The skeleton soon entered the room, clattering to the ground with a splat of blood. Although Mark had reflexively adopted a combat pose, it didn’t take him long to turn around and sprint back to his body.

Freddy watched the man vanish, panicking for a different set of reasons. “Why the hell are you here, Bloodshed!?” he screamed. How the hell was this even possible!?

The remnant paused at that and cocked its skull at him. “I…” It dropped its head. “I seem to have made a mistake. I will go back immediately.”

“No, you can’t return now! Aaarrgh!” He grabbed his head, mind whirling with thoughts on how to handle this situation.

Before he could land on anything, Mark reappeared, rushing at him and screaming in an incredibly high-pitched tone, his words melting together, “Whaddafuckareyoudoing!?” He tried forcefully pulling Freddy away, but his projection seemed surprisingly tricky to move.

The little blue reaper tried pacifying the mountain of muscle. “Relax, Mark! I know what this is!”

“If you really knew what this was, you’d shit your pants and die! We have to get out of here!”

“No, dude, please let me—”

Mark appeared bewildered, his cartoony eyes practically popping out of his skull as he looked at him and then at Bloodshed, moving his gaze back and forth. “Look, Freddy, I know it seems calm now, but that’s a remnant. Do you get it? Death. We’ll die. It will kill us. It does NOT look peaceful, and their looks are a good sign of their nature, so we! Have! To! Go!”

“But Bloodshed listens to me!” he finally yelled out.

“What does that even mean!?” Mark asked pleadingly, seeming ready to leave him to fend for himself.

“Bloodshed,” he called, “are you going to kill us?”

The skeleton immediately knelt on the ground, its bony skull kissing the floor as it prostrated itself. “I would never harm the Bloody One and his servants.”

“See?”

He was slowly beginning to understand why hanging around in the Netherecho was normal. Mark’s jaw hung comically low, reaching nearly halfway down his torso. It was certainly more expressive than reality.

“This… This is insane,” Mark said, eyeing the prostrated remnant cautiously. “An ether construct obsessed with serving someone? I’ve never heard of that in my life.”

“Really?” He was genuinely surprised to hear that.

Mark nodded in confirmation, and after shooting a squinted glare at the remnant, he turned to him. “Do you have any idea how useful that is?”

“Honestly, no.”

“Hooo, boy,” Mark breathed out as he slumped on the ground. “If I listed all the possible ways you could use that, I’d be here all day.”

“You gotta be exaggerating,” he said disbelievingly.

“You’d be surprised at how little,” the man said, still eyeing the remnant cautiously. “Here is an example for you. Say you have a powerful ally, hypothetically. If they entered the Netherecho with you to help subjugate a vestige—”

“It wouldn’t work,” he finished the sentence.

The guide he had read was rather explicit in stating that the usefulness of external help in the Netherecho was minimal. It was true that one could help another indirectly or, at the very least, keep one safe, but it wasn’t so easy when it came to handling a personified ether construct.

If someone beat a vestige half to death, it would be impossible for anyone else to coerce it into their soul. The concept of “subjugation” was intrinsically tied to a single person’s actions. Doing it for someone else was like trying to breathe for someone else.

“Exactly,” Mark confirmed. “However, this thing, on the other hand,” he said with a quick nod at Bloodshed, “can subjugate vestiges for you. And it doesn’t count as external help.”

That was a lot to take in. Judging by what little he knew of ether construct subjugation, something like that could practically skip the entire process.

“I can think of many other uses, but we must first discuss something else. There is a reason why I invited you to the Netherecho,” Mark said.

“Why?”

“Because it is practically impossible for someone to spy on what you’re doing here.”

The implication of what Mark said sent shivers down Freddy’s spine. “Do you mean…?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was watching you.”

That made chills spread down Freddy’s spine. “What do you mean?” he asked anxiously as he waited for the young man to continue.

The seated Mark sighed deeply. “Shit, dude, I just learned today that you’re signed with Madame.”

“What?” he spat. “You didn’t know that?”

“Well, you never told me,” the man pointed out.

“Weren’t you told at work?”

“No,” he denied. “Well, that was really my fault since I didn’t ask. No offense, but I had no reason to care about who you were,” the man said, sighing. “Listen,” he said, adopting a grim expression. He then pointed at Bloodshed. “Is this thing related to why Madame needs you?”

He momentarily contemplated whether disclosing that would break his NDA but eventually nodded in confirmation. “Sort of. Tangentially, at least.”

“Then it’s probably worse than I thought.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Have you ever watched Madame’s show?”

He nodded. “Quite a few times, actually.”

“You should know that she never interviews ordinary individuals; hell, she won’t even briefly mention someone without a damn good reason.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Look,” the man said. “No offense, but you’re damn clueless. And you just got swept up in something you aren’t qualified to handle properly. I don’t know what the hell got you a place on her show, but I know for a fact that you’re gonna have many eyes on you afterward—too many. That’s not a good thing.”

“That isn’t what I was told,” he said, a strange whimper accompanying his voice.

“No shit,” the man spat crassly. “What did she promise?”

He hesitated. “She said that some might see potential in me and take me in.”

Mark scoffed at that. “Does she know about that thing?” he said as he pointed at Bloodshed.

“No,” he denied. “That’s a secret. I can trust you to keep it, right?”

“Yeah, my mouth is sealed,” the man promised. “What about your talent? Can you use your healing on others?”

“No, I—” He froze. How did he know about that?

Mark rolled his eyes. “Your acne scars nearly vanished after using your ‘magical cream’ twice,” he said. “Do you take me for an idiot?”

“Fair enough,” he conceded. “Shit, though, how am I gonna hide it from the doctor then?”

“Look.” Mark brought his attention back. “Madame wasn’t lying to you. You will get offers by the dozen. But big organizations won’t care about you at all. They only care about elite talents and backgrounds.”

“Is that a problem?” he asked.

“The problem is that anyone who does try to approach you won’t have much to offer,” he said. “The only people who will seek you out are middling groups trying to use a rising star to their advantage.”

“What if I just say no?”

“Most of them will walk away,” Mark said. “But if you’re particularly weak… I’ve seen shit I still can’t believe happened. Some people are simply evil, and particularly among those who are just on the rise… Look, all I’m saying is that I’ve heard stories of people like you, and some of them turn out really…” He sighed, slumping. “Really poorly.”

“Oh,” Freddy said, trying to laugh but finding his voice shaky. He knew what the man was aiming at. He had seen it himself. Men lashing out at women who rejected them, people getting offended at someone refusing their “generosity” when their intent was selfish.

He knew better than anyone what an entitled fuck’s response was to rejection by someone they saw as below them. “They’re gonna attack me, aren’t they?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Mark reluctantly nodded.

“Oh, great!” he exclaimed. “Some piece of shit might try to kill me! Great!” he yelled, laughing shakily. “That’s just my life! Just what I fucking need! Every goddamn time I reach a puddle, I have to cross a desert to get to the next one!”

“Calm down! These people won’t be elites; you just have to—”

“I can’t!” he screamed hysterically. “I fucking can’t, Mark!” His projection began crying large, cartoony tears that disappeared into the ground. “I am stupid, and I suck at everything!”

“If you work—”

“I can’t do that, either!” he declared. “I don’t have what it takes! I have no resources or knowledge! My talent is nonexistent, and I don’t even have the grit to fucking work for it! I am surrounded by nothing but misery!”

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Mark looked like he kept trying to say something, but every time his mouth opened, it closed again.

“Master,” Bloodshed called and began walking toward him.

Mark turned to the creepy remnant, swallowing and causing a prominent bulge to travel down his throat. He stood frozen, clearly unable to stop the remnant but visibly contemplating trying to do it anyway.

“You are indeed surrounded by misery—” it said.

That actually got him to chuckle a bit. Even an ether construct literally obsessed with him agreed with his words.

“—for your existence extinguishes all hope.” It stopped right over his body, gently caressing a bony hand over his hood, shocking him out of his self-deprecating state.

“When I was born, Master, you were fated to die,” it said.

“Stop it, Bloodshed,” he said, inching away from it. Then, seeking some comfort in humor, he joked, “You’re violating my NDA.”

“Do not be afraid, my lord,” it consoled him, bowing before him. “Anyone who seeks your life will lose theirs instead. I wager my existence on it.” The bloody bone man didn’t take long to make the mood extremely awkward.

Mark used the opportunity to very poignantly gesture at their true bodies in an attempt to get as far from the massive remnant as possible.

Rather than leave the Netherecho, he turned to the remnant. “Hey, Bloodshed, please wait in the corner over there.”

“As you wish.” And the skeleton obeyed.

Freddy stood for a while with his back turned to Mark and eventually gathered up the courage to speak. “Sorry for venting like that,” he said.

“No… I… Sorry, I… I didn’t know what to say…”

“You’re a good guy,” Freddy stated. “And don’t worry, I’m not giving up on myself. I just needed to get that out of my system.” He turned around. “Yesterday I… I realized something. When I had to use some willpower, I found it lacking. My body is weak and sick from lack of use. And so is my determination.” His words petered out as he glanced at his tiny, blue, gloved hand poking out of the long sleeves. “Does that mean that I’ve never really used it? Or maybe I just wasn’t using willpower as much as I thought?

“For so long, I thought I was working hard and doing my best. But I think I just confused a difficult life with fighting for a better one. Do you know how it feels to realize that?” he asked, his voice shivering again. “I mean, who am I even? I thought I knew who I was, but now I think I was just delusional. I didn’t see nature for so long, not because I didn’t have the time, but because I never pushed myself to do it. I am weak and sick because I was too lazy to stay physically active.

“I’ve just been cruising through, fully convinced that I’m tough shit when I was actually diarrhea, flowing down the pants of life.”

“Pfff!” Mark snorted and clamped his mouth shut. “I’m so sorry, but—”

“Hahaha, what the fuck did I just say?” he laughed.

Mark chuckled, too. “Oh God, that’s something, dude.”

They laughed it out for a while, and Mark finally stepped over, placing a giant hand on his robed shoulder. “But I think I understand your problem a bit better now. You’re right. Willpower is exactly like a muscle. If you don’t use it, it won’t develop.”

He slumped a bit, but Mark shook him out of it before he could slip into his self-pitying state. “Nuh-uh, none of that. Keep your head high. Willpower can grow. You’ve learned something new about yourself today, and you shouldn’t use that as an excuse to run away from your problems. They won’t go away on their own.”

The depressed reaper looked up, nodding his head slightly.

“Don’t worry, though. I might be wrong. I’ve learned that it’s best to be cautious, but that doesn’t mean you’ll get in trouble. In the worst-case scenario, you could hide somewhere until everything blows off. Besides, you have my help, a good talent, and that creepy thing that’s… looking at me from the corner… We have to do something about that. Wait, be right back.”

Mark jogged to his body and vanished into it. Moments later, his body vanished as well. Moving things didn’t appear within the Netherecho unless their movement was repetitive. Which begged the question of how Bloodshed could interact with his body even when he was outside.

Did it have some sort of strange connection to him?

Before long, a large, opened plastic bag flashed into existence, likely placed there by Mark, who also entered the Netherecho. “Can you tell that thing to get in the bag?”

He nodded and told Bloodshed to get inside. After it did, they left the Netherecho, and Mark walked over to the plastic bag on the floor. He promptly closed it and crumpled it into a small ball.

“No!” He panicked. “Why the fuck would you do that!?”

“Relax!” Mark raised his hands. “It’s safe! Trust me,” he urged, blinking violently, hoping Freddy kept his mouth shut about the thing in the bag.

He realized what the man was aiming at. “Okay, I trust you. I just thought that all the… uhm… wisps would go to waste,” he said vaguely, hoping to throw off anyone who might be listening in on them.

The man enthusiastically latched on to the string Freddy offered. “Yeah, you can transport a clump of wisps like this. Just make sure that they don’t. Leave. The. Bag,” the man said pointedly.

“Whaaat?” he gaped. “I wish I knew that sooner. That’s really convenient.”

“It most certainly is. Now, I must hurry since I’ll miss my ride home,” the man said as he handed Freddy the bag, which he quickly placed into his pocket. “We’ll talk tomorrow, and for today, just do what you think you should.”

They shook hands and parted ways. Freddy was left with a lot to think about.

There was no way he could tolerate waiting around, especially not after hearing what Mark had to say, but he was hesitant. There was resistance to going to those woods, revulsion to the thought of embarrassing himself again. There was a risk that someone might be watching him.

What was it that the young man told him? Willpower was indeed like a muscle?

If that was so, then…

It was about time he started working it out.

***

The only reason Bloodshed’s actions weren’t causing bloodshed was because vestiges couldn’t bleed. The pond that had until recently been infested with nasty stuff was now free of such invaders and literally bursting with water affinity wisps.

There was a slight fear that someone might notice the remnant in the Netherecho, but it was unlikely that anyone would spot it even if he was being watched.

Even a five-star archhuman had a maximum range of fifty meters they could see in the Netherecho. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone had a reason to spy on the Netherecho around him.

He was pleased to see Bloodshed’s work as he left and began a session of meditative gathering.

This time, when his soul started hurting, he kept pushing on. As far as willpower exercises were concerned, this might have been the best one. No matter how much he pushed, it wouldn’t hurt him in any real way. Total inability to continue preceded soul injuries by quite a bit.

That wasn’t to say he could reach such a state just because he felt motivated. However, as one wisp after another flowed into his soul, reaching nearly thirty consumed, with the pain threatening to knock him out, it was clear that he was willing to try.

Finally collapsing, he breathed heavily, experiencing the flavor of torment specific to soul exhaustion. It didn’t feel good, to say the least. Once it went away, he felt thoroughly drained and depressed, and he wanted to sleep.

But he delved into the Netherecho instead.

The water vestiges he had attracted were packed into a dense cocoon around him, and he hopped around collecting them until they grew scarce.

Doing so with his soul in such a state only drained him further, but he mustered the will to get up.

As soon as he did, a peculiar thought wormed its way into his mind. I’ve done quite a bit today, he thought. I’m pretty proud of myself already, he argued. Maybe I can stop it here.

But before such thoughts could take root, he crushed them and walked over to a nearby tree.

Mark had told him to do what he thought he needed to. And after careful pondering, he landed on one pretty obvious option. His pain tolerance was just pathetic. Hell, even his “vague discomfort” tolerance wasn’t all that impressive.

It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that the amount of pain one had experienced was a suitable measure of their overall power, if only an approximate one.

So there was only one thing left to do. It was time to feel some pain, he thought, as he got ready to punch a damn tree.

The fact that someone might be around and watching him was unnerving. But he wasn’t concerned about that. Given how liberally he was using his talent, there was no way to avoid having the doctor notice that something strange was happening.

If he wanted to use it, he’d have to disclose that he was doing so. It really shouldn’t be a problem, however. With what he knew of supreme-quality healing, if anything, it would make the doctor’s job much easier.

Putting that behind him, he focused on the task at hand. The brown, uneven bark of the tree looked rough and rugged. The last thing he wanted to do was punch it. But he willed himself to do it anyway.

He just swung at it with his left hand, trying not to break his hand in the process. Unfortunately, the nonexistent form, coupled with a lack of confidence, resulted in a middle finger injury that hurt like hell. He shook his hand in a futile attempt to make it go away.

“Mmmm, yeah, that sucks.”

The thought of quitting leaped at the opening, but he repelled it.

“No! None of that shit! You’re a man! Who’s a man? You! Now, be a man, and get ready to punch some damn wood!” He tried slapping his face in a “manly” attempt to psych himself up and, unfortunately, decided to do it with his left hand, resulting in a pang of pain spreading through his arm again.

“Fuu—No, no, pain good, it good, yes,” he tried convincing himself, squeezing hard to stop his tears from surfacing.

Then he readied his right fist, squeezing it harder and preparing himself for a serious punch. A punch that fluttered out into a not-so-manly pose as he realized something—how would he swing the machete if both his hands were messed up?

No problem. He’d kick the tree instead. Landing kicks with shoes on wasn’t particularly painful, so he just hit his with his shin instead—

“Aaaaaah!” he yelped as he collapsed, aggressively rubbing the impact area. He breathed like a woman giving birth, then groaned with gritted teeth, and finally settled on something akin to caveman sounds, cradling his leg as if it were an injured child.

It took quite a while for the pain to subside, and once he got up, he decided he’d just do punches and figure it out later. Hey, if someone was watching, he would be rescued if he was in trouble. Right?

…Right?

“Okay, Fred, you got this.”

His left hand still hurt like hell, with a lot of the pain flashing up his forearm, but he reasoned that whatever that was would go away after some plant molestation.

This time, he ensured that his fists were sealed tight, even if he didn’t have the strength to keep them like that for long. Still, after the first punch, he realized it wasn’t that bad. As long as his fist didn’t land awkwardly, he could kind of do it. He started with feeble punches and gradually amped them up.

Occasionally, he’d land with his knuckle or stub a finger and reel in pain, but he pushed through it and kept going, sweating like mad. It wasn’t long until he noticed something. The faintest flickers of lifesteal could be felt from this. He clearly wasn’t gonna kill the tree with punches like these, but it was enough to tell that he was actually doing some damage.

His talent felt good to use. Really good. At first, that wasn’t something he actively noticed, but now he realized it was kind of addicting. As he acclimated to the pain in his hands, his punches grew ever stronger, seeking more life from the unmoving plant.

More. He wanted more. Suddenly, his left fist landed close to the hardest he could punch, and he felt something crack.

***

Mark’s head was cluttered with thoughts of all that happened today as he made his way off the floating carriage and toward the platform that would take him up to his home island.

He didn’t know why he went out of his way to help Freddy like that. It was the right thing to do, sure, but getting personally involved with a guest on Madame’s show… He would be fine, he thought. He hoped.

It was hard to ignore the suffering of someone his age. People were like that. All you needed was one thing in common and—

“Mr. Afronte?” a somewhat pretentious voice came from behind, and he turned to face it.

A slick, gray-suited, short man with side-combed hair gelled to high hell called for him, and he already knew this person was here to sell him something. Usually, he would just ignore him, but this was potentially problematic given that the man somehow knew his name.

He’d hear him out, if anything, to see whether he should report him to the authorities.

“I’m so glad to have run into you,” the man said, acting familiar. “I was just on my way to your address.”

Well, that made things even worse.

“With all due respect, sir, I would like to know why you are stepping into contact with me,” Mark said politely, but with enough edge to make anyone realize that it was a little more than a veiled threat.

Anyone except this man, apparently. “Yes, yes, yes, I will get to that shortly.” He pulled clearly decorative glasses out of his pocket and put them on, adjusting them with his middle finger and pulling out some paper. “I’m a journalist, and I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”

That somehow simultaneously made him more annoyed yet more relaxed. At least that explained his sliminess and privacy intrusion. Now, it was time for this man to berate him about his time at the academy and—

“At your new job, I believe you are working with a man named Freddy Stern. Is that correct?”