December 9, 2024 - The Tower, Second Tier, Second Stage

Pablo blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the light as consciousness returned.

He looked around.

A tent…?

No—wait!

His throat tightened.

He lowered his gaze.

Leonie was seated at her wooden desk, eyes fixed on him.

Pablo immediately pushed himself off the bed and tried to stand—only to sway and drop back down onto the edge.

What…?

He winced, placing a hand on his forehead.

This headache again...

He took a moment, breathing slowly until the nausea passed, then stood again—more carefully this time.

His heart skipped as he met her eyes.

Still, he stood straight and gave a slight bow.

"My apologies… for the trouble."

Leonie remained silent for several seconds.

Pablo felt the weight of it—her gaze, the stillness—but he didn't dare move.

Eventually, she spoke.

"You understand what's happening to you isn't normal, right?"

"I…"

Pablo sighed, then gave a slow, reluctant nod.

Yeah… it wasn't the first time he'd blacked out. And the headaches had been happening more often lately.

"The Tower's first orb cures all lingering adverse medical conditions," Leonie said evenly. "And as your SP increases, your immune system improves significantly. Simply put… you shouldn't be getting sick. Not from anything natural."

She leaned forward slightly, a faint smile forming.

"So—what kind of anomaly are we dealing with, Pablo?"

Anomaly? That… was one way to put it.

"I have no idea," he said. "I was just analyzing a second-phase Ignisaurus. And then… I woke up here."

"What about the first time?" she asked. "Jeffrey said he found you unconscious in the coastal region. Were you studying a giant crab?"

Pablo nodded. "Yes. A third-phase Crustacea."

Leonie's eyes narrowed slightly. "Any other pattern besides the fact you're studying evolved creatures?"

Pablo inhaled slowly, thinking.

A pattern… hmm.

He looked down for a moment, then back up.

"Well… not during the first incident. But this second time, I—I think I had a dream while I was unconscious."

"A dream?" Leonie tilted her head slightly. "Dreams aren't rare in the Tower. Anything in particular about yours that's worth mentioning?"

Pablo hesitated.

"It was… strange. I felt like my mind was somewhere else. Like I was awake—but not in my body. Or not in this body."

Leonie remained quiet.

"I could feel… neural pathways lighting up. Not metaphorically—I mean visually. I could see them. Synaptic connections forming and breaking. Layers of brain activity shifting in patterns I didn't fully recognize. And in the middle of it all…" he swallowed, "there was something—something at the center."

Pablo's gaze drifted.

"I'm not sure what it was, but it felt… conscious. Alive. Like it was watching me."

Leonie's brows drew together slightly.

"And you were fully aware of this… presence?"

Pablo nodded. "I suppose. Yes. I was actually more aware than usual for a dream. And the moment I tried to focus on it, everything pulsed—like it pushed me out. That's when I woke up here."

Silence.

Leonie sat back slowly, fingers steepled.

"A strange dream indeed. Alright, you can go," she said casually. "I've told the hunting teams to keep a watch on you. Keep studying different evolved species. If anything unusual happens, I expect a direct report. And by that, I don't mean fainting again or having strange dreams."

Pablo nodded and left, well accustomed to Leonie's way of doing things.

As he exited the tent, he stared at the horizon.

The landscape in this zone was beautiful, wasn't it? The kind of place Alonso liked—waterfalls, cliffs, caves, lakes.

He wondered how his friend was right now. Was he still inside The Tower?

Pablo sighed, grounding himself in the present.

But seriously… what was happening to him?

"FUUUCK!!!"

I grit my teeth as pain tears through my left foot—crushed between two rocks like a vice.

Veins bulge along my neck. My face burns red.

I try to shift, to twist my body free, but the second I move, the pain spikes—white-hot and blinding.

Dammit.

The air's too thin. Every breath feels like I'm sucking through a straw.

I stop. Head back against the rock.

Calm down.

Control the pulse.

Nearly all of me is out now—chest, arms, right leg. But my left foot's still trapped below the knee.

Two and a half hours in this hellhole.

Three full discharges.

I force my breathing to slow. Match it to what little air I've got.

The pain dulls—still there, but pushed to the edge of awareness.

I'm soaked in sweat. Hair plastered to my face.

"What do you think?" I rasp.

"A bit tricky, this one," Houston answers in my head. "I guess not everything goes the way we want."

"No shit."

"We could try another discharge. Not full nodes—just partial. But..." He hesitates. "There's a more direct method. Less dangerous… ff you're up for it."

I exhale through clenched teeth.

"Let me guess—cut the damn thing off and wait for it to grow back?"

"Close," he says. "But we don't need to go that far. Just a clean break. Snap the bone, get the angle loose, and slide your foot out."

I blink.

"…Seriously?"

"The rock's locked around your ankle along a pressure seam. The structure won't collapse if you pull your foot out. It hurts because it's piercing into your flesh—about two inches deep, mostly through soft tissue."

A visual flashes in my head—an X-ray overlay. My ankle wedged tight, bone pressed against jagged stone. The rock is angled like a vise, holding the foot in place. The fracture lines are rather shallow.

"All you need to do is twist your foot like this," Houston says, and the projection shifts—showing the precise rotation of the ankle, bones grinding slightly. "Then pull. You'll snap the fibula here," the X-ray lights up red, "and probably fracture the talus. Twist again to clear the overhang. Then slide it out."

I stare up at the ceiling for several seconds.

"I really wish we could fucking switch places sometimes," I mutter, shaking my head. "Bet it's real nice up there in your cozy little studio, huh?"

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Break my fucking bone…

Sure. Why not?

Not like it's the worst thing I've done under this damn sadist's 'guidance'.

Fucking lava training…

It can always be worse.

Yeah, it can always—

CRACK!!

"FUCK!!"

Pain punches through me like a white-hot spike. My whole leg jerks.

I grit my teeth hard enough to chip something.

Don't think. Don't fucking think—just finish it—

Screekk—

"GOD DAMMIT!"

I choke on a breath as the rock tears through my flesh.

But it's out. It's out.

I scan the mess of flesh where my foot used to be. Looks ugly as hell—the kind of shit that would've made my pre-Tower self gag.

The pain slowly fades.

It should take less than an hour to fully recover—perhaps quicker if the damn fucker accelerates it.

I scout with my waves the small cavity I'm in.

Reminds me of when I went caving in Melbourne. Just a bit more… hardcore.

Damn, if I ever get out and have a kid, I'll have a whole bunch of dad lore to bore him to death.

I chuckle at the thought. But even the slight movement stings.

Alright…

Let's wait then.

I close my eyes.

Should I go inside the VR…?

Nah, not in the mood to see that sucker.

"My dear Houston… disconnect me until it's fixed."

And all fades.

…

I feel my consciousness return.

I open my eyes—then remember I can't see jack shit.

I scan my foot. It's healed, dried blood sticking to it.

I move my body. All limbs finally free.

Good. I also notice my nodes are fully charged.

I feel a bit thirsty, though. But not much I can do about it.

Suddenly I receive visuals of the cavity and the fracture lines. Houston highlights where to break and how to.

Not in the mood to speak, I see… he sure knows what would come for him.

I smirk.

I stretch my arms and find the tiny indentation where the wind is seeping through.

I press my palms against the weak spot Houston marked.

I wedge my foot against the opposite wall, angle my body, and start pushing.

My shoulder pulses forward in slow waves, syncing power through my wrist and palm.

Dust sheds. The surface grinds.

I work the same spot again and again—small motions. Every shift widens the fault.

Time slips. My arms ache. Fingertips go raw.

Then—there. A cold patch.

I shift focus, scan ahead.

Soft layer. Moisture trapped beneath compact earth.

I press harder. Twist. The outer layer crumbles.

Then my hand sinks into it.

Wet soil.

Jackpot!

I exhale through my nose, then laugh under my breath—but it ends up sounding almost like a cough.

Fucking finally.

I keep going with renewed energy. My fingers claw through the grit, scooping and clearing in a tight arc. The taste of moisture is everywhere now. The stone sweats. The walls feel softer. Good.

Then—there.

Flow.

A faint, steady pull brushes across my EM field. Subsurface. Oblique path, ten meters forward, three down. Slow current, lateral drift, steady temperature gradient.

I drop to one knee and shove both hands into the mud. My fingers sink to the wrist. I clear more space, widening the tunnel, careful not to shift the wrong section and bring the roof down.

Cool air trickles through. My breath hits it and comes back colder.

An underground stream.

I press my forehead against the wall. Grin wide.

"Fuck yes."

I keep going. Bare hands. Over and over again.

Soil gives way slower now. Pressure wants to collapse the tunnel. Every meter has to be reinforced with my body, curled sideways, spine twisted, fingers clawing at the wet grit while I keep checking the stress lines above me with pulses.

I follow the humidity gradient. It's not exact, but the signal is clean—moisture rising, fraction by fraction, every few seconds. I crawl forward like a goddamn worm, pausing only to breathe or shift my shoulder when it cramps.

Meters pass. Dozens of them.

Slow. Very… very slow.

And then—I pause.

My pulse hits something else.

Liquid.

Twenty-two meters ahead.

Water.

Real, goddamn, fresh water!

I'm not a believer, but God—no, wait. The fucking Tower gods put me here in the first damn place.

Yeah. No. Thank myself… and that annoying sadist inside my head.

I keep digging, pushing harder now. One hand scoops while the other reinforces. My back's on fire. My fingers are scraped raw.

But I don't stop.

Almost there.

Another hour, slow as hell.

Then—breakthrough.

My hand slips through open space. Cold rushes in. The earth breathes out.

I twist, widen it, and slide forward, pressing shoulder first into the hollow.

Still pitch darkness. Moist air but much better than before. My waves map the flow—narrow channel, half-flooded. Roof low, maybe two meters max.

An underground river.

"So glad to see you."

I don't linger—I crawl in headfirst. I extend my hand and it touches the water.

A bit cold, but nice.

While I'm at it, I drink like a beast—long gulps, sharp pain as it hits my stomach too fast.

I pause, take a deep breath, then dive in.

I shake my body and take the chance to rub off all the grime—dirt, sweat, blood.

Ah… never thought I'd be enjoying a bath in a 200-meter underground river.

But it feels very heavy though… I guess it's no joke swimming in a 70% extra gravity environment.

The current pulls slightly too.

I stay still for a while, mapping both directions as far as my EM waves go. It seems to widen a bit to the right—that's where the flow goes.

I can hold my breath for several hours if I take it easy.

Worst case, I wedge myself into a crack halfway through and disconnect while Houston recovers the body under metabolic suspension.

Yeah… Should be good.

Let's go.

I swim along the flow, arms close, movements tight. Can't afford to kick wide—space is limited.

I keep going, minutes passing, my waves constantly mapping the surroundings.

Twenty minutes in, and I feel myself going down… maybe too much.

Water's starting to press harder on my chest. Pressure is increasing.

Not sure if that's good. It should eventually connect to the ocean… right?

But then—wouldn't the water pressure at over 200 meters deep crush me under 70% extra gravity?

"Hey Houston, how much pressure can I withstand, given in metres of water depth?"

"At this gravity… hmm… 250 meters should be… okay. 300 meters, you'd be under immense pain, lungs compressed… anyway, let's say under full Overdrive making your way up… you should be able to survive. Anything deeper than that? No chance."

…Fuck.

A quick mental calculation based on the distance I've traveled puts me at around 246 meters underground compared to where I fell.

Not sure how high above sea level that place was… but it should've been at least several dozen meters.

Okay… okay…

Not that bad… yet.

And so I keep swimming forward, using the flow to my advantage.

Another 20 minutes pass.

I've covered more than 9 miles from my initial position.

Current depth: 292 meters.

Should be less compared to sea level… but dammit.

This isn't looking good.

My pulse sharpens.

I force it back down.

Need to keep it steady—or my time underwater's going to drop fast.

Should I head back?

Wait… now that I think of it… the sea wasn't even close to where I got buried, was it?

Hell, the map I had showed at least sixty miles between my location and the borders.

And… there was no damn sea shown!

At this pace…

"Houston, the sea's not close."

"I know."

…Fucker.

"And you couldn't have reminded me of that?"

"I assumed you hadn't forgotten how pressure works. It builds from the water's surface, not from how deep underground you are. Based on the pressure you felt when you entered, I traced the source of the river—it's about 21 meters above your entry point. That's why the water already felt heavy, even before you started going deeper. Small vertical difference, sure, but it could be miles away horizontally."

He pauses a second, then continues.

"This path widens, the other narrows. Backtracking would mean crawling into tighter tunnels, with less room to move, more resistance, and the current pushing against you. Not only would you move much slower, but you'd also burn through oxygen faster doing it. Plus, you dug your way in. That means the back half of that route is unstable. One bad push, and you trigger a collapse or wedge yourself in a choke point you can't reverse out of."

There's a short silence before he speaks again.

"Going downstream and hoping the end leads to a high-ceiling chamber with an air dome—not a fully flooded trap—is our best shot right now. Odds aren't great, considering how deep we've gone, but we don't have another option"

"..."

"And no, it probably doesn't connect to the sea. If it did, you'd already be under a lot more pressure. You'd feel resistance, maybe even backflow, as the higher-pressure zones tried to equalize. But the current's steady and weak, which means it's likely draining into a larger underground cavity or lake—not the open ocean."

"… You could've at least told me that."

"Alonso, I'm guiding you now because you're obviously not in a sound mental state—and that's understandable. I'll make sure we don't just fucking die because of a bad choice. But I don't make the calls. You do. If you ask, I answer. If you don't—unless it's do-or-die—I stay quiet."

"…"

"…"

"Okay."

And I keep swimming.

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