1% Lifesteal

He wore a branded white hoodie with the image of a purple oriental dragon on it and simple, sporty black sweatpants. He had what appeared to be a buzz cut, but it was the early stubble growing from what had only a few days ago been a shiny bald head.

Freddy left the shop and threw the dirty old clothes into the nearest trash can. New but unwashed clothing was itchy on his skin, but he was used to way worse discomfort than that.

The streets were busy, and this included the sidewalk. Numerous people walked about, their clothing just different enough from a year ago to make him feel how much things had changed during his absence. He heaved a heavy sigh, turned, and started walking.

What he needed to do the most was find himself an ID. Not just a fake piece of plastic but an actual, government-registered identification document. There were two ways to get it: legally, and…

The other way.

The only people he had ever called parents were… problematic individuals. Indeed. They taught him a few things no child should ever need to learn.

There was a common misconception. Many who lived in nicer areas believed that crime happened in back alleys. Perhaps sometimes, yes. But for the most part, those were empty.

No, the reality of criminal activity was far more depressing than that. Around half of it happened behind closed doors. And the other half…

He went on a walk through the busy avenue. Then he turned into a less populated one. The pristine buildings, large logos of reputable corporations, and signs of flourishing life gradually vanished. The streets grew more run-down, the buildings older, and the people… poorer.

Half behind closed doors—while the rest happened in plain sight.

He walked past an old, closed shop and glanced at his reflection in the broken glass. There was a problem. His clothes were fit for the job, and his haircut suited the purpose. But the way he carried himself… No, that wouldn't do.

His posture was too straight, and his face was too calm and clean. He got closer to the glass and took a good look at himself.

Then he frowned, lifted his lip in a half-snarl, and scrunched his nose.

After adjusting his face for a while, he felt that he looked appropriately pissed. Then he turned to the side and adjusted his posture. Hunched over would do. He put his hands in his pockets and even pushed his sweatpants down just a bit.

Good.

There was an immediate change in how people perceived him. Passersby made more space for him. People turned around to keep an eye on him if they were walking in front, and they either sped up to get as far from him as possible or slowed down enough for him to overtake them.

But it wasn't quite there yet. He walked past a tattoo parlor. A while later, he walked out with three new tattoos. The first was of a spiderweb with a black widow right below his left eye. Then a large patch of snake scales covered part of the right side of his face and neck. And finally, a silver heart was on his right temple.

Cheap, trashy, and precisely what he needed. Out of three, the silver heart would be the most impactful. It referenced a man from the early era of the Rift. Someone who had used their talent to enslave thousands of women into a personal harem. He was among the first three-stars on the planet and had used his power exclusively for personal benefit. A genocidal, psychopathic serial rapist, one of the most despised people to have ever lived—and an idol to the lowest trash society had to offer.

There was just one more tiny thing. He walked into the closest store and bought a pack of cigarettes. There. Perfection.

After a while of walking, he strode past a teenager smoking something. It did not smell like tobacco.

"Hey, kid," he turned to face the boy. "Who sold you that?"

The kid glanced at him and licked his lips. "Treat me to a round, and I'll tell you."

Without hesitation, he kicked the boy in the shin and grabbed him by the neck. "Listen to me, you little shit," he whispered threateningly. "Tell me who gave you that, or I'll bust your knees, you hear me?"

The boy panicked hard and dropped the joint, raising his arms. "Okay, okay, geez, let me go!" Then, as he was released, he picked the smoking blunt back off the ground.

Half an hour later, after following the kid all the way there, he found himself on the second floor of a shabby old building, knocking on a rotting wooden door.

A small compartment on the door was pushed open, and someone looked through it. A brisk tch was heard as the man spotted who stood outside. The little opening slammed shut immediately afterward. Seconds passed and added to nearly a minute. It was clear that he wasn't going to open the door.

Figures, he thought, This bastard is probably only after safe targets like young teenagers.

Then, with a grin and a slight feeling that he was enjoying this roleplay a bit more than he should be, he raised his leg and, with a Flowing Strike, busted the door wide open.

"What the fuck!?" the man inside the run-down apartment yelled. He was a short, heavily tattooed Asian with long, black hair tied in a ponytail. "What do you think you're—ack—" he groaned as Freddy picked him up by the neck and slammed him against the wall.

"What… do you think you're…?" He kept trying.

"Shut the fuck up and listen to me," Freddy said, silencing him and releasing a hint of his two-star aura.

The man's face instantly drained of all color, and the young teenager bolted and ran away. That was a pretty appropriate response.

Archhumans were a higher class in society. Even with a garbage talent, abilities alone were enough to earn a better living. But regardless of the talent, every two-star was way above the common folk.

Given his current appearance, matched with his attitude and actions, anyone in these waters could only conclude one thing—he was no ordinary goon.

"All right," the man rushed to say. "Please just don't kill me. I have a younger sis—"

"I don't care if you have a dozen," he said, tightening the grip on the man's throat. "Spare me the bullshit. Either you do what I tell you, or you fly out that window. Capiche?"

The man nodded.

***

Sitting in a dark corner of an abandoned warehouse, Freddy casually smoked a cig. He hadn't had one in a long time. The man he had coerced into bringing him here was a bit away from him, sitting on another old cardboard box. He appeared a bit tense but a lot more relaxed after realizing that he wasn't going to die that day.

He flicked the man a cigarette, and the man caught it mid-air. They had talked a bit. He had sold the man some bullshit story about having a fallout with his previous boss and how he needed a new identity now.

After a few hours of waiting, three men walked into the dark corner. A Black man and two Caucasians behind him. He was the upper chain link—the supplier who dealt with distribution to several dealers, and while he wasn't a two-star, he was close to the peak of the first. He was a tall, bulky man with big arms, wearing a clean wife beater accented by the shiny golden necklace.

His manly, chiseled face had a permanent frown on it. The other two beside him wore casual clothing and seemed to be ordinary goons. "What's this?" he asked the Asian man in a raspy voice, cocking his head in Freddy's direction.

Before he could get an answer, Freddy interrupted, "This, you motherfucker, is your goddamn client!"

The two goons shifted their posture, and the man raised an arm to stop them. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Information," he said. "ID dealer. No fakes. Only real, registered documents."

The man frowned at that. Then, with squinted eyes, shifting on one leg and eyeing him sideways, he said, "Maybe. What's in it for me?"

Unhesitantly, he took out ten thousand dollars, making sure everyone could see he pulled them out of a storage ring and placed the money on a box beside him. "Ten grand."

"Hey, now," the man said, grinning widely. "With a storage artifact like that on you, I'm sure you could offer a bit—" But before he could finish his sentence, Freddy lifted his leg, initiated a Flowing Strike, and slammed it into the ground, shattering the ground with a loud crash.

"I could also snap your neck," he threatened. "Either you take this and give me a contact, or fuck off," he said, already picking up the money and getting ready to walk away.

The man gulped, eyeing the massive footprint Freddy's technique had left in the ground. "Wait," the man called. "Okay, deal. I'll even take you there myself."

"Was that really that hard?" he asked as he walked over and handed him the money.

As they started walking out, the man counted the bills and paused. "Wait!" he called. "I count nine."

"Yeah," he confirmed. "There would have been ten if you'd kept your mouth shut. Now lead the way."

After hesitating for a moment, the man sighed and gave it up.

***

The carriage ride lasted for quite a while. They left the town and entered the forest. He was slightly worried that they would take him out into the wilderness and dispatch him, but he was confident he'd win if that happened.

Eventually, they reached a clearing in the woods. The road became much nicer, and they entered what appeared to be some sort of out-of-town gated community, kind of like that part of the twenty-fourth district he had been in when he was under Madame. Except here, there were no large residential buildings.

It was primarily fancy mansions, with a few hovering above the ground.

Freddy scoffed upon seeing this. But he became considerably warier. After passing through the gates with some form of identification, they rode into the opulent settlement.

The man eventually parked the vehicle in front of a mansion, and they all got out.

They walked into the building. Opulent, modern, and well-equipped, it had all the luxuries a man could want. They stood in the open lobby, with a few doors leading to the side and a large staircase taking to the upper floor. To the right of the door, a suited bodyguard sat peeling an orange, eyeing them warily. And, from a door on the second floor, someone walked out.

Wearing nothing but tight leggings and a fur coat, a man with dazzling, ear-length golden hair and blue eyes strode into the open space. Both his broad smile revealing his pearly white teeth and the numerous bits of jewelry hanging off his partially exposed body shone brightly.

The part of his torso that the fur coat didn't cover revealed the chiseled, scarred body of someone no stranger to mortal danger.

"Welcome!" he greeted them cheerfully. "To my humble abode."

Sighing openly in exasperation, Freddy impatiently scratched the back of his neck.

The Black man to his side walked out and said, "This is the guy."

"Hmmm?" the coated man smiled and gazed down at them. "Well, come on up," he invited, then snapped his fingers. "Marcy, bring five cups of coffee to the meeting room."

Everyone present was invited to the talk.

The meeting room was a relatively restrained, mostly monochrome gray room with a round couch holding a large coffee table in the middle. The coffee soon arrived, and Freddy grabbed the cup placed in front of the dealer who had brought him here and swapped it for his own.

The golden-haired man smiled at that in amusement, and the Black man shook his head as he confidently took a sip, probably already knowing that the odds of it being tampered with were nonexistent. That made him relax, but he didn't show it outwardly.

The coated man clapped his hands, rubbing them before he offered one in a handshake. "Call me Spike," he introduced himself. "Nice to meet you…" He let the last word hang.

Freddy thought for a while, then said, "You can refer to me as Slave."

"Slave, huh?" He giggled. "That's one hell of a pseudonym. Is there a story behind it?"

"Yeah," he said, then refused to elaborate.

The man blinked. "All right. So, what brings you here?"

"Fell out with my boss," he bullshitted. "Gotta change my identity."

"Fun," Spike scoffed. "Who were you under? Killean? Jon? You dress like a Crane." He fired off a few guesses. Then his gaze lingered on the cartoon dragon on Freddy's hoodie as he cocked an eyebrow. "Don't tell me… Basilisk?"

None of the names roused any reaction from him, and eventually, the man gave up. "You're no fun, Slave. Okay then." He sighed. "Let's get to business. What do you want?"

"Valid ID," he stated. "Water affinity on the record."

"Valid… I… D…" The man let that roll off his tongue as he sucked air through his teeth and made kissing noises. "All right." Then, with a swing of his arm, a plastic, transparent document folder appeared. Within was a small stack of A4-format papers and an ID card. "If you want it legit," he said. "This is all I can give you."

Freddy grabbed the folder and took out the ID. "Liam Cuttingsworth" was the name of the person on the ID. It was a man with very different facial features from his own. But evolutions could be fickle; hell, even he no longer looked like himself after his ascension.

The rest of the papers held what seemed to be the man's entire life story.

"That was one of my goons," the golden-haired man said. "Died two years ago. His death was never reported. No living family members. His full life story is right there, including pictures of old acquaintances and basic information about them," he briefly introduced the contents. "This is premium stuff. You won't find better anywhere."

That might very well not have been overly exaggerated. Documents like this were impossible to fake. One would have to have too many connections in the government for it to be viable. The only way to get one's hands on something like this would be to take over someone else's life.

Naturally, with so much information, this wouldn't be cheap.

Obviously, he was hoping to change his legal name. But that wouldn't be possible for at least half a year. If done any sooner than that, it was likely to rouse suspicion. After having a two-year gap in one's life history, suddenly reappearing, looking different, and wanting to change one's name was a series of red flags that could make certain Old Earth regimes shrivel in shame.

In fact, it was likely that he would be questioned once he appeared looking different, no matter what. On top of that, in case anyone learned of his reappearance and tried to step into contact with him, he needed to know all he could to play the role of this person to the best of his ability.

The added information was highly valuable.

He breathed heavily. This would be pretty damn expensive. He hoped to throw some random stuff from the ring at this man and get it over with, but now he was sweating. The only valuables he could give were the consumables that were in no obvious way related to Kraven.

There were random bags of herbs and an assortment of containers holding pills and liquids, totaling nine different items he had at his disposal.

He had no goddamn idea what they were worth, however. There was a possibility that they were worth either a lot more than he thought or a lot less. Just recklessly throwing them out wouldn't be a good idea.

But what else could he offer? Anything from the no-no pile was a big fucking no-no. Too risky. The prime was off the table. Too valuable. The dagger…

Freddy closed his eyes and crossed his arms, pretending to be in contemplation.

In his ethercosm, he floated over to Bloodshed's cage and floated right outside. "Bloodshed," he called. "Tell me everything you know about the dagger in my storage item."

Bloodshed's eyes lit up as it answered his question, "It holds an immense aura of blood within."

He thought about that for a moment before asking, "Can it grow in power the way the ring can?"

"No," it denied.

In that case, he was a lot more willing to give it up. But. "Anything else?" he asked.

"It is deeply connected to the concept of bleeding."

Freddy was about to ask whether that was the same thing as bloodshed but knew that the spirit probably wouldn't have differentiated between them if it was. "Okay." He nodded. "How valuable is it?"

The bloody skeleton cocked its head at him. "I do not know."

"Figures," he said. "Well then, what do you think? Should I keep it?"

"Master doesn't wield daggers in combat, but I believe that weapon can still be useful."

"How?" he asked.

"It causes wounds to bleed. The more blood it spills, the more blood Master can use with Blood Sacrifice. And that object holds a truly phenomenal blood aura."

If the concept of Bloodshed itself said so, he would believe it. He opened his eyes. The golden-haired man before him was staring daggers at him, and he matched the gaze as he pondered how to phrase his next offer.

A couple of seconds later, he opened his mouth. "Here's a deal for you," he started. "I'm short on cash now, but I snatched a few things from one of my boss' safes before leaving."

That made everyone in the room frown.

"The motherfucker deserved it, okay?" he rushed to defend himself. "Either way, I got some hot goods on me. Consumables. But I have no idea what some of it even is. Given where I found it, though, I know it must be worth good money."

That eased their mood a bit. While the man didn't seem to like the idea of such a backstab, he was a bit more lenient as he learned that he could benefit from it.

"So, let me ask you," he said as he squinted. "Do you have any experts around?"

"Yeah, I got a guy," Spike confirmed.

"Bring him here." Then, with a flick of his finger, he brought out a cigarette and a lighter. Lighting them, he inhaled deeply and blew the smoke out. "I'll bring the items out one by one. You will turn your back while I hand them to the evaluator. Then he'll say what it is out loud. You can either accept the offer or refuse.

"If you accept the offer, you get the item, and I get the papers. If you say no, I might increase the offer. I'm not gonna tell you how many things I have, though. If I run out, the deal is off, so don't get greedy."

The man grinned wryly at that. "Deal."