1% Lifesteal
Chapter 37 - Shark In a Pond

The biggest problem Freddy noticed after moving out of the main compound was that it was nearly impossible to keep track of time. Luckily, he hadn't missed any days before and still had free days, so it had no considerable consequences.

His solution to the problem was simple. He just went to the equipment distribution center and requested a small pocket watch. Yup. They gave those away. For free. He had no clue. Made sense when he thought about it. People had to return from the caves on time, so they had to know the time. Even an idiot should have been able to guess that much.

Needless to say, he was pretty ashamed of himself for not knowing that earlier.

Sleeping in the cold cave was hard to get used to at first, but his Adaptive Water Body allowed him to acclimate much faster than would otherwise be possible. Nothing could get him used to the occasional bug—most often, those giant, nasty centipedes crawling over his body and tickling him.

While, at first, he simply draped his futon over a random patch of moss and dealt with the problems as they came, he eventually located and polished an elevated piece of stone and slept there. Expecting the stone to be exceptionally uncomfortable, he was pretty surprised to discover that it was, honestly, maybe even better than the bed he had had when he was renting his own place.

His overall productivity and the rate at which he was repaying his debt had crawled to barely above twice the mandatory daily quota. That seemed like a lot, but for him, who had pulled well over twenty thousand dollars a day at his best… yeah, it was a monumental slowdown. He planned on returning to full glory eventually, as he didn't want to lose the benefits he had access to.

The reason behind his sudden productivity crash was simple— he spent the overwhelming majority of his time awake training.

Flowing Strike experienced a massive surge in growth after his fight with those men, and after a few days of practice, the shell finally reached its complete state.

On top of that, the progress with his star shot up to 65%.

He had trained Flowing Strike by smashing a clear path around the small lake. He could crush stone with a solid swing of his fist. Frankly, it was stupid, as he frequently cracked bone and mangled his fingers until they bled, but healing was easy enough, and his bones grew less fragile the more he abused them.

And once he finished that, he picked up a boulder roughly the size of his torso, placed it on his back, and ran circles around the cave.

Abyssal Depths was a phenomenal tempering technique. Having a denser body meant it was more difficult for enemies to push him around, and greater mass meant greater force behind his strikes.

But as he had learned the hard way in his fight against his assailants, it also slowed him down considerably. And now that he had upgraded it, that problem wouldn't get any less prominent.

On his first run around the lake, he barely reached halfway around before he collapsed from exhaustion. His abs and lower back burned as if set on fire, and his calves felt as if they were about to snap from overexertion. Not to even speak of his spine, hips, shoulders, neck, and knees. Without his talent, those would be fucked for life.

Such intense training naturally demanded a lot of energy. For this, mushrooms were a blessing, and he was, thankfully, a pro at replaceing edible ones, as well as other beneficial herbs.

While heavy processing was essential to transforming raw ingredients into useful alchemical products, some could exhibit a limited degree of their beneficial effects even when consumed raw. Naturally, there were always treasures that didn't need to be processed, but that wasn't what Freddy was eating. At all.

Tough to digest, sometimes poisonous, or with other non-lethal, or even just slightly lethal, side-effects was the name of the game.

But 1% Lifesteal, coupled with Adaptive Water Body, and likely just his body's natural adaptation, made it possible to eat them without much trouble—and to much benefit.

Enhanced regeneration, higher energy levels, more focus, slightly enhanced essence recovery, a small but noticeable boost to his toughness, endurance, speed, reflexes, and even strength. He thought clearer, saw sharper, heard crisper, and felt… good. A bit too good.

Maybe he was getting more than he had bargained for.

None of the effects he was experiencing were anywhere near as prominent—or long-lasting—as they would be after the herbs were processed. But having even a minor increase in, well, literally everything across the board wasn't a bonus to scoff at.

It yet again reminded him of how absurd his talent was.

His daily diet consisted of constantly snacking on one herb or another and shoving about as much protein as he could force down his throat. There was a hole in the corner that he was rapidly filling up with… waste. It was starting to overflow, and he could smell hints of poo all the way from the other side of the cavern.

His training, besides crushing his spine and joints through self-abuse, also consisted of a lot of essence control practice.

Freddy knew nearly nothing about standard essence control exercises, but with all the time on his hands, he eventually began puzzling a thing or two out.

These, as far he had discovered, were the primary variables—first, whether he was controlling an internal or an external source of water; second, the volume of liquid; third, the number of separate blobs he manipulated at once; fourth, the complexity of the shape he was trying to maintain; fifth, the uninterrupted time he spent holding water afloat; sixth, the degree to which it was compressed; seventh, the complexity of the trajectory he moved it through; and finally, eight, the speed to which he accelerated it.

Hydraulic Flex was enough practice for internal water manipulation. Probably. He didn't know much about doing that stuff himself, as all his internal abilities had come from ether scrolls.

So, trying to learn it through practice seemed good enough for the time being.

For all the others, he devised specific exercises working on one variable and that one variable alone.

Perhaps this was simply due to his Essence Extraction supplying him with enough essence to practice to his heart's content, but as soon as he employed this new set of exercises, his manipulation skills snowballed.

He no longer bothered keeping it in the shape of a ball, so the volume he could control ballooned.

If they were tiny enough and their form was nothing but a morphing blob, he could manipulate at first only two, but soon enough, up to seven separate water droplets.

Given that he hadn't done anything besides a simple ball shape until then, he was shocked to discover how difficult it was to keep other forms afloat. He struggled with this the most by far, and the most complex object he could maintain, other than the aforementioned ball, was a cube—a very wobbly one.

The pocket watch he carried around told him that endurance in keeping water afloat was definitely the part he was most advanced at. It wasn't surprising, as it had been the primary aspect he worked on while trapped for all those months.

Next, compression, which was, as far as he was concerned, basically impossible. It was like trying to compress slime with his hands—the harder he pressed, the more likely it was to escape through a gap in his control. He surmised that if he wanted any chance of doing this one, he had to be able to first form a near-perfect sphere. That wouldn't be easy. The best he could do was more of an egg.

Then there was the trajectory, another thing he was relatively good at from his time in solitary confinement. He didn't struggle with a full-body orbit, and he could almost manage a few loops in a row, but only close to his hands, where his control was strongest.

And finally, the speed, which he struggled with. The problem was that he instantly lost grip on the water he was manipulating as soon as he accelerated it. However, it didn't take long for him to realize that, well, that was kind of the point. It would eventually escape his control—he just had to work on adding as much speed to it before that happened.

For the first few days, he experienced explosive growth.

It didn't take long to run the circumference of the lake, and soon he ran it twice. Then thrice, four times, five times, before he realized it, he was running long—and fast enough—to justify picking up a bigger boulder.

As soon as he split his manipulation exercises into specific skills, he instantly realized that those skills were precisely what he had been missing.

Soon enough, he could manipulate the entire volume of his stage one Create Water, which amounted to a greater volume of water than there was in his body, twice over—and soon enough after, he could manipulate it for well over a minute.

He had gone from seven to twelve blobs he could hold up at once, which was mighty impressive, as the difficulty seemed to be scaling exponentially. Moving them, however, was utterly impossible.

The cube became less wobbly and was soon joined by a prism, while the ball finally appeared even, at least from some angles.

And he finally had what could generously be called a breakthrough with compression. He still couldn't compress water much but could at least noticeably squish a ball for a fraction of a section.

And finally, he could push water fast enough to send a small orb flying halfway across the lake.

The improvements in manipulation quickly started reflecting in his work on Hydraulic Flex. He could target the shape of the muscle better, and flex faster, stronger. He was growing in precision, power, and control enough to, hell, even use raw manipulation to simulate an inferior version of the ability through manual control.

Was he good enough to crystalize it already? Hell yeah, he was good enough, but there was no way he would settle for anything less than the absolute best he could do.

Eventually, after checking the Netherecho enough times, he finally tracked down something he wanted—the concept of turbulence.

After wasting nearly half a day attempting different methods of subduing the chaotic vestige, which was practically just a mass of turbulent energy, he eventually, through sheer stubbornness, wore it down enough to slot it into Hundred Wet Hells.

While something like toughness would have been great since it would have directly improved the effect of the tempering technique, his choice was more effective—even if much more dangerous and painful. Toughness sped up the results. Turbulence escalated the challenge. Massively.

As he tried himself against this new torture method, he nearly regretted choosing to take that vestige. He felt as if he was using the ability for the first time again, and this time, he had no flesh blob to help him cope with the agony.

The surface of his skin visibly wiggled in a gross, shifty display whenever he used the tempering technique. But he could barely tell, given that something similar also happened to his eyeballs, making it practically impossible to see. His nails lifted, bleeding from beneath; his mouth, ears, eyes, and nose bled, and he swore he could feel his intestines tying themselves into a knot.

It wasn't sustainable. He couldn't keep it up for long. Whether that upgrade had been a mistake depended on whether he could replace a way to cope with the upgraded ability.

He also discovered numerous vestiges he could slot into Flowing Strike but, frankly, had no idea which he wanted. Or needed, for that matter. He even found the concept of flow, which resonated strongly with his ability, but while it was a good one, he knew it wasn't the optimal choice.

So, rather than think of what the ability needed or what he wanted, he tried thinking outside the box. It was a technique that enhanced the power of his blows. It aimed to crush blocks and deliver force. So… maybe momentum would do well? No, that wasn't quite it.

But then it happened. As soon as he saw that vestige, he knew. It was a metal ball that jumped every few seconds and then stopped dead as soon as it touched a surface. And he felt it. Not the resonance; that was mediocre at best, but he knew it was precisely what he needed.

It was a vestige of force transference.

***

The crowd at the Wastes was as wild as ever.

"Get him!"

"Kill the bastard!"

"Cave his skull in!"

The match was nothing special. It was a sanctioned match between two fighters. Nobody really cared why they were fighting. For most, the Wastes were a place to see some blood, scream their lungs out, and vent their frustration. It was the closest thing anyone in Camp Violet had to therapy besides the staff, who had an actual therapist on board—Leo. Nice guy.

Peter slurped the slightly citrusy cocktail through a makeshift root straw, which he had fashioned out of a wheelzipper brush. It gave everything he drank a bitter tang and helped take the edge off the other nasty flavors. But the effect was already wearing off.

As he finished the drink, he threw the straw on the ground beside him, haphazardly flinging it to the ground.

It had been weeks since his talk with Freddy. He had done a highly reckless violation of his contract but had taken the risk anyway. Why? It was simple. That man likely had a master who was trying to rescue him. Giving Freddy a hand was Peter's attempt at earning himself a favor.

He had to be here for only a single month longer, but it wasn't like leaving would be an improvement. He sighed as he thought about it. No, actually, leaving Camp Violet would reduce his income to less than 10 percent of what he was earning here. Thankfully, his work had earned him some savings so he could invest in himself, but that was far from enough to make the type of difference he wanted to see.

For his ambition, he needed to strive for more—and as they said, no risk, no reward.

He had a few ideas for how to help the man, but… he'd have to actually talk to Freddy to discuss them. He knew that the man was still alive, given that he was fulfilling his daily quota, but he seemed to have become paranoid. Getting a hold of him was like trying to grab wet soap out of midair.

Well, it wasn't like he could blame the man. He had seen the bloody state he had been in.

Peter took another drink and gave a half-hearted cheer as one of the fighters landed a heavy blow.

As the match ended between the man with slightly enhanced toughness and the man with moderately boosted strength—both common and plain talents—with the tougher of the two simply outlasting his opponent, the crowd quieted as the next match was prepared.

Taking a moment to think about his future, Peter—

"Bastards and gentlemen!" the announcer yelled as he stepped out. It was a man with greasy, long hair wearing a black sleeveless shirt that had been fashioned out of an old, char-bathed uniform.

"Oh?" His focus was suddenly squarely back on the ring. Matches weren't often announced. But he usually knew who would be up well in advance.

Is it another special event? he wondered, half-prepared for disappointment, but—

"Today, we have a special bout. Few of you probably remember, but some might recall a strange man. A while back, a newbie had been sent in for a hazing. But he stepped out, head held tall, displaying a body forged in hell… and proved those scars weren't just for show."

No fucking way, he thought as a fat grin spread on his lips.

The reaction of the rest of the crowd, however, wasn't nearly as positive.

Boos and jeers spread through the audience.

"That's the snitch!" someone yelled.

"Bastard asslicker! Give him hell!"

"Kill the rat!" a man started, and—

"Kill the rat!" several others joined.

He knew of the man's unfortunate reputation. Indeed, anyone who got such benefits could have only gotten them through selling out someone who was up to no good, so a lousy rep wasn't a surprise… but to think it had gotten this bad…

"Now, now," the announcer yelled, calming the audience. "You don't want to anger the staff by bullying their golden boy," he joked, adding a jab of his own. "But I'm serious. You know what happened last time you cunts took things too far."

That made the crowd cool down in a heartbeat.

"So! It is time for—"

"You know what, you pieces of shit!?" a new voice yelled as Freddy, wearing a skin-tight black suit, one of the pieces of the forager set, stepped out of a cave. "Come the fuck out! Anyone got a problem with me!? Step into the ring!"

Peter's jaw dropped.

The jeers and boos in the crowd got that much worse, and several people looked ready to get up and fight.

"Oh, you wanna go!? You wanna fucking go!?" Freddy fanned the flames. "Come here, you motherfuckers! I'm gonna take you all at once!"

"What the hell is he doing?" Peter wondered.

"Silence!" the announcer screamed, but barely calmed the crowd. He rushed to Freddy, grabbed his arm, and forcefully shoved him back to his cave, kicking him in the ass as he did so.

Unbelievable, he thought as he shook his head. That moron is trying to get himself killed.

***

Freddy wasn't just being a hot-headed dumbass by doing what he did. That day, he was there to prove he wasn't messing around.

Well, he might have gotten a bit carried away, but he was juiced on so many different herbs that he was itching to bite someone's head off. He had come frighteningly close to leaping into the audience and starting a brawl.

As he finished his warm-up, shadowboxing, and stretching in the cave, and the announcer finished calming the audience and announcing the fight, he stood prepared.

Was he a good fighter? Definitely not.

Did he come strapped with a killer combat talent? Nope.

Was he confident in beating anyone here in a fight? Absolutely yes.

He stripped himself out of the skin-tight suit and revealed his impossibly chiseled muscles, wearing nothing but the standard boxer shorts to cover his privates.

As far as one-star archs were concerned, from what little he knew, his power was easily in the middle-upper echelon of warriors. Most rich, elite kids could still easily wipe the floor with him. Combat talents among the upper class weren't an advantage he could easily overcome. And that was only a part of it.

Treasures, training, secret abilities, high-level alchemical products, a practically infinite number of essence-recovery elixirs, healing, and more added to a qualitative difference between him and those who stood at the peak.

Nobody here was such an elite, though. People with especially dangerous talents had been sent somewhere else, with most camp workers having either non-combat talents or just ones on the weaker side.

On top of that, external techniques were limited in these fights. Nobody could target their opponent directly with something like a fireball for relatively obvious reasons. These were sanctioned matches hosted by camp staff. Naturally, they weren't hosting them to see their workers kill each other. Deaths had happened before, but only because it was better for them to occur in a ring by accident than out in the caves by premeditated intent.

Even past that, using weapons was prohibited. He couldn't possibly ask for more optimal circumstances. His opponent wouldn't be the best the arena could offer, but that was no reason to get complacent.

"You got this, Freddy," he said as he slapped his cheeks.

"And now! Fighters! Step into the Wastes!"

He walked out at a jog, pumping his chest and screaming at the audience. Nobody was booing him this time. Instead, they were cheering, "Skull Crusher! Skull Crusher!"

It was only then that he turned to look at his opponent.

It was a man he had seen a few times in passing but never paid particularly close attention to. At that moment, as the over two-meter-tall giant stood stripped of his uniform, revealing muscles that stretched his tan skin to the breaking point, only one thought went through his mind.

Oh, fuck my life.