Thomas stood in front of the mirror, toweling his hair dry, steam curling off his skin. The salt had finally rinsed out, and with it, the grime from the trench. His skin still felt tight, like it had been stretched too thin over something new. Something stronger.
The black lines on his forearms were sharper now. Almost clean enough to reflect light. He traced one absently with a fingertip, half-expecting it to burn. It didn’t. It just pulsed faintly under his touch, like a second heartbeat.
He pulled a dark fitted shirt over his head, grabbed his pack from the hook by the door, and paused.
Since the Surge, laws had shifted. A Delver wasn’t just someone with power—they were a regulated asset. The moment your Core stabilized, you had seventy-two hours to report it.
Registration wasn’t optional.
The Delver Association needed to know who you were, what you could do, and how dangerous you might be. A newly Awakened walking around without a record? That was a threat.
He didn’t need to be told what came next. Everyone knew the procedure: scan, sync, baseline stress tests, first classification assessment, and a hundred questions about what you saw during your Awakening. Then they stamped your file and shoved you toward the nearest guild offering contracts.
Thomas had always wondered what it’d be like.
Now it was real.
He was strapping the pack across his back when the door creaked.
Juno stepped in without knocking, as always. She was holding a thermos in one hand and wearing that same beat-to-hell jacket she’d had since he was a kid.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him.
“Coffee?” she offered.
Thomas nodded. “Yeah.”
She sat down in one of the old chairs near the window, the one that groaned when you leaned too far back. He took the other across from her. The small table between them had rust stains older than he was.
They sat for a moment, quiet, sipping. No questions. No pressure.
“So,” she said finally, “you going to the Association?”
He nodded. “Protocol. They already pinged my ID. I’m flagged in the system.”
Juno hummed. “You ready for all that?”
“I know the drill. They scan my Core, take notes, maybe slap a Tidewalker label on me and shove me into a training sim.”
“You say that like it’s no big deal.”
Thomas met her eyes. “It’s not. The hard part already happened.”
She leaned back and sighed. “Yeah. I guess it did.”
The wind whistled through a cracked seam in the bulkhead. Thomas glanced around the space one more time. The tools hanging by the wall, the old pressure suit folded in the corner, the half-repaired rig he’d never finished. Home.
He stood and slung the pack over his shoulder.
“You mind keeping an eye on the place?”
Juno didn’t respond immediately. Then she stood too, walked over, and rested a hand on the doorframe.
“I’ll take care of it. Just don’t go vanishing like your old man.”
Thomas smirked. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
He paused in the doorway. “You gonna cry when I’m famous?”
She snorted. “Not unless you start dressing better.”
He chuckled, stepped into the wind, and kept walking.
---
The walk off the dock was quiet. Just the gulls and the creak of rusted beams underfoot. The sea lapped at the lower struts of the city, calm for now. Thomas moved through the layered walkways and scrap-built scaffold bridges until he hit the transport lane.
The bus was late. It always was.
When it finally rolled up—part electric, part patched diesel, all attitude—he stepped on, tapped his ID band against the scanner, and took a seat near the back. The driver didn’t look twice. But a few of the passengers did.
Hard not to.
His eyes—**black sclera, glowing purple irises**—weren’t something you could mistake for cosmetic mods. Even if someone had wanted to imitate that look, the pressure signature his body gave off would make any sensor start beeping. The old man two rows up kept glancing over his shoulder like he expected Thomas to combust.
He ignored it.
Instead, he looked out the window and let the scenery pass.
Florida—_New Crest_, officially—had rebuilt better than most. Credit where it was due. After the Surge, most thought it was gone for good. But the survivors had dragged up old oil rigs, floating salvage yards, and half-drowned towers and stitched them into something... livable. Ugly, sure. But functional.
He watched a water hauler drone lift off from the top of a converted hotel tower, its tanks brimming with desalinated cargo. Below, divers moved along rigging lines in synchronized flows, bright lights flickering around their gear as they prepared for a new dive.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
It was almost peaceful.
When the bus hissed to a stop, he stood without a word and stepped off into the main corridor.
The Delver Association building was impossible to miss. It was one of the few pre-Surge towers that had survived mostly intact, refitted with massive glass walls, security gates, and reinforced balconies. Logos pulsed blue across its exterior—waveforms circling around a spear-tip icon.
Thomas walked through the open plaza leading to the front steps. People moved around him—technicians, couriers, junior Delvers, hopefuls in borrowed gear. A few stopped when they saw him.
Someone whispered. He caught just one word.
“Awakened.”
The glass doors parted for him with a faint hiss.
Inside, it was colder. Clean lines. Humming servers. The kind of sterile, overly-designed environment that tried to feel modern but just felt like a place where people measured things for a living.
He stepped to the front desk.
The woman behind it didn’t look up right away, tapping through a holographic form. But when she did, her eyes locked on his.
There was a long pause. She blinked, then cleared her throat.
“Identification?” she asked, more careful now.
Thomas held out his wrist. She scanned it. A soft chime echoed.
“Thomas Kane,” she read. “Freelance Diver. Currently flagged with… recent Core formation.” Another pause. She looked up again. “You didn’t report immediately.”
“I walked out of the ocean twelve hours ago. I think that counts.”
Her expression didn’t shift. “Please proceed to Registration Room Three. Medical and classification teams have been alerted.”
He nodded once. Walked past her. And behind him, the whispers started again.
---
Thomas sat in the waiting room with his hood up and his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. The Association building was quiet this high up. A woman in white armor passed by the doorway once—her footsteps barely audible. The monitors overhead flashed mission data, dungeon surge alerts, and Delver rankings, but he didn’t bother reading them. He’d be in that mess soon enough.
The door hissed open. A man in a slate gray coat leaned through.
“Kane. This way.”
Thomas stood, adjusted the strap on his pack, and followed.
The room wasn’t large, but it was packed with tech—most of which looked expensive, overbuilt, and intimidating. There were **three main features**: a tall capsule chamber with a clear front and thick reinforcement struts, a glowing orb suspended by cables and rings that hummed with faint light, and a clean, modular **medical station** to the left with a chair, a scanner arm, and a few trays of tools.
“Have a seat,” the proctor said, gesturing toward the med station. He was in his late 40s, maybe early 50s, with close-cropped gray hair and tired eyes. His voice was dry, efficient. No real emotion behind it—just another day for him.
Thomas sat.
“Name?” the man asked, even though it was obvious.
“Thomas Kane.”
“Age?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Any known conditions? Allergies, defects, trauma?”
Thomas shook his head. “Not that I remember.”
The man glanced up at that but didn’t push. “Vaccination record?”
Thomas smirked. “I’ve had all the needles Juno could find.”
“That’s not a yes.”
Thomas shrugged. “Then call it a maybe.”
The man sighed, typed a few things, and then stood.
He did a standard physical—checked reflexes, heart rate, pupil response, all with the calm detachment of someone who’d done this a hundred times. Finally, he grabbed a slim lancet and pricked Thomas’s finger.
Thomas didn’t flinch.
The man held up a small, matte-black ID band—different from the one Thomas had worn his whole life. Sleeker. He moved Thomas’s bleeding finger over it, letting a single drop of blood fall onto the core sensor.
The band pulsed once. Faint violet light.
“This is your Delver ID,” the proctor said, watching it activate. “It holds your official status, clearance, and syncs with your Core. It also connects to your Delver system—what most call the interface.”
“Interface?”
“You’ll see it. Everyone’s is a little different. It’s based on your Core imprint.”
The man set the band aside and motioned toward the glowing orb in the center of the room.
“Next is Domain Classification. Step up. Don’t touch it.”
Thomas stood and approached. The orb’s hum grew louder the closer he got. When he stopped within a few feet, the surface rippled like disturbed water.
Light burst from the base and scanned him—head to toe—faster than his eyes could track. The hum deepened. Then the colors shifted.
First came a **soft gold**. Gentle and radiant. Like bioluminescent light flickering under a calm sea.
Then, without warning, the entire orb went **dark purple and black**. The room dipped in temperature.
The proctor’s brow lifted. He tapped something into his tablet, then looked up.
“Well,” he said. “That’s rare.”
Thomas turned. “What?”
“Two Domains. Lumen and Abyss.”
Thomas blinked. “Those are… opposites.”
“Exactly.” The man didn’t seem impressed, just thoughtful. “Light and void. Illusion and madness. You’ll be fun to catalog.”
He made a note, then walked toward the capsule chamber. “Last part. Core verification and stress sync. You’ll strip down to underlayer and step inside. There’s an oxygen mask mounted on the headrest. Keep it on. Stay still.”
Thomas didn’t ask questions. He unzipped his overshirt, dropped it with his pack, and stepped into the capsule in just his underlayer shorts. The inside was colder than he expected. The mask clicked into place over his nose and mouth, and a faint stream of O2 hissed in.
The door sealed with a hydraulic whine.
Water began to pour in.
Not cold. Not warm. Just neutral—and dense. Thicker than regular water. Enhanced for pressure testing. Within seconds it reached his chest, then his chin, and then it covered his face entirely.
His breathing didn’t change.
A vibration started at the base of the capsule. Deep, rhythmic. Almost like a heartbeat not his own. Around him, the water shimmered with faint purple threads.
Somewhere, far off, he felt something stir in response.
The pressure shifted—and his **Abyssal Core** pulsed.
Thomas kept his eyes open the whole time.
---
The capsule drained with a low hiss, and the water slid away in smooth sheets, leaving Thomas standing barefoot and quiet in the settling mist. The oxygen mask released with a soft pop, and the chamber door unsealed.
He stepped out, the towel already in the proctor’s hand. Thomas took it without a word, running it across his chest, arms, and through his soaked hair. It didn’t do much for the water still clinging to him, but it was enough. He pulled his clothes back on—shirt sticking slightly to his back—and flexed his shoulders, already used to the feel of the Core pulsing underneath his skin.
The black lines on his forearms were still faintly glowing, a dim and rhythmic beat. Not painful. Not cold. Just… present.
“Core verification came back normal,” the proctor said, tapping through the scan results on his slate as Thomas sat back down across from him at the medical station. “Stability’s well within functional range. You're a standard-grade physical type for now, which is common. Nothing exotic in the build, but the dual Domain flag is what’ll raise some eyebrows.”
Thomas leaned forward. “So, what happens now?”
The man set the slate down and folded his hands. “Next step is mandatory. You're being sent to a D-Ring for Delver onboarding. Transport leaves tomorrow morning.”
Thomas blinked. “Wait—onboarding?”
“Three-day orientation. Full Core sync training, basic ability diagnostics, dungeon sim trials, and pressure acclimation. You’ll be assigned a handler during the process. After that, you’re cleared for freelance work or guild contracts.”
“That’s a thing now?”
The proctor nodded. “New Association policy. Every Delver—regardless of tier or Domain—is required to go through it. Too many fresh Awakened rushing into deep zones and never coming back. This gives us a baseline. Keeps people alive longer.”
Thomas looked down at his new ID band, still glowing faintly with his signature. “And if I don’t want to go?”
“You do.” The proctor’s voice didn’t change. “Every registered Core-bearer is on the hook. It’s not a suggestion.”
Thomas exhaled slowly, nodding once.
“Dock eleven. 0700 sharp,” the man said, already moving to clean his equipment. “You’ll be given gear, clearance, and your Association system interface updates during transit.”
Thomas stood. He didn’t say anything else. Just adjusted his pack and made for the exit.
Every step he took, he felt the Core settle deeper under his skin—like it was waiting. Watching.
And for the first time since waking up on that dock, he felt something else too.
Like this was only the beginning.
