1% Lifesteal

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.