1% Lifesteal

Freddy shared the tale of having nearly been killed for reasons he didn't even understand, and Mark explained how the academy had retroactively rejected his sister's scholarship—his father having decided to pay for the tuition himself, putting their family in dire financial straits.

The man who had contacted Mark was definitely after more than a "couple of questions." And it was likely that whoever was behind that person had also bribed the doctor.

The still-living organ on the table between them was a brutal warning to Mark: if he was approached again, he was to make the same choice—or else.

Ringing interrupted the silence, and Freddy hesitantly got up to open the door.

Matt, the assistant, greeted him and handed him a medium-sized box.

His heart nearly burst out of his chest as he opened it, fully expecting a severed head in there or something of the sort, but it was just a collection of pill boxes. He thanked the man, closed the door, and returned to the table to sit with the young man.

The list of side effects attached to any of the drugs was so vast that he wondered whether his talent could outpace them before he dropped dead.

Mark somewhat hesitantly pointed at the heart on the table. "While that thing is a threat to me, it's also probably meant as a gift for you."

"How nice of her," he spat with a lethargic chuckle. "She must be in love with me."

Mark scoffed a bit, unable to muster a laugh at the joke. "I am vaguely familiar with what that is, and while it is gruesome… it will help you with your talent."

The insinuation behind that would usually make him want to vomit, but his emotions felt bleached and weak after all that had happened.

At Mark's instruction, he stabbed a kitchen knife into the mass of flesh. He felt a rush of vitality unlike any he had experienced so far, and once he extracted the blade, the small gash sealed almost instantly, bleeding not a single drop. As long as he supplied it with raw meat so it could feed and maintain itself, the heart could recover from anything he did to it.

It was, more or less, a health battery.

"It isn't going to last forever," Mark said, "but it will stay alive for at least another three months."

He chuckled a bit at that. "Whose heart do you think she'll give me next?"

Finally mustering a tired laugh, Mark retorted, "Hopefully not mine."

***

Mark was contractually obligated to train Freddy every day, but he had total control over the schedule.

The gym's second floor was one they hadn't yet visited, as it didn't have much use for them. Under the excuse that Mark had a few things to show him, they got around to hitting things.

The thuds echoing from the man's punches made Freddy's heart tense, and his small fist-shaped dent on the tree no longer looked like anything worth noting.

Mark took a stance and addressed him, "If you're basing your martial arts off of Flowing Strike, then you'll have to work on big, arching moves with a lot of weight behind them." He pulled his fist back slightly over his head and readied a strike. The movement that carried most of his body weight ended with the punch landing on the target and sending a resounding thud through the ground, a sensation that got a few other men in the room to sheepishly distance themselves from the blonde man.

"Like this," Mark said as he followed up with a kick, causing a similar thing to happen.

Although Mark smiled throughout the demonstration, the joy didn't reach his eyes.

***

Freddy found himself in the forest, punching and kicking as hard as he could. Although it still hurt when he landed an awkward strike, severe injuries from something like this were becoming a thing of the past.

The structure of his hand was changing. His feet no longer looked the same either. And the rest of his body was slowly beginning to morph.

Every time he took the time to eat, he ended up salting his meal with his tears. Although he wasn't letting it hinder his training, he couldn't stop crying.

He wasn't to blame for this.

So why?

Why did he feel like what happened to Mark was entirely his fault?

He wasn't tone-deaf enough to try and apologize, and he wasn't naive enough to think he could help—but he had decided. If he ever got the opportunity to, he would find a way to repay the man.

After getting the tears and aggression out of his system, he finally turned around and spoke. "I know you're there," he said to no one in particular. "Madame is clearly keeping an eye on me, so it's only natural that someone would be watching me from the shadows. You must be incredibly bored, though.

"Why don't you reveal yourself instead? I'm sure it isn't all that fun just sitting behind a tree somewhere, twiddling your thumbs. Or maybe you're dramatically peeling an apple. I don't mind having an audience, but having someone to talk to while I train would be nice."

Silence.

Well, it was only natural. He was a 100 percent confident that someone was observing him, and while that didn't make him feel comfortable, it did make him feel safe, at least.

For the entirety of that day, he talked out loud, trying to bait his observer into the light. Whoever was watching him must have been a good fighter, no? In that case, he could possibly extract some advice. And he wasn't afraid to get annoying.

He had no idea what was happening. But it seemed that he had become a pawn in a game played by people far more powerful than him. Did he even stand a chance at protecting himself? The thought made him anxious.

But he knew one thing for certain—Madame was trying to protect him. At least for the time being.

Come hell or high water, there was no excuse not to make her job at least a little easier.

For the whole day, he carried a one-sided conversation. The day after, he did the same thing. And the next day as well. But there was no reply, so either nobody was observing him or, the more likely scenario, they just had no reason to reveal themselves.

***

As the days marched onward, Freddy's body changed drastically, visibly growing each day he looked at himself. It didn't take long for his trainer to alter their schedule again; this time, he skipped to doing full body every day.

It didn't really matter how many muscle groups they did. He could always perfectly recover by the time he returned the next day.

At first, he was hesitant to consume the drugs, but as he read more about supreme-quality healing, he realized something quite reassuring. Supreme-quality healing had something of a crucial flaw: it was too dilute. It was difficult to contain and focus, meaning it always healed everything it could in a person's body.

This was a flaw because an old scar on one's leg was clearly less of a priority than a missing limb, but the energy would be split between them with little discrimination. Everyone's body had damage scattered throughout it. This drastically diluted the effect of supreme-quality healing since it simply had too many things to do.

This was why he felt his talent was too slow at the start. But now? He finally realized why Madame called him an immortal freak. Because he was immortal. He had been healed of all sequelae in his body, including the type of micro-damage responsible for aging.

This was a pretty damn neat bonus—but it wasn't anything special.

Death-affinity archhumans got the Spark of Undeath tempering technique at their first star; life-affinity archhumans also didn't age at three stars and above; even for other affinities, high-class healers could heal aging away as if it were no different than any other ordinary ailment.

Few archs died from natural causes. But they died nonetheless.

Putting the implications of possible eternal life aside, not only did this mean that he healed much faster now since there was less to heal from, but it also meant that there was practically no danger when he consumed steroids. None whatsoever. On top of having no hidden defects that could put him at risk of sudden death, the balance of hormones itself was effortless to re-establish. Perhaps to a fault, even.

He gulped down a single pill from every drug he had the moment he returned from all the training since overnight, when he was sleeping, was the only time they could do their job. The instant he stabbed the health bank, his healing would eradicate their presence in his body near-instantly.

For a while, he chose to temporarily pause his martial arts training for an experiment.

It took him roughly three hours to finish a full-body workout. With a half-hour jog to his apartment and back, where he stabbed the heart until he fully recovered and ate a large meal, he could be back and simply continue his training.

Granted, Mark was no longer there, but he was already proficient enough at all the exercises that he at least wasn't at risk of hurting himself when he was alone. And even if he did hurt himself, well… who cared?

He pushed himself to his absolute maximum for a while and did four daily workouts. Several people approached him to ask whether he had a talent that allowed him to do this or if he was just trying to kill himself, but he reassured them that it was fine.

Steve, the employee, was the most concerned, and he actually tried banning him from doing this, fearing for his life. Given that he almost instantly retracted the ban and appeared vaguely anxious the day after, it was safe to presume that either Madame or one of her assistants gave him a talking-to.

Eventually, he dropped the experiment. The results were impressive, but they weren't four times more impressive than just a single workout a day. There seemed to be a biological limitation to it that couldn't be cheated through his talent, at least not any longer.

After around a month, his body weight reached 78 kg, an increase of almost twenty from his previous 59. He wasn't massive by any means, but he was lean, so most of that mass was in muscle.

He could bench 132.5 kg, squat 236,5 kg, and deadlift 262 kg. At first, almost every time he exercised, he could increase the weight by several kilograms and still power through it, with the difference being particularly drastic after a night of rest. As time went on, the difference he could reasonably lift kept shrinking further until all he could do was add two tiny 0.25 kg plates. If even that.

It didn't take him long to acquire near-elite mortal human strength and physique, but the growth had plateaued too hard. He wondered whether he had broken any records with how quickly he grew, but knowing how ridiculous some talents were, he wouldn't bet on it.

He stood before the mirror in the locker room, observing the changes to his body. It was ridiculously shredded, with body fat way below what should be possible by normal standards. It was to the point where he wondered if anything less would actually count as damage and be healed by his talent.

His skin was tan and healthy, his hair had a rich, hydrated sheen to it, and his eyes were clear as day.

He was extremely pleased with how he had grown, but now it was finally time. After around a month, he reached close enough to what could be called peak mortal human performance.

Now, he was going to transcend it.

***

Another week passed, and this time, he was almost entirely focused on his martial arts.

Fueled by Flowing Strike, a wide swing landed on the tree, shaking it a bit and causing the slightest of cracks to appear. Then a kick, and finally a straight.

Nearly all the bark had been stripped off the lowest two meters of the tree he picked as his victim, and it appeared visibly battered, with even some pieces breaking off. It wasn't enough to make the plant fall over—at least not yet—but it was enough to show just how much work he'd put in.

He wiped some sweat off his brow, then walked over to the biomass that had once resembled a heart. It had healed and grown so much that it no longer appeared like anything but a freaky, squirming pile of flesh. It was no longer beating, either.

A couple of minutes of stabbing later, he was in more or less perfect physical condition.

He walked over to the small pond in the woods and sat next to it, but rather than start meditating, he raised his hand over the water. Essence flowed from his palm with a blue light, pouring into the water, and he flexed. The water raised just slightly before dropping, leaving a disturbed surface behind.

Several attempts later, Freddy finally extracted a tiny orb from the water. His excitement instantly collapsed the round structure, but that wasn't enough to hinder his reaction.

"I did it!" he exclaimed, thrilled at his success.

While his talent was the perfect cheat for boosting his physical growth, he had no such advantage with his essence control. Mark said he was somewhat talented for essence control but wasn't a prodigy.

And now, for the first time, he managed to do something other than just disturb the water.

He took a moment to enter his ethercosm and observe the result of his efforts.

Four distinct blue specks flickered around his star, which had grown considerably in the last month. The ether shell for Flowing Strike was by far the brightest. But there were several other, much fainter specks flickering in the darkness. He focused on one of them, and it appeared before him.

It looked like a small mass of morphing symbols. It was the absolute start of the formation of an ether shell. If Freddy supplied it with a few water wisps, it would crystallize, and he would acquire another spell.

It would only be capable of briefly materializing an unstable, floating drop of water. As his control grew finer and more stable, he could form the water more liberally, and every specific action he made would contribute to the formation of another ether shell.

So there was only one thing left to do. He focused on the concept of water, an idea he had grown much more intimate with through all his meditation, and attracted water wisps into his soul. This time, instead of allowing them to enter his star, he moved them to the fledgling shell before him.

They seeped into it without any problem, and the ether shell formed with what looked like a miniature supernova of water droplets. Three blue symbols that represented concepts related to water wrapped around an invisible ball, creating a cage of runes. It was far less complex than any of the other shells he had.

Once done, he left his ethercosm, lifted his hand, and materialized a tiny speck of water, which promptly fell to the ground and disappeared.

This was a fundamental spell for water archs. The only reason he wasn't given a scroll for it was that he had to make it himself. It needed to be as compatible with the individual as possible.

It was the Create Water spell. It formed water out of essence without any fancy effects. Naturally, the fake water would disappear, but while there, it was the perfect target for working on one's essence control and forming other ether shells. The reason why he had to make this ability himself was simple—as he had created it through his essence manipulation, the water would be most optimal for manipulating with his essence.

He compared the effects of Create Water to Squirt, and the difference was readily apparent. Create Water was utterly without form, while Squirt directed the water in a thin stream.

But while Squirt was impossible to control, Create Water was entirely at his mercy. Or, rather, his competence, but he didn't have much of that.

He postponed a critical shopping trip to focus all his essence on achieving this. Now that he was finally done, excitement flowed through his veins.

For a while already, his Water Body tempering technique had been utterly useless. Why? Because the water in his body was already in perfect balance. In fact, the tempering technique only ruined it now. It was more than safe to say that he almost definitely wouldn't need this ability in the future, so there was only one thing to do.

He got up, walked home, and donned less filthy clothing. Then he headed to the library.

"Hello, sir," the clerk greeted him. "Do you require assistance?"

"Yeah," he confirmed. "I'd like to buy the most dangerous water-affinity tempering technique you have."