'Crap... Should I try that strange ritual?! It's not like I believe in such things, But...that seems more reliable considering shortage of time. Ah... Nah, I'll leave that as my last resort, don't be hasty, Yoh.'
"Performing that would be a gamble. And a gamble should only be taken when victory is certain… or when there's nothing left to lose."
Following this, Yohan set his routine in motion. He ran every morning and trained with a discipline that bordered on obsession. Each day he drove himself past his limits, until his limbs trembled and his stomach turned, more than once ending the night bent over a sink in quiet nausea.
The first few weeks were brutal. At school, even holding a pen felt like labor. His arms and wrists ached, his legs moved with a stubborn stiffness, and studies became an exercise in endurance rather than thought.
On top of that, he had to remain vigilant. After classes, he made sure not to cross paths with those hyena-like boys who prowled the streets near school. He had no desire to discover what kind of trouble they might drag him into.
For his basic training, he set brutal daily numbers: a thousand pushups, a hundred pull-ups, a thousand squats, and over a thousand hanging crunches. Not all at once but spread across the day in calculated fragments.
He began with a ten-kilometer run and treated it as a baseline, stretching the distance over time through sheer persistence.
After his run, he finished part of his exercises before school— whatever he could fit into the morning rush. The rest waited for him after he returned home, trained again, and ended each day in a state best described as cumulative fatigue.
He understood that rest was as crucial as effort in the making of strength. But time was a luxury he did not possess. So he substituted sleep with Seeking. Each night he sat in silence, drawing upon his core to mend micro-tears in muscle fibers, to flush fatigue from his limbs, to coax strength from damage.
But life rarely follows a fixed script. In the beginning, his schedule defeated him more often than he admitted but later with consecutive days he managed to complete all with precision.
And of course waking up with weird dreams every morning whom he merely paid any attention. Only the rare, unsettlingly vivid ones lingered long enough to disturb his composure.
To anchor himself to one objective of qualifying the exam—he reduced his thoughts to a single line to keep his focus absolute:
'Distractioneats chaos to create more!'
For several days, he trained without noticing what was missing. When the realisation struck him, he felt embarrassingly awkward.
He had not chosen a combat style for the exam.
Hand-to-hand combat was permitted, and in that domain he felt the most assured. His movements were instinctive, his reactions sharp. But assurance did not equal advantage. Against trained swordsmen or other armed fighters, stepping in unarmed meant forfeiting distance and control before the fight even began. It would be nothing but surrendering yourself to the predator while offering it the pleasure of hunt.
He spent several more days ruminating about it. He had almost forgotten considering this in the ecstasy of no personal weaponary allowed in exam. But practice still demanded a weapon, even if the test did not. He had no means to buy or either borrow it from someone. At first he thought of borrowing it from Neon, then submerged the thought instantly. Maybe because of the risk of deteriorating someone's possession and most importantly, he disliked owing people no matter how close he felt to them.
However, he solved this hurdle, by a meter long metal pipe buried under unused clutter in the storage room. Giving it a proper handle grip with the same straps he had once nearly used against himself.
He began refining his swordsmanship through online manuals and instructional tutorials. It didn't take him much time to master the basics like stance, grip, guard position, footwork, basic strikes, breathing, technique, repetition etc, thus daily ending with throbbing wrist pain as an aftermath of atleast thousand swings daily.
Not getting satisfied from simple training, he wanted to do perform real duel. Skill born in isolation was fragile. If it had never tasted resistance, or collided with intent. Without an opponent, technique remained theory.
He watched dozens of sword practitioners online and memorised their fighting styles and techniques—different builds, different temperaments, different pacing. He didn't study them to copy their style but to understand how to deal with them.
Training alone forced him into one option: shadow sparring, in simpler words Imaginary Opponent Duel. Which wasn't an easy feat to execute since your mind naturally wants you to win. Controlling that bias was harder than swinging the pipe, however, his imagination knew no bounds.
Perhaps it was the sole domain he felt genius about. He could project a whole persona in front of him with unsettling clarity and detailed characteristics than anyone he could think of. Although he barely knew many people, or atleast anyone as weird as him, which he accepted without hesitation.
A month later of practicing ruthlessly, he decided to add weights to accelerate his progress. He needed a little some of money for that which he was saving since ever and saved more disciplinely in the last month—in a porcelain green genie lamp with no lid, confidentially hidden in the room at a higher floating shelf.
In it rusty red cash notes were folded abruptly—with a portrait of a middle age woman, with big round eyes, wavy long hair, a subtle elegant smile and a wide forehead— in the centre. Her printed face carried value and reverence across the nation as long as it existed on that specific paper. Spending those notes felt like partying ways with a stranger after a brief journey on a strange trip.
He bought weighted wrist bracelets, ten kilograms each, and began practicing his sword swings with them. However, it wasn't as easy as he had thought.
With the added weight, he could barely do fifty swings before his hands would give up every ounce of strength, at times he almost saved himself from getting severe long lasting injuries.
'How the hell do those guys even do that?'
He'd seen videos of fighters training with absurd amounts of weight strapped to their arms, moving like it was nothing.
'Are they even humans?!' He glanced at his own trembling hands after barely fifty swings and exhaled.
"And...and that so-called "Bear" abomination of Northern part Of the Continent, what in the world he's? That man was literally weighing a hundred kg in each wrist and did a literal spar without even using Qi."
These were one of the most typical thoughts he used to have everytime he trained and compared himself to elite level seekers and martial artists across the world. In short, making him realise how vast this world is and where he stood.
***
In the meantime, somewhere in the vast expanse of sea in the world, lost from any source of light and coastline around, engulfed by shroud of night and foggy blank sky. A dark silhouette moved steadily just below the surface at first, then descended further. In the darkness it looked like a mysterious long gargantuan creature gliding through black water.
As it sank deeper, faint external lights activated, their glow reflecting off the surrounding water and briefly outlining its shape. Its hull curved like bone beneath skin, armored in layered plates that overlapped like scales.The front tapers like a predatory snout. The sides flared slightly, forming wing-like stabilizers that felt less mechanical and more anatomical. Most of the exterior was seamless, embedded with flush sensor arrays instead of protruding equipment with minimal windows.
It was an abnormally designed submarine.
The corridor bended forward in a slow curve, its ribbed walls thick and close. Reinforced windows ran along one side, clouded by the cold weight of the ocean. Consoles sat beneath the windows—analog dials, metal switches, dim amber screens. A low steady mechanical hum filled the space.
There's tense vibe of walking among operatives and personnels wearing formal suit — long hooded coat, reinforced gloves, heavy boots but rendered in industrial black. The fabric looked rubberized, pressure-resistant, built to seal at the wrists, throat, and ankles with no exposed skin.
Each wore a full respirator locked tight to the face, twin filters protruding forward. A compact oxygen cylinder rode between the shoulders, strapped down with thick harness webbing.
Farther in, the passage narrowed. Red and black pipes ran along the ceiling, sweating under the heat. The grated floor beneath was worn smooth, faintly slick with condensation. Bulkhead doors broke the corridor at regular intervals.
Through one section, four personnel moved past carrying a weighted heremetic transport vault. It measured roughly two meters in length and just over one meter in width. The vault was compact, over-engineered, its locking ring reinforced with redundant clamps, frost clung to its surface despite the warm air and a dim green pulse flickered from a recessed indicator as it sat bolted to the deck.
At the end of the corridor, the control chamber opened under a lowered ceiling, panels layered tightly over one another, blue monitors casting a cold wash across the dim interior. On the floor, precisely cut into the plating, two large letters—CC—were embedded like a corporate seal.
Outside the forward ports, particles drift through dark water in slow suspension.
A single figure occupied the captain's chair, slightly elevated for a clear line of sight. The suit matched the others except for the absence of oxygen cylinders and the helmet: seamless, black, glassy, fully digital, concealing everything beneath it.
A tall man of average outlined build stepped into the chamber and stopped beside the captain's shoulder. His uniform matched the captain's in design, but it was white, fitted with a black-visored helmet that concealed his face.
"How long do you estimate it will take to locate the edge?" He asked as the helmet flattened his voice into something mechanical.
"No idea," the captain replied without turning. "We're operating on uncertainty. The probability barely touches a single percent."
A moment later, another personnel member entered the control chamber. He paused near the doorway, looking between the two men, unsure whether to speak.
"What...?" The tall man asked indifferently.
The personnel hesitated, lowered his head briefly, then looked up again. "Are we really going to do this? It can be catastrophic globally."
"Are you seriously this naive?" The tall man snapped. "How many times we have to explain this? If we don't do this then the results will be catastrophic unlike if we do this."
"But you know it too, Commander, how risky it is! We can try something else."
The tall man raised his hands in exasperation before letting them fall back to his sides.
"That thing can't be destroyed! Can't!!!! There's no other way, there's a reason why we are lingering near the edge of world's most menacing sea. So that we can leave it here far from the mainlands!!!"
"Commander, I think we've found the location we desired," the operator at the control and communications console cut in, "as per the reflected signals we are near the deepest trench before the edge of Terebris sea."
"Are you sure? There's no need to be hasty." The tall guy said as he turned to him.
"This is the best and safest location as far as I can advice. If we advance further there's no assurance of way back."
The tall man turned and gestured a command to the crew for a pre planned mission to commence. The personnel immediately shifted into position. It was a routine they had rehearsed multiple times, but the tension was visible in their posture.
The captain's voice came through the internal communication system.
"I'm bringing the submarine closer to the surface. I'm repeating again listen carefully, once ascent begins, move the vault to the secondary transfer level. From there, relocate it into the detachable mini-sub. The four assigned personnel will board with it."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"After detachment, the mini-sub will descend to the trench. Two personnel will exit with tether lines secured and guide the vault as far as they can along with them. On my mark, the remaining two will activate the hydro-propulsion unit inside the chamber. Keep your distance before ignition. No mistake will be admissible."
"If we're leaving it here, why not just release it with the detachable mini-sub?" the personnel in the control chamber asked. "Why risk sending them out manually? We don't need to expose them like that in this sea."
The tall man looked at him, irritation no longer hidden.
"Goddamn! How you climbed the ranks with that puny brain of yours." He said bluntly, "You know why we are not using a ship? Ah, Nevermind, you won't understand any way, just know we can't be careless and have to minimise any probability of failing the mission. There's no knowing if we drop the vault recklessly whether it'll surely reach the depths we desire." He glanced at the captain and nodded. "Start!"
They commenced the operation with strict precision and controlled caution and following each instruction without deviation. The vault was released into the untraceable depth below, its signal fading as it descended beyond measurable range.
The moment they all felt satiate about the completion of the mission, the tall man lowered himself to the floor, almost abruptly, as if he had been forcing himself to stand upright all this time. "Wish..." He whispered to himself. "Sometimes I wish humans shouldn't have free will."
CRASH—RUMBLE—FWOOOOM!
The submarine had nearly reached surface level when a deep vibration ran along the hull, followed by the force of waves striking against it with unusual intensity.
"Sir!!! There are some variables, we can't trace the personnel deployed underwater," a strained voice reported from the console.
The tall man's expression shifted instantly. His eyes widened in disconcertion as he rose too quickly, momentarily unsteady. "What?!" He swallowed. "And that impact—what's causing it?"
THWACK!
Another astonishing rumble reverberated throughout the submarine making everyone stagger and holding onto something.
"Don't bother to investigate!" the tall man yelled through the communication system enforcing his command. "Just evacuate from this location as fast as we can!!! Hurryyyyyy!"
"Wh—what about those guys underwater?! Sir..."
"I said start moving, Moveeee!!! It's a command, don't you dare question me." The tall guy's voice was wobbling yet tensed and determined.
The captain hesitated for only a fraction of a second before complying, gritting his teeths and locking hands around the controls and accelerated away from the edge of the Terebris sea.
Far below, at the ocean floor where light no longer negotiated, the vault rested in eerie silence. Its outer casing had ruptured slightly along one seam. From that breach, something indefinable seeped into the water—neither fully liquid nor solid, but a viscous, translucent matter that contorted as it dispersed in the water.
There's no trace of anything else around it until something gargantuan bulbous swam above it.
It did not resemble a creature in any familiar sense, though its scale rivaled that of a whale. Its surface was bulbous and pale, layered with thousands of elongated, transparent tendrils—similar to jellyfish appendages, yet far thicker and structurally deliberate, each one extending and retracting with measured coordination.
Without altering its trajectory, one of the countless tendrils lowered toward the vault. It made contact with the leaking substance and absorbed it completely, the material vanishing along the filament as if drawn inward by capillary force.
The mass continued forward, its movement steady and unbroken, leaving the damaged vault behind in absolute dark.