The night objective cleared. I was alive, and that was enough for now.

The pressure never lifted. Darkness never changed. After a while, I stopped expecting either to.

Down here, the sea had its own rhythm—slow, patient, merciless. It pressed from all sides, endless and heavy, a weight that couldn’t be fought. When I pushed against it, pain bloomed through the bones of this new body. When I let it move me, the pain faded.

That was the first lesson the abyss taught me: yield, or break.

The second was silence. No sound carried far. The ocean swallowed everything, even thought, until it was only the slow hum of depth—the heartbeat of something too large to see.

I let myself drift through that silence for a long time. The cold should have numbed me, but the gills worked without complaint, pulling life from water that felt more grave than home. The body I had—whatever it was—understood this world better than I did.

And then I felt it: warmth.

Faint, distant, but real. Not heat like a fire, just a small difference, a whisper of softness in the water that brushed the gills like breath. It was the first thing down here that reminded me of life.

I followed it.

The current split into lanes—cold ones that dragged and warm ones that slipped fast and smooth. I slid between them, letting instinct choose the path. The warmth grew stronger. It carried a strange metallic taste, like rusted iron on the tongue.

The dark around me deepened. I clicked once, the small pulse that had become my only way to see. The echo came back full of shape. A ridge. A ledge. The ground itself rising into a wall of stone, then breaking open into cracks that glowed faintly.

A volcanic shelf.

Heat breathed from its vents, steady and even, sending ribbons of warmer water curling upward. Around those vents, life gathered—so much life that the water thrummed with it. Plankton drifted like snow, thicker than I’d ever felt, and larger shapes floated lazily through them, their movements smooth and dreamlike.

It was beautiful in a way the surface never was. A cathedral built out of darkness, fire, and silence.

My gills flared open at the scent. Hunger stirred, sharp and familiar. The ache was no longer a sound in my head but a voice in the blood.

Not yet, I told myself. Be deliberate. Be human.

But the ache didn’t listen. It never did.

I let myself take one slow sweep through the edge of the cloud. The taste hit immediately—salt, warmth, and something alive, something that sang through the gills as they drew it in. The ache eased.

Then the voice returned.

[Biomass Acquired: +7 Units]

The System’s words glowed behind my eyes, unfeeling and exact. Another flicker followed, flat as the first.

[Source Category: Microfauna]

Small lives, small rewards.

The water around me glowed with faint light. Every movement stirred it—each swirl of fin leaving a trail of brightness that vanished again. The sight was soothing, almost holy. I drifted closer to the vents and felt the pulse of warmth beat against my sides.

I fed again. Slower this time, letting the gills sift through the fog. Each mouthful added a steady heat to my blood. The ache began to quiet, replaced by something that almost felt like peace.

[Biomass Acquired: +5 Units]

It wasn’t just eating. It was exchange. The vents breathed life into the water, and the life flowed into me. I was part of the cycle now—one more link in the chain. The thought should have comforted me. It didn’t.

Because I knew what that chain meant.

Every creature here was bound by the same rule: Take, or be taken.

That was the sea’s truth. It had always been. But as a man, I’d believed I could rise above it. When I fished, I took what I needed. I cleaned the catch carefully, whispered thanks before the first bite. The ritual mattered. It gave meaning to the act.

This text was taken from NovelBin. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Now, meaning was gone. The body fed because it had to. The gills didn’t wait for thought or prayer. They opened and devoured because that was their nature.

I hated it.

You are not an animal, I told myself. Remember what you were.

But the sea doesn’t let you hold on to what you were. It strips away everything that can’t survive the weight.

The warmth deepened. The rock below me gleamed faint red. Thin mats of strange growth waved in the current—soft, hair-like tendrils clinging to the stone, feeding on the heat. Larger creatures grazed there, small transparent fish that glowed faintly blue. I could feel their hearts beating when I passed.

The ache stirred again. I told myself not to. I told myself to look, to understand, to remember that not everything needed to be consumed.

Then one of the fish drifted too close.

My body moved before I did. My jaw snapped open. The water burned with the taste of blood and salt.

I swallowed.

Warmth spread through me. The ache vanished completely.

Then guilt followed it.

As a man, I would have prayed. I would have thanked the sea for the gift, whispered a small grace into the waves. Down here, there was no grace left, only motion. I tried to form the words anyway.

The sea gives. The sea takes. Thank you.

Only bubbles left my mouth.

[Biomass Acquired: +18 Units]

[Source Category: Small Prey]

[Growth Potential: Moderate]

The System recorded it without care. My prayer didn’t matter. Only the numbers did.

For a while I drifted, full but uneasy. The vents hissed quietly in the distance. The plankton glowed again, undisturbed by the violence that had just happened between them.

Maybe this was what it meant to belong here—to be nothing but another mouth in the dark.

No, I thought. I refused that. If all this was left of me was instinct, I would lose everything that had made me worth saving.

I tried to remember the sun. The feel of it on skin. The smell of wood warmed by salt air. The crackle of a fire on deck. But each image slipped away like sand through fingers.

Even memory was dissolving.

I focused instead on the shelf. The warmth. The rhythm of life feeding life. If I could not live as a man, perhaps I could at least learn to live with purpose.

I moved along the edge of the vent field, feeding in careful passes. Never frenzy, never gluttony. The gills worked smoothly, filtering what they needed. I thanked the sea with every breath, silently, even if I doubted it could hear.

The System flickered again, marking my restraint with simple precision.

[Biomass Acquired: +9 Units]

[Source Category: Microfauna Dense]

[Growth Potential: Moderate]

Each number meant survival, but they also meant something more—evidence that I was being shaped by what I consumed. What you take shapes you. I could feel that truth working inside me.

The warmth gave comfort, but the deeper I swam along the shelf, the more dangerous it became. The vents grew taller, wider, crowned with thin chimneys that spat heat and ash. Once I drifted too close, and the sting burned across my side like a knife.

[Hazard Detected: Thermal Vent Contact]

[Structural Integrity -1%]

The ache that followed wasn’t hunger—it was fear. Even pain here came with numbers. The System tallied everything. I wondered if it would eventually tally me.

I pulled back to a safer distance and watched the gardens of life moving in slow, endless rhythm. The soft mats waved, the grazers darted through the mist, and the plankton shimmered in the water like stars scattered in a wind.

It was almost peaceful, if peace could live in a place like this.

Then the current shifted. The warmth faltered.

The plankton dimmed, their light shrinking to embers. Every living thing around me froze. The mats curled inward. The grazers vanished into cracks.

Something massive had entered the water above.

At first, I thought the vents were dying, that the warmth had failed. Then I felt it—a pressure moving through the black, slow and sure. The sea held its breath.

The shadow blotted out the faint glow of the vents. It wasn’t a shape; it was absence. It swallowed the sound of my clicks before they could return. My body reacted before thought could form, curling tight against the rock. Every scale on me seemed to hold still.

I didn’t breathe. Even the gills hesitated.

The shape drifted above, vast enough to turn the current. I could feel its wake dragging along the rock face.

Predator.

The knowledge came without words. Every creature here had it written into their bones. The hair-mats stayed folded. The plankton went dim. The ocean itself seemed to hold a heartbeat until the shape passed.

When it finally moved on, the warmth returned. The fog brightened. The sea exhaled.

Only then did I dare to move again.

The gills drew water slowly. The ache of fear burned off in slow waves. I had thought I was small before. Now I understood what small truly meant.

The System spoke once more, quiet as a whisper in my skull.

[Predator Awareness: Elevated]

It was not comfort. It was a warning.

The life around me resumed its slow, endless feeding. Nothing here remembered the shadow, because remembering served no purpose. Only I did, and that, I realized, might be the only difference left between me and the things that shared this dark.

I turned back toward the vents, letting the ache of hunger and fear mix into something steady. The warmth brushed my side again. My tail moved, easy, practiced. I fed in small careful draws, the way a man sips water when he knows the well may run dry.

The current hummed softly, steady as breathing.

I closed my eyes and thought of the sea above—the one with wind and light—and tried to give this one the same thanks I had once spoken there.

The sea gives. The sea takes. Thank you.

The words stayed inside my head this time, quiet but whole.

The System tallied the result.

[Total Biomass Acquired: 41 Units]

And then the deep went still again, holding its breath around me as if listening.