Freddy crawled out of bed. Despite his perfect health, he felt horrible. Although it couldn't catch up to him physiologically, stress seemed to still leave a psychological mark on him. Where the line between "brain damage" and "mental instability" was, he didn't know, but it was becoming increasingly clear that his talent wasn't omnipotent.
He washed himself up, had breakfast, and proceeded to a particular drawer.
Given how little shopping he did, there was practically no garbage to deal with. But, when a bit of trash did show up, all he had to do was throw it down a small hatch in his kitchen. Thus, without any ceremony, he threw a wrapped plastic bag into the hatch and turned around without care—as if he didn't just throw away the single most valuable thing he owned.
He had instructed Bloodshed to wait until the trash reached the dump yard and then continue waiting, never leaving its bag for any reason until roughly two years passed.
The reason why he picked two years was somewhat arbitrary. He first landed on that number because it seemed the safest, but then contemplated whether a year would be safe enough or if he should make it five or ten years. But it didn't make much difference.
Owning Bloodshed had put a target on his back—and the best way to remove it?
Convince his pursuers that he genuinely didn't have it.
Naturally, not being in the immediate possession of the construct was the logical first step. Step two, though? He had just over three months to think of it.
He walked over to the tablet and ordered himself an extra-large cappuccino. There was no reason to watch his health, so he didn't have to deny himself. And he needed something for his morning headaches.
It arrived quickly, and he sat on the couch in his living room, sipping the coffee and contemplating his plans.
For the time being, he would mooch off Madame while he was still valuable to her. As for what he would do about the trouble he was in, well, he had a few ideas.
As long as he had 1% Lifesteal and Essence Extraction, he had all he needed to succeed as an independent arch. With his talent, he wouldn't age either, so he could afford to take as long as he needed to let the dust settle.
If there was any one word that described him best, it was bitter; endlessly bitter at how unfair the world was and how willing those in power were to abuse it.
He yearned to go back to being an utterly unaffiliated nobody. He couldn't help but chuckle as a ridiculous thought brushed through his mind. What if I faked my own death?
Truly, this whole thing was driving him insane.
He finished the last sip of his drink, downing it with gusto, and got up. It was time to go to the gym.
***
The next day, the day of the party he was invited to, Freddy finished his workout and headed home with Mark by his side.
"You sure your arm's fine?" he asked for the twentieth time that day.
"I already told you that I'm fine," Mark spat with undisguised frustration.
"Ah... aight." he walked on silently for a while, but eventually, he added, "I can smell it from here, you know."
Mark's legs froze, and he stopped.
He turned to face him. "You okay?"
"Yeah... just... I'm just feeling a little tired."
Freddy paused for a while before nodding. "I get it. I'll stop asking."
"Y-Yeah. Thanks."
They walked on in silence, and this time, before he could even invite the man for lunch, Mark slammed the door to his apartment shut.
***
Freddy returned early from his training in the woods, and as soon as he entered his bedroom, he noticed something strange.
There was a brand-new rack of clothing right in the middle of his bedroom. He stepped before it, examining several pieces of clothing. With each new article he picked up, his frown deepened.
"Fuck no, I ain't wearing that."
Ridiculous combinations of colors, black leather with holes in highly revealing places, what amounted to basically just string covering barely anything, and more perverted, gross, rich people stuff.
For a moment, the idea of faking his death sounded real good. He did not want to go to this party.
The more he stared at this pile of sin, the more willing he was to do anything to get out of whatever gathering these clothes were appropriate for. Or was this just a bad joke by Madame? Maybe she was hoping that he would pull up in something absurd.
With a deep sigh, he picked the most ordinary items he could find. They were an ultra-slim-fit white shirt and black pants that appeared mostly normal but were made of exquisitely soft material.
"I'm the first person you saved!"
The man raised an eyebrow. "I doubt that. The first person I saved was one of the victims."
"Yeah!" Freddy confirmed, grinning. "That was me!"
"What!?" The man seemed incredulous. "No, it was this skinny boy who—"
"Yeah! That was me!" he repeated himself.
The man gave him a once over, mouth agape. "You must be joking!" He chuckled a bit. "What the hell kind of magical potion did you drink!?"
He cackled merrily at that one. "Oh, you don't even want to know!"
Soon, the drinks arrived, and the man introduced himself, "My name is John, by the way!"
"Nice to meet you. My name is Freddy!"
The man looked over and grinned at him as he pointed subtly with his thumb.
Freddy turned around, spotting a group of four girls who sat on the other side of the table, waving at the two men invitingly and patting empty spots beside them.
***
Mark had rushed out of his apartment, fully determined to head to the closest hospital and have his arm cut off. But it didn't take long for his steps to wane and his will to crumble.
Hiding on a small bench tucked behind a few trees on the island, he sobbed hysterically, unable to hold back the tears. It burned so badly. And he could feel the pain slowly moving up.
It just didn't feel real. How was it even possible to fall so low in such a short time? It felt like he stood with his teammates just yesterday, one among the elite, a trailblazer of the next generation of archs that would take humanity to new heights.
Sobbing on that bench, he felt like little more than an empty shell of the person he once was.
He shouldn't have delved so much. His efforts had been putting his family back on track, but pure hubris led him to this situation. Even if they would have dragged him down, he should have found a new team. Even if that would make his profits dwindle, he should have taken a more extensive break between expeditions.
And now...
What rotted his arm wasn't an ordinary infection. He had gotten struck by a death-attuned ability, a claw swing of a deviant ravager raptor. Those creatures were usually of the blood affinity, and deviant members of their race were exceptionally rare.
He got too careless. Rather than get out of the way, he tried to defend against the deviant's attack—a strike he would have realized needed to be dodged had he not been so tired.
The death-affinity essence had invaded his bones. Removing the infection would take a high-level holy-affinity spell, and actually fixing the damage could require as long as three months of daily healing.
Perhaps if he wasn't so useless, he could join an organization and have them pay for the treatment as an advance payment for his services. But he had tried. Nobody wanted him. He had tried requesting it from Madame, too. She also said no.
Mark was still a one-star arch. Ascending was serious business, and before one went up, it was wise to first achieve the full potential of their rank. Rare events caused bursts of ether, and incredible feats accomplished the same thing but deep within one's soul.
The quality of one's talent evolution depended on how much they achieved at their current rank.
He had already done a lot, but not enough to evolve his mediocre talent into an incredible one. Postponing his ascension to the second star was another greedy, selfish act that brought him to this situation.
He should have put the thoughts of stardom to rest as soon as he dropped out of the academy. He should have just ascended. He should have rested, he should have found teammates, he should have—he should have never taken this job.
The weight of his sins and the height of his despair brought him up to his feet. Absent-mindedly, he walked forward, soon reaching the edge of the island.
It was a long way down to the ground. And the thought of taking the leap felt way too natural. He wasn't cowardly enough to do it, though.
But having the option felt... It felt just a bit comforting.
In the corner of his vision, he spotted someone appear. It didn't take him long to recognize the man—the same person who got him into this situation—the "slimy journalist." That persona was nowhere to be seen this time around, however.
He was well-dressed, standing confidently, gazing at the city below as if it truly belonged under his feet.
Rage flooded Mark's body, but he knew that he stood no chance against this person. And other than that... he couldn't bring himself to speak.
The man turned to face him. "You just have to answer one question, Mr. Afronte."
Mark didn't respond, his breath speeding up and his heart raging wildly. He bit his lip. Fuck off, he wanted to say. Get out of my sight! he wanted to shout. But his arm hurt. The bone-piercing cold of death seeped deeper, claiming a more significant chunk of his arm with each moment it went untreated. "What do you want to know?" he finally said.
The man smiled widely. "Does Freddy Stern, to your knowledge, possess a blood-affinity remnant?"