1% Lifesteal

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."

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