In the splotchy Netherecho of the caverns, thick with water, darkness, earth, and mysterious wisps Freddy didn’t even recognize, a transparent snake of coiling water morphed through the air, shifting and shuffling above the painted ground as it made loops in a set pattern.
Suddenly, a pointy blue trident whistled, catching the fluid snake by its tail. The weapon didn’t remain embedded in the liquid body for long, but even once it dropped to the ground, the pattern of shifting water was clearly not as smooth as it had been.
The snake hissed as it turned to the culprit who injured it, “You beassst! How dare you disturb—” But before it could finish its sentence, a faint blue outline of a scythe coiled around its neck and pulled down, slicing the stream of water apart and unraveling the creature into the wisps of ether that comprised its existence.
Freddy dropped to the ground, clumsily grasping at the blue scythe as he did his best to prevent his projection from shaking in excitement as another flood of ether poured into his soul. That had been the cleanest kill Stillness and he had executed thus far, putting him at 60% progress with his star.
Indeed, he thought. Stillness, the trident-wielding merman obsessed with the concept of liquid stillness, made for one hell of an ally. The vestige in question trod over to its weapon, plucked it from the ground, and stood tall, proudly scouting the area for more disturbance to quell.
He had used the vestige’s nature as being attached to the concept of “liquid stillness” to convince it to partner with him by playing the role of “death.” Indeed, corpses were quite still and made no habit of disturbing bodies of water. He managed to get the merman to go on a crusade through some bargaining.
Allying oneself with vestiges was a common practice. If anything, facing them directly was the least common way of handling them. Personified ether constructs were extremely powerful compared to the might of an arch’s projection, and getting a bit creative was practically indispensable, even if one had a powerful soul construct.
The only people who went out of their way to challenge the residents of the Netherecho in “fair” mortal combat were lunatics who were trying to get themselves killed.
Liquid stillness as a concept didn’t have much use to him. It would be excellent with Water Walk, Water Shield, or Manifest Water Weapon, but his abilities weren’t suitable for it. So, a tentative alliance had been the most he could get out of the situation.
Stillness, however, wasn’t Bloodshed. This thing had no attachment to loyalty and servitude, and it wasn’t a person, he thought to himself for the hundredth time. It was not a person. He had to make doubly sure not to forget that.
It wouldn’t take much for it to arbitrarily decide that he had to die, so throughout all their fights together, he kept his eyes on the merciless merman just as much as he did on any of their opponents.
Speaking of which, he hadn’t had much luck. This was an excellent opportunity to try and snatch an upgrade, but his efforts hadn’t borne any fruit so far.
Most of the vestiges they had stumbled across were either too unpredictable to take a chance on, their nature was too unclear, or they weren’t suitable for any of his abilities.
But damn was this an effective way to grow one’s star. Not a single other time until then had he made so much progress so quickly. He had tasked Bloodshed with clearing the Netherecho for him, but having a higher degree of participation seemed much more effective if one wanted to progress past a bottleneck. Given the risk to his life, it made sense.
His first star was roughly just above halfway formed, and he was already reaching a point where he could see its completion on the horizon.
Taking his mind off his growth, he refocused on the task at hand—deciding which target to hunt next. He stood as far as he could from Stillness without risking annoying or aggravating it and simply observed, allowing it to pick its next target. The less he got involved, the lower the odds were of it turning on him.
“Hmph,” Stillness scoffed as it raised its trident. “Over there.”
He turned to face the direction it was pointing in and quickly spotted their next victim. It was an almost entirely non-descript blob of water that shifted and morphed as it moved what appeared to be rough, limb-like appendages to traverse around.
Even without interrogating it, he already knew what that thing was. His sleeves shuffled slightly, and an ominous wind blew beneath the hem of his robes in a colorful display of what seemed to be barely restrained excitement. That was the generic concept of water—the exact thing he needed for an optimal upgrade for his Create Water spell.
“Very well,” he answered briefly as they approached their target.
Stillness lifted its trident and threw it forward when they stepped into range while he broke off to flank their opponent.
Surprisingly, the mass of water flicked the weapon out of the air, and he found himself backing away just as the creature prepared to break his fragile projection apart. After dodging the limb by a raindrop’s worth of distance, he stepped away and raised his guard.
Stillness growled. “Why is it that you move?” it asked indignantly. “It is your sacred duty to remain undisturbed!”
The blob of water didn’t necessarily look at Stillness, but he could feel its attention turning to the merman nonetheless. Then, with a deep, gurgly voice, it spoke. “Stillness… flow… equally make me whole.”
“Blasphemy!” Stillness screamed as it recklessly charged forward.
Lifting its fist into the air, the merman prepared to lunge, but a massive tentacle of water slammed it upside the head, stopping it dead in its tracks and slamming it into the ground with a puff of cartoony smoke.
Uh-oh.
This vestige was powerful. It was likely close to turning into a remnant.
A burst of water slammed Stillness’s torso, and he could see a visible indentation appear.
Capturing a vestige of this power would give him a slight starting boost to his stage one Create Water, but would have no other benefits. On the other hand, if Stillness lost, this thing would likely become a remnant, and he didn’t like his chances of victory or even escape in that scenario.
A nearly arm-like appendage sprung out of the vestige’s body and slammed at Stillness’s ribs, pushing the merman to the side and leaving it bent over.
Spotting the opening, he decided to act. Rushing forth, he grabbed the unequipped trident and threw it toward Stillness. The merman managed to catch it out of the air, and immediately, it swung the weapon down, slashing at its opponent’s side.
The trident faced a heavy defense as a giant bubble of water protected its target, but at that moment, Freddy appeared from the other, unprotected side, swinging his scythe down in a wild arc, leaving a giant gash of splashing liquid behind.
Instantly, he felt the vestige’s attention turn to him, but at that moment, Stillness was already thrusting again, this time piercing through and doing some damage, and as the vestige was distracted yet again, he flicked another quick swipe, and this time, backed away.
That was all the help he could safely provide. After that, if Stillness won, he would be set, but if it lost, he could remain far away enough to escape unharmed.
Standing at a healthy distance from the confrontation, he ensured that nothing else would barge into the fight as he observed the brutal battle between two vestiges. Chunks of one and the other broke off repeatedly, and he was sure that Stillness wouldn’t be the one to come out on top. Not if it were fighting alone.
The water that comprised the body of the general concept of water sloshed chaotically as it struggled to muster another attack, but it was still doing far better than its opponent, who was practically falling apart. As it prepared to strike, however, the blue reaper suddenly appeared, slashing his scythe across its body.
He fumbled his swing, leaving nothing but a shallow cut, but it wasn’t meant to be anything more than an extra precaution.
The little reaper focused, turning his attention within as an intense force prepared to rush out of his soul. Within moments, a small ball of ether runes comprising a closed shell appeared before him. With an ear-shredding pop, it burst forward, smashing into the vestige. One blue, ethereal chain after another sprouted along its body, and as it resisted, several snapped and broke off.
He winced at the echo of agony that flashed through his soul, but he endured, forcing the chains to tighten. The aquamarine shackles responded to his will, and within moments, the chains extended into his projection and rapidly dragged the vestige into his soul.
As the mass of liquid shrunk and spun out into the vast emptiness of his ethercosm, the fight was already over. The shell of Create Water wrapped around it, and in mere seconds, it was fully encased in a prison of shimmering ethereal runes.
A pulse of soothing energy washed over his soul, and when observing from a distance, the little speck of blue that orbited his star grew bright enough to see without even having to focus on it.
Bringing his attention back to the Netherecho, he quickly scouted the area, ensuring his safety. The only vestige nearby was Stillness, and it was in horrible shape. Indeed, with him so greedily stealing the entire vestige for himself, Stillness was left without the ether needed to recover the damage it had suffered.
It was vulnerable, and for a moment, still riding the high of his recent success, he wondered whether he should take a chance with it. He felt all three remaining shells, including Water Body, resonate with this concept. It could work.
But… after letting the thrill wash over him, he cooled his head and thought about it. He practiced Flowing Strike. His repertoire had no room for Stillness.
“Tell me, little reaper,” it said, half its body missing and its trident broken. “Did we calm the raging tides?”
With a slight nod, he stepped forward and cut the merman apart at the waist, unraveling its body and absorbing the flood of ether. A short moment later, he was out of the Netherecho and back in his body.
He slumped a bit as he slowly breathed out. “It wasn’t a living thing,” he muttered into his chin, reminding himself. “That wasn’t Bloodshed.”
With a deep sigh, he put such thoughts aside and focused on something more substantial. His soured mood lifted slightly as he raised his hand and used Create Water, his first stage one ability.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
A burst of liquid, enough to fill a massive bucket, flowed out, and he found that he could control it with so much more ease. He used to be able to manage around the size of a large droplet, perhaps as large as a human eye. Now, he could handle a blob the size of an apple.
He reduced its size just a bit to gain more freedom over it, then summarily proceeded to flex his essence control as much as he could.
With each new movement he tested, he could feel hundreds—no, thousands—of latent ether shells materializing in his soul. What had once been an utterly imperceptible collection of several pieces of vaguely blue debris had now turned into a sizable misty cloud of pale aquamarine, giving the inside of his soul a glow that reminded him of the vast night sky.
Every one of those shells held a specific movement, a peculiar intent, and could be developed into a full-fledged ability through repetition. Granted, the overwhelming majority were useless, comprising mere minuscule variations of super-specific uses of essence manipulation, but it was still a sight to behold.
The cave he was still in was predominantly empty, beside the rocks and the water, making it a nearly perfect location to practice. And there was one ability he had been waiting to create for the longest time.
The water affinity was notoriously bad at non-martial-arts offensive abilities. Those who became water spellcasters usually only did so if their talent could cover the offense. Those who kept true to a purely offensive style throughout their first star had a high likelihood of attaining the ice affinity upon ascending to their second star.
Attaining advanced affinities wasn’t guaranteed, however, making it a risk few were willing to take. Most water casters specialized in supporting roles—another area water excelled at.
But that didn’t mean that water had no offensive spells. Several outliers shone through at higher ranks, such as Dehydration or Turbulent Wave, but one ability stood out right from the start.
Freddy lifted his hand, opening his palm away from his body. Then he focused. Stage zero Create Water was limited in function, as were most stage zero abilities. It simply created a set amount of liquid without any shape, and only once that water was created could it be manipulated with essence. Having the general concept of water within changed the situation drastically.
While he still had a maximum of water he could produce in a single use, he could manipulate the minimum as freely as he wanted.
With intense focus, he concentrated his Create Water in the center of his palm. The water shrunk into a tiny ball, and as soon as he tried pushing more water into it, he was already sweating from exertion. Not long after he started, his control faltered, and the concentrated ball of water was disrupted, splashing all over his palm, down to the ground, and into the air.
While that was a far cry from what he had been trying to do, it was a surprisingly good first attempt. That gave him hope that he might just be able to do it.
Pressure Jet was the single most potent stage zero offensive water spell. Sure, it had numerous shortcomings, such as its limited range, an insane essence cost, and difficulty in obtaining the ability. But if one was solely talking about its damage, it was top tier, even compared to other affinities.
A concentrated jet of high-speed pressurized water had been one of the most efficient methods for cutting things back on Old Earth. And that power, when taking the form of an ability, was precisely what he wanted as part of his repertoire.
If it weren’t for his soul construct’s Essence Extraction, he would have outright been an idiot for entertaining acquiring both Hydraulic Flex and Pressure Jet while still being only a one-star.
It still wouldn’t be easy, and it would take a long time, but his decent essence recovery at least gave him a fighting chance.
While he had been planning on spending the rest of the day practicing his abilities, he just now realized how tired he felt. There was no 1% Lifesteal to keep him from physically wearing himself out, and it was clear that his battered body needed some work.
He decided to test something out.
Pulling out the knife from its sheath, he slashed at a few mushrooms. The rush of Lifesteal was invigorating, but… pretty much as soon as he stopped, the effect disappeared, so he continued. He went at it for a while, but realizing he had to stop didn’t take long.
The complexion of his skin was changing quite rapidly. He hadn’t done anything too noticeable, but he could tell his skin appeared less… ill. He sighed. The problem with supreme-quality healing was that it split equally between all bodily injuries.
In that short time, it had done little to nothing for his internal problems but had already managed a noticeable impact on his outward appearance.
While many people instantly averted their gaze upon seeing him, just as many stared openly. The workers weren’t allowed to wear masks or use other methods to conceal their faces, as per the rules written in the rule book.
If he overused his talent, it wouldn’t be long until people realized his appearance was changing. If people realized his appearance was changing, they would wonder why.
Desperate folk were an ugly sort.
If someone who had an injury or other health problem saw him suddenly improving, they wouldn’t go, “Oh, golly gosh, that disfigured bloke is healing! I am so happy for him!”
No.
They would go, “Those scars are disappearing. He has access to supreme-quality healing. I need supreme-quality healing.”
Then, they would approach him and ask how he did it. He would have to fuck them off because, obviously, he couldn’t use a self-healing talent on others. Of course, they wouldn’t go, “Ah, sorry mate, I really thought you could help me out! Shucks, that is unfortunate!”
No.
They would go “This bastard is hiding something from me.” Because they had nothing to gain from believing him. To them, the reality in which Freddy was a liar was the only one where they still had hope of finding a solution to their problems.
So they would pry. They would ask over and over. They would spread rumors, threaten him, and even possibly outright assault him to try and find an answer.
And once they concluded that there was nothing there, they would be disappointed. Angry.
Envious.
If I can’t have it… this bastard can’t have it either.
There was a reason why he had decided to remain a loner for so long. Hell, the only reason he even interacted with James and Sharon was because those two were genuinely the nicest people he had met. Even then, he kept contact to a minimum.
The only thing misery loved more than company was creating more misery. The despondent kept each other down almost desperately, fearing nothing more than seeing those they cared about succeed without them.
If he wanted to make a full recovery, he needed two things—a plausible excuse for how he did it and the power to protect himself from those who wanted him to share.
With a resigned sigh, he decided to head back to the tent. The feeling of using his talent had left him with a reinvigorated resolve.
So, he walked over to the large stone and pulled it back. It was demanding, and he felt his elbows, shoulders, back, and knees scream in protest, which he summarily ignored with the cold mercilessness of a dictator commanding his soldiers to march in the cold.
As he crawled out of his little hiding spot and closed it up from the other side, he turned around and started his long trek back to the camp. It wasn’t that far away, but a few kilometers could feel like a marathon when walking through an incredibly inhospitable set of caverns and tight passages.
But as he started his way back, it didn’t take him long to realize he had a problem.
His body’s protest—the one he had been ignoring this whole time?
Yeah, it seemed to have turned into an all-out rebellion.
With a sudden cramp and a visceral tearing, he felt the part of his right leg around his shin tighten, with a few small clumps of something appearing just below the knee.
“Uuurgh, what the—” he screamed through gritted teeth.
His foot was stuck in an awkward position, and with another searing bolt of pain, he felt his kneecap pop out of its socket and move down his leg. Another pained moan escaped his lips, and he felt the agony spread up his leg and over his hip, reaching his glutes and lower back.
The thing with torture was that it wasn’t just a matter of pain. Numerous incisions, pricks, different venoms, and drugs didn’t just hurt. Everything that had been done to him had come with a set of consequences, sequela his body wouldn’t recover from naturally.
He’d grown so used to ignoring pain, so complacent because of a perfect recovery waiting on the horizon, that he hadn’t realized a crucial problem until that moment. The pain ravaging his body was screaming at him that something was wrong. And one such error had finally reached a breaking point.
Another pained growl escaped his lips, and he finally couldn’t stay on his feet. As he tumbled to the ground, the tendon that connected his crotch also tightened, and he could feel himself losing control over his other leg.
Ignoring pain was more manageable when one believed it would have no permanent consequences. Spicy food could hurt as much as licking a hot iron, but one’s reaction was far different. There was a notion of safety, a sense of security, in it being nothing but a benign sensation that would eventually pass. All forms of pain had become just that when viewed through the lens of his talent.
But at that moment, when the agony signaled an inability to move in a deadly part of the caverns where few had a reason to venture, oh, it hurt. Suddenly, the pain was unbearable.
His lips parted to scream for help, but he bit them to stop himself from making a sound. He was just as likely to attract the attention of something he didn’t want finding him in this state.
He instinctively reached for his knife without much thought and began slashing around through the mossy growth. It provided some relief. But it did virtually nothing to undo the catastrophe that was happening to his leg.
With all the willpower he could muster, he had to stop himself from slashing further. Nothing short of a full recovery would put his knee back into place.
And he hadn’t prepared any bullshit excuses yet. He didn’t have a plan. But he had no intention of letting anyone bully him any further. Thus, with gritted teeth and legs unable to move, he crawled back toward the camp.
With one arm gripping a rocky protrusion, he tightened his core and shifted his left leg, pulling himself forward across the mossy ground.
The agony and panic made every second feel like a century, and he could barely even tell the passage of time.
His torso was stuck crawling along the floor, so his clothes got caught on sharp edges more than once. The work uniform was made to be tough, so it wouldn’t tear easily, but as long as he was wearing it, he would hold little hope of making progress past the nooks it would get caught on.
Rolling himself over, he unzipped his uniform and pulled it down, taking it and the metal-plated boots off, remaining clothed in little more than a solid piece of underwear.
As he continued onward, he quickly noticed the difference that protection had provided. Without it, his body scraped along jagged edges, and while he wasn’t bleeding much, his torso was constantly bruising and hitting against hard surfaces.
Something slimy crawled along one of his legs. A quick glance down revealed that it was a giant centipede, and he was forced to pause and wait for it to leave him be. Just as it was about to leave, his leg cramped again, and the small jolt spooked the creature, causing it to instantly whirl and sink giant fangs into his skin.
“Fffffuuu!” he swore through gritted teeth.
Ignoring the creature, he pushed onward, and it eventually decided it was done “defending itself” as it scurried off into the distance, leaving him in even more pain.
Up steep ledges and down tight paths he went, several times coming into contact with either yet another venomous critter or a poisonous plant that shouldn’t be touched with bare skin.
The call of his talent begging to be used whispered into his ear. After all, at this rate, he might very well not make it back to the camp. But he denied the temptation. If he healed fully, going back to the camp was impossible anyway.
One part of the cave was terribly cold, freezing even. Another was so sharp he would have bled out had his skin not been so tough, and yet another cave was filled with nasty fungus and plants that definitely shouldn’t interact with bare skin.
Every time, however, every step he made forward only grew more confident and determined.
But while the spirit was willing, the body was well past wrung out. His grip faltered, and the longer he went, the harder it became to breathe. His sight grew blurry, and his hearing was even more muffled than usual.
How far out in the caves had he been? What were the odds of not having encountered a single person so far? Could he have made less progress than he thought?
Or were the other workers simply ignoring him?
Eventually, however, the hubbub of human speech reached his barely conscious mind. For a while already, he wasn’t following the signs but simply trying to move forward in hopes of getting to someone.
Several figures he couldn’t identify through the daze lifted him off the floor.
“Get him to the medical tent,” he thought he heard someone say. That was enough.
With that, he finally allowed the deep dark to whisk him away.