1% Lifesteal

Chapter [BOOK TWO START] 42 - This Man is Not My Son

Kraven Industries Faralethal Mercantile and Information Agency

Excavation, Foraging, and Spelunking Department

Faralethal Activity Excavation Site: Camp Violet: Destruction Investigation Report

REPORT: CVDCSR-00056

*This is a transcribed comprehensive summary of all reports and report sections in reference to Subject and their involvement with the Camp Violet Destruction Incident. The reports referenced in this summary are: CVDR-00003-07, CVDR-00367, CVDR-01154, CVDR-01794, CVDR-01832, CVDR-01837.

Report topic: Rescue and Recovery of Subject: Peter Vane.

***

Section from CVDR-00003-07:

Subject was discovered in Red Zone R-CV214 by a three-man mercenary team on the third day of the rescue mission, fourteen days after Camp Violet Destruction Incident. Due to severe upper-body disfigurement, Subject was misidentified by a scout, who prematurely used an ability—Stage One: Stone Bullet—and severely injured Subject, causing muscle contusions, internal bleeding, and rib bone fragmentation. First-aid efforts stabilized Subject's condition. Subject was returned to Starhold for further treatment.

***

Section from CVDR-00367:

After extensive medical examination, Subject was deemed to not be in a life-threatening situation. Subject was left with debilitating sequelae from damage suffered during Camp Violet Destruction Incident. The sequelae included, but weren't limited to: severe third-degree and second-degree burn scarring on the upper torso, arms, neck, and general head area; severe sensorimotor function impairment, including sight impairment, hearing impairment, total loss of olfactory function, and extensive nerve damage along area affected by burns; lung damage, severe loss of lung capacity; and total vocal cord destruction. The final recovery prognosis was "partial, with low chances of regaining independent function." The treatment required was judged to be "extensive and prolonged."

***

Section from CVDR-01154:

After three weeks of treatment efforts, clinic personnel speculated that Subject might be suffering from extensive damage to critical cognitive faculties. Repeated failures to communicate with Subject had shown him to be highly unresponsive, and, during exceptions, he failed to convey coherent information, regardless of the medium employed. The treatment effort was progressing slowly; much of the damage was untreatable through any means other than supreme-quality healing or ether medicine with equivalent effect. Due to Subject's inability to consent to costly treatment, the department filed an official request to proceed without consent, arguing necessity due to the severity of Subject's condition.

***

Section from CVDR-01794:

The approval to proceed with treatment was granted. Subject's condition started to improve. The burn damage was mitigated, much of the damaged nerve tissue was restored, and some degree of sensorimotor function was regained. Subject's recovery prognosis was updated to "partial recovery likely." Subject's recovery prognosis in regards to mental function was updated to "uncertain."

***

Section from CVDR-01832:

Subject started exhibiting signs of PTSD on the twenty-eighth day of treatment. Subject committed acts of extreme self-harm, showing likely suicidal intent. Through the use of sharp objects, Subject inflicted upon himself total eye destruction and severe lacerations along face, arms, and torso; through the use of cleaning chemicals, Subject inflicted upon himself poisoning and acid burns along lacerated skin and muscle tissue. Subject's life was preserved through timely intervention. Subject's recovery prognosis was updated to "highly unlikely."

***

Section from CVDR-01837:

Subject's eyes were reconstructed, and his vision was partially recovered. A portion of the self-inflicted damage was treated; scarring and loss of function remained. Subject was physically in a stable condition. On the thirty-third day of treatment, the court-approved audit of Subject's assets revealed that the cost of treatment exceeded Subject's net worth. Psychiatric evaluation deemed Subject unstable and unable to return to a workplace environment. The insurance firm refused to cover the treatment cost, arguing that the self-inflicted nature of Subject's injuries preceded the psychiatric evaluation of mental instability. Family members and acquaintances refused to cover further treatment costs. Kraven Clan and Kraven Industries refused to cover further treatment costs, citing all signed documents between Kraven Industries and Subject. All applicable governmental bodies refused to subsidize further treatment costs.

At stable but severely physically and mentally debilitated, Subject was discharged from the clinic. The courts judged there was no less restrictive alternative and appointed Subject's closest living relative, his biological father Matthew Vane, a full-rights guardianship over Subject. Subject was discharged from Kraven Industries. Matthew Vane received full compensation.

End of report summary.

***

On a clear, sunny spring day in the countryside near Pittersville, next to a small town by the name of Imperta, a black vehicle traversed the old, decaying roads, driving past a lightly forested area and large swathes of verdant, golden, and muddy farmland.

Inside the vehicle, which more and more resembled what had once been called a "car" on Old Earth but with more than five times as large wheels, a man wearing sunglasses sat in the driver's seat, with a heavily restrained person sitting in the back.

The driver kept eyeing the mirror; the creepy bastard he was driving had a scarred and disfigured face, with mangled tissue instead of hair on his head. Apparently, he did that to himself. Shaking his head, the driver turned his eyes back on the road.

Luckily, he had refused to work anywhere in Faralethal. The pay simply wasn't worth the risk.

After around twenty more minutes of driving, they reached what seemed to be their destination—an old, dingy house in the countryside.

An obese, messy, balding man sat on the wooden porch, wearing a dirty wife-beater and cargo shorts—perfectly fitting the description of Matthew Vane.

After parking the carriage, getting out, and walking over to greet the man, the driver took off his sunglasses and shook the man's hand. "You must be Mr. Vane, am I correct?"

The man nodded in response, not taking his eyes off the car. "Did you bring him?" he said in a deep, nasal voice.

"Yes." Then, the driver hesitated. "I will warn you, though; you should prepare for the worst."

Matthew nodded.

They reached the doors, and the driver gently opened them. Sitting on the backseat, partially shrouded by the darkness of the vehicle, was Peter Vane, lightly turning his mangled face in their direction.

Matthew remained surprisingly calm as he dragged the tied Peter out by his arm. He turned to face the driver and nodded. "Thanks," he said while dragging his son away.

"Well…" the driver mused, feeling a great sense of relief wash over him as he finally offloaded his baggage. "I guess there's no good way to react to something like that."

***

Matthew walked into his house, dragging his—no, this fucking cripple—by his arm. The hallway was tight, with a shitty old brown carpet he hadn't washed in twenty years and dirty-white walls he hadn't painted in even longer. Past the pile of well-worn, unused shoes and the broken door leading to the toilet, he dragged the tied creature along to what used to be his room but now acted as a storage for all sorts of crap.

But between the piles of empty boxes and bottles was still a bed. The only reason why was because he had been too lazy to throw it out.

He aggressively threw the boy on the dirty, stinky mattress, kicking up a cloud of dust, then turned around and slammed the door shut, unable to keep looking at him.

Going back to the living room, he walked past the old, hole-ridden, deteriorating sofa and walked over to the fridge. Opening it, he pulled out a beer. It was barely even cold, given how weak the refrigerator had gotten. No worries, he thought, remembering the silver lining of this shitfest. At least he had the money to replace it. But the thought wasn't enough to even make him smirk.

Sitting down on the creaky couch, he stared at the broken BC—the last remaining sign of the easy-going life he had once lived. Eventually, his gaze drifted to the heavily moldy and smoke-damaged walls.

What would his late wife think of this scenario?

Their piece of shit crotch goblin came crawling back.

Looking like that.

"What a fucking joke." A sigh escaped his lips as he took a heavy swig of the cheap beer. Not long after, the empty bottle joined the collection of its brethren sitting on the coffee table. Then he drank another. And another.

By the seventh beer, he found himself crying. As worthless as he was, Peter was still his son. So why? Why couldn't he have returned of his own volition? He felt anger bubble in his chest.

Why did he have to return looking like that?

Getting up, he walked out into the hallway and cracked the door open. Peter was… sitting up, seemingly trying to get up to his feet. For some reason, this left Matthew feeling deeply unsettled.

He frowned and took a step back.

Then he scoffed. "You miserable rat," he spat venomously. "I don't recognize you. Even below all those scars of yours, you look nothing like the son I remember. Let me guess, a perk of your lustrous second star, oh mighty archhuman!?" he teased, swinging the bottle around and spilling some beer. An involuntary chuckle escaped his lips. "And look where it got you. After running away, look how far you've come…" Then, the bubble in his chest burst. "You shouldn't have returned looking like that," he said. "You shouldn't have returned!" he screamed. "Not looking like that!"

With fury unlike anything he had ever felt in his life, he swung the glass bottle and smashed it against his son's mangled, unrecognizable head. Instantly, he took a distressed step back, dropping the broken glass bottle. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me…" He rushed to apologize, but his son seemed… fine.

There was already a storm of emotions brewing in his mind, but the dark clouds were instantly pushed away by pure darkness as he witnessed his son flex and then, with a loud tearing sound, rip the restraints apart as if they were nothing but paper.

He took a step back, and then another, nearly tumbling to the ground. His son—or whoever this was—got up. With a clumsy, blind swing, he grabbed Matthew's face with incredible strength.

"You're not my son," was the last thing he said before he felt the back of his head slam against the wall, his skull cave in, and the world turn dark.

***

Fucking crazy bastard! Freddy thought as he dropped the man to the ground and gripped his bleeding forehead. A notable burst of healing pulsed through his body.

Dressed in nothing but tight, bloody, and beer-drenched underwear and a torn straitjacket, he dropped back down on the filthy bed and got a hold of himself. Drops of blood mixed with alcohol dripped down his forehead. The wound burned. He heard no sounds of movement from the man.

Okay, he thought as he worked to calm himself.

Freddy's sight was terribly damaged. All he saw were blurry shapes. But the perception of a two-star arch was crazy good. Despite seeing nearly nothing, he still felt somewhat confident about the shape of the room and the general layout of things around him.

He kept his ears wide open—even though he could barely hear anything—to ensure nobody else lived there and then slowly entered the hallway. There, he walked to what he believed to be the exit. Once he cracked the door open and saw nothing but bright, blurry green and yellow, he was confident he was correct.

The supernatural perception of his had a limit, it seemed. He couldn't tell if there were any houses around or if there were other people.

With squinted eyes, which kind of helped him see better, he slowly stepped outside. After trying his luck in trampling the grass with his bare feet, he concluded that his talent hadn't evolved into 10% Lifesteal, which he had hoped for. It didn't even seem to be 2% Lifesteal. But it did feel different. It was hard to say how, though.

Eventually, he tracked down what appeared to be a shed or, well, a blurry brown box, but that could only be so many things in what he hoped was a secluded, rural area.

In there, a cut on his finger discovered a scythe. It was a regular farming tool, nothing fancy, but it was precisely what he needed. Holding it in his grasp was difficult, however. His arms had been damaged a bit more than he intended, and his grip was unsteady. Still, he persevered.

Playing the role of a dutiful son perfectly, he mowed the lawn.

His talent was different. The amount of life force entering his body felt the same, but what it was doing… didn't. It was faster, kind of, but then it no longer was.

Deciding to leave the mystery of his talent's evolution for later, he sped up. Gradually, the scattering of miscellaneous pain around his body vanished. His sight was restored, and he felt fine. Yet again, the uncontrollable urge to weep in joy won over, and he cried to get it out of his system. It always felt good to have it all back. It was a relief and joy to an extent he almost thought he could get addicted.

Returning to the house, which was dirty and falling apart in too many ways to count, he located the fridge and grabbed a beer.

"Cheers"—he spoke for the first time in a long month—"to never having to be mangled beyond recognition again!" Then he took a large swig, downing the bottle in one gulp. It tasted like bottled piss, but he desperately needed a drink.

Grabbing a knife from the kitchen, he bent down and looked at his calf, which, luckily, the doctors had left untouched.

Making a rather big cut, he dug into his leg muscles and pulled out a small, golden ring.

It was a storage ring holding the personal belongings of the patriarch of the Kraven Clan.

After putting it on his finger and leaking a bit of essence into it, he looked inside. It was akin to diving into his ethercosm; he embodied his little reaper projection and could appear wherever he wanted.

The space wasn't that big, only around the size of a large box, a bit bigger than maybe a cubic meter. It was densely packed with all sorts of crap he hadn't had the opportunity to look over yet. The dagger that radiated a horrible feeling and reminded him of something he couldn't quite put his finger on, as well as the ring that felt crazy dangerous, were both inside the space after he looted them from the dead Kraven patriarch.

The man's robes had also seemed like some fancy stuff, but they had been torn beyond recognition. Looking at them in the Netherecho revealed that they had been thoroughly destroyed, having none of the aura of a cursed item. So he had left them behind, right on the dead bastard's body, which was resting at the bottom of that ocean.

The man he had just knocked out weighed heavily on his mind. There was a possibility he would get up any moment now. Should he tie the man up? With brisk steps, he walked out of the kitchen and back into the hallway.

Before he even stepped into the room, he spotted something disconcerting.

Back inside the room where the man lay on the ground, a pool of blood was spreading. A big one.

With cautious steps, Freddy walked over to the room and looked down.

The man's eyes had glazed over. His skin had grown pale. There was an uncanny eeriness to the way his facial muscles rested on his unkempt face. Grief and horror were still frozen in his expression.

"Holy shit…" Freddy muttered as he finally realized it.

The man was dead.

For a brief moment, a sense of relief flushed his body. Then he caught himself. "What the fuck is wrong with me…?" he muttered, but his self-chastisement felt half-hearted. "Shit happens, I guess," he decided. "Not the time to worry about it."

He ignored the corpse and took another look outside. After carefully glancing in every direction, he was confident there were no close neighbors. He could spot a few houses in the distance in what appeared to be a little village, but other than that, there were no major settlements in sight. He grabbed the scythe to heal his injured leg, which was still bleeding.

The moment he swung the scythe, however, he was caught off-guard—his leg stopped bleeding instantly. Then as he continued, it mended much faster than he expected it to, but it was highly unusual. It looked as if some sort of weird, pink, almost scar-like tissue held the wound shut, and after staring at it for a while, the tissue started fraying, slowly falling apart and opening the wound again.

"What the…!?"

That was the effect of first-aid-quality healing! Had his talent dropped in quality? No, that made no sense; he was fully healed, so… how? Why? What was happening?

Grabbing the tool again, he swung, repeating the effect. First, his wound instantly stopped bleeding. Then it sealed shut with this fleshy tissue. Then the tissue started turning into raw skin, which then healed into scarred skin, and finally, the scar vanished.

That was quite different from how it used to work. Before, the wound would be there until the final cell was meticulously reconstructed. Supreme-quality healing didn't work like this. This wasn't supreme-quality healing.

Running his muddled mind over what he knew of healing qualities, he soon realized what was happening. "Don't tell me…" he whispered. "Is this…?"

Did his talent evolve to have dynamic-quality healing or something of the sort? Based on what he knew, that recovery had gone from minimal to first-aid, then natural, supernatural, and finally, supreme quality, adapting to what he needed the most at that time.

For a moment, he was incredibly underwhelmed to discover this. Until he realized something—this wasn't bad at all.

To say that minimal to supreme-quality healing went from worst to best would be… uneducated. It was like this: Which was better—cheap, everyday food ingredients or high-end cuisine? The latter, obviously, but if one were starving and had only a hundred dollars to feed themselves for the next week, naturally, they would choose the first option.

Healing followed similar principles.

While minimal-quality healing did, well, the minimum, it did it very well. For the same amount of life force needed for an unnoticeable shred of supreme-quality healing, minimal-quality healing could be life-saving.

And all it did was stop bleeding, essentially. Technically, it "suspended deterioration," so it could postpone death by poison and stuff like that.

Then there was first-aid quality. It mended tissue back together with a temporary, fragile binding. Again, it was a band-aid fix, but one that could easily save a life.

After that, it was natural quality, which was arguably the worst healing quality. It could do its job about as well as manual surgery, sort of, which naturally meant that it left behind a lot of consequences and rarely did a perfect job.

Supernatural healing was next, and it was basically the little brother of supreme healing. It could do most of the same—regrow limbs, heal the stuff that generally wouldn't recover on its own, and such—but just worse. Also, this was generally considered the "best" healing quality since it was much more cost-efficient than supreme-quality, which was considered more of a luxury.

True, limbs regrown by supernatural-quality healing were far from perfect. They looked discolored and often had minor deformations. But the difference between supreme- and supernatural-quality healing, in most practical cases, tended to be the difference between slightly extending a stump and regrowing an entire arm. No matter how close to the original the extended stump was, everyone would want an arm back.

Given that his talent evolution fixed the primary problem he had with it—its lack of use in combat—he was thrilled. A small part of him was still a bit miffed, however. Given what he'd achieved, shouldn't it have become like 50% Lifesteal? Well, he just hoped this was better than he expected it to be.

Well then.

There were various upgrades and new powers to look over, but another issue took precedence.

While there was some merit in arguing that it had been in self-defense… it was undeniable that he had just killed a completely innocent man. To add insult to murder, he hadn't the faintest clue where he was.

Standing on the lawn, he leaned his forehead on the bottom of the scythe's shaft and slowly breathed out.

"What the hell do I do now?"