1% Lifesteal

"Help!" he yelled. "Help me!" he yelled louder.

His thigh bled profusely.

People rushed out of his way and past him, and his pursuers were hot on his trail. The tents rose high enough that one couldn't see above them, and they were packed tightly enough that maneuvering around them made for a dizzying trip.

"Get him!" one of them yelled.

He grabbed and pulled anything he could get his hands on to slow the men's approach, collapsing a few tents and even people in his efforts, and while they were moving faster than he was, he stayed ahead, albeit not by much. Abyssal Depths made itself known as he struggled to make quick turns due to his increased body mass.

Suddenly, with a sharp whistle—and likely, talent-aided precision—one of the daggers flew and struck his back. "Ack!" It didn't stick deep, but it stalled him enough for one of the men to reach him with a baton, just slightly grazing the back of his head but hitting hard enough to blur his vision.

He continued running, ignoring the pain, as he charged into a thick crowd of workers, ramming through them like a bowling ball, which even triggered a small response from his talent. For this purpose, his dense body was more than welcome. The mass of screaming, confused men presented a considerable obstacle to his pursuers.

"Stop! Where are you going!?" another of the assailants screamed, but Freddy had no time to see who he was referring to.

Having turned once, then twice, and finally past another small crowd of workers on high alert, he thought he was safe—until a knee suddenly slammed into his side, sending his heavy body tumbling straight into a tent, collapsing the structure on him and burying him in the thick cloth.

"Shit, shit, shit—" He wheezed as he desperately tried to claw his way out of the heavy fabric.

"Don't worry!" someone screamed. "I can see him!"

A dagger stabbed right through the fabric, nearly getting him in the eye, but a quick reaction made it strike his forehead, luckily failing to pierce the bone but still sending him reeling.

He lifted his hands to defend his face, and the dagger mercilessly shredded his arms, but thankfully, his Hundred Wet Hells–tempered physique made the wounds too shallow to bleed him out—but they were accumulating fast.

A second knife joined the first's efforts, albeit with far less precision, and eventually, the men shredded the cloth enough for him to pull himself out.

Only three men were there, the two with longer hair and the bald one, but he had no time to contemplate where the others were. A man to his left lunged at him, and, with little to no grace, dazed as he was, he swung his right hand with a Flowing Strike, open palm, catching the man completely off guard with a near-perfect slap and knocking him out instantly.

An attack he failed to notice in the heat of battle pushed through, and the bald figure stabbed his stomach. Reflexively, he swung a backhanded counterstrike, but this fighter proved to be much more experienced as he dodged back, out of the way of the attack, and made some distance, just in time for his companion to slam Freddy in the back of his head with a metal baton.

He felt his skull crack, but it still wasn't enough to knock him out, so, with adrenaline-fueled rage, he grasped the man's weapon and then his arm, trying to push him to the side. Suddenly, it was as if the man was rooted in place, and, as a quick glance revealed, it turned out that he indeed was—with literal roots tying him to the ground, courtesy of a nature-affinity ability.

Those same woody tendrils wrapped themselves around his own arms, and he was kept firmly in place as the bald man approached to finish him off. Left without much choice, he triggered a Flowing Strike and swung his head back full force.

His physical weight, combined with the momentum of his ability, aided him in pulling the man out by his roots and into the way of the incoming attack, making the bald man accidentally strike his own companion.

If he didn't have Hundred Wet Hells to prevent his brain from exploding, that stunt would have outright killed him. With the Flowing Strike pushing so much water into his head, he felt dizzy and lightheaded, with large black spots appearing in his vision.

For a moment, he blanked out, and an instant later, he was on the ground with a dying man stuck on top of him.

With an enraged roar, the bald figure pushed a dagger straight toward his face, and he barely defended himself by putting a hand in the way. The blade went clean through his palm and out the other side, nearly through his eye, and he gripped, preventing the extraction of the weapon.

The man's attacks whistled as he decided to swing wind-boosted punches into his exposed side instead, but he failed to do any real damage.

"Die, you piece of shit!" the man screamed like a rabid animal as he kept throwing punches, grunting from exertion.

After finally getting his other arm out from under the limp figure on his body, he grabbed the bald man and threw him over to the side as he crawled from beneath the other figure, still holding the dagger, together with his opponent's hand, in place as they both rushed to their feet.

The man threw a punch at Freddy's face, boosting its speed considerably as it landed right on his cheek… but failed to do any damage. The man threw another punch, and yet again, it was as if he hit a wall of tanned leather. His expression visibly paled as he tried to pull back, finally realizing that he didn't have the power to inflict any real harm with his bare fists.

But Freddy's fingers held the man's hand tightly, the grip stronger than an iron vice, making escape impossible as, without any more grace than the bald man, he imitated him, throwing a flurry of punches, too frenzied to correctly time the Flowing Strikes.

His fist landed on the man's stomach and face, but the failed ability nullified most of the force. The man tried defending himself with his other hand, only for Freddy's fist to shatter his wrist and palm.

He rapidly ran out of essence with his wild swings but kept throwing ordinary punches that hurt far more than botched Flowing Strikes.

His fist landed on the man's liver twice, winding the man and buckling him over just as a third punch struck his nose, shattering it into a bloody pulp, the strike after strike creating a constant flow of lifeforce into his body that wasn't enough to make any difference to his current state, but eventually, his fist struck the man's chin hard, nearly knocking him out.

The man reached over to the ground and grabbed something.

He was rushing to attack again, so he failed to notice as the man swung a massive iron tent peg right at his head, far too fast to dodge as the blunt weapon landed with a loud metallic clang and the crack of bone shattering.

He was too dazed to defend himself as the man swung the peg again, hitting his neck. Just as the man raised the weapon once more, preparing a third strike, he reflexively raised his arm, blocking the strike with his forearm and grabbing the man by the arm. Holding both the man's arms, he pulled him in and slammed his forehead into the man's mangled nose. His opponent went limp and dropped to the ground.

There was no rush of essence, so he knew the man wasn't dead.

"There he"—someone yelled from Freddy's side—"is…"

He turned to face the three other men who had broken off at some point.

The men's eyes flicked between his profusely bleeding form… and their knocked-out comrades.

He raised his back straight, ignoring the trickle of blood flowing down his body. "Well?" he called. "Are you gonna come at me or what?"

"He's bluffing!" one of them shouted. "Get him while he's weak!"

In response, he lifted the unconscious man up into the air and grabbed his neck. "Take one step forward, and you can say goodbye to Baldy."

The men froze. "Shit!" one of them yelled. "Let him go!"

He squeezed the man's neck harder. "Or what?" He chuckled. "You're gonna kill me? I'm only doing this to spare myself the trouble with the staff. If it wasn't for them… I'd slaughter every single one of you."

That was very much so a bluff. In reality, he was so dizzy and light-headed that it took all the willpower he had to stop himself from wobbling on his feet.

The stalemate between the two parties continued as people began gathering around them.

Between three masked men and Freddy, who was bathed in blood, nobody was rushing to take a side.

"Shit!" one of the three men screamed as he broke off and started running. Seconds later, his two friends followed.

As soon as the men were out of sight, he dropped the unconscious man and started walking, heading to the infirmary to get some treatment. "Show's over, folks. Step aside."

"Step aside where, you asshole!? You knocked my tent over!" someone from the crowd yelled.

"You bastards spilled my load on the street!" another person screamed. "Half of it was stolen!"

"You're that goddamn scars guy, aren't you?" a long-haired man accused as he stepped out of the crowd and approached him, stepping right into his personal space as he pointed the finger at his nose. "Everyone! This guy is a fucking snitch! That's why he—"

Before the man could continue, Freddy grabbed his finger and twisted, breaking it, and before the man could scream, he kicked him full force in the stomach, causing him to puke on the ground and then, unceremoniously, pass out in the pile of his own vomit.

"Either you get the fuck out of my way, or I move you out of my way!" he shouted at the crowd as he confidently stepped right toward them.

Nobody else was willing to take any chances, and soon, a clear path was parted for him as he walked through it.

He had lost a lot of blood. None of his wounds were deep, but they were severe enough to threaten his life. Gritting his teeth, with a wobble to his steps, he strode forward.

Despite all the damage he did, his talent had been utterly useless in that fight. No matter how miraculous it was outside of combat, this was a reminder that it made practically no difference during a battle.

For him, who had almost exclusively relied on it outside of combat until that point, it had seemed like a godlike power. Now, the weight of the tradeoff hung heavily on his mind. Nobody among those men had an awe-inspiring talent, allowing him to close the gap with pure power.

But that won't always be the case.

The soil beneath his feet was marred with bloody footprints, and while it was slowing down, his bleeding was still actively killing him. But he flatly refused to pass out. There was no way in hell that anyone would step in to help him.

"Whoa, what the hell happened to you!?" someone asked, but he couldn't muster the strength to turn around and face them.

Silver hair and piercing blue eyes caught his attention, however, as the figure walked in front of him with his hands raised and offered to help.

"You're the…" This was the assistant who helped with lectures—as well as one of his forager coworkers.

"Yeah, yeah, uh—" the man said, eyeing his bloody body. "Oh, man, you're bleeding pretty bad. We have to get you some help."

"Don't worry," he said. "I can get there."

"No, wait," the man insisted as he crouched before him, back turned, offering him a piggyback ride.

He tried refusing, but in trying to turn in a different direction, he fell over, draped over the man's back.

With strange, almost practiced ease, the man lifted him up, and he surrendered. If this person was willing to help, he might as well take him up on the offer.

While the man carried him rather confidently, his weight didn't take long to slow them down. By their journey's end, the silver-haired figure looked haggard, struggling to catch his breath and sweating profusely.

Once they reached the tent, the man dropped him to the ground. "Man…" he said as he blinked sweat from his eyes. "You're damn heavy," he observed, fighting to catch his breath.

Soon enough, a medic brought him in, and his wounds were treated. As was the case every time something like this happened, a brief investigation was launched. He gave his side of the story and was left nervously waiting for judgment, unsure what witnesses would say about him. It likely wouldn't be flattering.

To his surprise, however, the staff quickly deduced that he was innocent. Suspiciously so, actually. Could it be that they were leaning into the rumors that he was being favored so that they could bait those who wanted to target him?

The cost of his treatment was waived as thanks for dealing with several troublemakers. One of the three he knocked out was dead, while the other two would be publicly executed. Given the rumors people were already spreading about him, he wasn't happy to hear that. The three men who fled hadn't been caught.

Thankfully, his injuries weren't too complex. Nothing that wouldn't heal well enough on its own that it would make his talent suspicious.

Only once he was left entirely alone to rest in the smelly confines of the recovery room did it finally catch up with him.

Six men had assaulted him while he was sleeping—and almost succeeded at killing him.

He vividly remembered the crowd's reaction. Had his reputation really gotten that bad? Maybe the boss of his assailants was the person he had snitched on, but it could also be entirely unrelated.

Even if true, what evidence did these people have that it was his doing? But, no… these people didn't need proof or a solid reason to blame him. The rumors of the privileges he had been provided with were enough to make anyone suspicious.

"And it has to be me," he lamented. "It just fucking has to be me, doesn't it?"

It must have been the numerous visits to the elite healer. Those were unavoidable, so he had taken the hit to his reputation as inevitable.

But this was bad.

Really bad.

After several more hours of rest, he was finally released. His wounds still ached, and he felt dizzy, but a recovery potion from his stash had dealt with the most pressing injuries.

As he walked out of the tent, he heard a voice. "Oh, thank God!" someone called from behind him. "You're alive!"

He turned around, only to spot the silver-haired man getting off the ground nearby. "Uh…" he started, somewhat bemused. "Hello?"

The man patted some dust off his forager uniform as he stepped forward and gave him a handshake. "My name is Peter Vane."

"Okay, Peter… uhm… why are you still here?" he asked without returning the introduction.

"Oh, I…" The man appeared taken aback. "I helped bring you here, so I was rather invested in seeing—"

"Thank you… for your help, I mean," he said. "But uhm… I'll be fine now."

"I see," he replied, his gaze scouring the state of his body. "Say, you're pretty strong, right?"

He winced. Indeed. He was pretty strong, but… judging by his shameful display from earlier, he had a long way to go with using that strength properly. "I'd say I'm pretty tough, yeah," he confirmed, carefully wording his statement.

"I have to admit," the man started with a shy smile. "I saw your fight at the Wastes. You were quite—"

"Look," he interrupted, "are you here for a reason or…"

"I… You know, there is something I'd like to talk to you about," the man started.

Freddy eyed him curiously. The shifting posture, nervous glances, forced smile… This man, or Peter, rather, wanted something. While he was too tired and in too much pain to care, he couldn't help but feel that something was off. He wanted to leave… but his instincts told him to stay.

The man glanced around. "Maybe we should go somewhere a bit more private."

So they did, going to a secluded area in the corner of the main cavern.

Peter started. "Have you ever wondered why the officials allow the arena to exist?"

Not really was what he wanted to say because he hadn't concerned himself with it until now, but— "Yeah…" he offered tentatively, curious as to where the man was going with this.

"Right? It's suspicious, isn't it?" the man said. "I'm a regular in the stands, and people often show growth that they shouldn't have been able to reach just by doing their job, but the staff still overlooks it despite it being an undeniable violation of the rules."

"Figures," he said. The staff probably couldn't be bothered with examining the growth of every individual. "What about ascending?"

"No, that's guaranteed exile," the man clarified. "And two-stars like myself are watched way more carefully, but other than that, they don't seem to care about anything else."

Two-star? he wondered internally. This man was a two-star? Indeed, as he tried focusing on it, he couldn't tell how strong the man was. That meant the man could perfectly hide his presence, confirming that he was a star above him. "So?" he started. "What about the arena?"

"I was just wondering… are you planning on coming back?"

He squinted at the man. "Why?"

"Well…" the man started, his eyes shifting. "You'd be able to repay your debt much faster."

"Through the betting, you mean?" He had heard about the betting system in place in the arena. Naturally, if this whole operation was legit, it would be the perfect way for him to make it out of there. But it wasn't, so he had no interest in it.

"Yeah," the man confirmed. "But not just that, but you're pretty strong, too… Perhaps fewer people would go after you if you showed what you're made of."

He laughed at that. "Maybe. Maybe not. Is that all you wanted to talk about?"

The man paused for a moment, then shook his head.

"Cut to the chase, then. What do you want?" he asked.

"Well… I was just wondering… and please don't tell anyone I asked you this, but… just theoretically, if you were trying to escape, what would you do?"

Freddy froze. A sneaking suspicion snuck into the back of his mind as he stared the man down. Then he smiled. "I would give up," he said, chuckling. "This place seems to be more or less an impenetrable prison."

"What if I told you it didn't need to be?" the man offered, his expression growing slightly darker.

"I'd prefer paying my debt back, anyway," he said. "Why risk it?"

"I—" Peter started, suddenly seeming extremely anxious.

"If that's all you wanted to talk about, I'm off," he said as he nodded and turned around.

"I—Wait!"

But Freddy didn't stop.

"There—There's a rumor!"

He paused, slowly turning to face the blubbering man. "What do you mean?"

"I…" The man shifted, his eyes dodging as he gulped. "They… they say that you might… you know… You might not be set free after paying your debt back…"

His eyes closed into slits. "That seems like a silly conspiracy to me."

"I'm… I'm not sure," the man said. "There isn't a guarantee that they'll just release us."

"And where did you hear that rumor?" he asked.

"I… Just conversation."

"Uh-huh," he said. "Just wondering, you said you were a two-star, right?"

The man nodded.

"I'm just curious, but as far as I know, the two-stars here are only non-combat archhumans, yeah?"

The man confirmed hesitantly, "Indeed. None of us have combat talents," the man declared, and he couldn't react fast enough as Freddy gripped the back of his neck and pushed him to the ground, restraining the man by locking his arm behind his back.

"Scream, and you're dead," Freddy threatened. "Now tell me, what the fuck do you want from me?" he questioned.

"Please! Argh! I'll tell you everything!" the man begged.

"Let me guess, trying to recruit me into a rebel group? We'll see how the staff feels about that!"

"That's not why I'm here!" he defended himself.

"Prove it, then!"

"I'm…" The man coughed as he inhaled some dust. "I just want to help you out!"

"You're lying," he said, pushing the man's head further into the soil and pulling his arm harder. "You're here for personal interest. So tell me, motherfucker, what do you want?"

"You're right!" Peter admitted. "You have a powerful master… Am I correct?"

He paused. Instead of denying it, he played along. "How do you know that?"

"The information in your documents!" the man said. "It's classified! And your power is—"

"How the fuck do you know what's in my documents?" he interrogated.

"Because I work here!" the man declared. "I'm a staff member in disguise!"

Oh… fuck my life, he cursed internally. He had just assaulted a staff member. The thought of killing the man outright and hiding his body crossed his mind, but he restrained himself. "What business do you have conspiring like this?" he asked.

The man took a few calming breaths. "I don't plan on being stuck with this shitty company forever!" he yelled. "I would like to offer you a trade. I'll help you make it out of this place! In return… please convince your master to take me under their wing!" he said. "I have a Poison Master talent, but it's useless in combat. I never wanted a non-combat talent!" he shouted. "I need a favor from someone powerful to help me skew my next evolution!"

Freddy kept the man pinned to the ground for a long moment. For all he knew, this person could be lying, but his motives were selfish enough to at least give him some credit.

Usually, he would never take a chance with a figure as suspicious as this.

But he didn't have even a hint of a plan for making it out of these caves. Running away was suicide. And what other choices did he have?

Sighing deeply, he gritted his teeth. An opportunity like this wouldn't come to him twice.

"All right," he said, releasing the man's neck. "I accept your deal."

Naturally, as he had no master, he had no way to hold up his part of the bargain. Was it dishonorable? He didn't care. He needed a way out of there.

***

Eventually, Freddy made his way back to his tent. There, he picked up his stuff. It was too dangerous to stay there for the time being. So, at least for a while, he would be moving to the abandoned cave.

On his trek out, every person that glanced at him seemed suspicious. Anyone who even as much as lifted their arm as they passed him was treated the same as if they were holding a dagger.

How little would it take for someone with a specialized ability or talent to kill him in a crowd like this? And, if several men ganged up on him like that, how likely was he to win again?

His conversation with the disguised staff member had been a short one. For the time being, the man would subtly look for ways to get him out of the expedition.

Until their next meeting, he was still responsible for keeping himself alive.

One thing was glaringly obvious—he needed to learn how to properly defend himself, and swinging at empty air without guidance wasn't good enough.

His reputation seemed to be unsalvageable—but who said that he needed to fix it?

No, he had a much better idea.