1% Lifesteal

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."