The ocean looms above the city like a ceiling of shifting darkness. Inside Hydraxis' central dock, the air hums with filtered oxygen and old machinery. Massive columns of reinforced glass line the descent bay, their surfaces webbed with faint bioluminescent veins that pulse to the rhythm of hydraulic pumps buried deep below.
Zander stands before the descent chamber — a cylindrical platform encased in translucent alloy, surrounded by a dozen glowing status panels. His reflection glimmers against the curved glass, the faint halo of his adaptive suit's neural lines trailing along his frame like veins of light. The suit breathes with him — contracting, adjusting, alive in its own mechanical rhythm.
Sensei Slade stands beside him, arms crossed behind his back, his voice calm but edged with command."Remember what I told you," he says, the words resonating through the quiet chamber. "This isn't a dive. It's exposure therapy — for your body, your nerves, and your mind. The deeper you go, the more your cells will begin to resist collapse. You're not just surviving pressure, you're learning to draw strength from it."
Zander nods, his eyes locked on the shimmering floor vents where light ripples through the transparent deck. The ocean beyond hums like a living pulse.
Seven hovers nearby — the Vanguard-class AI unit, his obsidian chassis smooth and matte, with streaks of blue light sliding through the seams of his joints. "Pressure calibration systems online," the AI reports, voice neutral but not cold. "Initial descent tolerance: 500 meters. Estimated human threshold: 530 meters before potential microfracture onset."
Sensei glances at him. "He's not human, Seven. Adjust accordingly."
"Recalibrating," the machine says, a faint whir echoing as the holographic depth model updates.
Zander tightens the strap on his adaptive gloves, the fibers coiling like muscles under his touch. "How far do you want me to go?"
"As far as you can handle." Sensei's tone softens slightly. "But if your suit starts warning you — or if you feel your blood vibrating — you stop. We've lost cultivators who tried to impress the abyss. The pressure doesn't just crush bones; it breaks minds."
Zander manages a faint smile. "Noted."
Sensei studies him a moment longer, then unclips something from his belt — a pair of pressure-grade goggles. Their lenses glint faintly gold under the bay lights. "It's darker down there than you think. Visibility dies past four hundred meters. Use these until you adapt."
Zander accepts them, nodding his thanks, unaware of the irony waiting in his own biology.
"Vitals?" Sensei asks.
Seven raises an arm; thin streams of data project into the air like a glowing tapestry. "Heart rate steady. Neural sync optimal. Suit response latency, zero-point-one milliseconds."
"Good," Sensei says. "Then let's begin."
The descent chamber opens like an iris, water flooding the outer locks with a deep, resonant thrum. Zander steps onto the platform, and the adaptive suit seals tight, its surface rippling as nanofibers adjust to the saline density. Lights dim. A hydraulic hum builds beneath his feet.
"Descent initiation in ten seconds," Seven announces, his voice echoing faintly through the comm. "Pressure compensation engaged."
Zander exhales once. "Ready."
The platform sinks.
Water folds over the glass in a smooth surge, drowning the chamber in liquid darkness. The noise of Hydraxis fades behind him — replaced by the vast, muffled silence of the abyss. Only the faint glow of the console lights outlines his silhouette.
At five hundred meters, the weight begins to whisper against his body — not pain yet, but an awareness, like invisible hands pressing against every inch of his skin. The adaptive suit responds instantly, contracting at critical joints, micro-filaments strengthening his musculature against the encroaching pressure.
"Vitals nominal," Seven reports. "Subject tolerance stable."
Sensei's voice follows, calm and steady through the comm. "Good. Now, focus on your breathing. Feel the way your body tightens under pressure. Don't fight it — let it shape you. Pressure isn't the enemy. It's the sculptor."
Zander closes his eyes, breathing through the regulator. The water hums faintly, and he begins to move his arms, testing resistance. Each motion is slow, dragging, as if the ocean itself is trying to hold him still.
He opens his eyes again. The goggles show only gradients of shadow — a world of blurred silhouettes. Tiny organisms pulse like floating embers in the dark.
He descends further.
Six hundred meters. Seven hundred. The static hum of the comm distorts slightly as the pressure climbs. His ribs feel heavier, his heartbeat slow but powerful, echoing in his ears like a drum underwater.
At nine hundred meters, his vision starts to blur from the strain. He steadies himself, letting the adaptive suit re-synchronize with his pulse. The surface of the glass visor begins to shimmer with faint stress lines, then repairs itself as the nanocoat activates.
"Pressure at nine hundred meters," Seven says. "Suit integrity ninety-four percent. Neural load rising."
Sensei's tone shifts slightly, a quiet pride beneath the command. "That's it, Zander. Now you're where the real training begins."
Zander flexes his hand, watching how slow the motion looks — how the water folds around it, ripples fanning outward in perfect concentric waves. He lifts his blade, the training sword attached to his back, unsheathing it with deliberate precision.
The metal hums faintly in the dense water. He swings once — the movement elegant but slowed, the blade cutting arcs of rippling light. He can see the flow in motion, the current shifting and curling where steel meets water.
He breathes. Again. Swings again. The water answers in patterns.
For a moment, all he feels is the rhythm — the weight, the drag, the push. His muscles scream under the force, but beneath it, there's understanding. Every movement demands perfect control, no wasted motion, no excess. The ocean teaches restraint.
"Vitals rising but stable," Seven says softly. "Heart rate eighty-seven. Neural coherence strong."
Sensei's voice comes low, measured. "That's good enough for the first descent. You've felt it now. The depth, the drag, the pain. That's how you start. From here, you'll learn to make the pressure your ally."
Zander looks upward, where the dim light of Hydraxis flickers through a thousand meters of dark water — distant, cold, unreachable. He grips the sword tighter, letting the current wrap around it like a living thing.
"I can handle deeper," he says quietly, almost to himself.
Sensei hears it anyway. "You'll get your chance. For now, ascend."
The platform hums beneath him, thrusters reversing. As he rises, the darkness begins to peel away, replaced by the faint shimmer of artificial light above. His muscles ache, his lungs burn, but there's a strange satisfaction buried in the exhaustion.
When the lock opens again, water draining away in a spiral of silver and blue, Zander steps out, suit glistening, every breath controlled.
Sensei meets his gaze — unreadable, yet faintly approving."You did well," he says. "Tomorrow, we go deeper."
Seven tilts his head, glowing optics narrowing. "Would you like me to calculate structural tolerance for twelve hundred meters?"
Sensei smirks. "Go ahead. He'll need it."
Zander exhales slowly, gaze turning back toward the abyss beyond the glass walls. The ocean stirs, vast and waiting, as if aware of what's to come.
The training has begun.