1% Lifesteal

They shook hands, and the man left, looking rather pleased. It was easy to tell why he was so happy. A two-star in this run-down building was probably its single biggest mark of prestige.

Not that it was horrible, either way. The building he was renting the apartment in was ten times better than his old place. And the space itself was clean, tidy, and well decorated. There was only a bit of mold in a small corner of the bathroom, too.

He stood in the small living room of the one-bedroom home and looked around, breathing out in contentment. It was criminal to rent something like this for over five thousand dollars a month, but the area was highly competitive, so it was hardly a surprise.

With his new windfall, he could have probably rented out an even nicer place, but he had no intent on recklessly spending loaned money. Still, he didn't want to live in a shithole, either, and he had good reason to rent closer to the hub. No sense in wasting several hours a day walking.

It was already afternoon, and there was much on his schedule that day, so he started immediately. First thing first, he went grocery shopping. Less than an hour later, his new place was stocked with essentials. Soap, shampoo, toilet paper, basic food, and so on. It amounted to less than a hundred dollars.

If he was being honest, he had absolutely no idea how to cook. Luckily, there was no need for anything fancy.

He was the furthest thing from a picky eater, so until he started earning a stable income, he would refrain from letting lifestyle inflation consume his finances. Thankfully, he had a lifetime of frugal habits and experience to help him out.

He locked the apartment, set out into the streets, and walked to the primary destination for that day. There was a mall near the building holding the public passage. But this was no ordinary shopping center.

The white building looked clean, windowless, and generally non-descript from the outside, but, to get inside, he had to show an ID to prove he was an archhuman. Although he would have scoffed at such social barriers before, in this case, he fully understood why mortals had no place there.

As he pushed through the suffocating mass of people entering and leaving, he finally stepped inside. "More spatial expansion," he mused. "Haven't seen that in a while."

Indeed, the mall was at least thrice as large as it seemed to be from the outside. This wasn't his first time entering a place like this, but last time, it was clearly more aimed towards either non-combat archhumans or just rich people in general.

But this mall?

Every single store inside sold some form of equipment. There were weapon shops, all sorts of resource suppliers, equipment vendors—hell, he even saw a shop dealing in ether constructs. This was the warrior side of things.

The people inside were split half-half between those dressed casually and those armed to the gills in full gear—weapons in plain sight and all.

During his repeat visits and day-long lounging at the passage lobby, he hadn't just been sitting around and wondering what to do.

He had also been watching.

Many times, he saw people remove their equipment, often to treat immediate but relatively benign injuries and sometimes just to take suffocating articles off and allow themselves to breathe. People used a wide range of tools, clothing, and armor, and by cross-referencing what he saw with the catalog he was handed, he had a pretty good picture of everything he needed to get his hands on.

First, his eyes scouted the shops for something everyone needed. He was looking for underwear. Not just any type of underwear, but this one-piece bodysuit thing he saw rather frequently.

It didn't take him long to find the shop selling it.

Given all the affinities and the virtually unlimited number of different talents, it wasn't a surprise that people had a varying spectrum of specific needs regarding underwear. Fire archs needed their fireproof, some needed skin exposure or direct contact to make their abilities or talents work, others needed every inch of their body covered, and so on.

After walking past the female underwear section, he approached the men's one-piece department. There was yet again a wide array of clothing to choose from. He glanced right past those that left feet, hands, and the head exposed and went straight for the full-body protection.

With only a single opening for the eyes that could be widened to fit into it, this one-piece bodysuit covered everything from his individual toes to the tippity top of his head and, as advertised, only left a single, small gap to see through.

He had seen scant few people wearing something like this. Given what he read in the article, it was rather bewildering that it was so rarely used. The main advantage of such a bodysuit was that it covered everything. It was designed to be liquid-repellant and only allowed air to pass through in a single direction, which made it an excellent way to protect from harmful substances, be they liquids or gases. It also filtered the air it let outside, lowering the odds of something catching the scent of one's body odor.

The thing with passage realms was that, even with all the information one could get their hands on, there was always a risk that simply couldn't be accounted for—deviants.

Monsters weren't like the so-called 'enlightened species.' While creatures like humans used prime vestiges to acquire a talent, monsters had an inborn, species-specific trait and naturally possessed an ether star in their soul from birth. In some cases, deviants appeared.

Deviants were, well, deviants. They weren't like their common kin. Their talent and affinities were usually different, and sometimes they just had an extra affinity on top of the ordinary stuff the other members got. There was no exact number for how often they appeared, but for the gorels of the passage he would be delving into, it was roughly around 1%. While this seemed rare, it really wasn't. If he encountered only ten on a given day, he'd meet a deviant once every ten days on average, but it was likely that he would be seeing way more.

They ranged in power, some being way weaker than ordinary members of their species, while others could become an absolute nightmare that a special team would have to be formed against.

But then, given that life, nature, and death all had abilities that could produce some form of lethal substance and that these affinities often appeared in deviants, why wasn't everyone wearing complete protection?

It was simple—it looked weird.

While that might have seemed like a terrible reason to compromise one's safety, it wasn't. At all. Because when human interaction became a currency, vanity stopped being vain. People's perception of others mattered.

Freddy had firmly been in the "screw reputation" category of things. And where did that take him? Six men appeared to beat him to death while he was sleeping. He had failed to do his part in setting expectations, so others made their own. There were no friends to stand by him, and everyone was free to paint him to be whoever they wanted him to be. And they wanted him to be an asshole snitch they could vent their frustrations on.

Viewed through this lens, it wasn't weird at all. How would people see someone who appeared overly cautious? They would be seen as either a coward, a tryhard, or as if they were lacking experience. Neither of those three things was desirable for parties looking for members. Thinking further, he concluded that people took seemingly unnecessary risks for the sake of image all the time.

Many refused to take medicine when sick, performed all sorts of dangerous stunts to impress others, got tattoos that could make employment difficult, and so on. It was always for a reason, though. It was always with a motive in mind. They decided their reputation so it wouldn't be decided for them.

But, this time, things weren't like they were in the caves. This wasn't a place of the desperate and angry; it was the home of dreams and adventure, of hope and aspirations. If someone dressed weirdly or appeared weak, they would just be left alone. Outcast, perhaps, yes, but who cared? He sure didn't.

For him, being a loner was preferable for the time being. Not only was his identity fake, but too many secrets of his couldn't be used in front of others, including his two most significant trump cards. Recklessly showing off would be the real way to invite trouble. Thus, repelling others and getting extra protection was obviously the correct choice.

What mattered was that, this time, he was the one choosing his own reputation.

When it came to appearance, he had a few options for the bodysuit. First were just ordinary colors, like white, black, beige, and so on. Second was camouflage, ranging in shades depending on the type of environment. And the third was pitch black. Not just ordinary dark, but void dark. It was so black that the fabric looked like someone had cut out a bodysuit-shaped chunk out of reality. The price made his stomach drop, though.

"Seventeen thousand, geez…!" he noted. "I'm too poor to be even looking at this stuff."

And besides, he didn't strictly need something like that. Camo was good. Besides, most, if not all, of the bodysuit would be covered in other gear anyway. So the color wasn't that important.

It still wasn't cheap, costing him almost four thousand dollars, but the quality justified the price.

Not only was it liquid and gas repellant, it was fire-proof, tearing, slashing, cutting, and piercing resistant, wouldn't split apart even if it was damaged a bit, was super comfortable, provided a full range of motion, and even promised to act as a partial barrier to touch-related abilities and talents. He was sure that the higher-priced models provided way better versions of all those things, but this was all he could afford.

Also, apparently, he was meant to wear socks and boxer shorts over and not under the suit. That didn't make much sense, and it looked goofy as fuck, but he would obey. A pair of so-called "flatulence filtering" elastic trunks and knee-high defensive socks later, he was down another seven hundred dollars.

Next up was footwear. Shoes were important. Not only were there numerous abilities that could strike from under one's feet, but he was a martial artist, too, so his shoes had to tolerate quite a beating and provide solid footing. Footing was important. Crucial, even, for any martial artist.

As soon as he walked into the shop, he saw the collection of footwear offered. What stuck out to him the most, both here and back at the hub, was that all the footwear had extremely wide toe boxes. At first, he wondered why, but once he asked the worker there, he was stunned at the answer. Apparently, this was the only shape that was actually good for the foot. Tight cleats were just wrong, as they pushed the toes too close together.

Yet another sacrifice people took for the sake of appearance. But a rational one. Because these were just so damn ugly to look at.

Duck feet–lookin' ass shoes, he thought jokingly. Well, everyone wore these, so they weren't out of the ordinary.

The model he had to buy was the single priciest piece of gear he would get that day, costing him almost twenty thousand dollars. Again, good shoes were quintessential to him. With his heavy body and intense Flowing Strike, he would need his shoes to tolerate a lot of damage.

He had to buy a highly resistant model that was easy to maintain. That combo didn't come cheap with any piece of equipment. As for the looks, he decided on camo for everything. It was a rather popular choice for obvious reasons. And it looked cool as hell.

He got thick leggings, a tough shirt, a thick, mail-reinforced turtleneck, a defensive vest, shoulder guards, metal bracers, thick leather gloves with hard knuckles, knee guards, and shin plating; then, after that, he purchased a reinforced synthetic jacket and pants that could be tightly secured to his shoes through standard hooks built into both articles of clothing. And, last but not least, a full helm with a synthetic, shatter-resistant visor.

Weapons weren't his thing, at least not for the time being, so there was little to get in the way of that, but he did fetch the standard hunting knife and a machete just short enough to fit into his storage ring. As for other gear, he bought an ethertech torch, a canteen, and a first-aid kit, which he almost definitely wouldn't need but got just in case he couldn't use his talent for whatever reason.

For the final thing he purchased, he got a large rucksack. There wasn't enough space in his storage ring for some of the miscellaneous equipment, and it would be best for others to not know that he had a storage ring.

Once he was done shopping, he was down by over 70,000 dollars. The mere thought of the money he'd spent sent a trickle of sweat down his spine. For Christ's sake, he bought low-to-mid-tier equipment on average! Just how damn pricy would a complete high-end set be?

With shopping out of the way, he returned home. There was a large mirror in the living room of his new rental apartment. So there was only one thing left to do, he thought, as he proceeded to put all his gear on. It took him nearly fifteen minutes to tightly secure all the straps and tie all the knots. Once he was done, he witnessed his reflection.

"Pfff!" he snorted. "Goddamn, I look like a total dweeb," he groaned but was smiling nonetheless. Honestly, he looked pretty dang cool. Like a sweaty try-hard with an army-slash-medieval-warrior fetish, yes, but cool nonetheless. The full helm was particularly edgy. Just the cherry on top he needed.

For the rest of that day, he just took a break. He had been too stressed over the last week, and he had to start his delving career well-rested and clear-headed. To that end, he also took another dose of milky pink alia root. A big investment, but a necessary one.

While he was scared, he was also buzzing with excitement. As he knew from experience, he'd be too jittery to sleep without assistance. Pushing aside the thought that this might be developing into an addiction, he downed the tea and clocked out early, dreaming of rainbows above green pastures, teddy bears and warm blankets, and unicorns flying above the clouds.

Once he woke up, he was as fresh as could be. After his humble breakfast of slightly charred eggs, courtesy of his lack of experience with an actual stove, he donned his tryhard gear and set out to the hub.

People made space for him as he walked past them in the streets, and eventually, he reached his destination. Once he stepped inside, many eyes turned to him. Too many, in fact.

"Oh, boy," he whispered under his breath.

Some people laughed and lightly bumped their companions' arms while drawing attention to him. Not many, though. Among the crowds seated in the lobby, he spotted only two people that directed any attention his way.

It would have been fine if it had stayed at that, but a brunet man got up and stepped before him. "Yo, spec ops, where you headed?" he teased with a smile.

The man was clearly experienced, showcasing a few scars over his cheeks, and his gear, although seemingly high-quality, was rather ragged and worn out, showing many signs of rigorous maintenance and repair work.

Freddy remained silent as he stared at the man. What to do in this scenario? Stay silent? Play pushover?

Before he could settle for a plan, the man swung an arm around his neck and leaned in, wagging his finger and whispering, "You've got some good gear on you. I can tell you know your stuff. Not my style, but practical. You waiting for your crew?" the man asked.

He just stared at him, trying to think of what to say.

"No? Ah, so you're solo?" he concluded, sucking air through his teeth. "Not the best situation to be in. How about this; my boys and I are gonna delve at ten when we all gather, and you can come with us. I can't promise you a spot on the team, but we do need someone to guard our equipment and maybe help us bring back the meat. You'll get a good share! There are six of us in the party. I can offer you five percent of the cut. What do you say?"

He had no clue whether that was a good deal or not. Although he was strictly against partying with others, playing helper… It certainly circumvented some of the biggest reasons why he would prefer to remain solo. Given how the man phrased it, he wouldn't be expected to fight beside them, only keep their gear safe while they fought and help them carry stuff.

The experience was valuable, and it was much safer than going in alone. This would give him an excellent chance to see how delving was done by others, and he was optimistic that he would learn several things that guides couldn't teach him, no matter how much they cost. If worse came to worst, he could always bail on the deal and prioritize his own safety.

But.

"Ten percent," he demanded. There were six of them and one of him—five percent was just too small a cut, even for what he would be doing.

"Pffff—" the man spluttered. "Hell no, man." He frowned and shook his head, looking over to his teammates in a "get a load of this guy" kind of gesture. "Those aren't helper rates; I'd pay that to a new member of the team. I can give you six."

"Eight," Freddy said.

"Six or no deal," the man stated. "You won't be in the fighting force, you'll only—"

"I still might end up fighting," he interrupted the man. "It isn't like I'm safe just because I'm staying back. Besides, I can carry a lot of weight." He decided to keep the fact that he was a two-star out of the argument. One bastard trying to weasel him into helping out was enough.

"Like I said, six is all I can give you," the man gave his final offer.

With that, he simply shrugged, turned around, and started for the stairway. There wasn't even a shred of hesitation in his steps. He walked the walk of a man genuinely giving up on a deal. Because, well, he was.

The man called again several seconds later. "Okay, fine!" he shouted. "But under one condition. You said you can carry a lot, right?"

He nodded.

"Let's see it then!" he said, pointing at one of his team members. The man was somewhat muscular but wasn't exactly someone who gave off the presence of strength. Still, given the other guy's attitude, the dude probably had a strength-enhancing talent. "If you can beat him in arm wrestling," he said, "I'll give you eight percent; no, fuck it, I'll give you ten. But if you lose, I'll give you six as promised."

Whether he could beat that man in an arm wrestling match, he had no clue. But he didn't care either way. "No," he refused outright. "We are about to delve, and you want to risk your party members injuring themselves?" he asked with a scoff. "Forget it; I don't want to delve with you."

"Okay, fine, you pathological fuckhead," the man surrendered. "Eight percent."

"Nine percent," he shot back, smiling beneath his full helm. Just a bit over half the rate everyone else would be getting. That should be fine.

The man rolled his eyes so hard it looked like he was trying to find a pesky hornet flying above his head. "You'd better be the best goddamn helper I've ever seen in my life!"

Freddy smiled beneath the helm. "We have a deal, then."