1% Lifesteal

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?"

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