Despite only barely fulfilling the daily quota, Freddy felt dead tired. His body was struggling, and his constant abuse of it didn't help one bit.
With a shiver in his arms and a lop in his gait, he waddled back to the camp. He visited the public "bathhouse," or, rather, the cleansing pond used for washing clothes and bathing.
Enchanted with ether script, the water within had strong cleaning properties and made hygiene simple, if, admittedly, unenjoyable. The frigid liquid had an uncomfortable zap that left skin irritated, dry, and red. The pond was tiny and cramped, and using it was always coupled with rude, impatient shoves by those waiting their turn.
After wrapping things up, taking a dump in the small underground cavern nearby, and returning to his tent, he donned his other uniform as he started his first day on his second job.
The forager suit was quite different from the miner one. The focus was on light fabric and camouflage, with shades of green and brown dominating the entire get-up. In stark contrast to the steel-plated boots, he was provided lightweight rubber sneakers that dulled the sound of his footsteps.
He put the foldable yellow sign on his belt, the one he was to use to quickly identify himself if he accidentally startled a worker, small scissors, a razor-sharp scalpel, a delicate trowel, and a large bag with an assortment of specialized containers in case he encountered any of the rarer plants. His regular dagger and baton for self-defense were naturally there, too.
He also brought a small net he could use to capture rare flying bugs, but he was bringing it along as more of a weapon against critters that bit and stung than a tool to catch them.
With that, he was set.
His walk back out into the caverns was a painful ordeal, and he wondered whether he could get away with a bit of healing. When the agony became unbearable, he took out his knife and nicked a few juicier mushrooms.
The small healing burst did nothing of use besides momentarily easing his pain. And that was more of a demerit than a cure since he relied on his sensation to judge whether he was pushing himself too far.
Based on his recent experience, his leg was whatever the crippled equivalent of "a bit tired" was. He had perhaps enough juice for a short foray into some yellow zones.
For foragers, abandoned yellow and red zones and the edges of black zones were the only places to consistently find good herbs. Since mining was the main priority of the expedition, flash-burning newly discovered caves was the primary way to clear them. It was the safest way to claim unexplored areas, and plants naturally weren't a big fan of it.
Even then, the areas nature had reclaimed primarily had the more common specimens, as the rarer plants took much longer to sprout or only did so only under a complex set of conditions.
Making his way past the heavily populated green zone, then through a tight series of verdant-fungus-dominated caves, he walked into a yellow area, notably near the hidden lake he had discovered previously.
It wasn't the best place to forage, but he might as well look for vestiges while already out.
The moist caverns were a terrible area to spend time in. The stale, mossy stench, intense humidity, and a lack of solid, non-slippery ground to stand on made this place a living nightmare. The thoughts of progress with his abilities had made him forget that the slimy stone of this cave would be challenging to traverse with his leg's state.
As expected, mushrooms and moss were this area's primary source of exciting herbs. The butterfly crown was the most valuable fungus he could locate. It was a golden-wing-shaped shroom, lined with intricate patterns and a waxy, glossy surface. It smelled of pine and old oil.
Overall, foragers had a considerably lower daily profit requirement, having to earn only around a thousand dollars to fill their quota. Even with that fact, it was still more challenging than mining. Not to mention that the lower pay deterred many who wanted to "leave" as quickly as possible.
The butterfly crown went for around forty to fifty dollars apiece. While that seemed quite pricey, one thing after another worked in tandem to make actually earning anything a monumental pain in the ass.
First, extraction was a delicate process. These had a visible, green-tinged seam along the middle, which was practically the only place they could be cut without leaking all the juice they held in their bodies. To make matters more complicated, that seam was a thin, wiggly line that, in some mushrooms, had gaps, making it impossible to extract them.
They could still be removed from the wall altogether, but that wasn't a perfect solution. The mycelium led deep into the stone, and too much damage to it could cause the mushroom to rapidly wither and lose all its properties.
With that in mind, as well as the fact that the extraction process, locating, and even just identifying precious herbs took time... Yeah. If it weren't for the incentives, he'd take swinging shit at a wall any day of the week.
He started cutting, and immediately, 1% Lifesteal kicked in, as expected. His gentle, methodical extraction was far from enough to make any noticeable impact on his body. Until he accidentally nicked one of the shrooms.
White juice immediately began flowing out, and he was startled to realize how much more significant that burst of healing had been than those he usually got when just cutting. The effect was instantaneous, meaning that a long-held question of his finally received an answer. Causing bleeding didn't produce a sustained heal, but it did seem to impact the overall amount of life force he received, meaning that his talent still registered the injury as more significant.
It wasn't long until he noticed that not all shrooms were made equal. Some had a notably higher impact on his talent, and he presumed that meant they were more ripe or something.
After cutting only seven mushrooms, three of which he ruined by accident, and storing them by simply throwing them into the bag, he allowed himself a quick break beneath one of the lanterns. Just doing that much had winded him since he had to stay focused for several minutes as he performed the incision along the seam. The bigger problem was staying still in uncomfortable positions.
The light source illuminated the narrow corner of the cavern he was resting in, and the moist, smooth rock wall shimmered like an assortment of jewels, momentarily mesmerizing him with its beauty.
Sweaty, tired, and in complete agony, he decided he was safe enough to take a break. He needed one, too. He literally couldn't afford a repeat of what happened last time. Slumping against the wall and closing his eyes, he entered the Netherecho.
"Oh, come on," he said in an annoyed reaction to the immediate appearance of a big pile of shifting rocks—a giant remnant.
As his star grew, the range he could actively perceive when entering the Netherecho expanded. This remnant was along the outer edge of his field of view, which put it at a comfortable distance, but no amount of space was enough when faced with something that could poof him out of existence if it had any form of ranged attack.
With half his focus on the rocky mass of ether, he briefly scouted the nearby area for interesting vestiges. The regular assortment of water, dark, earth, metal, and so on was present, with several charred vestiges likely originating from the burning of nearby caves.
One among them stood out. Not for a good reason, though. A fish with muscular, human-like legs was dancing right beside where his body was resting, isolated from all other vestiges in the area. Goofy-looking ether constructs were far from a rarity, but this was among the few that nearly made him audibly laugh. Not that he'd risk offending it by doing so.
As he observed the vestige in action, something unusual caught his attention.
Every water vestige had a certain degree of resonance with his ether shells. This had nothing to do with how "good" a choice the vestige was for a particular ability, but it was instead an indication of how closely connected it was to the concepts within.
For example, his Create Water had positively vibrated in response to the generic concept of water; in that case, it had been an excellent choice. But there were numerous examples where slotting in barely passable ideas into an ability was the secret to making it work, such as fitting sharpness into Create Water Weapon.
What caught him off-guard was that this vestige resonated with not just one but all three of his tempering techniques; and not a little. All of them were buzzing in resonance as much, if not more, than Create Water had with the generic water vestige.
Was this perhaps a concept of tempering?
A single glance at its appearance was enough to conclude that likely wasn't it.
So... what exactly was it?
Let's find out, he thought.
The man thought for a moment, then frowned. "That's some shit, ain't it?" Then, with a scratch of his head, he asked, "You're serious? Impressive stuff. Real shame you won't be coming back."
"Is that meant to be a threat?" he inquired cautiously.
"No, no, God forbid!" the man denied vehemently as he waved him down. "I'm just making an observation." The man's eyes closed into slits. "You're in no state to get beaten up."
Freddy just barely stopped himself from biting his lips. As soon as he realized what was happening, as if on cue, the man continued. "Say... you must have realized it too by now, right?"
"Realized what?"
"This camp," the man stated with a derisive sneer. "The scam 'healthcare,' the expensive food, billing us for equipment damage... the fines for the tiniest misdemeanor... I've been here for much longer than you greenhorns, and I've seen close to no one leave. Usually, those with highly efficient non-combat talents or with minimal debts make it... but the rest of us?
"They keep hammering us down with debt after debt... after debt... until we have no hope of ever paying it back," the grizzly man spat, oozing spite and hatred. "This work is nothing but suspended death row."
"Look," Freddy interrupted. "I'm pretty tired, and I have to go get some rest. Chatting with you guys was fun, but I should get going."
The men looked at each other briefly, and the leader cocked his head at him. "You foragers get... special privileges, I hear, right?"
"Yup," Freddy confirmed. "Creams, potions, pills, injections, all sorts of stuff. What, you guys looking to trade?" he offered openly.
They all hesitated briefly.
"Yeah..." the man said slowly. "I guess you could say that."
"Well, what are you offering?" Freddy asked as he crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.
"You supply us with goods. We give you a spot in our crew."
He cupped his chin. "And what will this crew of yours do for me?"
"Look," the man said, shifting his posture a bit. "I can tell that you're skeptical, and I get that. But you know it already. With a body like yours? You're fucking dead, dude," he declared bluntly. "Hell, we're all probably dead men walking. Why not take a chance? Work together? If we get enough people on our side, we'll stand a chance at overthrowing the camp."
"Uh-huh..." He nodded. "Well, I guess you have a point," he answered. "But what if I said no?"
The subtle shift in their stances told him all he needed to know. If he said no, he would die. If not right where he stood, then soon enough.
"Well..." The man sharpened his gaze. "We wouldn't be delighted to—"
"Actually, I'm in," he agreed instantly. "You guys are right. I've known it for a long time. It's just that my talent is no good for combat, so I thought..."
They suddenly relaxed, and the head honcho stepped up to place a hand on his shoulder. "I get it. We're all scared. But don't worry," the man said with an easy smile. "You just have to supply us with goods, and I promise you, whatever you give us, we'll pay it back tenfold when we're out. I swear my life on it." Then he shook his hand. "Just make sure you don't, you know... accidentally reveal anything to anyone. The guards aren't going to act without enough proof of what we're doing, but we will make sure that word doesn't get out." And then, with a subtle tightening of his grip, he added, "No matter what we have to do."
They shook hands and soon parted ways. Freddy returned to the camp, sold the four shrooms he acquired for little money and no special benefits, and immediately headed to one of the official tents.
He told them everything about the men who had threatened him, including their looks, plans, and everything else he remembered. In hours, an investigation was launched, the men were apprehended and interrogated, more witnesses were found to testify against them, and by the end of the day...
Freddy stood in a crowd of workers, all scared shitless and stiffly observing the display.
It didn't take much to get "exiled" from the camp. Most probably knew that meant death, but there was at least some deniability.
As the four men stood tied up, whimpering and crying, with their mouths gagged, he stared them down with a cold, unblinking gaze.
The sleazy businessman Stephen White gave a short, cheesy speech about loyalty and integrity. And as soon as he was done, the men were beheaded to be made into an example of what happened to those who rebelled against the administration.
He was granted a small favor of his choice for his show of loyalty. He requested that the ban on emergency treatment for him be lifted, and he was promptly granted this wish—as well as extra credit for non-emergency treatment for his leg.
Eventually, the sweet embrace of his tent greeted him, and he dropped to the ground, dead exhausted. His mind rushed back to a moment in his childhood—something that hadn't happened for a long time.
***
"You shouldn't be afraid, Fred," his adopted father said.
That night, young Freddy sat on a short wall in the 26th district, observing the night streets with his dad.
"Many racketeers bet on the fact that you'll be too scared to report them to the authorities. There is always a chance that the cops won't act and you get stabbed, but the bastards threatening you will probably stab you eventually anyway. Don't be afraid to stand up for yourself."
With the gentle smile that he missed more than anything in the world, his father pet his head and repeated, "You should never be afraid."
***
Freddy's eyes snapped open, having dozed off without realizing it. A pang of sickness spread through his body, and he forced himself up as he puked the barely digested slop sitting heavy in his stomach.
The image of the men's beheaded bodies briefly flashed through his vision, but he pushed it away. His mind rushed to justify his actions, but he didn't care enough to excuse himself. All of it was pushed down.
He just wanted to sleep.
Usually, in moments like these, in the restless nights that gave him no peace, he wondered why they had disappeared. But in that moment, with his stomach acid burning the back of his throat, he finally came to terms with it.
Abandoning a worthless piece of shit like him...
It had been the right choice.