Ackster drank as much water as his faint and unsteady body could handle before refilling the bucket and putting it next to the tub, which he reentered, bloody knife in hand.

Although he had already drained himself of a lot of blood, and he felt like he had about as much blood as a mosquito in winter, Ackster knew it wasn’t nearly enough. It felt like more than it actually was, which meant he still needed to make the Doppelganger Slime absorb a lot more.

And to do that, he had to stab himself again.

Fortunately, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been, at least when considering the degree of pain. It didn’t hurt nearly as bad as when he fixed his broken arm. It was still enough to make him grit his teeth, but Ackster could endure it if it meant he would survive this encounter with The Hero.

The worst was actually the panic-inducing feeling of his blood rushing to get out of his body. But that was something that sat in his mind. It wasn’t something he could as easily endure as the physical pain of stabbing himself with a serrated knife.

Ackster sighed. No matter how much he thought about it, hesitated, and tried to come up with another way, he had to go through with it. At this point in time, it was far too late to try and come up with another solution.

And as long as he went through with it, as long as he did what he had to, Ackster would survive.

After once again doing his best to reaffirm his resolve to survive, despite the sticky and hostile situation and world he had ended up in, Ackster stabbed himself in the leg again without flinching.

And when the blood continued spilling out, he wasted no time and instantly started eating all the food he had nearby. Halfway through, Ackster noticed that the artery had patched itself up again, so he stabbed himself again before continuing to eat.

Ackster couldn’t stay clear-headed while losing so much blood, but he felt vaguely that he had lost a lot of blood, and when he had finished all the food and water, he was forced to stop himself from shoving the knife into his leg again.

He wasn’t sure he had given the Doppelganger Slime enough blood yet, but without food to help him sustain his skill and blood regeneration, it was suicidal to keep draining himself of blood.

Ackster leaned his head back and closed his eyes. If he tried to stand up now, he would faint.

When he felt steady enough, he left the bathtub and noticed the bloody footprints from when he had fetched water and the blood that the Doppelganger Slime hadn’t absorbed. He looked at his duplicate.

“Clean this up, will you?”

“Do I look like a fucking servant to you, you stain of filth?”

Ackster was happy to hear the answer. It might be the first time he’s ever enjoyed being cussed out by a brat. It was a sign that the Doppelganger Slime had learned from his behavior and vocabulary. The glare Ackster got was like the icing on the cake. He smiled as he felt that his plan might actually work.

“No, but seriously, clean this up.”

However, the blood still needed to be cleaned up. Otherwise, when someone came to clean Ackster’s room and the adjoining bathroom after his passing, they would notice that something was wrong and tell Ackster’s parents. And considering how gossipy the maids seemed to be, it wouldn’t take long until rumors of Ackster Phileam’s strange behavior before dying in his duel against The Hero reached The Hero’s ears.

The rumors would grow along the way, and The Hero would grow suspicious enough to investigate. And when he discovered that Ackster’s body was no more, he would put some effort into his investigations. The Hero, with how capable he was and with how many skills he had, would quickly conclude that Ackster wasn’t dead.

And Ackster wouldn’t get a peaceful day, full of relaxation, until The Hero was dead. Ackster sighed, just thinking about it.

But now wasn’t the time to waste time thinking about unnecessary and improbable scenarios. He had to prepare so well that there was no reason for him to even think about what could go wrong.

And the next step was making use of the fact that the Doppelganger Slime was full of his blood and looked exactly like him to get it to obey, despite its defiant and rebellious attitude.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to do much. The Doppelganger Slime was a simple creature, and although it responded with harsh words in response to Ackster’s request, it had still started cleaning up the blood even before he asked again.

If it weren’t for the fact that he needed to use the Doppelganger Slime to trick The Hero, he would have almost liked to have it around and use it as a personal servant and body double on his journey. But there were a few other downsides that would have made it an unreliable decision, so Ackster didn’t consider it and just watched the Doppelganger Slime get to work before he headed off to his bed.

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The bloodletting had taken a surprising amount of time, and it was about time for lunch.

Ackster had become way too pale to interact with anyone who knew what he looked like due to losing so much blood. He had to recover from that or find a way to mask it so that not even his mother could notice it before the kitchen staff brought his food.

To do that, Ackster was going to try something he hadn’t done before. Considering his situation, all the possible things he could do, and his age, there were many such things. But Ackster was going to try and focus on the regenerative powers of his skill.

So far, he had only focused on his hearing and his eyesight when he eavesdropped on the maids and when he left the house at night.

But unlike his hearing and vision, which were proper senses that Ackster could feel, Ackster didn’t know how to focus on restoring his blood and the color of his face.

Ackster Phileam wasn’t an expert on how the human body worked. But he knew that the body made new cells to repair what was broken and to create new blood. And that it all happened inside his body. He was pretty sure that the blood generation had something to do with his bone marrow. But regardless of whether it was inside his bones or some random organ he didn’t even know existed, Ackster knew that it was the inner parts of his body that were doing the work when it came to regenerating his blood.

Ackster sat on his bed and began thinking about it. After looking at the time, he realized he did have a little while until the food was supposed to come. It should be enough to try at least a couple of things.

But the only thing he figured could work was taking a nap.

The human body worked the best, recovered, and healed the most when it was sleeping. Deep sleep would probably be best.

But if he let himself fall asleep, which he would do as soon as he put his head against the pillow and relaxed, Ackster would miss the food.

He couldn’t do that for several reasons. He needed sustenance. And it would be awkward and unexpected if he went from eating several days’ worth of food every meal to rejecting or ignoring his lunch. By now, it would be in his best interest to continue eating like a pig, even if only to maintain the image of someone stress eating to cope with the stress of their impending death.

He could tell the kitchen staff to put the food at the door and leave. If he couldn’t speed up his recovery, that was what he would have to do.

But Ackster didn’t want to sit back and just wait.

Knowing how to manually improve the rate at which his body recovered from physical harm with the help of his skill was something that would help Ackster greatly, no matter where he went, as long as he succeeded with his plan to escape death by Hero.

Knowing he would die soon if he didn’t do something to prevent it also stopped Ackster from simply sitting still and doing nothing, which was his only alternative. Even napping would at least help him recover to a prime state and increase his odds of survival.

But since he couldn’t nap, Ackster closed his eyes while sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed. He hadn’t tried meditation before, but he had heard that it was supposed to be healing.

Though, as he began, Ackster remembered it was probably in a more spiritual sense.

But it was worth a shot.

Ackster cleared his head of stray thoughts and focused on sensing his body. He tried shutting off the heightened senses Strong Body gave him. But he quickly realized it was difficult. If anything, paying attention to his senses while he didn’t think of anything else only sharpened them further, which was the opposite of what he wanted.

But in addition to the chirping birds, the sound of footsteps in the nearby hallways, and the rustling of metal armor from the knights training around the corner outside his window, Ackster also realized he heard his heartbeat, the sound of his breathing, and his stomach and intestines growling as they did whatever intestines did.

So, instead of trying to limit or turn off his sensitive senses, Ackster realized it would be better to redirect them all to his insides and focus on the sounds and sensations coming from there.

It wasn’t as straightforward as he would have liked since the only sense that was that easily used to sense the outside world and the inside of his body was his hearing.

Ackster couldn’t really see, taste, touch, or smell his insides without opening himself up, which would only cause even more trouble for him.

But it wasn’t either of those senses that Ackster wanted to use to get a grasp of his insides, anyways. He just wanted to begin with the senses he was aware of and use them to guide his way into stumbling onto the right thing.

Ackster wasn’t sure he had done it, but when he focused his hearing, at least, on his heartbeat and the sound of his blood trudging through his veins, Ackster felt like he was a little more aware of what was going on inside his body. But it might just be a false sensation brought about by hope.

But Ackster wouldn’t have gotten this far if he didn’t have his hope, so he decided to trust it and focused on the sensation of his warm blood traveling through his body. He tried to trace the blood’s path back to where it originated from but didn’t get anywhere, even if he felt like he was getting warmer and getting rid of some fatigue.

Ackster didn’t make any headway when trying to increase how quickly his blood regenerated, but since he felt like he could influence how the blood he had left flowed through his body by guiding it with his senses and perfectly timed deep breaths that controlled the heart, which pumped the blood forward.

So, when he finally heard the kitchen staff’s light footsteps approach his door, Ackster did that to give his face some of the color he had lost during his bloodletting to replace the pallid, sickly whiteness that made him look like a dead man.

‘Close enough.’

Ackster looked in the mirror and noticed that he didn’t look as healthy as he did after a good night’s sleep. But it was enough for anyone who didn’t stare at his face every day to notice. The kitchen staff, who was afraid to even look at Ackster’s upper body, but who would always look at Ackster’s face when he opened the door, wouldn’t notice anything different.

Ackster waited for the knock before opening the door with a sour frown on his face that scared the kitchen staff to look at the floor. Ackster yanked the tray of food out of the poor guy’s hands before slamming the door in his face. He felt grateful about the increased amount of food, so he didn’t even say anything mean to the kitchen staff.

‘I’m such a saint, honestly.’

Ackster ate the food, entertained by his own self-patronizing irony.