84: The abyss cannot speak, but it devours people (7k long chapter)

5:45 AM.

C-19 stood outside the command tent, watching the thin line of grayish-white light on the horizon.

The darkness had receded slightly, barely allowing one to distinguish the boundary between the sea level and the sky.

His left hand was still trembling slightly.

A side effect produced during the gene sequence repair process.

That gene stabilizer kept his body running, but the grinding sound between the gears wouldn't disappear; it only became less piercing.

He clenched his fist, feeling the friction between his knuckles.

The trembling stopped.

"Commander."

Corvin stepped out from the darkness, holding a steaming cup in his hand.

A drink brewed from synthetic protein powder, it smelled like a mixture of engine oil and rotten cabbage leaves.

"The meeting is about to start." Corvin handed the cup over.

C-19 took it and took a sip. The liquid was so hot it made his throat ache, but he didn't frown.

Standard rations for Thunder Warriors: high calories, high nutrition, disgusting taste.

"How are the recruits?"

"Still alive," Corvin said. "TW-201 threw up three times last night."

"Nervous?"

"Probably," Corvin paused for a moment. "Or it could be gene rejection; it's hard to say."

C-19 nodded.

The gene sequences of the recruits were not yet stable; their bodies needed time to adapt to the forcibly implanted organs and glands.

Some could pull through, while others would die in the incubation pods within the first week.

The fact that TW-201 had lived until now meant his body had at least passed the first hurdle.

But the next test wasn't physical.

It was will.

"Have him eat something," C-19 said. "He has to eat even if he vomits. After today, he might never get the chance to eat again."

Corvin didn't answer and turned to walk deeper into the camp.

C-19 stood there alone, looking at the pitch-black ocean in the distance.

The sea was very calm.

Abnormally calm.

No waves, no seabirds, even the wind had stopped.

The entire world was terrifyingly quiet, leaving only the sound of his own breathing and heartbeat.

He thought of the words the Sun Warriors soldier said before he died.

"You can walk to the door, but the door will not open for you."

The door.

What door?

At eleven thousand meters deep on the seabed, what was waiting for them?

C-19 looked down at his hands.

His golden pupils reflected a cold, hard luster in the morning light.

His fingers tightened and released, repeating three times.

This was a habitual movement he did when nervous, though he never admitted he could be nervous.

Low metallic clanging sounds came from the distant camp.

Technicians were servicing equipment, the sparks of welding torches dancing in the dark.

Several Thunder Warriors sat on ammunition crates, silently wiping their weapons. No one spoke; everyone knew what would happen today.

The sea breeze blew past, bringing a salty, fishy smell and a certain stench of decay.

That was the smell of the battlefield, the smell of death.

C-19 had grown accustomed to this smell, even somewhat reliant on it.

This smell reminded him that he was still alive, still fighting, and had not yet become one of those corpses lying on the beach.

He turned and walked toward the command tent.

6:00 AM sharp.

The command tent was packed with people.

Thunder Warriors, technical officers, logistics personnel, and even a few engineers conscripted from the wasteland.

Everyone's face bore the same expression: exhaustion, tension, and an almost imperceptible despair.

The holographic projection table had been activated.

Blue light outlined a 3D model of the Mariana Trench in the air.

It was a bottomless rift, torn from the floor of the Pacific Ocean and extending deep into the Earth's crust.

"Everyone."

Hector stood before the projection table, holding a metal pointer.

His beard was messier than yesterday, and his eyes were bloodshot, clearly having not slept all night.

His hand was trembling slightly, not from fear, but from excessive fatigue and caffeine overdose.

"We have good news and bad news."

No one spoke.

The air in the tent froze.

Everyone stared at the projection table, waiting for the answer they had already guessed but were unwilling to admit.

"The good news is, we've found the entrance."

The image on the projection table zoomed in, focusing on a certain spot in the trench.

There was an irregular black circle there, its edges blurred, its depth hard to measure.

"This is the internal communication signal from the Pacific Empire intercepted last night," Hector said. "One of their supply submarines dove from these coordinates and then disappeared."

"Disappeared?" someone asked.

"Yes, disappeared." Hector nodded. "The sonar signal suddenly cut off at this depth. Either the submarine was destroyed, or it entered some kind of shielded area."

"Which do you think it is?"

"The latter," Hector said. "Because three hours later, the signal from the same submarine reappeared, surfacing from the same location."

A low murmur of discussion rose in the tent.

C-19 didn't speak, just stared at that black circle on the projection table.

His brain was working rapidly, analyzing every possibility.

If that was the entrance, why could the Pacific Empire's submarines enter and exit freely?

What kind of authorization did they have?

Did the entrance open automatically, or did it require some kind of password?

"So this is the entrance," C-19 said, his voice not loud, but everyone fell silent.

"Theoretically, yes," Hector said. "But that leads to the bad news."

He tapped the projection table, and the screen switched to a dense string of data.

Numbers jumped in the air, each representing some kind of lethal threat.

"The depth of this entrance is 9,800 meters. The water pressure is about 980 atmospheres. The maximum diving depth of all our existing diving equipment does not exceed 6,000 meters."

"In other words, we can't get down there."

"We can't get down by conventional means," Hector corrected. "But we have unconventional means."

He tapped the projection table again.

A strange device appeared on the screen.

A massive metal coffin, its surface covered with reinforcement ribs and sealing valves.

The thing looked more like some kind of torture device than a transport vehicle.

"This is the 'abyss coffin'," Hector said. "A deep-sea exploration device from the Age of Technological Hegemony. We found three of them at an abandoned research station in the North."

"It can go down to 9,800 meters?"

"Theoretically, it can go down to 12,000 meters," Hector said. "But there are a few problems."

He paused.

The air in the tent froze again. Everyone knew what they were about to hear, but no one wanted to break the silence.

"First, it can only hold one person. Second, it has no propulsion system and can only sink by free fall. Third, its oxygen supply only lasts for four hours. Fourth..."

He looked at C-19.

"There is at least a one-third probability that it will disintegrate during the descent due to structural fatigue."

Silence fell over the tent again.

This time, the silence lasted for a full ten seconds.

During those ten seconds, no one breathed, no one moved, and even the sound of heartbeats became clearly audible.

"One-third," someone whispered. "That means one in every three people will die halfway there."

"No," Hector shook his head. "It means one in every three people will be crushed into meat paste. The other two can reach the seabed alive."

His voice was very calm, but that calmness was more terrifying than any anger. It was the voice of a man who had already accepted reality, a man who had seen too much death.

"And then?" C-19 asked. "After reaching the seabed, how do we enter the Deep Palace?"

"That's the fifth problem," Hector said. "We don't know."

He turned off the projection.

The blue light in the tent vanished, leaving only the dim yellow light of the kerosene lamps. That light cast deep shadows on everyone's faces, making them look more like ghosts than living people.

"We don't know what the entrance looks like, what permissions are needed, or what defenses are inside. The only thing we know is those coordinates."

"So what you're saying is..."

"What I'm saying is, this is a gamble," Hector said. "We stuff people into coffins and throw them into the sea, praying they don't explode halfway, praying they find the entrance, praying the entrance opens, and praying the enemies inside don't kill them all immediately."

He looked at everyone present.

"This is our operational plan."

No one spoke.

C-19 could hear the sound of the waves coming from outside the tent.

The sound was very soft, one after another, never-ending.

He suddenly remembered the sound of machinery he had heard in the Ural Mining Area as a child, that monotonous, never-ending roar.

Back then, he wasn't a Thunder Warrior; he was just an ordinary miner, digging ore underground for sixteen hours a day.

Back then, he thought he would die in the mines.

Now he knew he would die on the battlefield.

But at least he could choose how he died.

"How many 'abyss coffins' do we have?" he asked.

"Three," Hector said.

"Can they dive simultaneously?"

"Yes. But the risks will stack. If one disintegrates during the descent, the resulting shockwave might affect the other two."

"In other words, the worst-case scenario is all three being destroyed."

"Yes."

C-19 closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Three machines.

Three people.

Three lives.

He opened his eyes and looked at Corvin.

"What do you think?"

Corvin was silent for a few seconds.

His mechanical prosthetic eye flickered with a faint red light in the dim lamplight.

That eye was lost in a battle three years ago, hit by a piece of shrapnel and bursting on the spot.

He remembered that feeling, warm liquid flowing from his eye socket, mixed with blood and fragments of his eyeball.

"I think it's a rotten plan," he said. "But we don't have a better choice."

"Then it's settled," C-19 said. "Prepare the 'abyss coffins'. I want three volunteers."

"Commander..." Hector hesitated for a moment, "You don't plan to go down yourself?"

"No," C-19 said. "I need to stay here to command. If the first group fails, I need to organize a second group immediately."

What he didn't say was that if he died at the bottom of the sea, this legion would lose its Commander. And a legion without a Commander wouldn't survive on the battlefield for more than twenty-four hours.

"Then who's going?"

C-19 looked at the others in the tent.

"I said, volunteers."

Ten minutes later, C-19 stood in the central square of the camp, looking at the Thunder Warriors lined up in three rows before him.

One hundred and twenty-seven men.

There was no expression on anyone's face, only that cold indifference and obedience characteristic of Thunder Warriors. They stood perfectly straight, hands at their sides, eyes fixed forward. The morning light shone on their black power armor, reflecting a cold metallic luster.

C-19 slowly walked past the ranks, looking at every face.

Some faces he knew. Some faces he didn't. But every face bore the same expression: ready to die.

"I need three men," C-19 said. "To dive to the seabed at 9,800 meters, find the entrance to the Mariana Deep Palace, and then find a way to open it."

He paused.

"This is a one-way mission. You might die during the descent, you might die on the seabed, you might die in the Deep Palace. Your only mission is to open that door for the following troops."

No one moved.

The sea breeze blew past, kicking up a bit of fine sand. The grains of sand hit the power armor, making a slight rustling sound.

"Now, volunteers, step forward."

The silence lasted for three seconds.

Three seconds on a battlefield can decide life or death. Three seconds can allow a person to rush from cover to the enemy's face. Three seconds can allow a bullet to fly across a distance of five hundred meters.

But for these three seconds, no one moved.

Then Corvin took a step forward.

"I'll go."

C-19 looked at him. That mechanical prosthetic eye flickered with a faint red light in the morning light.

"Your gene collapse rate is already very high."

"Exactly," Corvin said. "I won't live much longer anyway. Might as well die for something worthwhile."

C-19 didn't say anything more, just nodded.

He knew Corvin was telling the truth.

He could see the trembling in Corvin's left hand, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and the black veins faintly visible under his skin.

Those were signs of gene collapse, the death sentence for a Thunder Warrior.

"Who else?"

Another silence.

This silence lasted for five seconds.

Then a young voice spoke up.

"Me."

TW-201 walked out from the back row of the formation.

His steps were steady, but C-19 could see his hands trembling slightly.

His face was still a bit pale, and his lips trembled slightly, but his gaze was firm.

"You've been out of the factory for less than two days," C-19 said.

"Yes, Commander," TW-201 said. "But I can fire a gun, I can follow orders, and I can die. You said that was enough."

C-19 stared at him for a few seconds.

He remembered the first time he went to the battlefield.

He was like this too back then: young, terrified, but pretending to be brave.

He remembered vomiting three times in the trenches, remembered his hands shaking so much he couldn't even hold his gun steady, remembered almost fainting the first time he saw a corpse.

But he had survived.

And this recruit might not survive.

"Do you know what you're doing?"

"I know," TW-201 said. "I am a bullet. I was created to be fired at the enemy and then disappear."

C-19's throat tightened.

He wanted to say something, but in the end, he said nothing.

Because he knew that no words could change this fact.

"Very well," he said. "One more."

A third person stepped forward.

It was a veteran, designated TW-092.

His left arm was a mechanical prosthetic, and his face bore a burn scar stretching from the corner of his eye to his chin.

That scar was left from a battle two years ago, when an incendiary bomb exploded beside his face, burning away the skin on half of it.

"I'll go," he said, his voice raspy. "I owe the Commander a life."

C-19 frowned.

"I don't remember you owing me anything."

"The Ural Mining Area," TW-092 said. "Three years ago. You dug me out of a collapsed mine shaft."

C-19 remembered.

It was a raid on a rebel stronghold; they had detonated explosives underground, and the entire mine had collapsed.

He remembered digging through the rubble for six hours until his fingers bled, finally rescuing only one person.

That person was TW-092.

"That was my duty," C-19 said.

"Now it's my turn to do mine," TW-092 said.

C-19 looked at these three men.

A veteran about to die from genetic collapse.

A recruit fresh off the production line.

A survivor who owed a debt.

They all knew they would die.

But they still stepped forward.

"Very well," C-19 said. "The three of you, follow me."

The "abyss coffins" were placed on the beach, three massive metal caskets reflecting a cold luster in the morning light.

Technicians were performing final checks.

They opened hatches, checked seals, tested oxygen supply systems, and recorded various parameters on data pads.

Every movement was careful, every step repeated three times. They knew that any small mistake could lead to the death of the person inside.

Corvin walked to the nearest "abyss coffin" and reached out to touch its cold metal surface.

The metal was cold, bone-chillingly cold. He could feel that chill seep through his gloves into his skin, his bones, and his soul.

"How does it feel?" C-19 asked.

"Like touching my own grave," Corvin said.

"You still have time to back out."

"No." Corvin shook his head. "I was just wondering, if I die halfway, can my body still be recovered?"

"Yes," C-19 said. "There are tracking beacons in the coffins. If you die, we will fish you up."

"That's good then." Corvin smiled, but it was a bitter smile. "At least I can make one last contribution to the Empire."

He turned around and looked at the distant ocean.

The sea was very calm, unnaturally calm.

There were no waves, no foam, even the seabirds were gone.

The entire world was terrifyingly quiet, leaving only the sound of waves lapping against the beach.

TW-201 stood before another coffin, his face pale and his hands clenched into fists.

His nails dug into his palms, but he felt no pain.

His mind was a complete blank, with only one thought repeating: I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die.

C-19 walked to his side.

"Nervous?"

"Yes, Commander," TW-201 said, his voice trembling slightly.

"It's normal," C-19 said. "The first time I went to the battlefield, I was so nervous I wanted to vomit."

"You get nervous too?"

"Of course," C-19 said. "Only a fool wouldn't be nervous."

He patted TW-201 on the shoulder.

The hand was heavy, but also warm. TW-201 suddenly felt less afraid.

"But nervousness won't kill you. What kills you is hesitation. So when you reach the seabed, don't think too much. If you see an enemy, shoot; if you see a door, blow it open. Understand?"

"Understood, Commander."

TW-092 had already climbed into his coffin. He lay in that narrow space with his hands crossed over his chest.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

The air smelled of metal, machine oil, and some indescribable chemical. These smells mixed together, making one want to retch.

But he didn't retch.

He just lay there quietly, waiting for death to arrive.

"How does it feel?" C-19 asked.

"Quite comfortable," TW-092 said. "Roomier than I imagined."

"Are you joking?"

"Yes, Commander," TW-092 said. "I was thinking, if I can come back alive, I must find a bigger bed."

C-19 gave a rare smile.

"If you can come back alive, I'll find one for you personally."

"Then I'll hold you to that."

A technician walked over.

"Commander, preparations are complete. Ready for deployment at any time."

C-19 nodded.

He looked at these three warriors about to be stuffed into metal coffins and thrown into the abyss, and suddenly felt his throat tighten.

He remembered many years ago, in the Ural Mining Area, the first time he saw someone die in a mine shaft.

That person was pinned by a cave-in, with only half his body showing. He was still alive, still breathing, still calling for help. But no one could save him, because moving those rocks would cause the entire mine to collapse.

So they could only watch as that person slowly died.

Watching his breathing grow weaker.

Watching his eyes grow hollower.

Watching as he finally stopped struggling.

C-19 had sworn he would never let such a thing happen again.

But now he was personally sending three men to their deaths.

"Listen," he said, his voice deeper than usual. "I'm not going to give you any 'For the Emperor' or 'For Glory' nonsense. You all know that stuff won't save your lives."

He paused.

"I only want to say, if you can come back alive, I will personally pour each of you a drink."

Corvin smiled.

"Then I'll have to work hard to survive."

TW-201 took a deep breath and climbed into his coffin.

The metal compartment was very narrow; his shoulders almost touched the walls on both sides.

He lay down, feeling as if the entire world were pressing down on him.

TW-092 had already closed his eyes.

The hatches closed one by one, letting out dull metallic thuds.

The sound echoed across the beach, each thud sounding like a coffin lid being nailed shut.

The sealing valves were tightened.

The oxygen supply system activated.

The three "abyss coffins" were slowly lifted by a crane and moved toward the sea.

C-19 stood on the beach, watching the three metal coffins being lowered into the water.

They floated on the surface, reflecting a cold luster in the morning light.

"Begin descent," he said.

The technician pressed a button.

The ballast tanks at the bottom of the coffins began to flood.

The three metal coffins slowly sank, disappearing into the dark seawater.

C-19 stood there motionless until the last of the bubbles disappeared from the surface.

His fingers tightened and released, repeating the motion three times.

"Commander," Hector walked to his side. "Their beacons are still working. Current depth... one hundred meters... two hundred meters..."

C-19 didn't answer, just stared at that calm sea.

The sea breeze blew, bringing with it a salty, fishy smell.

In the distance, the sun finally rose.

Golden sunlight spilled across the surface, dyeing the seawater blood-red.

But that light could not reach the seabed.

[Inside the Coffin · Corvin's Perspective]

Darkness.

Absolute darkness.

Corvin lay in the narrow metal compartment, listening to the sound of his own breathing echoing in the enclosed space.

Every breath was loud, terrifyingly loud.

He could hear the air entering his lungs, the beating of his heart, the flow of blood through his vessels.

He could feel the coffin sinking.

That weightless sensation, the feeling of being dragged down into a plummet.

His mechanical eye flickered with a faint red light in the darkness, displaying the current depth.

[Depth: 500 meters]

[Water Pressure: 50 atmospheres]

[Oxygen Remaining: 3 hours 47 minutes]

He closed his eyes.

Not because of fear, but because watching those numbers tick would make him even more nervous.

He remembered the first time he put on power armor three years ago.

Back then he was still a recruit, fresh out of the incubation tank, not even knowing how to fire a gun.

The first thing the Commander taught him wasn't how to kill.

It was how to breathe.

"Breathing is the most important thing on the battlefield," the Commander said. "If your breathing is erratic, your heartbeat will be erratic. If your heartbeat is erratic, your hands will shake. If your hands shake, you're dead."

Corvin took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled.

One.

Two.

Three.

His heartbeat slowed down.

[Depth: 1000 meters]

The coffin suddenly jolted.

Corvin's body tensed instantly, his fingers instinctively reaching for the Bolter at his waist.

But there was nothing there. Weapons were left on the beach because at this depth, any extra weight could cause the coffin to disintegrate.

The vibration stopped.

[Structural Integrity: 98%]

It was fine.

Just the impact of a current.

Corvin closed his eyes again and continued breathing.

But he could feel his heartbeat accelerating.

Eighty beats per minute.

Ninety.

One hundred.

He forced himself to slow his breathing.

[Depth: 2000 meters]

He remembered the scene of drinking with TW-201 last night.

The recruit had asked him: "Are you afraid?"

He said: "Of course I'm afraid."

But what he didn't say was that he wasn't afraid of death.

He was afraid of a meaningless death.

If he died on the battlefield with an enemy bullet through his skull, at least he would know what he died for.

But if he died in this metal coffin, crushed into mincemeat by a hundred million pascals of water pressure, then his death would be just a number.

A one-in-three probability.

[Depth: 3000 meters]

Another jolt.

More violent this time.

The entire coffin was trembling, the metal walls emitting a piercing creak.

[Structural Integrity: 95%]

Corvin could hear the metal groaning.

He opened his eyes and looked at the walls.

In the red glimmer, he could see fine cracks beginning to appear on the metal surface.

It wasn't an illusion.

They were real cracks.

[Depth: 4000 meters]

Breathe.

He reminded himself.

Breathe.

[Depth: 5000 meters]

The cracks were widening.

[Structural Integrity: 89%]

[Depth: 6000 meters]

He could feel the water pressure now.

Not physical pressure, but a psychological sense of oppression.

He knew that outside his body lay six thousand meters of seawater, every cubic centimeter bearing six hundred atmospheres of pressure.

If the coffin cracked now, he would be crushed into a mass of bloody flesh within 0.01 seconds.

[Depth: 7000 meters]

[Structural Integrity: 82%]

The creaking grew louder.

[Depth: 8000 meters]

[Structural Integrity: 76%]

Corvin's fingers gripped the walls, his knuckles white from the strain.

[Depth: 9000 meters]

[Structural Integrity: 68%]

Almost there.

Eight hundred meters to go.

[Depth: 9500 meters]

[Structural Integrity: 61%]

[Warning: Structural Fatigue Threshold reached]

Corvin closed his eyes.

If he was going to die, then let it be quick.

[Depth: 9800 meters]

[Structural Integrity: 58%]

[Target Depth Reached]

[Deceleration Initiated]

The ballast tanks at the bottom of the coffin began to discharge water.

The descent speed slowed down.

Then it stopped.

Corvin opened his eyes.

[Depth: 9800 meters]

[Water Pressure: 980 atmospheres]

[Structural Integrity: 58%]

[Oxygen Remaining: 2 hours 14 minutes]

He was still alive.

He was still alive.

[Beach · C-19's Perspective]

"Report!" The technician's voice crackled over the comms channel. "Coffin One has reached target depth! Structural integrity at 58%!"

C-19's fist unclenched.

"Coffin Two?"

"Reached target depth! Structural integrity at 62%!"

"Three?"

Silence.

"Coffin Three?!"

"...Beacon lost." The technician's voice trembled slightly. "Last recorded depth was 8,400 meters. Structural integrity... zeroed out."

C-19 closed his eyes.

TW-092.

The veteran who owed a debt.

The man who said he wanted to find a bigger bed.

Dead.

Crushed into mincemeat.

"Continue monitoring One and Two," C-19 said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Tell them to begin searching for the entrance."