A loud crack like the snap of a whip rang through the dry, dark room. A splash of Reid's crimson blood flew through the air, landing directly on the armoured man's fancy breastplate. The man's face twisted into a mask of pure disgust and anguish. Slowly, he tilted his head down to stare at his masterfully crafted armor, now defiled by the stain. For a few agonizing moments, he stood absolutely still. Then, he finally snapped. Screaming as if he had just lost a limb, the armoured man ripped off the breastplate with ferocious violence. The extravagant piece of shiny armour—the most magnificent Reid had ever seen—was instantly ruined. It fell to the dirty, rigid stone floor, reduced to nothing more than a dented, bloody lump of metal.
Still howling as if he were dying, the man locked his sharp gaze back onto Reid. Now that his breastplate was nothing but scrap, his screams subsided into a dangerous, shaking whisper.
"How dare you? You mere impore... how dare you disgrace my father's armour by staining it with your vile blood!."
Reid knelt on the sharp stone floor, his face pressed against the rigid rock. Panting heavily for air while groaning in pain, he forced his head up.
In a weak, frail voice, he rasped, "I didn't do anything. It was you who made me bleed. In turn, you dirtied your own armour."
The armoured man, whose broad chest was now completely bare, refused to listen to excuses. After all, he had just been driven to destroy his own father's chest piece.
Consumed by an unbridled rage that felt powerful enough to shatter a mountain, he swung his bloody whip once more. Reid, who was desperately trying to stabilize his body in an upright position, took the full, tremendous force of the blow. The strike sent his already broken, bloody body crashing against the sharp stone floor, leaving him paralyzed with pain.
The armoured man stared down at Reid for five long minutes. Finally, his immense anger receded just enough for him to leave Reid soaking in his own crimson blood. He turned away, walking toward the broken wooden door.
"I wish I could just kill you, you damn impure," the man muttered in a barely audible voice.
Turning around one last time, the guard shot a final, hate-filled glare at the broken youth and spat on him as he lay curled on the rigid stone floor.
As the broken wooden door creaked shut, Reid managed to lift his head slightly off the ground. He had caught the words the armoured man whispered under his breath, faint as they were. His dry, cracked lips slowly parted, revealing the grotesque, bloody mess inside his mouth. Small drops of crimson dripped from his toothless gums. When he spoke, his voice was weak and muffled, sounding less like a human and more like a beast mimicking human speech.
He uttered a final whisper before passing out on the cold, rigid stone floor: "So... you can't kill me... hah."
With this new information, Reid's simple but effective escape plan became even simpler.
The next day, bright moonlight filtered through the cracks of the broken wooden door. The scene looked identical to every other night over the countless weeks of torture: the same armoured man, using the same dark whip, to strike the same helpless child.
Everything was indeed the same, except for one thing. Usually, Reid would scream at least once during the barrage of blows to his stomach or spine. Today was different. Even after a full hour of constant agony, Reid had not let out a single shriek. He chose to hold it all in, refusing to let even the quietest whimper escape his trembling body. This strange behavior did not go unnoticed. The armoured man, deeply accustomed to the sound of Reid's agonizing screams, paused his endless assault on the boy's stomach. He looked down with a confused, yet still deadly expression. Reid looked back up at the guard with dazzling, neon-yellow eyes. Slowly, his battered face twisted into a devious smile, the corners of his mouth curling up until the grin reached his lifeless eyes.
He spoke in the same broken voice the guard knew all too well.
"Why did you stop? Something wrong? By all means, if it keeps you from hitting me with that dreadful weapon of yours, take all the time you need."
The armoured man just stood there, likely lost in thought. Reid couldn't read minds, but that was exactly what he hoped was happening. Suddenly, the guard did something he hadn't done once during these long nights of gruesome torture: he dropped the dark whip. Reid had never seen the man without it. The guard carried it when he left in the morning, and he held it when he returned in the evening. Seeing it fall to the floor was a profound shock. Slowly, the armoured man leaned forward until his face was only a few centimeters from Reid's.
In an imposing, heavy tone, he demanded, "You damn impure. What are you trying to accomplish?."
Reid's smile only grew brighter.
He responded in a mocking, humorous tone, "Impure? Why do you keep calling me that? Does it actually mean something, or is it just your run-of-the-mill slur?."
Before the sentence even finished, Reid moved his hand with astonishing speed—a velocity that should have been impossible for someone so thoroughly drained of energy. Before the armoured man could react, Reid whipped his arm forward, driving a sharp splinter from the rusty metal cells straight into the man's light-blue eyes.
Recoiling in agony from the temporary blindness, the armoured man stumbled backward. He tripped directly over the single chain holding Reid in place, shattering the link. Now free and ready for a fight despite his deplorable physical state, Reid scampered away from the cold stone wall. He moved rapidly to a much more advantageous position: right behind the guard.
Reid rubbed both of his hands against his own bloody back and stomach, deliberately smearing his palms in a thick layer of fresh and dried blood. He then slammed both hands onto the disoriented man in front of him, staining him completely.
Earlier, when a mere droplet of blood had landed on the breastplate, the man had thrown away a priceless piece of sublime heirloom metal in a heartbeat. He had reacted as if touching the blood would kill him. Reid had designed this plan to test a theory: was that outburst just a random quirk, or could he actively use the man's phobia of his blood as a weapon?
It worked.
In fact, it worked perfectly.
As soon as the armoured man blinked the rusty metal fragments out of his eyes, he looked down at his own body. He was almost completely drenched in Reid's crimson blood, save for his lower lap and backside. The guard let out an unbridled, panicked scream. He frantically tore off every remaining piece of armor on his body, leaving nothing but the bare, leathery black bodysuit underneath. Seizing the opening, Reid shot forward with that same unnatural, desperate speed. Grabbing a discarded metal spear from the floor, he thrust it hard against the man's head. Upon contact, the weapon bounced harmlessly off the guard's bare, bald head, leaving no mark at all. Realizing the spear wouldn't do much against the unarmoured man's unnaturally tough skin, Reid dropped it and resorted to his backup plan: psychological destruction.
He began to smear as much of his own blood onto the man as possible. If his assumption was correct, the guard's phobia would force him to mangle himself to get the blood off, creating a fatal opening. His hypothesis proved correct once again. The moment Reid's blood smeared across the man's bare skin, the guard went completely insane, frantically ripping and tearing at his own flesh to get it off. Seeing his chance, Reid lunged forward, retrieved the spear, and drove it straight through a newly torn opening leading directly to the man's heart.
Immediately, a cold, metallic voice rang out inside his mind:
[ You have killed a Lv. 0 Limited Scavenger. ]