1% Lifesteal

Mark woke up with both his arms numb: the large, opulent bedroom curtains were pulled over the windows, and the light barely revealed the warm, soft reasons why. Trapping his left side was a beautiful brunette woman, and lying on the other was a handsome blonde.

“Son of a—” he whispered under his breath. “Not again…”

Pulling his arms out from under his two naked companions, he got up and went to the toilet.

Going up a star was often accompanied by notable physiological changes that got more drastic the higher up one went. For his second star, he was granted a thick, full beard of black hair. And he hadn’t been doing much to keep it in check, even though he’d been keeping his blonde hair cut extra short.

Washing his face, he observed himself in the mirror, meeting his own green eyes. Funny, he thought, how often he failed to recognize himself. For a brief moment, he looked at his arm. There, yet another in a long series of scars rested. But whenever he looked at it, it ached far more than any other.

Shaking those thoughts off, he returned to the large bedroom and entered another door on the other side. There, he had a small office. Pulling out a paper from a drawer, he grabbed a fountain pen and started writing.

I’M SO SORRY FOR—

He immediately scribbled over that and threw the paper in the trash.

I HAD FUN LAST NIGHT—

And again.

THANK YOU FOR—

“Gah,” he groaned. Putting a palm to his forehead, he took a deep breath and decided to be honest.

HELLO. I’M MARK, IN CASE I DIDN’T INTRODUCE MYSELF LAST NIGHT. I DON’T REALLY DO THIS SORT OF STUFF OFTEN.

Well, he did, but not because he wanted to.

I JUST WANTED TO SAY I PROBABLY HAD FUN, BUT I DON’T REMEMBER MUCH. I’VE LEFT THE APARTMENT, AND I’M GOING TO BE OUT ALL DAY. YOU DON’T NEED TO RUSH TO GET OUT. IF YOU WANT, YOU CAN ORDER A DRINK OR BREAKFAST ON THE TABLET NEXT TO THE FRIDGE. MY TREAT.

SEE YOU—

He immediately scratched that last part.

PLEASE LEAVE BY—

And again.

“You know what, screw it.” He gave up. They’d probably leave by the time he was back anyway. Hopefully.

He put his uniform on as quietly as he could to avoid waking the girls up. A black accented by red, military-style suit was on his body in minutes, and the cap with the Kraven insignia on it was on his head.

It’d been a while since he had gotten this job, working as a part of their militia. A big part of him regretted signing with them, but…

It had been the only way to avoid getting assassinated by Madame.

He left the apartment and strolled down the long hallway. Eventually, he reached a door.

After knocking and waiting for a while, his father opened it. “Hey! Come on in. Your mother just made breakfast.”

So he did. His mother appeared cheerful and pleased. His father was as happy to see him as always. Sarah, his sister, was already attending her lessons. None of them knew what he’d really done to earn this privilege. And they never would.

As he ate his mother’s food, his father asked, “Any updates on the academy?”

“The main building has already been constructed,” he informed his father. “But they’re planning a lot of specialized equipment and rooms. Ethertech is evolving rapidly with all the new resources pouring in, so they must account for any new breakthroughs if they don’t want to become outdated too fast.”

“I see, I see,” his father said. “So, how’s work?” he asked cautiously.

Mark frowned. “Good,” he said. “There have been some concerning sightings recently, but nothing that Empress Kaiya can’t handle if worse comes to worst.” After another moment, he added, “But yeah. Establishing a permanent settlement isn’t viable without a five-star around. But the passage is under the jurisdiction of the American Empire, and naturally, politics makes that difficult.”

“Just don’t get yourself killed,” his mother warned. “I’ve heard some scary stories, you know.”

“Don’t worry, Mom,” he comforted her.

As long as I work beside that monster, I’ll be fine, he added internally.

After finishing his meal, he said goodbye to his parents, left, and strode down the extensive maze of hallways. Eventually, he reached an elevator and stepped inside. He was on the thirty-seventh floor, so he could see the whole city through the glass walls.

A massive dome surrounded the entirety of Starhold. Its web-like, metallic reinforcements, partially concealed behind a few larger floating islands, held the reinforced glass dome solid and stable. The half-sphere kept flying creatures out and protected the settlement from the harsh, rapidly changing weather. Numerous buildings were in construction as far as the eye could see, and every day he found himself looking over the city, he spotted a few newly finished ones and a few freshly started ones.

This was the only permanent settlement that had been established on Faralethal. And he was among the pioneers settling it. With the incredible amount of resources humanity was extracting in this passage realm, which had been reclassified as a D-class realm, Starhold had been experiencing explosive economic growth, and ethertech grew more advanced by the day.

Speaking of ethertech, his pocket started vibrating. He pulled the portable long-distance etherwave communication and computing device, or as they called it in honor of Old Earth technology—the phone—out of his pocket and held his finger on the giant red button for a second.

“Yo, Mark!” a voice sounded.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes, Nahar,” Mark answered.

“Of course you will,” the man teased with a laugh. “Not even two beauties like that can keep you—” Before the voice could finish the sentence, he ended the call, shaking his head.

Upon reaching the bottom floor, he stepped to a second elevator, pressed a finger to a scanner, and walked inside, this time going to the underground. Less than a minute of descent later, he left and entered the Kraven militia headquarters.

The walls were plain gray, and the halls were full of men and women clothed in uniforms similar to his own. They were heading to the morning training, which he, as an operative directly under the command of a VIP, wasn’t forced to attend. He still participated whenever he could, but he was more often than not busy with other matters as well as personal training.

This was no matter of official rank. Although many envied his privileges among the troops, unfortunately, he received them by being friends with…

In the communications center, surrounded by men and women observing the numerous screens that flashed important information, a man sat on a couch with seven empty bottles of fine spirit right on the table before him.

He wore the Kraven core family member uniform, had those creepy red lines all over his face, as well as red hair, and wore… sunglasses… despite it being day and them being underground.

“Mark!” he greeted him. “Did you have fun last night?”

“I… don’t remember…” he responded shyly, glancing at some of the officers eyeing him with cheeky smiles.

Nahar clicked his tongue. “You damn lightweight.”

“Aaanyway.” He rushed to change the subject. “I believe we have an important mission today.”

“No, we don’t, Marky-moo,” he denied. “We have a chore.”

He heavily disagreed with that statement. They were to join the stampede suppression unit today. On a daily basis, Starhold was swarmed by hordes of monsters trying to break through the barrier. Frontline work was dangerous, bloody, and tiring.

But he supposed it was no surprise that anything related to blood would feel like a chore to the young master.

Suddenly, Nahar’s phone rang loudly. He took his sweet time picking it up once he saw who it was from. Answering the phone, he put it to his ears and responded with the occasional “Uh-huh” and “Will do, pops!”

Putting the phone down, he groaned.

“What is it?” Mark asked.

“Looks like you’re on your own today, Mark. Old man Janny just called me,” he said as he got up and stretched. “Core family members are to return to the main base…

“Apparently, he will be bringing some good news soon.”

***

There were two types of matches in the Wastes, and depending on what the fighters agreed upon, it was either one or the other.

The first type was tournament-style combat. There was a circular border; any fighter who left that border or was thrown out was disqualified. The fights were judged, and if someone was knocked down, they’d be given the time to get up—if they didn’t, they were out. There was also a point system, and the judge could, at their discretion, end the match or call a break whenever they deemed fit.

The second type was different—and heavily restricted. The staff only permitted it if both fighters had the credit to afford extensive treatment and had a defensive tempering technique. This was because the second type was deathmatch-style combat.

It didn’t go until death—not often.

But there was no barrier one could get kicked out of. There was no grace if one was knocked to the ground. It was until surrender, unconsciousness, or, well, death.

As the announcer finally called today’s match as being of the second type, the crowd exploded with excitement.

Freddy’s opponent—an absolute giant of a man—stood confident. Given that his moniker was “Skull Crusher,” this probably wasn’t his first rodeo.

The stands echoed with his name, which soon turned into a “crush his skull!” chant that Freddy wasn’t a big fan of for some mysterious reason.

The massive man had limbs as thick as tree trunks and weighed more than Freddy, even with Abyssal Depths. His skin was the color of bronze, and his face was surprisingly handsome despite how stern it looked. The man had long hair, the type that only those who had been a part of the expedition for a long while had.

Rather than allow himself to panic, he took deep breaths to calm himself. The announcer was still hyping the fight, so he had a few dozen seconds until it was go time.

Every muscle in his body screamed with energy, blood pumped through his veins with an audible thudding in his ears, and his nerves were stretched so thin that a light breeze could trigger a premature jump at the man.

His opponent was large, which made him a big target. He probably wasn’t too big on speed, especially given his height. Freddy didn’t have to fear harm for numerous reasons, so he decreed that—

“Match start!” the announcer screamed, and the giant man rushed forward.

Shit! he exclaimed internally while his mind whirled. Despite being in the middle of preparing himself, the start of the fight still caught him unprepared, and now Skull Crusher was charging at him with the momentum of a bull seeing red.

No matter, he thought as he lowered his stance and prepared Hydraulic Flex. His leg muscles inflated like balloons for a fraction of a second, and he was launched forward with an explosive twang like that of a ballista string, swinging a clumsy but adequate Flowing Strike.

The man didn’t expect such a fast dash, so he couldn’t muster a solid guard before—

Freddy’s fist landed on Skull Crusher’s chest with a crackling sound of ribs being crushed, and as his stage one Flowing Strike pushed the water through his arms, so did it transfer the immense momentum of the human cannonball behind it.

It was as if the massive human weighed less than a balloon someone slapped out of the air; his body launched backward, bouncing off the ground with a bloody skitter and slamming back first into the far wall of the arena, right under the stands, leaving the stone cracked, the man’s mouth bleeding liberally, and the crowd—silent.

“I… Ugh… I surrender,” Skull Crusher barely mustered as his eyes rolled back into his skull, and he went limp.

Freddy landed back on the ground in a crouch and got up, bewildered. But it didn’t last long. A fat, unrestrained grin spread over his face as he glanced at the silent stands. “Well?” he asked, directing his animalistic rush at the spectators. “Anyone else wants to have a go? Well!?” he asked in a yell. “Any volunteers!? Come on, who else wants a shot at crushing—my—skull!?”

One of the spectators tried booing him, likely expecting others to join. Nobody did. The bald man stood alone. Freddy stared at him directly, and those sitting beside him inched away.

“I asked, does anyone else want to have a go? Come on, people, we don’t have all day! No one?” As he asked the stand again, the rush started to wear off. “Come on, you cowards! I know at least three of you here want a rematch; how about it?”

The announcer approached him and patted his shoulder, whispering, “Get out of the ring, dude. You’ve proven your point.”

“I didn’t prove shit,” he spat. “Fuck!”

But, with a quick nod, he started leaving anyway. His breaths were stifled, and he felt a heavy weight settling on his shoulders. Again. His steps felt like each and every one of them lasted an eternity, and the world around him drained of all color as the realization finally set in.

Nobody in this expedition was supposed to be great at combat.

So, how would the administration react to him being this powerful?

Was he valuable enough to get away with it?

He hadn’t been. Not lately. They would realize that he was basically training the whole time.

His breath sped up as he felt a drop of sweat trickle down the side of his face.

Would they make an example out of him?

His gaze traveled to the stands, and he immediately spotted the silver-haired man. Raising a hand in a “wait for me” motion, the man got up and pushed through the stands.

Freddy entered the side cave, put on his clothes, and left the Wastes as quietly as possible.

In a small side cave, he spotted the silver-haired man waving at him to walk over to a hidden spot.

“Dude, that was epic!” he scream-whispered at Freddy. “You really—ack—” The man choked as Freddy gripped his throat and, with a swing, slammed the man’s back against the cave wall. “Why… are… you…?” he choked out.

This man was a two-star, but that didn’t matter. He was a non-combat arch, and Freddy’s raw strength overpowered him greatly.

“For your own sake, I really hope you found the way to get me out of here,” he said.

“I… Please…!” the man begged, and he loosened the grip ever-so-slightly, just enough for the man to speak, “I have a few ideas! But why are you—”

“Because you should have fucking said”—he screamed, slamming the man against the wall—“that these arena motherfuckers”—he slammed the man again—“are this fucking weak! God damn it!” He dropped the man to the ground.

“Why are you…?”

“Read the mood, you imbecile!” he insulted. “They’ll make an example out of me. I’m a dead man walking.”

The man fought to catch his breath. “Don’t worry,” he placated him, gulping. “I have a way to keep you safe for now.”