[1% LIFESTEAL] Chapter 26 - Immeasurable Spite

Freddy woke up in a place that appeared to be, as he had feared the most, exactly where he had expected to arrive—a sterile, white ceiling, shackles all over his body, which was lying on a cold block of stone, and an assortment of sharp, terrifying objects at his side, ranging from knives, saws, pliers—

‘Yup…’ he confirmed it mentally, ‘this is a torture chamber.’ While his thoughts seemed calm, he was anything but. Still, he forced himself to settle and focus.

As it was, he was entirely alone. That probably wouldn’t remain the case for long, so now it was time to do all the thinking he could while he still had the chance. Fighting the desire to puke, aided by his seemingly entirely empty stomach, he collected his thoughts and tried to devise at least half a plan.

It wasn’t forthcoming as quickly as he would prefer, but it wasn’t surprising given the situation he found himself in. First, these people wanted Bloodshed. That much was obvious. Second, they were going to—

‘Oh, God…’

—torture him until he told them where it was. Okay. Not good. However, not all hope was lost. First, as long as he refused to share the location of Bloodshed, they wouldn’t kill him, at least. Probably. He didn’t need to fear what they did to him as long as he could make it out alive, as he could heal from any damage his body sustained, even if they put that serrated saw to use and…

Yet another jolt of panic rushed down his body, and he started moving involuntarily. He pulled at the shackles, hearing the rustling of chains, and it did nothing to ease his nerves.

‘Think, Freddy, focus.’

As long as he remained alive, there was a chance that he could walk away from here. Worst case scenario, he could explain what he had done with Bloodshed, and they would keep him alive at least long enough to confirm whether he was telling the truth. Maybe.

Once more, he tugged at the restraints more desperately this time. He tried using Flowing Strike to add momentum to his flailing, but it was clear there was no use. His breathing was ragged, and he was beginning to hyperventilate as a sickening realization dawned on him.

He had no agency here. He had no control over this situation. Even if he tried explaining to his captors that Bloodshed would come for him, there was a snowflake’s chance in hell that they would actually believe him. Even then, they would likely just resort to scouring the dump yard and looking for it. So he had to make a choice. The only choice he had.

Was he going to tell them exactly where Bloodshed was, thus instantly becoming disposable, or would he keep quiet, playing the fool as long as it took, and pray that someone or something saved him in that time?

The mere thought of either option made Freddy sick to the stomach, and before he could think his choices through, he heard the bone-chilling sound of a door, one that was behind his back, thus out of sight, slide open with a metallic screech.

Three people walked in, all dressed in the same freaky, red clothes that the woman that had knocked him out had worn and donned the same crimson lines on their faces.

The first was a man with long white hair and several nasty burn marks on his skin. Judging by his posture and the intense feeling of suppression Freddy felt from him, this was someone at least as powerful as Madam.

The second was a younger woman, wearing the same placid expression as the man beside her, her purpose unclear. The third person was a middle-aged-looking man with short, brown hair, a man who had taken to fiddling with the rack of torture tools.

“Freddy Stern,” the white-haired man spoke. “I am Janhalar Kraven, the patriarch of the Kraven clan. You own a unique remnant that embodies the concept of Bloodshed. Tell me where it is.”

“I…” Freddy managed limply. “I don’t know.”

The white-haired man nodded, and the man standing to Freddy’s left picked up a pair of steel pliers.

Freddy’s left fist reflexively curled up, but he could not defend himself as the young man pried his ring finger open, placed the tool blade on it, and squeezed just a bit, drawing blood.

“I will ask you again,” said Janhalar. “Where is the unique?”

Freddy thought long and hard about the question. Losing a finger wasn’t a big deal to him. Or so he repeatedly thought as he tried convincing himself of that fact. His will to hide Bloodshed deteriorated by the second, but he couldn’t tell them. As far as he knew, the only reason they had to keep him alive was to extract that information. So, with a resigned grimace, he repeated, “I don’t know.”

And the pliers pressed down on his finger. First came a sickening crunch that sent a jolt of pain through Freddy’s hand, and then the severing that sent a pang of agony up his forearm. It bled profusely, and Freddy instantly turned light-headed.

He screamed through gritted teeth, and tears rushed to his eyes. Before he realized it, the young man had moved, this time holding his long toe trapped in the pliers.

Yet again, Freddy denied it. And yet again, the plier cut.

***

With a haphazard throw, the young woman launched Freddy’s bloody, disheveled body into the tight, solitary confinement cell and locked the large, steel door.

It was hard to see in the dark, but Freddy vividly felt all his body had gone through. He was a ring finger, as well as several toes, short; his entire body was scattered with bruises, cuts, needle pricks, and red sores. All his nails had been torn off, and his ear lobe had been nicked, likely as a foreshadowing of losing an entire ear.

It was curious, Freddy felt, as he sat on the ground, curled up and whimpering. Even if he didn’t have 1% Lifesteal, they hadn’t done anything genuinely crippling to him yet. That was probably just a part of the show. Make a few nasty threats, show that they’re ready to deliver on them, then have him wait, fully aware that he might lose an eye, an arm, a leg, or a more critical finger. Something anyone, especially those who fought for a living, would fear.

He couldn’t help but laugh, although it sounded more like moans than chuckling.

Many people wondered what it would be like to go through torture. Many believed they would bear it like badasses and spit in their tormentor's face, consequences be damned.

Although there had been no spitting, Freddy had joined the oh-so-exclusive club of people who hadn’t talked, no matter what had been done to him.

A small part of him felt pride, but every other cell in his body was boiling in fury. The man who cut fingers and toes as if he were trimming weeds, the young lady who had likely been whispering recommendations into the patriarch’s ear as he decided on what methods to use, and Janhalar, the patriarch himself. He wanted all of them dead, broken into as many pieces as he could tear them into with his bare hands.

Freddy wondered. Did they not know of his talent? Were they unaware that he could heal from anything they did to him?

It was only then that he realized—they didn’t care. He knew how angry he felt. How betrayed, vengeful, and furious. And they knew, too. Letting him go would only be releasing a potential enemy into the wild.

He was dead. This was it. Unless Madam or anyone came to help him, this was where he would die. If not now, then eventually. The only alternative he could think of was slave labor or perhaps indefinite captivity, and even that seemed optimistic.

His coughed moans turned to cries and sobs as he asked, “Oh, God… What have I done to deserve this?”

Where had he committed his first mistake? Was it remaining silent about Bloodshed? Was it when he traded his prime vestige? Was it back when he decided to go through the twenty-sixth district?

His thoughts abruptly stopped as he realized a commonality between all three situations. In… all of them. He had been… since the very start…

The bastard barricade, the scam, the mysterious visitor that had likely been after Bloodshed, hell, even Madam. Everyone he came across wanted to exploit him and use him. Mark was the only person he’d met so far who hadn’t sought benefits at Freddy’s expense.

Wasn’t that just what reality was then? Was it really that natural? Had he been living in nothing but a jungle, surrounded by predators that need only feel a shred of hunger to devour him alive?

He shivered as a patch of his wounded skin made contact with the stone, sending a jolt of pain up his leg. His entire body was sore and aching, and even though he was in far from a comfortable position on the floor, moving was too painful to change it.

So… had he been an idiot from the very start? Should he have known his position as nothing but prey and thus hid, never lifting his head above the tall grass? As long as he was involved with anyone who had more power than he did, he would always turn into a victim.

He felt so shit making this realization now. Staying away from society as much as he could had perhaps kept him somewhat safe over the years, but it had also kept him woefully ignorant of some truths that would have helped him not end up in such a situation.

His crying yet again flipped to laughing, this time violent and unhinged. Many of the wounds on his body flared up and opened, bleeding again, but he disregarded them as he got up.

He walked over to the door, and with all he had, he threw Flowing Strike repeatedly, leaving minor dents in the metal. His rigid arms didn’t break under the stress, already used to such treatment, but the cuts echoed in pain with each blow, many opening up again.

Eventually, he exhausted himself, but nobody came. There was no face to punch, no target to spill his rage out on.

There was only one final thing he could do. On that day, he had kept quiet. And on that night, he was still alive. Freddy ignored his sore body as he used the Water Body Tempering Technique. He felt his condition improve ever so slightly.

Once he felt satisfied with his state, he used Hundred Wet Hells. The pain was greatly intensified by the roiling rage of water in his body, and he bordered on falling unconscious, only spared when he ran out of essence.

But every time he did, he took a quick hop into the netherecho, reaped a few wisps, of which there were surprisingly many, most blood-affinity, and continued using the tempering technique.

There was no 1% Lifesteal to help him recover from the damage, but his body was accustomed enough to using it that his talent was no longer essential.

Throughout the night, he kept pushing himself to the limit, ensuring he spent as long as he could tempering his body. Because his plan would require all the toughness he could muster. Every bit of pain tolerance he could build up.

It was pretty simple, really.

All he would do was shut the fuck up.

***

Bloodshed could roughly feel not only its master’s location but also his condition. And now, for the entirety of the last day, it felt a disturbance.

Master was in trouble. Big trouble. As much as Bloodshed wished to rush to his help, it also felt something quite distinct through whatever bond they shared. Master did not want it to come.

But why?

Was there a reason why Master felt such aversion to Bloodshed’s arrival? Could it be those enemies Master had talked about? Did this mean that… Bloodshed was to blame for Master’s current situation?

…

Could Master have not wanted it to come before, either? If that was the case, then… had Bloodshed committed a grave sin?

But it was helpless now. All it could do was wait obediently. But a part of it knew. Master wasn’t going to die. If anything, the path he walked had only gotten more bloody.

***

Time passed, and at first, Freddy was dragged out of his cell every single day. By now, he was an ear and many teeth short, and just a couple of hours ago, they had taken his testicles as well.

Still, he hadn't spoken a single word from the moment he had decided to do so. Not even a whimper escaped his lips as he remained silent and determined to drag things out as long as he could.

It had been hard. Despite convincing himself that 1% Lifesteal could help him recover, the instinctual aversion to severe injury and loss of limb was still going strong, and it sure flared up when those pliers sat on the base of his nuts. But he endured.

On the first night, they had thrown him into the cell without much extra precaution, but ever since he changed his behavior, they had been restraining him first, likely to ensure that he didn’t kill himself.

A full-body straitjacket, a gag to prevent him from biting his tongue off, and restraints that kept him in place. Although they had restrained his physical movement, nothing could be done to stop him from using his essence.

Occasionally, a guard outside his cell would smash the metallic door, likely to wake him up and keep him tired and vulnerable. But unfortunately for them, he wasn’t particularly concerned about catching up with his beauty sleep.

When he did fall asleep, he slept so tightly that not even being set on fire could wake him up.

After a while, he had received an answer to a question he had never thought of—what would happen if someone lived constantly in agony or entirely unconscious? Apparently, and quite unsurprisingly, it resulted in quite impressive pain tolerance.

Every day he was dragged out there, he returned slightly less distressed despite the constant escalation of their tactics.

But boy were the Kraven good at torture. Freddy was impressed by their increasingly inspired methods and techniques. When they concluded that plain ol’ pain wasn’t enough, they moved on to putting parasites into Freddy’s body, which would eat him from the inside.

And, to Freddy’s delight, ones that died whenever he used Hundred Wet Hells. Even triggered 1% Lifesteal for a short stint.

Then, they moved on to drugs. Pain-inflicting venoms, nerve-sensitivity-boosting neurotoxins, and finally, a concoction that made him feel an undeniable urge to speak and say literally anything. This was the closest they had reached to defeating him, but after some quick thinking, Freddy bit his tongue off.

They were forced to surgically reattach his tongue and heal it back into place, but every further attempt at using that drug resulted in Freddy biting it off again, and if they tried fixing his jaw to make him unable to do that, naturally, he couldn’t speak coherent words.

They also tried dulling his teeth by using sandpaper to scrape them smooth, but Freddy had, to his own surprise, managed to use Flowing Strike with a bite to still mangle it enough to become unusable.

It didn’t take them long to realize that physical torture wouldn’t work, so they were forced to get more creative. Once, they tried conning him into signing a ‘magical contract’ that would make them physically unable to harm him, keep him imprisoned, or kill him. Through some magical bullcrap, of course.

It was an impressive piece of work, that one. Ether script, sparkle effects, and shining letters created a rather convincing image, but it was just fucking bullshit. They were probably banking on him being too wrung out to think clearly enough to see through it.

But, if anything, it was quite the opposite.

Around this point, Freddy began to wonder whether they were looking for his family or trying to kidnap someone he found dear to use them to coerce him into speaking.

But it wasn’t long until he realized there was nobody to target. He didn’t give a shit about his biological parents, and his adoptive parents were almost certainly already dead.

Perhaps he’d hesitate if they brought Mark over, but kidnapping someone who lived in the twenty-fifth district would bring the wrath of the entire upper class on their head, so that was out of the question.

So… maybe Sharon or James? But that was unlikely. Given that the rent in that complex had doubled, likely due to its proximity to the soon-to-be-very-important passage, they had both most certainly moved out by now, along with most people who had lived there.

And even then, if they went after and interviewed every single person who had lived in that complex, fucking nobody would admit to knowing Freddy, not even Sharon and James. A pretty basic rule of living in misery was that if someone came knocking asking if you were involved with one of your neighbors, you denied that shit without hesitation, precisely because of situations like this one.

So… an amusing realization dawned on Freddy. Given these circumstances… hadn’t he already won? Sure, they could, and probably would, still kill him, but… they were powerless.

Singlehandedly, Freddy had brought a large organization to their knees, completely side-stepping their every attempt at getting a single piece of information out of him.

***

Freddy was tied up in a straitjacket, completely unable to move, yet again trapped within the sterile torture chamber in which he had gotten quite comfortable. A needle pierced his veins, another futile attempt to use some mysterious drug to get him to speak.

He was sure he'd be pretty shocked if he could see himself in the mirror. By now, all that was left of his hair were a few loose, sickly strands. The light in his eyes had dimmed considerably. Every inch of his skin was profoundly scarred, and nasty, long hairs grew sporadically throughout his body.

His joints ached, and his muscles had atrophied due to the lack of movement and the pathetic diet of half-rotten leftovers he ate. A constant stomachache lingered in his gut.

He waited in anticipation, wondering what they were up to this time. But as the drug seeped into his veins, he was caught off guard. A flood of intense ecstasy rushed through his body, and he found himself short of breath. Then, without being subjected to anything else, he was dragged to his cell and thrown back inside.

As the feeling settled, he found breathing much easier, and he even cried simply due to the intense relief he was experiencing.

Eventually, he opened his mouth and began singing, “... always beside me, always on my mind,

Lovin’ you baby, you own my heart,

I can’t shake the feeling of your arms around my waist…”

It was a habit that had stuck as a byproduct of one of their recent attempts. They played an incredibly cheesy pop song 24/7 for several days straight and then approached him with the offer to turn that piece of shit off if he would tell them where Bloodshed was.

And then, of course, he suddenly found himself thoroughly enjoying the song, willing himself to like it through sheer spite. It wasn’t long until they turned it off anyway, looking for other ways to get him to speak.

For the next few days, they kept administering this new drug, giving him larger doses every time, and he found himself at a loss as to what the drug actually did other than make him feel incredible…

Until they cut the supply off.

‘Ah… So that’s what they’re playing at.’

The withdrawal was intense, and he gave them a mental applause for this one. That night, he stayed up shivering and sweating profusely, a fierce headache drilling a hole through his forehead. He was already imagining when they offered him the drug, and he knew that saying no wouldn’t be easy this time.

The following day arrived, but he wasn’t dragged off anywhere.A familiar figure strode in instead.

Janhalar Kraven walked into the room carrying a small suitcase. He placed it before Freddy, opening it and revealing a very generous supply of the drug, separated into many small bottles. Squatting on the floor, he gestured to the open case and leaned closer to Freddy.

Then, he gave him the offer, “This can last you an entire year. You just have to tell me where you’ve hidden the unique.”

Freddy’s mouth felt dry, and he gulped, biting his lips and breathing heavily. An overwhelming desire to spill the beans filled every cell of his body, and he shook, trying to lean forward.

And then he opened his mouth to speak, “Baby Janhalar went on a walk with his mommy and daddy,” Freddy said, eliciting a frown from the patriarch. But he continued, “Then, they spotted another child walking with their parents. A little girl that held a shiny toy, one that Janhalar wanted immediately. So he cried, ‘Mommy, Mommy, Daddy, Daddy, please get it for me!’” Freddy said in an annoying voice. “His parents pulled out knives and brutally murdered the entire family, all to please their little crotch goblin’s… Every. Fucking. Whim.”

Then, Freddy began laughing, cackling maniacally. “Does this sound familiar to you, Janny, huh!? Is this how you were fucking raised!? Hahahahahaha! No wonder you’re such a spoiled brat! And now you’ve finally stepped into reach!” Freddy said as he spat in Janhalar’s face. “Bullseye!”

The patriarch winced and closed his eyes, feeling the drool flow from his cheek down his jaw. He lifted an arm and wiped it off with his sleeve. Picking up the suitcase off the ground, he left the cell and closed the door behind him, leaving the cackling Freddy alone in the dark.

***

Time passed, and, well, it was becoming apparent. Either they were busy concocting another method or… They had given up. Freddy almost felt lonely. Devising ways to counter them had become a game to him, his only source of entertainment.

Thoughts of escape or getting out of here alive had long abandoned him. Even if he merely stayed here and waited, Bloodshed would eventually appear. A rather amusing thought crossed Freddy’s mind. What if they failed to notice?

In fact, there was a rather distinct possibility that Bloodshed would reach him, with them being none the wiser. Judging by the number of blood wisps in the netherecho, blood-affinity personified ether constructs probably weren’t all that rare here.

Freddy found the idea thoroughly hilarious.

If it did come, he’d tell it to get lost. He considered consuming it to spite Janhalar further, but poor Bloodshed didn’t deserve that.

Actually…

A thought crossed Freddy’s mind.

For whatever reason, they were keeping Freddy alive. Although the chance of that was slim…

Freddy remembered something Madam had told him. The interspace had many uniques, but most had evolved into eidola that were too powerful to subdue.

So if Bloodshed did visit him… couldn’t he tell it to go out there, become an eidolon, and then return and save him?

Theoretically, that was possible. But the timeframe made it extremely unlikely to work. Still, Freddy wondered why he was even alive. Well, he supposed that compared to the value of a unique personified ether construct, keeping a prisoner fed for a few years was barely an expense. Especially given what they were feeding him.

With little else to do but daydream, Freddy occupied himself with training, even if there was probably no benefit to doing so. At the very least, it was fun.

Hundred Wet Hells had grown immensely due to his repeated usage of it. By now, it should be at around 90% finished, actually, quite close to reaching a threshold for an upgrade.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t upgrade it without access to vestiges, but that didn’t mean he would be out of things to do. Even if it didn’t grow further, it could still temper his body, although the efficiency would naturally go down with time because Freddy’s body would adjust to it.

Still, he didn’t take long to explore what else he could train while here.

While using Flowing Strike was possible even when fully restrained, the ability wouldn’t grow if he did that. Repeated usage wasn’t enough by itself to develop an ability. Even tempering techniques required patience and concentration. The key to growing an ether shell was to explore all the ability could do.

His tempering techniques could grow just fine because none required movement to explore those possibilities.

Freddy hadn’t yet willed the Hydraulic Flex shell to crystallize. Manipulating water and flexing his muscles through that was possible even in this state, but it was best to couple the practice with movement to ensure that the effect didn’t grow lopsided or unwieldy during practical use.

So this left him with only four abilities to grow: Hundred Wet Hells, Water Body, Abyssal Depths, and Create Water.

Although Create Water did manifest liquid, it took only a few moments to disappear, so there was no threat of flooding his little cell.

The days marched on, and Freddy immersed himself in his abilities.

***

Janhalar walked into his office, returning to his headquarters on Earth for the first time in a while. It had already been two months since he had left Earth to join the expedition to C-000421, or, as it had been named recently, Faralethal.

Although he would never show such a mood outwardly, Janhalar felt giddy.

It seemed that not all hope was lost. There may be a method to tracking down the unique hidden by Freddy Stern, after all. After nearly eight months of work, the bloody clothes, the dagger, and the broken bag that had acted as a catalyst had finally been constructed into a set.

The jagged dagger had been reinforced drastically and bathed in a unique concoction of blood. The plastic bag had been melted into a round plastic ball shaped into a pearl to fit on a ring.

And the bloody clothes had been carefully disassembled, specially treated, and used in combination with costly cloth made of crimson spider silk to make robes.

All three items held an intense power of blood and the sin of wrath. Not only that, but the ring was showing a hint of potentially developing into a unique cursed item.

Although that was excellent news, the other part of what the set could do made Janhalar even more excited.

It resonated. Their properties as the catalysts to the birth of a unique remnant still stuck around, and although faint, that connection still existed.

For the longest time, Janhalar had lived in uncertainty. Had Madam stolen the unique? Had someone consumed it? Had it been destroyed?

But now, he finally knew with certainty that the unique was still out there. The mere thought of that nearly made him cry in joy, but it wasn’t over yet. They still had to find it. The resonance would make it slightly more manageable, but it could still take a while.

On the topic of the unique, Janhalar started working on the first problem he had returned to resolve. He had been too busy to micromanage their facilities over the last half a year, so the population of prisoners they held captive had grown to capacity.

Many of them held value for one reason or another, and many others, such as Freddy Stern as of that day, had become useless.

The first thing on his agenda today was to figure out what to do with them. He didn’t have the time or motivation to extract use of those that were there for a purpose, but killing them off would be a waste. Five hundred and seventy people wasn’t a number to scoff at.

His mind kept lingering on the young man. The patriarch didn’t hate him, of course. Hating someone who had, until recently, been a barely sentient moral was uncouth and unsophisticated.

Janhalar’s thoughts were interrupted as the person he had been waiting for knocked on the door and entered the room.

He was a slightly chubby man with a receding hairline, donning a black suit and carrying a brown suitcase. His face looked plain and carried a genuine smile, and although shaven clean, it was clear that it wouldn’t be difficult for him to grow a full beard if he desired.

He walked over to Janhalar and shook his hand enthusiastically, introducing himself, “Greetings, Patriarch! My name is Stephen White. I'm pleased to meet you.”