One Man's Trash

The cellar was exceedingly dim, lit only by a single flickering torch in between the doorway and the right wall, in what Fate thought to be a tactic to temporarily blind whoever walked in. Fate was on the other side of the doorway, back pressed against the wall and arms crossed, his expression one of disgust.

On the wall adjacent to the torch was a man dressed in clothes that made him out to be a butler or similar manservant. The man's eyes were closed, and he held his hands in front of him, trying to keep his distaste from showing. The way the torchlight danced on his red hair was an interesting sight but did little to distract Fate from what he was observing.

Next to the butler was a man – or woman, Fate couldn't tell – in full plate armor, not a scrap of skin visible. The only distinguishing feature Fate could make out were piercing golden eyes, watching the same scene Fate was with the same expression everyone else had. Their hands were on the pommel of a sword five feet long and half as wide, the point cutting into the floor slightly as the armored person put weight on it.

Next to this armored person was another man in fine clothes, although he appeared to be a merchant of some kind rather than a servant. The fake smile plastered on his face and the greed in his eyes said he was probably the owner of this building, and probably the one that arranged this whole thing.

Finally, there was the last man and the woman, the latter of whom was currently being subjected to the whims of the former.

The man, whose name Fate had learned from the merchant to be Gilliam, was tall and lean, with fiery, spiky red hair and an admittedly handsome face twisted by the savage glee on his face. Based on the small bit of baby fat still in his cheeks, he was no older than twenty.

He was entirely nude, his red eyes roaming the body of the woman as did as he wished. He was positioned so that his back was to the lineup of merchant and servants, his left side facing Fate, allowing Fate to see the entirety of this farce.

The woman, meanwhile, was staring listlessly to the side, tears streaming down her cheeks and pooling together with drool beneath her face. She was lying on the rough stone floor, likewise nude, her wrists clamped above her head by manacles set into the ground and each of her legs tied up to force them to stay bent.

Her wrists were bloody and bruised from struggling, and her entire body was coated in thin but deep cuts, courtesy of the knife the red-haired man held in his hand. Each cut was within a marked-off area painted on her skin with ink, indicating where it was safe to cut without fear of her giving out.

While not visible since the woman was laying on her back, Fate knew that her slender back was almost entirely devoid of skin, flayed off by the whip a few feet away from the man. Her long, light blue hair stuck to her face, neck, and chest from sweat and blood, her eyes of the same color announcing her lack of hope.

Fate knew the only reason she was quiet was that her voice had given out. She had been screaming when he walked in, her vocal cords tearing from the exertion and forcing her to cough up blood. The way the sound only reached his ears after he crossed the doorway's space told him the room had been soundproofed.

He had only been watching for five minutes, having stepped in right as the merchant-clothed man had advised Gilliam to change his "form of pleasure," lest the woman give out. So, the naked man had released his load, wrenched the woman's wrists out of the shackles dangling from the ceiling, and strapped her onto the floor, going to work once more, thrusting like a beast in heat and causing the woman's bloody, above-average breasts to bounce back and forth.

Fate had to fight the urge to massacre everyone in the room for every second that passed. Only four things kept him in check. The first was his promise to Robna to try to learn something about his Manifestation from this experience. The second was that, even though he hated it, he could indeed feel there was something to learn here. The third was the pressure of an Avatar coming from both Gilliam and his butler.

And the fourth was the armored silhouette against the wall, exuding the air of an Incarnation. Fate didn't miss how their eyes darted to him the second he entered the room, those glowing golden points conveying a simple message: interfere and die.

He didn't know how they could see him, chalking it up to the Level disparity.

And now cut back to the present. Fate was watching this horrendous act, wracking his brain to find a way to save the woman. He knew she wouldn't last much longer. It was obvious that the only incentive Gilliam had to keep her alive was to prolong his twisted enjoyment.

As the man raised the knife once more, the Cheshire grin on his face widening even more, Fate finally found what he was looking for, the realization feeling like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

This man… He took pleasure in the pain of others. This was obvious. And yet, what it meant eluded Fate for an embarrassingly long time, leading to more suffering on the woman's part.

While for the woman, this experience was nothing short of hell, it probably felt like heaven to this sick monster wearing the skin of a person.

What was that old saying, the one from the Milky Way that still held a kernel of truth to this day, and was still used like some ancient proverb? "One man's trash is another man's treasure." A bad experience for one person is the best time in the world for another.

A negative for one is a positive for something else.

It sounded so simple, and yet it resounded in Fate's head over and over, as if the words of a divine being imprinted themselves on his mind. He knew then that he had found one of the fundamental rules of Negativity. Not just an aspect, but one of the building blocks that made up part of the universe.

Everything had a give-and-take relationship with everything else.

All of this flashed through his mind in less than a second. Suddenly, he could feel his Manifestation's metaphorical weight increase, solidifying itself and becoming more tangible. He skyrocketed through the Exemplar Level, smashing through the barrier like it wasn't there to settle in the middle of the Avatar Level.

He felt the necrotic Divine Energy of Trithmund's Death Manifestation receding fast, devoured by his own Manifestation and finally ridding him of the uncomfortable pit that had laid in his stomach for the past few weeks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the armored person's eyes widen, their hands sliding down the pommel of their sword and wrapping around the hilt. They lifted the sword, but Fate was faster.

He dashed to Gilliam, who was just now starting to thrust down with his knife, and jumped, kicking the knife out of the man's hand and sending it flying. It hit the wall blade-first, embedding itself up to the hilt. Fate landed on the man's right side, keeping Null's intangibility up but allowing everyone present to notice him.

Gilliam looked up in shock, his mouth agape before Fate slammed it closed with an uppercut to the jaw. The man fell back, and Fate reached out with his newly strengthened Divine Grasp, slamming the man into the wall Fate was just leaning against.

Fate ducked under the surprisingly fast swing of the armored person's large sword, rolling to the side and springing back up to a standing position. He saw the sword was now swinging down at the woman, and he dropped his hold on Gilliam, focusing the entirety of his Divine Energy on stopping the blade.

It shuddered to a stop, only two feet above the blue-haired woman's neck. Then Fate met the armored person's golden gaze, and he felt them apply their own Divine Energy.

Instantly, he felt his power being smashed through, the sword descending once more, faster this time. Fate's eyes steeled with determination, and he rushed forward, ramming into the sword. At the same time as the impact, he shoved against the blade with every bit of his TK.

The sword diverted, slamming into the floor scant inches from the restrained woman's neck.

Then Fate found a gauntleted hand in front of his face. It was so close he could count every link of the chainmail tucked under the metal plates on the gauntlet. At least, it started like that, but Fate found the hand shrinking smaller and smaller as if it was hundreds of feet away and counting.