The world above had already vanished.
Only the deep remained — a cathedral of cold and pressure, lit by a trembling halo of light filtering down from a sun he could no longer see. The deeper Zander descended, the more the light fractured, breaking into ghostly ribbons that swayed like torn silk in the current. His breath, long and steady, pulsed in his chest like the rhythm of a dying drum.
Before the dive, Sensei had handed him a pair of dark-tinted goggles — "You'll need them past five hundred," he'd said — and though the water below seemed endless, Zander slipped them on anyway. The world sharpened instantly, the darkness around him taking shape. His adaptive suit responded to his descent, thin lines of bioluminescent light tracing along its seams like veins of living energy. Each pulse mirrored his heartbeat.
The pressure pressed against his ribs like invisible fists.He welcomed it.
He angled his body downward, the blade in his hand glimmering faintly under the dim light from his suit. Every time he sliced through the current, it left a shimmering trail — like cutting through strands of liquid glass.
He had been down here for nearly fifteen minutes already. His lungs screamed, but his higher-life physiology gave him more time — more than human, but still human enough to suffer for it.
He exhaled slightly, releasing a stream of bubbles that twisted upward and vanished into the blue-black abyss.
Five hundred meters… six hundred… seven.
Zander's descent wasn't freefall. It was measured, almost ritualistic — he would stop every few dozen meters, stabilize his breathing, and begin to move. His sword rose, cut downward, traced arcs through the water. Each motion was a test of precision under resistance, his body learning to flow rather than fight. The water resisted every motion like thick oil, and yet his cuts became sharper, smoother, more controlled.
The water roared in his ears like the whisper of gods.
He closed his eyes, slowing his heartbeat, focusing on the faint hum of his blood. He thought of his father's voice, long gone now, saying: "The sword isn't about force. It's about clarity. When you move, the world should move with you."
So he moved again.A cut.A pivot.A draw from the sheath that left a spiral of bubbles chasing the blade.
Then silence again. Meditation.
Twelve minutes passed. Then fourteen.He could almost feel his lungs constricting, the carbon dioxide clawing at his nerves, urging him to breathe. But he didn't. Instead, he let the ache burn through him — let it mold him into something harder.
At nine hundred meters, the temperature dropped sharply. His skin tingled, nerves crying out. His head pounded from the weight above him — the crushing, unrelenting tons of the ocean pressing down from every direction.
He stopped, hovering mid-descent, and closed his eyes.He could hear his own blood.He could feel every heartbeat like a hammer in his chest.
This is it.This is the edge.
A voice, faint but steady, echoed in his mind — his own.You want to protect them? Then endure this. You want to be free? Then earn it.
He raised his blade again. The faint glow from his suit reflected along its steel edge, scattering soft light through the water. Each swing rippled the current like a living pulse. The water itself seemed to breathe with him.
He cut once. Twice. Again.Each movement tore through the current in clean, lethal arcs, sending vibrations deep into the sea. The force of his own swing pushed him back slightly. He adjusted his balance, using the current instead of fighting it.The dance continued.
Swordsmanship under pressure. Meditation under pain.Every second was transformation.
At nine hundred and seventy meters, his breath began to tremble.He could no longer ignore the ache in his chest. His vision blurred at the edges — colors deepening from blue to violet to near-black. He felt his heartbeat slowing, not in calm but in warning. The water around him grew heavier, his limbs slower.
Still, he did not rise.
He cut again — this time horizontally — and the water rippled outward like a sonic wave. His hair floated upward, weightless, ghost-like in the dimness. He gritted his teeth, eyes shut.
Not yet.Not yet.Just a little deeper.
He pressed onward.
At a thousand meters, the world became something else entirely.Sound disappeared.Light vanished.
It was just darkness, water, and him.
The crushing force around his body was unbearable now. His skin stung, muscles spasmed. Every part of him wanted to ascend, to live, to breathe. But his will anchored him. He forced his lungs to remain steady, exhaled just enough to stay balanced.
Then something shifted.His eyes — behind the goggles — caught faint movement in the dark.Patterns, shapes, lines that shouldn't be visible.
He frowned. I can still see…?
A realization brushed against the edge of his mind, but he let it go — for now.
His arms trembled, but he continued.A thrust.A parry.A wide horizontal cut — and for a moment, the water rippled with force so pure it almost looked like light.
He could feel the resistance of the deep folding around his blade — as if the sea itself were acknowledging his struggle.
But the pain was unbearable now. His lungs screamed for oxygen. His vision dimmed. He felt his heartbeat slow further — dangerously so.
He wanted to rise.He should rise.
But he stayed.
He thought of Lyra.Of her laugh, her voice — how she'd smiled at him the last time they trained together.He thought of his younger brother's small hand clutching his own, asking him to come home safely.He thought of Sensei's eyes — calm, patient, unrelenting.
And then, through sheer will, he drew one final swing.
The blade flared under his suit's light, slicing through the deep with a gleam that looked almost alive.The cut split the water in a perfect diagonal wave, sending a rippling tremor upward like a signal — a line of motion carving through darkness.
Then he let go.
He rose.
When he finally broke through the upper thermocline, the light above looked like salvation. His lungs convulsed as he burst from the surface, gasping — air tearing into him like fire. He dragged himself to the shallows, collapsing to his knees, the sword clattering beside him.
Steam rose from his skin as his body adjusted.His chest heaved. His pulse thundered in his ears.
Sensei stood by the shore, calm as ever, watching."Two minutes longer than last time," he said quietly. "You're adapting faster than I expected."
Zander managed a faint grin, still panting. "Feels like dying slower," he rasped.
Sensei's lips twitched — not quite a smile. "That's usually how growth feels."