
help!”

He had no idea what he wanted it to do, but it nodded anyway. With a moment of
concentration, he began meditating. The thoughts of serene water and calm lakes
were wholly pushed aside as he imagined rivers of blood instead.
Instantly, an intense backlash struck his soul. Indeed, he didn’t have a blood
affinity. There was no way he could attract wisps of blood.

But Bloodshed sensed what he was trying to do, and with a faint light in its eyes,
it floated over to his star. Standing next to the roiling mass of ether, it dipped
a claw inside.

Freddy felt as if the core of his being was being pierced, but the smallest of
hints of red appeared. Then he returned to meditating.

He nearly gasped in shock once he did. The water around him was thick with numerous
wisps of blood, and, ignoring the fish ravaging his body, he focused on absorbing
them.

Eventually, he had to fight back, if anything, just to undo the damage the lack of
oxygen was doing; then, he quickly glanced at his soul—and froze once he did.

There, orbiting his star, was another uneven cage. Bloodshed was inside it, whole
but unresponsive.

“Bloodshed!” he screamed. “Bloodshed, no!” he cried as he grasped the oddly shaped

cage of runes. “This wasn’t what I wanted…”

“This was the best way to keep myself alive,” it responded.

“Oh.” He stepped back. “You’re alive!” he suddenly realized.

“Master, I need your consent.”

Before he could ask for what, he felt it. The cage before him tightened, trying to
crystallize, but it couldn’t. With a nod, he forged the ability. A raging red light
ignited in Bloodshed’s eyes, and the cage solidified in its odd shape with a giant
splash of blood that traveled over to his star.

A massive surge of power entered him as he felt the blue mass of light slowly split
into one half blue, and the other half red.

But before he could ponder his new affinity, he rushed back outside. There, he was
still in a fight with several fish. He swung over and over, healing himself, but…
he had accumulated too many wounds. His talent was being split between one too many
crises to keep up with the drowning.

Despair at failure overwhelmed him, but as it did, the faint voice of Bloodshed
echoed from his soul, “Don’t worry, Master…” it comforted him. “I will take over
from here.”

Janhalar ducked beneath a lance of flame and kicked away the woman’s wrist as he
deflected her saber.

Who were these people? Only at the peak of two stars, they had such skill and power
that they could nearly stand up to him in a fight. Nearly.

The woman was severely injured, with his recent kick wounding her right wrist and
several previous strikes bruising her stomach. One of the man’s eyes was closed
shut, and his gait was uncertain. These fools wouldn’t last much longer, but they
weren’t his primary concern anyway.

“Why do you stand in my way!?” he asked.

In response, the man grinned. “Relinquish that spirit, and we will be out of your
way.”

Janhalar scowled at that. “You miserable—”

Suddenly, the nature of his ring’s bond with the spirit had changed again. He could
still feel where it was, but there was something concerning about that connection.

He had to quickly—

In his moment of distraction, the woman suddenly summoned a phantasmal blade

mirroring the shape of the other she still held in her hand and threw it at him.
The sudden appearance of the weapon was unexpected, and as he hadn’t been prepared
for it, it lightly grazed his cheek, causing a few drops of his blood to fly off
and drop into the ocean.

Perhaps he should hurry and use Patriarch’s Domai—

Suddenly, something felt deeply wrong. His senses flared up, and he could feel
something extremely concerning. Those drops of blood he had just lost—they were
moving, joining a tremendous volume of blood that was gathering at the bottom of
the ocean.

The man prepared to launch another lance of fire, but before he could, Janahar
screamed and rushed into the water.

There, he saw the massive carcass of an oceanic monstrosity… and all of its blood
flowing through a wound on its neck, gathering around where he felt the spirit was
located. A deep, profound sense of panic enveloped him. He felt exactly where the
few drops of his blood were. With all his power, he kept trying to retrieve them,
but it was to no avail. It was too dilute, too scattered.

No! he screamed internally. No, no, no! If even a single drop reaches that mass of
blood…!

The suffocation had nearly overcome Freddy. His thoughts felt floaty, and he wasn’t
all there. His mind was primarily asleep, tired, waning as his brain cells
perished, screaming for oxygen.

“I have gathered all the blood I could,” Bloodshed declared.

“For what?” he asked numbly.

Its cage flickered for a moment, and its eyes glowed a deep, crimson red.

A strange set of two words flowed into his mind. Without hesitation, he mouthed
them.

“Blood Sacrifice.”
Firrita and Kaefalge remained on the surface, cradling their wounds.

The woman breathed heavily. “That man… his skills are primitive, but he still holds
the power of four stars. Should we retreat?”

Kaefalge frowned. “That might be the best choice,” he said, “but that skeleton is a
great opportunity. We are in an unknown part of the Great Labyrinthe. Every
advantage we can find will serve us well.”

She scoffed. “You say ‘we.’” she noted, a slight edge to her voice. “Both of us are
risking our lives, but only one gets the spirit.”

He smiled. “You are right to be skeptical, woman, so I will tell you openly; I want
that thing for myself,” he admitted.

She shook her head. “If we could have it, I would gladly hand it to you, but I
don’t think—”

Suddenly, they both froze. Their instincts flared up, and they glanced around. They
whirred, trying to locate the source. An all-encompassing thirst for blood
surrounded them, conjuring images of death and destruction.

“What in the gods’ name is that!?” Firrita called, sweat trickling down her body.

It felt as if reality itself was bleeding. Then, with a burst of otherworldly,

immense pressure, the ocean rose in a titanic wave as a massive, bloody spinal
column shot up to the sky, followed by another, and then another. Three enormous
skulls dripping in blood were carried on the bony, serpentine columns, and thinner,
spiny appendages appeared, rising like tentacles out of the water and whipping the
island with immense, earth-shattering force as the entire sea adopted the color of
blood.

“On second thought,” Kaefalge surrendered, “you are correct. We must leave.
Immediately.”

Janhalar flew out of the water, pushed back by an intense wave as he was washed
ashore. “What in the name of the…!?” he shouted, staring in terror at the being
radiating immense blood aura.

This couldn’t be. This was impossible. He still sensed the spirit and where it was,
so what on earth was this thing? It couldn’t have possibly evolved into an eidolon,
and even if it had, this was far bigger than any eidolon he had ever heard of.

However, the thoughts of turning around and escaping were not on his mind. Instead,
a pure, primal rage boiled as he roared at the sky. After spilling his fury, he
took a deep breath and calmed down. His eyes sharpened, and his determination
forged itself into a blade. On his name as Janhalar, the patriarch of what would
one day become the supreme clan of blood, he swore on his life that he wouldn’t
walk out of that realm without that spirit in his possession.
Freddy was stirred out of his stupor as a river of life force flowed directly into
his body, rapidly pushing the suffocation away. The water around him was tinged
red. As he floated back up to the surface, he froze, his mind uncomprehending as he
stared at the titanic creature of blood and bone.

“B-B-B-” he spluttered. “Bloodshed?” he asked, fearing the answer.

One of the titanic heads turned to him, causing every muscle in his body to
tighten, and he heard the voice in his head. “Yes, Master,” it answered.

He grinned. A crazed, disbelieving grin spread from one ear to another as he

started cackling.

Then he heard the roar coming from the beach.

Any questions he might have had were interrupted by the massive spear of hardened
blood that pierced right through his back, crushing his heart instantly.

He gasped, turning around to face the culprit, who stared at him with a manic look
in his eye. Before death could come, however, he felt the spear being pushed out of
his body. And as soon as it was out, the damage it had left was gone as if it
hadn’t even been there.

“Holy shit,” he said. “That’s a lot of lifesteal…” But how? “Don’t tell me…” he
wondered as he turned around, gazing at the endless ocean of crimson red. Was he
killing everything this water touched?

Every few moments, a small rush of wisps coursed into his soul. Every creature he
killed supplied him with ether, and as with any wisp one collected, a small part of
that directly worked to replenish his essence.

At that moment… for as long as whatever Bloodshed had done lasted… he had
practically unlimited essence and life force.

Feeling drunk on the flood of power, he turned to face the Kraven patriarch.
“Bloodshed!” he screamed. “Attack!” he commanded, unsure of what to expect.

One of the three massive heads dove down, rushing toward Janhalar, who was already
running to get out of its way. Numerous tentacles impeded his progress, while a
second skull bit into a floating island that it threw at the patriarch.

Whatever he had expected, it definitely hadn’t been that.

The first skull slammed into the landmass, kicking up a giant cloud of dust and
sending a shockwave, while the landing meteorite had an even more significant
impact. Despite all this, the image of the Kraven bastard appeared, his feet
gliding over the tsunami those two attacks had created, rushing straight at him.

Right. An ocean of blood was probably good for him too, it seemed.

He quickly dove underwater, aiming to hide from the crazed clan leader, but it was
useless. The white-haired man was after him instantly, traveling with the speed of
a torpedo.

A large spike of blood appeared in the man’s hand, and he swung, cutting his body
apart with nearly no resistance—and with even fewer consequences. No matter what
Janhalar did, his near-immortality seemed enough to keep him alive.

As he reached for the head, however, the near-immortal wasn’t keen on questioning
the limits of his current state, and luckily, neither was Bloodshed, who swung its
third head at the two of them, kicking up another bloody tsunami and separating
them as a spine pushed him up above the surface of the ocean.

The spinal columns created a large bridge in the sky that he could travel over, and
without hesitation, he used Hydraulic Flex to run forward. Or, well, he tried to.
His body felt pathetically weak, even with all the healing. Not to mention that the
unstable, shaking spinal column wasn’t the easiest to run across.

Opting to avoid falling off instead, he hugged the bridge of bone, but that
wouldn’t be enough.

Rising out of the ocean like a bloody dragon, Janhalar jumped on the spine right
ahead of him, and in a flash, he appeared beside him. Just as the lunatic was about
to turn his brain into mush with a bloody spear, another spine smashed into the
man’s side with a flick and threw him into the water again.

The massive heads tried their best, but the patriarch was a tiny, fast target.
While he had been somewhat confident moments ago, he suddenly realized that he was,
indeed, fighting a four-star Lord.

And it wasn’t like running away was possible.

The Kraven patriarch jumped again, bouncing off three consecutive columns as he
flew at Freddy, and this time, the swing reached, cutting right through his
target’s neck. Fleshy tendrils grew out to try and reconnect Freddy’s head to the
rest of his body, but the patriarch kicked his head away before that could happen.

Dropping into the ocean, he was still alive, although he was quite literally just a
head bobbing in the raging tides. His healing worked overtime to reconstruct his
cells. Bit by bit, forming out of nothing but the never-ending stream of lifeforce
he was receiving, he felt the rest of his body growing back out, but the patriarch
was already on his way to finish him off.

Shit, shit, shit, shit!

The situation was desperate. The world around him slowed to a crawl at the
unstoppable approach of certain death. He instantly grew hyper-aware of everything
around him… including a particular, yet-to-be-crystallized shell floating aimlessly
through his ethercosm.

With a burst of will, he crystallized the shell holding the leviathan. A splash of
dark, ghastly water with shapes shifting inside it entered his star, splitting it
three ways as it added a third component.

With no time to ponder his new affinity, he refocused, which was easier said than
done, given that he was a loose head sloshing in a roiling ocean. He didn’t know
why, but Blood Sacrifice, the ability he used to summon Bloodshed, needed to be
named to be used. Spotting a brief flash of an angry patriarch making his way
through the water, his lips mouthed, “Leviathan’s Fury!”

Suddenly, bone-like protrusions grew out of his head, cracking his skull and
shredding his flesh as they formed a large head of bone just like that of the
leviathan that bit down on the patriarch.

Janhalar was caught off-guard, likely as being attacked so viciously by a floating

head wasn’t something one usually expected to face, and the attack bit down on his
arm, halting his charge, but did no damage whatsoever.

A moment later, Leviathan’s Fury vanished as if it hadn’t even been there, leaving
a void of water that imploded with a loud thud.

There was a somewhat awkward moment as Janhalar glared at the disembodied floating
head, staring in disbelief.

Panicked, he uttered “Leviathan’s Fury!” again.

Once more, the same thing happened, but the patriarch defended himself this time.

His new ability seemed to cost absolutely nothing in essence, but it dealt
tremendous damage to his body in return. As he missed again, he realized the true
weight of using Leviathan’s Fury like that. The damage it had done to his head was
recovering incredibly slowly, and he couldn’t even see anything as his eyes had
been destroyed.

In the next moment, a massive skull crashed down on them again, and he was once
more pushed away. A second head grabbed him in its teeth and, with an enormous
downpour of bloody ocean water, raised him onto one of the floating rocks. From
there, all he could see was the shifting red ceiling, and all he could hear was the
intense showdown happening below as Bloodshed continued the fight.

The damage recovered at a snail’s pace, and as his arms gradually grew back out, he
crawled over to get a better look. It wasn’t looking good. Despite these miraculous
circumstances, bridging the gap against an elite four-star Lord was no joke.

The man was gradually destroying Bloodshed. He had manifested a giant spear, the
swings of which sounded like cracks of lightning. Suddenly, the man’s entire body
emitted a horrifying aura as the image of four stars appeared, burning deep within
the man’s body.

He raised his hand, and with a crimson light, a massive spear of blood shot out,
turning into a red blur as it slammed into one of the spines, felling one of the
three giant skulls as the spine shattered at its base.

“Fuck!” he screamed. With one head down for the count, it wouldn’t be long until
the man finished the fight. Without thinking, Freddy pushed himself into freefall
and flew toward the fight.

“Bloodshed!” he commanded, and one of the giant skulls moved down to redirect his
fall. “Throw me at that piece of shit!”

Obediently, Bloodshed did, and he, who hadn’t even grown his legs back yet, came
crashing down with the force of a shooting star. Flowing Strike coursed through his
body, and he readied himself to land a massive punch.

He was on a trajectory to completely miss.

Thus, he ignored the backlash of the failed Flowing Strike and screamed,
“Leviathan’s Fury!” The head rushed toward the patriarch again, biting down on the
man’s arm again and yanking him off the column he was standing on.

“You bastard!” Janhalar yelled. “What have you done!?”

The head of the leviathan vanished again, and just as it did, Bloodshed swung a
spine at the patriarch. The man deftly dodged the attack by ejecting a high-
pressure burst of blood from his hand as both men crashed into the ocean, the blood
arch rushing at him, thrusting a bloody spike that came within inches of piercing
his brain, but—

“Leviathan’s Fury!” he mouthed as fast as he could, using the spurs of bone as a

makeshift shield that took the brunt of the attack, getting crushed under the force
of the patriarch’s impact and sending Freddy flying back, nearly unconscious but
still alive.

A moment later, one of the giant skulls grabbed Freddy out of the water with its
teeth, and the other launched a huge sky rock at Janhalar.

The young man was dragged back to the island’s shores, where he felt his legs
finally grow back. His body was horribly thin, barely more than skin and bone. He
braced himself as the most recent of the tsunamis was about to wash over him, but a
helpful spine tentacle lifted him above it. Good Bloodshed.

That crazy bastard was nowhere to be found, but he knew better than to believe that
had finished him off. Indeed, the next moment, he spotted a red flash jumping out
on the beach and rushing at him at an impossible speed.

Janhalar slashed at Freddy’s head, and a spine tentacle moved to block his attack
again, but the man used incredible brute force to kick it out of the way with a
thundering smash of cracking bone as he continued his attack, now nothing standing
between him and his target.

“Leviathan’s Fury!” shouted Freddy again, but the man roared as he swung his spear
and crushed the head of bone into splinters and threw the spear at his target,
which flew right at Freddy’s mouth, crushing his teeth as it pierced through the
back of his neck and flew all the way through, severing his spine, instantly
robbing him of the ability to move and pushing him to the brink of death.

The man raised his arm again, and the terrifying glow of four stars igniting
flashed into view once more, signaling an attack that would be impossible to
survive.

But—

Despite his nerves being cut off, nothing stopped Freddy from moving his body with
Hydraulic Flex. Just as the patriarch fired the spear of blood again, half of
Freddy’s core muscles tightened with all they had. He swung his head far enough
that the attack only carved through the side of his head instead of blowing his
brain apart—an attack that would knock anyone else unconscious, but to him, who had
endured never-ending torment and tempered his body with Hundred Wet Hells, it was
just tolerable enough.

His jaw hung slack, broken and disabled, preventing him from using Leviathan’s
Fury.

The patriarch stared at him wide-eyed as he gritted his teeth and prepared another
attack.

It was the same face the man used to make whenever his torture methods failed.

The same ugly expression Freddy had gotten all too used to seeing.

With every cell and shred of his being, he forced the water in his mouth and jaw
muscles to move. Leviathan’s Fury.
The patriarch didn’t have the time to dodge and he had no weapon to defend himself
with.

Instead, his skin turned a deep shade of crimson as he used an ability to form a
thin layer of protective blood all across his form just as his entire body was
grasped in the maw of the leviathan. “Re… Release me!” His ability successfully
prevented any of the teeth from sinking in and doing proper damage. “Release me!”
But he was trapped, entombed in a shell of metallic blood and kept in place by an
ivory jaw.

The bloody armor flowed back into his body as Janhalar, with a sudden burst of
power, flexed his muscles and started tearing the head apart.

It was as if levers were attached to Freddy’s bones, and with every push, more
cracks resounded through his mangled form. But he couldn’t feel any of it.

Blood… shed, he called in his mind.

The skeleton gazed down at him. It wasn’t attacking. The two men were too close to
one another, and any attack powerful enough to hurt the patriarch would probably
kill him, too.

With another push, the bloody archhuman came another step closer to setting himself
free.

The inpour of lifesteal was weakening, and the cost of maintaining Leviathan’s Fury
outweighed the recovery.

Bloodshed’s empty eye sockets gazed down at them. Then, its jaw started crackling,
its massive eyes shining like two crimson stars as the entire realm grew a shade
redder.

Janhalar’s struggle stopped as the man froze at the sudden presence.

Bloodshed screamed, the entire realm shaking with its booming voice. Its two
remaining heads flew down toward them, casting their forms in shadow.

“No!” the patriarch screamed, tripling his efforts as one head approached to bite
down on him. “Noooo!”

The other head bit down on Freddy. Then, with massive force and the visceral sound
of tearing flesh and snapping bones, the skeleton forced their bodies apart,
breaking the deadlock.

Freddy’s mind turned blank, and he started fading.

The last thing he heard was Bloodshed’s voice, saying, “I believe in you, Master,”
as the head holding the patriarch rose high into the air and crashed into the beach
with tremendous force. The last thing he felt was the immense flood of lifesteal as
his mind wavered and he lost consciousness.

It took an unknown amount of time for Freddy to wake up. But as he did, and as he
forced himself up, he quickly realized that he was in far better shape than the
mangled patriarch, whose entire left arm was bent behind his back. But the man was
already on his feet and shambling forward.
His eyes widened. Bloodshed was gone, and it seemed his ability had run out of
whatever fuel had kept it active.

He didn’t know what to do.

Janhalar stared at him with bloodshot eyes. “You…” he accused. “What… did… you do?”
he cried. “What did you do with the spirit!?” he demanded an answer.

Feeling a sudden outburst of emotion welling up, he answered, “I… I didn’t do

anything. I didn’t do anything, you piece of fucking shit!” he screamed, feeling
tears running down his face. “From the very goddamn beginning, I haven’t done a
single thing that deserves your judgment! And you have taken all the liberty you
could, every step of the way to—”

“Shut up!”

“You have been—”

“I said shu—”

“No, you—”

“Shut up, vermin!” Janhalar screamed.

“I won’t shut up!” he refused. “Let me speak!”

“Well I won’t let you speak!” the man insisted. “You have no right to speak in
front of meeee!” the man yelled, stomping a foot as he threw a tantrum, madness in
his eyes. “Kneel and apologize!”

“Leviathan’s Fury!” said Freddy instead, sending a sudden attack that the patriarch
was helpless to defend against as his body was bitten down on and mangled further.

Janhalar struggled to breathe as blood flowed down his body as if he had a whole
lake of it. The crimson liquid carved a small stream into the sand as it made its
way to the surface of the sea.

The damage Freddy did offset some of the damage he took, but not a lot. As the
Leviathan’s head retracted, his entire body was left full of holes, and several of
his bones were broken. Without the endless influx of healing, the true nature of
the cost of this ability finally revealed itself.

It was thoroughly crippling. No, it was more than that. Using it… It was suicide.

But it had done its job.

Janhalar couldn’t get up anymore, even though he desperately tried.

“Have you been like this your whole life… you miserable twat?” Freddy muttered,
barely mustering the strength to speak.

“Sub… human… waste…” the patriarch returned as he started getting back up again.

“You…” he tried to say, barely standing on his feet.

There was nothing else he could do. He couldn’t even move a single muscle. Even in
his absolutely decrepit state, the man was still far too much for him to handle.
“I see…” he said, resigning himself to whatever was about to happen. If he would
die anyway, he would take the man down with him. “Leviathan’s Fury.”

The ability flew out again; this time, the Kraven patriarch was skewered without
even the barest of defenses to stop the attack. “You…” the man eked out, the
hatred, fury, and pride in his eyes extinguishing. “You…” He breathed out… as the
final remnants of his willpower flickered like a candle before a gust of wind.
Leviathan’s bony head retracted again, and Janhalar, the patriarch of the Kraven
Clan, dropped to the ground.

Dead.

Freddy soon followed him. A sense of catharsis filled his body as he realized he
would join the man soon. This was it.

I am gonna have to face another “trial” or whatever? he pondered with a hint of

humor, thinking back to the words of those strange individuals. Hesitantly, he took
a look at his own soul again.

But there was no storm surrounding his star this time, and there was no trial. A
massive influx of wisps flowed like a river of blood right into his star, which
bulged. In moments, it reached 90% completion, then 95%, 99%, and then, it
overflowed. The surface of his star roiled stormily, ready to explode at any
moment.

His eyes widened ever so slightly.

Without hesitation, he discarded all the trash abilities he had no use for and
sparked the nova of ascension. Moments later, the large mass of ether exploded
violently, lighting up his entire ethercosm and reforging it with ethereal flames.
Once the mist settled and the excess power receded, he observed the sight of two
stars. One full and almost solid-looking, and the other around a tenth of its size,
both roiling with the lighter blue of water, dark red of blood, and the deep blue
of a mysterious third affinity.

A flood of natural-quality healing poured into his body, doing no more than
speeding up its natural recovery. But it was enough to haul him back from the brink
of death and give him a chance.

A voice rang through his soul—the sweet call of a long-forgotten prime—as the
violent, yellow eyes opened once more.

Unshackled to bear the weight it demands, unlimited, unscarred of fate’s filthy

hands.

Benjamin shook profusely as he walked through the caves near Camp Violet. He was
still new to the job, so being sent out into the wilderness, where something had
burned hundreds of people to death, put him just a bit out of his element, to say
the least.

He stood beside his two colleagues, the beautiful Elena and the tight-arsed Henry.

The danger had been well-scouted, he knew; they were relatively safe, he worked to
convince himself, but with each step they took further into these haunted caves, he
felt his knees grow weaker.
The sudden ringing of Henry’s phone caused him to yelp, and he turned around,
blushing as Elena eyed him weirdly.

Oh, crap. He regretted it. I just had to go and— He froze. His stomach dropped as
he spotted something approaching them from the shadows. A ghoul of some sort
shambled toward them, and before he could even scream, he launched a Stone Bullet
at it. The man-shaped monster buckled over, and he prepared to attack again, making
sure Elena saw how cool he was while—

Suddenly, Henry rushed at him and grabbed him by the arm, yelling, “Idiot! That’s a
person!”

“Wh… What?” he asked dumbly.

Henry pushed him roughly as he walked forward.

“Oh… fuck,” he cursed as he realized that, indeed, the thing he just shot at was… a
survivor. A man with severe burns all over the upper part of his body. He had just
attacked a heavily injured survivor. Oh, man.

Henry carefully pushed the man over into a more comfortable position and examined
him. Then, he spoke into the phone, which was still on line with the sergeant.
“Sergeant Jefferson, I have found another survivor. Appears to be male, severely
injured, with heavy burn scars all over the upper side of his body. He was
prematurely identified as a threat, and he had suffered an attack by Stone Bullet,
stage one. I’m requesting backup on my location. Send medical support.”

Then, Henry saw a strange object that the burned man clutched tightly in his hands.
After extracting it carefully, he added, “I would like to request higher priority.
The man has been identified as a staff member, an official employee of Camp Violet…

“His name is Peter Vane.”

1% Lifesteal continues in Book Two:

1% Lifesteal - Volume 2

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