[1% LIFESTEAL BOOK TWO START] Chapter 42 - This Man Is Not My Son

Kraven Industries Faralethal Mercantile and Information Agency

Excavation, Foraging, and Spelunking Department

Faralethal Activity Excavation Site: Camp Violet: Destruction Investigation Report

REPORT: CVDCSR-00056

*This is a transcribed comprehensive summary of all reports and report sections in reference to Subject and their involvement with the Camp Violet Destruction Incident. The reports referenced in this summary are: CVDR-00003-07, CVDR-00367, CVDR-01154, CVDR-01794, CVDR-01832, CVDR-01837,

Report topic: Staff Member Rescue and Recovery: Subject: Peter Vane

***

Section from CVDR-00003-07:

Subject was discovered in ‘red zone’ R-CV214 by a three-man mercenary squad on the third day of investigation, fourteen days after Camp Violet Destruction Incident. Due to severe upper-body disfigurement, Subject was misidentified as a threat by one of the squad members, who prematurely used an ability—Stage One: Stone Bullet—and severely injured Subject, causing muscle contusions, internal bleeding, and rib bone fragmentation. First aid efforts stabilized Subject’s condition, after which he was returned to Starhold for further treatment.

***

Section from CVDR-00367:

After extensive medical examination, Subject was deemed not to be in a life-threatening situation. Subject was left with debilitating sequela from damage suffered during Camp Violet Destruction Incident. The sequela included, but wasn’t limited to: severe third-degree and second-degree burn scarring on the upper torso, arms, neck, and general head area; severe sensorimotor function impairment, including sight impairment, hearing impairment, total loss of olfactory function, and extensive nerve damage along area affected by burns; lung damage, severe loss of lung capacity; total vocal cord destruction. The final recovery prognosis was ‘partial, with low chances of regaining independent function.’ Treatment required was judged to be ‘extensive and prolonged.’

***

Section from CVDR-01154:

After three weeks of treatment efforts, clinic personnel speculated that Subject might be suffering from severe brain damage. Repeated failures to communicate with Subject have shown him to be highly unresponsive, and, during exceptions, he failed to convey coherent information, regardless of the medium employed. The treatment effort was progressing slowly; much of the sequela was untreatable through any means other than supreme-quality healing or ether medicine with equivalent effect. Due to Subject’s inability to consent to costly treatment, the clinic filed an official request to proceed without consent, arguing necessity due to the severity of Subject’s condition.

***

Section from CVDR-01794:

The approval to proceed with treatment was granted. Subject’s condition started to improve. The burn damage was mitigated, much of the damaged nerve tissue was restored, and some degree of sensorimotor function was regained. Subject’s recovery was prognosed as ‘near total recovery likely.’

***

Section from CVDR-01832:

The Subject started exhibiting signs of PTSD on the twenty-eight day of treatment. Subject committed acts of extreme self-harm, showing likely suicidal intent. Through the use of sharp objects, Subject inflicted upon himself total eye destruction, severe lacerations along face, arms, and torso; through the use of dangerous cleaning chemicals, Subject inflicted upon himself poisoning and acid burns on lacerated skin and muscle tissue. Subject’s life was preserved through timely intervention.

***

Section from CVDR-01837:

Subject’s eyes were reconstructed, and his vision was partially recovered. Some of the remaining damage was treated, and Subject was physically in a stable condition. On the thirty-third day of treatment, the treatment cost exceeded Subject’s available funds. Psychiatric evaluation deemed Subject unstable and unable to return to a workplace environment. The insurance firm refused to cover the treatment cost, arguing that the self-inflicted nature of Subject’s injuries preceded the psychiatric evaluation of mental instability. Family members and acquaintances refused to cover further treatment cost. Kraven Clan and Kraven Industries refused to cover further treatment cost, citing all signed documents between Kraven Industries and Subject to prove no sections obligated them to do so. All applicable governmental bodies refused to subsidize further treatment cost.

At stable but severely physically debilitated, Subject was discharged from the clinic. The courts judged there was no less restrictive alternative and appointed Subject’s father and closest living relative, Matthew Vane, a full-rights guardianship over Subject. Subject was fired from Kraven Industries, and Matthew Vane received full compensation.

End of report summary.

***

On a clear, sunny spring day in the countryside near Pittersville, next to a small town by the name of Imperta, a black vehicle traversed the old, decaying roads, driving past a lightly forested area and large swathes of verdant, golden, and muddy farmland.

Inside the vehicle, which more and more resembled what had once been called a ‘car’ on Old Earth but with more than five times as large wheels, a man wearing sunglasses sat in the driver’s seat, with a heavily restrained person sitting in the back.

The driver kept eyeing the mirror; the creepy bastard he was driving had an extremely scarred and disfigured face, with mangled tissue instead of hair on his head. Apparently, he did that to himself. Shaking his head, the driver turned his eyes back on the road. Luckily, he refused to work anywhere in Faralethal.

Precisely because of shit like this.

After around twenty more minutes of driving, they reached what seemed to be their destination—an old, dingy house in the countryside.

An obese, messy, balding man sat on the wooden porch, wearing a dirty wife-beater and cargo shorts—perfectly fitting the description of Matthew Vane.

After parking the carriage, getting out, and walking over to greet the man, he took off his sunglasses and shook his hand. “You must be Mr. Vane, am I correct?”

The man nodded in response, not taking his eyes off the car. “Did you bring him?” he said in a nasal voice.

“Yes.” Then, the driver hesitated. “I will warn you, though; you should prepare for the worst.”

Matthew nodded.

They reached the doors, and the driver gently opened them. Sitting on the backseat, partially shrouded by the darkness of the vehicle, was Peter Vane, lightly turning his mangled face in their direction.

Matthew remained surprisingly calm as he dragged the tied Peter out by his arm. He turned to face the driver and nodded. “Thanks,” he thanked curtly, simply dragging his son away.

“Well… I guess there’s no good way to react to something like that.”

***

Matthew walked into his house, dragging his… this cripple by his arms. The hallway was tight, with a shitty old brown carpet he hadn’t washed in twenty years and dirty-white walls he hadn’t painted in even longer. Past the pile of unused shoes and the broken door leading to the toilet, he dragged the tied creature along to what used to be his room but now acted as a storage for all sorts of shit.

But between the piles of empty boxes and bottles was still a bed. The only reason why was because he had been too lazy to throw it out.

He aggressively threw him on the dirty, stinky mattress, kicking up a cloud of dust, then turned around and slammed the door shut, unable to keep looking at him.

Going back to the living room, he walked past the old, hole-ridden, deteriorating sofa and walked over to the fridge. Opening it, he pulled out a beer. It was barely even cold, given how weak the refrigerator had gotten. No worries, he thought, remembering the silver lining of this shitfest. At least he had the money to replace it. But the thought wasn’t enough to even make him smirk.

Sitting down on the creaky couch, he stared at the broken BC. Eventually, his gaze drifted to the heavily moldy and smoke-damaged walls.

What would his late wife think of this scenario?

Their piece of shit crotch goblin came crawling back. Looking like that. What a fucking joke.

A sigh escaped his lips as he took a heavy swig of the cheap beer. Not long after, the empty bottle joined the collection of its brethren sitting on the coffee table. Then he drank another. And another.

By the seventh beer, he was crying. As worthless as he was, Peter was still his son. So why? Why couldn’t he have returned of his volition?

He felt anger bubble in his chest. Why did he have to return looking like that?

Getting up, he walked out into the hallway and cracked the door open. Peter was… sitting up, seemingly trying to get up to his feet. For some reason, this left him feeling deeply unsettled.

He frowned and took a step back.

Then he scoffed. “You miserable cunt,” he spat venomously. “I don’t recognize you. Even below all those scars of yours, you look nothing like the son I remember. Let me guess, a perk of your lustrious second star, oh mighty archhuman!?” he teased, swinging the bottle around and spilling some beer. “And look where it got you. After leaving us like that, look how far you’ve come…” Then, the bubble in his chest burst. “You shouldn’t have returned looking like that,” he said. “You shouldn’t have returned!” he screamed. “Not looking like that!”

With fury unlike anything he had ever felt in his life, he swung the glass bottle and smashed it against his son’s mangled, unrecognizable head. Instantly, he took a distressed step back, dropping the broken glass bottle. “I’m sorry,” he rushed to apologize. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me…” he tried, but his son seemed… fine.

There was already a storm of emotions brewing in his mind, but the dark clouds were instantly pushed away by pure darkness as he witnessed his son flex and then, with a loud tearing sound, tear the restraints apart as if they were nothing but paper.

“I’m… sorry?” he tried asking.

His son… or whoever this was, got up. With a clumsy, blind swing, he grabbed Matthew’s face with incredible strength.

‘This isn’t my son,’ was the last thought that went through his mind as he felt the back of his head slam against the wall, his skull cave in, and saw the world turn dark.

***

‘Fucking crazy bastard!’ Freddy thought as he dropped the dead man to the ground and gripped his bleeding forehead.

Dressed in nothing but tight—and bloody, after that head wound—underwear and a torn straitjacket, he dropped back down on the filthy bed and got a hold of himself.

How great! Yet another complication.

First, that dumbass back in the cavern thought he was a monster and nearly killed him instead of rescuing him, then he was almost discovered as they just kept treating him even though he made extra sure that he was mangled beyond recognition, and now he was a murderer. Well, an even bigger one. He didn’t even really know how many people he’d killed at that point.

His sight was terribly damaged. All he saw was blurry shapes. But the perception of a two-star arch was crazy good. Despite seeing nearly nothing, he still felt somewhat confident about the shape of the room and the general layout of things around him.

He kept his ears wide open to ensure nobody else lived there and then slowly entered the hallway. There, he walked to what he believed to be the exit from the house. Once he cracked the door open and saw nothing but blurry green and yellow, he was confident he was correct.

The supernatural perception of his had a limit, it seemed. He couldn’t tell if there were any houses around or if there were other people. But he couldn’t stay inside, either. He just dropped a body; sticking around for someone to visit wasn’t a good idea.

With squinted eyes, which kind of helped him see better, he slowly stepped outside. After trying his luck in trampling the grass with his bare feet, he concluded that his talent hadn’t evolved into 10% Lifesteal, which he had hoped for. It didn’t even seem to be 2% Lifesteal. But it did feel different. It was hard to say how, though.

Eventually, he tracked down what appeared to be a shed or, well, a blurry brown box, but that could only be so many things in what he hoped was a secluded, rural area.

In there, a cut on his finger discovered a scythe. It was a regular farming tool, nothing fancy, but it was precisely what he needed. Holding it in his grasp was difficult, however. His arms had been damaged a bit more than he intended, and his grip was unsteady. Still, he persevered.

Playing the role of a dutiful son perfectly, he mowed the lawn. His talent was different. The amount of life force entering his body felt the same, but what it was doing didn’t. It was… faster. But then it no longer was.

Deciding to leave the mystery of his talent’s evolution for later, he sped up. Gradually, the scattering of miscellaneous pain around his body vanished. His sight was restored, and he felt fine. Yet again, the uncontrollable urge to weep in joy won over, and he cried.

Returning to the house, which was dirty as crap and falling apart in too many ways to count, he located the fridge and grabbed a beer.

“Cheers,” he spoke for the first time in a long month, “to never having to be mangled beyond recognition for a prolonged period again!” Then, he took a large swig, downing the bottle in one gulp. It tasted like bottled piss, but he desperately needed a drink.

Grabbing a knife from the kitchen, he bent down and looked at his calf, which, luckily, the doctors had had no reason to look at.

Making a rather big cut, he dug into his calf and pulled out a small, golden ring. He had pillaged it off of Janhalar’s body, placed it inside his leg, and then healed it over to hide it there.

It was a storage device. After putting it on his finger and leaking a bit of essence into it, he looked inside. It was akin to diving into his ethercosm; he embodied his little reaper projection and could appear wherever he wanted.

The space wasn’t that big, only around the size of a large box, a bit bigger than maybe a cubic meter. It was densely packed with all sorts of crap he hadn’t had the opportunity to look over last time. The dagger that radiated a horrible feeling and reminded him of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, as well as the ring that felt crazy dangerous, were both inside the space after he looted them from the dead Kraven patriarch.

His robes also seemed like some fancy stuff, but they were torn beyond recognition, so he had left them behind.

Right on the dead bastard’s body, which was resting at the bottom of that ocean.

Freddy took another look outside. After carefully glancing in every direction, he was confident there were no close neighbors. He could spot a few houses in the distance, and what appeared to be a little village, but other than that, there were no major settlements in sight. Then, he grabbed the scythe to heal his injured leg, which was still bleeding.

The moment he swung the scythe, however, he was caught off-guard—his leg stopped bleeding instantly. Then, as he continued, it mended a lot faster than he expected it to, but it was highly unusual. It looked as if some sort of weird red tissue held the wound shut, and after staring at it for a while, he saw that the tissue began fraying, slowly falling apart and opening the wound again.

“What the—!?”

That was the effect of first-aid-quality healing! Had his talent dropped in—no, that made no sense; he was fully healed, so… how? Why?

Grabbing the tool again, he swung, repeating the effect. First, his wound instantly stopped bleeding. Then, it sealed shut with this red fleshy tissue. Then, the tissue started turning into raw skin, which then healed into scarred skin, and finally, the scar vanished.

That was extremely different from how it used to work. Before, the wound would be there until the final cell was meticulously reconstructed. Supreme-quality healing didn’t work like this. This wasn’t supreme-quality healing.

Running his muddled mind over what he knew of healing qualities, he soon realized what was happening. “Don’t tell me…” he whispered. “Is this…?”

Did his talent evolve to have dynamic-quality healing or something of the sort? Based on what he knew, that recovery had gone from minimal to supreme quality, adapting to what he needed the most at that time.

For a moment, he was incredibly underwhelmed to discover this. Until he realized something—this wasn’t bad at all.

To say that minimal to supreme quality healing went from worst to best would be… uneducated. It was like this—what was better, everyday, cheap food ingredients or high-end cuisine? The latter, obviously, but if one were starving and had only a hundred dollars to feed themselves for the next week, naturally, they would choose the first option.

Healing was much of the same.

While minimal quality healing did, well, the minimum, it did it very well. For the same amount of life force needed for a bit of supreme-quality healing, minimal-quality healing could be life-saving.

And all it did was stop bleeding, essentially. Technically, it temporarily paused ‘deterioration,’ so it could postpone death by poison and stuff like that.

Then, it was first aid quality. It mended tissue back together with a temporary, fragile binding. Again, it was a bandaid fix, but one that could easily save a life.

After that, it was natural quality, which was arguably the worst healing quality. It could do its job about as well as manual surgery, sort of, which naturally meant that it left behind a lot of consequences and rarely did a perfect job.

Supernatural healing was next, and it was basically the little brother of supreme healing. It could do most of the same—regrow limbs, heal the stuff that generally wouldn’t recover on its own, and such, but just worse. Also, this was generally considered the ‘best’ healing quality since it was a lot more cost-efficient than supreme quality, which was more of a luxury than anything for most issues.

True, limbs regrown by supernatural-quality healing were far from perfect. They looked discolored and often had minor deformations. But the difference between supreme and supernatural quality healing, in most practical cases, tended to be the difference between slightly extending a stump and regrowing an arm. No matter how close to the original the extended stump was, everyone would want an entire arm back.

Given that his talent evolution fixed the primary problem he had with it—its lack of use in combat, he was thrilled. A small part of him was still a bit miffed, however. Given what he’d achieved, shouldn’t it have become like 50% Lifesteal? Well, he just hoped this was better than he expected it to be.

Well then.

There were various upgrades and new powers to look over, but another issue took precedence.

Exactly what should he do now?